Raven's Gate

Deverill wasn’t here. At last he’d been given the opportunity he needed.
    Matt had already decided he was going back to London. Now he knew it was going to happen tonight. By daybreak he would have reached the motorway and he would hitch-hike south. He had no doubt that Mrs Deverill would call the police, but the further away he managed to get, the harder it would be for them to find him. Once he reached London, he would be safe. But he needed cash. Money was the difference between survival and constant danger. He would have to buy food. He’d need to find a room. There must be money in the house. He would find it and steal it now.
    He began in the kitchen. No longer caring how much noise he made, he rifled through the drawers and cupboards, opened jars and boxes, trying to work out where Mrs Deverill kept her housekeeping funds. He could still hear the whispering, although it was more intermittent now. Was it coming to an end? He glanced at his watch. A quarter past one. He moved more quickly, afraid that the woman could return at any time. There was no money in the room. He looked for her handbag. A handbag would mean cash and possibly credit cards. But she must have taken it with her.
    He tried the living room. Now the portrait seemed to watch angrily as he searched, looking behind the books and under the chairs in the hope that Mrs Deverill might have tucked her purse away. Matt hadn’t turned on the lights – Noah might still be in the barn and he was afraid of giving himself away. He was crossing over to look around the fireplace when something screamed at him, sending him back, his heart pounding. It was Asmodeus, Mrs Deverill’s cat. It had been asleep on one of the chairs but now it was standing up, as if electrocuted, its fur bristling, its eyes ablaze. It opened its mouth and hissed, revealing a set of white fangs. Matt stood still. The cat was going to attack him. He was sure of it. It was already bracing itself, the claws of its two front paws ripping at the material, practising what it was going to do to his face.
    Matt looked around. There was a poker next to the fire; a heavy antique thing. He thought of snatching it up but wasn’t sure he could bring himself to use it. The cat’s tail whipped briefly. Its eyes had never left him. He had dared to abuse Mrs Deverill’s hospitality and now he was going to pay. The cat hissed a second time and leapt.
    Matt was ready for it. There was a large basket beside the poker. Normally it would contain logs but for once it was empty. Matt grabbed it and threw it down over the cat even as it left the chair. He heard a terrible screaming and yowling, felt the claws battering desperately at the straw cage. Matt slammed the basket down on to the chair, imprisoning the cat inside. Holding the basket with one hand, he reached out with the other. Mrs Deverill had an old-fashioned sewing machine which was on the floor beside the chair. Using all his strength, Matt picked it up and dropped it on top of the basket. The straw creaked. The cat hurled itself against the side. But the basket held. Asmodeus wasn’t going anywhere.
    Matt straightened up. He was trembling from the shock of what had just happened. And he was suddenly aware of something else. There was no sound coming from the wood. The whispering had stopped. So far he had found nothing and he was running out of time.
    There was just one room left.
    He went back upstairs and into Mrs Deverill’s bedroom. Surely he would find money here. He opened the wardrobe. Mrs Deverill’s clothes hovered in the darkness, suspended from wire hangers with her shoes underneath. Matt was about to close the door when he noticed a cardboard box in the back corner. He leant down and opened it. There was something inside. Not money. Photographs.
    He took one of them out and found himself looking at a cemetery. The photograph was black and white, taken with a telephoto lens. There was a crowd of people, dressed in the usual sombre clothes, and in the middle of them, a boy who was eight years old. Matt recognized him instantly and felt a surge of horror and sickness. He was looking at a picture of himself.
    This was his parents’ funeral.
    Six years ago.
    But it was impossible. Nobody had taken any photographs. And even if they had, even if a journalist or someone had been there, what was this picture doing here? How had Mrs Deverill got hold of it?
    There were two sheets of paper attached to the photograph by a clip. Matt