Bone Jack by Sara Crowe

for cover when you see that. Gets to be second nature after a while.’
    ‘It’s OK,’ said Ash. ‘There aren’t any snipers here.’
    ‘I know,’ said Dad. He rubbed his hand over his face, drew a long breath. ‘I know that. Sorry, lad.’
    They stood up, continued along the path. The moment should have passed but it hung on, Dad still edgy, his face glossy with sweat, his eyes scanning the mountainside as if he still half expected snipers to be hiding in the bracken.
    ‘You all right now?’ said Ash.
    No reply.
    Change the subject. Get Dad thinking about something that wasn’t snipers and war. But he only had one bit of real news. The Stag Chase. Suddenly his mouth felt dry. After last night, Dad telling him about his own time as the stag boy, the timing seemed all wrong. But he’d have to tell him sooner or later anyway. Dad was up and about now, and in a small place like Thornditch, nothing stayed secret for long.
    ‘I’m running in this year’s Stag Chase,’ he said. The words racing out. ‘I won the trials last month. I’m going to be the stag boy. It’s official.’
    Silence.
    ‘Dad?’
    Nothing. It was as if he hadn’t spoken.
    ‘Dad? Did you hear what I said?’
    ‘Yeah, I heard,’ said Dad. A taut smile on his face. ‘That’s brilliant news. I’m proud of you.’
    ‘You don’t mind? Only after last night …’
    ‘Don’t worry about what I said last night. My head’s all over the place lately. I knew you were going out running every day and I knew the Stag Chase was coming up, but I’ve been so caught up in my own problems, I never put two and two together. I’m really sorry. You’re a great runner. You’ll leave them in the dust.’
    ‘But the things you said, about when you were the stag boy. About wanting to jump off the edge of the Leap and Tom Cullen saving your life. Maybe it’s a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn’t run.’
    ‘That was twenty years ago,’ said Dad. ‘Twenty Stag Chases ago. There are always stories about strange goings-on at the Stag Chase. A bit like Halloween, I suppose.’
    ‘But you said you saw things yourself out there on the Leap when you were the stag boy. Shadowy figures, ghosts. That black feather.’
    ‘Yeah, well, like I said, it was a long time ago. I’ve seen a lot of things since then, good things and terrible things. And right now what I’d most like to see is you out there, running like the wind.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe you can put the ghosts to rest for me.’
    Ash laughed. ‘I’ll try. Will you come then, watch the race?’
    ‘Of course I will.’
    They trudged up the last stretch to the summit, a crown of burned grass studded with rough grey rock. Beyond, the land fell away steeply to the eastern shore of Pike Tarn.
    Dad stopped at the top of the path. He shrugged off the rucksack. Then he just stood there, staring wide-eyed at the lake as if the mouth of hell had just yawned open before him. Suddenly he was sweating and tense again.
    ‘Dad,’ said Ash. ‘What’s wrong?’
    No answer.
    ‘Dad?’
    ‘Shut up,’ said Dad. Taking quick, shallow breaths. Still staring down towards the lake.
    Ash followed his gaze. No flash of sunlight this time. Nothing out there except a raven flapping over the tarn towards them, rough cries grating from its open beak.
    ‘What is it, Dad? There’s nothing there. Is it the bird? The raven?’
    And it must have been, because there was only the bird, feathers black and glossy as oil, and Dad’s gaze fixed on it as it flew closer.
    The raven arced above them, veered away.
    ‘I can’t do this,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not ready. I can’t do it.’
    He pushed past Ash, set off back down the path at a stumbling run.
    Ash took off after him. ‘Wait! Dad! What’s wrong?’
    ‘Nothing,’ said Dad. Breathing hard, his eyes full of panic and a strange sort of anger. ‘Everything. Home. I need to go home.’
    Ash followed. Words tumbled from him. ‘Dad, stop. We’re here, Dad, on Tolley