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that source of food was exhausted? The question tumbled over in his mind as he ran. Yes, the food was important but so was shelter. The night was already digging icy fingers into him, he needed somewhere to hide. And not just from the elements. From them . They would be looking for him. He knew they would come soon but perhaps not for a few days. Even they would have difficulty finding him out here.
    The moon escaped a bank of cloud once more and, in its cold white light, Harvey saw a group of buildings ahead of him.
    He stopped dead in his tracks, even his breathing slowed for a moment.
    Shelter.
    He was sure it was a farm. There were. . .
    He clenched his fists. Why was it so difficult to think?
    One, two, three. There were perhaps more buildings, arranged in a quadrangle, with a large open area at their centre – a farm house, a barn, a pig pen, another barn. He moved closer, his wide eyes ever watchful. There were no lights on in the house, perhaps whoever lived there was out, gone to bed maybe. Or perhaps they were in there, watching him. Just waiting for him to walk into their trap. He stood still, panting. No, there was no possible way they would find him here, they couldn’t know he would find this place. Harvey smiled crookedly and licked his lips, advancing a few more yards. It was certainly quiet, there didn’t appear to be anyone around.
    He reached the broken fence which surrounded the entrance to the farmyard. It was rotten with damp, the wood black where at one time it had been regularly creosoted. The gate hung from one hinge, an invitation to enter which Harvey took. The yard itself was covered with weeds, some as high as his knees. He walked across to the overgrown hedge which surrounded the garden. There was no gate here, just a weather-beaten arch covered with the spidery remains of a rose plant. Harvey moved tentatively up the path towards the front door of the house, his eyes moving back and forth, waiting for the slightest sign of movement.
    When nothing had happened by the time he’d reached the front door, he began to relax slightly. He went from window to window, trying to peer through the grime-encrusted panes in an effort to see what lay inside the house but he could make out no shapes in the gloom. He thought about breaking in. He could smash a window. With his tremendous strength he could even break down one of the doors.
    But, what if someone came by? They would see that the farmhouse had been damaged. They would know something was wrong. He would be found. They would come for him again. He smiled crookedly again, pleased with his own cunning. He turned and scuttled back down the path, crossing the yard in the direction of the barn This time, two huge wooden doors stood open and Harvey walked cautiously into the black maw which lay beyond.
    The barn smelt of dampness and rotting straw. Bales of it were stacked in one corner and also up in the loft. A rickety looking ladder offered a route up to the loft and the big man put one huge foot on the first rung, testing it. It groaned under his weight but held and he began to climb.
    There were about a dozen bales of damp straw in the loft, the wooden floor itself covered with a thin carpet of the fibrous stuff. The stench was almost overpowering but Harvey seemed not to notice it. The darkness inside the barn was broken only by the weak light provided by the moon, the beams creeping in through the numerous cracks in the roof. Here and there, large chunks of the slate roof were gone and Harvey shied away from these as if anxious to remain in the enveloping darkness. He settled down against a straw bale and rummaged through his coat pockets for the remaining sandwiches he’d taken from the three boys that morning. He ate ravenously, stuffing the food into his cavernous mouth until it was gone then he reached for the thermos flask. He took a large mouthful but the contents were cold and Harvey spat the liquid out angrily, hurling the empty receptacle