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1

They lead the boy back to the bright light of the pantry, leaving the stale bloody stench of stripped bones behind them. Aaron locks the door and when they are back in the kitchen, Margaret, still holding Jesse by the arm, nods at his cuffs. She thinks they have put him through enough. It’s unfortunate, but sometimes tough love is the only thing that works.

‘Take those off now,’ she says and Aaron, somewhat slowly and begrudgingly retrieves the key and unlocks them.

Jesse lets out a slight gasp as he begins to massage his wrists. Margaret, hand on his shoulder, steers him firmly towards the large table and pulls out a chair.

‘Sit, dear,’ she instructs and he obeys rather limply, his expression frozen and shellshocked. ‘You can go,’ she says to Aaron, before he gets riled up again and says something they’ll both regret.

Aaron gives the boy a lingering glare then turns and goes to the door. He grunts and leaves, perhaps thinking of the long walk back in the rain. Margaret places a pan on the stove and adds milk.

‘I’m going to make you a warm drink. That will help. Then something to eat. You look half starved.’

He’s staring slackly at the tablecloth but his eyes swivel to take her in. His mouth hangs slightly open. His hands rest on the table, linked together. Horatio has wandered over for a sniff but the boy doesn’t seem to notice him.

‘He does what you say.’

Margaret frowns. Jesse’s voice is no more than a whisper. She meets his eye and he looks away from her.

‘You mean Aaron?’ She turns back to stir the milk. ‘Yes, I suppose he does.’

‘Why?’

‘Now, Jesse,’ she replies in a teasing tone. ‘What did Sergeant Mayfield say about asking questions?’ She looks over her shoulder in time to see his eyes widen in horror. She laughs. ‘It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. You’ll see that soon.’

He doesn’t say anything else but the question both impresses and troubles her. He may be traumatised and shocked but he’s still a smart kid, a sharp one. She likes this but reminds herself to tread carefully. Too much too soon is no good for anyone.

When the milk has warmed, she spoons hot chocolate powder into it then pours him a mug. She turns to place it on the table and sees that Horatio has pushed his chunky yellow head on to Jesse’s lap, refusing to be ignored. She feels warmed to see Jesse has one hand on the dog’s head.

‘What would you like to eat?’ she asks. ‘It’s still early and I doubt you’ve had any breakfast yet.’ He doesn’t answer. He just looks stunned, so she says, ‘Eggs? Eggs on toast? Poached or boiled? I don’t do fried. Too messy.’

He nods silently, his eyes on the dog. Margaret turns back to the stove.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll do some poached on toast. Let’s start getting some meat on those bones.’ It’s an innocent remark but he instantly stiffens and his breathing is noticeably faster. Margaret puts some water on to boil and faces him calmly.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ she says again and she means it. She is glad to have him with her. It troubled her immensely to know he was living in a treehouse, exposed to the elements. It troubled her to know that Aaron was tracking him down and losing his temper. She decides to give Jesse something. She wants him to calm down. He’ll set Hilda off otherwise.

‘My family have lived here for generations,’ she tells him softly. ‘I’ve got deeds that show an original dwelling stood here as far back as 1022. Undoubtedly before that, but that’s when records began. And if you want to a know a secret, dear Iris can trace hers back even further than that. My ancestors lived right here when it was a real fort, Jesse. They defended the town from Vikings and Romans and anyone else who tried to invade. They won, too.’

She sees a glimmer of interest in his brown eyes. He gazes at her, then away again, biting his lip.

‘They protected the town. They always have done. And that’s the legacy they passed on to me, Jesse. I protect the town above all else. It must come first at all costs. It’s a special place, you see. Sacred. Magical, even.’

He meets her eyes. She smiles kindly.

‘It’s a unique place,’ she goes on. ‘Iris and I are not the only one who can trace their ancestors back to the start either. Mr Hewlett, Mr Bishop, Miss Spires and of course Sergeant Mayfield all have a very long bloodline here. The desire to protect it has been passed on to all of us, you see. It’s in our bones. Our blood.’ She pauses and again she can see the questions are driving him insane. He has so many but is frightened to ask any.

‘You’re safe here, Jesse,’ she tells him finally. ‘I promise you that. You’ve made your choice, yes?’ Her eyes flick to the pantry door. He nods quickly. ‘Good. Then you can relax. Let me look after you. Everything will be okay.’

2

Ralph returns home from school to find a scrawled note from his mother on the kitchen table. ‘Work for you at the farm!! See you after school!!!’

Ralph’s shoulders sag as he closes his eyes and sighs. He’s tired and fed up and the last thing he wants to do is go up to Mayor Sumner’s farm. He knows what his mother is doing – what they’re all doing – and he resents it. Jaime was met at the gates by her mother again and Willow had strict instructions to return to the shop to help out.

‘It’s okay,’ she had said to Ralph when he expressed his dismay. ‘This is what we decided anyway. We let them think we’ve given up and they’ll lose interest in us.’

Ralph knows it makes sense but he still hates it. Then again, if it is true that the mayor is now fostering Jesse, he might get to see him after all. Surely she can’t get away with controlling who he speaks to?

He nods, feeling a little bit better and braver. He grabs a quick snack of a cheese sandwich and changes out of his school clothes. Work on the farm is bound to be something mucky. His hopes are rising now. Maybe Jesse can help him and they’ll get a chance to talk?

Ralph feels more determined by the time he locks up and leaves the new house. He still can’t think of it as home and he misses the caravan terribly. He doesn’t like having Eugenie Spires as a neighbour either. He thinks she’s ever so nosy – always popping up over the fence in the back garden if she hears him out there, always twitching at her front curtain when he leaves for school in the morning.

He sighs and climbs on his bike. With his focus back on seeing Jesse, he picks up speed and looks straight ahead.

3

Willow snarls at the High Street from the shop window. Behind her, the Vicar Roberts is browsing the shelves even though they both know he’s not going to buy anything. Every now and then his head bumps a wind chime or a dream catcher and he gives an absurd little laugh as if he’s so bemused by it all and just humouring them by browsing.

Her mother is lying down upstairs with a migraine, hence the demand to help in the shop. She has no idea what her father is up to but occasionally hears a crash and a mutter from the stock room.

She’s frustrated, angry and feeling more than a little bit guilty. Sometimes her mother’s headaches morph into silences that go on for months. If her mother falls head first into another depressive period, Willow knows it will be her fault entirely. When she asked her father about the old photographs, he had no idea what she was talking about and simply waved her away.

Willow had hoped to walk home with Jaime. They’ve had no time to digest or discuss what happened this morning. But her mother was there at the gate again, oblivious to how red-faced Jaime was or how much bitches like Alexa and Bryony were nudging each other and laughing at her.

Willow sighs at the window, fogging up the glass. She watches people passing by, keeping her eyes peeled for anyone of interest. Billy Archer, or Iris Cotton, but she doesn’t see anyone and anyway, Vicar Roberts would see if she rushed out to speak to one of them. Why doesn’t he just shove off?

Her mind is spinning, frantic. She’s desperate to know what happened after her and Jaime left the station. She’s frightened for Jesse, amazed by his bravery and bursting with questions about Margaret Sumner and Hill Fort Farm.

But she can’t do anything about any of it. She has to stay here and play shops while timewasters like Vicar Roberts take the absolute piss. She eyes him now, wondering what the hell he wants. He’s running one finger along the spines of several books about folklore and paganism. He looks up and catches her staring.

‘Anything you want?’ she decides to ask him, arms folded.

He gives a patronising little smile and withdraws his finger. He brushes off his hands as if they are coated with dust. ‘Oh no, just looking. Interesting selection you have here.’

What he really means is, does anyone actually buy this stuff?

‘That’s the idea,’ she responds, gazing back at the High Street. Suddenly, he is right there beside her.

‘Very wet day,’ he comments, frowning up at the sky. ‘Looks like more rain on the way too.’

She raises her eyebrows, amazed by his powers of observation.

‘Still, summer is on the way, I guess,’ he goes on.

Willow shrugs. ‘I suppose so.’

He pauses and she can tell he wants to say more – ask her something maybe but she intends to make him work for it, whatever it may be and then he sighs a little sadly and zips up his waterproof jacket.

‘Well, I suppose I getter get home before it comes down again. Goodbye, Willow.’

She nods and watches him leave, shuddering slightly in his absence. She’s always thought him a strange little man but now she wonders, how strange? How far does it all go? Does he know what Mayfield is? Does he know where Paddy is?

4

Jaime has worked out a genius plan to keep her investigation secret. She has expertly secured new sheets of paper over her rollout timeline of events. On these fresh pages she has started her history assignment on the Tudors. She’s decided to also create a timeline of significant births, deaths and events in the historical period – complete with photos and drawings, notes, maps and facts. It’s a colourful and intricate display that more than covers and disguises the work underneath it. It will give her room to breathe, she thinks as she applies the last piece of tape. It’s not perfect but it will do for now.

To anyone else, it will look like a school project. When she is totally alone, she can simply peel back the Tudor layer to reveal the secrets of Black Hare Valley underneath. And Jaime has been applying the same tactics in the school library today. Local history and folklore books hidden under books about the Tudors.

She’s currently plotting her escape because she simply has to see Willow and she knows that Ralph might be at Hill Fort Farm by now if his mother and Mayor Sumner are still keeping him busy. Her intensive search has not brought up much more information about Carol-Anne Radley but her digging has revealed two very interesting things that she just cannot keep to herself a moment longer.

Iris Cotton is indeed related to the late Agnes Salter – Cotton is her married name – and perhaps even more sinister or exciting, depending on how you look at it, locals such as Carol-Anne and Paddy are not the only people to have gone missing in Black Hare Valley.

5

Ralph arrives at the farm in a state of excitement but he is soon sidelined by his mother who yells at him from the nearest copse. She’s in a raincoat and beckoning for him to join her. With a roll of his eyes, he dashes across the saturated grass to meet her.

She holds up her chainsaw with a grin. ‘Several trees to prune in here, mate. Margaret says we can keep all the wood. Fancy a nice cosy fire tonight?’

Ralph tries hard to hide his disappointment and takes the goggles she is holding out. ‘Yeah, sure Mum.’

‘Let’s grab some marshmallows on the way home,’ she adds, turning back into the trees. ‘You ready? We’ll get this done in half the time now you’re here.’

‘Okay. Hey, Mum?’

‘What is it?’

He catches her eye and glances sideways at her. ‘Is it true that the mayor has taken in Jesse Archer?’

His mother stops walking, lowers the chainsaw and looks at him. It’s a soft look that he recognises well; one of tenderness and patience.

‘Yes,’ she tells him and he allows himself to breathe. So Jesse is here. He’s okay. Not missing. ‘He’s in there now but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him just yet.’

Ralph frowns and wants to argue. To have Jesse so close and not be able to ask a million questions feels like some kind of cruel torture. ‘Why not?’

‘Well, because he’s just been uprooted from his life, his home. He’s been sleeping rough a few days and he’s traumatised. That’s why.’ She reaches out and ruffles up his hair. He fights the urge to slap her hand away.

‘Who says he’s traumatised?’

‘Margaret. Anyway, it stands to reason. He’s been through a lot, so I hear. But he’s going to be looked after now. He’ll be fine now, okay?’

‘So, he’s not in trouble with the police anymore?’

Charlotte shakes her head. ‘No, Sergeant Mayfield kindly let it go. Everyone is much more interested in helping him than punishing him. See, there’s something really special about this town. Right, Ralphie?’

He nods because she is right; just maybe not in the way she thinks she is.

‘Will I be able to see him another day then?’

‘Yes, of course. Personally, I’m fine with you being friends, Ralph. I trust you not to go off the rails and I trust Margaret to get Jesse back on the straight and narrow. Okay?’

Ralph feels the relief wash over him and smiles back. ‘Okay then. Thanks, Mum.’

He wonders if this is the right moment to ask her about his dad. She’s looking at him with that patient, loving expression he is so used to. She’s glowing, he thinks, undoubtedly proud of them both for finally moving into a house with a garden. Ralph wonders what goals and dreams she will have now though. Getting out of the caravan park had been her top priority for as long as he can remember.

She starts to turn away, still smiling. Ralph grips her sleeve without thinking. When she looks back at him curiously, he suddenly panics, his words drying up in his mouth.

‘Ralph, what is it?’

He licks his lips, fights for words and fails again. He’s still holding her sleeve and Charlotte’s eyes track to his hand then back to his face. Then she reaches out, ruffles his curls again, before pulling him in for a hug.

‘Are you okay, Ralphie?’

‘I don’t know,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes against her waterproof coat.

‘There’s been a lot of change lately,’ she says softly. ‘A lot going on. Are you maybe feeling a bit, you know, overwhelmed?’

‘I miss the caravan.’

‘Oh, Ralphie.’ Charlotte holds him back and cups his face with her hands. ‘I knew something was up. Oh sweetie, that’s perfectly natural. I do too, as it happens.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ she smiles and hugs him again. ‘I loved that silly old van. Me and your dad lived in it together. Our first home. And you grew up there. It has so many emotions and memories attached to it, of course I miss it too. Did you think because I’ve been so excited about the new house that I didn’t feel sad about leaving our old home?’

Ralph shrugs in her embrace. ‘You know when you first met Dad?’

She pauses before answering. Ralph feels horrible for a moment, knowing how much it still hurts her to talk about him. She stiffens slightly and then sighs into his hair.

‘Yes, honey.’

‘What kinds of stuff did you do together? Like, did you hang out together or with his friends?’

‘Well, he was older than me so he was a bit past hanging out with friends, to be honest, though he did enjoy the old pint in the pub with other blokes.’

‘He didn’t have like a best friend or a group of friends?’

‘Not that I remember, no.’ Charlotte pushes him back again. ‘Why?’

‘I just wondered. Jesse said something about his dad and my dad maybe being friends when they were our age.’ Ralph raises his eyebrows and chuckles under his breath, trying to let her know that he has no clue if this is remotely likely or not.

Charlotte lets him go and places her hands on her hips. ‘I really couldn’t say, Ralph. He never mentioned it.’ She’s looking at him with narrowed eyes and for a moment, he thinks he has upset her, but then she grins and slips an arm around his shoulders, turning him around to face the trees. ‘That would be a sweet coincidence though, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yeah, maybe. Is there any chance he left any photos of when he was young? I’d love to see them. You know, see if we look alike, that kind of thing.’

‘You’re his spitting image, Ralphie, I’m always telling you!’ His mum rests her head against his as they walk side by side. ‘But yeah, I’m pretty sure there are some old photos somewhere. His mum dug some out for me after he died.’ She sighs again. ‘Before she died.’

Ralph nods his thanks and pulls the goggles over his eyes. ‘Thanks, Mum. I’d love to see them.’

6

He can’t get over the guest bedroom. His bedroom. All his life he has shared a single room with Billy and Wyatt. All his life he’s been surrounded by junk and rubbish and stolen goods and has had to extricate himself endlessly from other arms and legs. He’s tried to sleep while the TV blared or while Billy and Wyatt were filming each other having sex, or while his father is throwing up or smashing things up.

But here there is none of that. Just a rectangular room at the right end of the house above the kitchen. It has views from the front, back and side. It has polished oak flooring and a thick turquoise rug. It has a four-poster antique bed set between two of the windows and a fireplace to the left side and just past that another door leads to his own bathroom.

His own bathroom.

He can’t believe any of it. A phrase comes to mind. One he has heard before in books, on TV, out of his father’s mouth: how the other half live. And he supposes he has always wondered. That big old house on the hill, built within an ancient fort, looking down on the town and in every direction for miles and miles. With its farmland and woods and streams and pheasant pens and livestock. Another world from his block of flats and the stale stench permeating the walls.

The bed is made up with big fat cream pillows. Too many to count. His grubby backpack sits like an insult on the top of a blue and cream quilted bedspread. There are two wooden bedside tables on either side of the bed, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe. All antique, all classy, all alien to him. Jesse has never had a wardrobe before. Clothes are all over the place in the flat: under beds, on the beds, on the floor.

Here there is order and restraint and a calm kind of opulence. Jesse feels calm, even though his head tells him he shouldn’t. His head and his memories remind him that he is right in the lion’s den. That Mayfield is a monster – evil, and that Margaret Sumner has some sort of control over him. What does that make her?

Yes under the surface, Jesse can see why everyone loves her so much. She moves with graceful forcefulness, like she owns the world and loves it passionately. She’s authoritarian but not petty. She’s assertive but not selfish. What does she want? If he had to answer that now, Jesse would probably say, peace.

She comes out of the bathroom now and glances up as banging starts overhead. ‘Oh, that’s Hilda reminding me to see to her next. I’m on my way in a minute. Don’t worry, sometimes she bangs when she wants something but mostly you won’t hear a thing.’

He nods, wondering about Hilda – wondering when or if he will ever be able to ask questions because that’s all he has right now; hundreds and hundreds of questions.

He has met Hilda briefly but she wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t eat her lunch either, pushing it away with both hands like an angry child. Ralph’s mother had been there too, coaxing and encouraging her to eat and she had been kind to Jesse, patting his arm when she spoke to him then ruffling his hair when she left. He can hear the dull far off sound of a droning chainsaw and guesses she is still hard at work out there. Margaret seems to dote on her.

She gestures to the bathroom and he follows her in cautiously, gazing at the cream walls and small window. The bath is huge and deep and a mountain of sweet smelling bubbles are rising as the taps continue to run.

He wants to tell her she doesn’t have to run him a bath, he’s not a baby, but he dare not speak. He doesn’t want to say or do anything wrong. She seems so sweet, so naturally caring, but he can’t allow himself to forget that pile of bones in the cellar.

‘There you go,’ she says, walking out. ‘Enjoy. It’ll do you good.’

He closes the door on her but notices there is no lock. He undresses his top half slowly and chucks the filthy clothes on the floor. Suddenly, she bursts back in. He stares at her in horror, relieved he took the top half off first, but she seems non-plussed, holding out a small tub of cream. She’s looking at his back and he remembers the claw marks and shivers.

‘As I thought,’ she says. ‘They really do need cleaning. It’ll sting a bit I imagine but the water will clean them then after I can put this on for you.’ She places the tub on the edge of the bath. ‘Antiseptic and antibacterial, just in case. They look nasty.’

Jesse shuffles around to face her, eyes down. Oblivious to his embarrassment, Margaret backs out of the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. ‘Take all the time you need. I’ve got to see to Hilda then think about dinner.’

Jesse listens to her boots striding away then gently pushes the door shut. He kicks his clothes up against it, then takes off the rest and reaches over to turn off the taps. Slowly, stiffly, his beating heart the only sound in the room, Jesse climbs into the bath, He can’t remember the last time he had one and it feels divine.

He grips the edges of the bath tightly and lowers himself under the warm bubbles. At once, all his injuries spark into life; bright pain taking his breath away and making his heart beat even faster. But as he slides down and closes his eyes, he feels the pain leaving again, piece by piece, sliding out from under his skin and seeping away from him. He wonders what she put in the bath because it feels how he imagines warmed silk must; enveloping him in a gentle embrace. He slips away, lets it all go and drifts into sleep.

7

After a long struggle putting Hilda to bed, Margaret fetches herself a drink of red wine and a packet of cigarettes and asks Jesse to join her out on the patio. Beyond the kitchen doors lies a stone flagged area with a round picnic table and several wooden chairs. She lights a candle and places it inside a metal lantern on the table and gestures for Jesse to sit.

Clean and wearing fresh clothes, – pale blue jeans and a white t-shirt she bought for him earlier –Jesse Archer looks like a different boy. Margaret smiles as she pictures the boy she has so often seen skulking around town with his reprobate friends or trailing after his criminal older brothers. Thuggish in grimy jeans and scruffy tops, dark-eyed and sinister. A stain on the town, Aaron always insisted. The whole lot of them.

But Margaret believe she sees something different in Jesse, something Aaron is just not capable of seeing. A goodness, a softness. A righteousness. She admires him now in clean clothes, his face clear of grime and dried blood, his hair washed and brushed. A new boy, she ponders, a new start.

She lights a cigarette and waves the pack at him. ‘Do you smoke?’

Jesse frowns back at her, arms crossed tightly over his middle. He hesitates, but then nods once. She smiles and tosses him the packet and a lighter.

‘Help yourself. I’m not a big smoker but I do like to end a difficult day with a smoke and a glass of merlot. And it has been a difficult day.’

Margaret leans back in her chair and smokes while Jesse cautiously takes the pack and plucks out a cigarette. She watches from the corner of her eye as his shaking hands light up then place the lighter back down beside the pack.

‘You know you can drop the mute act any time you want,’ she says softly, sweetly.

He turns his dark eyes on her, instantly alarmed. Margaret chuckles at his expression.

‘You know, Sergeant Mayfield isn’t the only one who’s taken a dislike to you over the years. Mr Bishop has always told me you’re a real troublemaker at school.’ She keeps her eyes fixed on his as she drinks in his confusion. ‘Talking in class,’ she grins. ‘Always interrupting, playing the clown, causing mischief, is that right?’

Jesse shrugs.

Margaret exhales a smooth stream of smoke. ‘Well, why the silent act now then? That’s what’s upsetting Hilda, you know. She was a bugger to put to bed. She doesn’t cope particularly well with change but it would help if you spoke to her.’

She watches him carefully. He looks away from her intense gaze and puffs on the cigarette, the red ember glowing fiercely as he pulls the drug into his lungs. His hands are still shaking though. Eventually, he breathes out and lowers the cigarette.

‘You said not to ask any questions.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And that’s all I have. Questions.’

‘Ah.’ She chuckles again. ‘I see. Well, in that case let me answer just one for you right now, Jesse and maybe that will help you to settle down. Sound fair?’

Jesse glances at her curiously then looks away again. She can see his mind working overtime. One question, just one when he must have so many. He opens his mouth a few times, clears his throat then stops. It must be hard, she muses. Does he think of himself? Or the others?

Finally, he fixes his dark eyes on her. ‘Is Paddy the black hare I’ve seen? The one that helped me?’

She smiles and feels the urge to praise him. A very good question. One that will resolve more than one mystery for him if she just gives a yes or no answer. Although of course, it will also open up several more. She looks at him for a long moment and he stares right back at her while the cigarette grows a length of grey ash which trembles with his hand, then drops to the ground.

‘That’s two questions,’ she teases. ‘But I’ll answer the first. The answer isn’t simple. I don’t know for sure. I haven’t seen a black hare myself. Not in a very long time. It’s what the town was named after, obviously,’ she continues. ‘The story goes that the first settlers here, my ancestors, followed a black hare into this valley, though perhaps it was just dark and they just couldn’t see its brown fur. Was it black fur you saw, Jesse? In the dead of the night? How can you be sure?’

His face reddens and his jaw tightens. He grips the armrests of the chair and gets up suddenly, tossing the half-smoked cigarette away.

‘What’s wrong?’ Margaret asks.

‘That’s not an answer. You tricked me.’

‘That’s not true, Jesse. I told you, it’s not a simple answer. I don’t know for sure, but yes, probably. It’s certainly possible, isn’t it?’ She stands up and steps closer to him. He’s still stiff and angry, fists bunched at his sides. Margaret touches his back gently and he hisses. ‘You know that better than anyone, don’t you?’

She watches his face; the confusion swirling with knowing. He swallows hard, then he sits back down. She knows why; to see what else he can find out. He’s thinking, it’s worth a shot, I have to get something. Margaret slips into the other chair and picks up her wine glass. She knows exactly why Jesse gave himself up to Aaron the way he did; to find out what is going on, of course. Paddy’s friendship obviously meant a lot more to him than anyone else has fully realised. Jesse Archer doesn’t know it yet, but he’s a hero.

For now, he sits and contains himself. She’s impressed by him. His rough childhood, his absent mother, his unexpected tenderness towards Paddy and now his fierce loyalty to the others. He’s terrified and he should be, yet here he is.

‘I heard your voice,’ he says then, and it’s just a whisper, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the pheasant copse beyond the garden. Margaret sets down her glass and relights her cigarette. ‘That night I kept running. I heard your voice the whole time.’

Margaret wants to reminds him to keep his questions to himself – that this is not, nor ever will be a question and answer session. If she were to answer all his questions, they would only lead to more and if she were to answer those, it would blow his mind. And she can’t trust him. Not yet.

Instead, she changes the subject. ‘You know they say that youth is wasted on the young. Have you ever heard that expression, Jesse?’

He glares at her and gives a small roll of his shoulders. A standard teenage, non-committal answer. She crosses one leg neatly over the other.

‘In some ways it’s a fair statement because you feel invincible when you’re young, don’t you? I mean, growing old and dying all seem so far away, so far in fact that you’re sure they’ll never touch you. Am I right?’

His shoulders twitch again. Back to the silent treatment. Margaret smokes smoothly and smiles serenely.

‘But I don’t think that youth is wasted on the young either. It’s a rather unfair assumption actually. It’s implying that they don’t appreciate being young and I’ve never believed that to be true. If you ever look at young people, if you’re around them, or if you work with them, you can see that they do. You can see it. They’ve got a spark, haven’t they?’ She stares at him hard, not keen on having a one-sided conversation.

He gives a nod, sensing the threat. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You get those moments when you’re young – those special, memorable moments – the ones that are usually very simple but somehow so glorious they feel slowed down, almost like a movie. Do you know what I mean, Jesse? Have you had any moments like that?’

He thinks for a moment then nods again. ‘I think so.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ she beams. ‘You and your friends. It’s a special time, being your age. Being young. It won’t last forever and that’s partly what makes it so special, but it is sad when that spark is lost. It’s sad, isn’t it? That the spark should go.’

‘But you can’t do anything about it,’ Jesse replies, frowning across the table at her. ‘You can’t stop getting older.’

‘No, I suppose not. But it is a fascinating subject. And your mention of the hare made me dwell on it. Hares, of course, as well as being associated with witchcraft, are also associated with rebirth and resurrection. Did you know that?’

Jesse shakes his head slowly. She can feel the questions building up once again, more and then more piling up within him, burning him up from the inside. But he stays quiet – biting them back and watching.

Margaret stubs out her cigarette. ‘Perhaps that’s what the legendary black hare was doing when it led our ancestors to this valley. It was leading them to a new life, a resurrection of sorts.’

‘Was anyone already here?’ he asks suddenly and later she considers it to be the smartest question he has ever asked.

‘Yes,’ she says staring into his dark eyes. ‘Iris was always here.’ She watches his eyes widen and she claps her hands together sharply, fragmenting the moment. ‘Now, you better go on in. Get ready for bed. You’re back at school tomorrow.’

His brow creases. ‘I am?’

‘Yes, I had a word with Mr Bishop on your behalf. You can go back tomorrow with a clean slate, Jesse but I advise you take this second chance and appreciate it for the gift it is. It’s a new start for you. A rebirth if you like.’

She can see he is conflicted. He hates school and despises Mr Bishop but he’ll get to leave the farm and he’ll get to see his new friends. His silence is loaded with unspoken thanks and barely concealed hope.

Margaret looks away from him. ‘Go on now. Off to bed.’

8

From his observation room, Aaron Mayfield watches. He has been watching all day and although he expected Margaret to go all Stepford Wife, he is still disgusted by it. As soon as he left she started laying on the treacle. Good cop, bad cop, he supposes, and he can admit it does make sense to a degree. Make the kid feel at home, feed him, clean him up, make him feel wanted and secure. Then what? Expect him to forget about his missing friend? Expect him to forget about the claws in his back? The chase through the night?

Ridiculous.

He looks at the camera, the ones Margaret does not know about. He watches Jesse Archer climbing wearily into a luxury four-poster bed and he growls under his breath. He glares at another one. At the alley behind the shop on School lane. Neville Hewlett is there. He’s dressed in dark clothes with his hood up but he’s not fooling anyone. Another figure enters the alley and Mayfield smiles slowly.

Hewlett perks up, moving away from the wall and giving a shy wave. The figure, Nathan Cotton, pulls down his hood and saunters over and straight into Neville Hewlett’s loving embrace. Mayfield sniggers. He looks back at Jesse Archer, with the lamp off now and the covers pulled up to his chin.

Mayfield’s smile fades and his mood instantly darkens again. His fingers curl tightly over his knees, digging into the flesh. He tears his eyes away and stares at the black night beyond his window. He thinks he will go out tonight after all. He might get lucky. He might catch a hare.
Thanks for reading!

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NOTE: Please remember this is NOT the finished version of Black Hare Valley Book 1. This book has not been to my editor yet or even my beta readers. There will be typos, grammatical mistakes, and sentences that need rewriting.

COMING NEXT THURSDAY: Chapter Twenty-Two “The Ruins”