Blacklands

Steven didn’t finish the thought; it was too frightening.

The silence was a physical thing between them. Avery was used to silence and Steven was reluctant to puncture the stillness until he had some idea of what he might say.

So it was left to Lewis to take the lead, as always.

“Nice day.” The perennial favorite of walkers.

Avery nodded slowly. “So far.”

Steven shivered and Lewis frowned at him, like he was somehow letting the side down.

“We’re digging,” offered Lewis, jutting his jaw at Steven’s spade.

“Oh yes?” inquired Avery coolly. “What for?”

Lewis had talked himself into a little corner. On any other day he’d have told the stranger, Steven knew. He’d have blabbed and then watched the stranger’s reaction; if it had been awe, Lewis would have taken credit for the joint operation; if it had been disgust, Lewis would have rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb at him.

But because this was their first time back together—and because a strange, unspoken shift had taken place in their relationship—Lewis seemed uncertain of whether to reveal their true mission.

Lewis looked at Steven and was surprised to see his friend was even more pale than usual. Steven looked sick. But still, it was Steven who now picked up the conversational baton.

“Orchids.”

Avery only raised his brow again. This time Lewis almost joined him. Steven ignored it. “Sell them to the garden center.”

Avery eyed him carefully. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Yes.”

Lewis shot a worried look at Steven and then at the man, but the man didn’t look too perturbed by the revelation.

In fact, he shrugged and almost smiled—just the tips of prominent teeth breaking out briefly before being recaptured by his ruby lips.

“Oh well,” he said.

There was another lumpy silence.

“Are there any round here?”

“Any what?” said Lewis.

“Any—” Avery cleared his throat politely, his fist in front of his mouth. “Any orchids.”

Lewis flickered a sidelong glance at Steven. He’d got them into this—he could bloody well get them out.

“No,” said Steven, scanning the ground. “We should go.”

“Don’t.”

Both boys looked up at the man. Lewis thought that was strange—saying “Don’t” like that. Most people you met on the moors couldn’t wait to have you walk away and disappear and restore their illusion of splendid isolation. But this man said “Don’t” as if he really didn’t want them to leave.

Lewis was not a sensitive boy, but he felt the first vague itch that told him something was not quite right.

Arnold Avery had recognized SL immediately—the shape of him—from the photograph.

Now SL stood before him with his anorak tied around his whippety waist, his bony arms projecting from a red T-shirt, his dark hair poorly home-cut, his body turned slightly away.

On the back of his T-shirt was the word LAMB. The boy’s name was S. Lamb.

Lamb.

He had to keep from laughing.

Now S. Lamb and his more robust friend were both looking at him because he’d said “Don’t” in that stupid, needy way.

A flash of Mason Dingle and a bawling child. Avery was angry with himself, but controlled it so it wouldn’t show.

He had to be careful. There were two of them. S. Lamb had a spade slung over his shoulder. They were older than most of the others. Bigger than he remembered children to be. He’d said “Don’t” and both of them had looked up in surprise.

He had to be careful.

He had to smile.

So he did, and saw the rounder boy’s face relax immediately. He was not unattractive.

S. Lamb glanced at him but still looked pinched and wary. Understandable, thought Avery—a strange man on the moors; a boy should be on his guard. He was proud of SL’s open suspicion, and felt a little better about the way he’d been played by a boy. At least it wasn’t a stupid boy.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My name’s Tim.” He looked pointedly at the bigger boy until he cracked.

“I’m Lewis. He’s Steven.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Steven Lamb. Avery dared only a brief glance and nod at Steven Lamb because he did not want to telepathically transmit the images in his head—images of Steven Lamb’s dark eyes bulging from their sockets in terror; of his own fingers around Steven Lamb’s slender throat as the blood rose like geysers in both of them, but for different reasons; of a scant but ironic map of Exmoor with the initials SL forever beside WP.

“I have sandwiches.” Avery reached past the towrope to get them and added, more casually: “If you want.”

Lewis did want.

Of course.

Steven watched Lewis close the distance between himself and Arnold Avery. He held his breath as Lewis reached for the sandwich. His warning shout caught in his throat as Lewis’s hand almost touched Avery’s.

Nothing happened except that Lewis got a sandwich. Steven grunted in relief.

Avery looked at him now, holding out another sandwich.

This was it. This was the moment when Steven had to decide. To take the killer’s sandwich, or to fling aside his spade, turn, and run back down the moor to home.