Three Mile Drove, Chapter Eight (standard:horror, 3012 words) [9/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Sep 13 2006	Views/Reads: 2846/1865	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
serialisation of a completed story; a washed up pop musician inherits a smallholding in the Fens and gets more than he's bargained for.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


‘This won't take a minute,' McPherson's eyes scanned the room; there was
no sign of industry that he could see. The pillows propped against a 
worn green sofa gave him the opinion that Tomblin had been loafing on 
it. There were children's toys on the floor, everyday things mostly, 
apart from a naked doll in the form of a small boy which lay on the 
floor, one of its arms, McPherson noted had been torn off and lay 
alongside. It seemed a strange toy to choose for a child. There was no 
sign of the children or Tomblin's wife, though from above, infant 
screams mingling with a woman's raucous tones pierced his ears. 

McPherson forced his gaze to travel back to the man in front of him; he
was an ugly bugger. He had a long nose that seemed too thin for his 
broad face, and an elongated mouth that sloped from right to left so 
steeply it resembled a mini slide. McPherson felt Tomblin's large eyes 
boring into him, ‘What is it then?' the man snapped impatiently in a 
thick accent that seemed to be delivered through his nose. 

‘I've been meaning to speak to you for some time, but you seem to be
somewhat elusive,' McPherson said, meeting the cold stare. ‘I've been 
investigating the disappearance of a young girl from Littleport. There 
was a report, some time ago now, that she was sighted in this drove. 
I'd nothing to go on until a few moments ago when I found an ankle 
sock, similar to the one the girl was last seen to be wearing, in an 
upstairs room of the derelict house along the drove. I wonder whether 
you might have seen or heard anything strange likely?' 

‘Nothin' special,' Tomblin brushed snot from his nose with the sleeve of
his check, lumberjack shirt. He scratched his tangled black hair, tied 
with a ribbon at the back, ‘But I've seen some gypsy types around of 
late, they're probably yer culprits.' 

‘Gypsy types you say?' McPherson arched his brows, ‘Where was it that
you saw them?' 

‘Camped at the bottom of the drove, near old Regan's place they were,'
Tomblin sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve again, causing 
McPherson to turn away in disgust. ‘A few old vans and a couple of 
trucks that have been up and down the drove, no more'n that. Ain't paid 
it too much attention, like I say I don't get involved, and I don't 
know anymore than I've told yer. Now can I go about my business 
Sergeant?' 

‘If you see or hear anything Mr. Tomblin, I'd be grateful if you'd
report it. After all this is a serious matter.' McPherson halted on the 
step, his foot across the ledge preventing Tomblin from slamming the 
door. ‘There is something else, speaking of Regan. His old place has 
passed on to a nephew who arrived to assess it. He claims his vehicle 
was stoned as he drove along this road last night and that it was here 
it happened. He also claims to have heard loud screams. I don't suppose 
you've any knowledge of this?' 

‘Why should I have?' Tomblin said tersely. ‘Like I've told you, it's all
down to gypsies.' 

McPherson thought that his broad frame seemed to stiffen with his
answer. 

He gave a curt nod and walked away. Gypsies, travellers or diddycois,
whatever you called them these days, might of course explain it. In 
which case he might be no closer to finding the missing girl. But 
Goldwater had been to Regan's place only last night and he'd mentioned 
nothing of any gypsy encampment. Could he have missed it in the dark? 
Hardly, McPherson thought. *                                *           
                         * 

Darren spotted the rubbish strewn across the concrete wasteland beyond
the barn, a complete mess the darkness must have concealed from his 
eyes the night before. There were remnants of food, coke cans, 
discarded tyres and an abandoned baby buggy with one wheel missing, its 
other one hanging as though by a thread. There were also the remains of 
a bonfire, the acrid smell of smoke still hanging in the air despite 
the brisk wind. Christ, Darren thought, as if the place wasn't bad 
enough, he had to contend with the gypsy fraternity as well. 

Darren turned, raised his head towards the heavens and made his way
across the weed-infested yard to the bungalow. The signs of neglect 
were apparent in the light of day. The red brickwork looked chipped and 
ancient, the window frames had rotted to the core and the panes were 
practically opaque with filth. The whole place seemed to be crying out 
with decay. 

He turned the key and stepped inside, immediately being smacked full in
the face by the same disgusting odour which had made him retch the 
night before. He steeled himself and walked along the small passageway. 
The dust clotted his lungs and mixed in with a whole concoction of 
smells, so that he felt he was breathing in the entire contents of a 
chemical plant. 

Open doors lead off on the left side to the kitchen, on the right side
to the bedroom, while straight ahead lay the living room. That was all 
there was to the place really, Darren thought that when you considered 
the farm by its acreage, the plot occupied by the bungalow was 
surprisingly small. But it had potential, if you accounted for the fact 
that a lot of work needed doing, the place had its possibilities. 

He walked into the living room; the furnishings – an old easy chair and
a settee – were ripped and worn, and useful only for Guy Fawkes Night. 
Yet despite the overbearing sense of depression the place gave, the 
outside view through its windows of the flat fens was its single 
redeeming feature. The vast panorama of earth, field and sky that 
opened before him seemed to flood the living room with light and space. 
So much so, that the gloomy feel that seemed to have surrounded him 
since he arrived in the area was pushed into the background. 

The land might be flat and boring, but just at the moment, bewildering
as it was, Darren found that it was filling him with a strange 
ambience. It was something he couldn't put his finger on, but the 
strangest feeling of his attitude towards the place gently shifting, 
like foundations settling in drying concrete. 

Darren had always considered himself as a bit of an optimist, he
supposed you had to be in his position. He was visualising the place 
renovated and newly furnished, the yard and driveway free from weeds 
and diddycoi leftovers, and the farmland freely yielding its produce. 

Did it really seem too bad when looked at in this respect? 

He narrowed his eyes, through the window he could see the old bridge,
after which the farm had apparently been named, it crossed the dyke 
just beyond the farm's northern boundaries. There was a figure standing 
on the hump back structure, leaning forward, its hands gripping the 
iron railings, but at the very moment he focused on it, the figure's 
head had turned, giving him the impression it knew he was watching. 

The effect of that simple head movement caused Darren to move back a
step, before the sound of footsteps behind him almost made him jump out 
of his skin. 

He turned and saw the tall, slim figure of McPherson. 

‘You startled me,' Darren said, then coloured as he realised he was
stating the obvious. 

‘So I see,' McPherson affirmed as much. ‘Sorry to creep up on you like
this, but Shaun Tomblin told me he'd seen gypsies at this end of the 
drove, and looking around your yard I reckon he's right, damn it!' 
McPherson shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and exhaled deeply, 
‘You know I thought I was on to something when we stumbled across the 
ankle sock, but now I'm not so sure.' 

‘How do you mean?' Darren asked, noting the look of frustration on the
policeman's face. 

‘It could all be the work of gypsies after all.' McPherson shrugged and
looked down the passageway to the yard. ‘I'm sure forensic will analyse 
the sock we found in the bedroom but my guess is they'll come up with 
nothing. This sort of thing happens all too often Darren, you make a 
find that suddenly sends your spirits souring through the roof, and 
then just as quickly, something else happens which sends them crashing 
right back to the ruddy basement. I mean, the rock you said was thrown 
and the screams you heard, it could all be apportioned to gypsies. I 
suppose the only discrepancy, the only thing which doesn't quite add 
up, is that according to Tomblin they were camped outside of the farm, 
but from what I've seen, they were most definitely within it.' 

‘Yeah but that doesn't count for a lot really, does it? I mean you're
the copper, but surely nothing's to stop them moving their stuff 
inside.' 

‘No, nothing at all,' McPherson gave that knowing, smug smile which
Darren thought only slightly concealed derision, and which was 
increasingly beginning to rile him. ‘Nothing at all,' he repeated as he 
led Darren into the yard and headed for the gates, ‘but if what Tomblin 
says is right...' he paused for a moment as they passed through them, 
extending a hand and indicating the rough tract of land which lay to 
his left, ‘...come on Darren, you know what these type of people are 
like, they might only have been parked outside these gates for half an 
hour, but they'd still leave a trail of crap a mile long. Now, apart 
from the odd bit of paper that the wind must have carried, this part's 
as clean as a whistle.' 

‘Actually, there is something else,' Darren's mounting resentment took a
downturn as he recalled something from the night before. 

‘What's on your mind?' McPherson frowned, noting the sudden change in
Darren's tone. ‘It's just that when I got here last night the gates 
were shut, the bolt had been drawn across them. I nearly crashed 
straight through the damned things. Like you've just said, they leave 
crap everywhere, they leave things in a mess, so why should diddycois 
take the trouble to close gates behind them. Does that make sense to 
you?' 

‘Not really, not at all in fact.' McPherson considered a simple
statement that Shaun Tomblin had just made to him; he'd categorically 
told him he'd seen the gypsy camp just outside of the gates. But why 
should Tomblin even know that? A mile and a half down a stretch of road 
that led into a dead end. It was well beyond his land, how could he 
have been so certain? Okay, so he might have been taking a walk but 
somehow McPherson doubted it. Tomblin didn't strike him as being much 
of a rambler. So had Tomblin been lying, and if so why would he do it? 
McPherson sighed, he'd like to pay this isolated neck of the woods more 
attention and to have officers comb the land hereabouts, it might just 
get to the core of what had been bugging him, but unless something came 
up on the sock, and he had growing misgivings about that, he knew the 
powers that be would veto the additional expense. To coin the age-old 
phrase, he'd be banging his head against a brick wall. 

Time would tell, and very shortly too, in all probability. 

‘So Darren, what will you do with the farm?' McPherson asked as he
reached his car, quietly confident he already knew the answer. 

‘I reckon I'll keep it.' Darren felt there was no real logic behind his
remark, it was altogether spontaneous. 

‘Really?' McPherson tried to appear as if it had been the answer he had
been expecting. But it hadn't, it hadn't one little bit. ‘Good luck in 
that case, I'll leave you to get on then, do the spade work so to 
speak, you'll have your work cut out here, that's obvious enough.' 
‘Yeah,' Darren nodded and watched McPherson drive away. He'd need 
friends here; he'd need people he could associate with. He needed his 
own time and his own space, but he wasn't a loner. But right now he 
wasn't certain whether McPherson could be a friend or not. 

So he'd announced to McPherson his decision to stay at the farm, just
like that. He'd surprised himself on that score, just what it was that 
caused him to override his apathy about the place he wasn't sure, but 
he could put his Nottingham home on the market, use the funds to turn 
this place into more than just a home, a going concern in fact. 
Suddenly he could envisage a whole new career emerging, from fading 
rock musician to prospering farmer. Why not, with a little thought, 
planning and industry? 

But the place needed attention. He wasn't a builder; he didn't know a
sodding thing about brickwork or plastering. His hands were so goddam 
clumsy that the place would have more bulges than a fat woman wearing 
skin-tight clothes. He'd need to employ people, and trust their 
abilities. 

He walked back across the yard, through the cluster of willows that
separated the yard from the bungalow frontage, and passed through the 
open door. Today he'd found something appealing about the region, 
although most of the people seemed either drab or weird to him, they 
weren't all that way. 

His thoughts turned to Claire Summerby, not for the first time that day.
The next time he saw her he'd ask her out. He became aware of his heart 
rate increasing at the thought of that. 

Darren returned to the lounge window and froze. The figure was still
there, its head inclined towards him. He might have thought it was some 
kind of statue if he hadn't seen it move. 


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