Raven's Gate

slipped them loose, then turned them round so he could read them. An official police report. Each page was marked CONFIDENTIAL in red letters. In the half-light Matt tried to concentrate on the words:
    AND THE WITNESS STATEMENT OF MRS ROSEMARY GREEN IN RELATION TO THIS CASE IS NOT TO BE RELEASED AND WE RECOMMEND A COMPLETE MEDIA BLACKOUT. THE CHILD, MATTHEW FREEMAN, IS ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD AND HAS DEMONSTRATED PRECOGNITIVE ABILITIES WHICH WOULD SEEM TO BE BEYOND…
    Precognitive abilities
. Matt didn’t want to put the words into simple English. Nor did he want to read any more of the report. In that second, he made his decision. He thrust the box back into the corner, closed the wardrobe doors and left. In the living room, the portrait watched silently. Asmodeus slammed itself again and again against the sides of the basket, trying to escape. Matt didn’t notice either of them. He threw open the door and ran across the yard.
    He hadn’t found any money but he would just have to do without it.
    It was definitely time to leave.
    It took Matt just a few minutes to cycle up to the crossroads. The night had grown colder and his breath frosted as he paused by the broken sign, taking his bearings. He had a choice of five country lanes, each one cutting through the wood in a different direction. He had just taken one from the farm, and he knew that one of them led to Lesser Malling. That left only three. He chose the middle path and set off, grateful for the moon showing him the way. There was no sound coming from the wood. The electric lights had been turned off. His greatest fear was that he could run into Mrs Deverill, returning from wherever she had been. He listened out for the sound of her Land Rover but there was nothing. He was utterly alone.
    Matt tried to concentrate on what he was doing. He didn’t want to look at the woodland but he couldn’t help being aware of it as it pressed in on him on all sides. The trunks of the trees, in their long lines, were silhouetted against the moon. They were like the solid bars of a huge open-air jail. The branches, swaying slightly, cast a thousand shadows over the ground. The pine needles rustled together and almost seemed to be whispering to themselves as he pedalled past.
    Matt kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of him. He intended to cycle all night. The discovery of the photograph had made him determined. He was just going to have to chance it in London. Without money. Without anywhere to live. The police would probably find him in the end, but that didn’t matter. They could put him in a secure training centre for as long as they liked… Anything, so long as it didn’t involve Mrs Deverill or Lesser Malling.
    Why did she have a photograph of him in her wardrobe? How had she got her hands on a secret police report? And what did the death of his parents mean to her? It was a horrible thought but he wondered if Mrs Deverill had known about him before he had been introduced to her by the LEAF Project. In which case, could she have in some way chosen him? But that would suggest that she had been planning whatever was going on in Lesser Malling for years and years, and that he had always somehow been part of it.
    Well, to hell with the whole lot of them, Matt thought. His aunt, his social worker, Mallory, Mrs Deverill… He had been pushed around for too long. It was time to start looking after himself. He might be able to get a job in a kitchen or a bed and breakfast. He looked old for his age. Grimly, he pushed down on the pedals, urging the old bike forward. He checked his watch again. Two o’clock in the morning! He was surprised so much time had passed since he left the farm.
    There was a crossroads coming up ahead of him. Matt slowed down, free-wheeling the last few metres. He looked around him. There was a choice of five directions and a broken signpost without any names. It took him half a minute to work out where he was. Somehow, the lane he had chosen had brought him round in a big circle. He was back exactly where he had begun.
    Matt was annoyed with himself. He had wasted time and precious energy. Mrs Deverill might have got back to Hive Hall. She would have found the cat under the basket and checked Matt’s room. Perhaps she had already called the police.
    Gritting his teeth, Matt chose one of the other lanes and pedalled forward again. He was beginning to wish he had waited until the morning. No. He would have been set to work on the farm and,