Crook's Hollow

by Rob Parker

‘If I find out you lied to my face,’ Thor said, backing away slightly but retaining eye contact, ‘I’ll be back here. And no amount of beak or booze will be able to numb what I’ll do to you.’

  Jason laughed. ‘You always had a quick gob, but I’ve never seen you try to play hard before. I wouldn’t recommend keeping it up.’

  Head down, Thor walked back up the street to the ginnel to begin the walk back home.

  5

  Thor sat at his usual window table, pen in hand, mobile phone and coffee in front of him. A napkin with a few scrawled notes lay between his hands. The café was empty, in the usual fashion of Sunday mornings. Thor regularly stopped in Maud’s Victorian Tea Shoppe for a cuppa, but never this early, and never on a Sunday. It only added to his disquiet.

  His thoughts were preoccupied and dark, as he wrote down the names of anybody who may have had any kind of motive for attacking him the previous night. The first name down was Jason’s, despite his assertions to the contrary, but he knew a quick fix way of clearing that up. On his mobile, he dialled Kev Thompson’s house. He’d be able to back up Jason’s story in a heartbeat. The phone was answered on its fifth ring.

  ‘Mr. Popular,’ answered Kev, in a voice that sounded decidedly more chipper than Jase’s had earlier.

  ‘I take it that means you and Jase did hang out last night?’ Thor asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Your antics came up. That and some cheap cider and

  Storage Kings.’

  Thor caught the error. ‘He told me Storage Hunters.’

  ‘Kings, hunters, pirates, magnates, it’s all the same. Wheeler dealers trying to make garbage into gold. They all blend into one anyway.’

  Something didn’t fit. Not that he necessarily thought Kev was lying to him. All those crap shows were the same, mixing them up was hardly a smoking gun. But Kev was a tall guy and the guy who attacked him last night was pretty tall too… Could Jase and Kev have worked him over together?

  ‘How tall are you, Kev?’ ‘Six four, why?’

  ‘And you both were at your house last night from midnight onwards?’

  ‘Yes. After you threw him out the pub, me and Jase did indeed commit the terrible crime of sitting at home, drinking cheap cider and watching trash TV. Happy?’

  ‘Delighted.’

  Thor hung up and wrote Kev Thompson’s name on the napkin under Jason’s name. In block capitals at the top of the napkin, he wrote, YOU SHOULD HAVE GOT ON WITH IT. Those words were driving him mad; he had no clue what they meant. But it was supposed to be the last message he’d ever hear.

  He looked out of the window. Cars were heading in the direction of the church. The pull to Sunday-morning service was still strong in the village, even if a few of the middle-left pews had to be avoided, thanks to drips from the holes above.

  Then an idea struck him. Church—that’s why Maud’s was empty.

  And a plan hatched.

  Whoever’d wanted him dead wouldn’t know he’d lived. And if it was someone in the village, there was a fair chance they would be at the Sunday church service. And maybe, if he kicked up a bit of dust and worked out who wasn’t best pleased to see him alive, he’d have a hope in hell of working out whatever it was he should have got on with in the first place.

  Thor was realistic enough to know two things about himself—one, he could be an indignant sod if he put his mind to it. Just ask Jason, and the rest of his own family. And two? As much as he had his grievances with the way he’d been raised, there was one hangover from those times he still believed in. Problems get dealt with in house. No outsiders.

  It was time to be a stubborn bugger and stick his nose in again.

  6

  Church itself, moreover what it embodied and not the pile of old bricks it had become, was never something that motivated Thor. He did, however, respect its position in the order of things in Crook’s Hollow. Weekends came and went as sure as the rain, and just as sure was the fullness of the church on Sunday mornings. Thor had often wondered if adhering to such a routine was down to a genuine belief in the supposed Almighty, or simply that the decades-old rhythm of its tradition had become too ingrained to break.

  The church—this church in particular—was a cornerstone and anchor point for many, and it contributed to so much in the community. Charity, fund-raising, knitting mornings, art classes, youth clubs, bowls tournaments—all encouraged by the church. For whatever reasons people went there, Thor saw its value.

  Which made it all the more strange that this was the first time that Thor had been here in a year. Standing outside the old polished mahogany doors on this grey Sunday morning, he knew exactly why. They were over there, in the car park, clambering out of the old broccoli-green Land Rover Discovery they had had for years. His parents. And eventually, his siblings would appear too. A good old family reunion, he thought.

  Their paths crossed regularly enough in the village, but there was something about the church that made a meeting uncomfortable. It was easy to be distant in the pub or the Sainsbury’s in the next village along; it wasn’t so easy to be so staid and unforgiving in the house of the Lord. Contrition and bridge-building would be expected—where better?

  His mum and dad ambled through the graveyard next to the church, passing Agnes Loxley’s grave and patting the headstone like always. A little reminder from son and daughter-in-law to old Ma Loxley, the long-departed matriarch: we are still here. Life still goes on.

  Bunny Loxley caught sight of him first, and immediately tugged on her husband’s sleeve. Thor found himself waving meekly, just as Wilkes Loxley VII made eye contact with him. The old man’s eyes narrowed beneath his thick brow as if he were struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Bunny was a doughy woman with scraggly grey hair pulled back from her face in a bedraggled ponytail. She had never once worn a shred of makeup; her wide face showed every abundant wrinkle it possessed. She was dressed for church in a long wool coat that she had knitted herself back in the 1970s—same with the bag over her shoulder. Only the muddy Wellington boots were shop bought.

  Wilkes Sr. was a man forged from softening concrete, wrapped in tweed. A behemoth in his earlier years, he now carried a slope in his shoulders that betrayed countless hours working the family farm. He wore a check shirt and a red wool tie. His hair was shoulder length, swept back from a face hard with stubborn angles. He looked like a Viking too proud to retire.

  If Thor had thought about it earlier, he would have put them in these exact outfits. They dressed like this every Sunday, and had done for years.

  Thor felt a vague longing, as if the bridge between the two parties was surely a lot smaller than he’d once thought, and that the events of the last couple of years could surely be swept away. But then he remembered the combine harvester—his own father’s combine harvester—that had been used to try to kill him.

  Thor wondered if the look his father was giving him at that moment was one of surprise—surprise at seeing his son alive. Would Wilkes Sr. try to arrange the death of his own son?

  No time to think. They were upon him.

  ‘Thornton,’ his mother said in her paper-thin voice, reaching a hand up to his cheek. Thor looked at her and smiled meagerly. Despite everything, what kind of man shuns his seventy-year-old mother? ‘It’s very good to see you here.’

  ‘I thought it was about time,’ Thor lied. ‘Wilkes.’ His father put his hands in his pockets stiffly.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure, Thornton? Still pissing away your legacy?’

  Thor was ready for this.

  ‘Just wanted to come to church. You’ve run me off from everywhere else, but this is one of those rare buildings in this village where your influence isn’t the most important. Even though I expect the idea of playing God probably appeals to you.’

  Wilkes iced over, the curls of his long grey hair rippling on his lapels. He looked at Thor with fire in his eyes. ‘Watch your mouth. I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘Wilkes,’ pleade
d Bunny, putting an arm between the two men, separating them not for the first time. It saddened Thor, but he was too charged by the animosity coming off his father. Could this man really have tried to kill him? He decided to just go for it, just get the big question out there.

  ‘You seem surprised to see me, Wilkes.’ Thor tried but could not stare his father down, and the old man knew it.

  ‘I’m always surprised to see you doing anything you are supposed

  to.’

  The words were like water off a duck’s back to Thor. He had heard

  it all before.

  ‘Tell me about the old combine.’

  ‘What? What the hell are you talking about?’

  The confusion in his eyes and voice seemed real enough to Thor. ‘The old combine. Big yellow thing with knives on the front. Where

  is it now?’

  Wilkes Sr.’s face was blank.

  ‘I don’t follow. Why do you want to know about the old harvester?

  We replaced it, you know that.’ ‘Last night. Where were you?’

  Now it was Bunny’s turn to look lost. ‘We were at home, Thornton.

  What’s going on?’

  Thor suddenly realised that there were a few people gawping at them on the path, and he felt the burn on his cheeks. Those looks were everything he hated about this place, that voyeuristic hunger in quietly judging eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, cooling quickly. Nothing could be gained from having it out here and now, in full view of the community and its wagging tongues. Plus, there were other people to take in and consider. Bunny ushered Wilkes Sr. further down the path to the church entrance. His head was bowed in befuddled outrage. Thor would feel

  bad, but the overall arrogance of the man had felt ever less forgivable.

  7

  Thor headed along the weed-choked rose beds, past the onlookers to the other door of the church, down near the altar, which was less often used. His plan was to sit near the front and turn to face everyone when the church was full, and in doing so reveal his survival. I’m still here, fuckers. Then watch for a giveaway—someone uncomfortable or surprised. Or failing that, something to jog his subconscious. He had barely seen his assailant, but maybe, in the fury of the attack, his mind had picked up one or two things about his attacker without his consciously realising it.

  As the side door opened with a monstrous screech, he could see that any hopes of an unobtrusive entrance were dashed. The vicar was standing at the front, watching his amassing congregation, and turned to face Thor as he was blown in noisily by the breeze. Father Malkin couldn’t help but look surprised. He had been the priest in Crook’s Hollow for more than twenty years, and was familiar with the Loxley clan—and thanks to the look on his face, Thor felt sure that Bunny had bent his ear about her concerns for her youngest son. Thor gave a brief wave, and took a seat on the corner of the front pew.

  Malkin came over immediately, walking with soft, measured steps, as if his connection to God was via the grace of his insoles. ‘Thor,’ he said, ‘it’s very nice to see you. Have you been keeping well?’

  There was a twinkle in Malkin’s eye that was either genuine concern or condescension. Thor couldn’t tell which, but his paranoia took a little skip. Was this an eager cover? He dismissed it quickly, but it made him acknowledge awkwardly that the events of the previous evening had got him jumpy and quick to conclusions.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Father. I just remembered it had been a while since I had been here, and I thought today was as good a day as any.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Malkin asked in a lower voice, as if he were somehow sensitive to Thor’s last few hours.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Thor’s gut tightened.

  ‘Your face looks sore,’ said the priest with concern.

  Thor had completely forgotten. In fact, he had got straight up and dressed that morning, and couldn’t even remember looking in the mirror. He was sore as all hell, yes, but his adrenaline and desire to get to the bottom of things had masked it. He must be inkblotting good and purple across parts of his face by now. Maude hadn’t mentioned in the cafe, but then she had always been a private lady. That couldn’t account for his mother not mentioning it though, never mind his father. Hurt welled in Thor, and not just in his face.

  ‘I’m fine, Father. Just a bit of a fall.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure, Thor. If you need an ear, I’m here.’

  A hush had descended as the last stragglers entered the church and sat down. Father Malkin moved to the front, and Thor took his opportunity. He stood and slowly removed his coat before turning around to survey the congregation.

  I’m still here, fuckers. So, who wanted me dead?

  Many sets of eyes fell on him, appraising him. Some were the blank stares of people he didn’t know, some were the curious stares of people he knew to a degree, and some were the harder gazes of people he knew very well.

  He took an inventory of the faces before him.

  His parents’ eyes were fixed on him, Wilkes Sr. with his jaw set obtusely, utterly resolute in his disapproval. Bunny looked at him with an air of sad acceptance, her face pretty much asking the question of what had become of her son while simultaneously answering it with disappointment.

  He could see Barb Dwyer, Jason’s mum, her own eyes now made up back to their normal size. He could see all his siblings and they were all looking at him. He had never felt so aware of himself and his failings as their gazes landed upon him.

  Wilkes Loxley VIII, the eldest Loxley son, now forty and balding but with his father’s indignant brow and jaw, and somehow an even redder face. His wife Theresa sat next to him, their two preteen boys either side of her.

  On the row in front of her was Mercy Loxley, late thirties, eldest sister and perennial spinster. Her hair was a birds-nest tangle the colour and texture of straw. She was not for marrying and anyone who cared to listen knew it. She sat next to Crewe, Thor’s next brother, who in turn sat next to Hollis, a year younger than Crewe. They looked alike except for the fact that Crewe wore a long beard; Hollis had tried to match it but couldn’t, and sported a dangling scruff of wispy strands.

  The three of them were unmarried, but that chain was broken by Rue Turner, née Loxley, who, at thirty-three, was the second youngest before Thor. She sat with a baby in her arms, three blond girls aged four to seven along the row next to her and her husband Barry on the end. He was a big, burly man, not a farmer but still a man of the outdoors and manual labour. As a road worker, he worked all hours God sent him (apart from the ones God set aside for worship, of course) on the never-ending roadworks on the nearby M6, M62, and M56 motorways, all of which helixed themselves inside out in a series of junctions a few miles outside of Crook’s Hollow. With six mouths to feed, including his own, it was no wonder he was a workaholic and today, as always, he looked exhausted and hungover.

  Looking at them like this, he felt more and more like the outcast, the black sheep. He was an accident, he knew that. After Rue, they were not expecting to have another child, but eight years and one botched vasectomy later, Thor came along.

  He caught sight of his boss, Martin Campbell, who threw Thor a confused glance, presumably in response to his injuries. He wore a neat side-parting, wind-fluffed at the back where he hadn’t smoothed it down, and had never been seen without an ironed button-down shirt, today with a Sunday tie. Campbell had served pints to Thor since the day Thor was able to buy them, and more than a few times before. He had always been a straight shooter with Thor, and a fair employer.

  Thor felt as if he could stand no longer, as more eyes turned to him, and he sat down. The service started, and Thor quickly buried himself in his own thoughts.

  The glares he had received from his own family were a mix of pity, disdain, apparent sadness and obvious contempt. He had let them all down, according to their own code of values, but was it enough to kill him? Their own blood? It was a thought that never left him for the duration of the ser
vice, and the more time that went by, the more he began to fear the worst.

  8

  Thor left the church before the last ‘Amen’ had finished echoing in the broken rafters, more confused than ever and definitely in no mood to be confronted by his kin. He wanted relief and a sympathetic ear, and that would only come from his darling Roisin.

  He high-tailed through the graveyard under the darkening sky, patted Ma Loxley without breaking stride, and hopped straight into his decrepit Astra. The key didn’t work, and never had during his time of ownership, but it was such a rusted shit-tip that he never locked it anyway. When he was out of the car park and on the safety of the road, he fumbled his headphones into his ears and called Roisin.

  She answered after four or five rings, and he pictured her stretching her way languidly out of a lie in. He imagined her in her pyjamas, in the tiny bedroom of her caravan, and hoped she would still be in bed by the time he got there. His Roisin: his one-time guilty pleasure, now fast approaching something so much more.

  ‘Good morning, stranger,’ she purred, evidently having caught his name on caller ID.

  ‘You still in bed?’ Thor asked. ‘If not, please get back in it.’

  She laughed with an uninhibited throatiness that was both unbecoming and sexy.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ she said. ‘You coming up?’ ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen that the family is up and at ’em down by the main gate. You OK with that?’

  ‘I’ll slip in the back way. Not all that up for a telling-off this morning.’

  Their relationship, even at this early stage, was a peculiar one. As few people as Thor could manage actually knew about it. Thor would usually be up for the scrap and the argument, but… not today. He just wanted to see her.

  ‘I’ll crack the window, just hop in.’ ‘I’ll be there in five.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere. You’ll know where to find me.’

  Thor smiled at the very thought, but caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. It was the first time he had seen his face since the assault, and no amount of low bedroom lighting could hide how black and blue he was.