High Moor (6 page)

The low hum of muted conversation filled the hall while Mr Jones attempted to tune the television into the video player. John glanced across the room and tried to catch Michael’s eye, but the other boy just looked at his feet. Lawrence Mitchell glared back at John and slowly ran his finger across his throat.

“You are dead,” he mouthed. John ignored him and waited for his moment.

The educational videos that they were forced to watch with alarming regularity were an ordeal that none of the assembled children enjoyed. They ranged from embarrassing old programmes from the depths of time about water safety with Rolf Harris, to newer, but no less dull, items about industry or road safety. The last one they had to sit through had been about rivers or something and it had gone on for over an hour. They'd missed play time because of that one. John, however, had a plan.

Mr Jones stood up and beamed in triumph as the two white lines appeared on the TV screen. He turned off the tuning signal and retrieved today’s video tape. Miss Watson and Mr Smith closed the curtains to the hall. Shafts of sunlight pierced the darkness, and dust motes danced in the beams before winking out of existence as they passed into shadow. John fished in his pocket and retrieved a small grey box.

During the last torturous video session, John noticed that the VCR at school was exactly the same model as the one he had at home. Over the course of the last week, a plan had formed, and now he was ready to put it into action.

“Quiet please,” said Mr Jones, “That means you, Karen Burke.”

The murmur of conversation faded. Mr Jones stood for a moment until he was sure that he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Today, our video is about crop rotation in the seventeenth century. This will tie into your class projects, so I expect you all to pay attention.” A chorus of groans rose from the children. Mr Jones ignored them and pressed play on the video recorder.

The television screen was filled with static and then turned black. White letters displayed the inspired title, “Crop rotation in the seventeenth century,” and a feeble rendition of
Greensleeves
warbled from the elderly television’s speakers. Then the tape stopped and rewound to the beginning.

Mr Jones looked confused, ran a hand across his bald head, and pressed play again.

The screen turned black once more and the first few bars of
Greensleeves
played, then the programme stopped and the tape ejected from the VCR.

Mr Jones made a show of examining the video cassette, then placed it back into the machine. “Er…we seem to be having some technical difficulties.”

As soon as he hit play, the tape went into fast forward. The titles flashed by, and a man in a corduroy waistcoat, not unlike the one worn by Mr Jones, appeared on the screen. The man's arms waved in the air as if performing some sort of energetic dance. At the back of the hall, someone cheered.

Mr Jones stopped the tape and ejected it, his bald head going as red as the few remaining tufts of hair around his ears. He pushed open the flap at the front of the machine and blew into it, then switched the machine off and back on again.

He squinted at the VCR with suspicion in his eyes, put the tape back into the machine, and pressed play. The titles came up and the music started. He hovered near the VCR, but the titles and the music faded and the man in the corduroy jacket appeared once more, less animated than on his previous visit. Satisfied that the machine was now behaving itself, Mr Jones walked across the hall to his seat.

The second Mr Jones sat down, the VCR started to record over the program. He flew from his seat, arms flailing, and dove at the possessed video recorder. He slipped on the polished wooden floor and landed in a tangle of gangly arms and legs in front of the first year students. The hall erupted in laughter as Mr Jones, still on his knees, hit the eject button and retrieved his precious tape from the demonic VCR.

He dusted himself off and tried to regain some dignity.

“There seems to be something wrong with the video,” he said to the sniggering masses. “I’ll call the repair man, but in the meantime you all might as well take an early break.”

A cheer rose from the hall as the children, needing no encouragement, filed out to the playground. John grinned to himself, slipped the remote control back into his pocket, and looked across to Michael. His friend was still looking at the floor and didn’t seem to have noticed the antics of Mr Jones.

Outside in the playground, John went over to Michael and Marie, who were standing alone in the corner of the tarmac play area. “Did you see Jones go flying? Man, I thought I was going to piss myself.”

“Yeah, it was pretty funny,” said Michael, without conviction.

“What’s the matter?”

Marie looked up at John with tear brimmed eyes. “David didn’t come home last night.”

“What? I saw him go in the house with you two, for tea.”

“Dad made him go back out and get the tools from the camp,” said Michael. “Dad was mad…really mad. Not seen him go off like that in ages.”

“Dave probably just stayed in the camp, out of the way, till he calmed down,” said John. “We can go round there on the way home from school and see if he’s there, if you want.”

Michael looked up and the beginnings of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s probably it, and Jones was funny as fuck back then. Don’t know what was going on with that video, but we got extra playtime so I’m not complaining.”

John rolled his eyes up and put on his most angelic expression. “Erm…I might have had something to do with that.” He removed the remote control from his pocket.

“You did that? John, you are my fucking hero. That was genius, mate. Genius.”

“John, that was brilliant,” said Marie, “and thanks for cheering us up.” She hugged him and then pulled away, her cheeks flushing scarlet.

“Oooh! John’s got a girlfriend,” shouted Lawrence Mitchell from across the playground. Heads turned to look at the three friends. Girls sniggered and whispered to each other. John felt his cheeks burn.

He balled his fists and strode forward to where Lawrence, Simon, and Billy stood. “What’s it to you Mitchell? Looking like a giant panda not good enough? You want some more?”

“You better get in line if you want to fuck the little slag,” said Billy Phillips, “I hear her brothers have first dibs.”

Michael stood by John's side. “I’ve had enough of you arseholes,” Marie joined him and the three friends faced their tormentors.

The playground erupted in cries of “fight, fight, fight,” and the rest of the children formed a circle around the combatants, eager for the violence to begin.

Mr Smith pushed his way through the crowd, accompanied by two police officers, a man and a woman. “Break it up you lot. Michael, Marie? Can you come with us please? And John? I believe Mr Jones would like a word with you, about the school video recorder.”

Michael and Marie exchanged confused glances as they were led away through the playground. What had they done now?

***

26th March. Mill Woods, High Moor. 11.34.

Steven lifted the blue tape and stepped beneath it. Matt Wilshire followed behind him and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Steven, who shook his head and made his way through the bracken to the crowd of men in white forensics coveralls. One of them was being sick in the undergrowth.

Another of the forensics officers put up his hand. “You might want to stop there, Sergeant."

“Why’s that?”

The man pointed to the bracken. The vegetation was covered in congealed blood that stained the green leaves black. Swarms of flies filled the air. The forensics officer’s white coveralls were bright red below the knee.

“Jesus,” said Steven. “How far does this mess extend?”

“About ten feet in every direction around that tree,” he said, pointing to an oak tree with the remains of a tree house high in its branches.

Steven tried to take in the detail of the scene, but found his eyes skipping away from the tree.

This is ridiculous. I’m a trained police officer. There’s nothing here that I haven’t seen before a hundred times
.

He forced himself to focus and discovered that he was wrong.

Red tendrils hung from the branches of the oak. At first Steven thought he was looking at paper party decorations, until he realised that they were intestines. Blood oozed through the gaps in the wooden boards of the tree house and formed large dark red drops that spattered on the forest floor with sickening regularity like some form of perverse metronome.

He followed the path of the ropes that led from the tree house to the adjacent pine and saw the wounds in the tree where something had climbed up it. The scars oozed sap as if the tree was weeping for the dead boy. He started to get a picture of what had occurred here, and it didn’t make a lot of sense.

One of the white-coated forensics officers held up a severed arm with a blood stained chisel clutched in its pale white hand. “Boss, I’ve found the other one.” Then he placed it in a clear plastic bag.

Steven grabbed Matt’s arm and guided him towards the officer and his grisly trophy. “Take a look, Matt. Is it the same as the sheep?”

The old man's face was white with shock. “Yes. Definitely canine, not feline. Same sort of bite diameter. I'd say this boy was killed by the same animal that killed those sheep.”

Steven grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around so that they were face to face. “So, Matt, you tell me. How many fucking dogs do you know of that can climb a forty-foot tree?”

The old man looked unsteady on his feet. He leaned against a tree for support and took several long deep breaths, then he pushed his way past Steven and moved towards the gore-covered oak.

He circled the tree, making deliberate, careful steps as he widened his search radius, eyes fixed on the soft, bloodstained ground. After a few moments, he stopped and crouched to examine something.

“Jesus, oh dear Jesus…” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Steven could see the old man trembling from where he stood. His face had become ashen, and his hands shook as he retrieved a cigarette from his pack and took a long deep drag on it.

“Matt? What’s the matter?”

“Over here. You need to see this.”

Steven cursed and tried to pick his way through the blood-soaked bracken to where the old hunter stood. By the time he reached him, he could feel the cold, sticky wetness soaking through his trousers. He tried not to think about it and focused on Matt instead. “So? What have you found?”

Matt gestured to the ground. Steven saw two large prints, just visible through the foliage. The prints were around two feet apart, and each was a foot long. Steven could make out impressions at the front of the prints, where claws had dug deep into the earth, and a rounded mark from the heels.

“This is where it jumped down from the tree,” said Matt.

“What the hell? Those prints look more like a human footprint than anything else. Do you have any idea what could have made tracks like that?”

The old man shook his head. “I can’t help you, lad. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“Do you know what kind of animal did this, Matt? I need your help here because I don’t have the slightest idea of what the hell is going on.”

“I can’t, Steven. That’s all there is too it. Consider me off the case and unavailable for any consultation. In fact, I’m taking the wife and the grandkids, and I’m going on holiday. Today.”

“What the fuck, Matt. Don’t leave me hung out to dry like this. I’ve got a fucking puma stalking the area, which may or may not just have killed a child, and I have no-one else I can turn to for help tracking the fucking thing down and put a bullet in it.”

Matt turned and walked away from the tree. Steven grabbed hold of his arm and turned him around. “Don’t you walk away from me, Matt. Don’t you fucking dare.”

The old man fished in his coat pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes and a pen. He removed the cardboard insert and wrote down a number, then handed it to Steven.

“I can’t help you, Steven. I’m not sure if anyone can, but this guy might. He’s a yank called Carl Schneider. I met him about fifteen years ago, in Germany. If anyone can help, he can. Assuming he’s still alive.”

Steven took the card and looked at the number.

“Well, that’s something I suppose,” he said, but Matt had already started walking away from the crime scene.

He turned his head and said, “God help you, Steven. God help you.” Then, without so much of a backwards glance, he headed off towards the path and his waiting car.

24th April 1986. Newcastle Airport. 10:00.

The rain fell in sheets. It drummed against the metal roof of the police car and obscured the view from the windscreen, despite the best efforts of the wipers.

Constable Phillips turned to Steven. “Do you want me to come with you, Sarge?”

“No, take the car and park it up, then go get yourself a coffee or something. I have a feeling this might take a while.”

Steven paused, willing the rain to let up. When the weather responded by raining even harder, he sighed and stepped from the car into a puddle. He cursed, pulled his hat down, and ran to the building. By the time he pushed open the glass doors, the rest of him was as wet as his feet.