The Claws of Evil - By Andrew Beasley Page 0,3

his head out of the doorway for a better look. The Weeping Man was about twenty feet away now, taking a left into a dingy side street. Whatever he was doing, he obviously didn’t want any witnesses.

What’s your game? Ben wondered.

He picked up his feet and ran to the corner as silently as he could. He reached the entrance to the alley in time to see the Weeping Man stop dead in his tracks, sniffing the air. Ben froze too. He had allowed himself to be caught in the open, vulnerable and exposed. If he turns around now...

Inch by inch, Ben crept backwards, desperate for the protection that the wall could offer him. The snow crunching beneath his boots sounded as loud as cannon fire in his ears, and he winced with every step. He made it back behind the corner, but not before a shudder took hold of him so vigorously that it threatened to loosen the teeth in his head. And he knew that his trembling had nothing to do with the cold.

The Weeping Man stood motionless in the middle of the alley, unaware of Ben or unmoved by him. Ben studied him from his hiding place, transfixed; a rabbit stalking the fox.

Then, as suddenly as he had stopped, the Weeping Man lifted his head with a peculiar twitching jerk. It was an unnatural movement for a human, Ben thought; the angles were all wrong. He looked more like a dog cocking its neck and responding to a call which only he could hear; instructions from his master.

But whose voice was he listening to?

Ben went rigid and held his breath tightly in his chest, next to his hammering heart. Had he been heard? He grimaced as he imagined what was coming to him if the Weeping Man turned round.

Then the sound of the man’s tears echoed down the alleyway and there was no doubt left in Ben’s mind: he was in the presence of a killer.

He felt the sound as much as heard it; the physical manifestation of a soul in torment. The sobbing came from somewhere very deep within the man, or so it seemed to Ben. Beginning with a low growl, it built with each shuddering gasp until it was finally released as a volcano of grief. Ben could almost feel the pressure mounting inside the Weeping Man until there was nowhere for it to go except to explode to the surface.

There was so much sadness in those sobs. Such pain. Such remorse.

But there was anger too, and that was what scared Ben the most.

The howling rage.

Get out of here, and get out now. That was what the sensible part of Ben’s mind was telling him to do. And not for the first time, Ben wished that once in a while he would listen to the advice that it gave, instead of always following the other voice, the one that insisted on the exact opposite. Don’t be chicken-hearted, it said. Get a closer look. Looking never hurt anyone.

Mind made up, Ben Kingdom inched forwards in the hope of getting a really good look-see.

Easy does it, Benny boy.

He had halved the distance between them when his foot caught against an empty bottle and sent it rattling across the cobbles.

It wasn’t exciting any more.

It was dark. It was late.

And he was alone in a very bad place.

Fear filled Ben’s throat as he realized what he had done. He glanced around at the tight corridor of the alleyway, filthy tenements on either side. In his curiosity, he had allowed himself to be led away down Skinners Lane. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he cursed himself. Everybody knew that you didn’t go down Skinners Lane at night unless you had a death wish. You really are on your own now, son.

To Ben’s horror, at that moment the Weeping Man cocked his head and very slowly turned around. He took a step in Ben’s direction.

Then another.

Ben couldn’t move now, even if he wanted to.

Twelve paces away.

Eleven.

Why can’t I run? Ben screamed inside. Why can’t I just run?

Ten paces.

Nine.

Then, as Ben watched, a heap of unwanted rags – bundled up, left to rot at the side of the street – began to stir with life. The Weeping Man kneeled over the tattered remnants, stretched out his hand and, from beneath the surface, from under the filth and the grey stain of snow, another hand emerged, tiny and pale. Slowly, frail fingers reached out and clasped the Weeping Man’s. An arm like a stick followed