The Wolves of Lambs Bane

By Chris Parker

In the woods above Lambs Bane, is it really the wolves you need to be afraid of...?
"The girl stares at the church door, unsure how she has ended up in this place. Above, the clear night sky is black as fear, while pale mist curls between the trees, low and sinister. It snakes around her ankles, as if to pull her back into the darkness from which THEY are coming.
Clouds gather overhead to hide the awful truth of what is to about to happen..."
Hazel’s family history is rooted in the tiny village of Lambs Bane, where wolves roam wild behind a secure barbed wire fence. Shunned by the town kids and humiliated at school, she dreams of a life of excitement in the outside world. But when her family are threatened, she can no longer ignore the dark and menacing danger that lurks at the heart of the old traditions.

"I thoroughly lapped up the first in the Lambs Bane series and found myself turning pages with eager anticipation. The story is told, for the most part, by Hazel; a bright, insightful young girl with a tough, defiant side to her nature. Her masterfully drawn character draws you along her tumultuous journey to discover the truth about her mother's irrational obsession with the hunt and the secrets hidden within the fences surrounding Lambs Bane wood.
This is a beautifully crafted tale with solid, visual characters that you can love and hate. Masterfully paced, with moments that we can all identify with in some way, the reveal unfolds with tantalising expectation." - Laura Hart, author of 'The Toy Sorceror'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Parker
• Release date: Jul 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301171712

Chris Parker

Chris Parker is a screenwriter for television who has written for shows ranging from EastEnders and Coronation Street to Bedlam, a Sky TV drama series he co-created for Red Production Company. He is also a prolific animation writer, working for Aardman Animations, DreamWorks and many others, with hundreds of credits including Peppa Pig, Clangers, Postman Pat and Shaun the Sheep. He was born in South Wales and lives with his family in Cambridge.

Book preview

The Wolves of Lambs Bane

by Chris Parker

The Wolves of Lambs Bane

Published by Chris Parker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Chris Parker.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Wolves of Lambs Bane

Dedicated to Jo, Hannah and Adrian, my pack.

Many thanks to my fabulous team of editors:

Hannah Parker, Alanna Staunton,

Ruby Wells, Chloe Hammond

& Mike Hodges.

This book was partly inspired by my visit to the

UK Wolf Conservation Trust.

For more information…

www.ukwct.org.uk

or better still, visit and walk with the wolves!

Contents

Chapter 1: Let Me In, Get Me Out!

Chapter 2: The Dead Wolf

Chapter 3: Mr McGregor and the Fight

Chapter 4: The Green Bean

Chapter 5: Reservations

Chapter 6: Going for a Run

Chapter 7: Jed

Chapter 8: The Enemy Within

Chapter 9: The Brutal Truth

Chapter 10: The Invisible Illness

Epilogue: The Strength of the Weave

Chapter 1: Let Me In, Get Me Out!

The girl stares at the church door, unsure how she has ended up in this place. Above, the clear night sky is black as fear, while pale mist curls between the trees, low and sinister. It snakes around her ankles, as if to pull her back into the darkness from which they are coming. Shivering, she dare not look behind in case a terrifying sight snatches the ability to move from her pale limbs. She must get through the door before they catch up but it is locked, a heavy wooden barrier refusing to open.

The rule drifts across her memory; don’t open the door, never open the door. Now she understands why – that and the reason for the deep scratches around the edges of the timbers. Fresh ones will join them soon and they will be hers, despite the futility. But still a fire roars inside her, desperate and urgent; let me in! She knows her attempts will fail and soon the pursuers will arrive. The horror of the scene that will follow threatens to suck the remaining life from her bones.

Then she hears them, sounds filtering from between the dense trees with their sharp, snagging branches. Tiny trickles of blood itch her arms and legs, bare in the fragile moonlight, and she realises the scent of blood is probably attracting them. The inhuman noises grow louder and more urgent before a single, hideous howl echoes through the trees.

They have found her. She stares numbly at her hands, shocked to see blood under her fingernails, proof of her attempts to breach the door, somehow lost in the confusion of panic.

Clouds gather overhead to hide the awful truth of what is to come. Turning slowly, the girl’s mind empties as she prepares for their arrival.

-x-x-x-

Sometimes I think the bane of my existence is my last name; Hazel Shepherd. It’s caused more trouble than a name should (like you wouldn’t believe!) especially in a village best known for its wolf sanctuary.

I’d rather have my dad’s surname, Hazel Campbell, but since he split with Mum and she dragged me back to the God-forsaken hole that is Lambs Bane, she’s insisted I stick with the traditional family name. It’s a big thing for lots of my relatives, especially here in the village, where it seems I’m related in some way to just about everyone. They all say how much I’m ‘the spit’ of my Mum (epic phrase, eh? They mean how much I’m like her, including hair colour and temper) and how much my older brother, Jed, is the image of Dad. I don’t suppose it’s such a bad thing: Mum was tall and pretty when she was younger.

I was twelve years old when this whole thing started. By ‘thing’ I mean the bizarre series of events that led to my family’s lives being threatened, not to mention my own. Which is quite a shock really, because if you asked anyone at school to describe me they’d probably use words like ‘mousy’, ‘quiet’ and ‘who’? I like to blend in as much as my red hair will allow – you’ll understand why as you read on.

My little sister, Molly, is the lucky one. She’s cute, blonde and popular (well, for a seven-year-old). Not sure where she gets any of that from... Sadly, the best compliment the rest of us can ever hope for in Lambs Bane – a small farming community full of small-minded people – is something along the lines of ‘good, strong stock’. Perhaps you’re starting to get an idea why I don’t want to live here a second longer...

At first we’d been happy in Cardiff, as far as I can recall, but even at the end of infant school I sensed things were starting to go bad. It was more of an uneasy feeling until the doctors arrived and the extent of Mum’s problems became obvious. If only I’d known then what I do now... but I suppose Mum and Dad did what they thought was best, including keeping us in the dark, even though that clearly wasn’t the right thing at all. Mum had been taking more and more tablets – not all of which came from the doctors. My clearest memory is the night they decided she should take us back to Lambs Bane – without Dad. That was pretty much the last time we were a proper family.

I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him. He’d always seemed the strong one, the straight-thinking, practical rock that withstood all the outrageous times Mum put us through. Don’t worry, this is all going to be important later, just bear with me. In fact, perhaps we’ll skip the painful memories and jump straight to Lambs Bane; Year Eight in the (not-so-local) secondary school. The rest will become clear.

-x-x-x-

The worst thing about school is the bus journey and the worst thing about the bus is the growing number of townies who cram themselves in as we get closer to our destination. For me and the other Lambs Bane kids it’s almost an hour’s trip – an extra punishment for living in the middle of nowhere. As we get closer I always think I should become happier, freed from the dull reality of farming village life and ready for the excitement of the big town. But there’s a problem.

You see, the townies have never liked Lambs Bane or its inhabitants. So on most days the idiots start to make our lives a misery as the bus gets fuller. There are only a handful of ‘Lambers’ (as they’re fond of calling us), which makes us easy targets. It’s Molly I feel most sorry for. How do I explain to a seven-year-old we’re being picked on because of where we live?

Of course, they often use Flora as a starting point for their vicious teasing. Flora is my sometimes-best-friend. We’re really close but there are times when even I want to slap some sense into her. She doesn’t help herself, if you know what I mean. Always that stupid knitted hat to cover her thick, wild, chestnut hair (at last count, three bird’s nests suspected to be hiding in there...) and ‘the backpack that time forgot’. Honestly, at times it seems as if she goes out of her way to look different. She gets a lot of attention as a result, and not the good kind. We all get it, heaps of it. And it doesn’t smell good, if you know what I mean.

I’ll start on the Wednesday of the announcement. After the gauntlet of the journey, we arrived at the school gates where the bus threw us out like a bad breakfast. As usual, it was a genuinely exciting point for me. I know what you’re thinking; ‘she’s a swat, a goody-two-shoes’. Far from it, most of the teachers don’t like me – that is, if they even bother to notice me. No, it’s the size of the place I love, all those kids squashed into a world of teenage chaos, full of possibilities and opportunities; the first bus stop on the journey to a real life.

So I savoured that sensation as Jed strolled off to his mates by the Tech’ block and Molly skipped over to her friends in the Junior School next door. Finally it was just me, Flora and nine hundred other swats, bullies and nutters. Sadly my optimism lasted the usual three minutes, after which time we’d arrived at our tutor room. Immediately it was as if we were back on the bus, only this time with desks, tables and Mr. Langley as our disinterested driver.

Jessica Parfitt eyed us as we came in, surrounded by the usual pack of brainless followers. I avoided her withering stare while preparing myself for the inevitable taunt. It had to come, I knew it. Not only was Flora still wearing her multicoloured hat, despite having walked the entire length of B-block corridor, but Joe Paxley was in the room. Joe was always a reason for Jessica to show off, being the class cool guy and most-fancied boy in the year. He was chatting with his running-club mates, comparing training shoes of all things. I smiled inside, pleased that a pair of smelly old trainers held more fascination than Jessica and her cronies. Then I tripped over the leg of a chair, realising I’d been paying more attention to Joe than where I was going. I crashed into Flora clumsily and Jessica pounced.

Oh my God, look who can’t even stand up! Didn’t you get a good night’s sleep in your field with all the other sheep, Lambers? Her comment was followed by a chorus of catty giggles. Some of the boys looked round and my face burned hot.

As usual, anything we said in reply would only have invited more ridicule, so we limped to our seats and tried to hide, quietly seething. I was sure I could still hear the cats sharpening their claws as Mr. Langley called for quiet.

Alright class, leave the La... I mean, settle down.

Jessica sneered at me across the room, her eyes mocking underneath the make-up she shouldn’t have been wearing in school. Mr. Langley and most of the other teachers must have been too scared to confront her, something I never understood. I guess I was jealous in a way. There were plenty of days I wished I could hide behind a mask.

Before you leave here to embark on today’s journey of learning... his humour bordered on sarcasm, a sign he was losing patience. "... I have some letters for new members of the after-school Running Club. Remember, these are the good students who should be on school premises after hours, not the ones who break in to vandalise things."

Jessica rolled her eyes and stared idly across at Joe and his mates, who were now looking around with interest to see who would be joining their elite little club. Joe was one of the best runners in school and went to lots of cross-country runs and races, often coming back with a medal. New club members came under serious scrutiny, especially if they threatened to be any good.

I knew who they were most concerned about – Scott Bennett. He was from Lambs Bane and weird even by our own low standards; a lonely, scruffy, sulky boy with a hairstyle almost as challenged as Flora’s. Even after spending hours on the same school bus, I’d hardly ever spoken to him (I think he had a wicked sense of humour but it was difficult to tell – he mumbled so much I’d never really heard a complete sentence). Everyone knew he was a good runner. I was just praying his name would divert everyone’s attention from what came after...

Scott Bennett, come and get your letter please, continued Mr. Langley. As hoped, the boys were murmuring between themselves, as if trying to judge how fast he was from his awkward shuffle to the front of the class. Fear gripped me tightly as the next name was announced and I shrank in my seat, ... and Hazel Shepherd.

Complete silence. Even the catty girls were robbed of the power of speech. As you can guess, no-one expected my name to be called out for the school Running Club. Not that I was horribly unfit – far from it – but I hated PE lessons, hated working with groups of people who didn’t want me in their team and absolutely hated the whole business of getting changed in a room full of hostile girls. I’d even been known to deliberately slow down in races just to avoid drawing attention to myself.

Well done, Hazel. It’s good to see you taking an interest in after-school activities. Have you run before?

I muttered something harmless to the teacher’s ridiculous question and took the envelope, dreading the moment when I turned towards the sea of faces staring directly at me. Jessica couldn’t resist a comment.

"My God! Sir, she fell over walking into class! What will happen when the poor little Lamber tries to run?!"

For once Mr. Langley stood up for me. "Miss Parfitt, that’s enough! You should be thinking about your own contribution to the school community! I don’t see you joining any clubs, do I?"

One of her gang was quick to defend her, as always, chipping in to distract the teacher’s attention. She would, Sir, if there was anyone worth running after.

It was a direct challenge to Joe’s crowd, who laughed and were about to fire back when the bell sounded for first lesson. Instantly the room erupted into a babble of chatter, swinging bags and scraping chairs.

Flora tried to cheer me up with a smile and one of her legendary pep-talks. You’re so brave joining that club, honestly! Those cows are going to be green with envy, just ‘cos you’ll be spending time in the presence of the wonderful Joe! They’ll want to make your life a total misery... Yeah, she had a talent for looking on the bright side.

But a tiny part of me was pleased I might make them jealous, and if the boys noticed me, so what? I mean, I didn’t want to get friendly – God no! – but it would be nice to at least feel slightly less invisible... to certain people, anyway.

If truth be told, I was a good runner. It was one of the things I loved, out in the fields and woods around Lambs Bane where there was no-one to see me (or my pasty-white legs). There weren’t many kids who could beat me up the hill to Reservation Gate, even my brother, Jed, and he was nearly two years older. But I would never have joined the club without two reasons; first, my mum had volunteered me to make sure Scott didn’t have to catch the bus home alone, especially after the bullying he’d suffered in the past; second, I desperately wanted to spend some time outside Lambs Bane and in the world of Newtown, the closest thing to a social life I could hope for. There was even a chance, just a tiny hint of a possibility, that I would get invited to the cafe by some of the girls in the club, or get an invite to something, somewhere – anything that didn’t involve sheep, tractors or our tiny, backwards village.

I deliberately fussed with my bag on the way out of the classroom, long enough to miss the crowd and any further chance of humiliation, until Mr. Langley stopped me at the door.

I’m sorry if you were embarrassed by having to come to the front... Surprisingly I saw genuine concern in his face. I know some kids can be cruel to... you guys sometimes.

It’s OK Sir, thanks. I muttered and brushed past Flora into the corridor. It was a nice gesture, I suppose, and I said as much to my best friend.

Not really, she huffed, ramming her ridiculous hat onto her head. Have you ever noticed how he has to stop himself calling us ‘Lambers’, too? You can’t trust any of those townies, not really. See you later! With that she loped off in the opposite direction, to one of the few lessons we didn’t share. Suddenly I was angry and cursing under my breath. Maybe she didn’t mind being ridiculed but I wanted to be treated as normal one day. I stomped away, immediately bumping into Glynn.

Hey, watch where you’re going, idiot! he grinned. I didn’t mind his insults – Glynn was my mate, even though he was a townie. Lessons with him were usually a laugh.

Come on, townie, I growled, barging his shoulder as he pretended to be hurt. "Take me to the fascinating world of the Celtic roundhouse! And this time I get the seat by the window, or you get a slap!"

He knew I didn’t mean it. We called each other a lot of names, just joking. But he never called me ‘Lamber’, which was cool. And I think he probably knew that when I called him ‘townie’ it was with a tiny hint of jealousy.

-x-x-x-

So far I’ve skirted round the issue: I’ve avoided talking about Lambs Bane. Well, it must have seemed a great place to grow up when I was tiny, before we moved away with Dad. I also know Mum’s brother, foul-tempered Uncle Bleddyn, had disapproved of our leaving. Their own dad died quite young (I don’t even know how) so the eldest son took on the role of ‘head of the family’ – took it a bit too seriously, actually. Uncle Bleddyn is what my dad calls ‘a lifer’, which means he’ll live his whole life without ever venturing too far out of Lambs Bane. I used to think that was backward, even simple-minded, but now I know different.

The quaint little village I spent my infant years in, grubbing around the fields, building dens and exploring the fringes of the woods, turned out to be dreary and dull when we returned with Mum. At the time all I wanted for our little family was to be together; that and for Mum to get better from whatever illness she had. Then I had to deal with starting secondary school in the bright lights of Newtown, with a glimpse of its shops, cinema, cafes and leisure centre – a whole new world of promise.

Sadly, back in Lambs Bane we still had to go to ‘church’: Growing up, church had seemed normal. As older kids, we began to realise how weird the whole thing was. If only we’d known the full truth... It sort of sums up the village, so let me explain a typical visit.

I’ll start in the May celebration: Not only was it a great example of our ‘tradition’, it was also the time of the dead wolf.

-x-x-x-

We were on the school bus heading home one Spring evening. I was staring out of a slightly misted-up window that still showed the ghost of an insult traced by a townie finger in the condensation from their cruel breath. At last they’d all been dropped off as the houses thinned and we entered the long, empty road that wound steadily uphill to Box Bridge. That old, wooden crossing point over the river marked our boundary with the rest of the world, or so it felt to me. Apparently it had been the site of an ancient battle between our village and, uh, somewhere else. Somehow that still seemed like a modern-day possibility.

Wide expanses of farmland rolled past like green prisons for flocks of huddled sheep. They looked as if they were sheltering from the ancient woods that squatted on top of the hill, a brooding, leafy monster. The woods never scared me, even though there were lots of spooky stories about them, most probably to keep people away. The high, encircling metal fence decorated with ominous warning signs didn’t help. It was horribly ironic, I suppose, that the one time we were allowed to enter the only truly exciting – and forbidden – part of our village, was to go to boring old church. That made it feel like just another part of home; muddy, damp home.

I was playing my usual silly game of ‘spot signs of the twenty-first century’, struggling to get past five things before the bus slowed to negotiate the narrow bend into what passed for our high street. Little Molly was lolling into my shoulder, tired after a long day in Newtown Junior School and seduced into sleep by the motion of the bus and its warm, stale air. Looking at her peaceful face framed by a cascade of blonde curls, she looked so content, not yet at the age where her classmates would start copying the prejudices of their older brothers, sisters and parents. She always shared my seat on the return journey, so Flora sat in front, the tassels from her ridiculous hat bobbing just in front of my face.

Suddenly the bus swerved and I saw the blur of a Landrover whizzing past, nearly forcing us off the road. Our driver swore, not caring we could hear him, and I knew the Landrover must have been Uncle Bleddyn’s. No-one else around here could bully a vehicle five times its size. The thought almost made me smile, even though I couldn’t stand my mean old uncle.

Recovering his composure, the bus driver eased past the few shops and houses that clung to the main road in Lambs Bane; the hair and beauty salon that catered for the rough collection of weathered and scruffy farmers’ wives, the dentist above the tiny post office (of all the exciting things our tiny village could have had!) and the standard local convenience store. The Lambs Bane pub stood out like a ‘last resort’ sign; a plain, grey hulk of a building guarding the edge of the road before it continued on, splitting to service the handful of farms scattered across the hillside.

The obvious thing missing from our High Street was a church. Because of some random, ancient history, the supposed heart of our little community was located far up in the woods, within the secure perimeter fence. I’m pretty sure the church had been there first, stubbornly refusing to move when plans were drawn up for a nature reserve. Now it was a kind of well-meaning prison for us kids once a month. Sadly it was also the place we were headed tonight.

Before the bus made its U-turn to head back to town (you see, no-one lived farther from civilisation than us) we all got off and said our goodbyes. Only tonight they were ‘see-you-laters’ as we knew we’d meet up again at church. And before I make it sound too much like a great social farewell, remember I’m only talking about Molly, Jed and I, Flora, Scott and a Year Eleven boy called Michael. The evening was bright and dry, meaning we could take the short-cut home without getting mud and sheep-muck up to our ankles. As Molly shook off her drowsiness she started to get excited, jabbering on about the movies we might watch (and I’ll explain how movies get into church later). Her excitement drained me. Once I’d been as hyper as my little sister, I suppose, but at twelve years old the joy was wearing off, for sure.

We stepped inside our farmhouse to be greeted by chaos.

Oh, there you are! Thank God! Where have you been? You’re... Mum glanced at her watch before crashing on, You’re late! She ran around, stuffing clothes into bags, shouting for us to grab pyjamas, books and toys. It was always like this on church night. If you thought going on Sunday for an hour seemed bad enough, spare a thought for us. Our church goes right the way through two days and two nights. Why? It’s tradition. It’s a tradition I hate.

For something that happened once a month you’d think Mum would have sorted out a routine, but no. As usual she was whipped up into a short-tempered frenzy and ready to take it out on anyone who got in her way: Most of the time that was me. If you ever doubted the old saying that red hair meant a fiery temper, watching an argument between me and Mum would convince you for sure.

Mum, we’re early! We took the short-cut. You’re panicking...

Don’t you disrespect me, young lady! Church night was the only time she ever spoke like an actress in a Victorian play.

Mum...

And don’t you ‘Mum’ me, either! (What does that even mean? What was I supposed to call her, ‘your majesty’?) I’ve still got tons to do and no-one’s helping, as usual. Do something useful – get your sister in the shower! In fact, all of you get in the shower!

At the same time? Hey, now I’m phoning social services! I joked. Bad idea. Mum shot me a murderous look that almost hurt.

I was saved by Molly. If Mum had wanted to drag my little sis into the argument,