Prologue
They came in the night…
Chadwell St. Mary’s slept. Around the sleepy village a light mist rolled off the into the little valley that stretched from north to south, surrounding the houses in a gentle, opaque embrace. Above the narrow lanes and hedgerows a blanket of dew gradually settled upon the higher fields, turning the dull grey grass into sparkling diamante as the moonlight broke out from behind a bank of clouds. The trees stood patiently in the still night air, their leaves offering the faintest of whispers to the breeze, whilst the village streets, hardly busy by day, were silent. Curtains were drawn, the houses hunching against the early spring chill, a few cars scattered here and there, but nothing moved within them or around them. Everything slept. Almost everything…
On the Village Green the great black and white cat that belonged to Mrs Tracey sat quietly watching the ducks on the pond. It was a regular vigil, enacted most nights, and both parties warmed to their roles. The ducks were safe on their little island and they knew it, sleeping comfortably in full sight of the watching cat, occasionally flaunting themselves as they shifted position. Regardless of its chances the cat sat, watching the sleeping birds, its ears twitching occasionally as tiny night-sounds reached them. The hours passed but eventually it heard the sound it was waiting for - the tiny snuffling of a small rodent somewhere nearby. Dismissing the ducks as it flattened itself against the ground the cat slunk off round the side of the pond, nose joining ears and eyes in the hunt. Pausing in its silent stalking it watched the telltale rustle of leaves as the prey moved through a small bush then it crept quickly and silently to intercept. In front of it the rustling stopped as the prey looked up, became aware of its danger. There was a moment of stillness as hunter and prey acknowledged their roles and then the cat tensed its muscles ready for the pounce. Eye to eye cat and mouse stood for a moment, locked in their mutual destiny, until suddenly the cat arched its back, every hair standing upright. With its head turned to look over its shoulder it stood hissing at the night whilst the mouse, freed from its paralysis, took the unexpected opportunity to run for cover. The cat did not notice. It stood for long seconds, fur bristling and glaring at nothing before turning and bolting for home, its tail between its legs. On the island a duck lifted its head out of its down and opened a sleepy eye to see what was causing the noise. It shivered in an involuntary reaction to a fleeting something, but the moment was gone and it pushed its beak back into its side and closed its eye again. It was safe on its island.
In Margaret Lovejoy’s living room the parrot opened one eye. Margaret was not a parrot person but when the solicitor had called to say that her Uncle Frank had died and bequeathed his bird to her she didn’t have the heart to refuse. All those visits to see him in the home - making polite comments about the bird he had lived with for so many years, trying so hard to ignore the stream of foul language that spewed from its beak - had been rewarded with a nightmare. She was too soft to have the bird put down. It was, after all, one of God’s creatures and it had as much of a right to life as did she and she had tried selling it. But every time someone showed any interest and she thought she would finally be rid of the nightmare the damn bird would come up with a particularly ripe swear word and Margaret would blush and the interest would disappear. So she put the parrot in the shed whenever anybody came to call and pretended she couldn’t hear it the rest of the time, pretended she didn’t understand what the words meant. However she always brought it back inside the house bedtime. It just didn’t seem right to leave a creature in the shed overnight and so it slept in the centrally heated comfort of the living room, perched on the bar in its grand metal cage. Now it swept the room with its one eye, looking for the source of the disturbance that had awakened it. There was nothing to see, but still it raised its head, the one eye searing through the darkness like a searchlight. “Bastard!” it squawked to the empty room. “Shit! Bugger! Cock!” and it hurled invectives at the blackness, feathers ruffled, both eyes wide open and staring.
At the end of the village Morag Thomas snapped suddenly awake. The night was not overly cold and she was wrapped in several folds of her quilt, but she was suddenly chilled to her bones. On top of the quilt Harriet, her terrier, stirred fitfully, pushing itself deeper into the soft crevasses. Absent-mindedly Morag reached down and tickled Harriet behind the ears, the dog responding with a contented murmur and a relaxing of its muscles. Silently she lay still, drawing warmth from the animal until the feeling of chill passed and she felt more normal again. But sleep was gone from her and she found herself lying in the darkness wondering why she felt so uneasy. Somewhere in the unconscious part of her mind she knew the answer and she knew, too, that it would reveal itself. The Sense would make itself plain in its own time. It always did. But for some reason she worried that by then it might be too late. Too late for what she had no idea, but try as she would she could not shake the feeling from her mind. Gradually she watched the darkness behind the curtains turn into light. As the sun finally crept above the nearby hills and broke through the gap in the curtains she whispered her morning greeting to the day and then she rose uneasily, unsure of what to do. As she washed her face in the bowl of cold water she tried to clear her mind of everything unnecessary. She would simply have to wait for her instincts to talk to her. She just hoped they spoke in time.
They had come.
