CHAPTER TWO

AS SOON AS he pushed open the door of Fern Smith's studio, Piers Marshall knew that he'd come at the wrong time. Sitting cross-legged on the bare boards, hands on knees, back straight and eyes unfocused, she was listening to a disembodied voice urging her to empty her mind, let her spirit roam free, shake off the material world, and he was well aware that however interesting his news, she would pay it no attention until the tape released her.

Even then it might be another hour before she was fully functional again. Yoga sessions seemed to leave her in a vaguely benevolent dream, disconnected from such mundane matters as talking to flatmates or cooking supper.

'Fern.' he said tentatively.

No response beyond an upward flash of the eyes.

He mooched through into the tiny kitchen, dismayed but not surprised to see the morning's bowls and mugs heaped in the sink, and the shelf that served as a table still smeared with coffee-mug rings, jam and breadcrumbs. A heap of ripped envelopes had their contents shoved back inside them: he recognised a headed letter from the District Council, and one written in green ink which was probably a complaint about noise or dog mess from one of their neighbours.

It was at times like this that he seriously questioned the wisdom of leaving the comforts of home to live here, but Fern and his stepmother did not see eye to eye, and he had made his choice. To delay the moment of starting the dishwashing, he picked up a copy of Sabbing News and his attention was immediately caught by a picture of himself on the cover, mouth open in what had probably been a defiant shout but which made him look like a gaffed fish, with a undersized female PCSO holding his arm behind his back. Not quite the heroic image he had hoped for, but at least it must have shown Fern and her mates that far from being a poor little rich boy as they taunted, he was a serious Sab and prepared to suffer for the cause. Huntsman's Son Fined said the caption, which was nonsense because there was a big difference between being a huntsman and riding to hounds, which he knew well - though presumably subs on Sabbing News did not. He wondered if Pa had seen the report.

He flicked through the paper, finding nothing else of interest, and had just started running water into the sink when the ingratiating voice next door was abruptly cut off, and Fern stumbled through into the kitchen, still slightly dazed and glassy eyed.

'Time for drinkies,' she suggested. 'Is the water hot? You can leave all that and do it later.'

The water was barely tepid: thankfully he abandoned the sink and joined her at the table, pushing the photograph towards her like a dog offering its ball. 'Recognise him?'

She glanced at it and laughed. 'You look a right prat, shouting and bawling for attention. Wrong tactics, dude. Doesn't do to get yourself noticed too much.'

'But I thought you said.'

'Wrong again. Keep under the radar's my advice. I'm too well known around these parts. The fuzz always picks on me for choice,' she said with a certain complacency, pulling back her long red hair and admiring her profile in the mirror beside the stove.

'I was only trying to do my bit,' he said humbly.

'You stick to what I say and you'll be all right. You're what they call a cleanskin, new to the game, so keep it that way as long as you can.'

Cleanskin. It sounded like a cure for acne.

She was thirty, ten years older than him, and veteran of many a demo, for whom a night in the cells held no terrors. She would join any march, riot, or protest that involved banners, smashed windows, cocking a snook at authority. Hunting was her particular bugbear.

'Smug bastards. All dolled up in their red coats to chase poor little foxes. Make 'em sweat,' she'd say, as she sprayed Anti Mate in the eyes of a passing foxhound and Piers tried not to wince. It was no good going soft: other sabs could be far more brutal. Their tactics varied: some threw down nails and screws in muddy gateways, hoping to lame horses. Some let down the tyres of parked horse lorries, or sprayed glue in locks. Their star turn was Corky, who could blow a horn, and bring hounds pouring out of any covert they were drawing, much to the irritation to their huntsman. One had been prosecuted for stretching a tripwire across a woodland ride, though in Fern's view that was a step too far.

'That's dangerous. Criminal. Puts people off. Got to get the public on our side, that's the way we'll have hunting banned for good.'

'You telling me how to get it banned?' Behind her the door had opened and Corky O'Sullivan himself swaggered through, earrings and nose-ring glinting, long crinkly hair caught back in a ponytail. His tattered cargo shorts hung down below his knees, within inches of muddy army boots. He wrenched open the fridge door and helped himself to a blackened banana.

'How did it go?' said Fern eagerly.

'It didn't. Bloody waste of time.'

She frowned. 'What d'you mean? What happened?'

'Couldn't find it for a start. That's to say, we found the Common, all right, but not a sign of horses, dogs, anything like a hunt.'

'But where were the people? The lorries? You can't hide those.'

'Bastards had parked in a field behind the church, and a bunch of heavies had taped off the verge for half a mile beyond it. Told us we couldn't stop there. We'd be obstructing the road, and anyway it was private land.'

'But it's a Common,' said Fern hotly. 'Commons belong to everyone.'

'Not this one, it seems. By the time we finished arguing with the rozzers, the hunt had gone. Given us the slip.' He threw the banana skin in the general direction of the bin. 'Never saw them again.'

'But all the stuff I gave you about where they were going after the Common?'

'Total b.s. Either the bloke in The Feathers didn't know his arse from his elbow, or he was having you on.'

Fern shook her head. 'He told me he'd be there himself. He must have known.'

'Then you'd better stop believing everything you're told in pubs, sweetie.' Corky shrugged, indifferent. The banana had partially restored his blood sugar and he enjoyed her indignation. She was such a know-all. She thought she'd got the whole thing taped, cosying up to men in bars and pumping them for info. Well, last night someone had clearly spotted her as an anti and gone out of his way to mislead her. Remembering the day's humiliating failure to find, let alone disrupt the hunt, he gritted his teeth and began banging open cupboard doors in search of something else to eat.

She talked as though keeping up with people on horses was a walk in the park. OK, let her try chasing them along muddy farm tracks and over half-frozen plough, and she'd soon change her tune. It was all very well saying she'd had enough of the limelight and would collect intelligence covertly, but judging by today's fiasco the only thing she had collected was a load of rubbish, and they could do without that.

'Hey! That's my supper you're eating,' said Fern as he dug into a pot of yoghourt, and Piers made a mental note to try the chippy on the corner before he closed at eight.

'Won't be a mo,' he said, making for the door, but Corky wasn't done yet.

'Hang on. You haven't heard the best of it. We may not have had a go at the hunt, but Fern's little bro found an old bloke trespassing in the grounds of that Chinese school, and got a good shot. I've downloaded it - wait one. Should be worth a bit in terms of publicity.'

Fern regarded him sceptically. 'How d'you know he was a hunter?'

'Wearing the same rig, wasn't he? Gate was locked so he tried to jump it. Look here.'

He scrolled rapidly through dozens of images, muttering, then zoomed and showed it to Fern.

'Jago says he smashed the gate and came a right cropper.'

'Was he hurt?' she asked.

'Dunno. Jago said a whole load of people came to see what the noise was, and the horse ran off into the trees, but the gate was matchwood. Take a bit of explaining, that will,' he said with satisfaction.

'Let's see.' Pushing forward, Piers looked over her shoulder and his mouth dried. Against a dark background, Master Mariner's dappled face and folded forelegs loomed directly towards the camera, and between those cocked ears, leaning forward and perfectly recognisable, was Colonel Marshall.

He gasped and Fern...