Three Mile Drove, Chapter Thirteen (standard:fairy tales, 2111 words) [14/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Feb 15 2007	Views/Reads: 2656/2002	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continuation of a completed story. Behind the peaceful setting of Three Mile Drove, evil lurks.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

look and the one that produced a flashing smile, one which was like a 
sudden surge of radiation, sending shock tidal waves to the core of his 
brain. 

‘And you would do better than to go trespassing on Tomblin's land,' she
continued, ‘he's an oddball and can turn nasty so I'm told. Tim's 
right, you were trespassing Darren, he probably didn't mean to sound so 
damning, he would have said as much for your own good. Stay well out of 
it.' 

He thought there was a hint of warning in her final sentence – no, he
was damned well certain of it. He was disturbed by her attitude, but 
more disturbed by her backing for McPherson. If McPherson had advised 
him for his own good, then pigs flew and he was the Crown Prince of 
Persia. Darren felt a surge of resentment he struggled to control. 

But he was going to control it; he wasn't going to let this fine evening
be spoiled, no matter how much her change of manner might have affected 
him. 

‘Yeah, guess you're right.' 

Inside though, he didn't feel right, not at all. Both McPherson and
Claire were taking the same stance, was there some kind of conspiracy 
between them, were they really so close that they thought as one on the 
matter? He shook himself free of the shackles of that prospect. But 
Claire had lived in the drove as a child and had practically lived on 
the doorstep of Tomblin's house. She'd just said she'd heard he was a 
bit of an oddball and could be trouble, but he thought that she hadn't 
just heard from some kind of extended grapevine, he thought she knew 
first hand. With every mention of Three Mile Drove he'd seen her brow 
furrow, he'd seen her bright eyes grow strangely troubled, and that 
wasn't in his imagination one little bit. 

He'd like to force the issue, to bring up her childhood and rummage
through the dark wastes that must be lurking in the back of her mind, 
but he couldn't bring himself to risk the tenuous thread of a 
relationship in its infancy. This woman made his heartbeat race and his 
passions soar so that it needed all his willpower to force them down. 

He felt her eyes upon him, she'd sat silently during his few seconds of
furious reflections, yet he'd an odd feeling that she hadn't missed a 
thought, that she could read him like a book. He became aware that his 
left hand was clasped tightly around the cigarette lighter he always 
placed before him and never used. He suddenly thought of it as an adult 
version of a child's comfort toy and vowed he'd dispense with it at 
some stage. He saw her glance at her watch, he generally took the line 
that if a woman did this in his company then they were becoming bored, 
he wondered whether this might be true in her case. He thought he'd 
seen her look at it before, but his preoccupation with her had been so 
intense that he couldn't be certain. 

He glanced at his own watch, one of the few worthwhile gifts he'd ever
received from Goldie, and one that curiously, he was loath to dispose 
of. ‘Is that the time, I guess we'd better be off then, I expect you've 
got a busy schedule tomorrow.' 

‘No, as a matter of fact I haven't, I've one or two house calls to make
but that's about it.' She raised her smooth, dark brows, ‘It's why I 
suggested Friday evening, don't you remember, or weren't you 
listening?' 

‘Oh yeah, of course,' Darren squirmed, hoping it didn't show. 

‘Or am I such boring company that you want to shoot like a bat out of
hell? Talking of which you've told me practically nothing about your 
rock days, I only know what I've read in the papers, so after I've 
bought the drinks you can tell me what it's really like.' 

Darren smiled, watching as she rose and strode briskly to the bar. He'd
called for her a couple of hours back, her house was centre –point in 
the arc of a crescent not far from the village crossroads. A small, 
modern estate development which sat incongruously amidst a surrounding 
cluster of much older houses, most of which, Darren's not-quite 
academic mind placed in the nineteenth century.  It was a neat, 
detached house with a tidy, open plan front lawn. He'd thought it might 
be difficult finding it in the dark, so he'd carried out a preliminary 
check earlier in the day. He hadn't wanted to be late for this one. 

The porch and hall lights had been on, and a light in the upstairs front
window. There had been a slight delay when he'd knocked on the door, 
before she'd answered, standing before him in an elegant three quarter 
length black dress, which although not exactly hugging her figure, left 
him in no doubt she was in good trim. 

“Good timing,” she'd said, her lips creasing into an easy smile as she
flicked her dark hair back to reveal a pair of classy looking gold 
earrings. 

But classy had been the impression of her that had instantly lodged in
his mind, and right away he'd decided that no basic village pub was 
going to do for a first night out with her. His usually lazy brain had 
whirled into action with the speed and fury of a silver ball spinning 
around a roulette wheel, and landing on the idea of the charming wooden 
beam pub that stood on the waterfront of the River Ouse, in Ely. He'd 
taken a look around the city when he'd met the solicitor, Henley, and 
although his mind hadn't quite been on the subject of the quaintness of 
the place, it had taken a few sharp mental images, and with Darren 
Goldwater, stored mental images seemed to present themselves before him 
when he most needed them. 

‘Dreaming are we?' 

Darren turned quickly in his seat as she returned with the drinks, that
explosion of a smile bringing him back to earth with an almighty bang. 
He'd sat, elbows perched on the corner table that looked out on the 
river, its tide rippling in the waterside lights. Realising that he'd 
been caught deep in his own reflections, Darren smiled and took the 
drink perhaps a little too quickly to his lips. Once again he thought 
she hadn't missed the unusual haste of his actions. Curiously, his 
smile broadened at the thought of it. 

Despite his reluctance to dwell on his rock days, Darren found himself
recounting them to her in vivid detail. Perhaps it was her 
attentiveness and alertness that persuaded him to paint the picture in 
such a way, he was aware that he was communicating with someone of 
considerable mental, and he suspected physical energy, and her very 
life force seemed to suck the memories from him like an unseen magnet. 
Every so often he'd seen a smile flash across her face. 

When he'd finished she laid back in her chair, stretching out her legs,
oblivious of the barman calling for time for all he was worth. ‘You 
know Darren,' she said, her eyes flashing momentary annoyance as a less 
than sober man brushed against their table, ‘I wouldn't have marked you 
down as a rock musician, you don't fit the bill, somehow.' 

Darren screwed his face; the remark hurt a bit, ‘Eh?' 

‘Well, you look craggy enough, I suppose, but...' ‘Oh you mean washed
up, withered away by booze and crack, wasted away by late night orgies 
and early morning workouts in the back of some old passion wagon...' 

‘No, let me finish and don't interrupt, I don't see you in that light at
all.' She smiled and reached for glass, ‘Don't act like a little boy 
who's just been scolded. No, what I meant to say is that I find you too 
sensitive for all that, somehow. I noticed that from the word go. I 
can't understand how you lasted the way you did.' 

Darren clasped his lighter again, and was reminded of his earlier
thought that its sole function was a grown-up equivalent of a child's 
comfort toy. It had to go, but not tonight. He withdrew his eyes from 
Claire unwillingly, casting a gaze at the barman, now a hive of 
frenzied activity, snatching glasses from tables now deserted, apart 
from empty glasses and over-filled ash trays. ‘Ah, but that's my little 
secret,' he said, picking up on her last remark, his face set firm, 
‘but we all have those, don't we Claire?' 


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