Raven's Gate

in their sty. Otherwise, there was nobody in sight. This was his second day of captivity. He had only been let out of the room to use the toilet, with Noah standing guard outside the door. It was also Noah who brought him his meals on paper plates with plastic knives and forks. There had been no sign of Mrs Deverill, but he had seen lights going on and off in the farmhouse during the night and knew she was close.
    Richard had been killed. That thought hurt him more than anything. It seemed to Matt that anyone who had shown him any kindness had died, and now he was finally on his own. But he was determined to fight back. If Mrs Deverill thought she could just drag him into the wood and stick a knife in him, she had a surprise coming her way.
    He had already started. He was getting out.
    Matt listened carefully for any sound in the barn. There was nothing, apart from the grunting of the pigs. It would be at least an hour before Noah brought his breakfast. He pulled back the mattress and removed a piece of iron about ten centimetres long and flattened at one end. Other than the bed, there was no furniture in the room, nothing he could use to break out. But the bed itself had provided him with a tool. The metal bar had supported one of the legs. It had taken Matt most of the first day to work it free and another two hours to squeeze one end flat – using his own weight and the bed legs – so that it now resembled a crude chisel. His first intention had been to prise out the bars on the window but he had soon discovered they were too strong. Instead he had turned his attention to the floor.
    The bedroom floor was made up of parallel wooden planks, each one fixed in place with a dozen nails. Working during the night, Matt had managed to free nine of the nails on one plank. Three more and he would be able to lift it out. If he could make a hole big enough, he would be able to squeeze through and drop down to the level below. That was his plan.
    He pulled back the old colourless rug that covered the floor and set to work. The makeshift chisel was a clumsy tool and it was almost impossible to get it underneath the heads of the nails. It had slipped several times and Matt’s knuckles had crashed into the floor until his skin was broken and bleeding. He had to be careful not to make any noise. That was the worst of it. Working quietly meant working slowly and he was aware of time running out. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on what he was doing. First one nail and then another came out. Almost an hour had passed since he had woken up, but at last the plank came free. He prised it out and looked through the narrow gap he had made.
    He saw at once that his plan was hopeless. He was too high up. If he tried to drop down to ground level, he’d twist an ankle or even break a leg. He felt a wave of despair rise up inside him. Why did nothing ever seem to go his way? He fought it back. He wasn’t going to give up now. Maybe there was another way.
    His power.
    The blind medium, Susan Ashwood, had told him what he already knew himself.
“I felt your power … I have never felt such strength before.”
That was what she had said just before he had left her house. And he remembered the way Professor Dravid had looked at him at the museum. For a moment he had wondered if the professor was even, in some way, afraid of him.
    Matt
was
different. He had known that all his life. He had seen the death of his parents the night before it had happened. He had dreamt all the details, right down to the bridge and the blown-out tyre. He had sensed there was a security guard at the warehouse seconds before the man had actually appeared. He had smashed a jug at the detention centre. He had called Richard without even opening his mouth. And then there had been the dreams that were somehow more than dreams. Four children… Three boys and a girl calling to him.
    With him, that made five.
    He sat down on the bed and concentrated on the door. If he could break a jug, why couldn’t he turn a lock? It was just a question of finding the power inside him and activating it. He remembered the last time he had tried this, the morning when he had woken up in Richard’s flat. It hadn’t worked that time – but perhaps he hadn’t really been trying. This was a matter of life and death. Surely that would help.
    He purposefully slowed down his breathing, staring straight ahead, trying to forget everything else. He focused on the keyhole, trying