But the past was the past, and they spent that long, sunny afternoon looking towards the future. They talked about it too, he and Lucy strolling around the castle grounds and making plans, George fighting dragons in the long grass, or throwing stones into the tumbled south tower, or just walking along with them silently, listening to their discussions and humming unknown tunes.

  By early evening, an idea that had seeded in Jack’s mind was in full bloom. He felt awkward asking Lucy about it, but she came to the rescue. It was almost as if she could read his mind.

  “Why don’t you pop down to Tall Stennington, see if you can find us something nice for tea?” she said. “Maybe they’ll cook us a meal at the pub for you to bring home. We’ll bring the blankets and pillows in from the car and I’ll get George ready for bed when you’re gone.” He liked the way she used the word home. And he liked the idea of spending an hour in the King’s Arms. The only thing troubling him was the old woman’s visit, and he wanted to know what the locals thought of the castle. They’d know about his return by now, of course. Word travelled quickly in such a little town.

  Lucy kissed him before he left. “Maybe George will be asleep when you come home,” she whispered, in that tone of voice that spoke volumes.

  “Twice in one day?”

  “Must be the fresh country air.”

  She and George stood just outside the large main gates as Jack walked along the driveway towards town. When he glanced back, they waved. The space above the small pedestrian gate was bare and empty. He’d taken the carved wooden charm down and thrown it into the bushes.

  Before going to war, Jack hadn’t been a drinker. In Normandy there had been wine given by the French, and cognac lifted from bombed or abandoned buildings, and sometimes being drunk had distanced him from the things he had seen and done. That enforced and stressed drunkenness hadn’t been an enjoyable experience, and even when he returned home after the war and found himself in one London pub after another, he found little pleasure in the act of drinking. It was a pure survival mechanism, a way to try and integrate back into society when all he had known for months on end was war. Sleep, wake, fight, sleep wake fight, sometimes with food and water, more often without. Returning to a place and time when there was no need to fight had thrown him out of synch, body and mind. Drink gave him back enough distance between life and cruel reality to try and rebuild.

  Meeting and falling in love with Lucy—ironically in one of the London boozers where he’d been spending more and more of his time—had lessened his dependency on drink, and made his relationship with it healthier. Now he enjoyed a pint or two rather than putting away eight or ten, and if he ever felt himself pulling back from the world, or felt darkness closing in around his woolly senses, he stopped.

  He was proud of that. He also attributed every good thing in his life to Lucy.

  When he entered the King’s Arms, the hubbub of conversation lessened slightly as he closed the door behind him, and a few faces turned his way. He saw only open curiosity, and no one seemed to focus on him for too long. He was a stranger in a local’s pub, nothing more. The chatter soon rose again, and a man shuffled his chair forward and nodded a friendly greeting to let Jack reach the bar.

  “Bitter, please,” Jack said to the barman. He was a short man with a severe face, but he was instantly friendly.

  “Certainly, sir. Nice to see a new face in town. Will you be eating with us this evening? My wife cooked a lovely pie at lunch, and there’s a good-sized portion still left.”

  “Actually I’d like enough for three,” Jack said.

  “Of course.”

  “And some potatoes and vegetables?”

  “Sir.” The barman placed the pint before him, almost reverentially. “I’d never dream of serving you pie without spuds and veg.” He smiled as Jack dropped a couple of coins into his hand.

  “Many thanks,” Jack said.

  “Thank you, sir. Grayland Castle, is it?”

  Jack froze for a second, glancing around to see if the name had caught anyone’s attention. It seemed not. He nodded.

  The barman nodded back, still smiling but his expression loaded, as if he had much more to say. He tensed, then a man stood beside Jack and ordered two beers. Jack nodded his thanks and went to find a table.

  Sipping at his beer he had a look around the pub. It was a busy, bustling social centre to the town, and it was quite clear that most people here knew each other. There were only a couple of other people sitting alone at small tables. One man read a newspaper and smoked a pipe; another played a solemn game of patience, never once looking up. He supposed they were travelling businessmen, or else inhabitants who preferred not to mix with their townsfolk.

  He caught a woman’s eye and she glanced away quickly, reaching for her gin and tonic and looking to the ceiling as she drained it. A man stared right at him, blinking slowly. Jack raised his pint to the man just as he looked away.

  The first person he recognised sat at a table in one of the front bay windows. He was with several men and women, laughing easily and drinking quickly, and Jack struggled to remember his name. He thought it was Bill, and as the name dawned on him, the man looked his way and nodded a friendly greeting. They were of the same age, and it was obvious that Bill had been in the war. His left arm was missing.

  Jack nodded back, and just as he considered another pint Bill stood, said something to his friends, and went to the bar.

  “Get you a pint?” Bill asked. “Jack Grayland, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Thanks, Bill. Good to see you.”

  Bill nodded and smiled, obviously pleased at being remembered, and he brought both pints to the table. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Not at all.”

  He sat opposite Jack at the small table, groaning like an older man as he lowered himself onto the stool. He raised his glass, they chinked and drank, and he noticed Jack’s gaze flickering to the stump of his left arm.

  “Arnhem,” he said. “Fucking glider crashed. Didn’t even get to fire my gun.”

  “No bad thing,” Jack said.

  Bill raised his eyebrows.

  “Juno beach, then Cherbourg,” Jack said. “I ended up fighting into Germany.”

  “You look good for it,” Bill said, looking him up and down.

  Not all injuries are so easily seen, Jack thought, but he didn’t say it. He had no wish to lessen the impact of the man’s missing arm.

  “I haven’t see you in...ten years?” Bill said.

  “More like twelve,” Jack said. “I left home, the war came and went. Came back to Blighty and met my sweetheart in London.”

  “So what brings you back to Tall Stennington?”

  “The castle.” He said no more, leaving an uncomfortable silence for Bill to fill.

  “Well, yes, the castle,” he said. “Surprised you decided to take it on, to be honest, Jack. It’s not a good place.”

  “I know that.”

  “Not a good place for your family that lived there, nor for the town. I had my way, we’d have burned it down years ago.”

  “I know it wasn’t a good place in the past, but it can be again,” Jack said. “I left before all that happened, and—”

  “Then you don’t know,” Bill said. He wasn’t threatening or angry—his voice was quite matter of fact—but he pulled no punches in what he said next. “What they did up there almost tore this village apart. Three people dead. Three more missing. Witchcraft, strange ceremonies, experiments into immortality.”

  Jack snorted.

  “They did all that and more. Weird stuff, Jack. Your mother, father, sister, they were all involved.”

  “I’m aware of what they did.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. Sounds like you don’t believe.”

  “I believe it was something bad.”

  “And you’d still come back?”

  “It was a long time ago. I’ve come back to do good things there, not bad. I have a lovely wife and son, and I want to make it a happy place for them. For everyone.”

  “Huh.” Bill finished his pint.

  “You don’t seem like an unreasonable man,” Jack said. “I didn’t know you well, but I’m sure you can understand why I need this. I know what my family did was terrible, but that was them. This is me.”

  “Sure you haven’t brought them back with you?” Bill seemed totally serious, and even when he smiled and slapped Jack’s shoulder, Jack wasn’t sure he didn’t mean it.

  “They’re declared dead,” he said. “And I believe a hundred per cent they are. After that last night when everything got out of hand, they killed themselves. There were bones on the bonfire in the courtyard.”

  “Bones no one could identify.”

  “The three bodies they found were from the village and no one else was missing. Other than my family.”

  “Burned themselves to death,” Bill said. “Christ. You must have carried the knowledge of that all over Europe with you.”

  “I saw enough over there to distract me from it all,” Jack replied, and he caught real sympathy in the other soldier’s eyes.

  “I used to be so pissed off I missed the show,” Bill said. “Stuck on a cot in a bombed chateau with my arm hanging off. Evacuated with what was left of the 1st Airborne. Spent the rest of the war in a fucking recuperation ward in Wales while my mates went back to war and died.”

  “Bad luck,” Jack said. “That’s all it was.”

  Bill stood. “Another beer?”

  “I think I’ll be getting back, if my meal’s ready,” Jack said. “But another time?”

  “Absolutely. Bring your wife and boy next time, I’ll introduce you to my own family.” He turned to leave, hesitated, then leaned down and rested his hand on the table. “It’s not a good place, Jack. It’s not happy. Some townsfolk don’t like that you’ve come back, and you might find some resistance. But if you’re going to prove them wrong, it’ll have to be quick. Know what I mean?”

  “You mean I’m on borrowed time here?”

  Bill shrugged. “One way of putting it.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Not a warning, mate. Just an observation.” Bill touched his brow and left Jack to finish his beer. A moment later—almost as if he’d been waiting for Bill to leave—the barman approached with a cardboard box covered with a tea towel.

  “Bring the plates back when you’ve finished, but no rush.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind. How much do I owe you?”

  The barman shrugged, then smiled. “Let’s call it a welcome home present.”

  Touched, Jack nodded his thanks, took the box, and edged his way out of the pub. As the door swung shut behind him he thought he detected a lowering of chatter, a silence that pushed at his back.

  Perhaps it was just an effect of the closing door.

  It was only as he saw the silhouette of the castle in the distance and heard the crunch of the long driveway’s gravel beneath his boots that Jack became certain he was being followed.

  He’d chosen to walk to the pub earlier because it was only a mile down to the town, and he’d liked the idea of regaining some of his childhood memories of the place. The scent of apples and the cider tang of rotting fruit from the local orchards were the same, and the sound of the stream tinkling under the narrow stone bridge seemed to have its own charm, as if the water here sounded different from water anywhere else. They inspired happy memories. Perhaps being away from the castle meant that he could filter out all the bad ones.

  The second set of footsteps did not stop when he stopped. They were making no secret of following him.

  He was not afraid. The dark had never bothered Jack, and on occasion it had been a friend, hiding him and his mates’ location from the enemy and sometimes halting the bloody violence of conflict so that soldiers on both sides could brew up, bed down, and try to sleep through the traumatic memories of what the day had brought. But he did worry about who might wish to follow him back to the castle. Bill had made clear that some of the townsfolk did not welcome his return. He’d been expecting that, and he had vowed to send their fears and concerns away as rapidly as possible. He and Lucy planned to throw a party for the village once the castle’s courtyard was made more presentable, even though it would cost them a lot to lay on. They both agreed that it was a price worth paying to try and gain the goodwill of their neighbours.

  Being stalked through the darkness, Jack wondered if they might be ousted before they could even attempt to scrub away the castle’s stain.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, trying to sound more in control than he felt. Heat from the food bled from the box, casting a faint steam before his eyes that resembled mist. It was not a dark night—the moon was waxing, and starlight speckled the empty skies—but he still had trouble making out the shape of the person following him. “Who’s there?” he asked again. I’ll throw the hot food in their face and then run, he thought, and the idea of such aggression did not sit well with him. His heart doubled its rhythm, and his palms began to sweat.

  “Just an old woman,” a voice said. “One with bad knees and poor eyes, so I’m glad you stopped at last.”

  “Peggy?” Jack asked.

  “The one and only.” She drew close to him and he could make her out at last. She seemed smaller than when he’d last seen her, more than fifteen years ago, and he was shocked at how old she looked. He saw that same shock reflected in her eyes.

  “My God, you used to be such a handsome young lad,” she said.

  “Thanks. I think. How are you?”

  “Old and ugly, but I can’t complain. You still yo-yoing everywhere?”

  Jack laughed out loud. As a child he’d loved playing with yo-yos. He hadn’t even thought of them in a decade or more. Peggy used to help his parents at the castle, one of several people from the village who they’d paid to clean, make beds, and sometimes cook and tend the large gardens. She’d left years before the war, along with everyone else. Even back then his parents’ behaviour had stirred anger and discontent in Tall Stennington.

  “I haven’t touched a yo-yo in years,” he said.

  “Touched a gun, though, so I hear.” She looked him up and down as if searching for signs of his time in the army. At least he thought she was looking at him, but then he noticed that she was also glancing past him at where Grayland Castle cast a heavy shadow against the night sky. She moved from foot to foot, agitated or eager to leave.

  “Why did you follow me?” he asked. “I’m guessing it wasn’t for old time’s sake.”

  “None of your cheek!” Peggy said. “I’ll put you over my knee.”

  “I’d probably snap it,” he said.

  “Aye, well, you are carrying a few pounds. Noticed that in the pub. Eat all that pie to yourself and you’ll only add to it.”

  Jack went to say the meal was for his wife and son too, but something held him back. The villagers would know that he was here with his family, but naming them felt like bringing them out into the night. They were safe in their rooms back in the north tower and he decided to leave them there.

  Jack’s silence brought Peggy’s true motives to the fore.

  “Shouldn’t have come back home, Jack. You’ll hear that from more than just me, and more than Bill in the pub.”

  “I didn’t see you in there,” he said.

  “It’s not a place that you can tame,” she said, ignoring his comment. “You might be here with all good intentions, but that place doesn’t play by the rules.” She pointed past him, and her eyes glimmered with moonlight when she stared at the castle’s looming shadow. “It’s got rules of its own, and you coming here wanting to rewrite them...it’s a folly.”

  “It’s my family home, and I’ve every right to be here.”

  “This isn’t about rights. It’s about avoiding wrongs. And that place is wrong in every sense of the word.”

  “They’re dead and gone, and good riddance,” he said. “I hated them back then when I ran away, and I hate them more now. Their memory, the taint it’s left on this place, and on me...I hate it all. But I’m going to make it better, and I don’t need suspicious villagers telling me otherwise.”

  “I admire that,” she said. “I like your spirit. But you can’t know what the downside hides, and even if you did it’d do you no good. It’s not just a taint. It’s a stain.”

  “The downside to what?” he asked.

  “Downside to the castle. Those spaces beneath the basements.” She frowned, as if suddenly hesitant about revealing more to him.

  “There are no places beneath the basements.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  Peggy rocked harder from foot to foot, and he thought she was winding herself up to run at him, or perhaps turn tail and flee.

  “Places older than the castle builders made,” she said.

  “There’s nothing down there.”

  “Oh Jack. Oh, your family!”

  “What are you on about? Who put you up to this?”

  “You have to think about your family. Your little boy!”

  “You leave him out of it!” Jack said. He didn’t like feeling angry towards Peggy. She’d shown him nothing but kindness when he was a child, letting him follow her around the castle as she did her chores, not even minding when he decided to help. He’d dropped baskets of fruit from the trees that used to grow in the orchards south of the castle, muddied washing as he tried to hang it out to dry, and cut his fingers peeling potatoes for dinner. She’d never told him off, and her patience must have been endless. She’d been a kind old woman even then, and now he hated the feeling inside, the rage he felt building towards her because of her intrusion into what should have been a calming, exciting time for him and his family.

  Did I ever really believe the village would let me return in peace? he thought, but he shoved the idea away. He needed a cigarette. He needed a drink, and he knew that Lucy would have the bottle of red they’d brought with them open and breathing.