‘How many cars have been affected?’ I asked, choosing my words and tone carefully. I already knew from experience that Whitchurch residents were easily riled and given to taking offence at the slightest provocation. I needed to tread carefully, to pick my way around their sensitivities.

  The grey-haired man looked to the others, as if he were asking for their permission to speak, before nodding and replying. ‘As far as we can tell, it’s four. One parked up by the Post Office, two in the back lane and one—’ He stopped speaking and swallowed, the lump in his throat bobbing up and down as he did so. A flush crept up his face, covering his liver-spotted skin. ‘Your car? It’s not a blue—’

  ‘Ford. Yes, it is,’ I replied, following his gaze to the dark-blue Ford Focus that was parked up outside my house. I felt a flutter of something in my gut as I looked back at the small crowd of waiting people, an air of expectancy apparent in their pale faces and body language.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, his face creased with sorrow and shame as if he himself had daubed my car with animal faeces. ‘Not a nice thing to happen when you’ve just moved here.’

  I shrugged and gave him a half smile. ‘It’s fine,’ I said quietly. ‘Just one of those things, I guess. I’ll get myself home and give it a good clean. And if anybody needs a hand washing the other cars, I don’t mind helping?’ I phrased it as a question, my eyebrows hitched up as I waited for a response.

  A murmur spread around the gathering of villagers who were nodding and whispering to one another as if I had just offered them the earth or volunteered to buy them a small island. I looked to each and every one of them, to their perplexed expressions, and almost laughed.

  ‘That’s very good of you…’ the man said softly.

  ‘Ray,’ I added, filling the pause he left to identify myself.

  ‘That’s very good of you, Ray, but I think we’ve got it sorted. Jim, one of the owners, has already done his and the others are taking them to the car wash in town as we speak.’

  ‘Okay, well if you get stuck, just give me a knock. I’ll be only too glad to help.’

  I started to walk away but was stopped by the voice of a small lady in her mid-fifties. ‘The only assistance we need is from somebody who can help us catch this idiot. We’ve all had enough.’ Her lips were tightened in anger. I caught her eye and waited for her to speak again. She said nothing else but her expression softened as she held my gaze.

  ‘I gather none of you have any idea who did it?’ I asked, aware I could open a can of worms. I prepared myself. These people didn’t look particularly threatening or malicious. A handful of middle-aged locals wearing Crimplene trousers and worried expressions. What was the worst that could happen?

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea!’ a woman with black, wiry hair and a ruddy complexion shouted. Her voice was loud and on the verge of a screech as she continued unabated, despite the fact the grey-haired man had his arm on her shoulder to calm her down and was shaking his head. ‘What?’ she shrieked as she stared at him, wide-eyed with anger. ‘Why shouldn’t we talk about it? Over there,’ she shouted, her finger wobbling about as she pointed to a house behind us, ‘in that house, is a man who has been to prison for assault. He is abusive and rude and I have no doubt that it’s him who sent the letters and killed the cat and spread the dog… mess over the cars and God knows what else.’ She was breathing heavily, her mouth half open as she gasped for air. Her bottom lip wobbled theatrically; a perfectly formed pearl of saliva glistened on the edge of it, ready to drop off and run down her chin.

  ‘Alice, that’s quite enough,’ an older lady said, her voice sharp enough to halt the conversation. She was tall and composed and her confident tone commanded respect. She had a quiet, reserved dignity about her, like a schoolmarm in her twilight years.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as I shook my head. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. My fault completely.’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ the tall lady said gently. ‘Everyone’s under a lot of strain, worried that something worse is going to happen. We hoped this was all behind us, but now…’ She shook her head wearily before giving me a thin, watery smile. ‘And I’m really sorry about your car.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for,’ I said. ‘It’s just a car. Nothing a bucket of soapy water won’t sort out.’

  ‘Emily!’ she shouted out after me as I began walking away. I stopped and turned to face the group once more. Her eyes locked with mine, a fleeting moment of something unexplainable passing between us. ‘I’m Emily,’ she said, more softly this time, ‘and this is Barry.’ She pointed to the silver-haired man, who smiled at me. ‘This is Alice,’ she said as she lightly touched her arm, ‘and Francis,’ she said, gesturing to a slight man who had so far remained quiet throughout the whole episode. ‘And this is Dominic, our village pastor. Reverend Dominic Baudin from St Oswald’s.’

  Dominic gave a slight bow, his face full of pity for his parishioners. He was young and wide-eyed and looked completely out of his depth. I felt a pang of pity for him, caught up in all of this.

  ‘Pleased to meet you all,’ I replied. ‘As I said earlier, I’m Ray. I just wish we had met under more convivial circumstances.’

  They all nodded and lowered their eyes, a murmur of agreement passing through them.

  ‘Anyway. Best get on,’ I added. ‘Got things to do. A dinner to cook and a car to clean.’ I let out a small laugh. Their faces remained inscrutable. These people looked as if they were on the edge of some sort of collective mental breakdown. I didn’t say that it was only a bit of dog shit and nothing to get too worked up about. I knew they wouldn’t see it like that. But in the grand scheme of things, it registered as a minor occurrence. The woman who had spoken earlier had been quite right – it was unlikely the police would want to get involved. Dog shit was hardly the crime of the century. They’d dealt with a murder in the past here in Whitchurch. These people were a hardier bunch than they liked to let on.

  I gave them a wave with the promise I would see them in church next Sunday and then strolled away, thinking I had just sold my soul to God and all his believers just to have a few friends and to be accepted in this strange little village I now called home.

  11

  The smell of dog shit was rancid. I was unable to shake it off despite cleaning the car twice with hot, soapy water and polishing it until it gleamed. I worked solidly, trying to rinse away the pervasive odour of animal faeces, sure that the eyes of the neighbourhood were on me as I emptied the dregs of the dirty water down the drain on the roadside next to the kerb. Maybe it was just me being overly anxious but I could have sworn I saw a few curtains twitching when I turned around to look. Whitchurch was that sort of place. A village with secrets.

  The road remained empty as I strode back into the house and slammed the door behind me. I stopped and stood for a moment, my ears attuned to the silence. I still enjoyed the quiet that an empty house exuded. I shut out all thoughts of Samantha and the apartment back in Birmingham. She had taken enough from me. Onward and upward.

  Right on cue, my phone buzzed from the kitchen where it was sitting on the table. A sense of trepidation gripped me. I had blocked Delores. It couldn’t be her. A fleeting wave of sadness shot through me as I realised how small my world had become. My sister and parents had passed away and my friends were few and far between – many of them had dropped off my radar once I met Samantha. It was both sad and laughable that the mother of my ex-partner was very possibly all I had left. And I didn’t want her either.

  I picked up my phone and checked my messages. No texts, but a list of emails. And all of them from Delores. I heaved an exasperated sigh and shook my head before throwing my phone back down onto the table. It appeared I would have to block her from sending me emails now as well, something I should have already done. I would check her missives later. Right now, I had better things to do, more pressing issues to attend to. Delores was nobody to me. She could wait.

  I showered, ridding myself of the sweat and grime from my walk and the odious smell of dog shit that permeated everything, then dressed and sat with my laptop. In less than an hour, I managed to order most of my new furniture. I was sleeping in the bed of the previous owner and needed my own things. The bits of furniture I had in the house were either items I had had delivered here or things that had been left behind by request until I bought new. The family of the person who had lived here were only too glad to leave them for me when I asked. It saved them having to clear the place out, but I could only stick it for so long. I wanted to be surrounded by own things, my own belongings.

  Deciding to bite the bullet, I braced myself and opened one of Delores’ emails. I sucked in a deep breath and read it through, a small pulse tapping at my throat as her words sank in. I leaned back and exhaled, a pocket of heat circling in front of my face. She had no business sending this to me. Samantha was no longer anything to do with me. Why should I be concerned with her daughter’s itinerary or whereabouts? Did Delores not realise that Samantha and I were no longer together?

  I deleted each and every email, smiling as I watched them all disappear from my screen. If she got in touch again, I’d tell her to leave me alone, concentrate on her own life and to stop interfering with mine.

  After snapping my laptop closed, I wandered about the house aimlessly, my mind fractured, my anger simmering. I needed to do something, to push Delores and her threats out of my mind. I didn’t want her inside my head. She had no right to be there.

  A line of empty shelves caught my eye. I could do that – fill them with my things, make this place mine. Lifting my books out of the removal boxes, I gave them a quick wipe with my sleeve and began stacking them in order, largest to smallest.

  I stared at the mound of boxes and containers sitting in the corner of the room. Still so much stuff to find a place for.

  I began by sorting through my vinyl collection before moving onto a box of old photographs. A breath caught in my throat. I stopped, unsure of whether or not my mood was suited to carrying out such an emotional task. Rifling through old family photographs and stumbling across pictures of Cassandra wouldn’t put me in the best of moods, and chances were, it would knock me off kilter for the rest of the day.

  My hands trailed over the box and a slight pulse started up in my chest as I stared inside and thought about what lay in there, what memories it would stir up in me. I still missed her. My sister had been cut off in her prime, her life abruptly brought to a close by a tragic accident. I thought about her every single day.

  I pushed my hand deep into the box and rummaged about, knowing which particular picture I was looking for. Pushing bits of paper and old photographs aside, I let out a sigh as I spotted it tucked between a pile of yellowed documents and plucked it out. Holding it up to the light, I couldn’t help but smile. It was my favourite photo of us both and had been well-thumbed over the years.

  We were teenagers when it was taken. My arm was draped over Cassandra’s shoulder and we were dressed in the fashions of the time – me in a pair of low-slung, baggy jeans and a black hoodie, and Cassandra in a pink T-shirt with a long, denim skirt. My hair was long and straggly, greasy-looking actually, and Cassandra was wearing a wide-brimmed, black hat. I let out a small laugh and held the picture tight. If I wasn’t mistaken, we were on holiday when this was taken. One of our last family holidays together.

  A lump lodged itself in my throat. I placed the photo down on the floor and let out an unsteady sigh. Running my fingers through my hair, I shook my head, incredulous at how such a small item could still get to me even after all these years. I would find a frame and put it up on a wall in the living room. She deserved that much. Nobody should be hidden away in a box, their face unseen simply because they are no longer with us. They never really leave. They’re always here. Always.

  The remainder of the day was spent sifting, sorting and generally unearthing items I either had forgotten existed or I no longer wanted. I found myself wondering why I had actually brought them with me at all when I could have left them behind or disposed of them before packing up and moving on. Like my old journal, for instance. I hadn’t written in it for a long while and didn’t intend to anytime in the near future. I used it at a point in my life when I was finding things difficult to manage. A relationship had broken down and my father was seriously ill. Writing helped me to work through those times, to put my thoughts down on paper and not carry them around in my head.

  I stared down at it, at the pale-blue leather cover and yellowing pages inside, and considered throwing it out. This book held my darkest deepest thoughts. Did I really want to discard them like a worn-out old rag?

  Against my better judgement, I slotted the diary back in an empty box and placed it in a cupboard. I have mixed emotions about that book. It helped me through a tough part of my life but was also a reminder of times I would sooner forget.

  I forged on, filing some things and discarding others. The more organised I became, the more settled I began to feel. It was a cathartic process and by the time I had finished, I felt renewed, like a different person.

  I stood up and surveyed my work – pictures and photographs were in frames and hung on walls, books were dusted down and displayed on shelves and already the place looked more lived in. The house began to feel as if it actually belonged to me. Perhaps I would get settled in this village after all, and much sooner than I’d hoped.

  I switched the radio on, poured myself a welcome glass of wine and dropped onto the sofa. I gazed around the living room, a smile spreading across my face. I was beginning to really love this old house and strangely enough, even Whitchurch itself. Despite the recent events and the fact that most of the people I had met acted as if I was the Devil incarnate, I was happy here. I laughed and took a deep glug of red wine, the rich flavour coating my tongue and blossoming in my mouth.

  A strange sensation settled on me, shrouding me in its warmth. I was new to Whitchurch, yet it was as if I had actually lived here all my life.

  12

  The next week passed by in an uneventful blur. I took a few walks, unpacked and assembled furniture that was delivered, painted rooms and, bit by bit, felt myself becoming more and more relaxed. The tightness in my neck and shoulders, and the knot that had settled in my gut after receiving Delores’ messages, began to unravel. She was still onto me, however. I received another email from her which I had yet to read. Her words could wait. I had a new life to be getting on with and reading her messages full of pity and woe didn’t figure in it. She was so much like Samantha it scared me: controlling and permanently angry. Every message I got from her fuelled my belief that I had done the right thing and was well out of it. I would block her at some point, but in a warped sort of way, her pointless, desperate messages were starting to actually entertain me.

  The summer holidays were still in full swing, the days long and hot, the few wispy trails of clouds that sometimes rolled in, empty. The promised rain had yet to show its face. Today was the hottest day so far and the air in the house was thick and muggy. It was too warm for walking. I decided to chance my arm in the pub. I hadn’t ventured in lately and thought that I could order some food and sink a few pints, and if I got lucky, slowly ingratiate myself with the locals and not be the newcomer any more.

  Lily was in her usual place behind the bar, her hair a more shocking shade of white than I remembered from last time. She had it styled in big, looping curls and her lips were painted scarlet to match her nails. She looked every inch the 1950s film star and was radiant behind the bar of a small village pub where locals scowled, supped and gossiped and barely noticed her presence. I heaved a sigh. She didn’t really belong there. Nobody noticed her or seemed to care. All they wanted was beer and a corner in which to sit and moan about the government and the unfeasibly hot weather.

  I strolled up to the bar, hoping my smile and easy banter would brighten her day. She was her usual welcoming self as she took my order and handed me a menu.

  ‘Not so busy today?’ I said as I scanned the pub. There were a handful of people seated close by and a small group of locals who were sitting chatting in the corner.

  ‘No, thank God,’ she replied wearily. ‘It’s been really quiet, which is good as I’ve got the hangover from hell.’

  I raised my eyebrows, feeling more like a father figure than a customer, and clicked my tongue at her. ‘Oh dear. And here you are having to serve more of the stuff. Enough to turn your stomach I’ll bet. Students, eh? Once you’re properly grown up, you’ll become more acclimatised to alcohol’s devastating effects and how bloody rotten it makes you feel the day after.’ I laughed and stared into her face, waiting for her response.

  She gave me a withering glance and then softened and smiled. ‘Yeah, but I’m a good few years younger than you so my recovery time is a lot faster than yours, Grandad.’

  I laughed loudly. I liked this girl. She was clever and witty and was wasted in this place. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, suddenly feeling quite bold, ‘I think I’m going to go and join those good folks over there.’ I pointed to the crowd in the corner, some of whom I recognised from my first time in here, the very same group of people who stopped their conversation to watch me from afar. I was feeling more settled in Whitchurch, more able to withstand the contemptuous glances from the locals who thought me a spy or some sort of troublemaker. I was about to broaden their view of me, let them see who I really was.

  ‘Good luck.’ Lily laughed. ‘Tough nuts to crack, that lot.’ She nodded over to one of the men, who caught her eye and mouthed to her that he needed a fresh pint. ‘I was just saying to Ray here that you’re a right miserable bunch, aren’t you?’