The Wolf in the Attic Read Free Page B

pistons of a train until I think it is going to burst. I cannot move. I look at the knife, and then up at the thin boy thirty yards away. The men around the fire are on their feet, shouting, and cursing, and a bottle is thrown into the flames to shatter, sending up a whoosh of light.
    And in that light the boy is looking at me. He can see me. I am as sure of it as I am of the seasons and the sunrise. I cannot see his face, but I know those quicksilver eyes are on me. I can feel them.
    Something comes out of my mouth, a sob of air, and with that I can move again. I see the fat man’s friends all in a scatter about the fire, one kneeling at the body on the ground, two baying like dogs, the curses all melting together into a howl of hate and anger. But the dark boy stays in a half-crouch, staring out across Port Meadow towards me. I know he can hear the thumping of my heart.
    I look at the knife again, fighting for breath. It is blood, not paint. The fat man is dying. The boy killed him. And now he can see me.
    The calm, reasonable voice in my head cuts through everything, as clear as a bar of frost.
    Run .
    Up I jump, Pie in one hand, her limbs flying, and I take off back the way I came across the open grass, and the cold air is biting at my lungs as I draw it in. So cold my teeth hurt. I cannot feel my feet, but I know they are moving under me, fast, so fast. I have never run so fast in my life before.
    The stars are so far and cold, and now away from that horrible firelight the night seems huge and bright, and I feel as obvious and visible as a ball on a billiard table. I want to look back, but I cannot waste the time. But as I run, I am sure he is following me, and I know his eyes are alight, and I know also –
    I do not know how I know this, but I am sure he is loping after me on all fours, like a dog. I cannot see it, but I know it.
    And now the great meadow seems huge and unfriendly, a place where I should not be. There is nowhere here I can hide. And I gasp and hiccup as I run, my eyes set on the light of the streets on the other side of the railway line. I can taste the cinders of the trains in my mouth, and the coppery taint of blood, and I feel as though I am going to be sick, but I keep on running, the rime-dew crunching under my shoes. Until I am at the bridge again, and the gate there, black bars across my path.
    I stop, I have to, and look back at last. I cannot hear a thing, because my head is thundering so. And I know he is behind me, grinning. He does not need a knife for me.
    I hug Pie. She is damp and cold, but I am hot now. I feel as though I am all aglow, and my breath could melt snow.
    And the moonlit meadow is empty, as bright and bare as a table before it is laid. There is no-one near me, no-one chasing, no eyes bright as shillings in the dark.
    But I am not safe. The quiet voice in my head does not even have to speak for me to know that.
    I climb over the gate, and as I do Pie slips out of my hand. I drop down on the far side of it, and Pie is on the ground behind me. I crouch down, and reach through the bars of the gate for her.
    And a hand grabs my wrist.
    I hear a sound, like that made by a little animal when it is dying. I do not even know it is me making it. The hand has my wrist in a grip I cannot break. When I tug backwards there is no movement. I think I can feel the bones in my arm creak, and the grip of the fingers burns as I try to twist free. I start to hiccup, and can only say, ‘ Please ,’ and even in that moment, when I am so afraid, I am angry too, at how like a little child I sound.
    The boy is there on the other side of the gate, and I can see his face in the moonlight, as clear as clear. It is wedge-shaped with a chin as pointed as mine and a long nose, and his eyes – oh thank you God – his eyes are not nickel-bright but dark and human and normal. But he will not let me go.
    We stare at each other like that. Forever it seems, but it is only as long as it takes for a struck