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nagging at him.
    Where and when would Paul Harvey turn up?

 
     
     
     
Three
     
    Paul Harvey stumbled and fell, crashing heavily against a nearby tree. He lay still on the damp moss for long seconds, sucking in painful breaths, each of which seemed to sear his lungs. His calves and thighs were stiff, as if someone had clamped a vice on each leg and was slowly turning the screw. He dragged himself upright, using a low branch for support. Panting like a bloodhound, he leant against the tree and massaged the top of his legs. He licked a furred, tumefied tongue over his cracked lips. It felt as if someone had stuffed his mouth with cotton wool. He stood still for a moment longer then blundered on through the small wood.
    He walked awkwardly, like a drunkard and was forced to use the trees and bushes to hold him up. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been running. Four, five hours. Perhaps more. He wasn’t sure of anything except the gnawing pain in his legs and the burning in his belly. He must have food, that much he did know. The prison was a good six miles behind him now and he afforded himself a smile as he continued his haphazard course through the woods.
    A bird twittered overhead and he spun round, taken aback by this sudden sound. He raised a hand as if trying to pluck it from its perch. When that failed he attempted to shout at it but no sound would come. His throat was like parchment. He slumped against another tree, head bowed, ears alert for the slightest movement. They would be after him by now but they would not catch him. Not this time.
    He cocked an ear expectantly but heard nothing, just the ever-present sound of the birds and. . .
    A twig snapped close by and he froze, pressing himself closer to the trunk of the elm, trying to become a part of it.
    As he watched, a small boy, no more than twelve years old, pushed his way through the bushes and picked up a football. With the object safely retrieved, he scrambled back towards the clearing beyond where two of his companions waited. Harvey could see the other children now. He relaxed slightly and moved forward with surprising agility for a man of his size. He was well over six feet two, weighing around fourteen stone. His hair was black, closely cropped and shining. Pupils like chips of emerald glittered amidst whites criss-crossed by bulging red veins.
    He moved closer to the edge of the woods, keeping low, well away from the children playing beyond. There were three of them he could see, all engrossed in their game. Harvey parted a bush to peer out at them. His large fingers twitched spasmodically but a look of bewilderment crossed his face when he saw them stop kicking the orange ball around and cross to a large plastic bag which lay behind one of the make-shift goal posts.
    They took out some sandwiches and began eating.
    Harvey put a hand to his stomach as it rumbled loudly!
    He watched the three of them eating.
    The time would come.
    He watched and waited.
     
    Graham Phelps stuffed the remains of the ham sandwich into his mouth and chewed noisily.
    “Let’s have a drink,” he said, motioning towards one of the two thermos flasks.
    Colin Fulton dutifully poured him a cup of steaming hot chocolate which he swigged, burning his tongue.
    “Fucking hell,” he gasped. “That’s hot.”
    Colin and his younger brother, Miles, both chuckled.
    Graham, on the other hand, didn’t see the joke.
    “What’s so fucking funny?” he demanded, angrily.
    He swore a lot. His father and his elder brothers did it too. His eldest brother had been in Borstal for six months and Graham hero-worshipped him, as he did his father. Both of them would think nothing of smacking a woman in the teeth too, if the need arose. They were really hard. Graham’s mind contained a simple equation because he was somewhat simple minded:
    Swearing and hitting women = manliness.
    As easy as that.
    Now he rounded on Miles again. The twelve-year-old, three years younger than Graham and