River of Destiny. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ will make them close ranks. He thinks we are all in it. Especially you.’ He glanced at her. ‘He heard that you and Rosemary went up to see Lesley at the Hall.’

      ‘Yes, we did. And we did mention the path – or Rosemary did, but I didn’t say anything to support her.’

      ‘Well, Lesley must have said something to him to give him the impression that you did.’

      Zoë looked round with an air of bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I really don’t support her. I’ve made it clear to her I don’t want to join her walks.’ She sighed then frowned as she saw Ken emerging from the shadows of the trees. As he strode towards them she sensed Leo withdrawing into himself. She put her hand on his arm before he had a chance to turn away. ‘You haven’t met my husband, Leo. Wait. Let me introduce you.’

      The two men shook hands. She could see Ken giving Leo’s face a quick glance then turning away, pretending not to have noticed. ‘You’ve met Bill Turtill, haven’t you, Ken? What was he like?’ she said after moment’s awkward silence.

      ‘He seemed a decent enough bloke. Why?’

      Her explanation elicited a snort of derision. ‘I hope he takes no notice of that woman. She’s a complete pain. Always round our house!’

      Zoë hid a smile. ‘Not always, Ken,’ she said gently. ‘But more than I would like, I must admit. Please, Leo, if you see Bill again can you tell him we have nothing to do with her paths?’

      ‘Weird guy,’ Ken said after a few seconds as they watched Leo retrace his steps across the grass. ‘Not very sociable, is he?’

      ‘I don’t think he likes people looking at his face.’

      ‘I didn’t.’ Ken was indignant. ‘I came to find you. I was getting hungry.’

      They spent the afternoon on the boat and, without actually saying so, made sure they packed up to return to the house before it grew dark.

      Hurrying up the path between the pines they came to a halt at the edge of the communal lawn. Someone had set up a huge gas-fired barbecue on the grass with, round it, two or three tables surrounded by chairs. ‘Oh God! Our neighbours are going to have a party,’ Zoë whispered.

      Ken grimaced. ‘I hope they don’t invite us.’

      They did. Barely had they walked in through the door of The Old Barn when a large florid woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt embellished with the words Daddy’s girl across a bust which must have been heading towards size twenty, hurried after them. She introduced herself as Sharon Watts ‘just like EastEnders,’ she added so automatically that Zoë realised she must always say it, assuming everyone would know who she meant. ‘You must come,’ Sharon went on. ‘We’ve asked Rosie and Steve and old ugly mug from The Old Forge. They are all coming. A barn get-together for half-term. Don’t worry about booze. We’ve got enough. Just bring yourselves!’

      ‘Christ!’ Ken murmured once she had gone. ‘What have we done, moving here? We don’t seem to have a single normal neighbour.’

      Zoë shook her head, suppressing a smile. ‘We’ll have to go.’

      ‘Can’t I have flu?’

      ‘No you can’t. She saw you. Besides, it would be good to meet them all. Better the devil you know, and all that.’

      ‘Did I hear right – she called Leo an ugly mug?’

      ‘Vile woman.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I think he’s quite attractive once you get used to his face.’

      ‘Have you seen the ghosts yet?’ Jamie Watts was a redhead like his sister; whereas in her it contributed to her gamine attractiveness, in him, combined with a receding chin and a thick crop of acne it looked thoroughly unwholesome. He sneered at Zoë as he swigged from a bottle of lager.

      ‘I have.’ She smiled at him with an attempt at graciousness. ‘I gather you are quite the expert on our ghosts.’

      He looked taken aback for a moment, unsure how to take her remark. ‘They’re scary,’ he said after a pause.

      ‘They are,’ she agreed. ‘So, tell me, don’t you have ghosts in your house? I would have thought all these barns would be haunted. They are prime examples of paranormal habitat.’

      He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’

      ‘No. Are you?’ She held his gaze, fending off an inquisitive lurcher looking for titbits.

      They were interrupted by Leo, who had arrived carrying a bottle of wine which he gave to Sharon. In exchange he was handed a glass of Pimm’s, containing more fruit than seemed possible. ‘So, young Jamie, how are you? Any GCSEs under your belt yet?’

      The boy flushed. ‘No. I take them next year.’

      ‘Your mother will be proud of you.’ Leo spoke deadpan though Zoë presumed there was some kind of subtext there. She wondered how old Jamie was. Sixteen, she would have thought, though perhaps more. She saw a flash of something like hatred cross the boy’s face and winced for Leo. She wondered why he had come.

      The party, once it got going, was passable. Jeff seemed a master of his barbecue and turned out a succession of wonderfully grilled meats and sausages, much coveted by the two slavering dogs, while Sharon had made several mouth-watering salads, which, Zoë noticed, her children appeared to boycott, preferring their ketchup and mayonnaise unadulterated. As far as she could see, Sharon and Jeff were going out of their way to be nice; the two boys the opposite. The girl sat close to Leo but said little. Of the eldest boy, Jackson, there was no sign at all.

      By the end of the evening Zoë was convinced they were in for trouble. As they wandered back across the cold, dew-soaked grass under a hazy moon she said as much to Ken. Leo was walking with them. ‘I think you’re right. The little buggers will be planning something. They were doing their best to put the wind up you.’

      Ken snorted. ‘We’ll be ready for them.’

      Leo gave him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t underestimate them. They may look thick. They are actually quite bright, as I know to my cost.’

      ‘Besides which,’ Zoë added, ‘some of the ghosts are real, aren’t they?’

      Both men looked at her.

      Leo said nothing.

      Ken gave a muffled snort.

      The blade was finished. He gave it a final loving polish and laid it down on the rests. Now for the hilt. Normally he sent his blades away to be finished at a workshop in the next village, but this one was different. This one was imbued with magic, carved with sacred runes and intricate designs, the hilt inset with jewels, every stage fabricated by himself alone. Even the scabbard he planned to make himself.

      He glanced up from the work table. Was that a footstep outside? He threw a cloth over the table, hiding the blade from view, and walked over to stand listening behind the door. He could hear nothing but the whine of the wind in the crannies of the workshop, the rustle as the ash bed stirred in the furnace. СКАЧАТЬ