The Gatekeepers - Raven's Gate Part 2

"A minimum of one year. After that, we'll rea.s.sess the situation."

"You may like it," Stephen Mallory said. He was trying to sound upbeat. "It's a whole new start, Matt. A chance to make new friends."

But Matt had his doubts. "What happens if I don't like it?" he asked.

"We'll be in constant touch with the foster parent," the magistrate explained. "The parent has to make a weekly report to the police and your aunt will visit you as soon as you feel ready. There'll be a settling-in period of three months, but after that she'll see you every month."

"She'll provide an interface between the foster parent and the social services," Jill Hughes said.

"I don't know how I'll afford it," Gwenda muttered. "I mean, if there are going to be travelling expenses. And who's going to look after Brian while I'm away? I have responsibilities, you know..."

Her voice trailed away. The room was suddenly silent, apart from the sound of the traffic and the rain hitting the windows.

"All right." Matt shrugged. "You can send me wherever you want to. I don't really care. Anything would be better than being with her and Brian."

Gwenda flushed. Mallory cut in before she could speak. "We won't abandon you, Matt," he promised. "We'll make sure you're looked after."

But the magistrate was annoyed. "You have absolutely nothing to complain about," she snapped. She looked at Matt over the top of her gla.s.ses. "Quite frankly, you should be grateful you're being given this opportunity. And I should warn you. If your foster parent is unhappy with your progress, if you abuse the kindness you're being shown in any way, then you will be returned to us. And then you will find yourself in an inst.i.tution. You won't be given a second chance. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I understand." Matt glanced at the windows. The light was almost lost behind the grey, endlessly moving curtain of water. "So when do I get to meet my foster parent?"

"Her name is Jayne Deverill," the social worker said. "And she should be here any minute now."

They were mending the escalators at Holborn tube station and as the woman rose up to street level, sparks from the oxy-acetylene torches flashed and flickered behind her. But Jayne Deverill didn't notice them. She was standing completely still, clutching a leather handbag under her arm, staring at a point a few metres in front of her as if she was disgusted by her surroundings.

She fed her ticket into the barrier and watched as it sprang open. Someone knocked into her and for a second something dark flashed in her eyes. But she forced herself to keep control. She was wearing ugly, old-fas.h.i.+oned leather shoes and she walked awkwardly, as if, perhaps, there was something wrong with her legs.

Mrs Deverill was a small woman, at least fifty years old, with white hair, cut short. Her skin was not yet withered but it was strangely lifeless. She had hard, ice-cold eyes and cheekbones that formed two slashes across her face. It was hard to imagine her pale lips ever smiling. She was smartly dressed in a grey skirt and matching jacket with a s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned to her neck. She wore a silver necklace and, on her lapel, a silver brooch shaped like a lizard.

Her progress from Holborn station had been observed.

Mrs Deverill was unaware that she was being followed as she made her way down Kingsway, heading for the offices behind Lincoln's Inn, but the man in the hooded anorak was never more than ten steps behind. He was twenty years old, with greasy blond hair and a thin, unhealthy-looking face. He had recognized the woman as an out-of-towner the moment he had spotted her coming through the ticket barrier. He didn't know who she was and he didn't care. Just two things about her had interested him: the handbag and the jewellery.

He didn't know where she was going but hoped that she would leave the main road with its many pedestrians and occasional policemen and follow one of the quieter streets that twisted away behind. Anyway, it was worth a few minutes of his time to see. He was still with her as she paused at a corner and turned left next to a pub. He smiled. It couldn't have worked out better. Now there were just the two of them, walking down an alleyway that cut through to the legal offices a solicitors' firms and council buildings a which existed in their own quite separate world. He took one quick look around, checking there was n.o.body in sight, then dug into the pocket of the dirty anorak he was wearing. He took out a jagged knife and turned it in his hand, enjoying the sense of power that it gave him. Then he ran forward.

"You!" he shouted.

The woman stopped, her back towards him.

"Give me the bag, b.i.t.c.h. Now! And I want the necklace..."

There was a pause.

Jayne Deverill turned round.

Ten minutes later Jayne Deverill was sitting, a little breathless, holding a cup of tea that she had been offered. She was in the office of the Family Proceedings and Youth Court, which was where Matt was being held.

"I'm very sorry I'm late," she was saying. She had a deep, rather throaty voice, like someone who had smoked too many cigarettes. "It's very rude of me a and I deplore rudeness. Punctuality is the first sign of good breeding. That's what I always say."

"You had trouble getting here?" Mallory asked.

"The coach was late. I would have called you from the bus station but I'm afraid I don't carry a mobile. We're not as up to date in the Yorks.h.i.+re countryside as you are down here in London. In fact, there's no signal where I live, so a mobile telephone would be something of a waste of time." She turned to Matt. "I'm very glad to meet you, my dear. I have, of course, heard so much about you."

Matt looked at the woman who had volunteered to be his foster parent in the LEAF Project. He didn't like what he saw.

Jayne Deverill could have stepped out of another century: a time when teachers were allowed to beat children and there were Bible readings before breakfast and tea. He had never met anyone more severe-looking. Jill Hughes had greeted the woman like an old friend, although it turned out that the two had never met a they had only spoken on the phone. Stephen Mallory looked more uncomfortable. He was also meeting Mrs Deverill for the first time, and although he had shaken her hand, he had lapsed into silence and seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. The magistrate was more interested in the paperwork than anything else, in a hurry to get this whole thing over with. Matt examined Mrs Deverill again. She was sipping her tea but her eyes never left him. They were devouring him.

"Do you know Yorks.h.i.+re at all?" she asked.

It took a moment for Matt to realize that she was talking to him. "No," he said. "I've never been there."

"Lesser Malling is the name of the village. It's a bit out of the way. The nearest town is Greater Malling and n.o.body's heard of that either. And why should they have? There's nothing there. We're very down-to-earth in Yorks.h.i.+re. We look after the land and the land looks after us. I'm sure you'll find it very quiet after the city. But you'll get used to it in time." She glanced at the magistrate. "I can really take him with me today?"

The magistrate nodded.

Mrs Deverill smiled. "And when will you make your first visit?"

"Six weeks from now. We want to give Matthew time to settle in."

"Well, after six weeks with me, I can a.s.sure you, you won't recognize him." She turned to Gwenda Davis. "You won't need to worry about him, Ms Davis. You can telephone him any time you want and, of course, we'll both look forward to you coming up to visit."

"Well, I don't know about that." Gwenda was still worried. "It's a long way, and I'm not sure my partner..." She fell silent.

"There are some final forms you have to fill in, Mrs Deverill," the magistrate said. "But then the two of you can be on your way. Ms Davis brought in a suitcase with some of Matthew's clothes and things." She turned to Matt. "I expect you'd like a few minutes on your own to say goodbye to your aunt."

"No. I've got nothing to say to her."

"It wasn't my fault," Gwenda said, and suddenly she was angry. "I was never anything to do with your family. I was never anything to do with you. I didn't even want to take you in after what happened to your parents. But I did and you were nothing but trouble. You've got n.o.body to blame but yourself."

"There's no need for this," Mallory said. "Good luck, Matt, I really hope this works out for you." He held out a hand. Matt hesitated, then shook it. This wasn't Mallory's fault. That much he knew.

"Time to go!" Mrs Deverill said. "We don't want to miss the coach!"

Matt stood up. Mallory watched him with thoughtful, anxious eyes as he left the room.

Two hours later Matt walked across Victoria coach station carrying the suitcase that Gwenda had packed for him. He looked around him at the coaches thundering in and out, the crowds of travellers and the snack and magazine stalls behind the plate-gla.s.s windows. It was an unpleasant place: cold and damp with air that smelled of diesel. He could hardly believe he was here. He was free... Finally out of police custody. No. Not free, he reminded himself. He had been handed over to this woman who called herself his foster mother.

"That's our bus." Mrs Deverill pointed to a coach with YORK written across the front.

Matt handed his case to a man, who stowed it in the luggage compartment, then climbed on board. They had reserved seats at the very back. Mrs Deverill allowed Matt to slide in next to the window and then sat down next to him. Soon the coach was full. At one o'clock exactly, the doors hissed shut, the engine started up and they began to move. Matt sat with his forehead pressed against the gla.s.s and he watched as they emerged from the coach station and out into the streets of Victoria. It was still raining. The raindrops chased in front of his eyes. Next to him Mrs Deverill sat with her eyes half-closed, breathing heavily.

He tried to concentrate, tried to work out what he was feeling. But then he realized: he felt nothing. He had been sucked into the system. Evaluated. Approved for the LEAF Project. And sent on his way. At least he wasn't going back to Ipswich. That was something to be thankful for. It was the end of six years with Gwenda and Brian. Whatever lay ahead couldn't possibly be worse.

Meanwhile, about five miles away, an alleyway in Holborn was being sealed off by two police cars and an ambulance. A dead body had been found a a young man in a hooded anorak.

The forensic team had only just arrived, but already the photographers and police scientists knew they had stumbled on to something completely bizarre. The man was well known to them. His name was Will Scott and he was a drug addict who had been involved in many muggings in central London. There was a kitchen knife clutched in his hand and it was this that had killed him. But n.o.body had attacked him. There were no fingerprints. No sign that anyone had come close.

The dead man's mouth was stretched in a hideous smile and there was a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He was holding the knife very tightly. He had taken it and pushed it, inch by inch, into his own heart. It was unclear how he had done it a or why a but the forensic people had no doubt at all.

For some reason, Will Scott had killed himself.

LESSER MALLING.

There were two hundred miles of dreary motorway between London and York, and the journey took more than four hours. The coach stopped twice at service stations but neither Matt nor Mrs Deverill left their seats. She had brought sandwiches with her. They were in her handbag, wrapped in brown paper. She took them out and offered one to Matt.

"Are you hungry, Matthew?"

"No, thank you."

"In Yorks.h.i.+re I'll expect you to eat what you're given. We don't waste food in my house."

She unwrapped one of the bundles and Matt saw two slabs of white bread filled with cold liver. He was glad he hadn't accepted her offer.

"I expect you're wondering about me," Mrs Deverill said, as she began her lunch. She took small mouthfuls and chewed the food with care. When she swallowed, her throat twisted painfully, as if she had difficulty getting the food down. "I am now your legal guardian," she went on. "You are a thief and a delinquent, and the government has given you to me. But I'm willing to forget your past, Matthew. I can a.s.sure you it is your future that is of much more concern to me. If you do as you're told, we'll get on. If you disobey me, if you try to defy me, let me a.s.sure you that you will be more miserable than you can imagine. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Matt said.

Her eyes slid over him and he s.h.i.+vered. "You have to remember that n.o.body cares about you. You have no parents. No family. You have little education and no prospects. I don't want to be cruel to you, my dear, but I'm really all you have left."

She turned away from him and continued eating her sandwiches. After that, she took out a farming magazine and began to read. It was as if she had completely forgotten him.

The motorway stretched on. There was nothing to look at out of the window and Matt found himself hypnotized by the white lines and the crash barrier endlessly flas.h.i.+ng past. Almost without knowing it he found himself drifting away, neither awake nor asleep but somewhere in between.

He was back in the terraced house in Dulwich, a leafy, friendly suburb of London. This was where he had lived with his mother and father. It had been six years since he had seen them but, staring out of the window, he saw them now.

There was his mother, rus.h.i.+ng around the kitchen that was always in a mess, even when it had just been cleaned. She was wearing the clothes she had worn that last day: a pink dress with a white linen jacket. Whenever he remembered her, this was how he saw her. It was a brand new dress that she had bought especially for the wedding. And there was his father, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Mark Freeman was a doctor and he normally went to work in whatever he could find a jeans, a sweater... He didn't like dressing up. But one of the other doctors at his surgery was getting married and it was going to be a smart affair. First the service, then an expensive hotel. His father was sitting at the table, eating his breakfast, and he turned round, tossing his dark hair in the way he always did, and asked, "Where's Matthew?"

And then Matthew came in. Of course, he was still Matthew then. Now, six years later, sitting on a coach heading towards a place he had never heard of, Matt saw himself as he had been at that time: a short, slightly plump, dark-haired boy coming into the bright, yellow kitchen. His father at the table. His mother holding a teapot shaped like a teddy bear. And he heard it all again.

"Come on, Matthew. We're going to be late."

"I don't want to go."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Matthew...?"

"I don't feel well. I don't want to go."

Now, on the coach, Matt put a hand over his eyes. He didn't want to remember any more. Remembering only hurt him ... every time.

"What do you mean, you don't want to go?"

"Please, Dad. Please don't make me..."

They had argued, but not very much. His parents had only one child and they spoiled him. They had thought he would enjoy the wedding because they had been told there would be other children there and a special marquee with a magician and balloons. And now this! His father made a quick phone call. It wasn't really a big problem. Rosemary Green a their friendly, always helpful neighbour a agreed to take him for the rest of the day. His parents left without him.

And that was why he hadn't been in the car when they had their accident. That was why they had died and he had lived.

Matt lowered his hand and looked out again. The coach had slowed down. He wasn't feeling very well. He was hot and cold, and there was a dull pounding in his head.

"We're here," Mrs Deverill said.

They had arrived at another coach station, this one more modern and smaller than Victoria. The coach stopped and they jostled forward with the other pa.s.sengers. It was colder outside than it had been in London but at least it had stopped raining. Matt collected his case, then followed Mrs Deverill across the concourse.

A man was waiting for them, standing next to a beaten-up old Land Rover that only seemed to be held together by the mud that covered it. The man was short and very fat with yellow, greasy hair, watery eyes and a face that seemed to be slowly slipping off his head. He was wearing dirty jeans and a s.h.i.+rt that was too small for him. Matt could see the b.u.t.tons straining. The man was about forty. He had flabby lips that parted in a wet, unpleasant smile.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Deverill," he said.

Mrs Deverill ignored him. She turned to Matt. "This is Noah."

Matt said nothing. Noah was examining him in a way that made him feel uneasy. "Welcome to Yorks.h.i.+re," Noah said. "I'm very pleased to meet you." He held out a hand. The fingers were fat and stubby, the nails encrusted with mud. Matt didn't take it.

"Noah works for me on the farm," Mrs Deverill explained. "He has very little conversation, so I wouldn't bother talking to him."

The farmhand was still staring at him. His mouth was open and there was saliva on his chin. Matt turned away.

"Get in the car," Mrs Deverill said. "It's time you saw your new home."

They drove for an hour; first on a dual carriageway, then on a B-road, then on a twisting country lane. The further they went, the bleaker the landscape became. Lesser Malling seemed to be hidden somewhere on the edge of the Yorks.h.i.+re moors, but Matt didn't see a single sign. He was feeling even sicker than before and he wondered if it was Noah's driving or some sort of virus that he had picked up.

They came to a crossroads a a meeting of five roads, all of them identical. There were trees on every side. Matt hadn't noticed them enter the wood but now it surrounded them, totally enclosed them. The wood had obviously been planted recently. All the trees were the same a some sort of pine. They were the same height, the same colour and they had been set in dead straight lines with an identical amount of s.p.a.ce between them. No matter which direction Matt looked, the view was exactly the same. He remembered what his social worker in London had told him. The LEAF Project wanted to keep him out of urban areas, away from temptation. They certainly couldn't have chosen anywhere more remote than here.

A single signpost stood at the intersection but the top had been broken off. A splintered pole was all that remained.

"Lesser Malling is ten minutes up the road," Mrs Deverill said, gesturing to the left. "I'll show it to you when you've settled in a little more. But we live the other way."

Noah twisted the steering wheel and they turned left, following one of the other lanes for about fifty metres until they came to a gateway. Matt just had time to see a name, written in dull brown paint: Hive Hall. Then they were following a gravel drive between two barbed-wire fences that ran down to a courtyard and a complex of barns and buildings. The car stopped. They had arrived.

Matt got out.

It was a miserable place. The bad weather didn't help but even in the suns.h.i.+ne there would have been little to recommend Hive Hall. The main farmhouse was made out of great stone slabs, with a slate roof that was buckling under the weight of a single, large chimney. The barns had been built with wooden planks that were so old and sodden, they were rotting where they stood, with dark green moss spreading across them like a disease. The farmyard itself was an irregular square of land that was as much water as earth and gravel. Chickens limped to and fro; they had scarcely moved to avoid the wheels of the Land Rover. Six pigs stood in the mud, s.h.i.+vering.

"This is it," Mrs Deverill announced as she got out of the car and stretched her legs. "It may not look much but it's my home and it does well enough for me. Of course, there are no computer games here. There's no television. But once you start working, you'll find you're too tired for these things. We go to bed early in the country. You'll get used to our ways in time."

They went into the farmhouse. The front door opened into a long kitchen with a flagstone floor. There was an Aga stove at one end, with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and dozens of jars and bottles on wooden shelves. From here, Mrs Deverill led Matt into a living room with old and battered furniture, shelves full of books and, above a ma.s.sive fireplace, what looked like a portrait of herself, though it must have been painted hundreds of years ago. It had the same cruel eyes, the same sunken cheeks. Only the hair was different, running loose as if caught in the wind.

"My ancestor," Mrs Deverill explained.

Matt looked past the figure in the canvas. She was standing in front of a village. He could see a few desolate buildings behind her. He looked back at the face. And s.h.i.+vered. Nothing had moved, but he could have sworn she had been looking towards the frame, over to the left. Now her eyes were fixed on him. He swallowed hard. His imagination was playing tricks on him. Turning round he saw that Mrs Deverill was staring at him too. He was trapped between the two of them.