Ravens Gathering

by Graeme Cumming

  Martin checked his watch. It was already eight o’clock. He didn’t mind keeping his family waiting, but he didn’t want to make it too long. He’d wait until Tanya had finished eating, and then go. In the mean time, he would take the opportunity to dig a little more. “What are you saying? The house is haunted?”

  Ian chuckled as if at a private joke. “Hardly. Don’t worry. Your sleep won’t be disturbed by any bumps in the night.”

  Maybe not bumps. Martin glanced at Tanya, but she was concentrating on the remains of her chicken.

  “No,” Ian went on, “it’s just the reputation the place has. It was on the market for nearly four years before we bought it. I assumed it was going for a song because of problems in farming. Now I know it was because no one wanted to live in a house where two people had killed themselves.”

  “Is that why the Sullivans wanted to sell? Because of the property’s history?”

  “If it is, they waited a long bloody time,” Tanya pointed out as she put her cutlery neatly together on the plate.

  “It might have been a part of it,” Ian said thoughtfully, ignoring his wife’s comment. “But they obviously needed something extra to push them to do it.” He hesitated, once again casting an eye around the bar. The room had filled a little more while they were eating, but he clearly didn’t see anyone he needed to be careful of. “Paul had an accident.”

  “Do you know, we’ve even had people telling us the farm’s cursed,” Tanya said irritably. “And Paul losing a leg in an accident with a plough was just more evidence of the curse.”

  “Surely it’s an occupational hazard,” Martin ventured. “I mean, I don’t think it’s an everyday event, but there’s a lot of dangerous equipment on farms, so accidents are bound to happen, aren’t they? I’m sure we had a couple of serious injuries while I was living here.”

  “You’re probably right. But it obviously doesn’t stop the rumour-mongers.”

  “And rumours don’t help to sell houses,” Tanya added.

  It was time to leave, but Martin paused for a moment to study Tanya. When he first met her, he had been struck by her attractiveness. There was a sophisticated sexiness about her, and he could still see it. On the outside. But now he could also see the cold and bitter woman inside.

  Nineteen

  From the outside, The Major Oak was beginning to show signs of wear. Even in the orange light from the nearby streetlamps, it wasn’t hard to see paintwork peeling and the cracks in the rendered walls. The windows that looked on to the street were low down, sills below knee level for even the shortest of adults. To the left of the building was the opening that led to the side door. A light fitting had been fixed just above the doorway, but the bulb had blown a while ago, and no one had got around to replacing it. About twenty feet beyond the door, the driveway opened out into the car park at the rear of the property. Exterior lights were still working at the back of the pub, and some of it spilled out to provide some illumination for anyone coming in or out through the side door. Nevertheless, the length of wall between the door and car park was filled with shadows, and it was very easy to simply lean against it and blend in.

  In spite of his height, Adam Hawthorn had the ability to blend in anyway. When Martin Gates had come into the pub with the McLeans, none of them had noticed the tall man sitting quietly in a corner of the room. Nor had they been aware of him watching them. And listening.

  His cue to leave was when Ian McLean dropped his cutlery on the plate. The pint on his table was barely touched. He hoped Norma wouldn’t take offence. He didn’t like alcohol. Ordering the beer had seemed like the most appropriate thing to do in a pub, but he knew he had been clumsy. Not really knowing what to ask for, he had stumbled over his request, and he knew that had drawn more attention to himself than he had wanted. Leaving an almost full glass would have the same effect. He realised that if he had to do it again, he would be better to settle for a soft drink. Fortunately his mistakes had been made before Martin arrived. Getting attention from the landlady was regrettable, but not damaging.

  Summer had passed, yet the evening was still warm. He didn’t know how long he’d have to wait. Probably not long, but at least he wouldn’t be shivering if it did take a while. About five feet beyond the doorway, the wall turned in slightly. The rendering masked the brickwork, of course, but Adam guessed that if it was exposed it would be obvious that this junction was where an extension had been added to the building at some time. Regardless of its reason for being there, it provided excellent additional cover for anyone who didn’t want to be noticed.

  As he’d expected, his wait was no more than ten minutes. During that time, one person had left the pub, and three others had gone in. None of them had been aware they were being watched.

  The second person to leave was Martin. Adam watched him walk the few yards to the street, then turn right. Once he had disappeared from view, Adam gave him another thirty seconds before stepping out of the shadows.

  The main street through the village curved away to the right a little further along. The Post Office was just around the bend, and several hundred yards beyond that was the entrance to Forest Farm. Adam was pretty sure Martin’s destination lay further than that.

  By the time he reached the road, Martin had disappeared from view. Between the pub and the Post Office was an opening that led up to the Lodge Farm nursery and farm shop. It was a wide track, big enough to comfortably allow two vehicles to pass each other. To one side of that was a field that had once been used for pasture, though Bob Lambert seemed to use it simply as a buffer between the rest of his farm and the main road now. It was possible Martin could have hidden himself in that entrance, or against the hedge that bordered the field. He could be lying in wait for Adam.

  But he wasn’t. Not that Adam had expected him to be. By the time he had him in his sights, he was already striding past the entrance to the McLeans’ home, clearly in a hurry.

  Adam crossed the road. A terraced row was on that side. If Martin did happen to look back, he might assume the lone figure was heading for one of those. Being diagonally opposite him also gave Adam a better view.

  It had been over a hundred years since the Sullivan family had first owned the farm. In those days, farming machinery was limited and they had been much more reliant on manual labour. Farm workers generally had accommodation provided. A row of cottages had been built on the street. The land had originally been owned by the farm, and it was possible to access the farm from behind the cottages. Just before you reached the first one, there was a driveway that ran along the side of it, then curved round to pass behind all four. It provided access to each of the houses as well as parking spaces. And at the very end was a gate that opened on to a footpath that could be taken up to the farm house and the accompanying outbuildings. Adam knew all this because he had spent time exploring every part of the village. Usually at night, when no one else would know he was around.

  Opposite the farm cottages was St. Peter’s. The old church was set well back beyond the graveyard, and half-hidden by trees. That was where Adam was aiming for.

  Martin reached the farm cottages, and stopped in front of the third one along. Adam had reached the end of the row of houses on the other side of the road. Beyond that was a children’s play area. The swings and slide were hidden in the darkness, the nearest lights coming from the last house in the row – a distance of at least a hundred yards. The vicarage garden bordered the play area, though high hedges obscured its view. No doubt it also saved its windows from flying cricket balls or other similar projectiles.

  Adam continued to walk. On the other side of the church there was a cul-de-sac. He didn’t want to go that far, but if Martin glanced his way he would have to carry on and then double back later.

  But Martin stood facing the front door of the cottage, apparently oblivious of anyone – or anything – else around. Adam could only guess at what was going through his mind. Apprehension, uncertainty... fear?

  There we
re no vehicles on the road. At that time of night, there rarely was. Ravens Gathering wasn’t used as a thoroughfare much. The only traffic would be people either travelling to or from the village, and most of those going out would have left earlier and wouldn’t be back till much later. There weren’t many visitors.

  The lack of traffic meant that there was almost no background noise. A laughter track could be heard dimly from one of the old farm cottages. Edith Lacey, Adam recalled. Deaf as a post and unwilling to admit it. So she’d have the TV on full blast, and wouldn’t be able to hear the neighbours complaining. Other than that, the only sounds were of the leaves rustling gently above the graveyard. When it came, then, the knock on the door was startling, even though Adam had expected it. The thick timber vibrated against Martin’s fist and sounded hollowly across the street, its echo lingering.

  By now Adam had passed the play area and had drawn level with the vicarage. He was almost behind Martin. Another twenty feet and he’d reach the gate to the church yard. So far, he didn’t seem to have been spotted.

  As the sound of Martin’s knock died away, the ensuing silence seemed even more pronounced. Adam had time to cover another ten paces before the door opened. Light shone briefly out on to the street, then it was gone, the only trace that it had been there was the echo of the door shutting firmly against its jamb. Adam glanced over to make sure Martin had gone in, then a further check for anyone else that may have strayed out into the night. Satisfied he wasn’t being watched, he passed through the gate and into the shadows of the grave yard.

  Once inside, his pace changed. The erect stance that had accompanied his apparently casual walk transformed into a low crouch as he darted between gravestones, hurrying to find a suitable place to carry out his surveillance. He didn’t know how long Martin would be in the cottage, so he needed to be reasonably comfortable. Naturally, he also needed to maintain a clear view of the cottage, as well as the driveway – just in case he decided to leave from the rear of the house. There was a possibility, of course, that Martin could return to the farm house using the footpath, but at this time of night that would be foolhardy. There were too many things he could trip over or walk into, and if he seriously hurt himself he could find himself out there all night, and possibly well into the day before anyone found him. It wouldn’t kill him, but Adam couldn’t think of a good reason why anyone would take the risk.

  Halfway between the gate and the hedge that bordered the vicarage, Adam came to a tall and broad headstone. In the limited light available, he could only vaguely make out its shape. He reached out and ran his fingertips along the top. It stood almost shoulder high – so nearly head high on most people – and he guessed at around four feet across. It was squared off, with no intricate details carved into it. As he stepped around it, he knew he would find another length of the same stone laid across the grave itself. He didn’t need to touch this to know the inscriptions were already fading and the edges chipped. Phil Sullivan’s grave. It could be coincidence or irony, he thought to himself as he settled down. The coldness of the stone seeped up through the denim of his jeans and into his buttocks. Leaning against the headstone so that the rest of him was concealed from the street while his eyes peered around it, he reasoned that it was more likely to be fate that made this the perfect spot.

  A lot of people find graveyards disturbing. Most probably because they find death disturbing. Adam wasn’t troubled by such ideas. He was very comfortable with death, and had no problem with using a grave for these purposes. In spite of the cold in his behind, he was also very comfortable with the possibility of spending several hours here if he needed to. Not that he expected to be that long. An hour at the outside, he reckoned.

  But it wasn’t activity from the cottage that attracted his attention first. It came from the vicarage.

  A door opened. It wasn’t loud, but in the still night air and with all of his senses on alert, Adam heard it clearly. The main entrance to the vicarage faced the church, and he was in no doubt that this was what he had heard open. But there was no light. Even through the hedge, he should have seen fragments of light coming from the hallway. The door closed, and he heard shoes crunching across the gravel driveway, heading towards the road.

  He was here to watch over Martin Gates, and yet his instinct told him this was just as important. The vicar, Simon Cantor, was a man who followed routines. And leaving his house at this time on a Thursday night wasn’t one of them.

  Very carefully, Adam raised himself into a crouch, then started to make his way between the graves to the wall that bordered the street. As he did, he continued to listen to the footsteps on the other side of the hedge. He looked for signs of movement as well, but the hedge had been grown over many decades and was very thick.

  The footsteps stopped, and Adam froze, wondering if he had made some noise that had alerted the other person. It took him a moment or so to realise that they hadn’t stopped walking, they’d just stepped off the drive. Cautiously, he moved forward again, his eyes darting all around, looking for anything else that might be out of place. But all the time coming back to look at the Gates cottage in case Martin suddenly appeared.

  When he reached the stone wall, he hesitated only a second before raising his head and peering out. A hundred yards away, a tall lean figure was walking along the middle of the road, heading towards the centre of the village. From the way he carried himself, he looked as if he thought he owned the place. Adam couldn’t help thinking there was more than a grain of truth in that.

  Twenty

  Fifteen years can make a difference, but not in all ways. His mother looked older, more like seventy than sixty. Grey hair where it had once been blonde. Shorter too, so there was no hiding place for the crows feet or the sagging flesh around her neck. Her dress sense did nothing to help. Martin thought he even recognised the cardigan she was wearing.

  Surprisingly, his sister Janet didn’t look much younger. She was only a few years older than Martin, but she could have passed for his mother with only a minor stretch of the imagination. The hair was still blonde, but it hung lifelessly just above her shoulders. Her face told a story of long hard hours and little prospect of respite. She wore jeans and a shirt that looked as if they may have been in fashion, but on her they were shapeless. It was no wonder she was still living with their parents. He couldn’t imagine she had the get up and go to strike out on her own, and looking as she did it seemed unlikely she’d have her pick of men.

  The house hadn’t changed much, though. The same TV stood in the corner by the window. The window itself was covered by the thick red velvet curtains he had hidden behind as a child, oblivious of the fact that his feet were sticking out where Matthew and Janet could see them. It seemed as if it had taken him years to realise why they found him so quickly. Strange, the memories that came back to him now.

  Like sitting on his mum’s knee in the big armchair where his dad was now. He didn’t know how old he had been, but he guessed no more than two or three. Just a phase they had gone through. Enjoying the warmth of the fire as they watched Andy Pandy and Pogles Wood on the tiny black and white TV set they’d rented.

  He suspected the carpet was different, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light. The fact the room was cramped, with furniture covering most of the floor, didn’t help much either. Although he couldn’t identify any new items, he didn’t remember it being so crowded in here. Then again, most of his memories were from his childhood, when he was smaller and the whole world seemed like a much bigger place.

  Or maybe it wasn’t just the physical confines that made him feel like this. There was an almost palpable hostility. Not from all of them. Colin was clearly delighted to see him, although Martin couldn’t for the life of him think why. He’d only been nine when Martin left, and that was in physical terms. Mentally, he’d been barely an infant. It was a wonder the lad could remember his older brother at all.

  When he had opened the door, Matthew had looked annoyed. He didn’t s
ay anything, but it was clear he wasn’t happy that Martin had turned up. His dad looked much the same when he came into the living room. He guessed the fact that he was late had made them hope he wasn’t going to come. He didn’t sense quite the same from his mum or Janet. They were more wary than unfriendly. Regardless, it was uncomfortable.

  Colin had been sitting on the floor in front of the TV, legs crossed like a six year old. When he saw Martin, he jumped to his feet and rushed over.

  “Martin! Martin!” His excitement reminded Martin of his own behaviour as a small child. He looked at Patrick, the big man watching him carefully. It was hard to believe that he had worshipped this man. He had known instinctively when it was time for his dad to come home from work, and would watch from the kitchen window. As soon as he walked through the gate into the back yard, Martin would dash outside and run into Patrick’s waiting arms. Good times. Long gone.

  Clutching Martin’s arm, Colin pulled him across the room to the table. It was pushed against the back wall, but there were four dark wooden chairs around it. Janet was already sitting at one of them. It had its back to the wall and was facing into the room. Martin was conscious of her drawing back as he came closer. Although it was tempting to add to Janet’s discomfort by picking the nearest chair to her, he realised that would be unnecessarily confrontational. It wasn’t time yet. He steered Colin to another chair, which was on the opposite side of the table, then sat down. Colin sat down on the floor next to him, his eyes fixed on his face.

  Ignoring his younger brother, Martin looked at his family. Matthew had remained leaning against the door that led back out to the hall and stairs. His dad’s chair was angled for watching the TV, so he was sitting at an awkward angle, almost wedged into a corner of the chair as he looked across his right shoulder to see his middle son. A two-seater sofa was pushed against the wall opposite the fire, and his mum was sitting at the far end of that. He could see that she was relieved he hadn’t come to join her. Not that Colin had given him a choice. Still, he suspected he would have played it safe anyway. It was a small room, but they had managed to space themselves out as much as possible. Martin didn’t kid himself that this was going to be the warmest of family reunions.