Eric Atkinson pulled Marlene along with him, hurrying, almost dragging her; not knowing where he was going only that his instincts screamed at him to be away from this place of artificiality which stank of death and fear.
Run. Hide. Anywhere, but not here.
CHAPTER SIX
JON QUINN sweated as he pushed the starter-button on the Land Rover. On the fifth attempt the engine coughed into life, emitted a cloud of black smoke, threatened to die, but he jammed his foot on the accelerator and just caught it in time. During those few awful moments he thought that it had packed up on him in his hour of greatest need. He sighed his relief audibly, let the engine tick over, the rattling vibrations of the meccano-like bodywork sweet music in his ears. When he got back he would park it on the slope facing downwards, jump-start it next time if he had to.
He checked the petrol gauge. Half-full; five gallons averaging 18 mpg. Ninety miles before he ran dry. There was an old-fashioned garage in the next village that still had a hand-operated pump; probably the majority of electrically-powered ones were out of commission by now. Tomorrow he would have a run over and fill up, take as many empty five-gallon oil drums with him as he could find, stock up before everybody else got the same idea. If there was anybody else left.
He didn't relish the prospect of venturing into civilised parts, not even remote villages. He was scared of what he might find. But he would have to do it sooner or later. Oh God, if only Jackie was here. There had never really been anything wrong between them, just a steady drifting apart that neither of them had made the effort to check. And now it was too late.
The engine was ticking over steadily, sounded smoother than it had done for months. He let in the clutch, reversed slowly out into the lane. It was about a mile and a half to Gwyther's farm, the road following on round the hill, barely the width of the Land Rover. In summer you drove cautiously in case you met an oncoming vehicle, the straggling overgrown hedge restricting your vision. But there was no chance of meeting anybody today. Or ever again, if you were pessimistic. Realistic.
A half-grown rabbit scurried across his path, jumped to. safety in the long grass. It looked perfectly normal. Maybe the rabbits were all right because for most of the time they lived below ground. Foxes and badgers would probably be OK, too.
The lane rose sharply. Down into second gear, only when there was ice about did he have to resort to bottom. Not hurrying, letting the vehicle take its time because he didn't really want to go to Gwyther's at all. The twelve-bore was in the back, both barrels loadedHe didn't like carrying a loaded gun in a vehicle but this was an emergency. He wouldn't feel safe without it.
The Land Rover made the sharp incline, its revs urging him to change up a gear now that the lane was level again. High up, virtually on the top, slowing to look back down and seeing his own place. One day he must bring the camera up here and take a photograph of it. Every year aerial photographers flew over and then tried to sell you their work for extortionate sums. He'd do just that one day, a D-I-Y job, for kicks. Jackie would have liked that. You couldn't quite see Gwyther's yet because it was further on, beyond the Knoll, and when you did see it you could almost convince yourself that you had stepped back in time. Nothing had changed since Bill's father's day and probably wouldn't now. A slow process of decay, timbered outbuildings patched up, moss growing on them; mud and cattle dung so deep that in winter you needed four-wheel drive to get in and out of the yard.
The lane was starting a downward slope now, the final run-in to Gwyther's. Jon let his foot rest on the brake, slowed up more than he needed to. He didn't really have to call on the old man. Damn it, he didn't bother in normal times, avoided it whenever possible, only went there when it was necessary. It was necessary now, oh Christ, it was.
He rounded the bend, saw the farm; just as it had always been except that part of the big cowshed roof had finally caved in. More than likely the storm the other night had been responsible for that. Slowly he eased the Land Rover into the yard, eyes scanning the rectangular tract of hard baked mud with only the odd puddle or two showing below the outbuilding walls. Dereliction at its worst, stable doors tied up with binder string, a heap of scrap, outdated broken machinery that should have been cleared a quarter of a century ago littering one corner. But no sign of life.
Jon came to a halt in front of the house, switched the engine off and prayed that it would start again when he wanted it to. Sitting there, watching and waiting, aware that his pulses were pounding. He was sweating and it wasn't just because of the heat.
He didn't like coming here, always felt ill at ease. The old boy hated you, you could see it in those bright blue eyes as they bored into you. What right have you coming here from the town and buying a place? There are plenty of farmers' sons who were forced to move away to find work who ought to have your holding. They've a right to it, you haven't. It's heritage that counts, not deeds and fancy title papers. You won't do any good here with your daft ideas. Sheep and cattle are farming, nothing else. You're playing at it.
Jon took a deep breath, reached over in the back for the shotgun. What are you bringing a gun here for, boy? He almost drew his hand away. No, he'd take the gun because he might need it. That dog could be around, or the bull might be loose.
His gaze was drawn automatically towards the end stone building, the one where Gwyther's bull lived. The door hung wide, a T-hinge broken so that it dragged on the ground. He could see inside; it was empty, no sign of the bull!
Another twinge of unease. Well, the bull had to be grazed sometimes, left to run with the cows. Probably that was where it was now, in one of the lower meadow fields down by the river.
Slowly Jon Quinn slid out of the Land Rover, grasped the gun in his right hand, stood looking about him. The place always looked this way, it had never been any different. Old Bill spent 365 days a year working in the fields the hard way because he didn't know anything else. Out at first light and back in at dusk. Oil-lamps instead of electric lights. But he did have a telephone! It had caused a stir amongst the other hill-farmers when word got around that a Telecom van had been seen there, two men running out a cable from the Elbow. Old Bill surely wouldn't be having the phone put in because even if he did he wouldn't know how to use it. Bill Gwyther didn't, he only took incoming calls in his own inimitable way and his quarterly bill was never more than the cost of the rental. Another unsolved mystery, but you didn't ask because his answer wouldn't enlighten you any.
Jon sized up the house. The door and window frames probably hadn't seen a coat of paint since before the war. Most of the frames were rotten but they would only be replaced when they fell out, A couple of panes were cracked, maybe deliberately left uncleaned so that nobody could see in. You were never asked in the house whatever your business.
He walked slowly towards the front door. Usually the dog barked a warning but not today. Total silence except for the distant bleating of sheep and a buzzard mewing somewhere up on the Hill.
He reached the door, paused; a schoolboy about to tap on the door of the headmaster's study. I'm awfully sorry to trouble you, sir, but. . . Swallowing, nervous. What is it, boy? What brings you round here?
It's your dog, Mr Gwyther. He's killed one of my calves, turned feral.
Not my dog, boy. He's been chained up here all the time, hasn't been loose. Somebody else's dog. The door dragged shut, end of conversation.