Ravens Gathering (14 page)

“You may have a point, and I’ll take it into account. 
Even so, I was thinking more along the lines of things going missing, strangers
being around, that kind of thing.”

“Patrick
Gates’s
son.”  The woman
said it as if she’d experienced a sudden revelation.

“I’m sorry?”  He was beginning to feel as if he was
making enquiries in Wonderland.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
Helen putting some cans into a shopping bag for the elderly customer.  It
was just a glimpse, but something there seemed surreal as well.  Before he
could take a proper look, his attention was caught by Mrs Payne’s strident
tones.

“What do you mean, Norma?” she was asking.  There was
concern in her voice.  Brian had been standing almost directly between the
two of them, but she had stepped forward and was now on his right side.

“Not Matthew or Colin,” Norma said, as if by way of
explanation.

“Martin?”  The name was spoken in a hushed tone, which
surprised Brian.

Norma thought for a moment.  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what
he called himself.”

Before he started to feel like a Wimbledon spectator, Brian
decided to re-enter the discussion.  “Who’s Martin?  And what’s so
unusual about him?”

“Well, he just turned up yesterday.  From what I’ve heard,
he’s been gone from the village for a long time.  I don’t think anyone
expected to see him again.”

Mrs Payne had turned to her husband and gripped his
hand.  Her anger had been replaced by something else.  Fear?  Maybe
that was too strong a word for it, but this news had obviously shaken
her.  Though what comfort she thought John could offer her was beyond
Brian.

“Has anything else happened since he turned up?”

“Apart from Peter nearly dying under a plough?”

“Are you seriously suggesting...”

“Who knows?  But he’s been in my pub twice already and
you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife both times.”

“A knife...” John muttered.

Brian had hoped he could ignore Payne’s ramblings, but there
was something quite painful in the way he had spoken.   “Are you all
right, John?”

The shopkeeper looked up at him through watery eyes. 
“How can I be all right?”  He sounded astonished at the question. 
“After what they did to Charlie?”

That sense of the surreal struck him again.  As he
collected his thoughts, he let his gaze run around the shop.  Behind the
counter, Helen was closing the till.  The old lady was lifting her bag
down.  It caught on the corner of the display where the mints were. 
Helen reached forward and helped to release it.  And seeing her hands
clearly for the first time, Brian thought he really must have fallen down the
rabbit hole.

“What’s happened to Charlie?” Norma asked, bringing his
attention back.

“Who
is
Charlie?”  His training must have kicked
in, because he hadn’t consciously thought the question.

“He’s their dog, a black lab.”

He looked at John and it finally dawned on him that his
distress had nothing to do with the stolen van.  Something else suddenly
occurred to him.  Earlier on, John had said they hadn’t heard
anything.  And yet his wife had talked about the scary sounds at the
window.  He had assumed John was talking about the van and had just been
confused.

“What did they do to Charlie, John?”

But the shopkeeper just shook his head, unable to say the
words.

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Mrs Payne said.  Her
voice was tender now as she held her husband’s hand, comforting him. 
“He’s at the back of the house.”

Brian found the dog covered by an old blanket.  He’d
left the others in the shop.  The shape under the blanket didn’t look
particularly dog-shaped, but then he didn’t have a lot of experience of dead
ones.  Bending down, he lifted a corner of it and peered under. 
Bluebottles buzzed out and back in again.  The smell that came out with
them caught in the back of his throat.  He wrinkled his nose and pressed
his lips tightly together.  It didn’t make much difference.

Lifting the blanket hadn’t really allowed him to see
much.  Just the pads on the base of a paw.  They looked as if they
had been cut.  Blood was smeared across them.  Standing up, he lifted
the blanket aside so he could see properly.

And immediately regretted it.

Martin had grown used to constant sunshine.  He’d lived
in the Canary Islands for the last ten years, and before that he’d travelled
around the Med, going where the work was.  The camper van he’d bought and
fixed up had lasted long enough to get him to Rhodes before it gave up the
ghost.  It had served its purpose - a means of transport, and a place to
sleep, so he didn’t have to pay for accommodation.  He had money, but he
didn’t have loads of it.

In those early years, he’d lost count of the number of times
people had expressed their admiration for him.  “That’s such a brave thing
to do,” they’d say – or words to that effect.  “Just leaving home and
hoping for the best.  What if the money runs out?”

That wasn’t an option.  He found work wherever he
went.  It didn’t matter what it was, or how badly paid.  He could
save money by sleeping in the van, but he still had to eat.  As for
bravery?  He hadn’t felt brave.  When you don’t have a choice,
bravery doesn’t come into it.

But he’d settled into the new life, and it had served its
purpose.   Shortly after the van died on him, he’d been offered the
chance to help crew a yacht.  The owner had retired and was sailing
wherever the fancy took him.  He’d arrived in port with some friends, but
they’d abandoned him for some reason.  Martin never found out for sure,
but after a week of listening to him bragging about how he’d made his money, he
had a pretty good idea why.  When they moored at Puerto del Carmen, he
followed their example.

It was the beginning of November, and the temperature was in
the high seventies.  The Med had been warm, but not that warm.  He’d
stayed.  Not in one town – or even one island – for long, but he liked the
climate, and he rubbed along well enough with the locals, including all the
other ex-pats who had settled there.  For variety, he occasionally joined
sailing trips to Morocco or, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, up to
Madeira.  But he had everything he needed.  A place to sleep – always
plenty of choice on holiday islands – enough work to allow him to feed and
clothe himself, and heat.

He’d expected it to be colder here in England, but the
weather was more tolerable than he’d anticipated.  The clouds were few and
far between, and there was no breeze today.  Not that he was reliant on
the weather to keep him warm.  He’d been walking for the last four hours
and had already stripped down to a T-shirt, his jumper tied around his waist.

This morning he was getting his bearings.  He’d made
his presence felt in the village yesterday, though whether that was a good or
bad thing, he wasn’t sure.  Today, he needed to remind himself of the lay
of the land.  He usually had a pretty good sense of direction.  You
needed it when you were at sea, but the advantage there was having the sun to
guide you.  In the woods, it wasn’t always easy to get a clear view of the
sun.

He’d started in the clearing again.  When Ian had
quizzed him last night about what had happened, he’d offered to show him.

“But that was this afternoon,” Ian had said.  “What are
the chances of it happening again in the morning?  I’ve never seen
anything like that.”

“The
ravens’ll
still be there,”
Martin assured him.

So they’d gone together first thing.  Ian had explained
about his meeting, so he’d have to go early or wait until the afternoon. 
Martin was happy with early.  He knew he’d got a lot of ground to
cover.  They’d travelled most of the way in the Land Rover.  Ian had
taken a different route that meant the walk was shorter.  More
importantly, it meant he could head straight off for his meeting.

This time, Martin didn’t go right into the clearing. 
He remained ten feet or so outside its perimeter.  As he’d predicted, the
trees were filled with ravens, and more arrived while they were there. 
There was an eeriness about the scene.  He sensed that Ian was aware of it
too.  The pair of them stood stock still for more than five minutes, just
absorbing what they could see.

When it was time for Ian to go, he seemed to do so
reluctantly.  Martin knew they would talk about it again later.

They had hit it off well last night over their whisky. 
That had surprised him.  The meal at
The Oak
had been pleasant
enough, but he hadn’t really gained much of a sense of his unwilling
host.  He realised now that the reason for that was Tanya.  With her
out of the way, a different Ian emerged, and Martin found that he liked
him.  He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to cause him any pain.

Left alone, he had started walking.  He took no obvious
direction.  At times he meandered, picking up trails when he came across
them.  Sometimes he would emerge from the woods.  If there was a
pathway, he might follow it.  If not, he would walk along the tree line
until he came to some other boundary – a hedge or fence – and use that as his
guide for a while.  In either case, he would be drawn back to the wood
before long, and within it he would pass randomly from one side to
another.  By doing this, he was able to explore the land that lay all
around the village.

When he crossed from one side of the main road to the other,
he made sure he was on the western edge of the village.  A few yards to
his right was a T-junction.  The signs showed him which way to turn for
Thornberry and
Woodhead
.  He ignored them. 
Instead, he re-entered the woods and used them to conceal his route as he
circled around the other side of the village.

The countryside around Ravens Gathering was still dominated
by trees.  Sherwood Forest was generally considered to be about ten miles
south of here, but in times gone by it had covered a large part of the county,
and even stretched up into Yorkshire.  The woods around the village had
undoubtedly formed part of Sherwood at some time in history.  Trees had
been felled to make way for farmland or housing since mediaeval times.  So
the village was effectively surrounded by the wood.

It was shortly after eleven when Martin reached the other
end of the village, crossed the road again and began to circle back.  At
that point, he’d guessed he might be another couple of hours before he returned
to the farmhouse, and he was becoming aware of the fact that he hadn’t had breakfast
yet.

Half an hour later, he stumbled into a different farmyard.

Naturally, any landowner makes sure there are boundaries
clearly marked out.  Martin had been ignoring these markers – even barbed
wire fencing – as he’d walked.  The reality with farm land is that there
is generally a lot of it.  As a result, the chances are that you can cross
it at many times of day without seeing a soul.  Very often even cattle
will steer clear of you.  So he hadn’t really been too concerned about what
he considered to be his minor acts of trespass.  He just made sure he kept
far enough away from the buildings to be out of sight.  Until he found a
farmyard where he wasn’t expecting one.

He was caught out because the farm house and farm buildings
had been built in a natural bowl in the landscape.  There were three
openings in the surrounding slopes.  One presumably led to the main road,
a second must have gone out into the farmland itself, and the third led into
the woods.  That was the one Martin was on.  It curved downwards,
concealing the presence of the farmyard until the last possible moment. 
The instant Martin could see the yard, anyone in it would be able to see him
well enough to make out his features.

Motion attracts the eyes, so he stopped moving as soon as he
realised his mistake.  Very slowly, he turned his head, taking in the view
in front of him.

During his childhood, he had spent hours roaming through the
woods and across the farmland that surrounded the village.  He thought he
had seen every part of it.  But he’d obviously overlooked this one,
because it didn’t look remotely familiar.

To the left was the farm house, a large red brick
building.  From this angle, he could see two sides of it, so he could
gauge the depth as well as the width.  The house could accommodate a big
family, possibly two.  Unlike Ian and Tanya’s place, the farmhouse didn’t
have a wall around it separating it from the rest of the buildings. 
Whoever lived here was clearly happy for work and home to merge into one.

Scanning to the right, Martin saw some single story
outbuildings about twenty yards away from the house.  They were painted
white, but he could tell they were made of breeze blocks.  He guessed they
might be storerooms and possibly a small workshop.  Further along there
was a barn.  One of the doors was open slightly, but he couldn’t see
inside.  Beyond the barn were some stables.  The doors faced the
farmhouse.  There were four of them, two of which had the top half
open.  He could see shadows shifting inside, though whether they were
horse or human he couldn’t tell.

So that meant there were three possible places from which he
could be spotted: the stables, the barn, or from inside the house.  But
there was no reaction to his presence.  Everything seemed perfectly still.
 It was almost too quiet.

He counted to a hundred twice, but no one came out to
challenge him.  They were either waiting for him to make a move, or they
weren’t bothered by his presence.

His intention this morning had been to explore, but without
getting too close to the locals.  This was new territory, though.  As
he watched for signs of life, he decided he should have a look around. 
The worst that could happen was that he would be asked to leave.  He could
live with that.

So he walked into the yard.

The shadows
had
been horses.  They poked their
heads out so he could pat them when they spotted him.  He wasn’t an expert
on horses, but was surprised to see they were in such good shape.  He
might have expected to see healthy animals that were good for riding along
bridleways and country lanes, but these looked more like racehorses.  And
friendly too.  They were obviously used to being well treated. 
Stroking their necks was oddly soothing – Martin hadn’t realised he was so
tense – and it was something of an effort to tear himself away.

His next port of call was the barn.  It was clearly
used for storage.  To the right as he came in, there was a collection of
equipment that he guessed must be for attaching to the back of a tractor. 
He recognised a plough, but the rest was a mystery to him.  The tractor
itself was parked alongside them.  It looked like it had seen better
times, its red paintwork faded almost to orange, the seat cracked and worn,
which was hardly surprising as there was no cab to protect it.  Martin
guessed it must be even older than he was.

The other side of the barn was piled high with crates filled
with vegetables.  The earthy smell was strong, but not unpleasant. 
Presumably they were waiting to be collected and delivered to a local market or
a wholesaler.  He walked to the back of the barn, curious to see what else
might be hidden away.  But there was nothing.  The barn was less than
half full.

He expected the other outbuildings to be locked, but they
weren’t.  As he’d thought, one of the doors hid a workshop.  The
tools seemed antiquated, but had clearly been looked after.  They were
displayed in an orderly manner.  Every hook had something hanging from it;
shelving was placed in convenient reach of the two workbenches; any sets of
tools were placed together and organised in order of size.

Two more doors revealed storage for grain and seeds of
various types.  A fourth door led to an outside loo.  He stared at
the polished dark wood seat for a moment.  He couldn’t recall having seen
a square one before.  The high level cistern was clearly ancient, but
appeared to be in excellent condition.  What with this and the old
tractor, it looked as if the place belonged to a farmer who was well past his
prime.  Perhaps the reason he hadn’t been disturbed was because the old
duffer was too deaf to hear him.

There was just the house to look at now.  Not that he
was planning any breaking and entering.  He just wanted to have a scout
around, which took him only a couple of minutes.  There was no sign of life
inside.  The kitchen door was partially open.  He saw the table in
the middle of the room, and stepped inside to take a closer look.  Bowls
and plates were set out haphazardly.  It wasn’t clear how many people
would have been catered for.  Maybe three or four.  There were six
chairs around the table, and four of them were pushed back carelessly from it.
 A half-eaten apple lay on its side, the exposed flesh a light brown
colour.  In a bowl, a pear was in a similar state.  A loaf of bread
sat in the middle of the table, the knife still embedded in it where it was
being sliced.  Nearby a slice lay on a plate, bites missing from it. 
At the closest edge was a mug, two-thirds full, its contents disguised by a
thin creamy film that lay across the top.  Three tumblers were scattered
amongst the crockery, only partially filled with water.  The rims smudged
where they had been drunk from.

This was breakfast, and whoever was eating it had been
interrupted.

Martin looked around the kitchen, searching for the crocodile. 
He stepped back outside.  There was nothing there either.  The place
was deserted.

Across the yard, he heard one of the horses moving around in
its stable.  It was the only sound.  No birds, no breeze rustling
nearby trees, not even a car on the road.  He realised that was the
key.  The road wasn’t busy, but there would be the occasional
vehicle.  Certainly more than one every fifteen minutes, and he’d been
here for longer than that.  He couldn’t hear anything because they were surrounded
by a natural barrier.  The grassy mounds that formed the bowl around the
farmyard kept most noises out.

Smiling, he recognised that he had allowed himself to be
spooked.  This was one of the most tranquil spots he’d ever been in. 
And the fact that the people who lived here had been disturbed could have been
caused by anything.  Granny had fallen and been rushed to hospital; a
farmhand calling for help with cattle that had broken through a fence; the
realisation that they were simply late for something.  True it was odd
that they’d left the house unlocked, but sometimes these things were forgotten
about in the rush.  He knew things weren’t right in the village, but he
couldn’t assume everything he experienced was connected to it.