Raven's Gate

grandmother. Even the portrait of her ancestor seemed more friendly than usual. The hair was neater. The eyes were perhaps a little less cruel. Matt was standing in the doorway.
    “I think you and I need to have a talk, Matthew,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down?”
    She gestured at the armchair opposite her. Matt hesitated, then sat down. Six hours had passed since she had found him in Greater Malling. There had been no work that afternoon. The two of them had eaten dinner together in silence. And now this.
    “You and I don’t seem to quite understand each other,” Mrs Deverill began. Her voice was soft and reasonable. “I get the feeling that you’re against me. I don’t know why. I haven’t hurt you. You’re living in my house. You’re eating my food. What exactly is wrong?”
    “I don’t like it here,” Matt replied simply.
    “You’re not meant to like it. You were sent here as a punishment, not because you deserved a holiday. Or maybe you’ve forgotten that.”
    “I want to go back to London.”
    “Is that what you told the people in Greater Malling? The people at the newspaper? Just what
did
you tell them?”
    “The truth.”
    A log collapsed in the hearth and a flurry of sparks leapt up. Asmodeus purred and Mrs Deverill reached down, running a single finger down the animal’s back.
    “You shouldn’t have gone there. I don’t like journalists and I don’t like newspapers. Busying themselves in other people’s affairs. What were you thinking of, Matthew! Telling stories about me, about the village… It won’t do you any good. Did they believe you?” Matt didn’t answer. Mrs Deverill drew a breath and tried to smile, but the hardness never left her eyes. “Did you tell them about Tom Burgess?” she asked.
    “Yes.” There was no point denying it.
    “Well, that’s precisely the point I’m trying to make. First you get the police involved. Yes … I heard what happened from Miss Creevy. And when that doesn’t work, you go running to the press. And all the time you’re completely mistaken. You actually have no idea what’s going on.”
    “I know what I saw!”
    “I don’t think you do,” Mrs Deverill replied. “In a way, it’s my own fault. I got you to clean out the pigs and I didn’t realize… Some of the chemicals we use are very strong. They have a way of getting up your nose and into your brain. An adult like Noah can cope with it. Of course, he didn’t have much brain to begin with. But a young boy like yourself…”
    “What are you saying?” Matt demanded. “Are you saying I imagined what I saw?”
    “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I think you’ve probably been imagining all sorts of things since you arrived here. But don’t worry. You’re never going to have to clean out the pigs again. At least, not with disinfectant. From now on, you’re going to use only soap and water.”
    “You’re lying!”
    “I won’t have that sort of language in my house, if you don’t mind, young man. It may have been allowed with your aunt in Ipswich, but it won’t do with me!”
    “I know what I saw! He was dead in his room and the whole place had been torn apart. I didn’t imagine it. I was there!”
    “What would it take to persuade you otherwise? What would it take to make you believe me?”
    The telephone rang.
    “Exactly on time,” Mrs Deverill said. She didn’t move from her seat but waved with a single hand. “I think you’ll find it’s for you.”
    “For me?”
    “Why don’t you answer it?”
    With a sinking feeling, Matt got up and went over to the telephone. He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
    “Matthew – is that you?”
    Matt felt a shiver work its way down his spine. He knew it was impossible. It had to be some sort of trick.
    It was Tom Burgess.
    “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” the farmer said. No. It wasn’t the farmer. It was the farmer’s voice. Somehow it had been duplicated. “I’m afraid I missed you this morning. I had to go down to a market in Cirencester. I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks but I’ll come round and see you when I’m back…”
    Was it Matt’s imagination or had it suddenly become very cold in the living room? The fire was still burning but there was no warmth from the flames. He hadn’t said a word to whoever – or whatever – it was at the other end of the line. He slammed down the phone.
    “That wasn’t very friendly,” Mrs Deverill said.
    “That wasn’t Tom