Not that either Martin or Ian had time to dwell on the clothes. The drawers from the wardrobe blasted out as if they’d been fired from cannons. Fortunately, the lower ones crashed into the side of the bed, but the four from the top row cleared the mattress and hurtled towards them. Martin leapt backwards into the doorway, Ian lunged at Tanya, pulling her down to the floor. The drawers smashed into the wall. Two of them splintered, the others showed more resilience. All of them dropped to the floor, scattering socks, handkerchiefs and underwear across the carpet.
“What the hell...?” Ian shouted angrily, but he was cut off by the unmistakable sound of splintering glass.
Martin’s brain told him it must be the window, but his ears told him it was coming from a different direction. He leaned forward, taking a peek into the room. What he saw sent him cold.
“For God’s sake stay down!” he yelled at Ian. “And keep Tanya covered.”
The splintering became a loud crack as the mirror shattered. Martin ducked back on to the landing as lethal slices of glass flew across the room. From his vantage point, he could see Ian was lying on top of his wife. Fragments fell on him, a few on his back, more on his legs. Because of their position, they escaped the worst of it. The wall facing the mirror was hit by three chunks that were at least a foot long. One shattered on impact, the others hit it with such force they embedded themselves in the wall. The light from the swinging bulb reflected off the pieces of mirror sending a myriad of shining light sparkling across the walls and ceiling.
Watching the broken glass scattering across the room, seeing coat hangers lose their fight and clothing flying out of the wardrobes, hearing the screams from Tanya, and not knowing where the next barrage was going to come from, Martin crouched in the door frame. He’d hoped to God this wouldn’t happen. But he realised now there was no way of escaping it.
Part Three - A Brief History
One
In 1979, Martin had flirted with a Spanish girl. She was a waitress in a bar he was working at. The flirting wasn’t going anywhere. It never did. He’d learnt that already. Somehow the chatting up came easily to him. He could flash the smile, make them laugh, get close to them. But then everything would cool. His enthusiasm would suddenly dry up. It was fear that did it. Fear of what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a fear of being found out.
He decided on a couple of occasions to face his demons. Not that he knew what those demons were exactly. But he knew that facing them would involve putting himself on the line, and he guessed that the line involved following through. So when his interest in a girl began to wane, he forced himself to do just that. They got as far as her bedroom before he vomited. It wasn’t the most promising start to a relationship, but she was surprisingly understanding about it. Martin wasn’t, though. He hadn’t felt unwell before they got to her room, so he knew there was nothing physically wrong with him.
The experience with the second girl was equally disastrous. He wasn’t ill, but he couldn’t perform for her. She blamed the alcohol, allowing him to save a little face. He’d only had two beers all night.
From then on, he resigned himself to a life free of intimate relationships. He didn’t understand why he responded so badly, but he decided it was better to accept it and move on than to spend his life agonising over it.
So when he flirted with the Spanish waitress, he knew it wasn’t going anywhere. The problem was, she didn’t. And more importantly, nor did her boyfriend.
One night after work, the boyfriend confronted Martin in a side street outside the bar. He’d brought two friends with him. It was past two o’clock, and there were still a few party animals on the streets, but most were preoccupied with finding their next drink or the nearest gutter to throw up in. No one took any interest in the exchange between the lone English barman and the three local boys.
Martin was twenty-three. He’d learnt that intimate relationships were something to walk away from, but he was still inexperienced in many other aspects of life. Because he kept to himself most of the time, his communications skills were limited. There are two sides to communication: getting your message across and understanding the message being put across to you. Most people focus on the first and ignore the second and Martin was no exception. He didn’t want to listen to what the boyfriend had to say. And initially he ignored the threat posed by the extra numbers. He’d seen the three of them together in the past and assumed they just happened to be out as a group. When the warnings were made verbally, he was already annoyed enough to kick back. He knew he could handle himself. He’d already had two stints working the doors on nightclubs. He also thought they were just making a lot of noise. But he misjudged it. Misjudged it to the tune of three nights in hospital and four weeks off work.
His injuries weren’t life-threatening, and nor did they leave him with any lasting damage, but they very easily could have done.
Like his experiences with girls, he’d learnt when to walk away and when to keep his mouth shut.
Confronted by the Hawthorns and their two friends on the main street of Ravens Gathering, his thoughts had flashed back to that experience with the Spaniards. Back then, he could have walked away. He knew immediately that he didn’t have the choice this time. And it took him only a moment or so to realise that fighting his way out of the situation wasn’t a viable option either. Even if he discounted the girl – and he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could do that – he was outnumbered, and he’d already seen enough to know that at least two of them knew what they were doing. The pursuit of his family suddenly seemed less pressing. So he came quietly.
The ride in the Land Rover was short in distance and communication. Martin was wedged between the two men on the back seat. During the short walk to the car, he’d heard them called Mason and Croft. No first names were mentioned.
Mason was the bald one. His bulk made the journey less comfortable than it might otherwise have been, but Martin was aware that the larger man was pressing himself up against the door as much as he could, so it could have been a lot worse. Croft sat on Martin’s left. His slightness meant there was no need for him to give up any space to Martin. Both men were silent as they left Ravens Gathering.
Nor did the Hawthorns have anything to say. They sat up front, the man driving, both of them apparently intent on the road ahead.
Martin didn’t see the opening. When the Land Rover suddenly turned off the road, he thought they were heading for a collision with the trees that lined it. His vocal reaction offered some light relief to his fellow passengers. As the headlights flashed across more trees and lit up the track in front of them, both Mason and Croft laughed out loud. Under the circumstances, Martin should have felt as if he was being derided. Strangely, he didn’t.
A few moments later, they were pulling up outside the farmhouse he had visited earlier in the day. The driver looked over his shoulder.
“Welcome back,” he said. In the low lighting, Martin couldn’t see his expression, but he thought there was warmth and humour in the voice.
Ten minutes earlier, he had been looking to take flight. Now he was curious to find out what they wanted with him.
They entered the house through the kitchen. The driver led the way, his sister following him. Mason gestured for Martin to fall in behind her as he and Croft took up the rear. While Martin may have felt curious, they were clearly still not taking any chances with him.
From the kitchen they crossed a narrow hallway. It was fair to say that the Hawthorns’ living accommodation wasn’t as comfortable as that of the McLeans. He noticed that the simple wooden door they passed through didn’t have a doorknob. Instead there was a latch. He hadn’t seen one of those inside a house since he was a child. On the other side of the door was a living room. Unsurprisingly, it was snug, especially with six people in it.
The sixth person was a woman Martin hadn’t seen before. She was medium height, her light brown hair hung to her shoulders, framing her slightly rounded face. By the time Martin w
as in the room, she was next to Hawthorn, her hand resting on his forearm. It was an endearing gesture that offered reassurance.
As he was jostled gently by the two men entering the room behind him, he looked closely at Hawthorn. What did he need reassurance for? There were five of them against Martin. What danger could he pose to them? Hawthorn wasn’t giving anything away.
Mason touched Martin’s arm from behind and used it to guide him to a chair.
There were several chairs in the room. Two armchairs and a two-seater sofa had been pushed back against the walls. He could tell that, because the imprints on the carpet showed where they normally stood. No doubt they’d been moved because of the extra chairs that had been squeezed in. He recognised them from this morning when he’d looked in the kitchen. All of the furniture looked as if it had seen better days. The seating arrangement was a loose circle, with the chairs pressed close to the walls, and a very small gap in the middle. Mason was directing Martin to one of the armchairs.
To be seated was to be vulnerable, but Martin didn’t see that he had any choice. At the same time, his concern about having physical violence visited upon him had severely diminished. So he took his seat.
Hawthorn nodded. “Thank you. I hope you’ll forgive us for the way we’ve gone about bringing you here.”
Before Martin had time to consider how to respond to this, the others began to take their seats. As they did, Hawthorn introduced them.
“John Mason is the one who has spent the last few minutes literally as your right hand man.” Martin almost smiled as the bald man sat down in the other armchair. It looked as if he was taking the role of right-hand man to heart. “Your other guardian is Ed Croft.” The use of the word guardian jarred, but Martin didn’t have time to consider it as the dark haired man sat almost directly opposite him in one of the kitchen chairs. “My sister Claire.”
For most of the time since they’d picked him up, he had seen little more of Claire than her back. As she sat down in the other kitchen chair, he was able to appreciate her at close quarters for the first time. His earlier impressions were confirmed. Usually when he saw an attractive woman, he would be relaxed, chatting comfortably with them and before long the flirting would start. Here, he experienced something remarkable. Apprehension.
On his left was a wall, and against that was the sofa. The other woman sat at the far end. “This is my wife, Jennifer.” Then Hawthorn sat next to her, less than two feet away from Martin. He looked directly into Martin’s eyes. “And I’m Adam Hawthorn.”
“How do you do,” Martin said drily. “Now, would you like to tell me what I’m doing here?”
Adam didn’t pause. He continued to look at Martin as he spoke.
“A lot of strange things have happened in the village over the last couple of days, Martin. And we know you’re linked to them.”
Two
“Go on.”
Adam had paused, waiting for a response. He seemed disappointed that Martin was giving nothing away, but he didn’t waste time dwelling on it.
“You don’t seem very surprised.”
“Let’s just say that you aren’t the first to suggest it.”
“The inquisitive policeman?”
Martin nodded. “Not that he worked that out for himself. I don’t think he had the brains for it.”
“One of the villagers, then?”
“Probably more than one.”
During the course of this exchange, Martin had deliberately not focused on Adam. He wanted to see how the others reacted as well, so he allowed his gaze to drift around them all. They seemed pretty relaxed now the talking had started, but were clearly intent on what was being said. It seemed that none of them wanted to miss anything. Claire seemed to be watching him more closely than the others, but that may have been wishful thinking on his part.
“Did he say why they thought you were involved?”
“Not specifically. I think it was more about me being the new boy in town and it coinciding with the problems you’ve all been having.
“You’ve not really been made very welcome, have you?” Adam sounded regretful, as if he wished there was something he could have done to prevent that.
“I didn’t realise you’d been taking such an interest in me.”
“We’re just doing our job.”
“And what’s your job?”
Adam smiled and nodded. “We’ll get to that.”
But not yet, Martin interpreted.
“What do you know of the village’s history?” Claire interrupted. Adam glanced at her and sat back, letting her take over.
The sudden change of tack put Martin in mind of a police interrogation. It made him wonder if he was dealing with a team of undercover cops. He decided to roll with it, and see what happened. Besides, it meant he could focus more on Claire.
“Not a lot. I left the village when I was eighteen, and history wasn’t a big priority for me at that age.” It’s not really a priority for me now, he thought.
Claire studied him carefully for a moment, apparently considering what he had just said – but there seemed to be something more. “It’s not really a priority for you now, is it?” she said.
He had thought he was giving her his full attention. He was wrong. The word perfect recitation of his own thoughts focused his mind in a way that he hadn’t thought possible.
“That’s true,” he agreed, his tone guarded.
She smiled knowingly at him, and went on: “What do you remember about nineteen sixty-four?”
Well it wasn’t ancient history, but he supposed it was history of sorts. “I was eight years old, Claire. How much do you remember from when you were eight?”
“Quite a lot, but we need to focus on you, not me.”
In spite of his earlier apprehension, old habits kicked in. “I’ll be happy to focus on you, Claire.”
Something flickered behind her eyes. He couldn’t identify it with any certainty, but he knew he’d seen it. The moment passed quickly, though, and she smiled politely at him.
“We all need to focus on you, Martin.” She made a fleeting gesture with her hands that somehow managed to take in the rest of the room. “So tell us anything you can recall from nineteen sixty-four.”
Put in his place, he sat back and thought about it, but all he could think was: I was eight. When he’d been questioned by the copper that afternoon, he’d just been annoyed. He’d certainly had no intention of being helpful. Tonight, he tried harder. It crossed his mind that it might be because he wanted to impress Claire, though that would go nowhere for either of them. Even so, he did seriously consider her question. Besides, something about that year did ring a bell. But it wasn’t a distant memory. It was more recent than that. Even so, he kept coming back to the same response.
“I can’t remember anything specific to that year. I remember getting a new bike for Christmas, and passing my cycling proficiency test. I remember having a birthday party, and someone bought me a Disney jigsaw puzzle. I remember a holiday at the seaside: my dad bought me a kite with a picture of a spaceman on it. I remember running away from home, and getting as far as Wharton’s Farm before it started to get dark and I realised I was better off with my mum and dad.” As he’d recalled these things, he’d been looking down at his hands. Finished with his recollections, he looked up, slightly embarrassed at how personal some of these revelations had been. “I can remember lots of things, Claire, but I couldn’t say with any certainty what year they actually happened in. Some of those might have happened in nineteen sixty-four, but I couldn’t tell you which ones.”
Glances passed between Claire and the others. He didn’t know what they signified, and decided it wouldn’t make any difference right now if he did.
“What if I asked you about Forest Farm?” Claire still.
He shrugged. “What about it?”
“It doesn’t trigger any memories?”
“No it doesn’t.” He was beginning to feel impatient, wondering why she w
as reluctant to simply get to the point.
As that thought crossed his mind, her eyes locked on his.
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s time to stop asking questions, and start explaining things.”
Had she picked that up just from his tone? He studied her face carefully, but her expression offered him no clues.
“This might seem a bit long-winded,” she said, “but we need to explain everything to you properly.”
“Why? Are you worried I won’t understand it?”
“No. You just won’t believe it.” The words were spoken evenly. The lack of stress or emphasis ensured he would take notice of what she had to say.
“The Sullivans owned Forest Farm for three generations, going back to the end of the last century. Before that, the family worked land in this area for hundreds of years.”
“They weren’t ones for travelling then.”
Ignoring Martin’s remark, Claire went on. “By nineteen sixty-four, the farmer was Phil Sullivan. Do you remember him?”
He didn’t, but the name was familiar. And then he realised where he’d heard it recently.
“Are you going to tell me about him committing suicide?”
“So you do remember him?”
“No, but Ian McLean was telling me about how he killed himself years ago.” Even as he said it, he recalled more of the conversation they’d had in the pub the previous evening. That was why nineteen sixty-four had seemed familiar. Ian had told him Phil Sullivan had shot himself that year. “Something about finding his wife in bed with...” He racked his brains, trying to summon up the details. “With his son-in-law?” he said at last, pleased that it was coming back to him now. He noticed Adam nodding in response to his words. “But wasn’t there some doubt about whether it really was suicide or not?”
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