Blood Harvest

27

‘THE ASSISTANT REFEREE RAISES THEBOARD AND THERE’S only three minutes of injury time to play in this crucial top-of-the-table clash. The ball goes to Brown … he turns, passes to young Ewood debutante Fletcher… Fletcher, still Fletcher… a little look up … Green’s in space … I think Fletcher’s going all the way … GOAL!’
Giving the supporters a modest wave, Tom jogged back to the centre of the pitch for the final kick-off. Less than a minute of injury time to go and victory, as they say, was in the bag. Then one of the other players turned to him.
‘Tommy,’ he whispered.
Tom was awake in an instant. No longer the new star striker, leading his favourite football team to victory. Just ten-year-old Tom Fletcher, lying in bed in the middle of the night. With a big problem on his hands.
Outside, the wind was racing up the moor. Tom could hear it whistling through alleyways, making windows tremble in their frames. He lay, not daring to move, with the quilt pulled up around his ears; he was used to the wind by now. In the radiator pipes he could hear the odd gurgle as the house settled down for the night. He was used to that too. From two feet below he could hear the soft ticking of Joe’s breathing. Everything normal.
Except that someone else was in the bedroom with him and Joe. Someone at the end of his bed, who had just tugged at his quilt.
Completely awake now, Tom didn’t dare move. The tugging could have been part of his dream, he just had to stay still, make sure it didn’t happen again. He waited for ten, twenty seconds and realized he was holding his breath. As quietly as he could, he let it out. A fraction of a second later, someone else breathed in.
Still he didn’t dare move. It could have been his own breath he’d heard, or Joe’s. It could have been.
The quilt moved again, pulled away from his face. He could feel the night air on his cheek now and his left ear. In the bunk below Joe called out in his sleep – a muffled word that sounded a bit like ‘Mummy’ and then a low moan.
‘Tommy.’ Joe’s voice. Except Joe was asleep.
‘Tommy.’ His mother’s voice. But his mother would never scare him like this.
Tom’s eyes were open. How had it got so dark? The landing light that was always kept on at night in case one of the children needed to get up had been switched off and his room was darker than it ever normally was. The furniture, the toys left scattered around, were little more than dark shadows. They were familiar dark shadows though, the sort he was used to and expected to see. The one he really hadn’t expected to see was the one at the foot of his bed.
Whatever it was, it was sitting quite still, but breathing, he could see the slight movement of the shoulders. He could see the outline of the head and the two tiny points of light that could have been almost certainly were – eyes. The shadow was watching him.
For half a second Tom wasn’t capable of movement. Then he wasn’t capable of anything else. He scrambled backwards, kicking against the cover with his heels, pushing with his elbows. His head slammed hard into the metal frame of the bed-head and he knew he couldn’t go any further.
The shadow moved, leaned towards him.
‘Millie,’ it said, in a voice that Tom thought was perhaps supposed to be his. ‘Millie fall.’