Raven's Gate

on to something completely bizarre. The man was well known to them. His name was Will Scott and he was a drug addict who had been involved in many muggings in central London. There was a kitchen knife clutched in his hand and it was this that had killed him. But nobody had attacked him. There were no fingerprints. No sign that anyone had come close.
    The dead man’s mouth was stretched in a hideous smile and there was a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He was holding the knife very tightly. He had taken it and pushed it, inch by inch, into his own heart. It was unclear how he had done it – or why – but the forensic people had no doubt at all.
    For some reason, Will Scott had killed himself.

LESSER MALLING
    There were two hundred miles of dreary motorway between London and York, and the journey took more than four hours. The coach stopped twice at service stations but neither Matt nor Mrs Deverill left their seats. She had brought sandwiches with her. They were in her handbag, wrapped in brown paper. She took them out and offered one to Matt.
    “Are you hungry, Matthew?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “In Yorkshire I’ll expect you to eat what you’re given. We don’t waste food in my house.”
    She unwrapped one of the bundles and Matt saw two slabs of white bread filled with cold liver. He was glad he hadn’t accepted her offer.
    “I expect you’re wondering about me,” Mrs Deverill said, as she began her lunch. She took small mouthfuls and chewed the food with care. When she swallowed, her throat twisted painfully, as if she had difficulty getting the food down. “I am now your legal guardian,” she went on. “You are a thief and a delinquent, and the government has given you to me. But I’m willing to forget your past, Matthew. I can assure you it is your future that is of much more concern to me. If you do as you’re told, we’ll get on. If you disobey me, if you try to defy me, let me assure you that you will be more miserable than you can imagine. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” Matt said.
    Her eyes slid over him and he shivered. “You have to remember that nobody cares about you. You have no parents. No family. You have little education and no prospects. I don’t want to be cruel to you, my dear, but I’m really all you have left.”
    She turned away from him and continued eating her sandwiches. After that, she took out a farming magazine and began to read. It was as if she had completely forgotten him.
    The motorway stretched on. There was nothing to look at out of the window and Matt found himself hypnotized by the white lines and the crash barrier endlessly flashing past. Almost without knowing it he found himself drifting away, neither awake nor asleep but somewhere in between.
    He was back in the terraced house in Dulwich, a leafy, friendly suburb of London. This was where he had lived with his mother and father. It had been six years since he had seen them but, staring out of the window, he saw them now.
    There was his mother, rushing around the kitchen that was always in a mess, even when it had just been cleaned. She was wearing the clothes she had worn that last day: a pink dress with a white linen jacket. Whenever he remembered her, this was how he saw her. It was a brand new dress that she had bought especially for the wedding. And there was his father, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Mark Freeman was a doctor and he normally went to work in whatever he could find – jeans, a sweater… He didn’t like dressing up. But one of the other doctors at his surgery was getting married and it was going to be a smart affair. First the service, then an expensive hotel. His father was sitting at the table, eating his breakfast, and he turned round, tossing his dark hair in the way he always did, and asked,
“Where’s Matthew?”
    And then Matthew came in. Of course, he was still Matthew then. Now, six years later, sitting on a coach heading towards a place he had never heard of, Matt saw himself as he had been at that time: a short, slightly plump, dark-haired boy coming into the bright, yellow kitchen. His father at the table. His mother holding a teapot shaped like a teddy bear. And he heard it all again.
    “Come on, Matthew. We’re going to be late.”
    “I don’t want to go.”
    “What? What are you talking about?”
    “Matthew…?”
    “I don’t feel well. I don’t want to go.”
    Now, on the coach, Matt put a hand over his eyes. He didn’t want to remember any