The Monsters of Rookhaven, стр. 32
‘Something terrible’s happened, Frank.’
Mr Fletcher took the farmer aside for a moment. They had a whispered conversation out of earshot, but Freddie could tell by his father’s whole demeanour that something very serious was going on. The only words he caught were ‘They wouldn’t! We have an agreement!’ from his father. Freddie’s mind was suddenly a whirl as he considered what those words meant.
They drove to the farm in silence, following Mr Carswell’s car. Freddie’s father planned one day for his son to take over his seat on the council. That meant Freddie needed to go with him whenever there was a crisis of ‘this sort’. ‘For experience,’ his father had said. ‘This sort’ usually meant something that was linked to the House of Rookhaven. After all, that was the council’s main reason for existing, to deal with all matters pertaining to their agreement with the Family. It was a thought that made Freddie feel uneasy about what now lay ahead.
As the road slipped by, he found himself thinking about that dream again, and how they’d been driving down a similar country road blessed with sunlight, and how James had been laughing and his father had been smiling . . .
‘What are you smiling about?’ his father said sharply. He’d asked the question without taking his eyes off the road.
Freddie shook his head. ‘Nothing, Dad.’ He turned and looked at the space on the seat between him and the van door. The space where James would have been sitting.
Freddie had seen plenty of dead cows before. But they’d been slabs of meat prepared for sale. He’d never seen anything like this.
A light drizzle was pattering on the leaves of the trees around them. Mr Carswell was wringing his hands together, and Freddie felt a flush of embarrassment when he realized that the poor man was crying.
‘What happened ain’t natural, Frank. It ain’t.’
Freddie’s father squinted at the remains of the cow. ‘Dogs, maybe. A pack of them. That’s what I’m thinking.’
Mr Carswell shook his head furiously, and even in the dark Freddie could see the red glow of fury on his face.
‘Not dogs. Not ever. This was unnatural. Unnatural. We know who done this. It was them up in the house.’
Freddie’s father ran a hand over his head and sighed.
Mr Carswell continued, his fury building. ‘Think of all we’ve done for them. Think of all we’ve gone without during the war because of them and that agreement that was made. And what do we get in return? Nothing! That’s what. Just . . .’ He gestured helplessly at the remains of the cow. ‘We need to call the council together, Frank. This won’t stand. It can’t stand.’
As Freddie and his father drove back home, Freddie could feel the tension almost crackling in the air. He’d seen the panic and anger in his father’s eyes at the sight of the dead cow. He could tell by the way his father was gripping the steering wheel that he was unnerved.
‘Dogs.’ His father nodded to himself, then looked at Freddie. ‘Dogs. That’s most likely it. A pack of dogs gone feral.’
Freddie nodded, but he knew his father was only trying to convince himself. There was something more to this incident, but he didn’t dare question his father about it. He didn’t want to rock the boat by agreeing with Mr Carswell. He felt too absurdly grateful for being included in what was an all too rare conversation with his father.
Freddie turned to look out of the window, and their headlights illuminated something on the side of the road.
For a moment, Freddie felt a sudden electric charge envelop his whole body.
‘Dad?’
His father had seen the same thing. He put the car into reverse and moved slowly back along the road.
Freddie’s heart started thumping. It was all right. He was with his father. Everything would be okay. Whatever it was they’d seen, his father could deal with it.
But it was only a man.
The man waved at them from the side of the road. He wore a wide-brimmed leather hat and a leather coat so large it looked almost like a tent. Freddie felt relief wash over him. He was certain he’d seen something else.
They pulled up alongside, and the man picked up a battered old holdall and stepped towards the passenger window. He looked to be in his fifties, with a lined face and a broad smile. Brown hair streaked with grey spilled out from beneath the brim of his hat.
Freddie rolled down the window on his father’s instruction, and the man leaned in, his impossibly large smile broadening even more.
‘Well, what a nice surprise on a night so filled with unpleasantness.’ He nodded down the road. ‘I was travelling myself. Alas, my own poor car gave up the ghost quite a way back.’ He looked contrite. ‘I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a lift to the nearest village?’
‘Hop in,’ said Mr Fletcher.
The man climbed in beside Freddie and placed his holdall in the footwell. There was a constant clinking from it as if it contained lots of empty milk bottles.
He leaned across Freddie to shake Mr Fletcher’s hand and Freddie instinctively leaned back to avoid touching him. The man’s coat smelt musty and old. It had grey patches of what looked like mildew on it.
‘Arnold Pheeps,’ said the man, shaking Mr Fletcher’s hand vigorously.
‘Frank Fletcher, and this is my son Freddie.’
Mr Pheeps smiled at Freddie. ‘How pleasantly alliterative. I’m very pleased to meet you, Freddie.’
The man’s hand felt dry and papery. His grip was limp, and Freddie didn’t like the way he looked at him with those wide dark-blue eyes.
Mr Pheeps settled back in his seat and sighed with satisfaction.
‘And where, pray tell, are we going?’ asked Mr Pheeps.
Freddie didn’t like his tone. There was something slightly mocking in it, and Freddie felt as if his father were now being treated like the