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heels, tearing with their teeth at the meat, washing it down with bottled water, sucking their greasy fingers. Ash’s jaw ached where Mark had punched him, but at least the strong smoky flavour of the venison took away the taste of blood. For a while, everything seemed almost normal again, the way things were when they were still kids, camping out on summer nights.
    When they’d finished eating, Mark tossed the gnawed bones among the trees. ‘For the foxes,’ he said. ‘Out here, if you take something then you have to give something back.’
    Ash stared into the flames, into the glowing red heart of the fire. ‘Have you been living out here by yourself all summer?’ he said.
    ‘Most of the time, yeah.’
    ‘Living on road kill,’ said Ash. ‘And rooks.’
    ‘I don’t eat the rooks.’ Mark laughed. ‘And it’s not just road kill. I hunt and fish too. There’s rabbit and wood pigeon and berries and trout and mushrooms. My dad taught me how to live off the land. There’s all sorts of stuff to eat, if you know where to look.’
    ‘Like when we used to go camping when we were kids.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Mark. ‘A bit like that, except we used to take soggy cheese-and-tomato sandwiches with us and a flask of hot chocolate. We were just kids messing around then. Things are different now.’
    ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ said Ash. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around much afterwards. I should have—’
    ‘Yeah, you should have. But you didn’t. When the going got tough, you ran for the hills. You literally ran for the hills. Ran and kept running.’
    ‘I tried to talk to you.’
    ‘Not hard enough.’
    ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ That word again. He was sick of saying it but it kept coming out. ‘I wish things were still the way they used to be.’
    Mark gave a short laugh, sharp as a fox yelp. ‘Things are what they are,’ he said. ‘And they’re nothing like the way they used to be.’
    ‘I’ll make it right somehow.’
    ‘My dad’s dead. We’ve lost the farm. How will you make that right?’
    ‘That’s not what I meant. Of course I can’t make that right.’
    ‘No, you can’t. Only one thing can make that right.’
    ‘What then?’
    ‘The death of the stag boy.’
    Ash stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The stag boy has to die. It’s the only way to put things right. Life for life.’
    Ash shifted a little, uneasy. He thought about the spectral stag boy he’d seen running in the mountains, the hound boys hungering along his trail. That terrible scream.
    ‘The land’s sick,’ said Mark. ‘The sickness killed all the sheep. Killed my dad. Now there’s drought, crops all withered in the fields in the valleys, and the old ways are coming back. The land needs blood. The stag boy’s blood. That’s the way it used to be, a sacrifice to the land in a time of want. Well, it’s a time of want again, isn’t it? The land is dying and there are ghosts rising from its bones, ghosts that kill.’
    ‘Ghost stories. No one believes that stuff, not really.’
    ‘I believe it,’ said Mark. ‘More than that. I know it’s true. That’s why I asked Callie to bring you here, so I could tell you to pull out of the Stag Chase.’
    ‘You want me to pull out of the race because of some stupid story about ghosts and the old ways?’ said Ash.
    Mark bared his teeth, a smile or a snarl. ‘It’s just a race. It’s not that big a deal.’
    ‘It’s a big deal to me. No way I’m going to pull out.’
    ‘Then you’ll die,’ said Mark.
    ‘I’m not going to die. No one’s going to die.’
    Ash gazed into the fire. A charred branch, bowed like the scorched rib of a giant beast, collapsed into the flames. Firefly sparks and flakes of snowy ash eddied skywards. Ash breathed in a lungful of smoke and started to cough. Then he froze, stifling his coughs with his hands.
    Someone was watching them.

EIGHT
    Ash only caught a glimpse of him. A face among the shadows, a dark bulk. Then the man turned