Chapter Eighteen

HE DROVE ONTO THE PROPERTY ONCE AGAIN WHILE GORDON was watering the ponies. Ten minutes more and Gordon would have been off for the day, working on the roof of the Royal Oak pub. As it was, he was trapped. He stood inside the paddock with a hosepipe in his hand and Gina watching him from the fence. She’d not wanted to enter the paddock this time. The ponies seemed skittish this morning, she’d said. She’d lost her nerve for the moment.

Over the sound of the water burbling into the trough, Gordon didn’t notice the car’s engine as the vehicle rumbled onto the driveway. Gina, however, was near the edge of it, and she tentatively called his name at the same moment as the car door slamming caught his attention.

He saw the sunglasses. They caught the morning light like the wings of misplaced bats. Then he was coming towards the fence, and the movement of his lips told Gordon that whatever was to happen next, the other man was determined to enjoy it.

The man said to Gina in a tone perfectly gauged to convey an utter lack of fellow feeling, “Gorgeous day, my dear, wouldn’t you say? Bit hot again, but who’s about to complain. We get little enough good weather in this country, eh?”

Gina glanced at Gordon, a quick look shot through with questions that she wouldn’t ask. She said, “I could do with a few more cool breezes, to be honest.”

“Could you, now? Can’t get our Gordon to wave the fan over you in the afters when you’re both hot and sweaty?” He smiled, a baring of teeth that was as disingenuous as everything else about him.

“What d’you want?” Gordon flung the hosepipe to one side. The water continued to burble from it. The ponies, surprised by his sudden movement, trotted away across the paddock. Gordon thought that Gina might enter the enclosure at that point-with the ponies safely away-but she did not do so. She remained by the fence, her hands fixed atop one of the newer posts. Not for the first time, he cursed that upright piece of wood and all of its brothers. He should have let the whole damn thing rot to hell, he thought.

“That’s not very friendly,” was the reply to his question. “What I want is a bit of conversation. We can have it here or we can go for a drive.”

“I’ve work to do.”

“Won’t take long, this.” He made a minute adjustment to his trousers: a hitch, a shift, and the bollocks put into a more comfortable position. It was the sort of movement that had a hundred different interpretations, depending upon circumstances and the bloke making it. Gordon looked away. The other said, “What’s it to be, my love?”

“I’ve a job to get to.”

“That I do know. So…a drive?” And to Gina, “I won’t take him far. He’ll be back before you know how to miss him.”

Gina cast a look from Gordon to the other man and back to Gordon. He could see she was frightened, and he felt a surge of futile rage. This was, of course, what the other man wanted him to feel. He needed to get the bastard off the property.

He strode to the spigot and cranked the water off. He said, “Let’s go,” and then quietly to Gina as he passed her, “It’s all right. I’ll be back.”

“But why must you-”

“I’ll be back.”

He got into the car. Behind him, he heard a chuckle and, “That’s our lovely boy,” and in a moment they were reversing down the driveway and into the lane. On the lane and heading in the direction of Sway, “You’re a sweet little piece of filth, aren’t you? She wouldn’t be looking at you like you’re God’s gift to her wet hole, would she, if she knew the truth of the matter?”

Gordon said nothing although he felt a churning in his stomach. At the end of the lane, they jogged to the left and began to work their way over to Sway. At first he thought their destination was the village itself, but they passed the hotel, rumbled over the railway tracks, and headed northwest past a line of suburban cottages. They were coursing in the direction of the cemetery, with its neat rows of graves sheltered on all four sides by stands of alders, beeches, and birch. This, Gordon realised, was likely where Jemima would be buried. The ancient churchyards nearby were full, and he doubted there was a family plot somewhere, for she’d never mentioned one to him and he knew her parents had been cremated. She’d never spoken of death at all aside from telling him about her parents, and he’d been grateful for this although he had not considered that until this moment.

They went past the cemetery as well. Gordon was about to ask where the hell they were going when a left turn into a rutted track took them into a bumpy car park. And then he knew. This was Set Thorns Inclosure, an area of woodland like many others across the Perambulation, fenced off from the free-roaming New Forest animals until the timber within it grew to a size that made it impossible for it to be harmed.

Walking paths wound through this vast acreage of woods, but only one other car stood nearby and no one was in it. Thus they had the woodland virtually to themselves, just as the other man would want it.

“Come along, darling,” Gordon was told. “Let’s have a bit of a stroll, eh?”

Gordon knew there was little point in playing for time. Things would be as they would be. There were certain situations over which he had at least nominal control. But this was not one of them.

He got out into the morning air. The scent was fresh and pure. There was a gate up ahead of the car, and he went to this, opened it, went inside the inclosure where he waited for instruction. It was soon in coming. Paths went in three directions from this point: deep into the inclosure or following the woodland’s boundaries. It didn’t matter to him which path was chosen as the outcome was going to be the same.

An examination of the ground was sufficient to indicate which way they should go. Paw prints and footprints looking rather fresh led into the heart of the trees, so they would take an alternate route, this one skirting southeast along the inclosure’s boundary before dipping downward into a swale and then rising again beneath chestnuts and through thick copses of holly. In open spots, the Perambulation’s foresters had stacked wood cut from the trees or felled by storms. Here the bracken was thick and lush, encouraged into growth by filtered sunlight, but now beginning to brown at the edges. By the end of the summer and into autumn, it would form a covering of brown lace wherever the sun hit the floor of the wood most strongly.

They trudged along, Gordon waiting for whatever was to come. They saw no one although they could hear a dog barking in the distance. Other than that, the only sound came from the birds: harsh corvine calls from avian predators and the occasional short burst of song from chaffinches hidden deep within the trees. It was a place rich in wildlife, where squirrels fed on the thick windfall from the chestnut trees, and a flash of auburn in the undergrowth was a sure indication that foxes were here.

There were shadows everywhere as well, and the air was fragrant. Walking and waiting, he could almost forget, Gordon thought, that he was being trailed by someone intent upon doing him harm.

“This is far enough,” the other said. He came up behind Gordon and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Now let me tell you a tale, my darling.”

They were inches from each other. Gordon could feel the hot, eager breath on the back of his neck. They’d come to a widening of the path at this point, more like a small clearing, and up ahead there seemed to be an intersection of some sort with a gate beyond it. In the distance the woodland ceased, and he could see a lawn spreading out. Ponies grazed there placidly and safely, at some great distance from any road.

“Now, my sweet, you’ll need to turn round and face me. There. Just like that. Nicely done, my love.”