The Gatekeepers - Raven's Gate Part 16

"Stay quiet!" Richard's voice came out of the mist. "They can't see you. Stay where you are and don't make a sound."

Was it true? Another lizard thing a perhaps an iguanodon a was stumbling towards him, towering over him. Matt froze. The dinosaur skeleton had stopped right in front of him. He could see through its eye sockets, all the way into its skull. Its mouth was open, revealing ugly white triangular teeth, each one coming to a vicious point. It wasn't breathing a it couldn't a but even so, Matt could smell its breath. It stank of sewage and decay. In the far distance he heard the clattering of feet, the rattling of bones. Richard was silent. The dinosaur craned forward. It seemed to be scenting him, or perhaps sensing the pulse in his neck. Now it was only centimetres away. Matt wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He was certain the creature was about to attack. Was he just going to stand there while it ripped out his throat?

"Matt? Where are you? Are you all right?" Richard's voice echoed from the other side of the hall and the lizard creature twisted away and lumbered off in that direction. So Richard had been right. The dinosaurs were blind. They needed sound and movement to find their victims.

"I'm OK!" Matt shouted back. He didn't dare add more.

"Can you get out?"

"No! I need the keys!"

The keys were lying on the floor beside the stairs. Richard peered through the mist and finally saw them and lunged for them. At the same time a squat, solid-looking creature charged towards him, a single horn protruding from its misshapen skull. Somewhere in the back of his mind Richard remembered the creature's name. It was a triceratops. Fortunately it was slower than the others and it was moving clumsily, slipping on the marble floor. Richard s.n.a.t.c.hed up the keys before it could reach him. Overhead, a second pterodactyl had joined the first. The two of them were performing a ghostly dance, wheeling over one another, high in the air.

Matt was still by the door. Richard could just make him out behind the wall of mist, but for a moment he disappeared as more ghostly shapes drifted between them. It was impossible to be sure how many of the creatures had been brought to life, but no matter how many of them there were, none was more dangerous than the diplodocus, which remained at the very centre, looming over the others. There was no way Richard could get past it. But he had to move. If he stayed here much longer, something would find him. It might fly down from above or lunge at him from behind. A sudden snap of teeth. The slash of a claw. Death was everywhere and he knew it would come for him very soon.

And then the diplodocus swung its tail. It moved almost lazily. The great ma.s.s of bones whipped through the air and Richard gasped as it crashed into one of the columns. Broken marble and masonry rained down in a billowing cloud of dust. It was only now that he understood the full horror of his situation. Although they were only bone, the dinosaurs were as strong as they had been when they were alive. If they wanted to, they could bring the whole museum cras.h.i.+ng down.

"Richard!" Matt called out and the diplodocus turned, searching for him. The pterodactyls peeled apart and joined the hunt.

"Take the keys!" Richard cried. "Just get out of here!"

He raised his arm and, with all his strength, threw the key ring at Matt. The keys flew over the diplodocus and hit the ground on the other side, skidding the rest of the way. Matt leant down and grabbed them.

"Come on!" he shouted.

"Get out!"

"I'm not leaving without you!"

"Just open the door!"

Matt knew Richard was right. Maybe opening the museum would in some way short-circuit the magic that had brought the dinosaurs back from extinction. Maybe he would be able to call for help. There were six keys on the ring. He picked them up and forced the first into the lock. It wouldn't move. He jerked it out and tried the second, then the third. None of them worked. It was almost impossible to concentrate on what he was doing. His hands were shaking. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to watch out behind. He managed to insert the fourth key. But before he had time to try it, the tail of the diplodocus brushed against his shoulder, enough to send him flying. It felt as if he had been hit by a truck. Bruised and dazed, he staggered to his feet, lurched back to the door and turned the key. At once a bell began to ring and a red light flashed somewhere behind the writhing mist. He had set off the alarm! At the same moment the door swung open. He was free.

But where was Richard?

The journalist hadn't moved. He had heard the alarm and knew that the door must be open a but he was still trying to work out how to get past the huge diplodocus. The way forward was blocked. Could he escape upstairs? A second later he cried out as his ankle was gripped by what felt like a coil of barbed wire. He looked down and saw a tiny crablike thing, only fifteen centimetres high. It had caught hold of him with teeth like drawing pins. Richard swore and shook it free, then kicked at its head with all his strength, smiling as the bone disintegrated. The smile was wiped away as the creature's mother, ten times bigger, scuttled towards him.

He made his decision and began to run. Sure enough, the diplodocus heard the sound and its great neck twisted round. Other skeletons lumbered out of the shadows, encircling him. But the door was open. The way ahead was clear.

"You can make it!" Matt shouted.

The diplodocus was still standing between the two of them but with a shudder of excitement Matt realized what Richard was planning to do. As he watched, Richard ducked underneath the tail of the diplodocus and ran between its hind legs and beneath its belly. The dinosaur was too big, too c.u.mbersome, to stop him, and the other creatures couldn't get anywhere near him. A quick exit between the monster's front legs and he would be at the door. He would be safe!

Enraged, the diplodocus reared up. Its powerful head pounded against the upper balcony.

A gust of cold wind touched the back of Matt's neck. He heard footsteps approaching.

Richard had come to a halt beneath the diplodocus. He was staring at Matt, his face twisted in shock and disbelief.

The balcony had been shattered by the impact. The great arch split open and with a deafening crash the whole ma.s.sive pile of stone and mortar, gla.s.s and steel, plummeted down. Unable to bear the weight, the diplodocus itself collapsed, its legs buckling underneath it.

Matt was about to run forward, back into the museum, when a pair of hands reached out and seized him by the neck. He cried out and twisted round.

Richard was almost invisible behind the dust and falling stone. The curving ribcage of the dinosaur had become a cage of another sort for him. It was as if he had been swallowed alive. He was trapped inside it.

Matt couldn't move. Mrs Deverill was glaring at him, her eyes aflame. Noah was holding on to him, his hands tight around Matt's throat. Matt lashed out, trying to break free. He felt his knee drive into Noah's stomach but at the same time Mrs Deverill had produced a damp cloth and pressed it against his face. The cloth smelled sweet and sickly. He choked, unable to breathe.

Richard saw Matt taken. Matt saw the journalist, his face streaked with blood, on his knees in the ghastly prison. Richard raised an arm, trying to brush away the curtain of dust and rubble that was smothering him. The curtain thickened and he was obliterated. A steel girder slammed down into the pile. Matt heard Richard cry out one last time.

Unable to fight any more, Matt allowed the darkness to take him. The traffic rushed past. He heard the car engines, saw a traffic light turn from green to red. Everything was suddenly far away.

The world twisted, turned upside down, and he remembered nothing more.

ROODMAS.

The clouds had rolled in over Yorks.h.i.+re and the entire countryside seemed flat and colourless. Even the birds in the trees were strangely silent. It had rained all night and was still raining now, the water spluttering out of the rusty drainpipes, trickling across the windows, falling into puddles that reflected a grey and hostile sky.

Matt woke up and s.h.i.+vered.

He was back at Hive Hall, lying on a rusty, sagging bed. He had been moved to a room next door to Noah on the first floor of the barn. There was no heating and he had only one thin blanket. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock in the morning. He sat up very slowly. His neck ached, his shoulder was so bruised that he could barely move his arm, and he could feel a scar on his face where the wing of the pterodactyl had caught him. His clothes were torn, dirty and damp. He stretched his arms and rotated his shoulders, trying to work some warmth into his muscles. It was Sat.u.r.day, April the thirtieth. Professor Dravid had given the day a name: Roodmas. Some sort of witches' festival. This was what everything had been leading to. In twenty-four hours it would all be over.

Matt got up and went to the window. It looked out over the farmyard, where a couple of pigs shuffled about in their sty. Otherwise, there was n.o.body in sight. This was his second day of captivity. He had only been let out of the room to use the toilet, with Noah standing guard outside the door. It was also Noah who brought him his meals on paper plates with plastic knives and forks. There had been no sign of Mrs Deverill, but he had seen lights going on and off in the farmhouse during the night and knew she was close.

Richard had been killed. That thought hurt him more than anything. It seemed to Matt that anyone who had shown him any kindness had died, and now he was finally on his own. But he was determined to fight back. If Mrs Deverill thought she could just drag him into the wood and stick a knife in him, she had a surprise coming her way.

He had already started. He was getting out.

Matt listened carefully for any sound in the barn. There was nothing, apart from the grunting of the pigs. It would be at least an hour before Noah brought his breakfast. He pulled back the mattress and removed a piece of iron about ten centimetres long and flattened at one end. Other than the bed, there was no furniture in the room, nothing he could use to break out. But the bed itself had provided him with a tool. The metal bar had supported one of the legs. It had taken Matt most of the first day to work it free and another two hours to squeeze one end flat a using his own weight and the bed legs a so that it now resembled a crude chisel. His first intention had been to prise out the bars on the window but he had soon discovered they were too strong. Instead he had turned his attention to the floor.

The bedroom floor was made up of parallel wooden planks, each one fixed in place with a dozen nails. Working during the night, Matt had managed to free nine of the nails on one plank. Three more and he would be able to lift it out. If he could make a hole big enough, he would be able to squeeze through and drop down to the level below. That was his plan.

He pulled back the old colourless rug that covered the floor and set to work. The makes.h.i.+ft chisel was a clumsy tool and it was almost impossible to get it underneath the heads of the nails. It had slipped several times and Matt's knuckles had crashed into the floor until his skin was broken and bleeding. He had to be careful not to make any noise. That was the worst of it. Working quietly meant working slowly and he was aware of time running out. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on what he was doing. First one nail and then another came out. Almost an hour had pa.s.sed since he had woken up, but at last the plank came free. He prised it out and looked through the narrow gap he had made.

He saw at once that his plan was hopeless. He was too high up. If he tried to drop down to ground level, he'd twist an ankle or even break a leg. He felt a wave of despair rise up inside him. Why did nothing ever seem to go his way? He fought it back. He wasn't going to give up now. Maybe there was another way.

His power.

The blind medium, Susan Ashwood, had told him what he already knew himself. "I felt your power ... I have never felt such strength before." That was what she had said just before he had left her house. And he remembered the way Professor Dravid had looked at him at the museum. For a moment he had wondered if the professor was even, in some way, afraid of him.

Matt was different. He had known that all his life. He had seen the death of his parents the night before it had happened. He had dreamt all the details, right down to the bridge and the blown-out tyre. He had sensed there was a security guard at the warehouse seconds before the man had actually appeared. He had smashed a jug at the detention centre. He had called Richard without even opening his mouth. And then there had been the dreams that were somehow more than dreams. Four children... Three boys and a girl calling to him.

With him, that made five.

He sat down on the bed and concentrated on the door. If he could break a jug, why couldn't he turn a lock? It was just a question of finding the power inside him and activating it. He remembered the last time he had tried this, the morning when he had woken up in Richard's flat. It hadn't worked that time a but perhaps he hadn't really been trying. This was a matter of life and death. Surely that would help.

He purposefully slowed down his breathing, staring straight ahead, trying to forget everything else. He focused on the keyhole, trying to visualize the metal bolts inside. He could move them. He could open the door with a key that existed only in his imagination. It was easy. He had the power.

He reached out with his hands, trying to make the energy flow through them. "Turn!" he whispered. "Turn!"

The handle turned.

The door opened.

Matt's spirits soared a but only for a second. He had been cruelly deceived. Noah was standing on the other side. The farm worker had unlocked the door to bring Matt his breakfast. He was holding a tray with a mug of tea and a single slice of fried bread. What looked like a sickle hung from his belt. It had a wooden handle and a hooked blade that had been recently sharpened. The edge was raw silver and vicious.

"Breakfast," Noah muttered.

"Greasy and disgusting," said Matt.

"You don't want to eat it?"

"I wasn't talking about the breakfast. I was talking about you."

There was a gap in the floor. Matt had been aware of it from the moment Noah came in. But the question was, would Noah notice it? He had to keep Noah talking. Somehow he had to keep his attention diverted.

Noah set the tray down on the bed.

"I'd like a bath," Matt said.

"No bath."

"How about a shower? Or maybe you don't know what that is. From the smell of you, I'd say you've probably never had one either."

The taunt worked. Noah was gazing at him, his attention diverted from the rest of the room. For a moment he stood there, breathing heavily. He took the sickle out of his belt and held it up to his lips. Then he ran his tongue down the blade. "I'll enjoy watching you being killed," he breathed. "You'll scream like a pig. You'll scream and you'll cry, and I'll be there!" He tucked the sickle back and walked over to the door. "No more food today," he announced. "You can die hungry." He slammed the door and locked it again.

Matt waited until he was sure Noah had really left, then he gulped down his breakfast. The tea was cold, the fried bread soggy. But he didn't care. Hot or cold, the food would give him strength and that was one thing he needed. He was secretly glad that Noah wasn't going to bring him lunch. That gave him more time. It was obvious to him that he wasn't going to open the door by magic a or any other means. There was only one way out of here and that was through the hole he had already made. It just had to be bigger, and now he could work uninterrupted all day.

When Matt next looked at his watch it was just after three o'clock in the afternoon. His knees were sore. His back was stiff. His fingers were covered in blisters and one of his thumbs was gashed. But two more floorboards were free and only seven nails remained before the hole would be large enough for his purpose. He couldn't jump down, or swing himself down at arm's length. But he had another plan a and he would have only one chance to make it work.

Six o'clock arrived and still the fourth plank refused to budge. Seven nails stood between him and success. Now he worked more feverishly, caring less about the noise. What would he do if this didn't turn out the way he hoped? He smiled grimly to himself. The chisel was hardly the most effective of weapons but it would have to do. If he could at least give Noah something to remember him by, he would go more cheerfully. Picturing that moment, he stabbed down with the flattened bar of iron. Another nail came free.

It was already dark when Noah returned. There was the familiar rattle of the key and the creak of the opening door. He stood on the threshold with the sickle tucked into his belt. There was no electricity in the room. He took out a torch and flicked it on.

"Time to go." Noah sang out the words. "They're all waiting for you."

He was answered by complete silence.

"What's the matter?" he hissed. "Are you playing games?"

From the far side of the room, where the bed stood, there came a painful groan.

"What is it? Are you sick?"

Matt groaned again and coughed a a hard, rattling cough. Anxiously, Noah held the torch at arm's length.

"If this is some sort of trick," he threatened, "I'll make you wish you'd never been born. I'll-"

He took two paces into the room and stepped on to the rug.

The rug was covering the hole that Matt had spent the whole day making. Noah dropped the torch and disappeared without a sound. The rug went with him, sucked downwards like an animal trap. At once Matt sprang off the bed. The torch was lying on the floor and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, then hurried out of the room, along the corridor and downstairs. The sight that greeted him at the bottom was not a pretty one. He had hoped the farmhand would knock himself out when he hit the ground. But somehow Noah had fallen on the sickle. It had gone through his stomach and out the other side. His face was distorted in an expression of pain and surprise. He was quite dead.

Matt ran out into the darkness. It was raining and he felt needles of water slicing into his face. The road seemed to have been churned up into puddles and mud that threatened to drag him down. Twice he stumbled and fell, setting the bruise on his shoulder on fire. But he didn't even hesitate. He ran headlong into the night, unaware of anything but the sound of his feet hitting the road, the drumming of his blood in his ears and the gasping of his breath as it emerged in fierce white clouds from his mouth.

He ran until every step made him wince and his legs shouted at him to let him rest. His mind was numb. He was no more than a machine. Rainwater streaked across his face and trickled down the back of his neck. At last he came to the end of his strength. He had to stop. He saw a bank of gra.s.s and collapsed on to it. He had no idea how far he had come. A mile? It could have been ten.

The headlights of a car appeared in the distance. Matt lifted his head and, moving like an old man, began to get to his feet. He knew it was dangerous but he had no choice. He had to stop the car and ask for a lift. Perhaps the driver would hand him to the police. But it didn't matter. It was Roodmas. Tomorrow he would be safe.

Staggering forward, he raised his arms. The car slowed down and stopped. Its headlamps lit up the rain, making it look like spilled ink. It was a sports car. A black Jaguar.

The door opened and the driver got out. Matt tried to move towards him, lost his balance and tumbled into a pair of outstretched arms.

"Good heavens!" Sir Michael Marsh said.

It was the government scientist he had visited with Richard. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come.

"What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" Sir Michael demanded. Then: "No. Don't try to speak now. Let me get you into the car, out of this rain."

Matt allowed himself to be carried to the car and slumped gratefully into the front seat. Sir Michael shook off the rain and got in next to him. The engine of the car was still running, the windscreen wipers turning. But the car didn't move. Sir Michael looked completely perplexed.

"It's Matthew Freeman, isn't it?" he said. "What on earth are you doing in this dreadful state? Have you had an accident?"

"No... I..."

"You look as if you've just escaped from a pack of bears."

"I'm very cold."

"Then we must try to get you into the warm at once. Don't you worry. It's very lucky I ran into you. Everything's going to be all right now."

He put the car into gear and they moved off. Sir Michael turned on the heater and Matt felt a cus.h.i.+on of hot air surround his legs. He was safe! Sir Michael Marsh would listen to his story. He had the power to see to it that Mrs Deverill and the other villagers were defeated. He would make sure that no more harm would come to him. The car sped on through the night. Matt relaxed in the soft leather seat. All he wanted to do was sleep. He had never been so tired.

But he couldn't. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. What was it? He played back the words Sir Michael had spoken just a few minutes ago.

"It's Matthew Freeman, isn't it?"

He knew his surname.

When Richard had taken him to Sir Michael's house in York he had introduced him simply as Matt. Only Mrs Deverill knew his second name. Sir Michael couldn't have known it.

Unless...