Meadowbank
Jonathan Kent
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
MEADOWBANK by Jonathan Kent
First edition. May 1, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 Jonathan Kent.
Imprint: Independently published
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Meadowbank
Prologue
Rural bus services could be a drag, a real drag. Regularity was roughly every 60 minutes and never at a time that suited. The buses stopped at every tiny village and hamlet along the way, turning what would be a thirty minute car journey into a two hour marathon; sitting on an uncomfortable bench seat in silence.
His shift had finished at 5pm, but the bus didn't leave until 5:40pm. At first it was standing room only. Some polite soul had given up his seat to an elderly lady with a bulging Tesco bag for life, but the rest had simply sat and stared, holding onto one last shred of comfort.
The first 45 minutes of the journey were hell. Not until the bus cleared the outskirts of town did he manage to get a seat and that was next to a smelly fat woman with food stains down her coat. It was summer, raining, humid and uncomfortable. All the windows were steamed up and passengers were frantically wiping away smeary portholes. Ninety minutes into the journey, the bus was about half full and finally he had a seat to himself.
It was a Wednesday. He worked five days a week 8:30am till 5pm in a slaughterhouse. His day started at 5:30am waiting at the village bus stop and ended about 8pm at the same place. He stank of flesh and blood, a smell that wouldn't really leave him until Sunday morning, the day before he started it all over again. Truth was he kind of liked the job. He was left to himself. There was always loud music playing and he was getting incredibly good with a knife. He had only been there six months, but already he was an expert with the blade. His bosses seemed to like him. Young lad, kept himself to himself. Never late and one of the quickest, most accurate workers they had ever had. All for the princely sum of £7.50 an hour. Bargain.
The bus lurched from the penultimate stop. The lady with the Tesco bag got off. No one got on. There were only four people left on the bus now. Himself, an older man of about fifty wearing a rain-coat, a younger girl with jet black hair and the fat woman he was sitting next to earlier. He had ridden this bus five days a week for almost six months and two of the passengers were very familiar to him - although they had never spoke. The girl however was new. He had never seen her on this bus before. She sat on the single seat just behind the driver. Long black coat. Black hair. Thick black eyeliner and two rings through her left nostril. In short, just the kind of girl he liked.
The bus rounded a tight bend and he got up from his seat. He rang the bell and waited to pull in to his stop. He walked down the length of the bus, past the fat woman starting on her third bag of crisps, past the old guy in the raincoat and as he approached the girl she looked up and caught his eye. She smiled and he smiled back and then did the only thing that came natural to him: dropped his gaze and got off the bus.
The bus pulled away and his mind told him the girl was looking through the window at him. In truth is was so badly steamed he couldn't tell.
He stood at the empty bus stop with two options in front of him. Option one go left. Take the road-way to his house. Nearly two miles walking in the pouring rain. 30 minutes, and soaked to the skin. Option two, go right. Skirt the outside if the village, take the dirt path that ran alongside the woods. Probably still about a mile and a half, but it was still daylight even with the heavy rain clouds and the path ran alongside the woods which could possibly provide some shelter. Yeah ok it would be muddy - it had been raining solid for about three days and at the end of the path he would have to cut in front of the old mansion that was never fun even in the daytime. But all in all he thought the wood path was the better option. Not a pleasant walk. The villagers tended not to use the woodland walks, not even for dogs. But quicker and dryer and ultimately to him the only sane option.
Five minutes later he was skirting along the edge of the woods making pretty good progress. The trees provided plenty of cover from the rain and had also helped in keeping the dirt track relatively mud free, which was an added bonus. Technically, the woods were within the grounds of the old mansion, but he knew the house had stood empty for as far back as he could remember and so he had no concerns about skipping over the broken down wall and following the woodland path towards his home.
It started to rain harder, so he walked closer to the tree line. The woods beyond were dark and oppressing but the sound of the rain on the trees seemed to mask the eerie silence that usually came with old woods. He came to a section of wall that had fallen across the path and then he heard the music. Faint at first. But more and more clearer the further along the path he went. He looked to his right into the woods, and there, leaning against a tree about fifty yards in, was the girl.
At first his brain failed to take it all in. The girl he had smiled at ten minutes ago was right there in front of him. She was leaning against an old willow tree staring off deeper into the woods; apparently unaware of his presence. She had no coat but seemed perfectly dry. But he didn't question this. He didn't question the fact that it would have been humanly impossible to get this far ahead of him, untouched by the rain when the last time he had seen her she was on a bus heading in a completely different direction. He also didn't question the fact that there was music all around him. Some kind of old Elvis track. The sort of thing his mother would listen to. But not him and definitely not this girl.
She turned and saw him. She wasn't surprised to see him. In fact quite the opposite. It was like she had been waiting for him. She began to walk towards him, waved and smiled.
‘Hello Peter,’ she said. ‘It is Peter isn't it?’
He didn't speak. Couldn't speak. Her voice was like liquid. It was all around him. Coming from the trees, the earth, the air. He nodded, transfixed by her eyes which seemed to swim in their sockets. She came to within two feet of him, and he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. He wasn't struck dumb by her beauty. This was something different. There was some power rooting him to the spot. And as she moved even closer he could smell her. Not the smell of a young girl but the smell of a thousand year old forest. Rotting and decaying. And when she spoke again, it wasn't the voice of a young girl, it was the voice of something much, much older. It was the voice of pure evil.
‘Hello Peter,’ it said. ‘I think it's time for you to go to work.’
Part 1
The two women
1
North Dorset, about fifteen miles north west of Dorchester along the A35 up the B3157, through the village of Cerne Abbas and about three miles shy of the village of Little Cheaney sits the tiny village of Meadowbank. It's a pleasant enough place, population around 200. Quaint little old church beautifully cared for by the Rev. Shipley and his flock of adoring die hards. There's a tiny convenience store ran by the traditional crotchety old couple. There's a small kids park and a splattering of houses old and new, s
ome thatched, some not, some big, some small.
But we are only going to pay the actual village of Meadowbank a cursory glance, our tale takes place about a mile and a half from the village centre. Directly opposite the church heading west into the Dorset countryside is the winding Meadowbank lane. Thin, with high hedges, room enough only for one car at a time, the lane snakes its way directly west for about half a mile and then takes a dog leg right for the rest of its journey; running parallel north to the trunk road that bisects the village. It hops over a delicate hump bridge that has a picturesque stream running underneath and then it widens out revealing a line of six small terraced houses: Meadowbank Cottages.
The lane continues for about another hundred yards past the line of houses and then comes to an abrupt halt at the foot of what once was an impressive gateway, but now resembles two brick pillars with a horribly rusted cast iron gate held together with an equally rusted padlock. To the left, right and running off into the distance, in both directions, is a long red brick wall, it, too, is in some serious need of attention and in places along its length there are gaps big enough to walk through and piles of bricks on the ground. Looking through the gate, you can see a gravel road that is now pitted and overgrown, but once would have been an impressive driveway to the huge dark lumbering house that lies beyond: Meadowbank Hall.
Deserted now for over eighty years, the house has stood empty since the summer of 1930 when George Meadowbank - the last of a long line of Meadowbanks stretching back over three hundred and fifty years - was found dead from a gunshot wound at the ripe old age of 81. His son Clarence was also found dead at the scene and the only grandchild - Godfrey - was nowhere to be found. After an extensive search by police and villagers, the boy's whereabouts were never discovered. It was a sorry sad story that abruptly ended the line of Meadowbanks.
The six cottages lined up along Meadowbank lane at the entranceway to the Mansions drive, had, in their day housed the workers and housemaids and ground staff that would work at Meadowbank Hall. But now, in the June of 2017, these cottages are privately owned. Four are owned by the current occupiers and two rented out by a property developer based in Yeovil on the Dorset/Somerset border.
2
In Andrew Scott's opinion, there were four different kinds of neighbours when you first moved into a new street. Firstly, there were the over friendly almost nosy bunch who would be knocking on your door the minute the removal truck disappeared. At first, these type of people were welcome, but in Andrews experience, these were the ones you had less to do with as time went by. They had done their bit, welcomed the new neighbours and just got on with their lives. You knew they would be there in a tight spot, but they kept their distance.
The second type of new neighbour gave you a couple of days to settle in, and then came round with cakes and advice. Always advice. These were the ones who seemed to set the rules for the estate or apartment block. They told you who to avoid, when to put your rubbish out and if you weren't careful in those first couple of encounters, these types twos could become a right pain in the ass.
The type threes were Andrews favourites. Probably because that was how he hoped he was himself. Generally they kept themselves to themselves over the first few weeks. Always polite if you happened to meet in passing. But the kind of people who liked to check you out before committing. If they liked what they saw, then generally these were the types you could form longer term relationships with. Usually of a similar age and usually of a similar sense of humour.
The fourth type were the rarest, but Andrew had had his fair share of run ins with these. They were rude, obnoxious and seemed to resent you for moving into their street. Usually they were unmarried, slightly older men who spent most of their time washing their car.
Luckily for Andrew and his wife Elizabeth - Lizzy to all who knew her - there were no type four neighbours on Meadowbank Lane. They had moved into number two three weeks ago. As they were unloading the removal van, George Anderson, of number one, had said hello, made them and the removal guys a cup of tea and had been pleasant, if a little distant. Gillian Wharf, from number four had trotted down the lane as the last few boxes were being unloaded with a plate of sandwiches. She had been chatty, but more interested in talking about herself and her recent divorce than anything else.
After that, the first evening was quiet after the wave of type ones. Then the next morning came the arrival of the types twos. Three ladies in all. Gladys and Margaret were spinsters from number five. Both were well into their eighties, maybe older, and Andrew clocked them straight away as the real type twos. The third woman was younger, probably mid forties or early fifties. Her name was Colleen Hatton and she lived with her son at the end of the row at number six. Colleen was a big girl with a big laugh. But Andrew didn't think deep down she was really laughing, and deep down she wasn't really a type two neighbour. She wanted to be seen to be fitting in, but Andrew got the impression that being with these other two was way out of her comfort zone. She would be much happier keeping to herself and looking at life through twitching curtains.
They explained what a lovely peaceful village it was, how they couldn't stand for all that loud music and late nights. Pretty much everything Andrew had heard before, petty busybodies trying to lay down the law. Andrew and Lizzy listened and nodded in all the right places and the women went on their way happy as Larry. The new couple having been properly educated.
Next door at number three was the only type three neighbours. Karen and Dean. They had seen them on a couple of occasions, said hello and been polite. But nothing deeper than that. They knew Dean was a labourer, mid thirties, big truck parked out front and Karen was obviously a police woman, as there had been a police car parked outside their house most evenings. But apart from that, no real contact. As always, Andrew felt this couple would have more in common with them - age being the most obvious one - and in time he was sure a stronger bond would form. And, given the fact that Karen was absolutely drop dead gorgeous and wore a uniform, he was pretty sure their paths would cross.
They used to rent a tiny two bedroom terraced house in Reading, but after Andrew got his first novel published, they had decided to use the advance for a deposit and move to the country. Somewhere small and quiet where he could concentrate on his writing, but also not too far away for Lizzy to be able to commute and, for now, keep her job at a recruitment firm in Basingstoke.
They had been married for twelve years. She was three years his senior and at thirty five the question of children had been popping up more and more frequently. She couldn't understand his reticence and he couldn't understand the desperate need. Their life was good, his career seemed to be heading in the right direction after years of trying and writing between part time jobs whilst Lizzy was the main earner. His first novel had been published eighteen months earlier, a trashy teenage vampire/Frankenstein book. The type of thing he never really wanted to write, but was going down a storm at the moment. The Twilight Saga really did have a lot to answer for. Not that he was complaining. The first advance was way more than he expected. The idea was good and he had bent the truth somewhat with regards to ideas for another three books. The truth was he had none. It had taken him five years to finish the first one and he knew if he didn't have something to show in the next three months he was seriously in trouble.
Lizzy knew all this and so had suggested the move to Dorset. Get away from the big town, all the noise and distractions. Get set up away from it all in a quiet village where he could spend his days just writing. Good plan. But nothing had come. It wasn't writer's block, he could write for hours. But everything was just crap or had been done before. He would write for six hours solid, Lizzy would come home, read his work and tell him it had a similar plot from the film they watched the night before, or parts of the story seemed like they were out of the last Holby City episode. He was in a tight spot. He knew it. She knew it. But still she wanted to talk about children.
Since the move here, they’d had f
our big rows. Four big rows in just over three weeks was rare - even for them. The actual move had seemed to distract them for a few weeks beforehand. But once they were settled in the subject had reared its ugly head. She had left for a course in Leicester late the previous night, and she would be away for the next few days. But the row they’d had whilst she was packing was the worst yet.
Truth was, there really wasn't any reason why he didn't want kids. No reason at all. Most of their friends had kids and yeah, they said it was hard but in the end worth it. It gave you a whole new perspective on life. Lizzy was thirty five and really it was kind of now or never. He was stubborn, didn't like change, but really he was just scared. She had said some really hurtful things, but something must have hit home, because during the night as he had unsuccessfully tried to sleep, he had convinced himself it was time. And, when she came home on Friday evening he would finally tell her he was ready. They were bound to talk in the meantime on the phone. But he preferred to tell her to her face.
He woke at 7am. He was determined to do some writing today. The house was still littered with cardboard moving boxes. He’d put a few things away, but really that was Lizzy's thing. He would do the heavy lifting, but the finesse of unpacking the boxes was really her job. And anyway, he had been convincing himself that the time was right for kids. So you couldn't say he hadn't been busy. The day was bright and hot. The rain from the night before had gone, but the air was still incredibly humid. He made himself a cup of tea, sat in the kitchen and planned what he was going to do for the day. Writing had to be a must. At least two hours. But either side of that the day was his.
He showered and dressed in the bathroom. White T-shirt and Khaki shorts. He looked at himself in the full length mirror. He was 32, about six foot tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Not entirely thin but still a few years away from an extra tyre around the middle. He was a fledgling novelist with one book published. He was happily married, lived in a gorgeous part of the countryside and the sun was shining. All in all, life for the time being was good. He was about to tell his wife he was ready to have kids. What could possibly go wrong.
Meadowbank: A dark fantasy thriller (The Shael Chronicles Book 2) Page 1
