‘Another terrible state of affairs, eh?’ Diane said after taking a long slug of her wine. ‘When’s it all going to end?’

  ‘When they bang the offender up, and we all know who that is, don’t we?’ Simon’s words boomed over the distant clatter of crockery and low drone of nearby conversations. He had the sort of pitch to his voice that could shatter crystal. His anger was undoubtedly fuelled by beer. I stared at his crumpled clothes – the business suit that, upon closer inspection, was cheap and shiny, a thin fabric with a limited life. I looked at the many glasses stacked up next to him on the table, and was under no illusions as to how long he had been in the pub or how many drinks he had guzzled back while he had been here.

  Nobody replied or became embroiled in his rhetoric. Instead, people chatted and were sympathetic rather than angry, frightened yet stoic at the same time. Just a group of villagers trying to cope with a series of terrible events that had befallen their little community.

  I considered bringing Jim’s name into the conversation to see what sort of reaction it would provoke – just a quick mention of his recovery – but thought that perhaps Terence and Diane would see it as some sort of insult. After our recent conversation, I was extremely aware of their feelings towards the man. I just wondered if others felt the same way. I was curious to see whether or not their faces would pucker up into an angry frown at the sound of his name, if they would grimace and stare into their drinks, too angry or afraid to say how they really felt about a frail retiree who was still in hospital after having the shit beaten out of him. I erred on the side of caution and remained silent, sipping at my beer dolefully.

  Over at the bar, Lily bustled about purposefully, her hair pinned into place with an array of slides and colourful ribbons. Once again, she looked immaculate. I admired her sense of style: a look that was all her own. The fact she didn’t feel the need to adhere to any particular fashion or fad said all that needed to be said about her character, about how strong and resilient she was despite the adverse circumstances of her upbringing. She had regularly endured more than most and complained little, doing her crying in private, keeping her emotions hidden from the rest of the world and always putting a brave face on.

  I longed for her to glance my way, to smile and reveal those perfect teeth, for her eyes to light up and crease at the corners as she mouthed a quick hello to me. But the bar was busy. A sea of people, waves and waves of them, thirsty and demanding, pushed their way forward, heads bobbing about as they tried to catch her eye and order their drinks.

  Sighing wistfully, I looked away and finished the remainder of my beer, the heavy brown ale settling nicely in my belly. Soon I would go home and revel in the solitude. I didn’t want to have too many beers. Drunks are unattractive people. Real drunks are anyway: those who consume vast amounts every single day and let it impair their judgement and outlook. I am not one of those people and never will be.

  I stared over at Simon, glassy-eyed, rosy-cheeked and still lecturing anybody who was mad enough to listen on the perils of living near an ex-offender and not taking the law into your own hands. I didn’t want to be like him. Simon wore his heart on his sleeve, whereas I was fairly reserved, more able to keep my deepest emotions in check in the company of others. I watched him while Davey chatted to Terence and Diane, their voices a quiet murmur as they pondered over the latest occurrence.

  ‘I can’t for the life of me work it out.’ Davey’s voice was tinged with more than a touch of melancholy as he placed his pint down and rubbed at his face wearily. ‘I mean, if it was deliberate, why Emily? She’s a harmless old lady. She doesn’t have an ounce of malice in her.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Terence volunteered, ‘none of these incidents are related? We’re all assuming they are but are we just putting two and two together and coming up with five?’

  Diane shrugged and took another long sip of her wine, almost draining the glass. ‘All I can say is, if each and every crime is unconnected, then it’s the biggest coincidence of the decade. Especially in a village this small.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said quietly as I finished the last of my drink, ‘the police will look into it in greater detail now. An isolated crime is one thing but a string of them will set alarm bells ringing.’

  ‘Let’s bloody well hope so!’ Simon roared.

  I took a deep breath. I’d hoped I’d kept my voice low and that he had been unable to hear me. Obviously not.

  ‘The police are barking up the wrong tree if you ask me. They need to pull their finger out and make an arrest. Just ’cos they’re in a village, they think they can be on a go-slow and take their time. That stout fella thinks he’s Hercule fucking Poirot. Have you seen him? The way he saunters around as if he hasn’t got a care in the frigging world.’ Simon stopped, waiting for somebody to reply, to say something in return.

  A hush descended, everybody faintly embarrassed by his outburst.

  ‘Well,’ I said as I drained the reminder of my beer, ‘all I can say is, whoever is behind all of this should be ashamed of themselves. Jim and Emily are elderly people, frail and unable to defend themselves. Emily managed to escape but poor old Jim is still in hospital. Fractured ribs at his age could easily turn into pneumonia. He’s not out of the woods just yet.’

  I couldn’t swear to it, but I thought I saw Terence stiffen, his body locking into position beside me as I spoke. I sneaked a glance at Diane. Her face was flushed. Whether it was from the wine or something else entirely was anybody’s guess. I was certain they had nothing to hide. Everybody was on edge, feeling more than a little frightened at being thought of as a possible suspect or perhaps even wondering if they would be the next victim.

  Standing up, I said goodbye to everybody, an idea already formulated in my brain as to where I was going. Chances were the place would be closed, but it was worth a try. I’d promised myself a visit since moving here and had never got around to it. Tonight felt right for some unfathomable reason, whether it was just good timing after the slightly depressed atmosphere in the pub, or whether it was the mood I was in. I smiled. Maybe it was the stars aligning or some other unexplainable ethereal reason, but whatever it was, I felt drawn to it, pulled there by invisible strings that tugged at me as I headed towards the door.

  ‘See you soon,’ Terence called after me as I walked. His voice was strained and slightly muffled by the din as a group of people entered and made a surge towards the bar.

  I waved and gave everybody what I hoped was a genuine smile. Things in Whitchurch would pick up soon enough. I could sense a change coming, something cataclysmic that would bring an end to their misery.

  36

  As expected, St Oswald’s was closed. The churchyard, however, was very much open. The ground was wet from the rain that had fallen in the past hour or so. It was getting heavier, the sky continuing to darken, the pressure plummeting second by second.

  The moss underfoot was oily and slippery, my feet squelching over it as I made my way through the lychgate and towards the gravestones that stood like squat soldiers, rows and rows of them lined up, some leaning and crumbling with age and neglect, others shiny and new looking, the bodies buried beneath only recently deceased.

  I picked my way through each one until I reached the spot. The two headstones were still smeared with traces of red paint, the words legible even after all of poor Dominic’s scrubbing. I ran my hand over the rough surface, the gritty sensation slightly repulsive under my fingers. I knelt down and rearranged the flowers, steadying the overturned vase and putting everything back in place. The rain gained momentum. It fell on my shoulders and ran down my back, the pitter-patter echoing around me as it hit the trees and bounced off leaves overhead.

  Two headstones, two people buried decades apart. The dates were clear enough to read, the words poignant. My eyes scanned them both before I stood up and turned to look at the church. It would have been nice to go inside, to sit for a while and gather my thoughts.

  I had promised I would visit this place and look inside the actual building yet somehow had never got around to it. It had been on the edge of my thoughts since moving here and tonight, something had stirred within me, beckoning me here. It was as if the time were suddenly right. And yet it wasn’t. The door was definitely locked. I tried it several times and padded around the back for another way in to no avail. There was only one other small back door and that too was locked. Hardly surprising after recent events.

  A shiver ran through me. Although it wasn’t cold, the temperature was dropping rapidly. Soon summer would leave us and autumn would step into its place. Russet leaves would flutter down from high branches to the rapidly cooling earth beneath our feet. The nights would draw in; the darkness would come.

  I swallowed and stepped away, my feet following a track trodden through the rows of stones. The ground was beginning to feel like mulch. It squelched and shifted as I walked towards the lychgate. Droplets of rain landed on my head and ran down my forehead, dripping onto my eyelashes. I ran a hand over my face and blinked the water away. The smell of petrichor clung to my clothes, seeping through the fabric and soaking into my skin. Nature was rewarding us at long last. We had had a punishing summer – crops dying, grass bleached to straw – but it was finally coming to an end.

  I closed the gate behind me and craned my neck to take in the magnificence of the towering spire. There was no denying that St Oswald’s was a truly radiant piece of architecture. I wondered if its almighty presence and overpowering atmosphere had had a detrimental effect on Lily’s father. Had it driven a wedge between him and his family? Perhaps his calling was so strong, it obliterated everything else, leaving little room in his heart for his nearest and dearest.

  I sighed heavily and stepped out onto the pavement. Perhaps he was just a horrible shit of a man. Even in retirement, he was still causing trouble, reducing his daughter to tears.

  People are what they are. Growing old obviously hadn’t changed him, turned him into a more caring being, somebody who put others before himself. Then again, the compassionate and unselfish end up in the same size grave as the cruel and thoughtless. They all lie beside one another, the decent people buried alongside the ones who acted selfishly in life, and perhaps even wronged them, so what is the point of being selfless? Being the better person gets you nowhere.

  The rain came down in sheets as I rounded the corner and made my way home. A mass of bodies tumbled out of the pub as I passed, their voices raised in surprise as they held their hands up to the sky and stopped to look heavenwards, their mouths open and eyes wide as they welcomed the overdue downpour.

  A lone figure behind them stared at me, his arm raised as he hollered at me to wait and gave me a wave. Before I could say or do anything, Simon ran over the road and caught up to me, his head dipped against the driving rain.

  ‘Ray! How about a nightcap?’ His voice sounded slightly distorted against the crack of the deluge as it increased in intensity and hit the trees and the tinder-dry grass. The leaves rustled wildly above our heads.

  I shook my head and smiled at him, keen to get home and dry off. My clothes were saturated and I was beginning to feel a chill creeping in. ‘I’m heading home, Simon. I’m soaked. Maybe another time?’ I shouted through the roar of the thunderous volley of water that cascaded down on us.

  ‘I’ll come with you!’ he said chirpily, like an outrageously jolly schoolboy who was too dim to comprehend the well-intentioned meaning of weary friends who had had enough of him.

  Before I could protest any further, he was alongside me, mirroring my footsteps as we ran along the path next to the village green. For the first time since moving here, I wished Samantha were living with me, or somebody like her. Anybody to save me from Simon’s relentless chatter. A person waiting inside who would give Simon and his unexpected appearance short shrift. Somebody who would shoo him away and shut the door in his face.

  ‘We’ll have a Whisky Mac. You a whisky man, Ray?’ His nasally voice and overly cheerful demeanour irritated me. I wanted to brush him off but he didn’t seem to take the hint. Even my silence didn’t put a stop to his endless questions and ridiculous, childish statements. ‘Red wine makes me aggressive,’ he exclaimed with a hooting cackle. ‘Once had a punch-up with an old guy in a pub after I downed two bottles of Merlot. Woke up in hospital. What a laugh we had that night. I was out in Durham with the lads I used to work with – me, Robbo, Sticky, Fat Baz and Tony.’

  On and on he went, his voice ringing in my ears until we reached my front door. I slid the key in, doing my utmost to wish him away, to give off vibes that would make him realise he wasn’t wanted.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ I said listlessly as I took the stairs two at a time. Even my socks were wet. Every part of me was slick with rain and perspiration. I was tired, pissed off and looking forward to spending the rest of the evening on my own and now here I was, stuck with Simon and his stupid fucking stories.

  I stalked into the bedroom, slammed the door behind me and flopped heavily onto the bed, hoping against hope he would be gone by the time I eventually got downstairs, although my gut told me he would still be there regardless of how long I kept him waiting. Whether I liked it or not, Simon, it would appear, was here for the night.

  37

  Simon had already helped himself to a glass of my best Talisker single malt by the time I had dried myself off and headed back downstairs. He was busy in the freezer as I entered the kitchen, his hand curled menacingly in the top tray as he scooped up a palm full of ice cubes and clutched them tightly. His fingers resembled bony red claws, his long fingernails like the talons of a huge predatory bird.

  I watched, my fury slowly building as he dropped the frozen cubes into his drink with a deep clunk. I eyed up the tumbler, almost half full of amber liquid, and had to stop myself from rushing over, snatching the drink out of his hand and throwing it in his face.

  ‘Now then, big guy. Hope you don’t mind?’ he said a little too casually, lifting the crystal glass up and waving it at me amiably. ‘Yours is in the living room. I put ice in it. No ginger wine to make the Whisky Mac I’m afraid. Well, not that I could see anyhow. Not unless you’ve got it stashed away somewhere?’

  I shook my head, too irritated to speak. I couldn’t trust myself with what might come out of my mouth, so I said nothing instead, but somehow managed a weak smile.

  The chair scraped over the floor behind me. I listened to the faint rustle of Simon’s clothing as he sat down at my table and made himself at home. ‘Get your drink and we’ll put the world to rights, big fella.’

  His voice trailed in my wake while I went to get my drink. I wondered how he would react if I took my whisky and went straight up to bed, leaving him to sit downstairs on his own. Would he finish it and leave? Or was he so incomprehensively stupid and so deeply insensitive that he would actually follow me up and continue talking to me, boring me with long-winded immature tales of his drunken antics and who he thought should be hung, drawn and quartered for the crimes committed in Whitchurch? I managed a wry smile at the thought of it and took a glug of my drink, enjoying the dry burn on my gullet and the acrid taste that the single malt left on my tongue.

  Clasping my whisky tightly, I walked back through to the kitchen and sat down next to Simon, whose eyes were beginning to glaze over. God knows how much he’d had to drink. He had probably been in the pub since lunchtime, steadily knocking back the beers, and now here he was, topping up the alcohol level in his bloodstream with whisky. My whisky.

  I saw him watching me as I took a sip of my drink. He was being cautious. Had he detected my irritation at his presence here? Or was he, as I suspected, simply trying to work out what his opening gambit would be as he tried to initiate conversation with me?

  I was correct with the latter assumption. Simon leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his breath hot and sour as it wafted over to me, hot pockets of pungent air that hung in the atmosphere, causing me to turn away slightly. ‘So, Ray, my friend, let’s talk possible culprits, shall we?’

  I suppressed an eye roll. I’d had enough of hearing about his thoughts on this matter, his endless postulating and senseless inane comments, how he was prepared to have it out with Gavin Yuill if the police didn’t make an arrest in the next few days. I didn’t think I could take much more of it. I took another long slug of my drink, the sound of ice clinking against the heavy crystal glass ringing in my ears as I swallowed and took another gulp of whisky. I figured I was going to need it if this is how our night was going to be. Any more talk of Gavin Yuill would very probably be enough to tip me over the edge.

  Simon pulled at his collar, dragging it from side to side in a drunken bid to loosen it. The skin on his neck was a deep shade of pink as he drunkenly groped at the fabric of his shirt. A few curls of dark hair sprouted up from his chest as a button popped in protest under his tight grasp. He let out a deep sigh as more skin on his chest was revealed. He leaned back and smiled at me, then let out a small burp or satisfaction.

  ‘I honestly don’t think any of this was Gavin Yuill,’ I said suddenly, knowing my remark would rile him. ‘I met Gavin recently. He seemed okay actually. We even arranged to go out for a drink.’

  Sweat bloomed on Simon’s face and the colour of his skin deepened, turning from dark pink to near crimson. He leaned forward and stared at me, fire in his eyes. ‘You’re frigging kidding me, surely?’ he shouted.

  The glass in his hand tipped slightly. He straightened it, ice knocking against the tumbler with a clear chime. The honey-coloured liquid sloshed over the sides as he finally put the squat tumbler down on the table. I watched two perfectly formed tear-shaped drops land on the teak surface and soak into the wood, the smooth lines turning into ragged edges as they melted into the table top, disappearing into the dark, mud-coloured grain.