Stalking Tender Prey Read online

  ‘You and the Winter lout left a mess on the table,’ Verity said. ‘If you must invite that hooligan into the house, at least clear up after him.’

  Daniel, who was patient with his sister, ignored the remark. ‘Whose is that cat?’

  Verity peered at the animal on the rug as if she’d just noticed it. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It just came in.’

  Daniel gave Verity a penetrating look, from which she turned away.

  ‘It’s bloody enormous!’ he said.

  Verity did not feel that such an obvious remark deserved a response.

  Are you going to keep it?’ Daniel asked. There was a scoffing incredulity in his voice.

  ‘I might...’ She paused. ‘Of course, it could get under Dad’s feet, trip him up.’

  Daniel went over to the rug and, with some difficulty, picked up the cat. ‘Very black!’ he said. ‘And very big!’

  Verity was pleased that the animal struggled to get away from him. Once back on the rug, it shook itself like a dog and then sat down to wash itself thoroughly.

  ‘Not very friendly, is it?’ Daniel said.

  ‘Cats are not toys or babies,’ Verity answered, shouldering Daniel out of the way as she wiped down the table. ‘Are you in for lunch?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  Verity pursed her lips. She wished she could sweep her brother out of the house, tidy up in his wake, remove his presence from the atmosphere. Having him around made the place feel dirty.

  ‘Not off with your friends today?’

  ‘Later. Maybe.’ Privately, Daniel hoped not. Owen never saw his friends on Saturday evenings, but sometimes they got together in the afternoon. Daniel felt wrung out after the previous night’s activities. Most of it was a blur in his memory, which he didn’t want to probe. Owen picked on him the least to perform the sacrifices, yet when he did, it seemed to bleed some vital part from Daniel’s body and soul. The others seemed less affected by it, even appeared to enjoy it. Daniel had passed the point where he could tell himself to drop Owen Winter’s friendship. He’d tried it in the past, but Owen only had to appear again and Daniel would be powerless. Mostly, they all had a good time. Daniel preferred going out to night-clubs and visiting pubs in Cresterfield or Patterham to the High Place meetings. On a good night like that, he could convince himself his friendship with Owen and the others was normal. Other times, in the dark, in the woods, he knew he had become part of something too compelling to cast away, something to which he had donated a part of himself, that would never be returned, and could not be yanked back. He sensed that he and the others were inextricably linked, moving towards something huge and dangerous, always moving. Blind.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Verity remarked, breaking his reverie. ‘What were you doing all night?’

  She had begun to cut a loaf of bread into thick slices. The sight of the bright, sawing blade made Daniel feel nauseous. He had to look away, yet the rhythmic flash continued to register in the corner of his sight.

  ‘Why so interested?’ She normally did not ask Daniel about what he did. He knew she did not care one way or the other, yet an instinct advised him this was something to pity her for, because it was a minor symptom of some larger dysfunction.

  ‘I don’t think you should spend so much time with Winter. He’s unwholesome.’

  Daniel knew Verity’s comments were inspired by a desire on her part never to lay eyes on Owen if at all possible, and did not signify any concern for himself. Yet he did not feel he could defend Owen, because half of him agreed with Verity’s words. ‘Who else is there to hang around with in this place?’

  ‘You won’t have to stay here much longer,’ Verity said quickly, so quickly it made Daniel suspicious immediately. ‘You could go to college next year. It would do you good.’

  ‘Not as much as you think it would do you,’ he couldn’t help saying.

  ‘You can’t want to stay here! It’s bad enough travelling to school every day, surely?’

  Daniel hadn’t really thought about it. He lived very much for the moment. ‘I dunno...’ he said, lapsing into the tone that usually silenced Verity and kindled her annoyance.

  Predictably, she made an exasperated sound and stalked to the fridge, pausing only to smile down at the monstrous cat. ‘Just ‘cause Dad nags you, don’t nag me,’ Daniel said. He thought he would tweak a nerve with that remark.

  ‘At least I’ve seen the world outside,’ Verity answered smoothly.

  Daniel was disappointed, having hoped for a bitter retort. Still, Verity’s suggestion was something he’d have to think about eventually. If he went away, would the link between himself and the others be broken? Would he be free or drawn back against his will? Would Owen come after him? He shuddered at the thought, suddenly presented with the image in his mind of a moonlit night, himself in a small room alone, and a figure outside below, looking up at his window, forming a wordless summoning. To dispel the thought, he jumped up quickly. The cat hissed in alarm.

  ‘What is it?’ Verity asked. She looked, absurdly, frightened. For a few moments the pair of them shared a single terror; a look passed between them.

  Daniel shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ But he wondered, what’s her fear. Is she part of it? He recognised the brief affinity, and that unnerved him more than anything.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I met somebody very odd today.’ Lily Winter was unloading her post office produce onto the kitchen table.

  Owen, at ease in the now cosy house, had his feet up on the table. They were bare, the nails like dirty claws. He was carving a piece of wood with a sharp pen-knife. ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘In the post office. A stranger. He looked at me in a weird way.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Yes. He.’ She frowned, wondering whether she should tell her brother about the strange effect the meeting had had on her. She had walked away from the post office, keenly aware of the stranger’s scrutiny. He was interested in her, she was sure. This was flattering, but worrying too. As she’d walked back up the lane, she’d found herself thinking about what it would be like to touch him. She had never experienced such feelings for a man, other than with Owen. Surely it wasn’t normal to feel that way after such a short acquaintance? He was staying at The White House. For how long? ‘I had the absurd feeling he recognised me,’ she said aloud.

  Owen glanced up at her sharply. ‘Old flame of Mum’s?’ They knew so little of their mother’s past, and nothing about their own father. Always, the unspoken fascination, even a hope, hung between them.

  She shrugged. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘You should know that it is.’

  ‘But why would he come here? The women at the post office didn’t know him.’

  Owen grinned. ‘That is not a definite sign!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Lily was sure the villagers knew more about their mother than they’d ever let on to Owen and herself. She suspected this must be because of scandal. Without a doubt, their mother had not been married when they’d been born. Helen Winter had never ignored her children’s questions when she’d been alive, but had fielded their curiosity with skill. Instead of refusing to speak about their father, she would make up outrageous stories: he was an explorer, a famous scientist, an artist, an opera singer. As children, Owen and Lily had loved the stories, and sometimes had believed them for a short while. Until the next time. Lily could remember Owen saying to her, ‘One day she’ll tell the truth. She’ll have to, because she’ll run out of untruths.’ Then they had come to Little Moor. Then Helen had died. Why here? Their mother had told them about an aunt, who’d left her a house. Had Helen deliberately come back here to die? Sometimes, the older women in the village spoke to Lily about her mother, but never about an aunt. Lily had asked about this unknown female, but the answers had been vague. The woman had either been very boring or a creature of mystery. She’d searched for evidence of the aunt in the cottage, or evidence of her own mother’s childhood. Nothing. It would be too wonder
ful if the stranger had some connection with their mother. Yet hadn’t she lied to Owen? Why had she said the stranger recognised her? Wasn’t that just what she wanted him to do? It was all too odd. She felt that something fast and wild was coming into their lives. Routine would break up. Daniel Cranton had been the beginning of it, but this, this was something bigger. She was convinced of it. Half of her was terrified, half of her welcomed it with open arms. ‘He was too young to have known Mum,’ she said at last.

  Owen grunted in reply.

  ‘Are we going for a drink tonight?’ Lily asked. It was a ritual question. She and Owen always went to The White House on Saturday nights.

  At six-thirty, the traveller presented himself downstairs just as Mr Eager was about to bang the anticipated gong with a little felt-covered hammer. He nodded cheerily to the landlord who, surprisingly, went quite red about the neck and face. The traveller wore new black jeans and an open-necked black shirt, which revealed the white hollow of his throat, the place where it looked as if someone had gouged a hole in the soft, bloodless flesh with a knuckle. His long hair was tied firmly back at the neck and he had willed himself into a pleasing state of suave, groomed, aristocratic vagueness. He defied the landlord to call his appearance disreputable; he would be faintly patronising with the man tonight, as a lesson.

  At dinner, the landlord’s wife made an appearance. An inbred looking teenage girl waited on table, but a tall, bosomy creature with dyed copper coloured hair appeared from the kitchen during the soup to welcome the new guest. Only four other diners were present; two of them appeared to be trainspotters sadly off-course, looking for a line, while the others were a young couple, perhaps honeymooners, who whispered a lot. The traveller found the food to be good, which surprised him. He complimented Mrs Eager on the food. ‘Do you mind if I join you for a moment?’ she enquired, as he sat waiting for his main course.

  ‘Not at all.’ He gestured languidly at the chair opposite his own.

  ‘As you can imagine, we get few visitors this time of year, although strangely we have quite a few regulars who come for Christmas.’

  The traveller inhaled deeply and silently. The woman smelled of heavy, Oriental scent, which, to him, failed to conceal the clinging aroma of flesh past its prime. ‘It must be an entirely appropriate place to spend the winter holiday,’ he said.

  Mrs Eager smiled. ‘Actually, we rarely get snow.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, stomachs should be satisfied, if not aesthetic requirements.’

  ‘How long will you be staying with us, Mr...?’

  The traveller held out his hand, which Mrs Eager took without hesitation. Her handshake was firm and dry. ‘Othman,’ he said. ‘Peverel Othman.’ He sensed immediately the woman’s spirit of yearning, her unfulfilled dreams.

  ‘What an unusual name!’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m exploring this part of the country. How long I stay here depends on what I find to interest me.’ The words were carefully delivered, his gaze direct.

  Barbara Eager’s posture momentarily froze. He could tell she was wondering whether she was right to interpret that remark as slightly flirtatious. Still, he admired the fact she did not colour up; most women of her type would have done.

  ‘Well, Mr Othman, if you’re excited by wild landscapes and small communities, then we can expect to accommodate you for some time.’ She stood up. ‘Here is your meal. I wish you bon appetit.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Eager.’ He thought he’d offended her.

  ‘Barbara,’ she said.

  He realised he hadn’t.

  After dinner, Peverel Othman took a pint of beer out into The White House garden, and sat against a wall where a late blooming climbing rose exuded its scent behind him. Gradually, as the evening thickened, other guests drifted outside to sit at the wooden picnic tables, and locals also began to arrive. Car doors slammed, a few children made an appearance. Then, there was a glimmer of white, and the Lily maid herself walked into the garden, dressed in pale cotton and wrapped in a fringed, woollen shawl. She sat down alone at one of the tables, and self-consciously fiddled with her hair, kicking the bench with her feet.

  Delightful! thought the traveller, how unbelievably opportune! He had not imagined the girl would come this close to him so soon, although he knew the seeds of interest he’d planted must have taken root. He wondered whether he should approach her right away. No, perhaps a minute of two of observation first... He watched her, savouring the moments before contact was made. She seemed so fey, so fragile, almost awkward. Once or twice she nodded and smiled at people she knew, but no-one made a move to join her. A moth fluttered above her head, and, for a moment, landed on her hair. Othman shivered with anticipation.

  Presently, a tall young man came out of The White House, carrying two full glasses. He sat down beside the girl and placed a drink in front of her. They did not speak, but simply sat there, side by side, looking into the dusk. The traveller suppressed a frisson of annoyance, even though he’d known it was unlikely the girl would be alone. Her partner was hardly more than a boy, pallid and scrawny, his hair unkempt and the starved curve of his jaw like a blade. He wore old, frayed jeans and a huge, shapeless jumper full of holes. He and the exquisite girl lifted their glasses in unison, drank, did not speak.

  The traveller had finished his beer. He stood up, cradling the empty glass, and walked towards the lit garden door of the pub as if to purchase another. Just as he was within reasonable speaking distance of the Lily maid and her companion, the girl began to say something. He could not hear the words, but the boy nodded distractedly.

  ‘Hello there,’ said the traveller, and they both turned their heads in his direction. He smiled and gestured towards the pub with his glass. ‘We meet again!’

  At this point, if there was no sign of welcome, he could carry on walking without loss of dignity. The girl frowned at him, and then smiled wanly. She leaned towards her companion and began murmuring in his ear, dismissing the traveller from her attention.

  Othman walked past without pausing and went into the bar. He did not feel annoyed, only mystified. He employed a careful choreography when intruding into people’s lives and yet, on this occasion, it appeared his first movements, which were often the most devastating, had somehow failed to arouse. He was puzzled by this, and checked his appearance in the mirror behind the bar. Barbara Eager, on duty at the pumps, was oblivious of his mood and happily chatted into the air around his body as she filled his glass.

  He had obviously made a mistake. Some people were immune to his allure because of an innate lack of imagination. It was pointless to bother with individuals like that; too much work. He’d simply made an error of judgement. He looked around the bar. Perhaps someone else? What he saw did not inspire him. Barbara Eager, with her frustrated desires, was not enough to sustain him. Tomorrow, then, he would be moving on. A pity. His pique was destined to last no more than a few minutes.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Barbara Eager said.

  The traveller shook himself into the present. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said how much I love this time of year, the smells, the feelings, don’t you?’ She waved dangerous, lacquered claws in the air.

  The traveller nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. Barbara Eager, he was sure, considered herself to be an amateur poet, and probably ran a small writing circle in the village. She would have been easy prey, if he’d been interested. ‘Could I ask you something?’

  She puffed up with pleasure. ‘Of course!’

  ‘The young couple out there, a girl with red hair and a shawl, the pale boy: do you know them?’

  The question was obviously not the one Mrs Eager had anticipated. Her face had fallen a little. ‘Oh, you mean the Winter twins?’

  ‘Twins? I don’t think so.’ Even as he said it, he realised he was wrong. Of course they were twins.

  ‘Well, they’re the only people who fit that description,’ said Mrs Eager. ‘Why?’

  ‘I met the girl — Lily? — ea
rlier today.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mrs Eager leaned conspiratorially over the bar. ‘They...’

  He wouldn’t let her say what she wanted to say. ‘What are they drinking?’

  Barbara Eager straightened up abruptly. Later, she might wonder, with her poet’s mind, why his softly spoken words had made her feel as if she’d been slapped across the face. ‘They usually drink cider,’ she said. ‘Are you buying for them?’

  He nodded. Barbara worked the pump with a pursed mouth. ‘What’s that scent you’re wearing?’ he asked her, smiling.

  Lily and Owen watched the traveller go back into the pub. ‘Was that him?’ Owen asked. ‘The one you met today?’

  Lily nodded. ‘Yes.’ She waited for Owen’s verdict, as her brother stared at the glowing door to The White House, where the traveller seemed to have left a dark impression on the light.

  ‘Interesting,’ Owen said at last.

  Lily felt relieved. ‘I thought that, too.’

  Owen turned back to the table, took a drink. ‘He’ll come out again in a minute, come and speak to you again.’

  Lily twirled her glass in a cider puddle on the table. ‘Yes, I know. Do you mind?’

  Owen grinned. ‘Of course not. But we must stick together, disguise ourselves. We have to suss him out.’

  ‘Do you think he’s — well — significant?’ Lily asked.

  ‘I can’t tell yet, but there’s something about him,’ Owen answered. ‘Probably just because he’s a new face, and the way he looks.’

  ‘We can pretend to be anything we like,’ Lily said. ‘He doesn’t know us.’

  Peverel Othman wasn’t normally so obvious in his manoeuvres, as to approach his prey so directly and so quickly, but he realised there was little point in trying to deny how deeply Lily Winter had aroused his interest. Her resistance called for dramatic measures. Carrying the drinks on a metal tray, Peverel Othman went back out into the garden. He would not have been surprised if the twins had already left, but they were still sitting together at the table. Lily was leaning down to fuss a mongrel dog with a madly wagging tail that had come to sniff around her ankles.