by Shaun Baines
“You want me to send him away?” Derek asked. “That’s embarrassing, hun.”
Holly flicked the fringe from her face and stared down the barrel of her nose. “You know, what? It’s fine. Spend the money. Do what you want. I’m in a hurry and I need to get away from you.”
“I can return it,” Mr Winnow said from a distance, his hearing clearly better than his diplomatic skills.
“No, thank you,” Holly said. “You know this area pretty well, do you?”
Mr Winnow nodded, the sun catching his bald spot.
“Good, then I need you to drive me as far into the Black Rock Estate as you can. We can take your truck now that it’s free.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” Derek asked.
But Holly pushed past her husband in search of her walking boots and a map. She sincerely hoped Derek would enjoy building his new shed because there was a real chance he’d be sleeping in it tonight.
***
The truck rumbled along a tarmacked road, its engine growling. Steep hills rose on either side, towering so high Holly was forced to crane her neck to see their tops. Green ferns dressed the boulders in frilly skirts. Above the boulders were frozen cascades of scree waiting for the right animal to set off a landslide.
The noise of the truck bounced off the hillsides, burrowing into Holly’s skull as she twisted her wedding ring around her finger.
“Could we have the radio on please?” she asked.
“It doesn’t work,” Mr Winnow said, pressing the radio buttons to prove he was telling the truth, “but I have a spoken word tape. I like to listen to them while I make my deliveries. Would you like to hear it?”
Holly nodded and he slid a tape into an ancient deck. She recognised the book instantly. It was from the Harry Potter series by JK Rowling, though she was unsure which one. The voice sounded familiar, too. It was a female with a strong Northumberland accent.
“The lady reading the book sounds like your wife,” she said.
Mr Winnow smiled. “That’s our Judy, alright. I get her to record herself while she’s reading. We sell them in the shop if you’re interested?”
He indicated left, taking a smaller road cutting through the hills. They plunged into a valley toward the glitter of the North Sea.
“The truck will only get you as far as the Hanging Tree,” Mr Winnow said.
Holly grasped her neck. “Don’t tell me that’s where they hung witches?”
“No, it’s where the women folk used to dry their washing.”
“Not as magical as I thought it would be,” Holly said, feeling foolish.
“Don’t be so sure,” Mr Winnow said. The truck hit a pothole and they bounced in their seats. “I’ll give you directions to Acres’ cottage from the Tree, but he’s not likely to be in. Spends his days roaming the estate. They say he’s half feral. They say he doesn’t know how to speak. What do you want with him anyway?”
There was no point in disguising her plans. Old Jack had probably informed most of the village already so she told Mr Winnow about the missing Foxglove sister and his face grew grave.
“Maybe I’ll come with you,” he said. “Help with the search.”
“I’m sure we can manage. Honestly, she’s probably back home by now.”
And Holly had almost convinced herself of it. Sitting in the truck, listening to Harry win his latest Quidditch game, she had examined the facts. Nancy was an experienced walker and although she was old, she seemed to be in full health. That she hadn’t taken her goat with her was hardly a conclusive worry. Most importantly, the Police weren’t concerned and that was their job.
But nagging doubts wriggled their way through the holes of Holly’s logic. Why was Nancy keeping a file on a stranger? Why had she taken it with her? Had her supposed obsession turned into something darker?
Holly and Mr Winnow stopped at the foot of the Hanging Tree and Holly picked up her waterproof bag. Inside was a map, a compass, a spare coat and socks. She had even managed to find a piece of Kendal Mint Cake in case things got desperate. It was three years out of date, but she suspected that didn’t matter.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Mr Winnow asked.
“I won’t be long,” Holly said, climbing from the truck.
“I’ll swing by and see Regina, then. Take her a nice bit of trout.”
Mr Winnow proceeded to give Holly the directions to Acres’ cottage. “Oh, and Mrs Fleet?” he added.
Holly looked up from the buttons on her coat she was struggling to fasten. “Yes?”
“It could be dangerous. You should have told your husband where you were going,” Mr Winnow said. “He’ll be worried.”
The wind came directly from the sea. It was bitter and nipped at her cheeks. Holly shrugged and slapped the side of the truck.
“Thank you for the ride,” she said and ducked under the branches of the Hanging Tree, following a stony path into the estate.
Chapter Eight
According to Mr Winnow, Holly was to continue on the path until she reached a tarn. From there she was to go south-west, cutting through spring bracken and up an incline to a cairn on Lambshield’s Point. It was Mr MacFarlene’s farmland around there and although he was personable after a drink or two, he didn’t take kindly to strangers on his land.
“Be careful he doesn’t catch you. He’ll have words,” Mr Winnow had said. “Or worse still, he’ll tell you one of his stories.”
Lambshield’s Point was a look-out and from there, she should be able to see Acres’ cottage.
Holly’s heavy feet tramped along the path. Her walking boots were an old pair of her mother’s. They didn’t quite fit and rubbed painfully on her heels. The steel sky grew darker. There was weather coming, as the locals were fond of saying. Despite the cold, the walk warmed her and a rare feeling of joy crept under her many layers of clothing.
There were sheep in the distance, small splats of white on straw coloured grass. Trees budded into life, dancing in the clean wind. Holly felt like the only human on the planet. There was no Travelling Star pub or Little Belton Herald. No money troubles or drunken husbands. No thoughts of a final demand letter from a faceless bank. There was the sound of her feet and the breath in her lungs. It was all she needed.
Holly reached the tarn with an unexpected smile on her face. She consulted her map, the edges fluttering in her fingers. Mr Winnow had said to turn south-west, but the map said otherwise. She looked in a westerly direction toward a wire fence. Beyond it was a faint track, providing a swifter route to the cairn. She would be cutting across Mr MacFarlene’s land, but he would never know. Her feet were hurting. The weather was worsening and Holly was buoyed with a sense of adventure. Why not, she asked herself and tucked the map away.
She scrambled under the loose wire, hurrying through a bank of damp grass. A bird of prey passed over her, a dark cross on a darkening sky. It was a hawk, playing on the breeze. It swooped toward the cairn and Holly hastened after it, hoping it might be the same bird she’d hit on her journey home.
The hawk was joined by two ravens, their flapping wings like black shrouds. They flew underneath Holly’s bird, forcing it off course and a dog fight of snapping beaks commenced.
If one of the ravens was Black Eye Bobby, Holly didn’t care. She hurled a stone at them, but they were too high and too belligerent to care. More ravens appeared, joining in the feathered hunt. They drove the hawk into the horizon, each bird disappearing into baying specks in the sky.
“Leave it alone,” Holly shouted.
There was a panicked clatter of hooves and a head rose from the tall grass. It belonged to a sheep, its long face and glassy eyes turning upon her. Another head appeared. And another.
Holly hadn’t noticed them as she’d tailed the hawk, but as the sheep made their presence known, she realised she was surrounded. Their blank stares unnerved her and her heart fluttered in panic. Telling herself to calm down, she continued on her way.
&nbs
p; But the sheep decided to follow.
Holly knew there was nothing to fear, but she was having trouble convincing her legs. The cairn was in sight, perched on a plateau above a spillage of grey scree. The sheep wouldn’t chase her up there, she thought and she doubled her pace, determined not to look behind her. When she did, the sheep gnashed their teeth close enough for Holly to hear.
Ignoring the blisters rubbing against her boots, Holly bolted.
The wind pushed her forward, causing her to stumble. The sheep formed into a woolly unit, advancing toward her in a mass of speckled white. Holly jumped to her feet, scrambling up the scree.
Her lungs burned and her legs were wooden. The cairn was near, but the sheep were ascending fast.
Holly crested the hill’s summit and saw Acre’s cottage in the valley. It was about a mile away. Holly was too exhausted to make it. With nowhere else to go, she climbed the cairn, a circular structure of stacked stone, rising two metres into the air. It wasn’t much, but with her feet already digging into the gaps of the stone, it would have to do.
She sat on the top, exposed to the wind. The first spots of rain fell like silver bells, bursting open on a coat she hoped was waterproof.
The sheep gathered around her, baa-ing, jostling to get closer.
“What do you want?” Holly shouted.
There was a firelight in the cottage window below and wood smoke pumping from the chimney. Holly had almost reached it. Why did everything have to fall apart? She was just trying to help.
“It’s not fair,” she said into the wind.
“What’s not fair?” The voice came from a patch of green ferns where a man appeared. A boy, really. Somewhere in his early twenties. He wore moleskin trousers and a white shirt. Soaked with the rain, it clung to his broad chest. His long hair trailed in the wind and his green eyes sparkled.
He was carrying a wet hessian sack over his shoulder peppered with seaweed strands. Dropping it to the ground, whatever was inside clunked its disapproval.
“I’m stuck,” Holly said, trying to hide her embarrassment. “These sheep won’t stop following me.”
“They think you’re here to feed them.”
“Do I look like a farmer to you?”
“You look like someone who shouldn’t be up here in this weather.” The man waded through the sheep, forcing them aside with his knees. They baa-ed in response, refilling the gaps he’d created as he passed. Stretching to the cairn, he took Holly’s hand.
His skin was rough, but his touch was warm.
“Sheep think with their stomachs on account of having nothing in their heads. Do you have a piece on you?”
Holly pulled her hand free and clutched her chest. “A piece? You mean, a gun?”
The man smiled and Holly stared at his lips. They were full and mesmerising. She looked away after five, maybe ten seconds. Despite the cold, Holly was heating up.
“This isn’t the city,” he said. “I mean, do you have a piece? Sandwiches? A packed lunch? The sheep can smell food on you.”
“No, I don’t have a piece. I don’t have – ” Holly stopped mid-sentence and grabbed her bag. Foraging through the maps and spare socks, she found the Kendal Mint Cake and held it forth.
The sheep baa-d loudly, pushing forward, making the man unsteady on his feet.
“Tastes like baked toothpaste to me, miss,” he said, “but it’s animating the locals. Why don’t you pitch it down the slope?”
Holly threw the mint cake into the distance, falling short of where she intended it to land.
The sheep hurtled after it, emitting excited farts as they went. The last of them disappeared and Holly climbed from the cairn, snapping her bag closed in frustration.
The man brushed strands of wool from his trousers. “What are you doing here anyway?” he asked. “It’s not the weather for a ramble, miss.”
“Could you stop calling me ‘miss’? My name is Holly Fleet. Are you Callum Acres’ son?”
He shook his head and stared into the sky. His eyes closed to slits and his face hardened. A cloud raced toward the hill. It was the colour of pewter and shaped like the head of a wolf.
She studied the man who had turned to stone and her hand strayed to a loose rock. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice sounding small.
The wolf cloud answered with a fork of lightning and the man went from a standing start to a move so fast Holly was unable to prevent it. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the murk of the valley.
Chapter Nine
The rain rattled the single pane windows of the cottage. A wind whisked through the eaves, but Holly wasn’t cold. The weather thundered outside and she stared into a smoky fire dancing in the fireplace, scenting the air with peat. The wooden floor was thick with animal skins of differing sizes and colours. Carcasses of what appeared to be rabbits swung from the ceiling. Candles lit the cottage with an orange glimmer. Their flames flickered, causing the shadows to dance.
The man’s hessian sack sat on the only table in the cottage.
Holly caressed her upper arm where a bruise was beginning to show.
“I’m sorry about that,” the man said without looking at her. He busied himself around a metal stove, stirring a bubbling pot. “It’s dangerous to be out there in weather like this. We had to be quick.”
“You could have just asked me to come with you,” Holly said.
“Dad always said women shouldn’t go anywhere with strangers.” The man rubbed the back of his neck, massaging bunched muscles. “I thought it’d be best not to start an argument.”
“Your Dad?” Holly asked. “So you are Callum Acres’ son? This is his home, isn’t it?”
“No, this is mine. I’m Callum Acres.”
He turned from the stove. The heat had brought a shine to his eyes. Steam wafted from his wet clothes as they dried, enveloping Callum in a mist.
Holly saw the outline of his body through his shirt and tried to focus on something else. “You don’t look old enough to vote, never mind be a gamekeeper. How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, I think,” Callum said, pointing at the pot. “Rabbit stew? It’ll warm your bones.”
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since her ill-fated tomato sandwich with Regina Foxglove, but her gnawing hunger wasn’t enough to pick up a spoon. Images of bunny rabbits and Watership Down scampered through her mind. No matter how hungry she was, she wouldn’t eat Hazel and his friends.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll have something when I get home.”
Dropping a ladle into the pot, Callum left it there and sat in a battered armchair.
“It’s not my thing,” Holly said. “Please don’t let me stop you from eating.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I can’t let you go home.”
The rabbit stew took on a curdled smell. Holly glanced at the door, remembering how Callum had locked it. Outside of the windows, there was nothing but black, as if someone had thrown a blanket over the world, obscuring it from view.
“I have a husband. He’ll be expecting me back.” Holly got to her feet and went to the door. She expected Callum to stop her, but he remained in the armchair, tugging threads from the material.
Holly undid the locks and the door blew open, knocking her to the ground. A cold wind whirled around them, extinguishing the candles and worrying the flames in the fireplace.
Callum jumped up, forcing his shoulder to the door and wedging it shut. “I bumped into Mr Winnow. He told me you were on the estate and why you might need my help. As soon as the weather passes, we’ll get going.”
He extended a hand and lifted Holly from the ground. “You can have my bed tonight,” he said. “I’ll sleep by the fire. What’s left of it.”
The red ash had spilled from the grate and Callum pushed it into place with his foot. He fed dried grass onto the embers, blowing on them to get a flame. When it caught, he quickly loaded it with twigs and branches and smiled when the flames began to build.
Holly palmed down her hair, which the wind had whipped into candy floss. “Where is your father?” she asked.
“He has his own place out the back of the cottage.”
Holly hoped it was somewhere warm.
“Can I take your coat?” Callum asked.
It was bunched in a soggy pile by the corner. Holly had peeled it from her damp skin the moment she’d got inside. It was not as waterproof as it purported to be.
Callum hung it by the fire to dry. “Mr Winnow said you were trying to find Nancy Foxglove. Are you good at that sort of thing? Working out problems?” Callum asked, moving to the table with a solitary chair at its head. His hand strayed to the hessian sack and he picked off a strand of seaweed.
The answer was no. Holly had never searched for a missing person before. There were some days when she couldn’t even find her house keys, but Old Jack had asked for her help.
How could she refuse?
“Yeah, I’m pretty good,” she said quietly.
Callum worried his lip. “Can I show you something weird? I was out mending a fence down by the beach. There was an inlet and I found these.”
He took the hessian sack and turned it upside down. A waft of salty air hit Holly as red tins spilled onto the table with a clatter. Their surface was mottled with rust, but Holly could clearly see each one sported a picture of a fish.
She raised her eyebrows at Callum.
“They’re tins of salmon,” he said, answering her silent question.
“I can see that. Where did you find them?”
“They were washed ashore,” Callum said. “People shouldn’t be dumping things where they don’t belong. Especially not tins of salmon. Why would someone do that?”
“Maybe a ship ran aground?” Holly offered. “Spilled its cargo.”
Callum scraped rust from one of the tins. “There was no shipwreck.”
Her eyes glazed as she stared at the tinned salmon. They melted into a blur, the fish appearing to swim in front of her eyes.
“Someone threw away some salmon,” she said, sitting on Callum’s bed. “Have you opened any?”
