TWENTY
I can’t see the dog but I can smell it, a thick, warm, hairy smell. Then, as I draw closer, I hear it panting. I slow down, not wanting to spook the creature. I look around as I pad after it, scanning the trees for signs of life, still feeling uneasy, as if someone has been observing me. But there’s nobody there.
This is silly. I should leave the dog to its own devices. It hasn’t done us any harm. Jakob was right. If it spots me coming after it, the poor thing will drop a log and run for its life. If it’s the same dog we saw in London, and has been trailing us all this time, it will sever connections forever and that’s the last I’ll see of it.
But something draws me on. I have an itch and it’s not from the sun. There’s something wrong about this. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve got to investigate. I feel sure that there’s more to the dog situation than meets the eye.
The ground angles upwards ahead of me. The area is pockmarked with hills. I don’t think this is a proper forest, just some park with a lot of trees which has run wild since people stopped tending it.
I spot the dog cresting the hill. I expect it to pause, look back and catch sight of me, but instead it picks up speed and carries on, barking twice with apparent excitement.
I slow and stare at the place where the dog disappeared from view. My feeling that something is wrong has strengthened. Part of me wants to turn back and live in ignorance. Easier to hide from your fears than face up to them.
‘Yeah,’ I snort. ‘Like I’ve ever done that!’
Keeping low, I jog to the brow of the hill. I can see the end of the park from here. There’s a deserted village not far beyond. A road cuts between the two. At the moment the road is blocked with a convoy of jeeps and trucks. The truck at the front is like a bulldozer, with rams attached to knock abandoned cars out of its way. They obviously use it to clear the road when they need to.
It doesn’t take me long to realise we were way off the mark about this being a military operation when we heard the drone of engines a while back. Some of the people milling around the vehicles might once have been soldiers, but they aren’t any more, at least not soldiers in any regular army.
They’re dressed in white robes, with pointed hoods. Seems the rumours of the KKK Vinyl told us about weren’t just stories after all.
It’s surreal seeing them standing there, chatting and laughing, a few urinating at the side of the road. I’ve only ever seen Klan creeps in films and TV shows. They were like movie monsters to me, something that didn’t exist in the real world, certainly not the world of twenty-first century London. It’s hard to believe they’ve sprung up in this country so quickly, when they’ve never flourished here before, and at a time when race should mean less than ever.
But there’s a figure among them who’s even more surreal than the menacing, faceless bigots. This guy isn’t wearing a hood or a robe. He’s dressed in a smart, striped suit and is walking towards the convoy, his back to me. I can see that he has white hair, and that he’s also unusually tall.
I know who it is before he stops and turns to call the dog. I know by his gait and his long fingers even before I spy his pot belly and those abnormally large, almost totally white eyes with their dark pupils like two tiny black holes leading all the way to hell.
Owl Man.
The sheepdog races to its master’s side and sits to attention. Owl Man bends and strokes the dog as it licks his face. He casts his gaze over the trees of the park. He shouldn’t be able to see me from where he is, through all the trees and bushes, but I’m sure his gaze lingers on me for a moment, that his lips lift at the corners, that he nods imperceptibly towards me.
What isn’t in doubt is that he’s real and he’s here, in league with the KKK. As I stare, stunned, one of the masked men approaches Owl Man and hands him a hood. Owl Man studies it, smiling thinly, then sticks it on the dog’s head. The men around him laugh.
Owl Man stands, claps his hands and barks a command. The men climb back into the jeeps and trucks. They turn on the engines and pull out, one by one, heading after the truck with the rams.
Owl Man is last to board. He climbs in the back of one of the few open jeeps. He settles the dog beside him, then bangs on the side of the jeep and points ahead. The driver nods and presses his horn. The jeep picks up speed and overtakes the other vehicles, carrying Owl Man to the head of the convoy.
As the motorcade trundles out of sight, I retrace my steps. I should be running, but I can only stumble along in a daze. I’ve no evidence to base it on, but I’m certain I know where the hate-mongering vultures are going.
Owl Man has been following me. The dog is his. He tracked me when I first left County Hall and went to Timothy’s gallery. He was hot on my heels all the way to Hammersmith. He must have dogged our trail as we worked our way out of London, then doubled back. He had the KKK on standby. He didn’t ride out here with them—he must have got in touch with them, maybe last night or early this morning, and told them to meet him here, so that he could guide them the last leg of the way.
Owl Man is leading the KKK to New Kirkham. I don’t know why he’s interested in me or those who are close to me, but I’m as sure as I ever was about anything that, regardless of the broader aims of his Klan buddies, he’s going there to target my friend.
He’s going there for Vinyl.