Raven's Gate

board and a water cooler.
    “Thirsty?” the journalist asked.
    Matt nodded.
    He took out a plastic cup and filled it. Matt saw a single bubble of air rise up inside the water. He took the cup. The water was lukewarm.
    “My name is Richard Cole,” the journalist said, sitting down at the table. He produced a notepad and opened it at a blank page.
    “I’m Matt.”
    “Just Matt?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You said you were staying at Lesser Malling.”
    “Yes. Do you know it?”
    Richard smiled humourlessly. “I’ve been through. I’m meant to cover it. Me, Kate and Julia – they’re the girls you saw downstairs – we all have our own territories. I got Lesser Malling. Lucky me!”
    “Why lucky you?”
    “Because nothing ever happens. I’m twenty-five years old. I’ve been working in this dump for eighteen months. And do you know the biggest news event I’ve had to cover so far? BAD EYESIGHT KILLS OLD LADY.”
    “How can bad eyesight kill you?”
    “She fell in the river. We had a dog show in Greater Malling last week. The fleas were more interesting than the dogs. I got a parking ticket once. I almost put that on the front page.” He threw down the notepad and yawned. “You see, Matt, this is one of the most boring places in England … possibly in the whole world. It’s just a poxy little market town that doesn’t even have a market. Nothing ever happens.”
    “So why are you here?”
    “That’s a good question.” Richard sighed. “Three years at York University. All I ever wanted to be was a journalist. I did a course in London. I thought I’d get on to the
Mail
or the
Express
or else I’d just freelance. But there are no jobs around. I couldn’t afford to live in London so I thought I’d come back north again. Maybe get a job on the
Yorkshire Post
. I live in York. I like York. But the
Yorkshire Post
wouldn’t have me. I think I made a bad impression at my interview.”
    “What happened?”
    “I ran over the editor. It wasn’t my fault. I was late. I was reversing and I heard this thump. I didn’t realize it was him until I met him ten minutes later.” Richard shrugged. “Then I heard there was a place going here and, although Greater Malling was obviously a dump, I thought I’d take it. I mean, it was a job. But nobody reads the
Gazette
. That’s because – apart from adverts – there’s sod all in it. LOCAL VICAR OPENS FETE. That’s one week. Then, a week later … LOCAL SURGEON OPENS VICAR. It’s pathetic. And I’m stuck here until something else comes along, but nothing else has come along so I’m … stuck!” Richard pulled himself together. “You said you had a story.” He reached for his notepad and opened it. “That’s the one thing that’ll get me out of here. An old-fashioned scoop. Give me something I can put on the front page and I’ll give you any help you need. Right, so you’re staying in Lesser Malling?”
    “I told you…”
    “Where exactly?”
    “A farm. A place called Hive Hall.”
    Richard scribbled down the name. “So what’s the story?”
    “I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”
    “Try me.” Richard had perked up. He was looking more interested and alert.
    “All right.” Matt wasn’t sure about this. He had only come to the
Gazette
to ask about Raven’s Gate. But there was something about the journalist that seemed trustworthy. He decided to go ahead.
    And so he told Richard everything that had happened since his arrival in Lesser Malling. He described his first visit to the village and the chemist shop, his meeting with Tom Burgess, the lights and whispering in the wood, his time with Mrs Deverill, his second meeting with the farmer and his discovery of the dead body in the bedroom.
    “…and that’s why,” he concluded, “I’m trying to find out who or what this Raven’s Gate is. It’s obviously something important. Tom Burgess died trying to warn me.”
    “He died – but his body disappeared.”
    “Yes.”
    There was a brief silence and in that moment Matt knew it had been a waste of his time. The journalist had been making notes when he started talking but after a while he had stopped. He glanced at the notepad, at the half-empty page with a doodle of a dog and a flea at the bottom. It was obvious that Richard hadn’t believed a word he’d said.
    “How old are you?” Richard asked.
    “Fourteen.”
    “Do you watch a lot of TV?”
    “There is no TV at Hive Hall.”
    Richard thought for a moment. “You