Extract
THEY made their way across the stable yard, guided by the dim night-light at its entrance. The night was cloudy, with no moon. In one of the loose-boxes a colt whinnied, and afar off an owl hooted softly. From the far entrance to the yard the
unmistakable smell of the pigsty drifted over to them, and a couple of its occupants made grunting noises of welcome. Nothing out of the ordinary yet.
Once in the deep shadow of a fir tree outside the farm-house, Tyrrell held up his hand, and they paused. Silence. Not a breath of wind disturbed the flowers in the cottage garden. From the far side, where his bedroom lay on the first floor, a bird fluttered suddenly from beneath the eaves.
‘House martin,’ he whispered almost inaudibly, his mouth close to Debbie’s ear. ‘Disturbed.’ She nodded.
The slight buzz of background noise from road and rail resolved itself into a clearer sound, climaxing as a car drove past on the Oldcamp Road, exceeding the speed limit by the usual twenty miles an hour. He heard it slow and stop at the main road, then drive out again. The farmhouse showed a night-light to the rear. Within it remained dark and silent.
They had taken advantage of the noise from the road to cross swiftly to the farmhouse building, where Tyrrell indicated a sash window. It was open. He checked them every night. There had been plenty of rain lately, and here and there the vestigial damp soil amongst the cobbles had been slightly disturbed. A slight smudge on the sill indicated where the intruder had entered.
They could wait for him to emerge, or follow him. He might choose to leave by one of the doors, though leaving the window open suggested not. Safer to wait, but Tyrrell’s curiosity overcame his caution. Was the man making for the office or the living accommodation?
Upstairs. There was a sound upstairs. The slightest creaking. They exchanged glances. Tyrrell clambered in and switched on the small torch he had thus far carried in his pocket. Debbie followed. Again he judged her safer with him than on her own.
The thick pile of the staircase carpet could be relied upon to deaden the sound from their slippers. The tiny pool of dimmed torchlight sufficed until they stood outside Tyrrell’s bedroom. There was no longer any doubt. The door was very slightly ajar. He always closed it. Again he exchanged a quick glance with Debbie before turning off the torch and handing it to her. She was pale, but otherwise gave no sign of fear.
‘This is it,’ he breathed. He sprang in, narrowing his eyes as he switched on the light.
The intruder was leaning over the bed. A slim man of medium height or a shade less, not unlike himself in build, clad in a hooded black shellsuit. In his left hand he held an unlit torch similar to Tyrrell’s. In his right was a raised knife ready to drive into the bed.
‘Good morning.’
The creature turned and spat an obscenity. Tyrrell heard Debbie gasp. Its hooded head was painted with a grotesquely distorted skull in red and white. Without hesitation it plunged toward them, the long knife held out before it like a duellist’s sword. Tyrrell swivelled side-on, met the knife-hand forearm to forearm, and elbowed the man powerfully in the ribs. They stumbled and fell. Damn those slippers. Safer to have gone barefoot.
His assailant was a slim, athletic man, as quick to his feet as Tyrrell. As they grappled, the edge of the chest of drawers took Tyrrell in the lower ribs, and he stumbled again, and fell. In an instant the man was astride him. Raising the knife to strike.