Three Mile Drove Chapter fourteen (standard:horror, 2611 words) [15/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Mar 18 2007	Views/Reads: 2853/2166	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The latest chapter in a completed story featuring a faded rock musician who inherits a smallholding in the English fens. Unfortunately life is not as tranquil as it seems

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Moreover, had he found it or had he been disturbed before he'd a chance 
to do so, McPherson wished he knew. But what he wished above all else 
was that Claire had told him the property was hers, he couldn't 
understand her attitude any more than he could understand the abduction 
of a missing girl, who, he was sure, had been kept against her will in 
that same property. That in itself was enough to cause him to confront 
her on it, even though he'd need to adopt a softly, softly approach. 
Because in spite of disturbing an intruder, he still had absolutely 
nothing to go on, his bosses had taken the line that he had disturbed a 
vagrant, that the vagrant had taken flight in panic. It wasn't unusual 
to find a tramp in a derelict house was it? And once again, what had he 
to show for his endeavours, nothing. Except family archives showing 
Claire as the legal owner of the house, and that, in relation to his 
enquiries, carried no weight at all. 

But perhaps that might change. He'd tried contacting Claire more than
once during the day, but she'd been working. He'd tried that evening 
but received no reply. He'd try again in the morning – very early. 

Then McPherson had an about-turn, his head flooding with furious thought
as he flung the quilt to one side and sat with his hands upon his 
knees. It wasn't too late, he told himself, not in the context of 
things. He continually reflected on how he'd told her, just a short 
while back of his discovery of some wretched, deformed children in a 
house he now knew she owned. Of how, when he'd told her, she'd not 
appeared to be her normal, supportive, helpful self. Of how she'd 
seemed strangely reticent. He'd attributed that to concern that he must 
be overworking, that she probably thought he needed to take a break, 
but hadn't liked to say so. 

But now he knew that was nonsense, he should have realised then that if
Claire thought that, she would have told him. Claire Summerby said what 
she thought, she shot from the hip. No, the more McPherson thought 
about it, the more he realised it hadn't been like that at all. There 
had to be another reason for her reticence, he needed to know it. Right 
away. 

He left his bed, moving so quickly for the wardrobe that he felt his
head vibrate. 

*                                     * 

‘We all have our secrets?' Claire's eyes flashed, ‘What do you mean by
that?' 

They had been leaving the table, but now Claire halted and Darren
thought he saw annoyance in her eyes. ‘Nothing,' he turned back to her, 
slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans, attempting a display 
of casualness he didn't feel; ‘just that you must get told all kinds of 
confidential stuff by the people you meet. The sort of stuff you have 
to keep to yourself, and then they become your own secrets, like. 
That's all I meant.' 

‘Oh I see,' she pulled her coat across her shoulders as they met the
cold air and drew in a deep breath, ‘Yes, a lot of people, particularly 
the older folk I come across, are looking for somebody to befriend 
them, and that in turn makes them open up. So I guess you've got a 
point there. Gosh it's cold out here,' she sunk her hands deep into her 
coat pockets and shuddered, and for a second he was tempted to place 
his arms around her shoulders and draw her close to him. 

She couldn't see him blushing in the dark, but he was nonetheless,
though not over thoughts of his narrowly averted action, but over 
narrowly averted speech. He knew how close he'd come to blowing away a 
fine evening, over a moment's rashness. He'd seen the flash in her 
eyes, then the sudden transformation from joviality to sternness. It 
had served as a warning, and he wondered, being as sharp as she was, 
whether she'd anticipated what he'd been about to say. 

In any case, he was sure that she wouldn't have enlightened him about
her existence in Three Mile Drove, he knew that, and he was also fairly 
certain that it would have resulted in an early end to their 
friendship. But the bottom line was that it wasn't for him to try to 
extract any secrets from her, if anything, it was for her to confide in 
him, and given time she might just do that. 

Right now though, he needed to lighten up, to concentrate on concreting
a relationship with this lovely woman, not weakening it in its infancy. 
Even now he could sense her fine eyes upon him, as though she was 
assessing his mood, assessing whether what he'd told her had been what 
he really had intended to say. 

‘Well at least the breeze has shifted the mist,' Darren said, opening
the passenger door and watching the way she climbed lithely in. 

‘You know what bothers me most about this place?' 

‘No, but I guess you're going to tell me,' she said, fixing Darren with
an astute look as he jumped in next to her and switched on the 
ignition. Darren didn't return her stare, concentrating on steering the 
car out of the tight, narrow street that ran behind the inn. He'd half 
expected her to come up with an answer that wasn't far off the mark, 
even though she couldn't possibly have known what it was he was going 
to say. Such was his impression of her perceptive abilities. 

‘Yeah, I'll tell you Claire,' he cast his eye in the mirror, there was a
marked police car behind and he guessed that the two pints of bitter 
he'd drunk might just possibly have put him over the limit, but to his 
relief the vehicle turned off, taking a right turn and veering away. 
‘When you get off the beaten track, like in Three Mile Drove for 
instance, in certain conditions, like mist and fog for one thing, the 
trees don't seem to be trees at all, they seem so life-like, there's 
the one outside that ruin of a house for instance near the Tomblin's 
place, to me it seems just like a gaunt old man from a distance, huge 
and threatening, almost like it's warning folks to keep away. It gave 
me the creeps the first time I saw it. It still does.' 

‘Really? I can't say I'd noticed.' In the glow thrown by the street
lights of Ely, he thought he saw her stiffen, and her face take on that 
serious stance again, but when she turned to him her lips had parted 
into a smile, not quite the devastating one that had so impressed him, 
but a distinct smile nonetheless, ‘You really have got some 
imagination, haven't you Darren Goldwater, gaunt old man indeed. It's 
just a plain old willow tree, nothing more, nothing less.' 

‘It's just the impressions of a newcomer,' Darren said, heading out of
the city. He felt his confidence building; he felt that he might just 
try risking a more subtle approach to delve into her past. ‘But I 
suppose, having spent all your life here, you'd see things in their 
true perspective. Me, I see things from another angle.' 

‘How do you know whether I've spent the whole of my life here?' He saw
the thin lines of her forehead knit, and shrugged, ‘I dunno, I just got 
that impression; it just formed in my head. Expressions like “us fen 
folk,” well that sort of talk establishes you too deeply with the 
community to have spent much time away, in my mind at any rate.' 

Claire was quiet for a moment, watching as the city lights faded into
the distance, away to her left. ‘I regard myself as part and parcel of 
this area, fair enough Darren, but my family sent me to a convent in 
Hertfordshire, so for a good few years I was educated there.' 

‘Ah, right.' Darren flicked the wipers to intermittent sweep as spots of
rain began to hit the windscreen. Well, that was one revelation and 
probably accounted for the cultured accent, which was far removed from 
the thick, fenland drone. Darren wondered how much more of her past he 
could get her to divulge without making it seem that he was 
interrogating her. ‘Whereabouts do your family – damn!' Darren suddenly 
slammed on the brakes, causing his car to slither sideways as some sort 
of animal across the road in front of it, freezing in panic as its eyes 
glowed like fire in the headlights. Darren drew a deep breath, watching 
the small animal slink away. ‘Christ, lucky the road was clear. What on 
earth was it anyway?' 

‘A fox dear,' Claire said quietly, seemingly unaffected by the close
encounter. ‘You did well not to hit it, though it does seem to have 
shaken you up a bit.' He felt her hand on his shoulder, ‘I tell you 
what, we'll be at my house in a few minutes, how about I make you a cup 
of coffee, soothe those nerves, you seem to have got the shakes all of 
a sudden.' 

‘Yeah, sure.' He hadn't been aware that his hands were shaking, but now
as he looked down on them he could see there was a slight tremble, he 
thought she'd done well to spot as much, particularly in the poor 
light. Or had she spotted it really? Might it possibly just have been 
an excuse, a bit of opportunist conjuring to invite him inside? 

He felt his heartbeat strengthen and increase a little at the thought of
that, but even as they drew into her street he felt his spirits tumble 
as though they'd been demolished by an electrical charge. 

The tall, slim figure standing in her porch-way was all too
distinguishable in the porch light. ‘I can see you've got a guest,' 
Darren said sourly, pulling to a halt alongside her drive. 

‘He wasn't expected, I can assure you,' Claire said, her eyes narrowing.


‘If you'd have told me, I could have got you back sooner,' he said,
ignoring her remark as she opened the passenger door. 

‘I've just told you Darren,' she said, her voice rising a little, ‘I
haven't a clue why he's here, there must be some kind of problem, we'll 
find out on a minute.' 

‘No, I don't think so, it might be personal,' he said acerbically. He
had a vague thought that she might have seen the way his cheeks had 
reddened, but he didn't much care, as he reversed the car into a 
driveway opposite. He watched as she walked up the path towards 
McPherson, before driving out of the brightly lit crescent. 

McPherson had stood as though anchored by an invisible chain to the
porch, he hadn't looked happy, and neither he nor McPherson had made 
any attempt to acknowledge one another. Well, if McPherson didn't feel 
happy that was another thing he and the detective shared in common 
right now. He'd been meaning, all the way back, to thank Claire for a 
really enjoyable evening. Now he doubted whether he'd  get round to it. 



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