Skull in the Wood Read Online Free Page A

Kitty was allright, but I didn’t fancy dragging a five-year-old across the moor as well as a moody Tilda. Thankfully Uncle Jack came to my rescue.
    â€˜Your legs are a bit small for that,’ he said. Kitty’s face fell. ‘But you can come and help me muck out the chickens.’ Apparently this was a major treat for Kitty, because her lip stopped quivering immediately.
    So. Just me and Tilda in the middle of the big bad wood. I couldn’t wait.
    â€˜Right,’ said Uncle Jack, standing up. ‘Enough of this. Make yourself useful now, Matthew, and get on with the washing-up while I put Kitty to bed.’
    I looked to see if he was joking, but he wasn’t. There was no dishwasher, just a great pile of dirty dishes and disgusting pans. Uncle Jack raised a warning eyebrow and I thought better of making an excuse. Slowly I moved towards the sink and turned on the hot water.
    It all took ages, even though Uncle Jack came and helped with the drying and the putting-away. It was clear he was thinking about something, and occasionally I could feel his eyes on me. When the last dish had disappeared, I made myself break the silence.
    â€˜I meant to say before – I’m sorry about Aunty Rose. She was really nice.’
    Uncle Jack’s face darkened. He picked up the teatowel, folded it over the rail of the range and headed for the door.
    â€˜I’ve got to be up at crack of dawn, so I’m only fit for the TV now,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘Oh, and ring your mother, won’t you? She called for you earlier. Said she couldn’t get through on your phone.’
    I hesitated, then followed him to the living room. I hovered at the door, unsure what to do. Uncle Jack had crashed out on the sofa in front of the box to watch some boring sitcom. There was another old armchair beside the wood burner, but after the look he’d given me I felt nervous about coming in, and he didn’t ask me to. In moments he was snoring away – and it was only eight o’clock.
    No one wanted me here, that much was obvious. I felt desperate to talk to someone. Maybe I could get reception for my phone out in the front yard. But I wasn’t going to ring my mum – no way.
    I stuck on Uncle Jack’s wellies again, and an old fleece that was hanging by the door. Then I crept out.
    Straight away I was glad that I had. The moon was amazing – huge and low on the horizon, and about three-quarters full. You could almost see all its scars and craters and bumps and hollows. You don’t get that in London. I stood admiring it, feeling a bit stupid asI waved my phone around to find a spot that would let me at least pick up my messages. From the back yard came a low moo and a loud burst of clucking, shattering the silence. No signal, though. I’d have to go further away.
    Higher ground would be best, I reckoned. I would try the tor I’d seen from my room. I went out of the front gate, remembering to close it behind me, and followed the farm track past Long Field where Tilda had taken me that afternoon. At the end of the field was a ridge with a well-worn path on it that looked as if it led through the fields at the back of the farm, and right to the top. With the moon so bright, I could easily make out the silhouettes of the stone stacks – three of them, like heaped piles of giant sheep poo left on top of a hill. I took a quick picture with my phone, not that it was likely to come out in this light, but if I was going to be marooned here I might as well have something to show for it.
    Despite the fleece I was really cold. I concentrated on getting to the top as fast as possible, only it wasn’t as easy it looked. By the time I reached the stones I was panting. And still no reception. I groaned. If I couldn’t even get texts while I was here, it was going to be truly dire.
    It was then I heard it. In the distance, a low rhythmic sound, almost like a train, though even