by P L Kane
‘An’ I’ve always been a man of action anyway!’
The gun was lowering again, and Mitch was calculating his chances of reaching the bigger man, disarming him, then taking him down. They weren’t good.
‘I never did nothin’,’ snapped Granger, sounding like a street punk he’d just nabbed for graffitiing public property. Mitch thought about saying that was a double negative, which only compounded his guilt, but figured he might be pushing his luck.
‘I saw you,’ Mitch repeated.
‘How could you when I weren’t there when he was burned?’
‘Who said he was burned?’ asked Mitch. ‘If you weren’t there, how did you know that?’
‘Was in the shop this mornin’,’ Granger retorted, but only after thinking about it for a moment. ‘Talk of the village, it is.’
‘Okay.’ That was fair enough, it almost certainly would be. Look at all the people who’d gathered after it had happened. Most of Green Acres, Mitch guessed. Even if Granger hadn’t been there earlier, he probably would have heard about it. That proved nothing, and when it came to Mitch’s claim that he’d seen him, it was just his word against the farmer’s. A stranger’s word against a local’s. ‘So, what’re you doing with those?’
Granger’s eyes flitted over to where Mitch was nodding, at the petrol cans he’d spotted before. ‘They’re for Bessie,’ the farmer explained, chuckling. When Mitch frowned, he went on. ‘How d’you think I top ’er up?’ Now he thumbed back towards the tractor he’d been driving when Mitch first encountered him on the road, when he’d almost run into him. It was only what he’d expected the man to say, and it was a decent explanation. Mitch had nothing on him really, apart from the evidence of his own eyes. If he could get hold of the man’s clothes, then perhaps there’d be something on it that— ‘I asked yer a question: what d’yer think yer doin’ here?’
He’d made his allegations and this man had swatted them with the ease of someone killing a fly with a newspaper. So Mitch tried something else instead: ‘What’s your connection to the Commune, Granger?’
‘The Commune?’
Mitch nodded. ‘I think you know what I’m talking about. What they’re up to.’ It was just vague enough to perhaps get an answer. And that had been his first thought, hadn’t it? The Commune, the cult. Using fire? Until he saw Granger fleeing the scene. Which meant one of two things, either he was mixed up with them somehow, in spite of his comments about trespassers. Maybe that’s how he came into contact with them in the first place? Had he been brainwashed, all farmers in it together, back to nature? Either that, or he was just trying to make it look like them – put the blame on them for Sheldon. A convenient scapegoat for getting rid of a nuisance? Whatever way you cut it, Granger was in this up to his neck; Mitch just knew he was! What he didn’t know was what it had to do with his dad. ‘Something’s going on here. Has been for a while, I reckon. Something involving my father.’
‘Father?’
‘Thomas Prescott.’
‘Yer don’t know what yer talkin’ about, boy,’ the farmer threw back, but Mitch noted the way a muscle in that ruddy cheek twitched at the mention of his dad’s name.
‘Did you kill him too? Set fire to him like you did Sheldon? Or was that them? Your friends? Why? What possible reason could … A defenceless man who didn’t know what he was doing?’
Another chuckle from Granger at this.
‘You think that’s funny? My dad’s dead and you think it’s funny?’
‘I’m glad yer dad’s dead,’ spat Granger.
‘What?’ Mitch couldn’t believe his ears. ‘What did you just say?’
‘You ’eard me. I’m glad he’s dead.’
‘Why you—’ Mitch lunged at Granger, not even thinking about the gun now, which had practically been lowered completely. But it was raised again in moments and he had to stop in his tracks.
‘Yer trespassing, boy! I’d be well within me rights to blow yer brains all over that barn door,’ growled Granger. That calm and collected killer speaking once more. Mitch was still tempted to rush him, gamble that he could reach the weapon before Granger could fire it – grab the barrel and shove it backwards. Shove it into that ruddy, sideburned face. Make it even more red than it was by smashing his nose to pieces. Yeah, sure, he was trespassing, but this guy murdered Sheldon – Mitch had never been so sure about anything in his life – and he’d all but confessed to the killing of his father, hadn’t he? Wasn’t it time for a bit of payback, some retribution of his own?
Before either of them could do anything, there came a voice. ‘Cam! Cameron Granger, put that blessed thing down!’ Mitch glanced sideways and saw a woman rushing towards them. She was the opposite of Granger, tiny in fact, wearing a plain dress with an apron tied around it – and she’d come from the direction of the farmhouse just a little further up that dirt track. Mitch had no idea why he’d thought Granger was on his own up here out of the way, a widower even – hadn’t someone said that: Nuttall, his aunty? – but she was definitely acting like she was married to the guy.
‘Caught ’im skulking around, Ellie. Figured I’d give him a little reminder of his visit.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the kind, Cam. And you know why.’ She looked over at Mitch and apologized. ‘My brother gets like this sometimes, het up about things.’ It was what the landlord of The Plough had said too, excusing this man’s behaviour on that night as well. Another relation?
‘Brother …?’ said Mitch.
‘Good day, brother!’
‘Brothers!’
‘Aye, my thick-headed brother!’ She reached up as high as she could, which really wasn’t that high, and slapped him on the side. Mitch winced, expecting the shotgun to go off by accident. But instead, Granger shifted it across, pointing it away from Mitch, who let out a sigh of relief. He thought then about resuming what he’d been in the middle of, going for this giant because of what he’d said about his dad. Somehow that didn’t seem appropriate now his sister had arrived, and since she’d probably saved him from that ‘reminder’ Cam Granger had been talking about.
There were other figures heading their way too, from the fields. Granger’s workers perhaps, the people Mitch had thought might lie in wait for him after what he’d done to break up the fight with Neil Sheldon in the pub? His backup? More people who had connections to the Commune perhaps (a couple of them were even wearing those bloody cream clothes; had they just conveniently wandered on to his land?). They might even be the people who’d broken into the house that night, or thrown the rock? But Mitch didn’t really want to hang around now to find out.
‘He is right, mind. You are trespassing,’ said the woman, which only convinced him more that it was time to make himself scarce. Though some trespassers were apparently more welcome than others: the ‘hippy’ kind.
Mitch held up his hands in a gesture of placation, backing off and turning to leave. ‘I’m going, don’t worry,’ he said. As with the Commune itself, however, he didn’t promise he wouldn’t be back. That he wouldn’t be keeping an eye on Granger. After all, he wouldn’t be hard to find.
Mitch knew where this man – this killer – lived.
PART THREE
Farming in Green Acres has changed dramatically over the years, from the original tilling of fields by hand to the use of horse-drawn ploughs and then machinery, which made life easier for the average farmer in general. Naturally, not all change has been positive and depending on the farmer in question this has led to diversification in the form of renting out land, sometimes for the storage of caravans or other holidaying experiences, or even – in extreme cases – selling it off for the development of housing.
Perhaps understandably, this tends to be a last resort for many, who are reluctant to part with their property and cherished inheritances.
Chapter 24
She had nowhere to live.
Not now. And no choice but to rely on the one man Bella hadn’t wanted to bother. The man, actuall
y, who’d saved her when things had escalated. Who’d been so concerned, having not heard a thing from her since the beach, that he’d called one night after work and had been knocking on her door. It had sounded so far away, and she’d had no energy to answer. Couldn’t even make it from the bed to the door to open it, or even shout, call to let him know she was okay. Had she been okay, though? Not even close.
The knocking had stopped and she’d assumed he’d gone away again, that he’d figured she was out somewhere. But she hadn’t banked on how tenacious Ashley Watts was when he’d got the bit between his teeth. Like a dog with a bone, and a good job too because if it wasn’t for him …
Bella had become lost, the pains in her head so far beyond agony that it felt like numbness really, like being drugged or something, slipping into unconsciousness. Every movement was too much effort, even when she woke up and heard the noises out there again in the caravan. The scratching and creaking, footsteps, people in there violating her home. Real, or not real? She couldn’t tell the difference anymore, not since she’d seen the person out there through the window. The person who’d been standing around on fire, lit up like a Christmas tree, only to vanish when she went out to help.
The noises though: so loud! Banging around, voices not even trying to whisper this time, so thunderous they were stopping her from sleeping. Or was she still asleep? Bella had no idea. Nightmares, waking nightmares. Reality. Shifting planes, intersecting.
Had she even made it out into the main body of the caravan, seen the shadowy figures there? One minute she’d been in bed, then—
Had she seen the fire they were dancing round, celebrating, those hooded figures? They certainly looked like they were here, with her, in her home. She could feel the vibrations when they moved, the rocking of the van. Could smell the smoke, hear the crackling of those flames. And the heat, there was definitely heat. Bella could feel that on her arms, her legs. Burning. It was burning up her home, burning her up too – even as she fell and crawled around on her hands and knees.
Then the door was being bashed in, someone off to the side of her. Coughing, she could hear coughing – was it her? – and feel hands grabbing at her. Those men trying to pull her towards the fire they were dancing round, performing their rituals. Chanting so loudly. So loudly.
No, the hands were pulling her in the opposite direction. Away from the men, away from the flames. Pulling her out through the door, down those metal steps. Hands under her armpits, dragging her past her car – that car she’d saved up to buy, which she loved so much – out into the middle of the caravan park itself. Out into the night air, where it was easier to breathe. Slightly.
‘Bella?’ she heard, a soft, kindly voice. Then more urgently: ‘Bella! Bella, are you okay?’
Her eyes had been pouring with water from the smoke, and when the face hoved into view above her she couldn’t make out who it was – or if it was even real. Bella had opened her mouth to answer, then just coughed, rasped. Almost choked. She felt those same hands that had pulled her from the caravan, from the fire, roll her over onto her side: the recovery position.
‘It’s okay, you’ll be all right. The fire brigade’s on its way.’ She recognized that voice, as well. The same one that had been shouting through her door earlier, knocking on it. Ashley Watts. She’d had no idea what he was doing there, not back then. Had no clue that he’d waited in his car, thinking he might catch her when she returned from wherever he thought she was. Then saw the flames, caught sight of movement inside and realized she was still in there. In there with the fire. That’s when he’d called it in, asking not only for the fire department but an ambulance, because there would be casualties. A casualty.
From her place on the ground, on her side, Bella could hear other voices outside; drawn by all the commotion. Her neighbours at the park, folk she didn’t really know that well but made judgements about her on a daily basis. ‘Holy … Is that the witch’s van?’ she heard one female voice say.
‘Shouldn’t even be here, living with us,’ said another, a man this time. ‘A nutcase, she is!’ They all blurred into one, including holidaymakers who were just staying there for a little while during the summer. She heard parents keeping their children safe: ‘The fire, mummy! Look at the fire!’ ‘Come here, Freddie, stay away from that – it’s dangerous!’ Mums and dads keeping their kids safe, and she felt a pang of jealousy. Her mum, long gone. And her dad—
Fire. On fire. Died in a fire, just like she almost had.
If it hadn’t been for Ashley Watts. Dear old Ashley, who’d made the offer on the beach. An offer she’d had to take up finally, because she now had no home. After they’d done with her at Golden Sands’ General – she was fine, just a mild case of smoke inhalation, could have been a lot worse – he’d been there, waiting again.
‘A-Ashley?’
‘Yeah. How’re you feeling?’
Bella hadn’t been able to help it, she’d thrown herself at him, knowing he’d catch her in those hands. The ones that had pulled her, literally, out of the fire. Watts had stood there in the waiting room, holding her as she sobbed; not an unusual sight for a hospital. A place of sorrow and death, as much as it was relief and luck. She’d been lucky, she knew that. If it hadn’t been for Ashley, then—
‘It’s all right,’ he told her, stroking the back of her head. ‘It’s going to be all right.’ Then she’d stood back, tears flooding her eyes for a different reason. But his arms, his hands, were still holding her. Had moved to her shoulders so he could look into those eyes. ‘I promise. Now, let’s get you home, shall we?’
Bella had opened her mouth to say something, to ask if the caravan was all right now then? Had someone used the communal extinguisher, had the fire brigade got to it in time? Managed to save her belongings, such as they were? Didn’t seem likely, but she could hope.
That hope was dashed when Watts had driven her to the opposite end of town, away from the beach. He’d come around and opened the car door for her, helping her out – her legs were still a bit shaky – and led her towards a small block of flats. ‘We’re just in here,’ he said.
Are we? she thought. But where was ‘in here’, exactly? Turned out he’d taken her back to his home, the flat he’d offered to share when they’d walked together what seemed like a million years ago. They’d gone up in the small lift to the second floor, and walked down a corridor to his front door. Ashley had opened it, then waved a hand for her to enter. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he’d told her, but it really wasn’t that bad. A few magazines scattered about, some clothes on the small circular table, dishes in the sink of the adjoining kitchen area. It looked okay to her, probably better than her place did right now. And he’d seen the questioning look on her face at that point. ‘Oh, yeah. Your caravan’s in a bit of a … It’ll need some work, I think. But you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to, Bella. I’ve got most of the streaming services if you want to watch some movies? TV boxsets? Or if you like playing video games, I—’ The look of bafflement she gave him prompted a, ‘Maybe not. Like I said before, though, you can take the bed. I’ll kip on the couch.’
‘I-I can’t take your bed, Ashley,’ she told him, then started coughing again.
‘You can and you will,’ he insisted. ‘Won’t be the first time I’ve had mates staying. One time my friend from school, Bazza, he …’ But she tuned out the rest of the story, the muzziness in her head making it hard to concentrate. Or was it the fact that he’d just called her a ‘mate’? What else did she think they were, of course they were just friends. Ashley Watts was just a kind, very loyal, friend. Not to mention a police officer. A detective sergeant, she reminded herself. Was reminded anyway when he asked, ‘This might not be the right time to broach this – to be honest, I’m not even sure when would be the right time – but can you tell me what happened, Bella?’
She’d shaken her head, then stopped because it hurt to do that. ‘It’s hard to remember. But there were men, Ashley. I think the men, the
figures I saw, came back.’
‘Figures? Bella, I thought there was only one person who’d been in your place? You’re telling me there were more?’ She’d had to confess then, about the people she’d seen – the ones who’d ransacked the caravan the night before she’d last seen him. The ones she thought she’d seen last night, back to start the fire in her home. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.’ He sounded hurt about that, like he thought she didn’t trust him when that was so far from the truth …
‘I was scared, Ashley. I didn’t know what to think.’ They were both on that couch now, Watts having fetched her a glass of water to ease her sore throat. ‘I’m not even sure they’re … I saw something else, not long ago.’
‘Something else?’ he asked, looking at her sideways.
‘I saw, well, I thought I saw someone outside, through the window. They …’ Tears were coming again, as she recalled the figure burning to death in the middle of the park. ‘They looked like they were on fire,’ she said at last.
‘What?’ The disbelief in his voice was palpable. ‘And you didn’t report that? Christ, why didn’t anyone else report it from your site?’
‘That’s just the thing, by the time I got outside they were gone.’
‘Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where?’ His eyebrows were stooping, he was rubbing his chin. Disbelief turning into concern.
‘I-I don’t know, I don’t really understand it. I think I told myself they fell off into—’ Bella was crying freely now, knew how all this sounded even as she was telling him.
The furrows were deepening in his forehead. ‘You don’t think this might be to do with, you know.’ He raised his finger, thought about it, then decided not to tap the side of his head again. ‘The … your … that thing you do?’
That thing, the psychic thing. ‘I told you before, it doesn’t work like that, Ashley.’ She couldn’t help the edge that had crept into her voice, but it was only frustration. ‘The departed talk to me, but I don’t see pictures, images. Anyway, I can’t concentrate enough to hear them at all right now.’