Chapter 2

Grief is a ghost that only time can exorcise.

Though Life has a hand in manipulating the heart in an effort to ease the effects of loss, the results can be mediocre at best. Work and play might pull at the mind’s hand, dragging it away from memories that refuse silence, but rest swats them away. All that remains when distractions take a breath, are tears.

Only Time has the power to heal the wounds grief carves into us. Only Time has the ability to smother them with a pillow of years, pressing down until they suffocate and cease to be. Until they fade. Or hide.

Edmund almost drove past the narrow road leading to the village. The signal on his phone was intermittent, and he’d neglected to pre-download the maps required to direct him fully. How many journeys had he been on where he’d berated himself for exactly that? For much of the past few miles, he had been guided by occasional signposts and luck. More the latter, if he were honest. He’d already considered turning around to see if he’d missed a junction. Finally, a sign indicated he was almost there, and his release was a heavily expelled sigh.

The sign was faded, as if it had been painted once, decades before, and nobody had thought to add a second coat at any point since. Refreshing it would run the risk of showing others the village was there. It would be an invitation. Some people couldn’t help accepting such things, and would come just for ‘shits and giggles’, a phrase Edmund only half understood but used, nonetheless. He could see their point, those who’d decided to leave the sign to dissolve over time. He’d had his share of unwelcome visitors, accepting an invitation that hadn’t been given.

He could see the tarmac was split, and potholes dotted the surface like acne on a teen’s face. He would need to drive carefully, not least because it was only wide enough for one car. Hedges either side of the winding lane rose too high to see over, so he could only hope anyone coming the other way saw the same dangers he did and would drive accordingly. He’d been driving for hours and was tired. A meal, washed down with a pint, and a bed were his aim for the rest of the day, and the thought of them urged his foot to push down on the accelerator. It would be just a touch. Just a little faster. Still safe. Still careful.

But, no. He knew better. He’d been taught better.

He pulled onto the lane and kept his speed at the tick-over point, where the engine was running itself, and needed only the slightest reminder from him that it was functioning. He was coasting, albeit over a road that would wake the long dea… would prevent any sleep. His car’s suspension complained as it rocked him from side to side – more than he thought it should – but he ignored it.

“Soon be there,” he told the vehicle. “Then we can rest.”

The voice in his head had stopped making excuses with themselves as to why he needed time away, so he had been able to concentrate on the journey. It had also lulled him into a state close to autopilot, until the proximity of his destination snapped him back to himself. He welcomed the low pressure of an oncoming migraine, blinking it back in order to keep his eyes on the uneven road, but avoiding taking the painkillers he kept in the glove box.

Pain was his friend. Physical and emotional. He would not turn it away.

The car ignored his reassurances and buffeted him all the more. It seemed to be enjoying it. He grinned. Let it have its fun. His headache was joining in, so two out of three were getting what they wanted.

Black Thickett, with its extra and redundant final ‘t’, was far enough away from anywhere, and a good distance from everywhere, to ensure there’d be no familiar faces. No one to bother him or ask how he was so he’d have to resist the urge to shout he was OK, ok? He wanted somewhere quiet. A place no one knew him – or really wanted to. Somewhere he could stop pretending he was coping.

The road’s disrepair, and his bobble-headed wobbling, continued until the boundary of the village, then suddenly stopped. It was as if the local authorities deemed anything beyond was not their responsibility, so could be the task of nature to maintain. The contrast startled Edmund enough to stop his car. He climbed out to look.

Though some villages seem to grow organically from the countryside, with buildings and streets sprouting from the greenery the closer you were to the centre, Black Thickett erupted. There was the hedge-lined road he cautiously travelled, itself a barrier that few sane people would attempt. That gave way to a pause, where the world seemed to forget to exist, so someone had filled the space with mud, rocks and various detritus. Then, there was a perfectly kept grassed area before a neat row of cottages.

The change was so abrupt, it felt like crossing an invisible line. One moment the car was battering its way across potholes, the next it glided as if the road had been laid only yesterday. No cracks, no gravel, not even the faintest scuff. It was almost… manicured.

He’d had a friend, back when friends were something he thought he needed, who supposedly owned a cottage in the Lake District. He’d stayed there once, paying a ‘mate’s rates’ rent for the week. It was nice enough, but was more a semi-detached house than what Andy had falsely called it. Edmund never mentioned this, however. Let Andy have his delusion. It harmed no one, and pleased the man. And, it meant Edmund could go again if he wanted to.

He would have, too, if things hadn’t changed so drastically. The countryside was staggeringly beautiful. It was peaceful. Remote enough without being remote. Edmund had been able to relax. So, why was he not walking up to the front door this time, when it could be argued his needs were so similar?

Because they were not. Not even close. Then, he’d been overwhelmed by work. He was struggling to sleep, and wore a permanently stressed frown. This time, it wasn’t stress driving him away from all that was familiar. It was exactly that familiarity. Everything was a reminder, from the grand to the minutiae. Even Andy’s place would have been a reminder, because that was where they first met.

Anyway. Moving on.

Edmund dismissed the dramatic change of scenery and returned to his still running car. It chimed as he climbed back in, cheerful that the key, which he kept in his jeans pocket so he could simply press the appropriate button through the cloth to lock or unlock, was back within its confines.

‘At least someone is able to still be together‘, he thought.

Wow. Was he jealous of his car? That had to be the saddest and most self-centred reaction anyone could have. He shook his head, wondering at the levels he had fallen to, released the handbrake and accelerated. Villages always had a central square, didn’t they? There’d be a shop that sold everything you could wish for, as long as you were willing to pay the inflated prices, maybe a post office and a pub. The latter, which also rented a few rooms out, was his goal.

Black Thickett didn’t disappoint him. The houses would have been an education to Andy, with their indefinable cosiness and quaint charm. Each one was slightly different to the next, be it colour, windows or garden. It made them unique and that only added to their charisma. He lived in a town where houses were a copy and paste of each other. With his own, he often had to use the bus stop outside his front garden for identification.

He was surprised to see no cars parked in any of the drives or by the kerbs. Did no one here drive? If not, how did they get anywhere? He’d already checked the rail services, and the lack of a stop here was one of the deciding factors. Rather than finding it strange, he was pleased. It indicated the residents weren’t concerned with what went on outside their own little world. It wasn’t insular, just contentment.

The side roads were evenly spaced along the main thoroughfare he was on. He glanced down them as he passed, and saw few people about. Those he did see ignored him, but not in a ‘we don’t tolerate strangers’ way. They seemed untroubled, and an interloper wasn’t something they needed to worry themselves with.

And then, the road ended at a large roundabout. In the middle was an old well, the sort you threw coins in and made wishes you never expected to come true. Four other roads led away and on one side was a small shop. A Post Office poster hung in the main window, next to one proclaiming toilet rolls were discounted and another advertising an upcoming fayre.

Opposite was the Black Swann. Another ridiculously redundant final letter. He supposed it was cute, in a weird way, or would be to some. He found it annoying, for no reason at all.

The sign outside the pub depicted the bird its name signified, except it was shown with a broken neck. Edmund frowned.

Not exactly inviting.

He pulled up outside and exited his car. Even though he’d only done so a few minutes before, he felt as if the short break hadn’t existed. His back was stiff and he arched it, hearing it crack satisfyingly.

Much better. Who needed a chiropractor?

He walked over to a large signboard. It had a narrow angled ‘roof’ to it that would never serve to keep the elements at bay. Oddly, as the air had the definite damp odour of a recent downpour, the board, along with everything else, was dry. It wasn’t warm enough for the pathways or papers to dry. He shrugged. Weather had always been an anomaly to him. Flyers fluttered in a light breeze like butterflies pinned to a lepidopterist’s mounting board, desperate to regain their freedom. A bake sale. A missing Jack Russel. Others, he didn’t bother to read. They wouldn’t be of interest and, if they might be, he didn’t want to be interested.

Hmmm. He did enjoy cake. The sale was only a few days away. He’d probably still be here.

He touched the flyer to run his finger under the text, a method he used to commit things to memory. Under his touch, something seeped through the page. He lifted it.

Underneath was a photo. A young teenage boy smiling broadly. It was taped to a larger sheet, creating a makeshift ‘Missing’ poster.

Last seen Wednesday, a week ago. Loved dearly, missed by his parents and baby sister. Any information…

Edmund had stopped reading. He was interested – it would be callous not to be – but the poster itself had diverted his attention.

Why was it the only thing wet on the whole board?

He sighed. It didn’t matter. The teen had probably decided they needed to encounter real life, instead of the drowsy hamlet. They probably didn’t even have decent wi-fi.

Well, he supposed he should be pleased his cynical sense of humour and travelled the distance with him. It was his shield against the world, and had been required too many times, recently.

He turned and started for the pub entrance. It was time to get checked in and follow his plan for the evening. Missing boys would be found, or not, regardless of his intervention. He needed to not be bothered by it, at least for the rest of that day.

As he entered the building, the forest at the end of the road beside it shivered. Or shuddered. Again, weather, in tandem with nature, was a mystery to him. Wind, though he’d noticed little, had the freedom he had lacked. It could go where it wished.

It was time he did.