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bit tighter. Another crunch, another whine. It was leaving. Or maybe not leaving but at least moving farther away.
    'When I say run,' Peter whispered. 'Head toward the castle ruins, OK?'
    If it was heading in another direction perhaps it wouldn't see them darting for the castle that was no more than two hundred yards away. Mary nodded her head. He waited. And waited. Patience. Calm breathing, calm soul, focus, focus, focus.
    'Run,' he demanded. She did. He didn't hold her hand this time; he wanted her in front so he could be the target if the creature saw them. She hopped and jumped ahead of him, boun cing through the deep snow. He tried to stay in the footprints she left behind. Two hundred yards. One hundred and eighty yards. It wouldn't break any records but he felt they were covering a lot of ground. One hundred and fifty yards. Small steps. Valleyfield tree line - done. Uttershill castle ruins - en-route. One hundred yards. Old Pomathorn Mill - step three. Eighty yards. No creature. This was tough, like running under water, chest pains. Fifty yards. A screech. Far away. Thirty yards. The ruins in touching distance. Mary disappeared into them first and hid behind the nearest wall. Five yards and they dived through a gap in the South West gable end.
    Uttershill castle ruins - done. Small steps.

Fight or Die
     
    Although named Uttershill castle it clearly wasn't a castle. Peter had only ever been close to it when he was young, when firework displays were staged here by the locals because of its vantage point high on a bluff overlooking the town below. It actually was a late medieval hall house; a rectangle box that used to be two storeys high. A large portion of its south facing wall had long ago collapsed to leave an open space with three walls and no roof. It had comprised of an undercroft and kitchen, separated by a hall with a staircase that would have led to the first floor that had the main chamber directly above the vaulted undercroft. It lay to the side of Pomathorn Road and North West of Peter's target - the old paper mill.
    The floor of the castle was deep in snow and where they sat cowering in the cold was what used to be the kitchen. He placed the shovel within grabbing distance and tried to relax. He didn't think this would be possible but to keep Mary calm he would have to put on a show, she couldn't get agitated. In actual fact he did feel himself relaxing, his breathing steadied and his pulsing head subsided. He could stay here, sleep, rest, dream.
    The surviving stone walls and partial dividing wall that was still standing gave them a little nook to hide in. They sat in almost silence, Pet er squeezed his wife; both for warmth and comfort. The part of the south wall that was still standing was at the kitchen area and this gave them only one open side of the old hall that could be seen from where they sat. The doorways and windows on the south wall had been blocked over with stone and this sheltered them from the cold wind that threatened to gust in through the building. The remains of a huge fireplace took up more than half the wall opposite them and Peter wished it was lit and roaring.
    'How you feeling?' Peter asked.
    'Not good, I don't know what's going on Peter but I'm scared and cold.'
    He hugged her tighter and said, 'Me to, but that thing wants me dead, do you understand that?'
    She nodded. He knew her head was all over the place most days, but today? The stress of Christmas, the stress of finding the right gifts, the stress of cooking for six, the stress of family in general and Mary had enough problems without the stress of bei ng hunted through the snowy slopes of Penicuik by a creature that won't even know of the word stress, or Christmas. This had been one of the reasons he yearned to be home before Christmas morning, not so much to be with Mary but for Mary. To help her cope. She had suffered for eight years on her own with little help and it was about time he spent more time with her. She