The Ghosts of Sleath (4 page)

There had been no one standing in the lane.

It was the only answer. He had imagined the figure.

As though very weary, Ash hauled himself up, pulling on the Ford’s slippery bodywork as he did so. Once on his feet he leaned against the car, an elbow on the roof, his other hand on the bonnet; his shoulders hunched, he drew in deep, deliberate breaths, giving himself time for the tension to drain away.

He
had
seen someone there as his car had crested the old stone bridge, though. And he had been sure he was going to hit the boy as he’d desperately turned the wheel.

The boy
.

A strange little boy wearing a three-button coat that was too tight and short trousers that came well below his knees. How
could it have been his imagination if he had noticed details like that?

Yet there was no one around, no one at all. Even the sound of the tractor had faded away.

A cry, so sharp in the rain-splattered stillness, made him spin around. He looked for the bird - it had to be the guttural squawk of a crow - but failed to find it. It was probably somewhere high in the trees.

Ash pulled open the car door and reached over into the back seat. He unzipped the battered leather holdall lying there and delved inside, rummaging until he touched cold metal. He brought out the silver-plated hip flask and turned to sit in the passenger seat, legs outside the car despite the rain. Unscrewing the top, he lifted the flask to his lips and took a long swig of the neat vodka.

Its heat swelled in his throat and chest, then abated so that only a mild flush remained.

It helped a little.

H
E CAUGHT GLIMPSES
of the village through the trees as he drove down the hill. The road curved dramatically, almost back on itself, and he concentrated on the manoeuvre, only looking towards Sleath when the road had straightened again. He just glimpsed the church tower beyond the cluster of other buildings before the woods thickened and the view was lost.

Ash tossed a cigarette butt out of the window and realized his hand was still trembling from the incident earlier. Only a few minutes had passed since then, but already reason was imposing its simplistic logic: he had imagined the boy standing in the lane. The near-accident because of the tractor had probably triggered off something in his mind, a memory perhaps; or maybe it had induced an hallucination of some kind. Whatever, he had swerved to avoid something that wasn’t there. Couldn’t possibly have been there. What the hell, he’d investigated enough cases of so-called phantoms or apparitions to know most were caused by over-active imaginations or trauma. He knew perfectly well that the human mind was full of tricks and he’d just been a victim of one of them. Yet the unease lingered (why else did his hand still tremble?) and certain memories endeavoured to push themselves to the fore as if in league with his mind’s brief deception. No, that was wrong, he thought. His memories were stronger, they were the stimuli, and his
imagination was susceptible to them. It was a logic that was far from simple, but it strengthened the original rationale and therefore was more convincing. And it was a notion that Ash was anxious, although not happy, to cling to, for anything else conjured more questions and more doubts within himself.

The road levelled out and he found himself approaching a small, rough-stoned bridge. Nearby, on the opposite bank, was an old millhouse, its wheel redundant and green with slime. The grassy banks were steep, with overhanging trees creating shady tunnels along the narrow river’s length. Ash slowed down and crossed the bridge, the sound of the Ford’s tyres changing tone for a second or two. And then he was in the village called Sleath.

By now the rain had stopped and the sun, when it could find an opening in the clouds, speckled the wet roadway with gold.

Ash drove slowly, looking from left to right, studying the old-world houses, many of them constructed of red brick and timber, while others were even more quaint with white wattle and daub panelling between dark-stained beams, the thatched roofs of these dripping from the recent rainfall. One or two of the chimney stacks seemed unreasonably high, particularly on the multi-gabled building on his left, a place he assumed, because of its size, was some kind of municipal centre, the village hall perhaps. The chimneys rising almost to the point of folly from its various rooftops of rust-brown tiles were constructed in oversailing courses and capped by star-shaped terracotta pots. The entrance, large oak double-doors, was closed and there were several notices pinned to the wood. Most of the houses were set close to the road, only the odd one or two maintaining tiny front gardens bordered by low picket fences.

Ash was impressed. Surprised, too, for although the village was a tourist’s dream, very few people were in evidence on
the main street. Situated in the Cotswolds, or the Lake District, or in certain areas of the south-west, the place would have been overrun by snap-happy sightseers, particularly at this time of year. Sleath, it seemed, was a well-kept secret.

He had arrived at a green, at the centre of which was a large, teardrop-shaped pond; its surface was murky, calm, a yellow plastic duck floating incongruously near a bank of reeds.

The road encircled the green and Ash steered the Ford to the left, passing by the small parking area that had been stolen from the grass and tarmacadamed, white lines neatly inscribed on its surface. There were several free parking spaces, but he ignored them for the moment.

Beyond the rooftops, beech-covered hills enclosed the village in a tight and, one might imagine given its unheralded location, covert valley. The sodden clouds were already beginning to drift away, their edges tattered, the breaks between them widening by the second, and the sun was confident and warming the air again, giving promise of another fine summer’s day. Thin wisps of steam were rising from the road’s surface.

He passed two shops, one a baker’s, the other a newsagent’s, both of them converted houses and in keeping with the village itself. There were customers inside, but still the street he drove along was quiet, free for the moment of strollers or people going about their business. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was only five to eleven. Villages like this were never busy at this time of day. At least, he didn’t think they were. A van approached from the opposite direction and went by on the other side of the green. It was followed by a green single-decker bus, which pulled into the kerb outside a row of three shops. Only one passenger alighted.

Two old ladies sitting on a bench beneath a large elm watched Ash as he steered the car around the green, heading back in the direction he’d come from. One said something to the other as he cruised by and after some conferring they continued to stare, their necks craning to follow his progress. Not far from
where they sat passing the time of day was a combination of stocks and whipping post, the wood so aged and sturdy it appeared, like the elm close by, to have grown from the soil itself. He wondered wryly if they still used these instruments of punishment and humiliation today. Perhaps they kept them for over-curious strangers, he thought, almost smiling.

There was more to see of Sleath if he proceeded north, but he had already spotted what he’d been looking for and besides, there would be plenty of time later to reconnoitre. He drove past more quaint dwellings and the three shops - a post office, a hardware store, and a butcher’s - that the green bus had stopped in front of earlier, and pulled up outside the Black Boar Inn.

A faded painting of the inn’s namesake, its tusks fairly bristling along with the dark hairs on its back, its eyes glaring down at him, hung from a bracket over the main door. There were benches outside the inn, presumably for customers who liked to observe the world passing by as they imbibed; they were unoccupied, but then not much of the world was passing by at that particular hour.

Ash took a moment to study the inn before leaving the car: the façade was timber-framed with red bricks, certain sections of these laid in a herringbone pattern, infilling the close-set studs; all the windows were leaded and wisteria, with drooping racemes of purple-blue pea-flowers, climbed up from the ground to cling to the walls around them while still leaving large segments of wood and timber exposed for admiration. Again he wondered how the tourist guides had missed this place and hoped the interior wouldn’t be a disappointment.

Ash stepped out onto the pavement and locked the car. The sign above him creaked as it was swung by a rogue breeze, and he took another, more leisurely look. The animal was depicted in all its natural ferocity, but time and weather had tempered the effect.

He entered the Black Boar Inn and the escape from the sun’s fresh-found brightness came as a relief. Inside it was cool and
shadowy, although rays of sunshine had just begun to blaze though the windows onto the worn red-patterned carpet. There were two bars, lounge and public, both attractive in their own way, the latter gloomy with wood panelling yet welcoming, the former brightened by cream walls, stout scarred beams, and the sun-filled windows themselves. In this, the lounge bar, there were high-backed settles to protect drinkers from cold draughts, and at the far end was a large inglenook fireplace fitted with leather-covered brick benches at the sides and shelves behind, presumably where food would have been kept warm in another era. Naturally there was no fire burning, but logs were piled high in the grate. The counter itself was of polished oak with brass pumps set on its top, and it stretched through both bars, a low panelled partition dividing the two. Neither bar was busy with customers at that time of day: an elderly couple sat drinking coffee in a settle by the window, while a late-middle-aged man sporting a check jacket and olive-green corduroys read a broadsheet newspaper at one of the lounge’s small round tables. At a corner table sat two other men, deep in conversation until they noticed him by the door. One wore spectacles and looked to be in his sixties, while the other might have been a little younger, his dark hair greying at the temples. He was big-framed and wore a black suit and open-necked shirt; his eyes were pale and for a moment Ash felt uncomfortable under their gaze. In the public bar two gentlemen of mature years and clothing to match, their ruddy faces declaring a lifetime’s outdoor toil, were playing dominoes, and at the L-shaped counter a young man in denim shirt and jeans supped a pint of beer. A dartboard adorned the wall at the end of the room, the door next to it marked
GENTLEMEN
. Ash had paused no more than a second or two to take all this in, and now he went to the bar in the lounge area.

Behind the counter a girl, with short blonde hair whose cut would have been severe had her face not been so engaging, glanced up from wiping glasses and walked down to meet him.

‘Good morning,’ she said with a smile that did not quite reach
her eyes. Ash noticed dark blemishes around them, suggesting she had not slept too well lately.

He gave a nod of his head and quickly examined the range of brand bitters on the brass pumps. He pointed at what he assumed to be the local brew. ‘Just half,’ he said.

The girl reached for a handled glass and drew back the pump. ‘Nice day now,’ she said conversationally as she pulled the beer.

Ash complied with the ritual. ‘Another hot one, I think.’ He looked around the room again and saw that the man at the round table had lowered his newspaper and was watching him over his reading glasses. When their gazes locked the man flicked his paper and raised it again. The two men felt no such embarrassment: they continued to watch him.

Ash smiled to himself and turned back to the bar.

‘That’ll be -’ the girl was saying as she placed the half-pint on the bar mat in front of him.

‘And a vodka,’ he interrupted. ‘Neat. No ice.’

She regarded him with mild surprise before turning to the optics. ‘No tonic?’ she reaffirmed, her back to him.

‘No thanks.’ He lifted the bitter and took a long swallow. It was cold, tangy, a good brew. Reaching for his wallet he asked: ‘D’you have rooms here?’

She returned with the vodka. ‘For accommodation, you mean?’ She gave a little laugh, realizing the inanity of her response. ‘Yes, we do, but you need to talk to Mr Ginty, the landlord. I’ll get him for you, if you like.’

He handed over a five-pound note for the drinks. ‘Yeah, if you could.’

She gave him change, told him she wouldn’t be a moment, and disappeared through a door at the far end of the bar.

Ash sipped at the vodka, taking it steady: it wouldn’t do much for the Institute’s image if their investigator was under the influence for the first meeting with a client. Still, the incident with the ‘boy-who-wasn’t-there’ demanded at least one more stiff drink, and this was only a single. The bitter didn’t count.

Still he felt eyes on him and he glanced to the left to see the youth in denims studying him from the other bar. Ash mentally shook his head, feeling like the proverbial ‘stranger in town’. Did all outsiders receive this kind of attention, or had word got around that a psychic investigator - a
ghost hunter
- would be visiting the village today? But then the person who had contacted the Psychical Research Institute had insisted that the whole matter be treated as confidential, so it was highly unlikely that the client would have blabbed. If odd things were happening in Sleath, though, the residents might be inclined to be suspicious of anyone or anything new. Especially if the ‘anyone’ was enquiring about rooms for the night.

‘Mr Ginty will be down in a minute.’ The barmaid had returned and was smiling across the counter at him. She had nice even teeth, he noticed, and her long pale blue skirt and mauve half-sleeved blouse tucked into a belt at her waist complimented her slim figure. She wore very little make-up and her voice, with its soft local burr and slightly broadened vowels, was as pleasant as her manner. She seemed more like a trainee teacher than a barmaid, but maybe this was the standard in this part of the country.

‘Are you on holiday?’ she asked as she reached for a cloth and resumed wiping glasses.

Before he could reply a group of men entered the inn, their voices raised enough for customers in both bars to look in their direction. They went through to the other room and appeared again next to the young man who had been drinking alone. One of them slapped him on the shoulder, then ruffled his red curly hair.

‘Suppin a bit early in the day, aren’t yer, Danno?’

The youth scowled back at him. ‘Some of us have done a half-day’s grind already.’

‘Listen to it,’ the other man said, looking around at his companions. They laughed and he leaned hard against the youth’s shoulder to say in a mock-low voice: ‘Sometimes the best work gits done at night, boy.’ He joined in his friends’ laughter.

All three were roughly dressed, one in a fake oil-skin coat still glistening from the rain, the other two in jackets that had seen better days. Ash noted that their boots were muddy when they had entered and he assumed they were farm- or landworkers. The shortest of the three wore a maroon baseball cap, a red-Indian chief its colourful motif; he was unshaven and his hair hung long and lank beneath the headgear. ‘Come on, Ruthy,’ he called down to the barmaid. ‘You got men dyin of thirst down ’ere.’

She moved towards them, her smile even less genuine than before. ‘And I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to,’ she said, stooping for the pint glasses on a shelf under the counter.

‘An we won’t be tellin,’ the one next to the youth replied with a leary grin.

Ash took more vodka and cooled the burn with two large swallows of bitter. A thick-bellied man wearing a tie but whose shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow emerged from the door behind the bar. His face was broad and not particularly friendly, the pores on his nose and cheeks puncturing his rough skin like pin-pricks; his sparse hair was slicked back across his scalp and Ash guessed he used Brylcreem rather than gel. The landlord gave the three newcomers at the end of the bar a brief scowl and they immediately became less raucous, although their bantering and laughter continued.