THE YOUTH HOSTEL AT GLENFIRTH
It never ceased to amaze Mairead how little respect folks had for the property of others. This building was here for the good of the community as a whole, and yet people seemed perfectly content to use and abuse the facilities without a care.
The old farm had stopped being a farm more than two decades ago now. After falling into disrepair, the one remaining habitable building, this two bedroom cottage, had been renovated and re-opened as a very basic youth hostel, catering to the needs of visitors attracted to the area by the hills and the hiking. On the whole people usually abided by the basic rules of the facility: pre-bookings only, clean the place when you leave, collect and return the key to Mairead down the road. But the girl who’d used the place last night hadn’t returned the key and Mairead needed it back as three lads from Newcastle were due later this afternoon. She had better things to be doing with her time than chasing around after bloody kids who thought the world owed them. She’d put all her cleaning stuff in the back of the car before she set out. If the lass couldn’t be bothered to hand back the key, she thought, then she sure as hell won’t have cleaned up.
The cottage door was open. The building was cold, but then again, it usually was. Mairead leant in and called out. ‘Hello… Hello, is anyone here?’
No answer.
Agitated, Mairead put her Hoover down by the door. This had happened all too often this season. The remains of a meal had been left on the table. Slovenly. It made Mairead cross. And she could smell tobacco too. Bloody hell, how large did she have to make the No Smoking signs? There was one stuck on every interior door. Was that not enough?
The kitchen could have been worse, she supposed. There was a little washing up left on the draining board, and a pile of clothes which had been washed and rinsed but never hung out to dry.
‘Hello…’ Mairead shouted again. ‘Are you here, Miss? I’ve come for the key. I’ll have to make a charge for the state of the place. It’s really not good enough.’
She picked up a waste-bin and carried it over to the bedroom door. She knocked and waited for a reply. When she moved again, the floor was tacky beneath her shoes.
Mairead looked down and saw blood. More blood than she’d ever seen before.
5
‘It’s not my fault. I didn’t take your order. No good shouting at me, mate.’
Kenneth Potter pointed accusingly at Scott. ‘Then who else am I going to shout at? And I am definitely not your mate. Good grief, what’s Barry doing employing folks who can’t even load up a van right?’
‘Listen…’
‘No, laddie, you listen. Barry and I go back a long way. I taught him and most of the men who work in his yard. I’ve never had any problems before, and I don’t understand why I’m having one now. Fence panels, concrete, sand and fence posts. Did you not stop to think? Christ’s sake… how am I to repair a fence if I’ve not got any bloody posts? Should I just balance the bloody fence panels on their side and hope the wind doesn’t blow them over? I mean, come on… it’s not rocket science.’
Scott bit his lip. He’d been warned about this little fucker. He wondered if the blokes at the yard had done this on purpose, screwing up Ken Potter’s order as some kind of fucked-up initiation? Or had they done it to get back at Potter himself? He’d noticed them all muttering to themselves when the order had come through. Ah well, I’ve handled worse. Remember that job in Alvechurch when they set your boots in the concrete…
‘Well?’ Potter demanded. Scott knew he had little option but to take this one on the chin and head back to the yard to get the missing posts.
‘I’ll go and get the rest of the order,’ he said, making little effort to disguise his frustration. ‘I might as well unload what I have for you, then come back. It’ll take about an hour.’
‘I’ll not sign for any of it.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Anything you leave here remains your responsibility until I’ve received everything I’ve ordered, understand?’
‘Loud and clear.’
Scott started to unload the truck, working around Potter who watched him, arms folded, eyes following his every move. No one was going to pinch any of this stuff. As Potter himself had said, what good was a fence without posts? And anyway, there was no one else here. No other houses for miles.
The morning had been going reasonably well until then. He’d had a number of small loads to deliver, all going to folks in locations which seemed to be both miles from the yard and miles from each other. He’d been starting to think that this job, although hopefully only temporary, might not be as bad as he’d originally expected. Out here alone in the truck he had time to think, to try and work everything out. At home there was always something – someone – who wanted something from him, but his time out here was almost his own. His mobile signal dropped regularly and Barry Walpole didn’t believe in satnavs, apparently, so it looked like most of the time it was just going to be him, his maps and the open road. It was surprisingly relaxing. It could have been a lot worse.
The job was way beneath him, though. He’d managed complex projects before now where he’d had to coordinate large numbers of staff and trades to hit specific deadlines, so this was easy by comparison. Getting five bags of sand to one location, then a number of timber joists to the next… it was all straightforward. But one thing had taken him by surprise, and that was the sheer scale of everything. Before they’d come here, he’d imagined Thussock and the surrounding area to be twee and small. The reality was very different. The landscape was immense, unending. This was a vast, sprawling place, often with many miles between communities, sometimes between neighbours. In the half hour or so it had taken him to get to Kenneth Potter’s house from his last drop off, he’d seen only two other cars and a solitary hiker walking along the side of the road. He’d driven along an otherwise empty road which ran along the foothills of a mountain he couldn’t even see the top of. Even the largest landmarks back home would be dwarfed by this enormous mound of rock. It was awe-inspiring, strangely humbling.
The practical differences between this place and Redditch had been hammered home last night when he’d tried to get petrol. It was past ten, and the only filling station in the town had been shut. He’d managed to get online using his phone, and had located another station some thirty-five miles away. He’d probably had enough in the tank to get there, but he’d decided not to risk it. It was strange just how isolated it had made him feel. What if that one was closed too, or what if he got lost and took a wrong turn which led him down another endless road where he might have run out of fuel and ended up stranded? He’d given Michelle the money instead, leaving her with instructions to fill the car up in Thussock later.
When he got back to the yard, Barry Walpole was waiting for him. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on? I’ve had Ken Potter on the phone, tearing a strip off me.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ Scott protested. ‘No good shouting at me. I never loaded the bloody van.’
‘You should ’a checked it ’fore you went out.’
‘It’s my first day. I didn’t know the routine. You should have told me if I was supposed to check the bloody load first. I assumed it would have already been done. What’s the matter with you people?’
‘It’ll be your last day if you don’t bite your lip. You know who you’re talking to?’
‘Yeah, someone who’s accusing me of fucking up when I haven’t. I’ll load the fucking van myself next time.’