But that one per cent. The intoxication of running a wild, death-or-glory bet, the odds almost too high, for she was so beautiful and he was nearly twenty years older, twenty buggering years, and never bad been what you'd call much of a catch, as bloody Pat would point out every other week.
Juanita, Juanita.
If he'd been a knight he'd have swum the moat for her, scaled the buggering tower. If he'd been a young man he'd have simply swung her on to the back of his bike and pedalled for the border. If he'd been a dog, he'd have lain down at her feet, rolled over and wagged his tail.
Better to be a dog than poor, buggering Jim Battle. Better a dog and get the occasional tickle, have his fur brushed.
He pushed his bike past the last house in Wellhouse Lane. The Tor was on his right. Somewhere. He couldn't see the bastard thing. Maybe – God forgive him for even considering this – maybe Griff Daniel was right about the weird little hill, the hill of dreams, the hill of obsession. Maybe they'd all be better off without it.
And he would rather…
Jim swallowed this thought and went on pushing, feeling cold sweat in the small of his back, as though he was leaking like an old and rusting sump, listening to the tick, tick of his bike chain, following the bleary beam of his battery-powered bike lamp.
Only the mystery. Only the mystery could save him now.
And yet mystery could betray you. He remembered the heat of bodies around him, the strength of the hands holding him down, exposing his throat. And he would rather…
Jim squeezed his eyes shut, trying so hard to summon the dusk, bring the old mellow warmth into his chilled, sagging body. No good. It wouldn't come.
He would rather…
…rather have had that moon-bright sickle slice slowly through the skin and the sinew and the bones in his neck than to have seen the quick flickering of relief in Juanita's eyes when Griff Daniel burst into the bar.
SEVEN
Don Moulder had been up late doing his VAT return, last minute as usual, and it was while he was locking up for the night that he heard it.
Would've figured it was no more than his imagination – doing his VAT always made him a bit paranoid about people coming after him – if both sheepdogs hadn't heard it as well and started to whimper.
'Lord preserve us,' muttered Don Moulder.
It came again: the echoey groaning and grinding of a clapped out old gearbox, some distance off. One of the dogs crept between Don's legs. 'Oh aye, that's right,' Don growled. 'You go'n hide yourself, bloody ole coward.'
When Shep joined Prince under the table, Don scowled at then and went to the boot cupboard where he kept the twelve-bore. 'Got to protect me own stock, then?' He glanced up at the plaster between the beams. 'Forgive me, Lord, but I knows not of a better way to deal with these devils.'
Don decided to say nothing to the missus, who'd been in bed an hour and was most likely well asleep by now. Shots'd wake her, mind, if it came to that.
Warning shots only, more's the pity. You blasted away at the beggars these days, professional rustlers or not, and they'd be straight down the police station, figuring to nobble a God fearing farmer for damages, due to the trauma they'd suffered. Bloody ridiculous; got so's a man couldn't defend his own property no more. Well, Don Moulder played by the old rules: thou shalt not pinch thy neighbour's ox, nor his ass nor his best Suffolk ram, and if thou triest it thou gets what's coming to thee, mister, and no mistake.
Shrugging on his old Barbour, Don let himself out. He was halfway across the yard, gun under an arm, lamp in hand but switched off. when he had another thought.
Knackered ole gearbox noise. Lord, suppose it's…Them…?
They'd paid him for three, four nights – via the Hon. Diane, bless her – then cleared off halfway through the first. All right, their decision, no pressure from Don Moulder. But what if they'd come back to claim the rest of their time? How did he stand there? Hadn't given 'em no money back, not a penny; still he hadn't been asked, and there was nothing on paper.
So what you did was you brazened it out. Only Godless hippies, they got no rights. And Miss Diane, nice enough girl but a few bales short of a full barn, so no problems there.
Don Moulder shouldered his gun like Davy Crockett and followed the hedge towards the bottom field.
The lights were still out in the shop when the door opened before Juanita could even get her key in the lock and Diane hissed, 'Quick,' and pulled her inside. She was so glad to find Diane still on the premises that she didn't say a word until she arrived in the parlour and discovered the source of all the night's excitement sitting coolly in her rocking chair looking like Arthur Rackham's idea of a page-three girl.
'Oh,' Domini said. 'Hello, sister.'
'Bloody hell.' Juanita stood in the doorway. 'You've got a nerve.'
'I was in need of sanctuary and Diana took me in.'
'Diane,' said Diane.
Juanita said to Diane, 'Is she pissed or what?'
'I certainly am not. If you must try to explain everything, I think I'm probably in a state of heightened consciousness.'
'While your husband', said Juanita sweetly, 'is in a state of heightened stress, heightened bewilderment and heightened likelihood of being nicked for criminal damage. Plus he's cut his hand rather badly breaking somebody's window.'
Domini sniffed. 'Not a terribly inventive response, all told. But not bad for a boring little turd of' primary school teacher.' She uncrossed her legs and sat up. 'Hey, come on, this is what it's all about, Juanita. Change. No, don't look at me like that. This is what Avalon does for us. Challenges all our preconceptions Forces us to change.'
'Get her out of here,' Juanita said wearily.
'Oh,' said Domini. 'It was different for you then, was it?'
'What?'
'When you threw your man out. When Carey and Frayne lost its Frayne.'
Diane said, 'That's not awfully fair…'
And then the phone rang.
'Excuse me,' Juanita said. Perhaps it was Jim. Perhaps he'd gone straight home. She hoped it was Jim. 'I'll take it upstairs.'
Juanita's sitting room was directly above the shop and overlooked High Street. It appeared much quieter down there now. Nobody seemed to have called the police. She could see a light on over the restyled Holy Thorn Ceramics.
Tony must have gone home. Well, there was no room for bloody Domini to sleep here.
She picked up the phone from the windowsill. 'Hello, Carey and Frayne.'
All she could hear was some awful wheezing. Oh please, not a breather.
Through the window, she saw a large group of people drifting up the street from the Assembly Rooms where this utter dickhead Pel Grainger had been promoting his tenebral therapy. He'd been in the shop a couple of weeks back, suggesting she should place a major order for his forthcoming book. Embracing the Dark. Maybe she should, if he'd pulled a crowd that size.
'Mrs Carey?' A man. Not Jim. She was sorry. If Jim had been about to say tonight what she'd thought he was about to say, then they really needed to talk. Not in a pub.
Poor Jim. With his bikes and his brushes and all those paintings he was going to sell one day when he'd found his Grail. Poor buggering Jim, who she'd thought was just a Really Good Friend. Perhaps no man ever wanted to be just her friend; was that a compliment at her age?
'Sorry,' she said into the phone. 'Yes, it's me.'
'Mrs Carey, I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I'm not awfully well. Little short of breath. It's Timothy Shepherd. From the Pixhill Trust. Terribly sorry to telephone so late, I did try earlier but there was no reply.'
'I've been out. Sorry. No problem, Major.'