Resurrectionist

PROLOGUE

Sark stopped, sank to his knees, and listened, but the only sounds he could hear were the pounding of his own heartbeat and the hoarse, rasping wheeze at the back of his throat as he fought desperately to draw air into his tortured lungs. He tried to delay his inhalations in an attempt to slow down his breathing, but the effect was marginal. Moisture from the soggy ground had begun to soak into his breeches, adding to his discomfort. He raised himself into a squat and took stock of his surroundings, eyes probing the darkness for a familiar landmark, but to his untutored eye one stretch of featureless marshland looked much like any other.

A hooting cry came from behind and he stiffened. Owls hunted across the levels at night. Sometimes you could hear the beat of their wings if you were quiet enough. Sark remained where he was, crouched low. It had probably been an owl, but there were other creatures abroad, Sark knew, and they were hunting too.

There was movement to his left, accompanied by a soft grunt. The short hairs rose across the back of his neck and along his forearms. He turned slowly, not daring to exhale, and found himself under close scrutiny from a large sheep. For several seconds, man and beast regarded each other in eerie silence. The animal was not alone. Sark could make out at least a dozen more, huddled behind.

The ewe was the first to break eye contact. Backing off, it turned away and began to herd its companions towards a clump of bushes. Sark breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he heard the distant baying and the bile rose into his mouth.

They were using hounds.

Sark glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the sheep pause in their tracks as their ears picked up the unearthly ululation. Then, as if with one mind, the animals broke into a brisk trot. Within seconds they had disappeared into the deepening gloom.

Sark turned and tried to locate the direction of the sound, but the darkness, allied to the dips and folds in the ground, made it difficult to pinpoint the exact bearing.

Ahead of him, the land had begun to rise. Sark inched forward, hoping the slope would provide the advantage of height and enable him to see further than his current position. Reaching the top of the bank, he elevated himself cautiously and stared back the way he had come. The first thing he saw was the bright flickering glow of a torch flame, then another, and another beyond that. From his vantage point he could see that the torchbearers were still some way off and that they were proceeding haphazardly. He suspected they were following the creek lines, but there was no doubt they were moving towards him, drawing inexorably closer with each passing second.

There were more lights, he saw, in the far distance. They were no more than pinpricks, as small as fireflies, and stationary, and he guessed these were the masthead lanterns of ships moored in the estuary. He wondered briefly if he shouldn’t have been heading towards rather than away from them, but he knew that hadn’t been an option. His pursuers were sure to have cut off that line of escape.

He looked around and found he was at the edge of a dyke. The ditch stretched away from him, merging into the moonlit wetlands like a snake into the undergrowth. The smell from the bottom of the dyke was foul; a pungent, nostril-clenching mix of peat and stagnant water.

Another drawn-out howl came looping out of the night. Sark felt the cold hand of fear clutch his heart and he cursed his inactivity. He shouldn’t have remained so long in one place. He got to his feet and began to run.

He had a rough idea of where he was and the direction in which he was travelling. He had the vague notion that King’s Ferry House wasn’t much more than half a mile away. If his navigation was correct and he could reach the landing and find a boat, there was a possibility that he’d be able to cross the river and hide out on the opposite shore and thus give his pursuers the slip.

Keeping low, he continued to follow the dyke’s path, ignoring the stitch in his side, which was beginning to stab at him with all the tenacity of a red-hot rapier.

Another cry sounded; human this time, perhaps not more than a few hundred yards off. Sark was uncomfortably aware that the men on his trail knew the ground far better than he did. Despite the unevenness of the terrain and the latticework of waterways that crisscrossed the island, they were catching up, fast.

His foot slipped and he swore as he began to slide down the side of the gully. The desire to enter and wade through the murky water in a bid to confuse the hounds was suddenly tempting, but he knew it would only hamper his progress. All they had to do was steer the dogs along each bank and they’d soon discover where he had left the stream, then they’d pick up his spoor again in no time. It was best to keep moving and try to reach the ferry landing, as dry as possible, preferably. He slithered to his feet and scrambled back up the slope.

He could hear his pursuers calling to each other now, driven by the excitement of the chase. A dog barked and in his mind’s eye he saw the hounds, eyes bright, tongues slavering, straining at their leashes as they followed his scent. Sark quickened his pace.

The dyke began to widen. Sark hoped it was a sign he was close to its joining with the main channel. Pressing down on the edges of his boot heels to give himself purchase, he pushed his weary, mud splattered body towards what he hoped was his route to salvation.

There was a shout. Glancing over his shoulder, Sark’s stomach lurched when he saw how quickly the gap had shortened. The torches were a lot closer. Beneath the fiery brands, he could make out the dark figures of men running, perhaps half a dozen in all, and large, four-legged shapes moving swiftly across the uneven ground before them.

Another urgent cry went up and Sark knew that they had probably seen his fleeing form outlined against the sky. He cursed his stupidity and ducked down, knowing it was far too late to do any good. He drew the pistol from his belt.

Then the ground gave way and he was falling.

As his feet shot from beneath him, he managed to twist his body and discovered that he had almost reached his destination. It was the edge of the riverbank that had collapsed beneath his weight. He barely had time to raise the pistol above his head to avoid mud clogging the barrel, before he landed on his back in the ooze.

He struggled to his knees and pushed himself upright, and then saw the light. It was less than one hundred and fifty yards away, at the edge of the reeds. He strained his eyes. A small building began to take shape and he realized it was the ferry keeper’s cottage. His gaze shifted to the wooden landing stage jutting out into the water; in its lee, a small rowboat resting on the mud and held fast to a stanchion. His spirits lifted. There was still a chance he could make it.

With the mud sucking greedily at his boots, Sark struck out for the landing stage. He had not gone but a few paces before the consistency of the mud began to change. It was becoming less firm. His boots were sinking deeper with each step. It was like wading through molasses. He looked out at the river. This was one of the narrower stretches, hence the ferry crossing, but the tide was out and there was a wide expanse of foreshore separating the jetty from the water. He would have to drag the boat a good few yards before he could float it. But he could make out the horizontal black shadow that was the opposite shore and that spurred him on. He pushed himself forward.

Behind him, the noises had diminished. There were no more cries, no howling from the dogs. The night was strangely quiet, save for the squelching of his laborious passage through the mud. Curious, Sark looked around and his blood froze.

They were ranged along the edge of the bank and they were watching him; a line of men, the shadows cast by the torches playing across their unsmiling faces. At their feet, secured by leashes, the hounds stood silently to heel.

The dogs were huge mastiffs, with broad heads and muscular bodies; each one the size of a small calf. As still as statues, they regarded the solitary figure below them with rapt attention. Their only movement was an occasional backward glance at the faces of the men who controlled them.

It was the moment that Sark knew he had nowhere to run.

But it didn’t stop him trying.

Sark estimated he still had about fifty paces to go before he reached the boat. His legs felt as heavy as lead, while the pain behind his ribs suggested his heart was about to burst from his chest. Gamely, he tried to pick up speed, but while the spirit was willing, his body was telling him it had reached the point of exhaustion.

Sark did not hear the command to release the dogs, but a sixth sense told him it had been given. He turned. A close observer might have witnessed the look of weary resignation that stole across his face.

The handlers had not followed the hounds down on to the foreshore but were holding to firmer ground, following the line of the riverbank, the flames from their torches flaring like comet trails behind them. They ran in silence.

For the second time that night, Sark dropped to his knees.

The dogs were loping towards him rather than sprinting. With their agility, and their weight distributed between four legs instead of two, making them less susceptible to sinking into the mud, it was as if they knew they had all the time in the world.

All thoughts of escape stifled, Sark gripped the pistol firmly and watched the dogs approach.

He glanced to his side. He saw that the men were now parallel to him, torches raised. They were close enough for him to make out their expressions by the light from the flames. Four of them had faces as hard as rock. The other two were grinning.

Sark’s chest rose and fell. He looked back towards the dogs and raised his pistol. He aimed the barrel at the leading hound, tracked it with the gun’s muzzle.

He heard one of the men on the bank curse, looked around and saw that they had all drawn weapons of their own.

Sark could hear the dogs’ paws scampering across the mud. They were coming in very fast; close enough for him to see the light of anticipation in their eyes.

The lead hound was less than a dozen paces away when Sark thrust the barrel of the pistol under his own jaw and pulled the trigger.

The back of Sark’s head blew apart. The powder smoke barely had time to dissipate before the still kneeling body was engulfed in a frenzy of snapping jaws and thrashing limbs. As the men on the bank ran towards the mêlée, the snarling of the hounds rose into the night and carried, like the devil’s chorus, down the muddy, bloodstained foreshore.