Three Mile Drove, Chapter Eleven (standard:horror, 2803 words) [12/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Dec 20 2006	Views/Reads: 3166/2056	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continuation of a completed horror story set in the English Fens

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


She had to pray that neither thing happened. 

*                                    * 

Endleberry watched Claire go, peering through a half open door he could
just see her car turn left at the village crossroads. Her journey would 
take her through the main street and if she went beyond that, out to 
Littleport and Ely. 

Away from Three Mile Drove at any rate, the opposite direction in fact.
Three Mile Drove, he shook at the thought of it, that was the direction 
his visitor would come from one day no doubt if things went on as they 
were. Damn Claire for her meddling, damn the whole business, and 
especially the person who was supposed to have sighted the missing girl 
in the drove. He wondered who that could possibly have been, hardly 
anybody passed that way, hardly anybody had good cause to. 

And had it been the child they saw? Endleberry didn't know, it didn't do
to dwell on such things. Out here, where the sight of a police officer 
was as rare as that of a politician, election times excluded, the 
parson might be seen as the centrepiece of the community, but in 
Bramble Dyke he might be its most vulnerable member. It certainly felt 
like it. But as he closed the door, his mind played the subject out 
against his will. He made his way through to the front parlour, 
selecting the binder he'd consulted the previous evening when the 
policeman had made his unwelcome call. The names of every known 
resident, past and present, were alphabetically listed in that binder, 
or should have been. He knew though, only too well, that the volume was 
wildly inaccurate, but it was something you didn't speak of if you knew 
what was good for you. You didn't invite problems, anymore than you 
didn't invite outsiders into the community. 

And yes, McPherson was an outsider, but now he'd heard there was
another, an ex-rock musician inheriting Sam Regan's old property in 
Three Mile Drove. He took that as a bad sign, rock musicians to him 
always spelt trouble and there was enough of that around as it was, 
particularly in Three Mile Drove. 

He glanced down at the old ledger; it had fallen open at the name of
Tomblin. That might have been a coincidence, but it still caused him to 
shudder. 

Endleberry slammed the book shut, he had calls to make though thankfully
none that would take him near the drove. 

* 

‘Well Mr. Goldwater,' the diminutive estate agent said, ‘a detached
house such as yours, in this particular suburb, should fetch just under 
two hundred thousand, I should say though, if you're looking for a 
quick sale, you might consider dropping ten thousand. Prices have risen 
nicely in this area of late, and demand is on the increase. We 
shouldn't be too long finding a buyer for you, call us if you decide to 
sell.' 

‘There'll be no need for that,' Darren said, following the estate agent
to the door, ‘I've already made my mind up. Put it on the market for 
just below the going rate. I'm cutting ties with these parts.' He shook 
the man's hand and watched as he walked down the drive to his car, then 
closed the door. 

Strange when you thought about it, how a few days could change your
philosophy completely. When he'd first set course for the fens, setting 
up home there had only been a very slight possibility, and then when 
he'd arrived he couldn't stand the very flatness of it, the boring 
sight of miles of land broken only by an occasional, solitary, forlorn 
looking tree. Yet now developments had changed all that. He'd felt that 
he'd found a new friend in Claire for one thing, perhaps she'd become 
more than a friend, who could tell? There was also an ongoing mystery 
that he now felt compelled to solve, or have a damned good try, and in 
so doing perhaps he could pull one over on the snooty McPherson. 

He wasn't a natural antagonist at heart, but this man gave him the
impression of being so cock-sure of himself, he wore a smug look that 
seemed to be permanently implanted on his face, he was really beginning 
to rile him, people like that deserved to be brought down a peg or two, 
though how he'd go about it he hadn't a clue. Perhaps it was just 
wishful thinking, time would tell. 

There were messages on the answering machine, from Jeff and Craig
basically, badgering him over settlement figures, and surprise, 
surprise, messages from their respective solicitors asking that he 
contact them. This pair certainly hadn't wasted any time in drafting up 
their demands and acting upon them, if they'd have shown as much 
diligence in their musical professionalism, then the outcome might have 
been far different. Too late now though, to worry about things like 
that. He hadn't exactly been a saint in that respect when all said and 
done. He guessed each one of them had lain in their beds and made them, 
at some stage. 

He'd get round to contacting their solicitors later, it really wasn't
that important any more, because his music days were over, blown away 
like leaves in an autumn wind. It was invigorating really, to think of 
his future given a whole new direction, with a whole new outlook. Just 
a few short days ago he didn't think he had one, he couldn't see the 
wood from the trees. He'd much to learn of course, but this was another 
aspect in his move – that he was actually looking forward to it. 

Would this new found enthusiasm last? He'd like to think so, though of
course it was a bit too early to say. All the same, something deep 
inside told him it would. 

Darren made his way over to the drinks cabinet, he habitually did this.
Grabbing the neck of the bottle he took it through to the kitchen, 
removed the top, and held the bottle upside down over the sink, 
watching the contents disappear down the drain. Glup, glup, glup! 
Shock, horror revulsion at the thought of the precious liquid pulsing 
its way from the bottle to the sewers – this is how he would have seen 
it. He would have seen it that way just a couple of days ago, but not 
any more. Now he felt none the worse for watching it drain away. 

* 

McPherson shut he door to his office and left the station in a hurry.
The short drive to his home on the western perimeter of Ely would only 
take him a few minutes, traffic permitting, and he couldn't wait to get 
home. It had been an irritating day, a frustrating one, and Darren 
Goldwater's meddling hadn't helped his frame of mind one bit. He didn't 
need an outsider like Goldwater to tell him there was something amiss 
in the fens beyond Bramble Dyke. He thought there was, and that 
somewhere at the heart of it was the missing child. He wasn't at all 
sure that Shaun Tomblin had anything to do with it, strange and evasive 
man that he was, but if by some remote chance he was hiding something, 
then Goldwater's interference could have alerted him to the warning 
signals. The fact that he knew he was subject to peoples' suspicions 
wouldn't help at all. But for the time being McPherson felt he was up a 
gum tree, there seemed no persuadable course of action that he could 
take, and for the life of him he couldn't see why a rustic, out-back 
farmer like Tomblin would want to abduct a young child. Where would it 
get him? Nowhere. 

His instincts told him he'd have to look elsewhere, other than Tomblin,
if he was going to get to the bottom of this and that the link between 
the abductor and the missing girl might well be close by. That isolated 
old house near Tomblin's did conceal a few secrets, he suspected. When 
time allowed, he'd go back. Because Scouser Smith had been insistent 
that none of his family had been anywhere near the place, and he 
believed him. 

So where had these kids come from, these strange kids that he'd seen?
And was there a connection between them and the noises that Darren 
Goldwater had said he'd heard? He thought not, on that score. He 
thought it was the man's stupid imagination getting the better of him. 
After all Goldwater wasn't from around these parts. He was a rock 
musician from a city area, a fading rock musician at that. What did he 
know about animal life on the fens, any kind of life in the fens for 
that matter? 

Foxes or anything could have made the sounds he'd heard. Carried across
on the wind, breaking the silence their cries would have a certain 
weird nature to them, he would have imagined. But there was no doubting 
that some kind of animal was responsible for the sounds that the man 
had heard. 

He certainly hadn't finished with the business though, after all, his
promotion might depend on the outcome. The promotion he'd sought for so 
long. But he'd need to keep an eye on Mr.Goldwater, he'd told him, 
perhaps unwisely, that he needed real evidence. There was the 
possibility that Goldwater might just try to find it. He doubted very 
much that he could provide any real evidence, but to the contrary he 
could do a lot of damage to his cause by interfering again with his 
amateurish sleuthing. 

He'd need to keep an eye on the old house in the drove all right, but
he'd need to keep an eye on Goldwater as well. 

* Darren received his first call from the estate agent late in the
afternoon. The caller stated that prospective buyers had been found 
already, and asked whether it would be in order to escort them around 
the property at ten a.m. the following day. 

He hadn't counted on staying over that night, having originally intended
to return to Bramble Dyke to finalise renovation arrangements on his 
property there. But he'd become tied up in lengthy discussions with 
Craig and Jeff's solicitors over distribution of the pop group's 
assets. Rather than become involved in an argy-bargy with the band 
members he'd arranged appointments with their solicitors, which had 
dragged on until late afternoon. He thought he'd been quite amenable in 
respect of any settlements with them and the remaining band members; he 
wanted nothing but his own equipment really. If he ever did embark on a 
solo career such good quality stuff would be something of an 
investment, though it wasn't a possibility he considered all that 
highly at the moment. 

Nonetheless the meetings had been annoyingly long-winded, there were
papers to be drawn up and signed; there was loss of revenue for 
cancelled shows to be considered, the question of compensation raised 
its ugly head, though he didn't see why it should, the others had 
pulled out not him, he'd stood his ground on that score, but had 
concluded reluctantly that he'd face further problems on the matter. 

But it had all meant that he'd be there at ten, when the prospective
buyers arrived, even though the estate agents had a set of keys. The 
agents said that the prospective buyers were cash purchasers, which 
gave him the incentive to be there. The quicker he could sell the 
place, the less hassle in the long run. 

Shortly after he'd put the phone down, it rang again. Darren snatched it
up optimistically - perhaps this was another client, all so quickly 
too. But no, there was a sharp intake of breath as soon as he heard the 
croaky, strained voice on the line. 

Goldie – 

‘Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to contact you for two
bloody days and I keep getting is your bloody answering machine. You 
don't ever walk out on me like that!' He held the phone away from his 
ear as her voice howled down the line. ‘And what's this about the band 
breaking up eh? You'd better get your soft butt right over here now or 
we're finished, do you understand?' 

Darren gave a tired sigh. He couldn't be bothered with this. Hers was
the last voice he'd wanted, or expected, to hear. He'd thought contact 
would have been severed once and for all at the ranting and raving 
session at their disastrous gig. Well, he should have known better. 
When did Goldie Dixon ever give up? The woman he'd thought so adorable 
when they'd first met, but now felt like a sharp, broken syringe long 
embedded in his side, so that you could never be totally unaware of its 
presence, because as soon as you turned it stung you with renewed 
venom, surging through rusted steel. 

He dropped the receiver back in its cradle without reply. 


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