Three Mile Drove, Chapter Eighteen (standard:fairy tales, 1866 words) [19/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jul 19 2007	Views/Reads: 2847/2331	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Things are reaching crisis point in Bramble Dyke a village with a nasty secret that is centred in Three Mile Drove and being withheld from newcomer, Darren Goldwater

Three Mile Drove Chapter Eighteen 

At first it was like peering through a pipe or tube, seeing a circle of
light at the other end and amidst it some kind of shape, but unable to 
make out what. Then as the circle expanded and became clearer the shape 
– no shapes – took form. Darren blinked to find two figures standing 
over him, the identity of one revealing itself directly his scattered 
senses reassembled. The other, a tall gaunt man meant nothing at all. 

He tried to raise himself from the confined space at the back of the
Jeep but Claire Summerby's restraining arm prevented him. ‘Now you just 
lay there awhile until you get your bearings.' Getting his bearings 
wasn't easy, he needed help in that respect. He blinked again, then 
slapped the palm of his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the 
light that blazed at him through the Jeep's rear window. 

‘What the hell's going on?' Darren's efforts were more determined this
time as he raised himself to his haunches, ‘What's happened, I feel 
I've been run over by a truck.' 

‘And you might have been.' He ran the palm of his hand down his face,
seeing Claire glance quickly at the man beside her; she gave a sigh and 
another glance, ‘This is David Endleberry, the parson. As a new 
resident he was planning on paying you a courtesy call, and as I was 
coming out this way I said I'd join him. We found you in a heap along 
the drove.' She shook her head, he felt her gaze resting on him, 
studying him. ‘Must have been quite a night huh? What did you do, have 
a few beers in the bungalow, go for a walk to clear your head and...' 

‘Of course not,' Darren waved them aside, stepped out of the Jeep and
wobbled. He held his head as it protested against the morning sunlight, 
‘Especially not in that pig sty.' 

Claire's eyes widened, her hands were on her hips, ‘Well, you're showing
all the classic symptoms, let's see shall we?' 

She turned, taking the few steps to the bungalow, Darren and Endleberry
following behind. She pushed the door firmly, casting Darren a 
disapproving glance in the process, ‘I thought so, you hadn't even 
closed it properly.' She glanced through the kitchen where he'd set up 
the camping table and chairs, turning back to face him, her arms 
crossed, ‘There, what a surprise, the left overs of last night's 
mischief,' she inclined her head and Darren followed its line. 

On the kitchen table were four empty cans labelled Downing's Strong Ale,
and another on its side, its contents having deposited themselves in a 
treacly mess on the floor. Darren frowned, open-mouthed, glancing from 
the beer cans to Claire and then to Endleberry, who, placing a closed 
fist to his mouth gave a short cough. 

‘I don't know,' Claire said surveying the mess, ‘old habits die hard
eh?' 

‘No, no – that's not what happened,' Darren stepped into the room, made
for the table and swept the cans from it with his hand, ‘I don't know 
how the hell they got here but that's not what happened...' 

‘I can't see the point in denying it Darren,' Endleberry, speaking for
the first time fixed his eyes on the rolling cans, ‘I should think that 
more than half the population indulge in a drink or two...' 

Darren laughed, but in exasperation. He spun round covering his head in
his hands for a second and then slapped them on his thighs. ‘I'll tell 
you what happened...' through the haze his memory had returned and the 
picture it had provided didn't resemble the one that lay beside him one 
little bit. 

‘Look I was out there in the yard approaching the gates. I heard
something behind me, I thought it was the wind blowing up all the crap 
but somebody had made a quick dash. I started to turn and an arm came 
over my shoulder, something came across my face, some kind of rag. I 
tried to get away but there was another hand around my waist, I 
couldn't move.' 

He pushed past them and reached the door, the mixture of stale beer and


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