Haunted Fields (4 page)

He ambled over to his Corsa, half expecting to find an advert promising half-price deals at the local hairdresser's, or an advert insisting that the revamp of a local Italian restaurant had made it the tastiest place to eat in town. A strong gust of wind caught the flyer, slamming it into the windscreen, where it lay, spread-eagled.

It wasn't a flyer.

He didn't need to reach down and grab the note to read it. He could make out the bold, handwritten letters from where he was. Culprits popped through his mind as he tore the note away from the windscreen-wiper that had been holding it in place. He read it again:

FREDDIE FORSTER

YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE

GO HOME

This has to be Harvey's doing!
thought Freddie. He would have to be careful. Harvey Templeton was a nasty piece of work.

6

The following day seemed drag on and on. By late afternoon packing up and leaving seemed the best option, his heavy eyes and dampened spirits rendering him no longer interested in his work duties.

‘I like this time of day in summer,' said Greg, lifting an open bag of pellets onto the lip of the sack-barrow. ‘It's warm, but not too warm. We'll take this bag round to the store then that'll be it for the day.'

Greg seemed chirpy. Maybe it would be a good time to bring up some of the ideas he'd had for the farm, thought Freddie. But… what was he thinking? Why did he care?! He'd decided to leave, hadn't he? But what if Greg said yes – agreed to implement his ideas. How exciting would that be? Could he really miss it, for the sake of the note? Oh well. Voicing his ideas wouldn't hurt him.

‘I've been thinking,' said Freddie, steadying the bag as Greg set off down the track. ‘Those old sheds you've had me cleaning out–'

‘By the road?'

‘Could they be used for something? They're wasted just sat there all rundown and neglected, surely–'

‘They've been out of use for years.'

‘Exactly! Why not use the half-decent one as a roadside stall? Sell directly to the customer!'

He felt the barrow slow down a touch, and noticed Greg staring at something on the horizon. Did Greg think he was cheeky? It wasn't his intention to offend his host.

‘I've seen similar setups before,' said Greg, speeding up again.

‘So it makes sense,' said Freddie.

He could see the winning post, the trophy just out of reach.

‘Could've done with you here a few months ago, before…before it went too far.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘What course do you want to study at uni again?' said Greg, changing track.

‘Business.'

‘I can see that.'

So close!
He gripped the sides of the bag as he prepared to seal a famous victory.

‘So, what do you say?'

‘Not right now, lad.'

Why not?
Freddie wondered. It made sense. And his ideas didn't stop there either – he had tons queuing up just waiting to be put into action, to save Ridge Farm. Why had Greg given up? Just yesterday hadn't Greg told him that Ridge Farm wasn't much, but was his three-hundred acres?

‘Why are you giving up so easily?' asked Freddie.

Greg opened his mouth to speak. Freddie expected a verbal volley, or a telling off at least. But Greg simply closed his mouth, sighed, and turned away.

The smell of baking filled the kitchen. ‘Heavy rain expected tomorrow,' said Greg, glancing up from behind a copy of the local weekly newspaper.

‘I hope it's nothing like a few years back,' said Jess.

Just sitting around a table, listening to a family talk about what they'd been up to, discussing something as trivial as the weather, warmed Freddie. But the warmth didn't last;
how could it?
The terrible hollowness inside him, a gap that couldn't be filled by the kindness of others, sobered him. Things simply weren't like this back home – not even when Rhona tried, and sometimes she really did try, to turn her household into a family.

Freddie still hadn't told anyone about Harvey Templeton threatening him, or the note, and he wasn't sure if he ever would.

‘There's a picture of the floods in here,' said Greg, turning the paper so everyone could see. In the background the hills towered above the flatlands. In the foreground lakes stood where Freddie knew there to be fields and hedgerows and roads. ‘Many of the crops further down the hill were ruined.'

‘There's a storm front moving across the Atlantic,' said Jess.

‘Check you,' said Freddie, pushing Betty, who was begging for food yet to be served, back to the floor. ‘Since when were
you
an expert on the weather?'

‘I'm taking A-level Geography,' she said. ‘And the weather plays a big part in country life.'

‘I'd pay more attention to the forecast if you were a TV weather girl.'

The only time kids on his estate would pay attention to the weather was when the possibility of a snow day arose. Snow days… When nearly everyone at school lived within walking distance! It was laughable, really.

His phone vibrated on the table top. It was a text message, from Tiffany:

Do you miss me
?
x

‘Who's that from?' Jess asked.

‘My ex.'

‘Oh, thought it might be Scarlett. I gave her your number. I hope you don't mind.'

‘Jeez,' he said, pocketing his mobile without replying to the message. ‘Why don't you make me some cards up as well? You could leave them in phone boxes, or pin them up in the shop. Advertise. Sad act looking for love. All welcome.'

‘Hey! Don't be mean. Scarlett's cool.'

Yeah, thought Freddie. So cool that she went out with an idiot like Harvey “The Strangler” Templeton! It still hurt when he swallowed.

‘I'm not sure about her last choice of boyfriend,' said Freddie.

‘That's what we all thought. Harvey's a jerk.'

‘You're telling me.'

His mobile vibrated again. Couldn't the girl just leave him be? Hadn't she done enough damage? Retrieving the Samsung, he read the message. It was from Ricky:

Wicked party last night mate
,
shame you missed it
.
Hanging big style
.
Head batters
.
Any fitties in the country
?

A knock at the door brought him back into the room. Usually he relied on Ricky to cheer him up, but not anymore. In fact he didn't have Ricky, full stop. Here, in the country, he had to face things solo. Alone amongst people who'd had lives before he arrived and would have lives long after his short stay. He glanced up as Lucas breezed into the kitchen, looking smug in a shirt and tie.

‘Hullo everyone,' he said.

Freddie couldn't believe it. Had his ears swallowed too much water in the shower or was Lucas manipulating his own voice? Sure, he'd sounded fairly posh before, even a tad pompous at times, but in front of Elizabeth and Greg he sounded like an actor delivering well-rehearsed lines.

‘Hello dear,' said Elizabeth.

‘All right, lad,' said Greg.

Freddie felt his stomach churn as Jess planted a kiss on Lucas' lips right in front of him.

‘Freddie,' said Lucas, nodding. ‘How the devil are you?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Will you be staying for tea?' Elizabeth asked hopefully.

‘No, Mum,' said Jess, resting her head on Lucas' arm. ‘Lucas has reserved a table at that new Mexican restaurant in town.'

Freddie leant forward on the bar, hoping by some miracle that this would propel him to the front of the queue. He'd seen Tiffany do something similar in clubs, trying to catch the eye of the barman. How stupid must he look? Country pubs clearly didn't observe the same etiquette. His third day of work had been a bore, and this had made him impatient.

‘Hey Daisy,' he called out, more an attempt at making conversation than pushing in.

‘I'll be with you next,' she replied without looking up, in the midst of pulling two pints whilst counting another customer's change. ‘I'm just serving Dave.'

Freddie glanced along the bar to see a middle-aged man in a wax jacket chatting to Gerry McGeady. They turned to stare briefly in his direction before resuming their conversation.

Comforted by the knowledge that he was still the village's main attraction, Freddie spotted a framed photograph hanging beside the bar. Gazing around the pub's dank walls, he noticed that there were many olden day photos of the village decorating the place. But there was something about one of the pictures which drew him in.

He strolled over to the photograph, the sight of a huge crowd gathered around two combines interesting him. The crowd, positioned in neat rows, held familiar faces within its ranks. His eyes were immediately drawn to a timid girl positioned two-thirds the way along the bottom row, her sour face familiar to him even in childhood – Rhona, with Elizabeth alongside her.

The focal point of the photographer's masterpiece was a golden-haired boy positioned at the scene's epicentre, the heads of everyone else angled slightly towards him. Directly above him a beaming, proud-looking man grasped the boy's shoulders. The man, Freddie had seen before – the emaciated face gazing out of a window at the manor. The golden-haired boy Freddie hadn't seen before but certainly looked familiar. Below the photo was a line of text.

The AGM of the Ravenby-le-Wold Farming Society
,
July 1991

But why does that boy look so familiar?
wondered Freddie. Clearly the man was John Davidson, owner of the Ravenby-le-Wold Farming Company. Then the lad must be his son– Freddie felt his throat tighten. Mr Davidson's son was dead. He was Noel, the boy run down by the combine, and yet…
No!
He was mistaken. The lad he'd seen leaning against the bale on his first day of work… couldn't have been Noel Davidson… Perhaps a relation or a lookalike, a coincidence…

‘It can't be,' he croaked.

‘I'm sorry?' said Daisy, awaiting his order, eyebrow arced again, ‘l hope you have ID on you today. I see you got Lucas to buy your first drink.'

‘Guilty, I'm afraid,' he said, feeling a little numb.

‘You all right? You look funny.'

‘I could do with a drink, that's all.'

Daisy pulled him a pint.

‘I heard about you and Scarlett.'

Him and Scarlett?!
thought Freddie. What about him and Scarlett? There
was
no him and Scarlett! Why was everyone trying to set him up with her?

‘I don't follow.'

‘You don't waste time,' she said, handing him the pint. ‘Harvey won't be happy.'

He really didn't care – he couldn't erase the image of the lad leaning against the bale from his mind.

‘Hey, Daisy,' he said, rifling through his pocket for some change. ‘Do you know the name of the farm where Noel Davidson was killed?'

‘Rose Farm, I think.'

His mobile vibrated in his pocket. It was a text, this time from a number he didn't recognise.

Meet me in the smoking shelter in five minutes

Brilliant!
thought Freddie, a meeting in a smoking shelter. But with who?

The storm clouds had begun rolling over the hillside while he'd been inside, and as he left the sanctuary of the pub, he saw blonde hair wherever he looked. Ghosts don't exist, he kept telling himself. Don't get dragged into the hysteria! There had to be a logical explanation. He'd find out who the lad was, get a name – put an end to all this nonsense. He refused to accept the alternative – the mad ramblings of Elizabeth and the other scared villagers.

At first he thought the smoking shelter was empty, that he'd been set up, trapped – perhaps by the same person who'd left the note on his Corsa. But as he entered the wooden structure everything had become much clearer. Of course, Jess had given her his number! He felt cornered.

‘I know Harvey threatened you,' Scarlett said. ‘He won't do it again, we've had words.'

‘What did you see in him?' he asked. He had no choice but to move further into the dark shelter as the rain streamed down the back of his neck. ‘He's a thug.'

‘He can be quite sweet, actually.'

‘I don't think I really got to see a lot of his sweet side, you know, while he had his hand around my throat.'

It was cramped inside, much of the space taken up by a bench fixed to the back wall. He sat down next to her. She spoke, but Freddie struggled to make out what she'd said, her words masked by the rain thudding on the roof. He regretted not bringing a jacket. The air had turned cool.

‘What did you say?' he said.

She twisted a strand of auburn hair round and round her finger.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

He certainly didn't want to upset Scarlett. She was a laugh and he enjoyed her company. It was her ex that worried him. But if what she'd said was true, that things were cool between them, that Harvey was no longer a threat, surely they could what – be friends? Why had she wanted him to meet her out in the smoking shelter? She didn't even smoke.

‘I'll let you off this time.'

‘We should go out sometime,' she said, her eyes brightening. ‘Go watch a movie or something. I'll see if Jess and Lucas want to come.'

Have I just been asked out on a date?
Freddie wondered. Surely it was custom for the guy to ask the girl?! He wasn't too enamoured with the idea of sharing the occasion with Jess and Lucas, who'd no doubt spend the evening inspecting each other's tonsils on the back row. He hoped Scarlett wouldn't choose a rom-com either. It'd have to be something gory to keep Lucas' eyes on the screen.

‘Yeah sure,' he said, smiling. ‘If I can choose the film.'

Suddenly the storm screamed.

‘What's that?' said Scarlett.

Freddie watched as she tilted her head. And then he heard it again. Louder this time. Desperate. There was a break in the rain, just a few short seconds, but enough. The storm wasn't screaming. But nearby, in the village or out on one of the surrounding farms, someone was in trouble. A boy. The screams entered his ears and bounced around inside his head.

‘It sounds like someone's hurt, really bad.'