Eventually, her blood singing with indignation, and anger giving her a faint headache at her temples, Leah knocked again, as loudly as she could, and for a long time. But there was no response from the grey-eyed man, or anybody else who might be there, and no sounds from inside whatsoever. It began to rain steadily, and Leah was forced to retreat. She returned to her car, took out her notebook and wrote Natives hostile with an ironic flourish on the first blank page; then she sat and watched the rain for a little while, as it pattered and pooled and trickled down her windscreen. Ryan loved the rain. Even this reminded her of him, and she lived in a country famous for it. She thought of the dead soldier’s wet hair, the way it had been slick against his skull. How much rain had fallen on his body, as he had lain undiscovered for a hundred years? She imagined it tickling skin that could no longer feel; soaking through clothes to flesh that could no longer shiver. Firmly, she banished the thoughts. She did not want the dead man turning up in her dreams.
She made her way back to the main road, then turned and followed the A4 into Thatcham. She parked up and wandered around for quarter of an hour, quickly establishing that she would not want to stay in any of the pubs in the small town. The main shopping street, called The Broadway, was occupied by bottomend chain stores and tiny bank branches. People moved steadily through the growing downpour, their faces and eyes downturned, feet resignedly skirting the grubby puddles. It looked as downbeat and sad as only a small town at the messy end of winter can look. There was an old-fashioned bookshop, though, in which Leah spent a pleasant half-hour browsing and drying out. She bought two books on local history, and got a recommendation from the lady at the till for a good pub, The Swing Bridge, that did bed and breakfast, halfway back towards Cold Ash Holt and down a side lane next to the canal. Leah made her way there, and was shown to a room heavy with chintz and over-stuffed cushions. But it was warm, and had a wide, sweeping view of the rain-sodden water meadows lying to the east. In the distance, through a spindly row of poplar trees, Leah thought she could make out the spire of Cold Ash Holt church. She made herself a cup of tea from the tray, and sat, lost in thought, at the window.
The Swing Bridge had a largely local clientele who sat in groups at the bar and on benches along sticky wooden tables, and greeted each new arrival with nods and smiles and soft, drawled words. Leah came down for her dinner at eight and was shown into the restaurant area, which was off to one side of the bar, colder, and painfully empty. She sat at a table laid for two, positioning herself so she could at least see through into the bar. The empty room behind her made the back of her neck prickle. She ordered fish and chips, and wished she’d brought a book with her for cover. She’d had vague ideas about joining a group of locals, and learning some local legends from them, but their conversations all seemed too personal, their groups so closed that she was suddenly too shy to interrupt. There were enough bones left in her fish to keep her occupied.
When she next looked up, she noticed with a start that she was no longer the only person sitting alone. Perched on a barstool, knees gaping uncomfortably to either side, was the man from The Old Rectory. Even though her view of him had been a shadowed glimpse, she was sure it was him. He hadn’t bothered taking off his coat – a shapeless, faded green anorak – and he had a navy blue woollen hat pulled down low on his head. Quite the casual local, Leah thought; but when she looked down at his feet, his boots were of smooth brown leather, the laces tied tightly around sturdy brass studs. They were too clean, and too expensive. Leah’s curiosity mounted. The man was clearly trying not to be noticed, trying not to be recognised. As it was, she saw more than one glance aimed in his direction, more than one muttered comment passed. The man stared resolutely at the drip tray in front of him, and drank a pint of bitter with dogged resolve.
Leah could not resist it. She got up quickly as the man drained his glass and intercepted him as he turned for the door.
‘Hello again,’ she said, brightly. The man gave her a startled look, and then recognition drew down his brows. He tried to side-step her but she mirrored the move. ‘We seemed to get off on the wrong foot before, and I’m sorry if I… disturbed you. I’m Leah Hickson, as I mentioned. And you are?’ She held out her hand to him. He gave it a scornful look, and did not shake it.
‘You know perfectly bloody well who I am. Now please get out of my way and leave me alone – is it too much to ask that I can go out for a drink on a Friday night without being followed…’ the man said in a low tone, his voice tight.
‘I assure you, I haven’t the slightest idea who you are,’ Leah interrupted him. ‘And I didn’t follow you – I’m staying here for a few days. I hear they do a good fry-up in the morning.’
‘Oh, great. You just happen to be staying here. Is this going to be one of those “this is your chance to give your side of the story” offers? Because I’ve heard it all before!’ the man snapped. There were knots at the corners of his jaw, and Leah suddenly realised that he looked exhausted. Grey bags sat heavy under his eyes, and tired lines tracked the contours around his mouth.
‘Look… I hate to burst your bubble, but I really don’t know who you are. You’re clearly not as famous as you think. I am a journalist, but I’m working on a historical piece about a soldier of the Great War, and I came to Cold Ash Holt looking for information about him. He had links to The Rectory – which is why I knocked on your door. Whatever you’ve done – or not done – I’m afraid I’m really not interested. Unless it helps me find out about my soldier, which I somehow doubt it will.’ There was a long pause as the man considered this, his expression veering between relief, disbelief and anger.
‘Are you sure you’re not just…’ he trailed off, twisting one hand in a gesture she couldn’t decipher.
‘I’m telling you the truth. I really am. And if you’ve got time, and can relax for a minute, I’d love to buy you another pint and ask you some questions about The Rectory.’ The man stared at her for a moment longer then rubbed his eyes hard with the fingers of his left hand, just as he had at the door earlier on. A nervous tic, or a sign of fatigue perhaps.
‘OK. Sure. If you’re really who you say you are,’ he relented.
‘I am who I say I am,’ Leah assured him, amused. ‘Let’s sit by the fire – I ate dinner in the other room and it was like a tomb in there.’
Quiet now, the belligerence running from him like water through a sieve, the man slumped into a chair near the fire, and Leah studied him covertly as she waited for the beer to be pulled, peering at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. But she need not have worried about him noticing. He was staring into the air between his knees, picking absently at the edge of one thumbnail. With an agitated swipe he pulled the hat from his head, and she noticed that his hair badly needed washing, and quite possibly cutting as well. It lay flat to his skull, looking coarse and grubby. He was tall and lean, and the way his clothes hung from him it looked like he might have borrowed them from someone else, or perhaps lost a lot of weight recently. When she went over to the table he glanced up, pale-grey eyes alert again, on guard.
‘One good thing about being out of London – you can get a pint without taking out a small mortgage,’ Leah said as she sat down. The man paid no attention to the remark.
‘So what do you want to talk about? That ridiculous thing about the fairies? That was shortly before the First World War, if I remember right,’ he said, taking a long swig from his glass. Leah’s pulse picked up a little.