“Hurry!” Matt shouted.
The mud was touching his chin. He forced his head up despairingly, staring up at a pale moon that had at last come from behind the clouds. Only seconds remained.
The bog pulled. The stagnant water rose over his head, up his nose, into his eyes. Now only his hands remained above the surface. But then he was struck by the flying edge of a rope. Smothered, blind, he groped for it. And found it. He held his breath and tightened his grip.
And then he was being hauled up towards the surface. His lungs were bursting. With a cry, he opened his mouth and sucked in. And breathed air. The man pulled on the rope and he felt himself being dragged forward. His waist cleared the edge of the bog with a loud, sucking noise. He kicked out with his legs, still clinging on to the rope. A strong hand grabbed him and pulled him clear. Exhausted, he collapsed on to firm ground.
For a moment he lay there, retching, getting the filthy water out of his system. Then he looked up. And recognized Richard Cole, the journalist from the Greater Malling Gazette.
“You!” he gasped.
“What the hell…?” Richard was equally surprised.
“How…”
“What are you doing?”
The broken questions hung in the air.
Then Matt took control of the situation. “Not now,” he said. He was thinking about the dogs. They might have lost his scent when he was in the bog, but they would find it again soon enough. “We have to go.”
“All right. Can you get into the car?” Richard leant down and helped Matt to his feet. Matt could feel the slime dripping off him. He wondered what he must look like.
The car was standing near the side of the road with its engine running. Richard rested Matt against the bonnet, then went round to open the passenger door. There were piles of old newspapers and magazines on the front seat and he began throwing them into the back to clear a space. Matt was edging round to get in when he saw them.
The dogs had emerged from the wood. They were in the middle of the road. Watching. Waiting.
“There…” Matt whispered.
“What?”
Richard turned and saw them. The dogs were just ten metres away. Their tongues were hanging out. Their breath rose in white clouds. Their eyes flickered. Richard held up a hand. “Nice dogs! Stay!” he muttered. He reached into the car and pulled out a can. “Get in,” he said to Matt.
“What are you…?”
“I’m going to put them down.”
Painfully, Matt eased himself into the front seat, his eyes fixed on the waiting dogs. Water oozed out underneath him and dripped on to the carpet. Richard fumbled in his pocket and produced a handkerchief. Slowly, forcing himself not to panic, he unscrewed the lid of the can and pushed the handkerchief into its neck. Matt smelled petrol fumes. Richard found a lighter. The dogs crept forward, suddenly suspicious, and Matt knew they were preparing themselves for the final leap. Richard flicked the lighter against the handkerchief and hurled the can towards them.
The first dog had just left the ground when the can hit it and exploded into flame. Burning petrol sprayed over the second dog, instantly setting it alight. The fire roared around them. With an unearthly howl, the dogs fell back, one curling itself into a ball, the other snapping at its own hide in a vain attempt to devour the cause of its agony. Fire had been their creator. Now fire destroyed them.
Richard slid over the bonnet and landed next to the driver’s door. He got into the car, slammed the door, threw the gears into reverse and stamped on the accelerator. The back wheels spun, then found a grip, rocketing the car backwards. Matt felt a thump as they drove over the body of one of the dying creatures. But where was the other? He looked around, then yelled out as, still blazing, it slammed into the windscreen, launching itself out of nowhere. For a few seconds it was in front of him, its dreadful teeth centimetres from his face. Then Richard changed into first gear and wrenched the wheel. The dog spun away. Matt looked out of the back window. The flickering remains of one carcass lay in the middle of the road. The second had got snarled up in the wheels, but as the car sped forward it fell free and was tossed to one side.
They drove through the night for half a mile without speaking. The car was filled with the smell of the bog. Water was dripping out of Matt’s clothes, on to the seat and on to the floor. Richard pulled a face and opened the window. “So, do you mind telling me what that was all about?” he demanded.
Matt didn’t know where to begin. “I think something is happening in Lesser Malling,” he said.
Richard nodded. “I think you could be right.”
MATT'S STORY
Richard Cole lived in the very centre of York. He had rented a flat above a souvenir shop in one of the city’s most famous medieval streets: a pretty, cobbled passageway called The Shambles. The flat was arranged over three floors, a series of oddly shaped rooms piled on top of each other like children’s building bricks. A kitchen and a living room took up the first floor. Then, above, there was a bedroom and a shower. And finally a narrow flight of steps twisted round to a spare room built into the roof.
The place was in a shambles itself. All the furniture looked as if it had been rescued from a skip – as indeed much of it had. There were old clothes everywhere, unwashed plates piled high in the sink, CDs, books, magazines and half-written articles shuffled together in a way that would surely make it impossible to find anything. The walls were covered with posters, mainly old American films. Richard’s laptop was on the kitchen table, next to a box of Weetabix, a half-eaten can of baked beans with the fork still sticking out, and two pieces of very cold toast.
Matt had felt awkward as they climbed to the first floor and it was worse now that he was in the flat itself. He was very aware that he stank. Richard left him in the kitchen and came back with a large towel.
“We can talk later,” he said. “Right now you need a shower. And we’ll have to get rid of those clothes.”
“Have you got a washing machine?”
“Are you kidding? The washing machine hasn’t been built that could handle all that muck. They can go in the bin and we’ll buy you some more tomorrow. I’ll find you some of mine to wear in the meantime.” Richard pointed upstairs. “You’ll find the shower easily enough. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Well there’s no food in the house. I’ll go out and get something while you get changed.”
Half an hour later the two of them were sitting in the living room, surrounded by Chinese food from the takeaway at the end of the street. Matt had spent twenty minutes in the shower, only coming out when he had washed away all traces of the bog. He was now wearing an old York University T-shirt with a towel wrapped round his waist and nothing on his feet. He hadn’t been aware how hungry he was until he had begun eating. Now he was feeling stuffed.
“Nice place,” he said, looking around.
“I was lucky to get it,” Richard said. “It’s very cheap. Not that I’m here very much. I normally eat at the pub…”
“Do you live on your own?”
“I had a girlfriend until about a week ago. Unfortunately she took a liking to classical music.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Now she’s going out with an opera singer.” Richard went to the fridge and took out a can of beer. “You want anything to drink?”
“I’m all right.” There was a brief silence while Richard sat down again. Matt knew that they both had a lot to explain. “How did you find me tonight?” he asked.
Richard shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. After you left the office, I thought about some of the things you’d said. It all sounded pretty stupid, to tell the truth. But there were parts of your story… Well, I couldn’t get them out of my head. And I had nothing else to do.”