Ravens Gathering (17 page)

Friday night, and there’s a younger crowd in the pub.  Lads
in their twenties.  Unsurprisingly, the females in this age bracket are
few and far between.  They want the bright lights of the town, not the
boorish behaviour of a bunch of blokes who haven’t got the gumption to extend
their horizons beyond the boundaries of the village.  Not that they’ll be
here all night. 
Some time
between nine and
nine-thirty, a group of them will head off to Westfield.  But they’ll
stick to the same few pubs they always go to, then head into a club. 
They’ll probably keep drinking till they can barely stand, hoping along the way
that they’ll get lucky with some bird who’s desperate enough to take them
on.  With very few exceptions, they’ll fall into a taxi at the end of the
night with ambitions thwarted by their own lack of charisma.  At least,
that’s how Norma sees it.  Her customers provide her with a reasonable
living, but that doesn’t mean she’s not allowed to have an opinion of them.

By seven-thirty, they’ve started to drift in.  By
eight-thirty, she reckons pretty much all of the young males in the village are
propping up her bar, playing darts or waiting to use the pool table.  Fags
dangling from their mouths in a way they think makes them look cool and
sophisticated, pint glasses being waved around as they emphasise the points
they want to make.  Dickheads, the bloody lot of them.  Anywhere
else, she’d expect them to grow up soon, become aware of how stupid they
look.  Not here.  She’s seen it before.  The youngsters of ten
years ago are still acting in the same way.  They just come in a bit
later, because they’ve got to wait until their kids are in bed.  And
they’ll stay in the village.  They might still want to go into town and
try their luck, but most of them are too frightened of what their wives would
do to them if they found out.  Not that Norma would encourage them to put
it about.  But she finds their hypocrisy distasteful.  They spend
their evenings eyeing up any half-decent female and making lewd remarks about
what they’d like to do to them.  But none of them would have the nerve to
even attempt to do anything about it.

The older customers will also be in.  Some of them
already are, but most will turn up after nine, hoping to avoid the
youngsters.  She has no doubt that they were the same in their
youth.  They just won’t recall that they too would have splashed beer
around, or flicked fag ash into other people’s drinks, or been so pissed they
couldn’t tell the difference between normal conversation and shouting raucously
at your mates.

Just another typical Friday night at
The Oak
.

Or so she was beginning to think until Ron Dakin came in.

To be fair, Ron’s presence wasn’t untypical.  He didn’t
come into the pub as often as some of the lads, but he would be in at least
once or twice a week.  It was also fair to say that he didn’t generally go
into Westfield with them, but if he was feeling particularly adventurous he
could be persuaded.

He was a nice lad, and he mixed well with his own age group
and most of the other regulars.  His proficiency with a pool cue had also
earned him a place in the team.  At twenty-four, he was the
youngest.  The rest of the team ranged in age up to sixty-two.  An
unlikely combination, but it seemed to have worked.  They were currently
the title holders in their league, and already looking forward to the new
season.

What made this all the more gratifying to Norma – and, she
was sure, to most of the other regulars – was that Ron was a mute.  He
communicated with a kind of sign language that was universal.  With the
exception of his father, Derek, no one else had bothered to learn sign language
properly, so Ron improvised and made sure everyone around him knew what he
meant.  He had a ready smile, and a sense of humour that could often catch
people out.

Seeing him arrive, Norma was already pulling his pint for
him as he approached the bar.  He grinned at her and nodded his
appreciation.  When he had his drink, he headed off to the pool table,
greeting the people he met along the way with a nod.

Norma was reaching for a clean glass to provide Walter with
a refill when she heard a raised voice.

“He-
llo
!”  The word was
spoken very slowly and sounded as if it was being deliberately
exaggerated.  There was an audible reduction in the chatter going on
around the bar.  Norma searched for the owner of the voice.  It
sounded like Neil Thatcher, one of the lads at the pool table.

For several seconds, there was no follow up, then she heard
the same voice, and this time could see that it
was
Neil.

“What’s up, Ron?  Cat got your tongue?”

To Norma’s horror, this was accompanied by laughter from a
fair number of the lads who were standing nearby.  Through a gap in the
crowd, she could see the back of Ron’s head, which was twitching from side to
side.  She could only imagine what he must be thinking.

“Come on, Ron, speak up.”  Another voice, but she
couldn’t identify this one.  Not that it mattered, because more joined in.

“What’s that you say?”

“Come again?”

“You’re going to have to speak louder than that.”

The lines were feeble attempts at humour, but they seemed to
be getting the laughs.  More importantly, they seemed to be hitting
home.  Their target was backing away, his glass wavering in his hand, the
contents slopping over the sides and on to the floor.

Norma couldn’t help but compare this to the previous
lunchtime when Colin Gates had come in and been taunted.  Although that
wasn’t acceptable either, she could kind of understand that.  Colin wasn’t
a regular in the pub, wasn’t part of the crowd.  But this was
different.  There was no obvious reason for his friends to suddenly turn
on him like this.

Andy was working the bar with her again tonight. 
Whereas Norma was frozen in place, stunned at the shock of what was happening,
Andy was already out from behind the bar, and heading towards Ron.

“Come on, Ron, you can speak louder than that.”  Neil
Thatcher again.  Clearly, neither variety nor originality were among his
strengths.  But that didn’t make the words any easier to take.  Ron
suddenly turned, the motion half-emptying his glass.  As some of the beer
splashed on to his hand, he glanced down as if he had just become aware of
it.  He leaned over and put it down on the nearest table.  Still
considerate, not wanting to cause any more mess than he had to.  Andy
reached him as he began to move forward.  His offered hand was slapped to
one side as Ron pushed past him.

“Go on, you
cunt
!  Run off
home to your other freaky mates!”  From Neil again.  Norma flashed
him a look, but he ignored it, watching Ron until he disappeared through the
door.

For a long moment, silence fell over the pub. 
Uncomfortable glances were exchanged.  Awkward attempts were made to sip
from glasses.  Then a cue ball cracked against another, and everything
returned to normal.

Back behind the bar, Andy gave her a bewildered look. 
She didn’t know what to say.  Then two strangers walked in and the spell
was broken.

As she prepared their drinks, she studied them both. 
Surreptitiously, of course.

The man on the right had dark hair, long enough to cover his
ears and most of the back of his neck.  His eyes were blue, similar to
Paul Newman’s.  Though that was as far as the resemblance went.  His
face was thin and long, a narrow nose only adding to the effect. 
Underneath his thick round-necked jumper, his body looked appropriately slight. 
Bony wrists and hands protruded from the sleeves.  Even the thick hair
that covered the backs of his hands did nothing to hide his skinniness.

Beside him, his companion was quite different.  His head
was completely hairless, and from what little more of his flesh she could see,
she guessed the rest of him must be in a fairly similar state.  A thick
neck supported his head.  He wore an open-necked shirt, and she couldn’t
imagine he’d ever be comfortable in one that was buttoned up.  No matter
how large the collar size, it would be a tight fit.  As, indeed, was the
rest of his shirt, as it bulged over his arms and chest.  He reminded her
of one of the stereotypical henchmen from a 1960s spy movie, only bigger. 
He wasn’t as tall as Adam Hawthorn, but you certainly knew he was there.

Stereotyping was clearly inappropriate, though.  From
their appearance she would have expected them to ask for hard drinks: Scotch –
either neat or on the rocks – or maybe Jack Daniels.  Whisky of any kind
would have fit with her expectations.  Not Britvic Orange.  The
grateful smiles also surprised her.

Not that she had long to dwell on it.  The moment they
had their drinks, she was presented with a pint glass by Walter.  As she
started to refill it, she glanced up to see where they went, and noted they
were heading towards a table close to the door.

In the mean time, the few men standing at the bar had
resumed the conversations they’d been having before the outburst from Neil
Thatcher and his mates.  Already, darts was underway again.  A young
lad was thumping the cigarette machine.  She guessed he was after twenty
Rothmans because that drawer always stuck.

All of this was taken in as she attended to Walter.  It
was as if nothing had happened. 
Were
she and
Andy the only ones who’d seen what had happened?  Or were they
hallucinating?  She glanced across at him, but he was already busy again.

It briefly crossed her mind to go and find Ron, make sure he
was all right.  But he would probably be home by now.  Of course,
that could mean his father, Derek, would be down soon.  Quite rightly,
he’d want to know what had gone on.  Then again, there
was
only
Derek at home.  Ron’s mother had died a long time ago.  Certainly
before Norma moved to the village.  There was another son, but Steve lived
at the other end of the village.  She rarely saw him, so didn’t know
whether he would be around to look after Ron.  So Derek might feel it was
more important to stay at home and look after his son.  Norma could only
hope he took that option, because she hadn’t got a clue what to tell him.

When the door opened ten minutes later, she assumed the
worst.  The group of regulars milling about blocked her view, so she
couldn’t tell who it was for sure.  Then he was at the bar, and she felt
her heart sink.

“I’ll just have a pint of lager,” he said, his voice
level.  There was nothing in it to show how he was feeling.

“Any particular...?”  She gestured to the different
taps.

“Doesn’t matter.  I’m not a connoisseur.”

He turned to look round the bar area while she drew his
pint.  She thought he was looking for someone.  Didn’t know
who.  He’d seemed happy enough with his own company yesterday lunchtime.

Yesterday lunchtime.
  The last time a customer
had been picked on.  And she realised that was why she had felt so bad
when she realised it was him.  Twice in two days she’d seen one of the
less fortunate of the villagers being treated like shit.  And Martin Gates
had been close by both times.

Even as she thought it, she dismissed it as
irrational.  He’d actually stopped things getting out of hand with
Colin.  And he’d not even been here when the lads had started on
Ron.  Still, as she’d told the policeman this morning when he’d come back
from inspecting the dog, there was something happening in the village. 
And it seemed to have started when Martin turned up.  The funny thing was,
from Linda Payne’s reaction, it was as if whatever that something was, it was
something she had been waiting for.

Just as she placed the glass in front of Martin, two other
men arrived at the bar.

“You timed that right.  Were you waiting for me so I’d
get the first round in?”  The tone was humorous, not at all out of place
in a pub, where taking the piss was not only accepted, it was almost
mandatory.  But neither Patrick nor Matthew seemed to appreciate the joke.

“We can buy our own.”  Patrick was abrupt to a point
well beyond rudeness.  Norma couldn’t help but wonder what it was that
Martin had done to cause his father and brother to want so much to be without
him.

She half-expected him to protest and insist that he buy
their drinks.  It was part of pub etiquette.  Instead, he shrugged,
winked at Norma conspiratorially – though she had no idea why – and headed
towards the window and an empty table.  Father and brother followed him a
couple of minutes later.

Convinced that things couldn’t get any stranger, within a
few minutes Norma realised that you could never assume anything, when she
turned to find Adam Hawthorn smiling down at her.

“You wanted to see us.”  It was both a statement and a
question.  The fact that Matthew said it at all spoke volumes.

If he had understood his feelings, Martin would probably
have hidden them.  But he didn’t know whether to be saddened, dejected or
angry.  So he hid his confusion instead.

He had been down to the cottages this afternoon.  You
could hardly say the policeman had been satisfied with his answers earlier, but
he had nothing he could pin on Martin, so after another twenty minutes of fruitless
questioning he’d gone.  Five minutes later, Martin had been out the door
and on the way to see his father and brother.  He hadn’t expected them to
want to talk to him there and then.  But he was left stumbling over his
words when they said he wasn’t to come to the house again.  Their
agreement to meet him in the pub this evening was clearly a reluctant
compromise on their part.  And Matthew’s words now underlined the fact.

Glancing round the pub, Martin reflected that this was
hardly the ideal environment for the conversation he wanted to have with
them.  That needed privacy.  Even though the other people in the pub
seemed to be otherwise occupied, it wouldn’t take much to grab their attention:
a slightly raised voice, a badly chosen phrase – or a grown man crying.

As he scanned the room, he noticed two men sitting near the
back door.  The man with the bald head was scanning the room.  It
seemed to be a fairly innocent activity, as if it was simply idle
curiosity.  Indeed, it could well have been, but Martin wasn’t so
sure.  He recognised him from his visit to the apparently unoccupied farm
this morning.

Very briefly, the man’s eyes flickered to his right. 
Martin followed his gaze and saw two more people he recognised from the farm.

The tall man was moving away from the bar, looking for a
seat.  Behind him, the woman he’d also seen at the farm came into
view.  They both seemed to attract some attention.  It was supposed
to be surreptitious, but he guessed none of the regulars had any experience of
surveillance work.  Still he could understand why they were so
interested.  Both the man and the woman were striking.  Obviously
their height made them stand out, but there was more than that.  They
seemed to exude...something.  He didn’t know what, couldn’t put his finger
on it.  But they certainly had a presence about them.

And the girl.  Well, he was struck once more by her
appearance.  Not exactly girl-next-door, but no beauty queen either. 
He struggled to find the right words for her. 
Something
came to
mind again, and he knew it was more than inadequate.  The way she moved
was so natural – why wouldn’t it be?  There was no awkwardness, no
self-consciousness.  Even in a room that was devoid of any other female,
where most women would be very aware that they could be the centre of male
attention, whether they wanted it or not, she seemed to be completely oblivious
of the interest she was provoking.

They found a table close to the back door, and began talking
animatedly as soon as they sat down.  Martin felt a pang of envy.

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”  It was Matthew
again.

“Just looking,” he replied, hoping he sounded as nonchalant
as he wanted to.

“If that’s the case, you might as well take your time. 
You won’t see her again.”

He looked at his brother.  “Why do you say that?”

“She’s a Hawthorn.  They live out on the edge of the
village. 
Kindness Farm
.”

Not
Marie Celeste
Farm then
, he thought wryly.

“They don’t come into the village much.  Last time I
saw her must be at least five years ago.”

“So you’re saying I’ll need to stay for another five years
to see her again?”

That comment brought sharp looks from both of them.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Matthew said.  “Even if they do
come into the village, they don’t mix.”

“Keep themselves to themselves?”  Martin couldn’t help
but smile as he said it.  “They probably fit in very well here then.”

From the stony looks he got from them, his sense of humour
clearly wasn’t catching.

“
Kindness Farm
?  That’s an odd name, isn’t it?”

“Never thought about it, to be honest.  It’s just
always been there.”

“And when it’s always been there, you don’t notice,” Martin
finished for him.  Then added: “But I don’t remember it.”

The expressions on their faces told him they weren’t
bothered whether he did or not.

“You wanted to see us,” Matthew repeated.  Martin was
pleased to note that, this time, there wasn’t quite as hard an edge to his
voice as there had been before.  Perhaps the distraction of the Hawthorn
girl had worked to his advantage.

“We need to talk.”

“So you said, and that’s why we’re here.”

“I mean,
really
talk.  Somewhere a bit less
public.”

The glances that passed between Matthew and Patrick told him
that they weren’t comfortable about that.

“Why do you think that’s necessary?”  It was still
Matthew doing the talking.  His father seemed to be happy to take a back
seat for the moment.

“More importantly, why do I get the impression you think
it’s a bad idea?”  Martin kept his voice low, but the emphasis on his
words was firm enough for the others to recognise his frustration.  And,
again, he could tell that this only served to make them more wary. 
Patrick obviously didn’t want to commit himself to any comment.  Matthew
just looked at him, unseen cogs spinning furiously inside his head.

Silence is uncomfortable.  Even when there’s the
background noise of chatter, clinking glasses, and balls cracking against each
other on a pool table.  That silence stretching out between a small group
of people can still feel very awkward.  But Martin was okay with
uncomfortable and awkward.  He let it sit there, waiting for the first one
to break.

It turned out to be Patrick.  “It was a bad idea for
you to come back.”

“Any particular reason why?”

More exchanged looks, another silence, though briefer this
time.

“You’ve been away for a long time...” Matthew taking up the
reins again.  But his voice tailed off, as if he recognised the
irrelevance of his own words.

“You’re right.  I have.  And it’s not exactly been
the welcome of the Prodigal Son, has it?”

“What do you expect, Martin?  You disappear for fifteen
years.  No letter, no phone call.  Not even a post card to let us
know you’re alive.  And then you turn up unannounced.  Did you think
we’d just greet you with open arms?”  Matthew had also managed to speak quietly
enough not to attract any attention from anyone else in the pub.

“No I didn’t.  But I also didn’t expect to be shunned.”

“Shunned?  We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Grudgingly,” Martin pointed out, “and only to stop me from
going to the house.  Because you two are here, but no one else.  My
own mother doesn’t even want to see me.”

“That’s not true.”

Martin was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine hurt
in his father’s voice.  Both he and Matthew looked at Patrick, waiting for
more of an explanation.  But nothing came.  He just shook his head.

“Come on, Dad,” Martin urged.  “You’ve got to give me
more than that.”  He waited a few seconds for a response, but with none
forthcoming, he decided to push harder.  “Let’s face it, considering
you’re my parents, neither of you really wanted me around.  Why do you
think I left?”

Patrick looked down at his pint, apparently deep in
thought.  He shook his head again after a few moments.  “That’s not
true either,” he said, his eyes still focused on the beer.  There was a
tremor to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“So explain that to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Still apparently unable to face him, Patrick shook his head
for a third time.  “I just can’t.”  Abruptly, he stood up, his pint
untouched on the table.  He looked at Matthew.  Martin saw pleading
in his eyes.  His brother responded to it, standing as well.

“Please tell me this is a joke.”  Martin wanted them to
know he was exasperated, and made sure that came across in his tone.

Matthew gave him a shrug.  It was the closest to
empathy he’d experienced since he’d first seen them.  But that was all he
gave away.  Patrick had already turned and was heading for the door.

“We need to talk.”  But even as he said it, he knew he
was wasting his time.  Matthew was following their father, and this
opportunity was slipping through his fingers.  He could call out.  He
could make a scene.  But that wasn’t what he wanted, and it wouldn’t help
his cause.  Instead, he watched the pair of them push their way through to
the door.

Frustrated and angry, Martin looked down at the three
untouched pints on the table.  He didn’t know whether to drink them and
drown his sorrows, or hurl them at a wall and hope it would ease some of the
tension he was feeling.

He compromised, and decided to drink some of his own beer.