Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  Crispin grinned. 'Yeah, maybe.'

  It was, in fact, nearer fifteen minutes before he was able to get away from the man, by which time the meaning of Crispin's obscure remark had been made very clear. The group leader, though pleasant enough, suffered from acute verbal diarrhoea and Linc had to resort to looking at his watch and exclaiming theatrically that he had to be somewhere else. Returning to the main hall, he edged round the dancers and paused beside his brother.

  'You could have warned me!' he bellowed, and Crispin laughed, then raised an eyebrow and nodded significantly. Linc looked over his shoulder and spotted the talkative man on the far side of the room, scanning the crowd as if searching for someone.

  'Oh, Lord!' he groaned. He turned his back, hoping he hadn't been seen, and picked up his cup of punch. He would have had difficulty in saying what had gone into the reddish liquid; fruit juice, certainly, and at least one source of alcohol, but there were undertones of something else that he couldn't identify, too. He became aware of Nikki watching him anxiously and smiled at her. 'That's great!' he mouthed. 'What's in it?'

  'Secret recipe,' she told him, beaming happily. 'My dad used to make it. How long can you stay?'

  Linc looked at his watch and then held one hand up, fingers spread to signify five minutes.

  Nikki's mother had come out of the kitchen now and was standing beside her, regarding Linc with a look that could have curdled milk. He wondered if she was ever going to forgive and forget and then, in progression, decided that he really didn't care, just as long as she soon went back to Surrey and remained there.

  After a couple more minutes, he wearied of battling against the noise to try and make conversation with Crispin, and seeing the volunteer leader heading his way, took a last swig of the boozy, fruity concoction, put the cup down, waved and made for the door.

  The air outside was wonderfully cool after the crowded hall, and even the light drizzle felt refreshing. He headed for the Morgan, gratefully leaving the noise behind him and reflecting that he was getting too old for discos. Across the car park, a man sat at the wheel of a car. Thinking he looked vaguely familiar, Linc raised a hand in greeting. The other man responded by rudely turning his head away.

  'Suit yourself,' Linc muttered under his breath.

  Lowering himself into his car, he slammed the door, shaking the raindrops off the fabric roof. For a moment he just sat, feeling all of a sudden weary and a little light-headed. He wondered if he'd hit his head when he fell off Hobo that morning, but didn't think he had.

  'Food. That's what I need,' he told himself firmly, and turned the key in the ignition. What with riding at the hunter trial that morning and the drama of his father's accident – if accident it had been – he hadn't had much time for eating, and by late-afternoon, when he had begun to feel really hungry, his dinner date with Josie was only an hour or two away.

  He reversed out of the parking space, giving himself a shock as he nearly scraped a neighbouring vehicle.

  That wasn't like him; he prided himself on being a good driver. He hoped the rude man hadn't noticed. With extra care he swung the Morgan round and headed for the exit, where he stopped for a moment, trying to remember which way he needed to go.

  Josie. That was it. He was on his way to pick Josie up. All in all, he thought it might be an idea to beg a cup of sweet coffee at the Vicarage before they set out. It seemed his blood sugar was pretty low. He felt decidedly muzzy.

  The car stalled, and he blinked and shook his head to clear it. He was getting nowhere fast. Taking a deep breath, he started the engine once more and drove out into the lane. In spite of the light rain, a gleam of evening sunlight was slanting through the trees, flashing intermittently into his eyes with a hypnotic effect. He reached into the glove shelf for his sunglasses and put them on.

  That was better.

  Soothing.

  He closed his eyes for a moment against the growing turmoil in his head; too befuddled even to wonder what was causing it.

  The strident blare of a car horn made him jump and his eyes snapped open as the vehicle swished by. Over-reacting, he steered left and the Morgan bumped up on to the verge for a few yards, scraping its undercarriage, before regaining the road.

  His vision was a swirling pattern of light and dark, breathing was an effort and his stomach felt ghastly.

  Home.

  Farthingscourt.

  He knew that was where he should go, but try as he might he couldn't keep his eyes open. He put his foot on the brake as a sensation of overwhelming drowsiness came over him and he began to slide into a bottomless, dark pit.

  A bell was chiming.

  Each strike of the clapper sent a red-hot pain through Linc's skull.

  He groaned and someone spoke, but it sounded distant and distorted, like a voice underwater. He couldn't make out any words and couldn't be bothered to try.

  He felt suddenly urgently sick and retched, the effort pulling his head towards his knees. Instantly, hands grasped him and his world turned upside down. Blackness closed in once more.

  Running water; a stream or a fountain.

  Linc forced his eyes to open a millimetre or so. The water was white and swirling. It filled his vision, sparkling with reflected light. It was blinding; it hurt. He shut his eyes.

  Nausea rose and he retched dryly. His stomach was empty, except for the burning, and that wouldn't budge.

  He seemed to be bent over. Something hard was pressing against his chest but when he tried to move, to ease the discomfort, his muscles refused to obey.

  He groaned once more, the sound barely audible, and was rewarded by the return of the nightmarish, echoey voices. The unseen hands pulled him upright but his head lolled forward out of his control, until another gentle hand lifted his chin.

  Upright wasn't good. What little he could see under his half-closed eyelids tilted and swam, and the voices faded once more.

  Crispin was sitting beside Linc's bed.

  Actually it was somebody else's bed, not his. The ceiling was lower in his own bedroom and slanted down to meet the wall. This one was much higher; was it Crispin's room, perhaps? Linc couldn't recall what the upstairs rooms were like in the North Lodge cottage.

  He rolled his eyes to bring his brother into view once more. He was looking away, towards the window, apparently lost in thought. It appeared to be daylight outside.

  'Hey, Bro,' Linc said. At least, that was his intention. In reality, all he made was a whisper and the discovery that his throat was very sore.

  It was enough to get Crispin's attention.

  'Linc! Wow, finally! I thought you were going to sleep for a week. How d'you feel? No. Scrap that. Silly question.'

  'Very silly,' Linc croaked. He glanced up at the ceiling again. 'Where am I?'

  'Er, I think it's Abby's room,' Crispin told him. 'I think that's what they said.'

  Linc frowned. 'The Vicarage?'

  'Yeah, of course. My God! You were out of it, weren't you? Sandy brought you here.'

  Sandy? Why Sandy of all people? Linc tried to make sense of it but couldn't. The effort made his head pound.

  'What time is it?'

  Crispin put his hands behind his neck and arched his back, stretching the muscles. 'Nearly nine o'clock. I've been here for ages. Ever since you stopped throwing up in the kitchen sink – about one o'clock, I think that was.'

  Linc frowned again. 'I don't remember that.'

  'Then you're the lucky one!' his brother said with feeling. 'I shan't forget it in a hurry, I can tell you. It was grim!'

  'The kitchen sink?' Linc's lip curled in distaste.

  ''Fraid so. We didn't have time to get you any further.'

  'We?'

  'Me, Sandy, and the doctor . . .'

  'Doctor Small?'

  'No. The doctor on call. Can't remember his name. Came from miles away. Apparently Josie called him when she called me, soon after Sandy brought you in, but he didn't get here until nearly midnight.'

&nbs
p; 'Oh, God! Josie?'

  'Yeah. You're certainly putting that relationship to the test! She's quite a girl, though! And her sister, Ruth. You'll be relieved to know that the parents were out, at the hospital, I gather.'

  Linc was silent for a moment, horrified at the picture Crispin was painting. He became aware that his brother was regarding him oddly.

  'The doctor asked us if you could have taken anything – you know, drugs and stuff. He thought it might be an overdose at first. We said absolutely not.' He paused awkwardly. 'You didn't, did you?'

  'You have to ask?' Linc was momentarily hurt but then reason reasserted itself. What with university and then his moving away, he and Crispin hadn't seen a lot of each other as adults until five months ago. Could Linc really blame him for a moment's doubt? How well did they actually know one another?

  'No. That's what we said,' Crispin said, looking relieved. 'I'm not sure he believed us, though. He took a blood sample and was making noises about carting you off to hospital at one point. I think he was in a bit of a panic because he hadn't got here sooner. Not that it was his fault, poor bloke. He was on the other side of the county, and as far as he knew you were just drunk.'

  Linc was feeling a little better now. He manoeuvred himself up into a sitting position, which made the muscles in his arms, shoulders and stomach feel as though he'd just put them through a stiff workout. After spinning a time or two, his head settled to a heavy ache, and he felt as weak as a cat. Somewhere along the line, someone had changed him into a pair of pyjama bottoms.

  Crispin watched the discovery, and grinned. 'Don't worry, I did that. So what did happen to you? You seemed okay when you left the party.'

  Linc tried to think back, but all that came to him was an assortment of muddled images. He vaguely recalled riding Hobo at a hunter trial, and his father in bed with his head bandaged. When had that been?

  'I don't remember a party,' he admitted finally. 'I don't remember anything. It's scary.'

  'Well, you only stayed for twenty minutes or so, and you certainly weren't drunk when you left. You'd only had a cupful of punch and left half of that. That would have been about eightish. According to Sandy, it couldn't have been later than quarter-past when he found you.'

  Linc shook his head helplessly. 'I don't remember any of it,' he repeated. 'Could someone have put something in my drink? Who was there?'

  'Just the conservation group and a few youngsters from the village,' Crispin said. 'I can't imagine any of them doing something like that. I mean, it wasn't just a case of getting a bit tipsy. You were really bad there for a while.'

  Linc looked broodingly at the bright squares of the window and something Crispin had said earlier came back to him with a jolt.

  'Nine o'clock! What day is it?'

  'Sunday.'

  'Oh, God! I should get home. It'll be time to open . . .' His voice faded. 'Does he know?'

  'Dad?' Crispin shook his head. 'No. I almost called him, but once you were through the worst I thought it best not. If he asks, just say you had one too many and stopped over here. I'll back that up and so will Nikki.'

  'Thanks.' Linc was sincerely grateful.

  'Anything for a quiet life.'

  'Amen to that.'

  The door opened softly and Josie peered round it.

  'Oh. You're awake. How're you feeling?'

  'Much better now, thanks.' He hesitated, half-embarrassed. 'Josie – I'm so sorry about all this. I don't know what happened, I can't remember a thing. From what Crispin says, I've been the house-guest from hell!'

  'It was pretty terrifying,' she admitted. 'The doctor was ages coming. I rang him twice. He just said to keep an eye on you, and that you'd probably sleep it off. But I wasn't sure about that. It wasn't normal sleep. Your breathing was so shallow and we couldn't begin to wake you. I was on the verge of calling an ambulance when he finally turned up. I was never more thankful to see anyone in my life!'

  'I'm sorry,' Linc repeated. 'Crispin says Sandy brought me here. How on earth did that happen?'

  Josie sat on the end of the bed. 'He knew Mum and Dad were going to be out and was on his way here with a video and a bottle of wine to keep Ruth company while she was babysitting. He says he found you in your car on the side of the road near the bridge. You know, where we stopped the other day.'

  She looked enquiringly at Linc, who shook his head.

  'I still don't remember.'

  'Well, apparently you were pretty lucky. He said if the car had rolled forward another couple of feet you'd have ended up in the stream like old River Joe. Anyway, Sandy said it would have been a struggle to get you into his car, so he drove you here in the Morgan.'

  'I wouldn't have given much for your chances if you had gone that extra yard,' Crispin observed mordantly. 'If your car had tipped over like River Joe's pick-up, that soft top wouldn't have been much protection.'

  There was a moment of thoughtful silence and then Josie said, 'The doctor thought you might have OD'd. When you started to be sick, he said it was probably a good thing. Crispin says you weren't drinking. Was it something you ate?'

  'Linc wonders if someone slipped him a Mickey,' Crispin put in.

  'It was bloody stupid, if they did!' Josie said explosively. 'Who? And for that matter, why?'

  Linc sighed. 'That's where the theory falls short,' he admitted.

  'Well, if they did, they ought to be brought to book for it. You could have been killed. I hope you're going to report it.'

  A vision of DI Rockley armed with his pocketbook flashed into Linc's weary brain and he shrank from the prospect. 'Oh, not again!' he protested, rubbing his aching forehead.

  'But you must!'

  'I really think she's right,' Crispin added.

  Linc gave in. 'All right. I'll do it on the way home.' He flipped back the duvet, prior to getting out. 'Er . . . what happened to my clothes?'

  Sunday at Farthingscourt had to be got through. In spite of Josie's protestations that he should stay in bed for the day and see the doctor again, Crispin drove Linc home via the police station, to arrive only a short while after the doors opened to the public at ten-thirty.

  He had a cool shower, which did little to improve the fog that hung over his brain, and trudged through the first part of the day feeling as though he had a massive hangover. His father, who he saw briefly early on, appeared to notice nothing amiss but, coming into the office a little later, Mary looked hard at him and asked if he'd had a bad night.

  'Yeah, a bit rough,' he told her.

  'Too much to drink?' she asked, with what seemed to be genuine sympathy, even though Linc couldn't imagine her ever having been the worse for wear.

  'Something like that,' he said, wishing it were as simple as that. With his brain only capable of operating at maintenance level, he had not attempted to sort out the implications of the previous night's events.

  'Mmm. I saw you sneak back in this morning, but I don't think your father noticed. He's still preoccupied with what happened yesterday.'

  'Yesterday?'

  'The Range-Rover . . . Don't tell me you've forgotten! Gosh, it must have been a heavy night!'

  'Of course. Sorry.'