Bruar's Rest

wagon.
    She remembered how her friend always put all her money in a pouch then into the box. Already a heat was spreading through the wagon, she felt it as the door opened easily at her touch. Inside the mummified remains waited for incineration, strangely still. The impatient voices of the wood groaned and spat beneath her as the fire got going.
    She dragged the heavy metal container from beneath the bed with apologies. ‘Forgive me, I need this a lot more than you, and where you go there’s no call for money.’
    Flames found a route up through the floorboards, one singed her ankle. She hesitated whether to remove the pouch and leave the box, but a growing fire has no patience. With as much strength as both arms could muster, she pushed the box out of the wagon and followed its path down the steps. Once at a safe distance, she opened it. There was an assortment of bits and bobs, including four green buttons for her coat. Seeing them brought tears, their salt stung her fire-reddened cheeks. ‘Dear old friend,’ she thought sadly, ‘you were ill, yet thought of my buttonless coat.’
    Disappointment on not finding the pouch distracted her from grief. She was certain the old woman put the money Stephen refused to take for Beth’s keep in the pouch; she had seen lots more bundles before the box was closed and pushed under the bed. She never went into it the box again, so where was the money?
    ‘Are you looking for this?’
    Fear spread through her shaking body like the flames in the wagon. Her fingers tingled, and sick visions of mutilated hedgehogs grew in her mind. As flames of red, yellow and gold, now twisting in unison, completely engulfed the gypsy wagon, she turned to see, in all his evil glory, Buckley, the demon stalker, directly behind her! He who snapped heads from bodies and sucked brains from defenceless animals.
    There was no wagon to run into and lock the door now. No man or woman to help. She was totally at his mercy. Blood drained from her heaart: she could feel it sap all her strength, from head-tip to toe end, every last drop. She collapsed weakly onto all fours like a terrorstruck mouse, stared up into the soulless black eyes of the wild cat, and waited.
    ‘I watched you all the while, and may I say, it was a darned good burning ye done. Foy would have been well pleased with ye, I for certain would have been if it were me ye burned. Not to mention the earrings and hair pleats and that bandaging.’ His words sent a further surge of fear into her body, thinking that he’d actually been out in the darkness watching every move. Was it coincidence or had he read her thoughts?
    ‘I’ve been as close as this to you for ages, Megan, my pretty thing. That night on the moor, I knew it were you hiding in the heather, I smelt ye. And what good did it do telling Mrs Newton? King I am, and no prison cell or deep jail can keep me for long. So you see it did no good at all. But me, well, I think you’ll provide me with a bit of fun.’ He lifted her up like a rag doll and bit into her neck saying, ‘You taste real nice, you won’t mind if I help myself to some more.’
    One hand gripped her thigh, the other pushed back her head until she was at his demonic mercy. Her clothes were ripped from her body as if they were made of gossamer. Another bite, this time to her exposed breast, drew blood. Her futile attempts to push him off amounted to nothing; he was far too powerful.
    ‘Real tasty, I’m surprised no one has taken a chunk of this before.’ His tobacco-yellowed teeth found another part of her shivering flesh. With a clenched fist he hit her stomach. She fell flat. Still forcing back her head he straddled her body, and like a ravenous caveman, untamed, he tore her undergarments from her trembling hips. His red hair hung over one eye and gave his appearance further menace. She was at the mercy of a maniac. One who did not believe in such a thing as mercy.
    ‘I’ll take this high road,’ he said, cupping her breasts with filthy, clammy hands as slavers dripped from his mouth and trickled, hot and steamy, onto her now naked body.
    For a second his grip slackened, she got half free and screamed, ‘Not over this border! Bastard, bastard breed, I’ll rather be dead than let you enter me!’
    One knee came up and caught him under the chin, while the other found its mark.
    ‘You bitch, she-devil!’ His face for a moment turned pale as the pain between his legs shot deep, but it was nothing he’d