Lair by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page A

creature had been a rat was gone. The forest, and the pond, were perfectly still.

FOUR

    Fender pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator pedal, glad to be free of the city again. The journey from the Ratkill laboratories in Surrey had taken him through London's vehicle-choked centre and the constant frustration of stopping, starting, waiting, avoiding, had made his mood grim. Although he didn't regret moving back down to the south again he often missed the more open country of the north. Huddersfield had provided a splendid base for trips into the surrounding counties, and, although he was city-bred, he appreciated their coarse beauty.
    Perhaps the people-crowded years had heightened his respect for the countryside's seclusion. The car gathered speed and, as the woods on his left thickened, so he began to relax. Soon it was woodland on both sides of the road.

    Fender knew the area, but not too well. The Epping New Road ran straight through the forest, but he would have to turn off onto one of the quieter roads branching into the forest itself. The car was doing seventy-five when he slowed for the roundabout ahead. He saw the sign for High Beach and swung into the narrow winding road leading from the roundabout. The trees almost met overhead, the bright sun sparkling through dying leaves, and he felt the last ounces of tension drain away. Another narrow road to his right took him past a small church into a slightly wider road, and then the scenery opened out as if the car had been squeezed through a funnel.

    The high ground fell away to his left down into a vast green valley, its lower slopes filled with trees of every kind, stretching for miles into the distance. Beyond them Fender could see the hazy suburbs, glints of sunlight reflected here and there off glass surfaces. He stopped the car for a moment to take in the vista, feeling heady with its abrupt freshness. Driving along the winding road, he hadn't realized the swift ascent the car had been making. He remembered reading once, long ago, the theory of how the rolling hills of Epping Forest had been formed. A great sheet of ice had slid down eastern England at the end of the Ice Age and split in two on a high bank north of the forest, each section scouring out two valleys on either side of the bank and, as they pushed forward like the pincers of a giant crab, the soil was squeezed between them into rugged contours. From his vantage point he could see the truth of the theory.

    A few cars were parked on a muddy area on the rim of the valley, their occupants gazing out at the view through windscreens, as though to leave their metal cocoons and make contact with fresh air would shrivel their bodies. Fender drove on, looking for a sign which would tell him the location of the Conservation Centre.

    A huge public house stood on his right, a lofty and cold perch at the top of the long, grassy slope, and beyond that he saw the sign pointing towards his goal. He drove down the curved road, almost doubling back in direction, and came upon the entrance to the Centre. Passing through the narrow gate posts, he found a small, gravel car park. He sat and studied his surroundings before leaving the car.

    The white-bricked single-storey buildings were set in a square horseshoe shape around a close-cropped lawn, a ribbon of gravel cutting across the grass from the car park towards a glass-doored entrance to the building on his left. The low-ceilinged building had no windows at least, not on that side and a sign in front of him indicated it was the school section. An arrow, pointed in the same direction as the path, bore the heading: INFORMATION DESK. Directly ahead and slightly apart from the main building was a continuous row of chalet-type structures joined at right angles by a similar row leading back in his direction.
    They were of the same neat, functional design as the school and reception section and Fender guessed they were the staff's living quarters. Stephen Howard had