Black Rock Manor

by Shaun Baines

  The pub door opened and Mr MacFarlene entered. Holly expected him to take a seat, but he hovered by the entrance.

  “You won’t believe this,” he said and returned outside.

  Big Gregg scratched his head. “That’s the first time he’s left here sober.”

  Through the doors, Holly and Big Gregg joined a growing throng of people milling about the village green. Parked dead centre was an American-style campervan. It was polished aluminium, its sides looking like a shell. The tyres were thick and commanding, capable of carrying it over treacherous terrain. The windows were reflected glass and Holly noticed a beady eyed raven dancing on its roof.

  Mr Masterly stood at the entrance with his arms wide open.

  “Huddle up, dudes,” he shouted, his teeth flashing white. “This is all for you.”

  Holly and Big Gregg were swept along by the crowd, finding themselves at the front.

  Mr Masterly spotted Holly and his smile froze. His hands pressed together in a prayer sign. “Please hear me out this time.”

  He turned to the crowd with a bow. A few of the residents glanced at the sky, worried they were about to be bombarded by another microlight.

  “This is your new information media hub,” Mr Masterly announced. He paused for a round of applause, hiding his disappointment when it didn’t arrive. “I know you’re concerned about what I’m planning here. Some think I’m here to knock down your houses and chase you from your homes.

  “Inside this RV is everything you need to know about Arcadia Leisure and Black Rock Adventureland. Our blueprints, proposals, mission statements. Inside is the answer to every question you have.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. Big Gregg put an arm around Holly’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

  “We believe in total transparency,” Mr Masterly said, standing in front of the reflective windows. “We’re here to help Little Belton and we want you on board. We want you to join us on this journey.”

  A solitary clap sounded, followed by another. It built into the applause Mr Masterly had been seeking.

  Holly stared about the village green, listening to Little Belton voice their approval. She raised her hand, but lowered it before anyone noticed. Holly wanted to ask about the appeals process. Why had it been cancelled? Why were their objections now obsolete? But she didn’t. Holly kept quiet because rocking the boat wasn’t the Little Belton way.

  Mr Masterly’s eyes sparkled. “And there’s one more thing.”

  Towering over Holly, Big Gregg whispered into her ear. “I told you. Everything is going to be okay. We’re going to be rich.”

  “To show our appreciation for accepting us into your lives,” Mr Masterly said, “our media hub will offer free drinks to every Little Belton resident.”

  The crowd cheered, their applause like thunder.

  Mr Masterly waved his hands in the air. “And they will remain free until Adventureland is completed.”

  The crowd surged forward, moving as one, their faces lit up in anticipation.

  The raven on the roof took to the sky, its shadow darkening Big Gregg’s face.

  “No,” he said. “He can’t. That’s my business. It will bankrupt me.”

  Mr MacFarlene jostled with the others, glancing in Holly’s direction, but avoided looking at Big Gregg as he joined the queue for his free drink.

  Little Belton swarmed around the campervan like bees to free mead. They cheered and drank and then cheered some more.

  Holly and Big Gregg were left alone on the green, both of them having followed a star destined to crash to earth while Mr MacFarlene shrank in the crowd.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Thanks for coming with me,” Holly said, crouched behind a crumbling drystone wall. “Big Gregg can’t lose his best customer. Do you think the Masterlys have got to Mr MacFarlene?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Callum said.

  “If the Masterlys divide the community,” Holly said, “we’ve lost this fight before it’s even begun.”

  “We need to stick together,” Callum said, jamming a loose stone back into the wall. “I’ll be reminding Mr MacFarlene of that when he shows up.”

  The sun was setting over the grasslands of the estate. Grey cows moved in slow waves, cresting at one side of their field before turning and flowing in the opposite direction. Holly and Callum, together with the cows, were on the border between the estate and Mr McFarlane’s farm. His house was nestled in a crown of trees at the end of the track Holly was waiting on.

  “I lost him at the Masterlys’ stupid media hub thing,” she said, “but he won’t get past me again.”

  Callum selected another rock and stacked it on the wall.

  “Can you stop doing that please?” Holly asked.

  “I might as well do something while we’re waiting,” Callum said. “Mr MacFarlene’s cows could walk right through this gap.”

  Holly rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. If he doesn’t care about his livestock, then why should you?”

  Callum continued rebuilding the wall, his muscles bulging as he forced the rocks into formation. “This used to be one heck of a farm before Mr MacFarlene lost his wife. He wasn’t always a drunk, you know? It just sort of happened, but even he wouldn’t want his cows straying into that.”

  Holly followed Callum’s pointed finger to a watery bog filled with sedge grass and buzzing flies.

  “It’s called Myrtle’s Water,” he said. “It’s dangerous. The bog the final resting place of Myrtle Hainsworth. She was tricked by a shapeshifting goblin posing as a horse. After a tiring day, Myrtle accepted a ride from the goblin before she was bucked into the water never to be seen again.”

  Holly tried not to laugh at the sincere expression on Callum’s face.

  “You’re right about the cows,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “You’re doing a great service, but the most dangerous thing about that marsh is the foot rot you’re likely to get if go in without any shoes.”

  Callum jammed the last stone in place and stepped back to admire his work.

  Holly had to admit, it was a good looking wall, capable of withstanding the most wayward of cow. She hoped Mr MacFarlene would be grateful.

  The buzz of the marsh flies grew louder.

  A frown flickered across Callum’s face.

  As Holly stared into the cloudy water, wondering what was animating the insects, she realised the noise was coming from behind her.

  Callum rushed to her side.

  A mud-splattered tractor wove toward them. It straddled the path and the ditch beside it. Smoke belched from the exhaust, its fumes reminding Holly of the defective merry-go-round at the Spring Fair.

  The tractor gained speed, like a boulder thundering down a slope. Callum ran along the track, waving his arms above his head.

  “You’re going to crash,” he shouted.

  Holly placed a protective hand on the new wall, unsure how that might help.

  The tractor engine growled, careening left and right.

  “Stop,” Holly shouted.

  Callum leapt behind a hillock as it hurtled by.

  Holly’s mouth dropped open. The tractor was steering toward her. Before she realised it, she had leapt over the wall and was wading through the marsh. The mud sucked at her feet. Each step was like something out of an anxiety dream. Her legs wouldn’t respond as quickly as she wanted.

  Glancing behind her, she saw the tractor burst through the drystone wall, scattering Callum’s carefully arranged rocks. They flew over Holly’s head, splashing down around her.

  The tractor trundled on for a few more metres, pitching into the bog, sending a wave of dirty water over a cowering Holly.

  Mr MacFarlene’s ghostly face peered at her through the windscreen. The tractor spat and hissed as it sank.

  “Are you okay?” Callum asked Holly from the side of the marsh.

  Dripping wet, Holly swatted at the flies circling her h
ead. “No, I’m bloody not. Get that idiot out of his tractor.”

  Callum jumped onto the rear wheel, using the treads as rungs on a ladder. He reached the cabin and wrenched the door open. Mr MacFarlene rolled in his seat, a trickle of blood rolling down his face.

  “He’s been drinking,” Callum said.

  Holly waded to the shore, alarmed to find she had lost a shoe to Myrtle Hainsworth. “There’s a surprise.”

  “What happened?” Mr MacFarlene asked.

  Callum hurriedly undid his seatbelt, catching the farmer as he slumped forward. Holding him under the armpits, Callum dragged Mr MacFarlene out of the door.

  The bog belched and the tractor slipped further into the water, its large tyres submerging quickly. Callum steadied himself.

  “Wake up, you old soak,” he shouted, but there was no response from the farmer.

  Mr MacFarlene belched too.

  There didn’t seem to be a vindictive bone in Callum’s body, thought Holly. There were plenty in Holly’s, though, especially after her bath in the marsh. They could have been killed and yet Callum was risking his life further by helping the farmer.

  Burying her frustrations, Holly waded back into the marsh as Callum lowered Mr MacFarlene into her waiting arms.

  Holly wrinkled her nose. “I’m getting drunk off the whisky fumes. He smells worse than the bog.”

  Mr MacFarlene tried to steady himself before collapsing and landing with a splash.

  Callum jumped from the tractor and lugged him to firmer ground. “How much have you had?”

  Mr MacFarlene flopped onto his back, one hand searching for a soaked sporran. With a yank, he produced his hip flask to have it snatched from him by Holly.

  “You almost killed us,” she said, pouring the contents of the flask into the bog, “and you’ve destroyed Callum’s wall.”

  The cows in the field were drawn to the commotion, stepping through the gap made by the tractor. One of them lowered its head at the spot where Holly had disposed of the whisky. It gave the alcoholic water an experimental lap of its tongue and moo-ed its appreciation.

  “You can tell these cows belong to you,” Callum said.

  Mr MacFarlene wobbled to his feet. “What happened?” he asked again.

  Holly pitched the hip flask into the marsh. This was familiar territory for her. There was no point arguing with a drunk. She’d earned that from late night fights with Derek.

  “Nothing,” she said with a hiss. “Let’s get you back home.”

  The Defender was only fifty meters away, but it felt like a thousand. Mr MacFarlene stumbled over every step. Holly and Callum guided him with arms around his shoulder, picking him up whenever he fell.

  The farmer muttered to himself, holding a conversation they weren’t invited to. Holly picked out the odd phrase. ‘Media hub’ and ‘recreational whats-its-name,’ but none of it made sense.

  They folded Mr MacFarlene into the back of the Defender and took their seats in the front, cracking open their windows to release the combined stench of bog water and whisky.

  Driving past the broken wall, Callum sighed at every fallen stone. Steam spewed from the tractor as the bog inched up the tyres, slowly consuming them as a snake devours its prey. Holly didn’t believe Callum’s tale about Myrtle’s Water, but for a second, she thought she saw the watery face of a woman gnashing her teeth at the unexpected visitor.

  The track grew dim and Callum switched on his headlights illuminating the farmhouse ahead. It had two storeys and was painted white with black frames around the windows. All the curtains were drawn. It was set among storage buildings made from corrugated iron. Piles of animal feed were buried underneath plastic sheeting weighted down with tyres.

  Mr MacFarlene stirred at the nearness of his home, blinking at Holly with bleary eyes.

  “Thanks for the lift,” he said, struggling with the handle to the door. “Did you pick me up from Little Belton? I can’t remember.”

  Holly bit her tongue and remained silent.

  The farmhouse garden was gravelled. Pots filled with the wizened branches of dead plants stood neglected in a semi-circle. A nylon washing line was tied between metal poles. Two sleeping bags were pegged out to dry and Holly wondered who they belonged to.

  “We’ll be alright, won’t we?” Mr MacFarlene asked, finding the handle’s catch and falling out of the door. He landed with the luck of the drunk, sustaining no further injuries.

  He pulled himself up and held onto the roof of the Defender for support. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know.”

  “Sleep it off,” Holly said. “You’ll be alright in the morning.”

  “It’s okay for you lot,” Mr MacFarlene said. “You’ll get your fancy park. You’ll get all the swings and rides promised to you by the Masterlys. What about me? My wee farm is right next door. I read a pamphlet in that bloody media hub. Read it with one hand while they refilled my glass in the other. You know what I get? Some sort of haunted house contraption next door to my lambing shed.”

  He waved his hand as if swatting an invisible fly. “Barbara will be spinning in her grave.”

  The mention of his deceased wife stabbed at Holly’s heart. Despite her anger, she wanted to offer a reassurance, but she felt the same fear as Mr MacFarlene. It choked her line of thought, like the water swallowing the farmer’s tractor.

  “Go to bed,” Holly said, “and take your washing in. It’ll get damp through the night.”

  Rolling his head toward home, Mr MacFarlene gave Holly and Callum a thumbs-up and tottered through his garden, swiping at the sleeping bags.

  Mr McFarlane’s garden was a wreck, Holly thought. The boundaries of his farm were disappearing and his livestock were growing drunk on their freedom. Who knew how the farmer lived behind closed doors? Or what state his home was in? If he chose to use a sleeping bag because he had no clean blankets, then it wasn’t any concern of Holly’s.

  “He’s no good to us drunk,” she said.

  Callum reversed into a layby and pointed the Defender in the direction of home.

  “It’s funny, though, isn’t it?” Callum asked.

  Holly picked a clump of sedge grass out of her hair. “There’s nothing funny about wasting our time.”

  “No, I meant Mr MacFarlene,” Callum said, driving them through a darkening sky.

  Holly stared out of the window, waiting for the punchline.

  Callum scratched his chin, a frown troubling his brow. “He lives alone, right? So why would he be washing two sleeping bags, not one?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Holly hadn’t slept well. Thoughts of Mr MacFarlene haunted her dreams. Holly had misjudged him. Yes, he was a danger to himself and everyone around him, but he wasn’t a turncoat. Mr MacFarlene was burdened by a grief he couldn’t shake. Not only had he lost his wife, he was facing the prospect of losing his farm. Who would decline a free drink under those circumstances?

  Finally abandoning any hope of sleep, Holly took a long shower and dressed in the light of the morning sun.

  She called Wansbeck Hospital for any updates on Regina’s condition. According to the nurse in charge, Regina had woken briefly to argue about the lumpiness of her bed before falling back asleep. Comforted by the idea of Regina returning to normal, Holly left a snoring Derek on the couch and travelled into Little Belton.

  Old Jack’s house was at the end of Stationers Lane with views of the estate’s moorland. They sat in the back garden on plastic chairs watching Nancy’s goat straining on its new chain. It had full reign of the garden, but clearly had itchy hooves. In the short time it had been there, the goat had nibbled most of Old Jack’s shrubs down to stubs.

  He wore a tatty cardigan with tweed patches on his elbows.

  Old Jack inspected the crumpled packet of anti-depressants in Holly’s hand.

  “I found them on your desk,” she said. “I wasn’t snooping. I just want to know you’re alright.”

  “Not snooping, eh?
” Old Jack asked. “That’s what I pay you for.”

  He produced a bubble strip of pills and slipped them inside the packet Holly had given him.

  “How long have you been taking them?” Holly asked.

  “Ever since…well, you know,” he said, pulling a weed from his lawn and tossing it toward the goat. “Funny, but me and Nancy barely spoke after her disappearance. I thought about her, though.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone else for you?”

  “I don’t think it’s as easy as that, pet. I don’t think it’s a choice.”

  “People do it all the time,” Holly said.

  “Not around here, they don’t,” Old Jack said. “Maybe if I’d moved away like you, I might have found someone else, but there’s no point in wishing down an empty well. My chance is gone. What’s done is done.”

  “I’ll find Nancy for you,” Holly said, taking Old Jack’s hand. “You’ll still have your chance.”

  Old Jack squeezed her hand with a smile. “You know who got lucky? Found true love? Your parents.”

  “They knew how to make a marriage work,” Holly said. “I always thought I’d be able to do the same, but it’s not as easy as it looks.”

  “You hear about these big city types with all the money and the cars and such-like, but none of them look happy. They seem tired and aggravated. Little Belton might not have much, but live here long enough, you’ll find that one person you can love no matter what.”

  Holly thought of Callum and shook her head as if to physically shake him from her mind.

  “You make Little Belton seem like a fairy tale kingdom,” Holly said.

  “Your Mam and Dad thought so,” Old Jack said. “They loved it here, especially your Dad, even after he got ill.”

  “I tried to see him as often as I could, but it was difficult with the business.”

  “He understood.”

  “Dad should have received compensation. All that coal dust in his lungs, but he wouldn’t have it. He said, the pit had put a roof over his family’s head and food on the table. That was good enough for him.”

  Holly looked away, her eyes glistening. She and her father had never argued, but they’d come close on that occasion. She’d never understood the gratitude he’d shown to the Wentworths and their mine.