Raven's Gate

between them, Noah and Mrs Deverill always had him in their sight. He concentrated on his rhythm, left foot then right foot, listening to the bicycle chain as it groaned and creaked underneath him. The trees rolled by endlessly. About another twenty minutes passed. Matt was strong and he was fit again after his illness. There was a dull ache in his legs but otherwise he was fine. The road turned a corner.
    He stopped.
    He was back at the crossroads. It was impossible. The lane he had been following had run straight and he must have covered at least two miles. He gazed at the broken signpost with disbelief. It was the same signpost. There could be no doubt of it.
    Now he was angry. For this to happen once was unfortunate. But twice! It was stupid. He jerked the bike round and set off down the fifth lane, the one furthest away. He cycled more quickly this time, using his anger to lend himself strength. The night breeze rushed over his shoulders, cooling the sweat on the side of his head. A cloud covered the moon and suddenly everything was very dark. But Matt didn’t slow down. The cloud separated and he lurched to a halt, unable to believe what was happening.
    The fifth lane had somehow become the first lane. They had looped him back to the start. The broken signpost stood there, mocking him.
    Very well. He set off back the way he had come, passing Hive Hall. This lane had to go somewhere different. He cycled past the gate as quickly as he could. There were no lights visible at the end of the drive, so maybe Mrs Deverill wasn’t back yet after all. The lane climbed steeply uphill – but that was good. A hill was something different. None of the other lanes had gone up or down. Matt no longer really cared where he was going, he just wanted to find a main road. He was fed up with the wood, fed up with country lanes.
    He reached the top of the hill and stopped. For the first time he was really afraid. He had been cycling for the best part of an hour yet he still hadn’t found a way out.
    He was back at the crossroads where he had begun.
    Matt was breathing heavily. His hands were clutching the handlebars so hard that the blood couldn’t reach his fingers. He stopped there for a moment, considering his options. He didn’t really have any. Either the night was playing tricks on him or something was happening that he didn’t understand. But now he knew that he wouldn’t get anywhere, even if he cycled all night.
    He would just have to take his chances with Mrs Deverill. He turned the bike round and pedalled slowly back to the farm.

OMEGA ONE
    “He was in my room last night,” Mrs Deverill said. She was talking on the telephone. The receiver was old-fashioned and heavy, made of black Bakelite. A thick wire coiled out of her hand. “I think he found the photographs.”
    “It was a mistake keeping them there.”
    “Perhaps. But there’s something else I’m worried about. Matthew is stronger than he was when he first came here. I think he may be starting to work things out. I don’t like having him here. If you ask me, we’ve got a tiger by the tail. We should deal with him before it’s too late.”
    It was a man’s voice at the other end of the phone. He spoke in a way that was very cold and deliberate. He had an educated voice. Perhaps he was a headmaster in an expensive private school. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
    “Lock him up. There’s a crypt in the church. We could put him in there, underground, somewhere nobody would find him. It’s only for a few more weeks. And then we’ll be done with him.”
    “No.” The single word was final. “Right now the boy thinks he’s ordinary. He has no idea of who or what he is. Bury him alive and you could actually help him discover himself. And what happens if the police or his social worker come calling? How will you explain where he is?”
    “Suppose he escapes…”
    “You know he can’t escape. We have him contained. There’s nothing he can do. And very soon we’ll be ready for him. All you have to do is watch him. Where is he now?”
    “I don’t know. Somewhere in the yard.”
    “Watch him, Mrs Deverill. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
    There was a click and the line went dead. Mrs Deverill weighed the phone in one hand, then lowered it. “Asmodeus!” she called.
    The cat, sitting on the arm of a chair on the other side of the room, opened one eye and looked at her.
    “You heard what he said,” she snapped. “The boy…”
    The