There were none of the high thorn hedges that had bordered the road on the first part of their journey. The ground here didn’t seem to have enough energy or even interest to produce anything taller than a few feet. This didn’t mean that Edwin was able to see for miles. The lane to Morting was squashed into the bottom of a dip for its entire length. Steep banks rose on either side, and only occasionally was there a gap which allowed him to see beyond the lane. What he glimpsed was as dismal and depressing as the objects close at hand. The forks in the road and the branches off it were no more than new folds in the ground that quickly turned corners and never let you see where they were heading.
Dark grey, pointed rocks jutted out of the lane-side banks at all heights like iron spikes, and if there were patches of grass they were always a desiccated grey and looked as if they could crumble away at any moment. Bushes resembling untidy bundles of barbed wire filled in much of the space between the rocks. Any bird wishing to nest in one of them would have been shredded if it tried to squeeze between the razor-sharp twigs.
Edwin had once spent a holiday on the edge of Dartmoor, a place he found wild, and always soggy underfoot, yet it filled him with energy. What he saw as the hansomme rolled along was the kind of Dartmoor that Mother Nature might have come up with after a day suffering from a migraine, the children out of control, the dinner turned to cinders in the oven and the dog being sick on the best rug. There were rocks and razor-twigged bushes wherever he looked. He couldn’t understand how Lanthorne found so much to interest him.
During their holiday on Dartmoor, Edwin remembered, his mother had drawn him to the window one evening, saying, “Come and look at this, Ed.” They looked out at the sunset over Tarlan Tor. Streaks of a red, so deep you thought it would bleed if you touched it, had begun to finger their way across the western horizon. The streaks ran into each other until, for a few moments, the sky was a sheet of bloody splendour.
Family memories. Affection. People who were sometimes annoying or annoyed, but never grey, and who never dreamt of doing that dreadful, unspeakable thing. Edwin’s thoughts turned to how his parents must be feeling now. They had been without both of their children for three days—the baby kidnapped, and their son, who should have known better, making matters much worse by running off. He wished they knew how hard he was trying to get Mandoline back. These thoughts wouldn’t help, though, and so he stared out at the countryside to clear his head. He tried his hardest to superimpose colour on it, but the utter greyness won each time, insisting on charcoal and ash instead of any kind of brightness.
“Heads right down, you two,” said Swarme. “This is Morting.”
No, this is the end of the world, Edwin thought. And I’m here because I hated having a baby sister and I said so.
Dusk dripped into the narrow lane and began to spread in a pool across the untidy village. Squinting from beneath his hood, Edwin took in Morting’s main street. The houses were set at random angles, as if their builders weren’t remotely bothered about neatness or planning. There were no front gardens, none of the little touches which suggest houses are cared for and not a single light in the windows.
The hansomme and its three passengers appeared to be the only source of life and sound for miles. Edwin had expected they would sneak into Morting, because they were planning a kidnap, but here they were, sauntering along and drawing attention to themselves. They might as well be blowing trumpets or letting off fireworks, for all the secretiveness they showed. Edwin was also becoming increasingly worried by Swarme’s careless attitude. Their driver had even begun to hum softly to himself.
“Shouldn’t we be sneaking in?” Edwin asked. “We don’t want to warn Auntie Necra we’re here.” His intention was to take her by surprise, tie her up, kick her “right up the bumption”, as his grandfather said, and then get away with Mandoline as fast as he could.
Swarme winked at him, a lopsided, grotesque wink that made it look as if his eye were about to pop out. “Clever old Swarme has everything under control,” he said. “I’m so pleased with myself I could almost whistle. Auntie Necra will be sitting in her chair chattering to herself, with no idea at all of the surprise I’m bringing her.”
Lanthorne looked nervously from side to side. “Swarme, I’m worried,” he said.
“Shut up,” said Swarme. “I’ve just told you. I’m enjoying the moment. You should enjoy it too. It’s not every day something goes perfectly to plan.”
“We’ve done it, Lanthorne,” Edwin said. “Or almost done it. Swarme’s got us here.”
“I know he has,” Lanthorne said proudly.
“Let’s celebrate with some speed,” said Swarme, laughing. “Hold on, ’cause here we go.” He stung the nagge with his whip, drove them, hell for leather, to the end of the main street and then skilfully guided the hansomme through the gap in a thorn hedge, before coming to a halt in front of a square house which was already losing its edges in the falling darkness.
“Is this Auntie Necra’s house?” Lanthorne asked.
“The very same. Now get down.”
Edwin was happy to obey. They were three against one, because Swarme hadn’t mentioned anyone else living with Auntie Necra. Swarme could hold her down, while Edwin tied her up. They would even let Lanthorne bite her if he really felt like it, because she had hurt him often enough in the past.
Swarme deftly slipped the nosebag of Special-Menu scraps over the nagge’s head and then, taking a firm grip on Edwin and Lanthorne, one on each side of him, he walked them to the front door. He had to kick the door because he wasn’t prepared to relax his hold on the boys. His fingers dug painfully into Edwin’s arm.
The door opened a little way.
“Hello, Auntie. I’ve brought you a present.”
Swarme’s mocking words crushed Edwin’s hopes to the size of grit.