Lair

Prologue

The rat had been trapped in the basement for five days. It had crawled into a dark corner behind a row of shelves to give birth to its litter and, when it had tried to follow the sound, the sound that buzzed through its head, it had found the way blocked by a heavy iron door. The sound had continued for five long days, almost driving the mother-rat and its tiny offspring mad with its incessant, monotonous pitch. But they had found food in abundance in the basement. The owners had ignored the government warning to leave all doors open so that every building could be cleared, for they knew that when the city’s population returned from its short exile, food would be scarce for the first few days, and their shop would be ready to cash in on the shortage. The rat and its litter gorged themselves on the food, for the young ones seemed only to need their mother’s milk for the first three days, finding greater replenishment in the food around them. They grew larger and sturdier day by day, dark brown, almost black hairs were already beginning to grow on their bodies. Except for one. Only a few white hairs sprouted on its pinkish white body. It seemed to dominate the others, who brought it food and kept its body warm with their own. A curious lump seemed to be growing on its broad, lop-sided shoulder, next to its head. Patiently, they waited for the people to return.

Signs

1

‘Bloody vermin,’ Ken Woollard cursed aloud, raising his head to examine the ‘loop’ smears around the rafters of his low-ceilinged barn. The grease marks against the whitewashed walls had been caused by small furry bodies sliding under the beams into the recesses of the rough ceiling. And the only creatures he knew who did that were rodents. Mice and rats. The stains looked too big to have been caused by mice.

‘Bloody cats aren’t earning their bloody keep,’ he said to himself. Turning and walking from the gloomy building, he examined the floor for droppings. He found none, but it was hardly reassuring. The vermin were there all right, the smears were proof enough. Well, the poison would go down tonight, no messing about waiting for serious damage to be done. Farming the land was hard enough without pests destroying anything edible they could find. Fluoroacetamide should do the trick, no sodding about with pre-baiting. A good dose of it, clear them out right away.

The bright October sunlight made him narrow his eyes as he paused at the barn door. Have to report it, I suppose, government law after the Outbreak. They’d gassed the buggers then, but they were still nervous it might start all over again. Still, that was the city, a great big filthy breeding-place for vermin – animal and human. Unfortunately, Epping Forest was close enough to London for them to get the willies again. They’d be down, snooping around, putting the whole bloody farm into quarantine until they were sure it wasn’t the bloody rats.

Fuck ’em. Got no time for that nonsense. Get rid of them before all the fuss starts. Where’s those bloody cats?

Woollard trudged through the mud of the small farmyard hissing through his teeth to attract the two cats he kept not as pets, but as working animals. Until now they had managed to keep the number of rats down – you could never keep them away altogether – but the vermin were now getting into the buildings, and that could lead to big trouble.

Woollard’s weathered face was creased into deep trenches of anger as he turned the corner of an outbuilding, when suddenly he caught sight of a small white object lying in the mud. At first he thought it might just be a bird feather, but the tinges of red along one edge aroused his curiosity. He squinted as he approached, deciding it wasn’t a feather at all but a tiny, obviously dead, animal. He was used to finding dead mice around the place, for his cats usually did their job well enough. This time, though, there was something odd about the furry corpse.

Stooping to examine the body more closely, he suddenly drew in a sharp breath. He reached for the object he now knew was not a dead mouse. Blood had matted the fur at one end and two of the claws at the other end were missing. He dropped the cat’s paw in disgust.

Pushing himself erect, he quickly searched the area around him for the rest of the cat’s body. The stupid bloody creature must have got tangled up in some farmyard machinery, or maybe some wiring, and had the paw torn from its body. It must have crawled away somewhere to nurse its wound – or die, most likely. It was then he saw the blood-streaks against the wall of the outhouse.

They stretched all the way along the wall’s length, dark red, clots of black and brown hair sticking to the viscous surface. One of the cats – they had no names, he wasn’t that sentimental – was black and brown, with white paws. Whatever had got hold of the poor bloody creature had dragged it along the wall, and the frantic red scratch marks gave evidence that the cat had still been alive at the time.

‘Good bloody God,’ the farmer said in a hushed tone. He followed the gory trail, anger quickening his strides. What manner of creature could do such a thing? A fox? Been none of them around here for years. Anyway, he’d never heard of a fox fighting with a cat before. Some bloody dog’s done it! One of them belonging to someone living in the forest. Never kept their bloody animals locked up! Bad enough with horses trotting all over the place! Well this one’ll get my bloody shotgun up its arse.

He reached the end of the wall and hurried round, anger blurring his vision so that he failed to see the object lying on the ground before him. His heavy boot crunched it down into the mud before he realized he had trodden on something hard. He stopped, turned, and once again stooped to examine the object on the ground.

Two sightless slits stared up at him, mud covering the lower portion of the crushed skull. He pulled at a pointed ear and the cat’s head came free with a sucking sound, startling Woollard and making him throw the skull into the air. It landed in the mud again with a plop, and lay half on its side, a wicked, feline grin seeming to mock the frightened farmer.

The man crawled on his stomach through the damp grass towards the prone woman. She lay unaware of his stealthy approach, her face turned towards the sun, surprised and happy to receive its warmth so late in the year. She flexed her shoulders against the rough blanket, its thickness protecting her from the wetness of the grass which even the sun could not draw out.

The creeping man smiled and a gleam came into his eyes. A sound behind him made him turn his head sharply and he frowned at his two companions, silently urging them to remain quiet.

The woman sighed and raised a knee provocatively; the smoothness of her legs caught the man’s attention. His smile widened and he felt the pressure of the earth against his loins. He was close now, close enough to reach out and touch that wonderfully soft body. He tried to control his breathing so that she wouldn’t hear.

Bringing his arm forward, he snapped off a long blade of grass, then pointed its quivering tip towards the woman’s face. She twitched as the fine point ran down the side of her nose, then twitched again as the tickling sensation persisted. She suddenly sat upright, vigorously rubbing at her skin as though to dislodge an errant insect.

‘Terry,’ she shouted when she saw his shaking body, and grabbed a handful of grass and threw it into his face.

The two children behind the man laughed excitedly, the small girl jumping on his back and pounding his head with the palm of her hand.

‘Oi!’ he yelped, reaching behind and toppling her over his shoulder. ‘S’nough of that!’

The woman smiled as her husband rolled the four-year-old over in the grass. ‘Mind her clothes, Terry. She’ll get wet.’

‘All right, monkey, you heard what your mother said.’ Terry tossed the girl onto the blanket where she immediately jumped into the woman’s arms.

‘Game of football, Dad?’ the boy asked, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

‘Okay, Keith, get the ball. It’s in the back of the car.’

The boy, seven years old, and ready to play for England – maybe West Ham would do – scampered off towards the red car parked fifty yards away on a hard piece of ground not too far from the road.

‘This is nice, Terry,’ the woman said, allowing her daughter to scramble free and chase the boy.

‘Yeah. We should do it more often, you know.’

The woman looked at him meaningfully. ‘We could always do it on weekends. It would be better than keeping Keith away from school for the day. Wouldn’t do any harm to take them down to Southend now and again. They like the sea.’

Terry grunted noncommittally. He didn’t want to make any promises just because he was in a good mood. ‘Come on, you two, hurry up,’ he shouted after the children.

The woman knew there was no point in pursuing the subject. ‘When do you think you’ll go back?’ she asked.

Terry shrugged. ‘When the Union says so, I suppose.’

‘I don’t know how they get away with it. It’s a wonder the company don’t go bust. It’s the fifth dispute this year.’

‘Sixth. We were on a go-slow last month.’

The woman groaned. ‘How you get any cars out at all beats me.’

‘Leave it alone, Hazel. I have to follow the Union rules.’

‘Yes, you all do, don’t you? You’re all bloody mindless.’

‘They get us more money, don’t they? And better conditions.’

‘And what are they going to do when there’s no car plant left? When the Americans pull out?’

‘Leave off. That’ll never happen.’

‘No, not until it does.’

The couple sat in silence for a few moments, each annoyed with the other.

‘At least it gives me more time with the kids, don’t it?’ Terry said finally.

Hazel sniffed.

The two children returned, the boy kicking the ball ahead and the girl running after it, trying to smother it with her body. Terry leapt to his feet and ran towards them, kicking the ball away from the girl who shrieked with glee.

Hazel smiled at the three of them and pushed thoughts of strikes and unions and weekends spent indoors away from her mind. ‘Lazy bastard,’ she said softly, still smiling, as she watched her husband kick the football with his knee onto his head.

‘Okay, Keith, in goal,’ Terry told the boy who immediately pulled a disgusted face.

‘I’m always in goal. Can’t you go in for a change, Dad?’

‘Yeah, I will. When I’ve scored three, all right? In between those two trees, go on.’

The boy slunk off and stood between two hornbeams, hands on his hips, facing his prancing father.

The girl tried to grab the ball from her father’s feet and giggled when he pulled it away from her with the underside of one foot.

‘No you don’t, Josie. You’re up against a pro here.’ Terry kicked the ball clear of his daughter then gave it a hefty kick towards the makeshift goal. Keith met it with a kick of his own and sent it skimming back past his father.

‘Show off!’ Terry called out and ran after it, slipping and falling onto his back as he stretched a foot out to halt the ball’s progress.

Hazel and the two children laughed aloud as Terry struggled to his feet, a rueful grin on his face.

‘All right, you asked for it,’ he called back to Keith. ‘Get ready for this one!’

He retrieved the ball, placed it firmly on the ground, took a few steps back, then kicked it high and hard towards the goalmouth. Josie bravely jumped up and tried to catch the ball, but the boy was older and wiser: he ducked and let it sail over his head. The ball disappeared with a rustle of protesting leaves into the heavy clump of bushes behind the trees.

‘Oh, Dad!’ Keith moaned.

‘Terry, that’s too hard,’ said Hazel, reproachfully.

‘Well, go and get it, son,’ said Terry, unabashed.

But Keith squatted on the ground, arms folded across his chest, a set expression on his face.

‘I get it, Daddy,’ Josie cried out, scurrying towards the bushes.

‘Watch her, Terry, don’t let her go out of sight,’ Hazel said anxiously.

‘She’s all right, it didn’t go far.’ Terry stretched his arms and gazed at the greenness around him. ‘Beats bloody working,’ he muttered under his breath.

Josie peered into the bushes, then jiggled her body through the small opening she had found. She squirmed further into the undergrowth, her eyes darting from left to right in search of the lost ball. Her mother’s voice followed her through the tangle of leaves and branches, but the girl’s mind was too concentrated on her quest to listen. She squealed in excitement when she saw the white round object of her search nestling beneath a leafy bush, and pushed herself forward, wincing as the branches scratched at her legs.

She reached the ball in a final determined rush, then squatted on her haunches to retrieve it. Something moved just beyond the football. Something dark, hiding in the darker shadows of the thick undergrowth.

Josie’s fingertips reached for the ball and flicked it free, rolling it back towards her. She hugged it to her chest and was about to rise when her sharp little eyes caught sight of the animal. She moved closer, ducking beneath the leaves to get a better view. The football was forgotten for the moment and left to one side, shiny and wet. Josie crawled forward on all fours, oblivious to the damp earth which muddied her hands and knees. In the dimness she could just distinguish a black, stiff-furred body and two close-set highlights reflected in the creature’s eyes. It did not move, but waited for her to draw near.

‘Good doggy,’ Josie said happily. ‘Come here. Come on.’

A thick branch blocked her way and she pushed at it impatiently, but it would not budge. She reached over, wanting to stroke the animal’s head.

The pointed head jerked once, then stretched forward towards the approaching fingers. The girl giggled, overjoyed that the animal wanted to be friendly, and pushed even harder against the branch so that she could touch the furry body. Hot breath from the creature’s mouth warmed her pudgy hand.

The sudden crash of broken undergrowth from behind startled her and she drew her arm back in a reflex action.

‘Josie? Where are you?’ came her father’s concerned voice.

‘Here, Daddy,’ she called out. ‘Got a doggy.’

Terry brushed the leaves and branches aside and found his daughter on her knees in the mud, the white football near her feet. Her face beamed up at him in excitement.

‘You wait till your mother sees the state of you,’ he scolded, and reached down to scoop her up in his arms. ‘Dog in there, Daddy. Can we take him home?’ Her father peered into the gloom behind her, but when she turned to point to the spot where the animal had been hiding, it had gone.

The horse, chestnut in colour, cantered easily along the hoggin path, its rider immaculately clad in a light brown uniform and dark riding cap. Charles Denison, Head Keeper of Epping Forest, was content on this fine, October morning.

It was the season he loved best: the greens, yellows and browns of autumn gave the forest new life, changed its personality in a most beautiful way. The dying leaves replenished the earth, the golden, myriad carpet they formed on the woodland floor injecting the soil with fresh vitality which would be slowly processed through the winter months. The air was fresh, its sharpness exhilarating. And best of all, the people were gone.

The vast acres of woodland, rolling fields and agricultural land were a retreat for thousands upon thousands of Londoners or those living in the urbanized areas around the forest. The hordes invaded at weekends and public holidays in the summer months, scattering their litter, terrifying the shy forest creatures with their bludgeoning excursions into the wooded areas, shouting, laughing, mutilating trees and undergrowth. The public thought they owned the lush strip of land, assuming its upkeep came from the rates they paid; but it wasn’t so. Private money preserved this sanctuary.

Still, they were gone now, leaving the forest to those who cared, those who loved the vast nature reserve for its peacefulness, its constantly changing pattern, its timid wildlife. Fewer squawling brats, less bawling transistor radios. Weekends were still busy – they always would be, whatever the weather – but, ah, weekdays. Weekdays, such as this, were a joy. Denison brought his mount to a halt to examine fresh markings at the base of a birch tree.

The bark had been stripped away by some small animal, revealing the virgin wood beneath, bright and naked, a fresh wound. He lightly kicked against the sides of his mount and urged it forward for a closer inspection. Squirrels, he told himself. Damned pests, despite their bushy-tailed precociousness. If he had his way, he would trap or poison the lot of ’em. The grey squirrel, usually in early summer, attacked trees, gnawing at the main stem for the sweet, sappy layers beneath the rough bark. A tree could often die from such attacks, particularly if completely ringed. The ordinary layman just did not understand the nuisance value of these tiny creatures, didn’t seem to appreciate that they were rodents. Of course, there had been no sign at all of the red squirrel. The red had been ousted from the forest by the grey many years ago and the amount of greys had increased uncontrollably; but this year, strangely, their numbers seemed to be down.

He pulled the horse away from the birch, lifting its head up from the succulent grass. Guiding it back to the path, Denison gazed around him, looking for signs of further damage. A sudden flurry of movement to his left brought him to a halt again. A section of thicket across the path from him shook frantically, then settled into an uneasy stillness. It often happened in the forest – an animal or bird startled by the approach of man, a sudden attack by one animal on another – it was this that made the woodland so alive.

A sudden, spasmodic twitching of leaves and a tiny, almost inaudible squeal told him that a forest creature had fallen victim to a larger enemy. He felt no sympathy, for that was the law of nature, but he was curious to know who was prey and who was predator. He clucked his tongue at the horse and lightly kicked its flanks again. The chestnut took a few steps towards the thicket, then stopped, its neck and legs suddenly stiff.

There was no movement from the undergrowth, not even the rustle of unseen leaves beneath its many layers.

‘Come on, girl,’ said Denison, irritated at his mount’s unexpected nervousness. ‘On you go.’

But the horse refused to budge. It regarded the thicket with bulging eyes. Denison became impatient with the horse’s inexplicable fear – and fear it was, for the keeper could feel the rising tension in the beast. He knew horses, knew their moods, and he certainly knew this mood. The horse was ready to bolt.

‘Steady now, Bettina. There’s nothing there to worry you.’ He patted the chestnut’s long neck, speaking in soft, soothing tones. Bettina was normally the most docile of animals, rarely spooked by the abrupt actions of startled wildlife. ‘Calm yourself, girl, and we’ll go on our way.’

The horse skipped from hoof to hoof, jerking its head up and away from the now silent thicket. The keeper exerted pressure with his left knee and pulled the reins towards the right, trying to steer his mount down the path and away from the menacing undergrowth.

And then the horse was off. There had been no other sound, no other movement from the thicket, but the tension inside the skittish horse had finally boiled over, and the mare fled away, hoofs pounding, digging deep into the path and throwing clumps of earth high into the air behind it.

Denison tugged at the reins, his legs stiff against the stirrups, his body thrown backwards in an attempt to control the chestnut’s gallop. But the terror in the animal was stronger than the pull of its master’s hands. Low branches came dangerously near Denison’s face as the horse sped along the churned-up path, and he decided to let his mount have its head, to run itself out, to disperse its energy until its strength – and will – was more controllable.

They cleared the trees and Denison silently thanked God; open grassland was before them. The horse left the path and headed into the lush fields, the keeper praying that it would not step into a rut or a hole and break its leg. And possibly, his neck.

He tugged at the reins again and sensed some of the excitement leaving the horse now that it was out on open ground.

‘Whoa, girl! Stop now, girl! Whoa, Bettina!’ Denison tried not to shout the words, but it was hard to keep the urgency, the near-panic, from them.

A sudden dip caused the horse to stumble, but it managed to keep its feet, though one leg twisted badly. It staggered forward, the impetus of its wild gallop carrying its powerful body onwards; but the sudden check in speed threw the head keeper forward, almost over the beast’s head. He clutched desperately at the long neck, his legs losing their grip on Bettina’s flanks, his body slipping from the saddle. He was fortunate, for his feet touched the earth while he was still supported by the horse’s neck. He clung to the horse, his riding boots scraping through the long grass, and his weight slowed the animal down even more. It came to a gradual halt, body twitching and eyes rolling, froth foaming from nostrils and mouth. Bettina’s body gleamed with sweat as she tried to pull her neck free of the man.

‘Steady, steady, girl,’ Denison gasped, relieved to be still in one piece.

He let his legs take his full weight and continued to talk soothingly to the horse, stroking its head, calming it.

It proved difficult to settle Bettina, though, and from the way the animal favoured one leg, Denison realized it had injured an ankle. He rested his own head against Bettina’s,