by Dan Moore
‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t have it on me.’
‘I’m afraid it’s company pol–’
‘Oh, go on, please let him have a drink,’ said Jess. ‘He’s well behaved.’
Sighing, the defeated barmaid pulled him a pint.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Freddie looked across the bar to where a lad around his own age, hood pulled up over a baseball cap, was punching the juke-box.
‘Hey! Stupid machine’s robbed my money again!’
‘I’ll take a look at it when I’ve finished serving this gentleman,’ said the barmaid. ‘Stop hitting it!’
‘That’s Harvey Templeton,’ said Lucas, the tall, blonde, chiselled lad Freddie now knew to be Jess’ boyfriend. ‘Also holds the post of village idiot.’
Freddie could see that Lucas was everything a girl could possibly want. Attractive. Smart. Funny. Kind. Well spoken. What chance did he have? Yes, Tiffany had been fit, but she’d had tons of boyfriends. He could see that Jess was a different class, a fine wine. So what did that make Tiffany – a late night slasher movie?
‘I’m just going to chat with Rachel,’ Jess said, pulling Lucas in for another kiss, ‘back soon.’
Freddie followed Lucas’ gaze as Jess waltzed over to a wiry, pencil-shaped girl.
‘What a girl!’ said Lucas, sipping his pint. ‘So, Freddie. How’s country life treating you?’
‘All right so far, bit different from where I live.’
‘I hear you’ve met Aunt Ursula.’
Aunt Ursula? Lucas must be rich as well, then! He had to hand it to Jess, she could pick them.
‘Yeah, briefly,’ said Freddie, his words drowned out by the sound of the hoody beating up the juke-box.
‘What did I tell you?!’ screamed the barmaid.
‘Listen Freddie, I have an idea. Do you have a girlfriend back home?’
Jesus, rub it in! Why did people insist on going on about girls all the time? He felt like laying down on the beer-stained carpet so everyone could trample over him, give him a good kicking. Why couldn’t they chat about football or cars, or even farming?
‘Err, no. Just got out of a relationship, actually, long story…’
Lucas pointed to a girl who’d recently joined Jess and Rachel at a table in the bay window. She looked ok, he thought: long auburn hair, curvy, nice smile. He blinked. He wouldn’t waste another tear on Tiffany Angle.
‘That’s Scarlett,’ said Lucas. ‘She’s just got out of a relationship as well. You should go and talk to her, buy her a drink. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’
He chuckled to himself all the way to the toilet. Chatting to Scarlett had cheered him up, and the banter being thrown about by the group gathered around their table was refreshing, reminding him of his own friends back home. Mike, Steve, and Timmy seemed cool. He desperately wanted to hate Lucas; wanted to find a flaw in Jess’ oh so perfect boyfriend. But he couldn’t.
Rinsing his hands in a wash basin lined with lime scale, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror above. He looked drained. Could he really carve a niche for himself in the country? he wondered. Could he leave Tiffany behind? Closure tended to thwart him, an adversary with unreadable footwork, about as easy to grasp hold of as smoke. Perhaps a bit of fun with another girl would help him. Jess was clearly out of his league and really into Lucas, but Scarlett seemed easy to get on with.
He shivered, feeling a draught. Refocusing, Freddie stared deep into the mirror. Was he seeing double? He knew he’d had a couple of pints, but he felt okay. A second face stared back at him. The face, topped with a baseball cap, was ugly, and its stupid grin exposed two chipped front teeth. Freddie recognised that it was Harvey Templeton. When had he come in?
He ignored Harvey; he didn’t want any trouble. He snatched a paper towel from the dispenser and dried his hands, glancing back into the mirror. Harvey hadn’t moved.
‘Can I help you?’ Freddie asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
‘You can, mate,’ Harvey replied.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, you can get lost,’ Harvey said, taking a step towards him. ‘That bird you’re all over out there? Yeah, she’s mine!’
‘So you’re the ex-boyfriend she told me all about,’ said Freddie, turning to face his aggressor. ‘The one she says she’s over.’
Freddie saw the hand lunge towards him too late; his effort at deflecting it lame. His eyes felt as if they would explode as Harvey gripped his throat, his hands like the jaws of a vice. He couldn’t breathe. Muffled sounds of people enjoying themselves out in the lounge reached his ears. And then Harvey spoke, his voice harsh, words slurred.
‘I want you out of here, town boy, right? She’s been telling me it’s over for weeks but she always comes back to me. Can’t get enough, if you know what I mean. You speak to her again and I’ll cut you!’
If Harvey didn’t release him soon he’d definitely pass out. Let go! Let go! Freddie couldn’t speak, he could barely think. Harvey’s face was suddenly over his, so close that he thought he was leaning in for a kiss. A bead of sweat trickled down Harvey’s forehead, plunged from his eyebrow and landed with a splash on Freddie’s top lip. His stomach churned. Harvey’s chapped lips tickled his ear.
‘I always follow up on my threats!’
He splashed water over his face when Harvey left. No one else had come in so he hung back, composed himself, thought through his next move. He wasn’t going to leave because one thug wanted him to. But what could he do about his new friends? He couldn’t go back to them without being close to Scarlett. She was sat with them.
He stumbled from the toilet and right into the path of another customer. He had to admit, he’d performed a quality shoulder charge, even if unintentional. The man lost grip on his glass, which fell to the floor and smashed. Beer splashed up Freddie’s jeans. Beautiful!
‘Sorry,’ said Freddie, reaching out to steady the bloke he’d collided with. ‘I didn’t see you.’ But the chap, middle-aged, with a portly belly, seemed fine.
‘It’s all right, boy,’ said the man, his accent broad. He was clearly local. ‘Just be a bit more careful next time. And I’ll have a cider!’
How have I gone from buying a girl a drink, to this?
‘A pint of cider, please,’ he said to the barmaid, after cleaning up the mess.
‘And a packet of nuts,’ added the guy he’d crashed into.
‘Well, well,’ the barmaid said, reaching up to a shelf above their heads for the nuts, ‘your dates are getting uglier!’
‘I think you’re in there, boy!’ said the man. ‘Why don’t you ask her for her number?’
Freddie coughed, and not because his throat still stung.
‘Calm down, Mr McGeady,’ the barmaid said. ‘I’m sure this young man already has a girlfriend.’
Why did everyone assume that? thought Freddie. Why did everyone keep bringing it up? He knew he must be all interesting and new and everything, especially with everyone in the community knowing each other’s business, but come on!
‘Not exactly.’
‘Make that your last drink, Mr McGeady,’ the barmaid said. ‘I don’t want your mum complaining about the state we let you get into again. That’ll be three pound fifty.’
Freddie handed a five pound note over the bar. His mum!? How old was the bloke? Fifty? Fifty-five? What is it with this village? he thought with disbelief.
‘I’m Daisy, by the way,’ she said, smiling.
‘I’m Freddie. It’s nice meeting you. I think.’
‘Just remember to bring your ID next time.’
Freddie followed Mr McGeady to a corner table, the bar not only blocking his friends from view, but also most of the light. Thankfully Harvey seemed to have disappeared. Probably off home to sulk about losing Scarlett, Freddie thought smugly.
‘Are you a farmer, Mr McGeady?’ Freddie asked.
‘Please, call me Gerry,’ said Mr McGeady, getting stuck into the peanuts. ‘Worked for the Da
vidson family since I left school. No finer man in this county than John Davidson.’
Gerry was another person who might have come into contact with Rhona. He recalled Ursula’s reaction to him mentioning his step-mum’s name. He’d give it another go. See what happened.
‘My step-mums’ from round here. You might have known her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Rhona McCall?’
‘Don’t recognise the name,’ Gerry replied.
Freddie could feel the table wobble as Gerry began tapping his foot on the floor. What had caused this reaction? he wondered. Surely not Rhona! What had she done to these people?
‘I’d rather finish this drink on my own, if you don’t mind.’
‘You must have been working for Mr Davidson around the time his son was killed,’ said Freddie. ‘Do you believe in the stories about his ghost?’
Gerry nodded slowly, his eyes wandering around the bar as if lost in their sockets.
‘What do you remember about the day it happened?’ Freddie asked.
‘I remember telling you I’d like to finish this drink on my own. Now scram!’
Getting up the following morning wasn’t easy. His heavy limbs resisted his brain’s request to haul his body from its’ overnight resting place. When the second alarm sounded he knew hitting the snooze button just wasn’t an option now that he had a job – especially when he lived under the same roof as his employer. He dragged himself down the stairs and rushed through breakfast, even throwing half a slice of toast to the floor for Betty. Greg was already out and feeding up. His overalls, spattered with dried muck from yesterday, reminded him of just how far he’d come.
He pulled on his wellies and quietly closed the back door. He trudged round the side of the house and was about to set off down the track to meet up with Greg, when he spotted something flapping on the windscreen of his car. It looked like a flyer. He couldn’t believe it. These people really could get you anywhere.
He ambled over to his Corsa, half expecting to find an advert promising half-price deals at the local hairdresser’s, or an advert insisting that the revamp of a local Italian restaurant had made it the tastiest place to eat in town. A strong gust of wind caught the flyer, slamming it into the windscreen, where it lay, spread-eagled.
It wasn’t a flyer.
He didn’t need to reach down and grab the note to read it. He could make out the bold, handwritten letters from where he was. Culprits popped through his mind as he tore the note away from the windscreen-wiper that had been holding it in place. He read it again:
FREDDIE FORSTER
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE
GO HOME
This has to be Harvey’s doing! thought Freddie. He would have to be careful. Harvey Templeton was a nasty piece of work.
6
The following day seemed drag on and on. By late afternoon packing up and leaving seemed the best option, his heavy eyes and dampened spirits rendering him no longer interested in his work duties.
‘I like this time of day in summer,’ said Greg, lifting an open bag of pellets onto the lip of the sack-barrow. ‘It’s warm, but not too warm. We’ll take this bag round to the store then that’ll be it for the day.’
Greg seemed chirpy. Maybe it would be a good time to bring up some of the ideas he’d had for the farm, thought Freddie. But… what was he thinking? Why did he care?! He’d decided to leave, hadn’t he? But what if Greg said yes – agreed to implement his ideas. How exciting would that be? Could he really miss it, for the sake of the note? Oh well. Voicing his ideas wouldn’t hurt him.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Freddie, steadying the bag as Greg set off down the track. ‘Those old sheds you’ve had me cleaning out–’
‘By the road?’
‘Could they be used for something? They’re wasted just sat there all rundown and neglected, surely–’
‘They’ve been out of use for years.’
‘Exactly! Why not use the half-decent one as a roadside stall? Sell directly to the customer!’
He felt the barrow slow down a touch, and noticed Greg staring at something on the horizon. Did Greg think he was cheeky? It wasn’t his intention to offend his host.
‘I’ve seen similar setups before,’ said Greg, speeding up again.
‘So it makes sense,’ said Freddie.
He could see the winning post, the trophy just out of reach.
‘Could’ve done with you here a few months ago, before…before it went too far.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What course do you want to study at uni again?’ said Greg, changing track.
‘Business.’
‘I can see that.’
So close! He gripped the sides of the bag as he prepared to seal a famous victory.
‘So, what do you say?’
‘Not right now, lad.’
Why not? Freddie wondered. It made sense. And his ideas didn’t stop there either – he had tons queuing up just waiting to be put into action, to save Ridge Farm. Why had Greg given up? Just yesterday hadn’t Greg told him that Ridge Farm wasn’t much, but was his three-hundred acres?
‘Why are you giving up so easily?’ asked Freddie.
Greg opened his mouth to speak. Freddie expected a verbal volley, or a telling off at least. But Greg simply closed his mouth, sighed, and turned away.
The smell of baking filled the kitchen. ‘Heavy rain expected tomorrow,’ said Greg, glancing up from behind a copy of the local weekly newspaper.
‘I hope it’s nothing like a few years back,’ said Jess.
Just sitting around a table, listening to a family talk about what they’d been up to, discussing something as trivial as the weather, warmed Freddie. But the warmth didn’t last; how could it? The terrible hollowness inside him, a gap that couldn’t be filled by the kindness of others, sobered him. Things simply weren’t like this back home – not even when Rhona tried, and sometimes she really did try, to turn her household into a family.
Freddie still hadn’t told anyone about Harvey Templeton threatening him, or the note, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would.
‘There’s a picture of the floods in here,’ said Greg, turning the paper so everyone could see. In the background the hills towered above the flatlands. In the foreground lakes stood where Freddie knew there to be fields and hedgerows and roads. ‘Many of the crops further down the hill were ruined.’
‘There’s a storm front moving across the Atlantic,’ said Jess.
‘Check you,’ said Freddie, pushing Betty, who was begging for food yet to be served, back to the floor. ‘Since when were you an expert on the weather?’
‘I’m taking A-level Geography,’ she said. ‘And the weather plays a big part in country life.’
‘I’d pay more attention to the forecast if you were a TV weather girl.’
The only time kids on his estate would pay attention to the weather was when the possibility of a snow day arose. Snow days… When nearly everyone at school lived within walking distance! It was laughable, really.
His phone vibrated on the table top. It was a text message, from Tiffany:
Do you miss me? x
‘Who’s that from?’ Jess asked.
‘My ex.’
‘Oh, thought it might be Scarlett. I gave her your number. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Jeez,’ he said, pocketing his mobile without replying to the message. ‘Why don’t you make me some cards up as well? You could leave them in phone boxes, or pin them up in the shop. Advertise. Sad act looking for love. All welcome.’
‘Hey! Don’t be mean. Scarlett’s cool.’
Yeah, thought Freddie. So cool that she went out with an idiot like Harvey “The Strangler” Templeton! It still hurt when he swallowed.
‘I’m not sure about her last choice of boyfriend,’ said Freddie.
‘That’s what we all thought. Harvey’s a jerk.’
‘You’re telling me.’
His mobile vibra
ted again. Couldn’t the girl just leave him be? Hadn’t she done enough damage? Retrieving the Samsung, he read the message. It was from Ricky:
Wicked party last night mate, shame you missed it. Hanging big style. Head batters. Any fitties in the country?
A knock at the door brought him back into the room. Usually he relied on Ricky to cheer him up, but not anymore. In fact he didn’t have Ricky, full stop. Here, in the country, he had to face things solo. Alone amongst people who’d had lives before he arrived and would have lives long after his short stay. He glanced up as Lucas breezed into the kitchen, looking smug in a shirt and tie.
‘Hullo everyone,’ he said.
Freddie couldn’t believe it. Had his ears swallowed too much water in the shower or was Lucas manipulating his own voice? Sure, he’d sounded fairly posh before, even a tad pompous at times, but in front of Elizabeth and Greg he sounded like an actor delivering well-rehearsed lines.
‘Hello dear,’ said Elizabeth.
‘All right, lad,’ said Greg.
Freddie felt his stomach churn as Jess planted a kiss on Lucas’ lips right in front of him.
‘Freddie,’ said Lucas, nodding. ‘How the devil are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Will you be staying for tea?’ Elizabeth asked hopefully.
‘No, Mum,’ said Jess, resting her head on Lucas’ arm. ‘Lucas has reserved a table at that new Mexican restaurant in town.’
Freddie leant forward on the bar, hoping by some miracle that this would propel him to the front of the queue. He’d seen Tiffany do something similar in clubs, trying to catch the eye of the barman. How stupid must he look? Country pubs clearly didn’t observe the same etiquette. His third day of work had been a bore, and this had made him impatient.
‘Hey Daisy,’ he called out, more an attempt at making conversation than pushing in.
‘I’ll be with you next,’ she replied without looking up, in the midst of pulling two pints whilst counting another customer’s change. ‘I’m just serving Dave.’
