Blacklands

He focused on Avery’s eyes, inches from his own. Please, he said in his head, but his lips just moved silently; no air to form the sound of the word. He kicked feebly and tried to push the man off him but only had the strength to lift his fists against Avery’s denim thighs and rest them there, like the two of them were old friends and this was a game they played.

Please, he tried again, but there was nothing there.

This was what it felt like to die.

It seemed to take forever, and it hurt even more than it scared.

Uncle Billy hurt like this. Uncle Billy looked into these same shiny eyes and hurt like this. Uncle Billy had left no clues, and neither had he, he thought distantly; he understood now about having no idea that this might be the last day of his life; he’d put on his favorite shirt to be murdered in.

The pain in his chest was unbelievable and his own blood squeezed through his eyes and started to blur his killer’s face behind a misty red curtain.

Please.

He was unsure of whether he was trying to beg for his life or for his death.

He thought vaguely that either would be okay.

And the darkness covered him like a cold black wave.

Chapter 40

 

THERE WAS BREATHING AND FEET, BREATHING AND FEET.

The moor did its worst.

Twisted roots tripped and tangled, wet heather slapped and gorse whipped and prickled. Mud gripped and slid.

The mist was a thick white veil. Or a shroud. It chilled the eyelids, slid up the nose, and pooled in the gaping mouth—its damp fingers stroking the senses with a seaside memory of childhood and a portent of death.

But through it all there was breathing and feet, breathing and feet.

With a purpose.

Chapter 41

 

THERE WERE VOICES AND SUDDENLY STEVEN COULD BREATHE. IT wasn’t dramatic; there were no gasps, just a ragged little whining sound as he started living again instead of dying. He stared up into the streaky pink sky, wondering what had happened to Avery. He thought vaguely of getting up and running again but his head felt like lead and there was a great weight across his legs, pressing him into the moor.

If Avery appeared and tried to kill him again, there was nothing he could do to stop it, he was that weak. He didn’t even care really.

The cardigan still wound around his neck was warm and comforting now and he felt tired and floaty.

There were still voices. Close, but not that close. Not right over him. They were men’s urgent voices—the kinds of voices people used in TV cop shows when something worrying had happened. Steven didn’t bother working out what they were saying, but he did wonder why they weren’t saying it over him. Maybe they thought he was dead. He wouldn’t blame them—he’d thought he was dead. Maybe he was dead, although he didn’t think he’d feel the prickly wet gorse under the small of his back if he was. Steven let his mind drift away from the question of his death. It was tiring.

“Steven.”

That was more like it.

Steven flickered his eyes to the right and found his mother bent over him in her old blue bathrobe.

Mum, he wanted to say, but couldn’t—just felt his lips open briefly as he tried silently. She was holding his right hand, which made Steven feel five years old again. Having his hand held like Davey. He almost smiled at the thought. Then didn’t bother. Tired. Too tired to bother. Maybe he’d sleep a bit.

But under the voices he became aware of a ticking whirr in his left ear. He made an effort and turned his head minutely and frowned. Right next to his face, an all-terrain wheel spun lazily against the sky, something dripping from it that was not water.

It was so out of context that he had to know more. Slow with pain and effort, he turned his head farther to the left and found himself looking at a maroon slipper with a stout ankle in it.

It was his nan, lying in the heather beside him—her trolley between them.

Lettie stroked his face, but all the voices were over Nan. All the activity was over Nan. Some men from the village were with her, one murmuring softly into her face and pressing his lips to hers like a public lover, another pumping at her chest with his arms straight, a third tucking his jumper around her legs.

The fourth—Lewis’s dad—just stood, staring sightlessly, his expression blank and his freckles oddly dark against the sickly white of his face.

A little way behind them all, almost hidden by the thick fog, was Lewis.

But his friend’s eyes didn’t meet his. Instead they flickered between Steven’s legs and his father’s face, wide with horror—and a jolt of panic made Steven jerk his head up to make sure his legs were still there.

They were. But in the two seconds that Steven could keep his head raised, he took a mental snapshot that would stay with him forever, however much he tried to erase it …

Avery lay on his back across Steven’s legs, his hands curled into loose fists beside his head. And what used to be his face.