I was sitting
on a garden wall, looking at a row of toy cars, telling two littler kids that my
dad worked in the factory that made these, and that if they let me take them tonight I could get copies tomorrow. So they picked out all their favourites, of course. A treat to watch them.
I was looking at the old man’s Jaguar, with its wing stove in against the gatepost, feeling my pants wet – oh hell, they were. Somehow in the middle of that lot I’d lost control. I began to shake violently
and my stomach just punched up at me. Explosive vomit arched across the grass.
Strangely enough I felt better, as if I’d spewed out my terror. At least the bloody machine hadn’t caught. Maybe, I decided with the idiot clarity of the concussed, I ought to get my scanner out; it could be traced to me. I tested one aching knee gingerly, and managed to get to my feet. Then the flare of heat stung
my face, and I fell down again. It wasn’t a movie-style explosion, more like elephant gas, but it was fierce enough, a greedy, mocking roar that took all the relief out of being alive. It was telling me just how close I’d come. It was crisping up all the cash I’d been looking forward to, that might have made the difference – not that Ahwaz would have paid out anything like a fair price anyway. He’d
just shrug and go on about the shipping costs to the Gulf, the way he always did. He didn’t even have to get nasty. One of these days …
No. I couldn’t do anything about Ahwaz. I couldn’t do anything about anything. And my legs and arms hurt, a real wincing pain, and the back of my head. I’d bitten my cheek, and my damp pants were riding up. The cash wouldn’t have changed anything. I hugged myself
and whimpered.
I looked up
abruptly. Somebody was looking at me, and I hated his guts for it. He was standing there quite calmly, about ten yards away, a smallish man, little bigger than me but more heavily built. His face, as far as I could see it in the gathering dusk, was leathery, outdoor, expressionless; he was leaning on some kind of heavy crooked pole. I stood up again, not too shakily.
He didn’t say anything. I glanced around quickly for ways out. Plenty of those; it was an open field, rich-looking strips of some kind of grain – wheat, probably, heavy heads whispering in the breeze over the rumble of the road.
The car had burst through a low straggly hedge and come to rest in the lush green grass at its edge. Above the hedge, a surprising distance away, I saw the rising strips
of bridge and flyover that made up the junction, its lamps a hazy golden curtain in the dusk. I looked nervously for flashing lights at the edge, but there weren’t any. Maybe they hadn’t even seen me spin off! Maybe nobody had!
But they’d see the fire soon enough, and the scar; I’d crashed like a jet. I’d better get out of here, fast. I looked back; the junction was there too, and its approach
roads, glowing beads told endlessly in the dark. And to the other side – Christ, it was all around! This must be a patch in the middle. And yet somehow the junction hadn’t ever seemed that big, as I remembered it.
I rubbed the
back of my head gingerly. It was all a bit much. The yokel still hadn’t said a word, which confirmed everything I’d ever felt about yokels. I looked at him. He looked back,
a very ordinary sort of oik in the usual shabby shirt and trousers. Only one thing stood out, a gleam of metal among the grass at the base of that stick; it was a scythe, begod, the huge old-fashioned kind. They still used them on verges, sometimes, but I didn’t like the connotations. He made a pretty grim reaper, at that.
‘Ferrari,’ he said suddenly. ‘Ar.’
Well, that about put the situation
in a nutshell, I had to admit. Voice like a corncrake, but a bit more reassuring. At least he didn’t talk in small capitals. I assumed my best upper-crust self-confidence. ‘Yah. Bit of a nasty smash, eh?’
Silence.
I shook my head ruefully. ‘I was fond of that car. Still, lucky I’m alive. And nobody’s hurt. It’s burning itself out, it shouldn’t spread to your wheat or whatever it is.’
Silence.
I wanted to kick him, but I wasn’t feeling too stable right then, and he looked tough. Besides, there was that scythe. Play it natural. ‘Look, laddie, I’d better get to a phone, hadn’t I? Is there a pub somewhere around?’
He jerked his head backward, at what looked like an oak covert, but was actually something like a windbreak. Now I looked, I could just make out a squat roof behind it, thatched
probably. ‘Oh. Right. Well, I’ll just – pop over there, then, eh? Er – right.’
Silence. He
stood watching me as I limped off, first into the grain, then, remembering myself, around the verge; but he didn’t say a damn thing more. I decided his parents were first cousins.
The last thing I wanted was a phone. I wanted to get out of there. I needed a ride out, but trying to thumb one around the
junction I’d just spun off would be about as clever as tapdancing in a minefield. But before all that I needed, I really needed, a drink.
By the time I reached the door I needed it a lot more. There was a path alongside a fence, and I found myself hanging on to the wooden rails. The pub was easy to spot from here, its newish-looking red brick glowing cheerfully in the greyness beneath an ornate
thatched roof, very high pitched. It had a sign, but it was swaying in the breeze so much I couldn’t read it – or was it? By the time I reached the post it was quite still.
The Wheel,
it said, with an odd design of an old carved cartwheel apparently hanging against a starry sky.
Très, très
quaint, I thought giddily; something Biblical. Yay for Ezekiel. I shuffled effortlessly down the path, fumbled
with the old-fashioned lever latch and more or less fell inside.
It was dark as any number of pits, and the resemblance didn’t stop there. The waft of beer was pleasant enough, but it carried a wide range of guest odours, ranging from old locker rooms to a hint that the landlord kept pigs – lots of them and very well fed. I was past caring. As my eyes struggled to adjust, I slumped down on the
nearest empty bench I saw, leaned my elbows on the table and sank my head in my hands. The moment my elbows took the weight I yelped and clutched at them, bruised and raw, and sat wincing and swearing. Then I felt a light hand on my shoulder, and realised somebody had said something. I looked up to see a pleasant, plump face, female and quite young, beaming down at me sympathetically through the
gloom.
‘Had an
accident, ’ave yer, moi dear?’
I nodded painfully. ‘Came off the road a way back. Into the grassfield behind the trees. Lucky I got thrown out, I suppose.’
The face nodded. ‘Oo yer, moi dear. Could do yerself a proper peck o’ mischief that-wise. And yer could use a drink, I’ll be bound. Just sit yer down there and let Poppy fetch yer a good deep draught. And physic for your sores
and scathes, to boot!’
I nodded thankfully, hardly able to speak. God, what a nice girl! More sympathy than I’d have got from the usual tarts I went out with. I blinked gratefully at her – then I half shot to my feet, forgetting aches and pains and everything else. She was wearing some kind of costume – white cap, long skirt, full blouse – full enough, at that. Why tell? Label her ‘Tavern Wench’
and you’ve got the essentials.
God, just my luck. One of those bloody tourist traps. Ye Olde Banquet Fayre and that sort of crap; though this one looked more authentic than most, if only because of the gloom. The only light came from the small leaded windows, and that was fading fast, building a great pool of shadow between me and the bar. No cod hanging lanterns or plastic chandeliers – no lamps
at all, by the look of it. That might be carrying things a touch far. I wasn’t alone, though, that much I could make out. Rough accents grated through the air. They must have stopped talking the moment I came in, but now they were ignoring me again. Fine by me. Within a minute the girl was bouncing her way back with an encouraging smile and a laden tray.
‘There now! Get
you that down your pipe,
and a bite of bread to boot.’ She plonked down a great earthenware mug of ale, and a wooden platter with a hunk of brown bread. ‘And here’s water and salve, moi dear, and a rag or two. If you can’t—’
‘No, thanks, love, I can manage. Kind of you, though.’ I hoisted the mug in a toast, and dimples broke out all round. A born comic’s face, kindly, sleepy-looking eyes and tip-tilted nose, an odd
upper lip that pursed and pouted around her broad rustic burr and turned her smile into a beaming half-moon. I was almost a bit sorry when she did leave me alone. She unnerved me slightly; maybe I just didn’t want her fussing. I was about to ask about Band-aids, but maybe she’d go galloping out for some, or something else embarrassing; she looked the type. Nice, but I didn’t need it. The beer I needed.
It was real ale with a vengeance, hoppy as hell and full of bits, but not too strong; and though I prefer white bread, I had to admit this fresh wholemeal stuff set it off nicely. I could have done with some butter, though; stuff this healthy eating lark. Maybe she’d put something in the beer, because after a few minutes I felt strong enough to try the first aid. The water made me want to hop
around the ceiling, but the salve – something herbal and greenish, as best I could make out, and smelling strongly of mint – certainly cooled things off quickly enough, and dulled the general ache. For the first time since I’d got behind that bloody wheel things began to calm down a little. I’d still got off pretty lightly, considering. In the shit I might be, but with waterwings.
Or that was
what I thought then, anyhow.
A wizened old man came
doddering out with a lantern in each hand, and began struggling vainly to loop their handles over little pegs in the beams, while the customers egged him on with ribald suggestions. This was evidently the floor show around here, the local answer to Las Vegas. With much moaning and clanking and Gabby Hayes-type mutterings he managed it eventually
and trimmed the wicks. After the gloom even those dim yellow flames made the room stand out as stark as a bank of photofloods.
I blinked, and kept blinking. My God, not just a theme pub. They must be doing Olde English banquets or something, all chicken legs and Charles Laughton. They’d sure as hell overdone the picturesque clientele – as ripe a load of yokels as ever dropped out of a butter
commercial, all leathery cheeks and tangled whiskers. A couple of them were even wearing smockfrocks, and one warty character had battered kneebritches and boatlike wooden shoes. Straight out of the casting agency, most likely, and filling in before summer rep.
Not that barmaid Poppy,
though. Somehow you couldn’t mistake her for anything she wasn’t. And come to that, I felt less sure about the
others. Those faces, the hard outdoor gloss to their cheeks, the bad teeth, the dirt on their hair and clothes – life and work did that. Not many people lived that way these days, not even gypsies or travellers. Grating-squatters and Cardboard City bums, maybe, but they never look that tough. These grimy tables, the dim walls with painted hangings obscured by smoke and grease, the trodden patina
of bare earth, brick and bone chips – this was all just a bit too bloody real for the coach trade, wasn’t it? And after a few minutes downwind I could guarantee one thing: this lot had never even heard of a hygiene inspector.
So, underneath all this some very nasty little thoughts indeed seethed up and out.
Like, maybe this was a haunted inn and I was seeing—
Like maybe that yokel with the
scythe—
Like maybe I didn’t get out of that crash after all—
Frantically I clutched at my wits as they made an excuse and left. I’d never believed in ghosts – not really, anyhow, not much. This beer wasn’t off the astral plane, was it? And if they were anything ancient at all, why weren’t they more surprised at modern me?
Besides, spooks shouldn’t need Lifebuoy this badly.
Then I heard the
door open
behind me. I always notice that. Not a sound I like much, maybe because all my life I’ve been waiting for it – the old man or the teachers or the cops or bookie’s goons, something like that; but it always makes me look around.
What I saw, though, flooded me right out with relief. A tall man, stooping under the lintel. A modern man, in modern clothes – very modern. He strode past me
to the bar and rapped lightly upon the rough planks with a smart walking stick. He would have looked smooth anywhere, but down here among the shit-kickers the hair and the rigout made him almost ridiculous, like something cut out of a lifestyle glossy.
Almost. He looked too sure of himself by half. He took a beer mug – no, a tankard – from the old scrote, and leaned back on the counter, glancing
calmly about. A regular, at home here. More than that, maybe; the massed village idiots were all tossing him a wave or knuckling brows and tugging forelocks and whatever. A bit out of character for spooks.
I tried not to feel too relieved. A theme park, it had to be – a stately home, maybe. I could believe Flash Harry was the owner, or the manager at least. Or maybe …
A great light dawned. It
had to be these recreator types – middle-class pillocks who got their rocks off living out Olde English fantasies down to the nth detail. Even the sackcloth knickers, or total lack of same, and who knows, maybe authentic pet lice called Bill and Shirley. I’d seen them in Civil War gear and Viking armour hanging around railway stations on their way to fight old battles – total prats and proud of
it. Being surrounded by them made me itchy, as if I was catching codpiece fever or something. This one probably had his doublet and hose in the car. In a Harrods bag.
I relaxed – too soon. His
eyes were fixed on me as surely as bombsights. Reflex suggested I hop up and shoot out the door, but I fought it down, sort of. He had that calm, considering look I kept seeing on people who gave me grief,
and when he hoisted himself easily off the bar and strolled over my heart sank. He lowered himself on to a high-backed settle by the wall, propped his stick against it and swung his shoes – pretty good shoes – up on to the bench opposite. I clutched the heavy table, half tempted to tip it over right now and run. But suppose I couldn’t? Then he’d have me cold. And he was a big, sleek bastard, not
quite young but lean and strong-looking, like a tennis pro. His clothes were casual, cords and a blouson jacket, pricey-looking; they wouldn’t slow him up.