Ron had never screamed in his life. The scream had always belonged to the other sex, until that instant. Then, watching the monster stand up and close its jaws around his son’s head, there was no sound appropriate but a scream.
Rawhead heard the cry, and turned, without a trace of fear on his face, to look at the source. Their eyes met. The King’s glance penetrated Milton like a spike, freezing him to the road and to the marrow. It was Maggie who broke its hold, her voice a dirge.
‘Oh . . . please . . . no.’
Ron shook Rawhead’s look from his head, and started towards the car, towards his son. But the hesitation had given Rawhead a moment’s grace he scarcely needed anyway, and he was already away, his catch clamped between his jaws, spilling out to right and left. The breeze carried motes of lan’s blood back down the road towards Ron; he felt them spot his face in a gentle shower.
Declan stood in the chancel of St Peter’s and listened for the hum. It was still there. Sooner or later he’d have to go to the source of that sound and destroy it, even if it meant, as it well might, his own death. His new master would demand it. But that was par for the course; and the thought of death didn’t distress him; far from it. In the last few days he’d realised ambitions that he’d nurtured (unspoken, even unthought) for years.
Looking up at the black bulk of the monster as it rained piss on him he’d found the purest joy. If that experience, which
would once have disgusted him, could be so consummate, what might death be like? rarer still. And if he could contrive to die by Rawhead’s hand, by that wide hand that smelt so rank, wouldn’t that be the rarest of the rare?
He looked up at the altar, and at the remains of the fire the police had extinguished. They’d searched for him after Coot’s death, but he had a dozen hiding places they would never find, and they’d soon given up. Bigger fish to fry. He collected a fresh armful of Songs of Praise and threw them down amongst the damp ashes. The candlesticks were warped, but still recognisable. The cross had disappeared, either shrivelled away or removed by some light-fingered officer of the law. He tore a few handfuls of hymns from the books, and lit a match. The old songs caught easily.
Ron Milton was tasting tears, and it was a taste he’d forgotten. It was many years since he’d wept, especially in front of other males. But he didn’t care any longer: these bastard policemen weren’t human anyway. They just looked at him while he poured out his story, and nodded like idiots.
‘We’ve drafted men in from every division within fifty miles, Mr Milton,’ said the bland face with the understanding eyes. ‘The hills are being scoured. We’ll have it, whatever it is.’
‘It took my child, you understand me? It killed him, in front of me-‘
They didn’t seem to appreciate the horror of it all.
‘We’re doing what we can.’
‘It’s not enough. This thing . . . it’s not human.’
Ivanhoe, with the understanding eyes, knew bloody well how unhuman it was.
There’s people coming from the Ministry of Defence: we can’t do much more ’til they’ve had a look at the evidence,’ he said. Then added, as a sop: ‘It’s all public money sir.’
‘You fucking idiot! What does it matter what it costs to kill it? It’s not human. It’s out of Hell.’
Ivanhoe’s look lost compassion.
‘If it came out of Hell, sir,’ he said, ‘I don’t think it would have found the Reverend Coot such easy pickings.’
Coot: that was his man. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Coot.
Ron had never been much of a man of God. But he was
prepared to be open-minded, and now that he’d seen the opposition, or one of its troops, he was ready to reform his opinions. He’d believe anything, anything at all, if it gave him a weapon against the Devil. He must get to Coot.