Ravens Gathering (10 page)

Outside it was already getting dark.  In the barn it
was gloomier still.  That was good.  He liked it that way.  It
made him feel comfortable.  At home.

The farmhouse had been an option.  When he arrived
earlier in the day, he had considered using it.  But there were things he
would need to conceal, and the barn offered much more opportunity for
that.  From what he had seen of the farm’s residents, they were unlikely
to even wander in the direction of the barns, let alone come along and inspect
the contents.  Not like the
Sullivans
. 
They were real farmers, and probably spent more time on the land or in these
outbuildings than they did in their home.

He was disappointed about the
Sullivans
. 
He’d hoped they were still living here.  They’d been such good sports when
he was last in the village.  He smiled to himself.  It wasn’t an
attractive smile.  In the wrong company, it could be terrifying.  A
fact he was well aware of.

The
McLeans
were a different
matter altogether.  They were soft, bound only by the material trappings
they had acquired.  It would be too easy to break them.  No challenge
at all.  He doubted he would even bother with them.  They provided a
place to rest.  A place to hide things.  That would be their main
purpose.  He did contemplate using the woman.  She was attractive,
and she knew it.  He was in no doubt that she was used to getting her own
way.  There would be significant entertainment value in having her squirm
as he used her body to satisfy his needs, and made her realise that she
wouldn’t always get her own way.  He hadn’t completely dismissed the idea
yet, but having studied her for a while today, he wondered whether she might
actually be aroused by him physically abusing her.  If she felt that in
only a small way, it would defeat the object.

Overhead, there was a rustling noise.  His sharp eyes
pierced the darkness and he saw the ravens.  Thirteen of them perched on a
beam in the roof.  They waited patiently, occasionally shifting
uncomfortably.

His arrival in the village had been noted.  Whether the
villagers fully appreciated the implications of his arrival was yet to be
established.  But it wouldn’t take long.  No more than a couple of
days.  By then it should be time for him to move on.  He had
important work to do while he was here, and that work would start soon.

He had business to attend to in the village tonight. 
It had been years since he was last here.  They had felt his presence
before.  They would feel it again this time.

“How’s Peter?”

It was a question on a lot of lips, but Norma got it in first.

Bob Lambert had just walked in and was standing at the
bar.  Medium height, slightly overweight, and with a mop of curly hair,
light brown, but generously sprinkled with grey.  His ruddy face looked
strained.  He’d obviously been home and changed before coming here, but
his clothes had clearly been selected because of their proximity rather than
their coordination.  Green Barbour jacket over a purple jumper and black
shirt, the tail of which was covering the front of his jeans.  It wasn’t a
stretch to imagine that the buttons of the shirt were probably not lined up
properly either.

He shook his head despondently.  “I don’t know.  I
had to leave him there.  His mum and dad are at the hospital, but there
was nothing I could do.”  He looked sheepish as he added: “And the cows
needed milking.”

Norma smiled reassuringly.  “No
one’ll
think badly of you for dealing with that.  Least of all Peter.”

“It doesn’t seem right, though.”  He glanced around the
pub.  It was busier than it had been at lunch time, though still quieter
than Norma hoped it would be later.  “I can’t say it seems right being in
here when Peter’s still in Intensive Care.”

“What can you do, though?” Norma pointed out, partly to
continue with her reassurance, but also to improve the chances of him staying
and buying a few drinks.  She was already pushing a glass up to the
optics, ready to give him his usual tipple.  “If his parents are with him,
that’s all he’s going to need.  Having you hovering in the wings is just
going to make him more anxious.”

“If he’s even aware.”

“That’s nothing new.”  Apart from regular trips to the
Gents, Walter hadn’t moved since lunch time.  He was still in the corner
of the bar, and yet again he was cackling to himself.

“Ignore him,” Norma said quietly as she placed the whisky in
front of Bob.

“I have been for the last forty years,” Bob told her. 
“I’m not likely to change now.”

“Is he in a coma then?” Gregory Williams asked.  He was
further along the bar, perched on a stool.  Like everyone else in the pub,
he had taking a keen interest in Bob’s arrival.  “I mean, you said: ‘If
he’s aware’.”

The farmer looked witheringly at him.  “Don’t be
daft.  He’s had his legs run over.  Or is that where you keep your
brain?”  He gestured in the general direction of Gregory’s thighs.

“’Bout right,” someone said, raising a few chuckles.

Ignoring the laughter, Bob turned to take in his audience
properly.  When he was sure he had their attention, he spoke again. 
“Peter’s lost both his legs.  They’re keeping him sedated to block out the
pain, and I reckon he’s just been unconscious most of the time because he’s
lost a lot of blood.”  Norma watched him as his eyes roamed around the
bar.  He clearly wanted to get his message across.  “I’ve seen a lot
of shit over the years, but nothing like this.  Believe me, you wouldn’t
want to have to see it.”  He glared in Walter’s direction.  “And I
don’t want to hear anyone making fun out of it either.”

Walter grinned back at him, the gaps between his teeth
giving him a macabre appearance.  He didn’t say anything, but his eyes
mocked all the same.

Scowling, Bob turned back to the bar and took up his
drink.  He was tense, and it wouldn’t take much to set him off, Norma
reckoned.  She added a measure to a fresh glass and put it in front of
him.  “Have this one on me,” she said.  It was an investment. 
If he drank, it’d soothe his nerves.  Then he’d calm down and stay for a
few more.

The pub had two entrances.  One was at the side of the
building, to the right of the bar as you stood facing into the room.  This
was the door you used if you came in from the street, as Bob just had.  It
was only a few steps away from the pavement.  If you arrived by car, it
was more likely you’d use the door at the back of the building, which led straight
in from the car park.  That door was just beyond the corner of the bar
where Walter was sitting.

She assumed it was because she was preoccupied with Bob that
she didn’t notice anyone come in through the back door.  It was only when
she heard a polite cough that she realised someone else was at the bar. 
Instinctively, she turned towards the new customer, the smile forming on her
lips faltering as she recognised him.

Adam Hawthorn was tall.  She guessed nearly six and a
half feet.  He had sandy-brown hair that was long enough to cover his
ears, but didn’t come anywhere near his shoulders.  It lay flat on his
head, strangely lifeless and yet not unattractive.  He was slim, carrying
no sign of extra weight.  His jaw was strong and quite long.  Not square,
but borderline rectangular.  He wore a canvas jacket, jeans and a loose
fitting shirt.  It was difficult to tell his age.  He could be
anything between thirty and fifty.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like him.  She just didn’t
see him that often and always felt there was something odd about him.  He
rarely came into the village, and she couldn’t recall when she’d last seen him
in the pub.

Her recovery was quick, and the smile returned easily. 
Fortunately, he didn’t appear to have noticed.  Nor did he seem to be
aware of the interest his presence was causing among the other regulars. 
It was surreptitious, but it was there all the same.

“I’ll have a pint, please, Norma.”  He didn’t have a
loud voice, or a quiet one.  It seemed very neutral.  Like his accent
really – or lack of one.  Although she knew he lived locally, she didn’t
know if he came from these parts originally or if, like her, he was an
outsider.

She gestured to the three pump handles.  “Any
preference?”  Inside, she felt uncomfortable.  There was obviously
something about his presence that was making her feel that way.  But she
hid it well, keeping her smile in place as she asked him.

He paused, studying the options carefully.  It was
almost as if he was unfamiliar with the process.  Eventually he gestured
to the nearest pump.  “That’ll be fine,” he said at last, giving her a shy
smile.

Pulling the pint felt awkward.  Under ordinary
circumstances, Norma would use the time to have a chat with a newcomer. 
It was a good chance to get to know a bit about them, make them feel welcome,
and gauge whether they were likely to spend much money while they were
in.  Instead, she found herself watching the beer dribbling into the glass
and wishing it would hurry along.  An occasional glance up at Adam was as
close as she got to dialogue.  The fact that the noise level in the pub
had also gone down since his arrival made her feel even more self-conscious.

When she finally handed him his pint and he’d paid, it was a
relief to see him wander over to a table in a quiet corner of the bar and sit
down.

For the next few minutes, she was distracted by customers
who needed refills.  Each one seemed to use their moments at the bar to
ask about the visitor.  They didn’t come right out and say anything. 
They would just give her an inquiring look and roll their eyes in the direction
of the corner table.  And her response was equally silent but
expressive.  Like them, she hadn’t got a clue what Adam was doing here.

Because the more she thought about it, the more convinced
she was that Adam Hawthorn had
never
been in
The Major Oak
. 
Certainly not in the sixteen years of her tenure.

Adam was from a farm that was just outside the
village.  Norma had never had cause to visit the farm, and didn’t know
anyone else who had either.  For that matter, she had no recollection of
even seeing it.  She just knew it was out there somewhere.  For most
of the time, the farm and the Hawthorn family were largely forgotten
about.  On the very rare occasions when they put in an appearance, talk
did start, and it could last for a few days.  But interest would dwindle,
and they slipped from people’s consciousness.

Now their consciousness had been provided with a reminder,
though, Norma could be confident of how much talk there would be for the next
few days.  And she could understand why.  Unlike the other three
farms, theirs appeared to be run only by the three members of the Hawthorn
family – Adam, his wife Jennifer and his sister, Claire.  The lack of
outside help only served to make them more of a curiosity.

So they were a strange bunch, and she couldn’t help
wondering what had brought Adam in tonight.

A glance over at the table, and she could see he was leaning
back against the nearest wall, apparently staring into space.  His height
made him an awkward looking figure, his knees bent upwards, his shoulders well
clear of the back of the chair.  The pint was virtually untouched, as if
he had no real interest in it.

Around the bar, conversation had picked up a little. 
The regulars seemed to be getting over their initial reaction to his
arrival.  She couldn’t help but compare it to the incident at lunch
time.  The quiet descending over the pub when Martin Gates had come
in.  Odd really.  Two similar instances in the same day.  A bit
like buses.  You wait for one for ages.  She wondered when the third
might turn up.

At seven o’clock, her barman, Andy, arrived.  “Good
day?” Andy asked her as he nodded greetings to a few familiar faces.

“So-so,” she said distractedly.

He took an order and started to pull a pint.  “Heard
about the accident at Lodge Farm?”

She saw Adam’s head lift slightly, as if he was responding
to Andy’s words.  He suddenly seemed to pay more attention to the people
around him.

“I think you’ll find everyone has,” Norma told him. 
She gestured towards an unusually dressed figure.  “Bob’s over
there.  He’ll give you chapter and verse on it when he’s had a few more
whiskies.”

“Bit buttoned up at the moment then?”

“Yeah, but you know what he’s like.  Makes out he’s got
the weight of the world on his shoulders at the best of times.  Get some
drinks down him and he’ll lighten up.”

“Not exactly light entertainment, is it?” Andy pointed out.

“No.”  She made a discreet signal towards Walter. 
“Not that everyone sees it that way.”

Andy nodded his understanding.  “I’ll keep an eye on
that.  Don’t want any trouble.”

She hesitated at that, wondering whether to mention what had
happened at lunchtime.  Then the decision was taken from her hands as the
back door opened again and Martin Gates walked into the room.

“It’s like
The
Slaughtered Lamb
in here.”

Martin looked at Ian.  “Like what?”

“
The Slaughtered Lamb
,” Tanya repeated for him,
shaking her head.  “
I
didn’t have a clue what he was talking about
the first time he said it.”

“You make it sound like I say it all the time.”

“Only when you come in here, or if you’re talking about
having been in here.”  She seemed to be speaking patiently, but Martin
sensed that it was put on.  He was aware of tension beginning to return.

They’d been in the pub for five minutes now, and were
sitting at the table Martin had used earlier.  Drinks were in front of
them, and food was ordered.  The evening menu was only marginally less
limited than at lunchtime, so it hadn’t taken long to reach decisions about
what to eat.

“Well put me out of my misery,” Martin prompted.  “
The
Slaughtered Lamb
?”

“Haven’t you seen
American Werewolf in London
?” 
Ian seemed almost incredulous at this idea.

“
American
what?”  Whilst he had nothing against
cinema, he wasn’t exactly a connoisseur.

“...
Werewolf in London
,” Ian repeated.

“In the film,” Tanya went on briskly, “two Americans go into
a pub on the Yorkshire Moors called
The Slaughtered Lamb,
and when they
do everything suddenly goes quiet.  All conversation stops, and the locals
just stare at them.”

Martin grinned and nodded.  Tanya might be fed up with
the comparison, but hearing it for the first time, he completely understood
where Ian was coming from.  He let his gaze drift around the bar, taking
everything in.  The locals were talking to each other again, but it was
very subdued.  There hadn’t been complete silence when they first came in,
but the drop in volume had been almost tangible.

“And much as I find it irritating that Ian keeps coming up
with the same comment time and again,” Tanya continued, “I have to agree with
him.  It was just like this the first time we came in.  What would
that be now, Ian?  Three years?”

“Close enough.  It nearly put us off moving.”

“
You
, dear.  It nearly put
you
off
moving.  I didn’t want to come to this dump in the first place.” 
Martin noted that she was complaining, but not loudly enough for any of the
other customers to hear.  She was clearly happy to put Ian in his place,
but not to upset the locals.

Ian looked down, clearly stung by her words, and possibly
embarrassed at being spoken to like this in front of a stranger.

Their table was circular, and they were seated in a
triangular formation, so each of them could see the others without turning
their heads.  That said, Martin was aware of Tanya looking directly at him
while her husband’s attention was on his navel.  He wasn’t sure how he
felt about that.  For now, he didn’t really want to confront it either.

“Surely things must have changed since you moved here,” he
said.

“You’re joking.  You saw what it was like when we came
in.”

“I thought that was because of me.”

Ian looked back up at this.  “But I thought you were
Patrick’s son.”

“I am.  But I’ve been away for a long time.”  He
caught the landlady looking at him, and smiled back at her.  She moved her
head as if she was simply scanning the room, pretending not to notice. 
“My reception at lunchtime was pretty similar.”

“Looks like we’re all outsiders then,” Tanya
suggested.  Or was it more a case of her being suggest
ive. 
There
was definitely something still there in her eyes.

“Give it time,” he said.  “They’ll grow to accept you.”

“What about you?”

“I doubt I’ll be here long enough.”  And he didn’t want
them to pursue that, so he shifted the conversation to Ian.  “You said it nearly
put you off, but I take it there were still plenty of attractions.  Tanya
told me you’d moved up from Oxford.  I’ve never been, but I understand
it’s a nice part of the world.”

“It is, yes.  But I needed a change.”

“You definitely got it here.”  Tanya’s bitterness was
barely below the surface.

Ian’s eyes flickered towards her, but he continued to speak
to Martin.  “I did think it’d be nice to settle in and become part of a
local community.”

“And it hasn’t worked out that way?”

“Like Tanya says, we’re still outsiders.  You can see
what it’s like here.  Surreptitious looks, no eye contact, and a sort of
no-man’s land between us and them.”

Until he said it, Martin hadn’t realised, but Ian was
right.  There was a definite gap between them and anyone else in the
bar.  The distance to the nearest other customer was around five feet, and
the same space applied with a number of people so there was a theoretical
corridor that arced its way around them.

“The thing is, it’s the same in the Post Office, and even in
the street.  People cross the road when you’re approaching, or rush to get
in their cars, anything just to be off the street by the time you get near.”

“You don’t think you’re being paranoid, do you?  They
might just be shy.”  Martin was playing with him.  He knew exactly
what Ian was talking about.  “Besides, that’s village life.  Most of
the people who live here have never lived anywhere else.  They don’t know
any different, and anything that
is
different can be quite scary to
them.”

“I know what you’re saying.  And I did come prepared
for it to a certain extent.  But I never expected it to be this bad. 
There’s something else as well.”  He hesitated, and Martin watched him
apprehensively as he searched for the words.  “It’s not just about
us
. 
I think it’s something to do with the farm.”

“The
farm
?”

“It’s got a history.”

“A history nobody bothered to tell us about until after we’d
bought the bloody place,” Tanya put in.  “I still think we should sue the
estate agents.  It could be our way out.”

“We don’t have a leg to stand on,” Ian said with a firmness
Martin suspected was truer to his character than the comparatively subservient
role he seemed to play with Tanya.

“So what...?” Martin started to ask, but was interrupted by
the barman arriving with two plates of food.

“Steak and chips?”

Ian gestured to the empty space in front of himself.

“Scampi and chips?”  Which went to Martin, before the
young man darted back to the kitchen to collect Tanya’s food.

“What are you having with
your
chips?” Martin asked
drily.

“I know, it’s bloody limited here, isn’t it?”  But she
smiled at him, in spite of her irritation.  He had to admit, it was a very
attractive smile.

When the barman was sure they had everything they needed, he
left them to their meal.  Satisfied he was out of earshot, Martin went
back to the question he’d been about to ask.

“What’s this about the farm having a ‘history’?”

“I assumed you’d know,” Ian said, between mouthfuls of what
he later described as cardboard rather than meat.  “Unless you’ve been away
for twenty-five years.”

“I was young when I left, but not that young.  I was
eight twenty-five years ago.  I left when I was eighteen.”

Ian gave him a puzzled look.  “Surely you know about
the suicides then?”