Ace woke to the sound of screaming. She was on her feet before she knew where she was, and was standing at the window by the time she remembered the dull evening spent cadging pints in the village pub. 'What...' Her words trailed away as she gripped the curtain. She knew the difference between drunken larking about and absolute terror. She shivered, ice-cold needles in her arms and legs.

'Don't do it, miss,' came a voice from the door. Despite the screams it was like a gunshot in the graveside stillness of the room.

Ace spun round.

Bob Matson was standing in the doorway, framed by the landing light, a bunch of keys in one hand.

'What the -'

'Don't open the curtains,' Matson repeated, more insistently than before. Despite her shock, Ace could perceive something different in his voice. Surely it couldn't be fear?

'Get out, toerag!' shouted Ace, her words still leapfrogging over each other in surprise.

'Shh, keep your voice down.' As Matson walked into the room Ace noticed for the first time that he'd barely looked at her. The sole object of his attention was the curtains that separated Ace from whatever was going on outside.

'I could have you arrested,' said Ace. Matson's distracted manner was both irritating and frightening.

'No you couldn't. Not in Hexen Bridge,' said Matson, finally positioning himself between Ace and the bay window. This done, he seemed to relax for the first time. 'You'd not thank me if I let you look out on the green.'

'What's going on down there?' Ace could see flickering lights through the curtain fabric. The screams - it sounded like a girl - were beginning to fade.

'Nothing that you could interest the constable in. He's my cousin, you know.'

'Oh yeah?'

Matson pointed at the window. 'Drunken young farmers.'

'Don't talk c.r.a.p.'

'They have some sort of initiation ceremony.'

'I don't believe you.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Matson, placing his hands on his hips. 'You ain't looking out of that window.'

Ace thought briefly about running at the man, but he was too big. His biceps looked like most men's thighs.

'I don't want you to get hurt,' said Matson by way of explanation. 'I like you.'

'What does your wife think about that?'

Matson said nothing.

Ace suddenly remembered that she was standing in front of a man, old enough to be her father, in just T-shirt and knickers. She fought to keep the embarra.s.sment from flushing her features. 'Thanks for the concern,' she said.

'But I can look after myself. If you don't get out of my room in two seconds flat, I'll throw myself on the floor and start screaming. You got that?'

Matson was unmoved.

'I'm serious,' Ace continued.

'I know you are.' Matson turned away from the window, and Ace realised that the village was quiet again. The silence that enfolded Hexen Bridge was so hushed and complete that it seemed to mock her memories of the screams. Matson smiled. 'I've always known when I'm out of my league, Miss Smith.'

If that was a backhanded compliment, Ace wasn't impressed. 'That sort of thing might work with the schoolgirls, but -'

'You're too mature for such flattery?' Matson stared evenly at her james T-shirt. 'Maybe. But when you grow up, you'll see things differently.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. You'll certainly learn not to get involved in other people's marriages.'

Ace was incredulous. 'What are you on about?'

'I saw the note you pa.s.sed to my wife.'

'What note?'

Bob Matson stabbed a blunt finger in her direction. 'You pa.s.s any more messages from that slant-eyed yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.d to my wife,' he spat, 'and I might decide you are in my league after all.'

Ace aimed a kick at the man's groin, but he was swift for his size, and moved aside quickly.

'Don't be an idiot,' said Matson, walking towards the door.

'I've said what I came to say.'

'I've not started,' said Ace. 'You're a sad, pathetic, evil -'

Matson turned, affecting hurt. 'Such nasty names.' He nodded towards the window. 'And I've just done you a favour, an' all.'

And with that he was gone. Ace heard him pad down the landing. Back to his wife, tucked up in bed. Poor cow.

She ran to the window and pulled back the curtains, but in the darkness the green was as black as the midnight sea.

Nothing moved, and barely a light could be seen in the cottages beyond.

Whatever had happened had happened quickly, and seemed to have left behind little or no evidence. She considered investigating further, but the thought of running into Bob Matson again sent a chill down her spine.

Best wait until morning when the Doctor would doubtless have formulated a plan of attack. She glanced at her watch.

It really was very late. Where was he?

Ace locked the door and climbed back into bed, pulling the sheets around her, despite the humidity. She fell into troubled sleep, and dreamed she could still hear the screams.

Billy Tyley was being reborn. Like a plant seed, he was sending out roots and leaves, searching for light and moisture. Or... Was the vegetation rooting into him, clearing out the deadwood? Twigs pushed their way into his arms - what used to be his arms - and sent tendrils into the corpse that was no longer his. He was becoming one with something he recognised, something that had always lived within him.

Shooting. Branching. Searching for a new purity, a new way of living.

He was Jack's, and Jack was his.

The crunch of gravel underfoot sounded like a thousand marching soldiers. Matthew Hatch reached the door of his parents' home and fumbled in the pocket of his suit for the key. They would be enjoying their regular summer trip to Rimini now and the house would be deserted. Perhaps Mrs Barnwell, the cook, would have left a light supper for him in the kitchen, just as she had in the past. Hatch remembered arriving back from university at obscure hours of the morning and finding a little note to 'Master Matthew' folded neatly under a large plate of ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

Music was coming from the drawing room. Hatch moved cautiously to the door, one hand gripping the frame, the other searching his jacket pocket for the handgun Trevor Winstone had given him six months ago at a clandestine meeting in a smoky room in South Kensington.

As Hatch shifted his weight the floorboard beneath him squeaked in protest.

'Come in.' The husky female voice cut through the industrial sounds of the band Stillborn on his parents' CD player. The record clearly did not belong to them.

'Nice tune,' he said, strolling into the room, 'but haven't you brought along any Jesus and Mary Chain? You know I can't stand anything post-1990.'

Rebecca Baber lay on a blue velvet couch, naked but for a bright plastic watch and a pair of spectacles. She peered over the tiny round lenses at Hatch, dropping the thin paperback she was reading to the floor.

'I've been here for ages ages,' she said coyly. 'I thought you were never going to come.'

'I had business to attend to,' replied Hatch, moving over to the CD player and turning it off. 'I'm a busy man,' he announced, with just a hint of self-mockery.

'And a grumpy one,' said Rebecca, strolling over to his side and running a hand down Hatch's cheek. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing that can't be dealt with,' he said. 'I know how to deal with things. Dealing with things is my job.'

Rebecca closed her eyes as Hatch pulled her closer.

'I think we'd better adjourn the meeting in favour of some informal interaction behind closed doors,' he whispered, his lips just brushing her ear. 'What do you think?'

'Anything you say, Minister,' said Rebecca, walking nonchalantly past him and towards the stairs. 'Will sir be requiring minutes to be taken?'

'Get up those stairs!' said Hatch with an animal grin.

Ace was woken by blinding sunshine, church bells and birdsong. So much for the peace and tranquillity of the countryside.

'Shut up,' she said.

She waited for her mind to sort fogged images and memories into order. Rebecca had left the pub... A teacher, she had said, but you couldn't hold that against her... Then the note had been pa.s.sed to Joanna, and some lad had tried to chat her up, and she'd said, 'If you don't get your hand off my leg, Worzel, I'll shove your brand-new combine harvester so far up your a.r.s.e you'll have to use the windscreen wipers to brush your teeth.' Then a drunken collapse into bed, and... Sleep. And screams.

Ace sat bolt upright. The Doctor still hadn't returned, and the screams had been real.

She ran to the window, and pulled back the curtains. She remembered having gone to the window in the night, although the recollection was blurred by sleep.

The green extended from the front of the pub to the edge of the lane that most of the cottages were cl.u.s.tered around. It was lush, despite the dry weather, and billiard-table-flat.

Ace peered more closely. Right at its centre, like some childish stick drawing, lay a humanoid shape. It was made of threads of brown and yellow, clumsily clothed in what appeared to be striped pyjamas. The face was a grotesque parody of human features, all skewed by rough branches and knotted stalks of corn.

Ropes held the scarecrow's arms and legs on to the green, running to hastily banged-in stakes. A single torch had been dropped some feet away.

Ace scratched her head as she began to get dressed. That was some initiation ceremony.

Hatch rolled over in bed expecting to feel the warmth of Rebecca. Instead, he found a cold, empty s.p.a.ce. He opened his eyes, and saw Rebecca standing in one of his mother's dressing gowns, looking out of the window, across the village.

'Morning,' said Hatch sleepily, flopping back on to the pillow.

'You hurt me last night,' said Rebecca, still looking out of the window.

'You didn't complain at the time,' noted Hatch, closing his eyes again.

Rebecca turned, her eyes puffy and red. 'You treat everybody like something you sc.r.a.pe off your shoe, Matthew.'

'Most people are,' said Hatch.

A momentary silence settled between them before Rebecca came back to the bed and sat on the corner, putting a hand on Hatch's bare arm. 'Matthew,' she asked in a hushed whisper, 'did you hear the screaming last night?'

'Yes.' Hatch smiled, though his eyes were still shut. 'That was you, wasn't it?'

She ignored his remark. 'It was the Chosen.'

'Rubbish,' said Hatch with a dismissive grunt, turning away from her.

'No, it isn't,' said Rebecca, returning to the window. 'I heard the Chosen screaming in the night when I was five. She screamed until I thought the devil himself would come and take us away. I've hated the night ever since.'

She turned back to Hatch again, but he was asleep, snoring soundly into his pillow.