Page 29 of The Cut

‘Master betrayed us … We ought to wring his filthy little neck. Kill him! Kill them both.’

Swaddled deep in a tight claustrophobia of darkness, Mark Cherry’s eyes suddenly open with a sharp intake of breath. He claps a hand to his mouth. For a second, he can’t remember where he is. He reaches out to touch the wall by the side of his bed, but his fingers find wet canvas.

‘Sod off, Cherry.’ The heel of Chris Davis’s foot donkey-kicks him in the ribs. ‘Keep your hands to yourself … faggot.’ The hissed whisper from the pungent bundle next to him is a stark reminder of exactly where he is.

The door of the tent is half open. Lying still, not daring to move for fear of another kick to the ribs, he listens; cold breath filling the damp air with vapour.

A globule of rain runs down the half-stuck zip, pooling in a little indent by the opening, as tiny rivulets of water creep towards his bed.

The patter on the tight canopy overhead is like fingertips on a drum skin.

Outside, sheet lightning illuminates the boughs of a tree, jagged shadows of branchy limbs reaching out across the sky, their nails scratching at the door.

The campsite is nestled in a small clearing between the Pentwyn Reservoir and the thick woods of Dol-y-Gaer.

They’d pitched their tents earlier that day, after the exhausting coach ride, clearing what remained of the snow and hammering tent stakes into frozen earth.

Finally, exhausted, they had built a fire and eaten 160 half-cooked sausages and beans heated in a jerry can, cowboy style.

Chris Davis had passed around a bottle of dandelion and burdock laced with Bacardi, which had made Mark feel really rough.

He’d tried to take away the taste with a mouthful of Colgate, then immediately thrown up.

A low mist had crept from the surface of the lake into their small encampment as the boys and girls had finally retreated to their tents.

Pen y Fan was invisible, shrouded in cloud, but its looming presence could be felt.

Mark had immediately thought of the Dead Marshes, lying at the foothills of Mount Doom; he’d fallen asleep dreaming of Frodo and Sam and of a creature tied to a tree, wailing at the injustice of his wrongful incarceration.

Under the covers, the illuminated hands of his watch tell him it’s 2 a.m., the witching hour.

His head is thumping with tiredness and a hangover from the drink.

He can hear the snores of the other boys, slowly becoming synchronised, all of them breathing as one.

The trickle of water from the door seeps under his sleeping bag, soaking freezing water into his feet.

He closes his eyes and tries not to shiver, as the hard, damp ground seems to fold around his shoulders, sucking him down into another troubled sleep.

‘BAGGINS!’

The shriek that wakes him the second time sounds exactly like a winged creature of Sauron.

Mark sits bolt upright again and listens.

Was that screech in his dream or did that come from outside?

The rain has stopped now and a gentle wind plays through the trees like notes on a flute, luring him outside into the darkness.

Mark eases himself towards the tent door and slowly pulls on the tag of the zip.

The cold hand of night presses against his face as he peers through the split canvas opening.

His eyes slowly adjust to the reflection of the moon glittering on the surface of the undulating lake.

A brief second of clear vision before clouds, 161 moving across the sky, cloak the world into a starless night.

There is nothing out there, just the sound of ice lapping against the bank and the scent of grass and manure.

Mark inhales deeply. He is about to retreat into the safety of the tent when he spots movement in the woods. Something darting between the trees.

‘There’s something lurking out there.’ Mark glances back. His trembling whisper to the line of snoring bodies gets no response. They are all dead to the world. He worms his way to the edge of the tent. He can’t do this alone.

‘Ben?’ He reaches across to shake the shoulder two doors down, but the bundle of bags and coats stuffing the sack crumples under his touch.

Another shriek, similar to the one that woke him the first time, pierces the silence, higher and further away now.

Mark freezes, his throat constricted, terrified to his core.

‘It’s just a fox,’ Mark whispers to himself, trying to shore up his courage, ‘nothing to worry about.’

His mind is racing as he clambers to his knees, pulling on his damp parka and Wellington boots from the foot of his bed, but as he slowly peels back the tent flaps and eases himself out into the damp air, his heart begins to pound.

There is something wrong. He can feel it. There is something in the forest.

A flicker of light in the distance burns bright for a second and then vanishes.

There is now just an impenetrable wall of black at the edge of the woods, but as Mark emerges the cloud cloaking the sky eases away like a curtain to reveal two figures perched on the picnic bench by the shore of the lake.

Moonlight brushes arms and shoulders wrapped in an embrace.

Mark creeps on to his haunches and moves out slowly on his hands and knees.

He can hear the sound of someone crying.

‘I’m not afraid of him.’ The girl being held in an embrace is clearly upset. ‘But I feel so sorry for him.’ 162

‘I know.’ The other speaks in a low whisper, barely voiced. Something indistinguishable follows and then he hears, ‘but you’re safe with me’. Mark can just about make out what they are saying.

‘I’m just not ready.’ Annie Maddock’s face is suddenly clearly visible in moonlight.

‘I understand.’ Dave holds out a hand and she takes it. ‘You can always talk to me.’

‘I know.’ Annie leans into Dave’s shoulder. ‘Thanks for listening.’

Mark presses his ear to the damp grass, breathing slowly, trying to still his heart.

A strange feeling rolls in his stomach at the prospect of watching something so private.

He shouldn’t be looking but he can’t help himself.

Then again, they shouldn’t be doing this.

Annie is Ben’s girlfriend. His eyes follow the line of the lake, back towards the tent, and he sees the silhouette of a person shrunk back behind a tree trunk.

There’s someone else watching from the shadows.

That animal shrieks again, deep in the dense thicket of trees. Then, the faintest chitter of laughter and the rustle of branches. Annie pulls away and stands up from the bench, wrapping her coat tightly around her. ‘What was that?’

A flicker of light from a torch passes between the boughs. A thin streak of light lashing out across the scrub before disappearing into the darkness again.

‘Over there,’ Dave whispers, and he stands up from the bench. ‘I saw it.’ He looks deeper into the woods towards the fading light. That mocking cackle again, further away this time. ‘Someone’s spying on us.’ He creeps forward. ‘Annie. Stay here … don’t move.’

Dave steps stealthily, pace by pace, then stops, waiting. Listening. No one moves a muscle. 163

In an explosion of light, Patel’s face is suddenly illuminated in a stark flare. He shields his eyes.

‘Who’s there?’ His voice trembles as he staggers deeper into the forest, blinded by the light.

Desperate to follow, Mark begins to crawl commando-style through the muddy grass into the undergrowth. A branch breaks with an echoing snap beneath him and he curses in the darkness.

Annie freezes and whips around towards him. ‘Dave? Wait! I’m scared … come back.’

But Dave has disappeared into the trees, following the dancing faerie light, enticing him deeper and deeper into the densely laced fingers of tree branches.

Annie is on her feet now. ‘I’m going back … Dave?’ Her panic-stricken voice quivers through the silence. There is no answer except for her words echoing into the void. Nobody moves. Nothing stirs, not even the wind, as if nature is holding its breath.

In an explosion of breaking branches, the torch beam is smashed on, full flare, directly into Annie’s face. A high-pitched shriek bellows from the mouth of something charging at speed out of the darkness.

Annie cries out in fear, turns and sprints back towards her tent. She stumbles and falls, almost tripping on Mark, who is still prostrate on the ground. He freezes, flicking his head towards her as she gets to her feet. ‘Annie?’

‘Leave me alone!’ Her cry is frantic now as she staggers in the dark, back towards the safety of the girls’ tent.

It’s too much for Mark, who begins to scramble to his own tent as the wild animal bursts through the trees. A basilisk, or one of the Ring-wraiths hunting them all down. Brambles and branches give way to the charge. He hears Dave call out from deep in the pitch-dark forest. 164

‘Ben, I know it’s you … Leave us alone.’ His voice is distant but drawing closer as he gives chase.

In her frantic escape, Annie darts across the dark campsite and as she turns a corner she slams into a body standing dead still.

‘Oh my God!’ Annie shrieks as two arms clamp around hers, pinning her hands to her sides and drawing her in tight.

‘Easy, tiger … What’s the hurry?’

The Bacardi on his breath is undeniable. ‘Ben?’ Annie tries to break free, but he holds her fast. Her head shoots around, back to the forest. ‘I thought you were …’

‘Thought I was what?’ Ben presses himself into her body, turned on. Annie squirms, trying to extricate herself, but his arms just pull her in tighter. ‘Ssshh.’

‘Back there in the forest.’ Annie’s eyes search the darkness. Dark figures scuttle back into tents, the sound of zip flaps and hushed whispers. ‘It’s all right, we’re alone now, everyone’s gone to bed.’ She is breathing hard, her chest heaving against his.

‘Don’t be scared, I’ve got you.’ Ben stares down into her face. That cackle chitters again, closer now. Annie’s head spins to see Lynette Davis, in a hoodie, crunching through the grass, heading back towards the girls’ tent.

‘Don’t let me disturb you two lovebirds.’ As she passes them and ducks down to unzip the tent flap, Lynette mutters to herself, ‘Farm girl’s having a crack at everyone tonight. Little slut.’

Mark’s heart races, and in a frenzy of panic he crouches close to the ground, watching Ben and Annie, but then very slowly he crawls back towards the boys’ tent.

As he tries to get inside his wet sleeping bag, his Wellington boots catch on the fabric and his parka rides up over his head.

His head thumping, almost suffocating, he hears the sound of feet outside, stalking in a circle. 165

Is she OK? Does she need help? Mark reassures himself that Ben is out there with her. Her boyfriend is there to protect her. He hears hushed whispers and a flurry of movement followed by someone entering the tent.

Mark lies as still as a corpse, not breathing as a body clambers over him, suddenly pressing his weight deep into his chest, breath close to his face.

‘Saw you watching.’ Ben’s skin brushes Mark’s cheek. He’s paralysed with fear. ‘Did it get you all excited, you little Peeping Tom?’

Then very slowly Ben rolls off and collapses into a deep slumber.

Mark lies awake, eyes wide, glued to the shadows on the canvas, as if he will never sleep again. 166