Pig Island by Mo Hayder Read Free Book Online

murders, or if they were completely coincidental, but they stuck with me. From then on I couldn’t go into woods anywhere on the planet without remembering the red points of light reflected in their eyes, and wondering if the killer had put them there—or if he’d been watching me that day as I walked around. It all came back to me now, like a shiver: the whisper of Spanish moss and live oak, the faint twang of a stringed instrument.
    I hesitated, feeling the hair go up on the back of my neck, and turned slightly to look back. Only a few yards below me Blake had appeared silently on the path. His hand was up in a friendly wave.
    “Hi, Joe. Hi. Good to see you.” He flashed me his ratty, lopsided smile. “Do you recall, Joe, I asked you to wait on the green?” He laughed. “Didn’t I ask you to wait? Didn’t I?”
    I wanted to grin back, laugh, maybe slap him on the back like a buddy and say, “Yeah, but you didn’t really expect me to wait, did you? You set a test like that, what do you expect?” and that was nearly what I did. But the professional came back at me: Don’t bollix it up, Oakesy, old mate .
    “I thought you’d forgotten.”
    He wagged his finger. “You’ll find we’re very friendly, very friendly folk here at the Psychogenic Healing Ministries, Joe, but please believe that we have rules for your own protection.” He raised his eyebrows and flashed me another smile. “We do it because we care, Joe. We want you to enjoy your time here, not regret it. Now, won’t you join me for lunch?”
    He led me back towards the cottages, his hands outstretched to show me the community—like he was trying to sell it to me. “We’d like to get to know you,” he said, grinning over his shoulder, as we came back to the green and crossed it. He slipped down a path that led along the side of the breezeblock building, still speaking over his shoulder. “We’d like you to stay with us and to get to know us. We want you to feel you’re part of our family.” At the head of the path he paused, holding out his hand with a theatrical flourish. “This way,” he said, with a wink—as if to say, “I just know you’re going to LOVE this!”
    I stepped forward and turned the corner and saw, arranged at two trestle tables, thirty faces gleaming up at me. Dove’s followers. One or two of them half rose from their seats, grinning broadly, not sure what the etiquette was—and from somewhere at the back someone applauded timidly. The tables were loaded down with food; a breeze moved among it, lifting festively coloured napkins and tablecloths, ruffling blouses and rocking the massive enthusiastic sign strung above their heads: ‘ WELCOME TO CUAGACHEILEAN !!!!“
    “Joe,” Blake said, holding out his hand to indicate the diners, “Joe Oakes. Meet the Psychogenic Healing Ministries. Welcome to our family!”
    It was probably only then that I really believed no one on Pig Island had linked me to Joe Finn of twenty years ago, the great nemesis of Malachi Dove.
     
     
    Everyone knows the story about Aleister Crowley, right? The one about when the ‘Great Beast’ Crowley tried to raise Pan? Well, it’s dead simple. It goes like this: Crowley’s disciples locked him and his son, McAleister, in a room at the top of a Parisian hotel, promising that under no circumstances would they re-enter the room until morning, whatever noises they heard. They waited downstairs, huddled together and wrapped in blankets because the hotel had gone inexplicably cold. All night they listened in horror as the ritual upstairs unfolded in a series of bangs, shouts and splintering of wood. Usual shite. At last, at daybreak, when silence had fallen, they ventured cautiously upstairs to find the door locked, the room silent. When they broke down the door they saw Crowley’s ritual had been a success. His son McAleister lay dead at one side of the room and on the other crouched Crowley, naked, bloodied and gibbering. He needed four