Free Pig Island by Mo Hayder Page B

into the woods. Blake switched on his torch, and after about ten minutes so did I, occasionally turning the beam and shining it into the trees when the wind shook a branch or snapped a twig.
    The further we went, the more anxious Blake got. He walked with his neck very stiff, his eyes scanning the woods at either side, occasionally looking over his shoulder, like he was checking nothing was making its way up the path behind us.
    “Hey,” I said, when we’d been walking for more than half an hour. My voice sounded very loud. “Are you nervous?”
    “No,” he said, in a whisper, not looking at me, keeping his eyes on the woods. “No. Why would I be?”
    “Because of what’s on the video.”
    He glanced at me. “That video is all a big misunderstanding.”
    “A misunderstanding? I’ve seen it. There’s some weird fucking creature on it, walking through these fucking forests. What kind of misunderstanding is that?”
    At first he didn’t answer. We kept walking and I was about to ask him again when he stopped, switched off his torch and looked up at me. ‘ Listen ,“ he whispered, standing very close. I could smell something bitter on his breath—like his fear was coming out as ketones. ’ Let’s get this straight. It was Malachi on the video .”
    “Malachi?”
    He held a finger up to quieten me. ‘ Yes . Malachi himself. Doing—I don’t know, but doing something that means nothing to us, but everything to him.“
    “What? In some fucking pantomime-cow costume with a— ?”
    “The idea—‘ he interrupted, casting glances up and down the path. ”The idea that you can—can conjure Beelzebub, or Pan or Satan, is garbage. You know that and so do I. It was Malachi in the video.“
    “Except not everyone agrees with you. Do they?”
    ‘ Please ,“ he hissed. ”Keep your voice down.“
    “Why are the Garricks so scared?” I whispered. “Susan’s crapping herself, thinking I’m going to start something, tempt something. Now, Blake, you might think it’s Malachi on the video—but they don’t. They think he’s brought Satan to Cuagach, don’t they?” I raised the torch briefly and shone it off into the tree-trunks, the beam distorting and making strange shapes and shadows. “They think—‘
    ‘Sssssh!“
    “They think there’s something unhuman out there.”
    “It was a big decision inviting you on to the island,” Blake put a hand on my torch and pulled the beam gently away from the trees. “Some people are very superstitious—Benjamin and Susan and some others. They think that the less said about what is happening on Cuagach the better—that to talk about it to anyone outside could be … provocative.”
    “Yeah. I got that bit.”
    “Believe me, Joe.” He pushed his face close to mine. “Believe me, there have been times today when I have questioned ever getting you involved. Now,” he switched on his torch again and aimed it down the path, “let’s get this over with.”
    He began walking again, a bit faster now, like he wanted to put distance between himself and the words ‘Beelzebub’, “Pan‘, ”Satan’, like they’d hang there in the branches behind us—proof he’d uttered them.
    I went after him down the silvery path, and had caught up and was about to speak again when I registered something pale and small sitting in the centre of the path ahead.
    ‘ What the —’ I came to a halt and quickly swung the torch beam on it. It was small and hunched, stood about two feet high and wasn’t moving. It had a shape like a very small human with its back to us. “What the fuck, Blake?” I murmured, approaching carefully. I walked past it, turned and shone the beam into its face. “A gargoyle?”
    “Yes,” he muttered impatiently. “They’re supposed to—‘
    “I know what they’re supposed to do. They’re supposed to ward off the …‘ I let the sentence trail off and turned to look along the path ahead. It continued for a few yards, then was swallowed by