Chapter 4

Crossing a threshold can be like traversing through a portal. Rather than the distance being only a few inches, it can feel as if you’ve travelling light years. It can make you quiver, either to shake off where you’d come from, or be enveloped by your new location. With the palpable differences Edmund could sense, he wasn’t sure which he preferred.

By the time he returned to the bar area, the Black Swann had gained a few more patrons. He hadn’t noticed anyone pass him whilst outside. There were not many, but in a room as small as this, the difference was noticeable. Low conversation hummed, punctuated occasionally by laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes of those producing it.

He paused, watching them for a heartbeat, noticing the subtle but very real change in atmosphere. There was a sort of collective awareness, as though every person was trying very hard not to look in his direction. Most succeeded. Some failed miserably.

The landlord looked up briefly from polishing the same glass – Edmund was starting to suspect it didn’t actually need cleaning – and gave a small nod.

“Evening.”

“Evening,” Edmund replied, trying to sound casual. There was no reason he shouldn’t be, not really. He couldn’t help the scratch of unease at the base of his neck.

He crossed to the bar. The scent of the fire had deepened, mingling with the darker aroma of ale and something decidedly edible. A stew, maybe. It had been a year, at least, since he’d had one and his stomach announced its approval.

“What can I get you?” the landlord asked, returning the glass to the shelf when Edmund reached the bar.

“Whatever’s on tap. Surprise me. I’ll take whatever smells so good, too, please.”

The landlord pulled a pint steadily, his movements measured and practiced, passing it across without ceremony or comment. Edmund took a sip. It was good. Better than he expected, and he held the liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. He could feel it easing some of the tension in his shoulders.

He carried his drink to a table near the wall and sat. It was secluded, the closest he could come to being hidden. A few of the customers glanced over briefly, the way people do when evaluating a potential new neighbour or adversary. As with the domino players, it wasn’t hostile, but nor was it completely friendly. Their gazes didn’t linger, and any eye contact was immediately broken with an embarrassed shuffle in the seat.

The two men from earlier were still at their game, though the pieces hadn’t been touched since he’d last seen them. They were whispering between themselves, low and quick, their expressions tight and urgent. Occasionally, they would glance about to see if anyone was listening – or perhaps to catch their eye and pull them into the conversation. No one did. All were intent on their own chats or meals or drinks, as if they were the only ones in the establishment.

A woman carrying two empty glasses passed Edmund’s table. She gave him the faintest smile, then quickly looked away. It was polite. Controlled. Like smiling at a stranger on a quiet train carriage, acknowledging without engaging.

Edmund took another sip from his drink. Again, he held it in his mouth to savour the flavour. He smiled as he swallowed. ‘Savour the flavour’. It could be an advertising slogan for the brand. Maybe he’d email them and suggest it. Probably not, but you never knew.

He’d been in rural pubs before, so this wasn’t unusual. Small communities were naturally protective of themselves. New faces were seen with suspicion. They could drag the status quo to status woe. They could be a stain on the supposedly pristine landscape, and stains were known to spread. And he was a stranger. A tired stranger, at that.

He looked towards the window near the corner. The glass reflected only the interior lights now, but beyond the reflection, he knew the trees loomed. Even without seeing them clearly, he felt their presence. Tall. Dark. Patient.

Expectant.

“Busy night?” he asked, mostly to break the silence collecting around his table like an encroaching shadow.

The landlord shrugged, flipping his towel over his shoulder and taking a new glass. He pulled a fresh pint of ale and held it out towards Edmund. Edmund was about to shake his head. Not yet, I’m not done with this one. Then, he saw his own glass was almost empty. When had that happened? He’d only taken a couple of sips, which could be described as gulps at a push, but that was all. Wasn’t it?

He frowned, stood to accept the drink, then sat again.

“Busy enough.”

One of the dominoes men snorted softly. His companion elbowed him.

Edmund raised an eyebrow.

“Inside joke?”

“No,” the landlord said, a little too quickly. “Just… locals being yokels. You know how they can be.”

“Locals who know better than to be out after dark,” the man with the arched brow from earlier muttered.

His friend kicked him under the table, eliciting a clenched ‘fuck!’ The landlord’s stare shut them both up.

Edmund’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass. Such comments only emphasised the oppressive pressure he was finding himself unable to ignore.

So much for a relaxing getaway.

“I’m getting the feeling something’s… off,” he said quietly.

The landlord leaned against the counter, his arms folded and his brow furrowed.

“Off? How so?”

“The way everyone keeps looking at me like I’m… I don’t know. An intruder. Not wanted.”

“You’re new,” the landlord said. “That’ll be it.”

But the denial was so quick, so thin, it might as well have been printed on tissue paper. Wet tissue paper.

Edmund drank again.

“Fair enough.”

For a moment, nothing more happened. Voices murmured. Chairs scraped. The fire popped and crackled as if having a conversation with itself. The dominoes couple watched their pieces do nothing. It almost felt normal.

Almost.

Then, the pub door opened. Cold air spilled across the floorboards. A fog, purely of temperature. Every head turned in a slow, synchronised drift that made Edmund’s stomach dip.

A woman stepped in. She was slim, in her mid-forties, with her hair tied back in a messy bun, and possessing deep-set but piercing eyes. She clutched a carrier bag from the shop across the roundabout and looked wearier than anyone ought to at nine in the evening.

She glanced around. When she saw Edmund, the woman looked away, but with a softness that felt different from the others. He felt momentarily lighter.

The landlord nodded at her.

“Evening, Mrs Pollitt.”

“Evening.”

Edmund realised he recognised the surname. He’d seen it taped to a sheet beneath the bake sale flyer. Before he could stop himself, he spoke.

“You’re… related to the boy on the poster?”

The pub went still, abruptly enough for Edmund to feel he was on a rollercoaster that had just crested a steep slope and dropped down the other side.

The woman’s eyes flicked to him again. This time she didn’t look away.

“My son,” she said simply.

His throat tightened and his hand did the same, his fists curling to fight the urge to turn away, embarrassed for saying anything.

“I’m… sorry.”

She nodded once. She wasn’t exactly accepting his apology, but was confirming something she already knew. Everyone would be, and she was tired of people expressing the obvious.

The landlord cleared his throat.

“Mrs Pollitt – Helen – can I get you anything?”

She shook her head and moved to the back of the pub, carrying the bag with both hands, as if it contained something fragile.

As she passed Edmund’s table, she paused.

“You’re staying upstairs?” Her voice was softer, speaking to him, than it had been when aimed at the landlord.

“I am.”

“You keep your curtains shut at night.”

He tried to laugh, but it was a hollow sound, lacking in conviction.

“Why’s that? Vampires?” Again, a hollow laugh.

Her eyes drifted to the window and the night beyond.

“Because the forest doesn’t much like being watched.”

She moved on, not waiting for his reply.

Edmund sat immobile for several seconds, staring into his ale, hoping for some insight. His skin crawled with a sensation he didn’t want to name. He wasn’t sure it had a name.

The landlord pretended not to have heard. The locals definitely had.

No one spoke for the rest of the night.