Blacksears

BLACKSEARS

James Rotlay

Smashwords Edition © 2013 James Rotlay

ISBN: 9781301132621

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronically or mechanically, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without prior permission in writing from the Author/publisher.

Published by James Rotlay.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Lurss

PROLOGUE

The Walls were tiled and white. There were no windows to break the monotony. Just stark lighting enclosed behind clear glass screens. Even the floor was tiled hard. Clinical walls held the sound of his rage, he could beat them with bare fists but they wouldn’t break, the bright harsh light picking out his frenzied face, his staring eyes that never flinched. The cell walls and ceiling concealed microphones to high for him to reach, save for his voice, they listened to his every sound – be it rage or whimpering, and with the virus there was both. There was a bed, a toilet, running water to fill a small wash basin, his unshaven grubby face never dipped into. The soulless eyes fleetingly stared into the mirror, looking at what he’d now become, before turning away shamelessly. Another larger mirror, impenetrably thick and placed within one wall; there they could watch him, in the flesh, in safety. From their chairs they could speak to him via the microphones, the internal speakers. Nothing was carried out in the flesh, contact was very limited. Through a small hatch within a specially designed wall he would find food. Basic. Nothing like the feasts he was accustomed to.

In his white walled entrapment they could study him – after all, he was incalculably valuable, there was only one of him!

He wore linen, as bright as the cell, a short sleeved top revealing bare arms that bore the evidence of their curiosity. Puncture marks spread along the crook of his elbow, a few more along the inside of his forearm. And when they came, they took whatever blood they wanted, of any amount, knocking him out first, pipes in the ceiling pumped the gas into the cell, his thin dizzying frame falling quickly to the floor.

He was their lab rat.

CHAPTER 1

Carefully, slowly, the Range Rover motored along, negotiating the pitted narrow roadway. The lone driver, Sebastian Fipps shifted excitedly in his seat, taking quick looks to either side, watching in fascination as the early winter countryside rolled by. ‘Soon be there, guy’s.’ He glanced quickly into the rear view mirror framing his two chums – Megan and Oscar, two Golden Labradors, the mother and her son. Their open jaws and shining tongues, like fixed smiles, both sensing their masters anticipation.

I can’t believe this is all mine, he thought as they laboured along the private drive. This was the move he’d been working for, saving hard for, finally selling his four bedroom house and leaving Surrey for the dream move – ‘down-sizing’ to deepest rural Worcestershire. After trawling through dozens of websites, making numerous phone calls, weekends travelling the countryside; he finally found, ‘The Old Farmhouse’. An 18th century character farm, all complete with rustic outbuildings, a sizeable barn, many acres of land … Perfect.

Not that 32 year old Sebastian was a farmer, though the idea of smallholding appealed hugely. His life had been London based for the last fifteen years, financing in the city, whiling his time away phone in one hand laptop in the other, between stuffy deals dreaming of the quantum leap move into self-sufficiency, and the idea of greener living. Freedom.

This was day one, the awkward but exciting matter of moving in and for now making the tired old farmhouse as comfortable as possible. His furniture, and all his worldly belongings would, as arranged arrive tomorrow, all the way from Surrey, a daunting task, but he’d paid handsomely for the haulage company to do it for him.

Above the bare trees that surrounded the farm he caught glimpses of chimney pots, his giddy smile broadened, his heartbeats tingled. ‘Nearly there, guy’s.’ He’d viewed the Farmhouse just twice before. Both exciting visits, he filmed everything including the land. The place looked so radiant during those late summer months. Then an agonising time spent waiting. There had been three other interested parties along the way, as usual, three times upping his offer almost to the max, then more anxious waiting for all the legalities to complete, the paperwork to finalise, the surveyor’s report to come in. As always, the list had been an endless one.

The house keys, along with some paperwork lay on the empty seat next to him. Old weathered worn keys, for an old weathered home.

The Range Rover came to a stop, parking roughly in the gravelled front yard. For a few quiet minutes he just sat there studying the buildings around him. Taking in every detail, every brick and morsel, nook and cranny, every creeper. All his now.

Leaving the dogs in situ, they could wait a while. He crossed over the weedy gravel yard, heading to the front door. First unlocking it, then with a little more force than comfortable he pushed at the heavy wooden front door, shoving open, the dry rusty hinges sounding arthritic, the damp winter air swelling the timbers. He stepped inside, wide eyed and full of expectation.

The smell of age, of tarnished furniture, musty mushroomy air, with damp woody smells he hoped were all curable. He stood, listening, studying, waiting, then smiling again – the sound of silence. Bliss, ‘listen to that,’ he told himself. A solitary bird called from somewhere, and that was all.

He stepped into the spacious front room. It was darker than he remembered, peering around. Old heavy curtains hung partially drawn, the glass panels behind dull and grimy, what little light paying in was lost into the room, absorbed by the ancient bricks and dim wooded fittings – the mystery of old dark corners. He stepped back into the hallway, just like the room next to it, being housed with the same patination of old woody furniture, of prowling shadows and frugal light. A single arched window sat halfway up in the stairwell allowing a brief glimpse of the December sky. The stairs were partially covered in a filthy old carpet. Threadbare, it’s old floral pattern lost to grime under an army of boots, Wellies, dogs? That will be gone! Fipps pointed a damming finger at it. Turning back to the front room again, he would leave the upstairs till last. Must remember to order a skip!

Marching over to the heavy curtains, taking one edge, he yanked them open. Brittle with age, clouds of dust poured from them, inducing a bitter throaty cough – something else for the skip! On the plus side, there was some gorgeous bits of old furniture, stately and reliable, a uniform film of dust covering most, but wiped down and polished up would look the part again.

Back through into the hallway, noticing under the random grubby rugs, that the flooring was a classy parquet, something he hadn’t noticed before, a little tired in places, lifting in a few spots, but again, repaired and scrubbed up would look fantastic.

The kitchen was brighter, looking more like the hub of the home, the previous occupants no doubt spending most of their time there. It was lived in but looked after. He took a long slow look around. It was a real olde worlde farmhousey kitchen, even better than he remembered, and just what he wanted. An old cast iron range sat grand against the wall, with windows to the side of it looking out onto the rear courtyard, then onto fields, fields, and more fields. ‘Wow.’ Cosy nights in with winter stews.

Turning the handle to the range, he peered inside. Empty, dusty, a little rusty even, but reassuringly alive with smells of burnt wood and charcoal.

There was a Belfast sink mounted into an old oak side floating out into the middle of the kitchen, the side forming a gentle tasteful curve around to meet the wall. Table and chairs in one corner, a little dated, but serviceable. There was plenty of room for his prized antique Welsh Dresser, that could go against the far wall. ‘Nice and roomy.’ He happily muttered.

Taking one of the old keys – there was a sizable bunch – and after several wrong attempts, he found the back door key. It turned easily.

Striding out into the fresh air again, making his way back around to the Range Rover. Both dogs staring and wagging. It was their turn for a snoop around. Fipps lifted the rear door up, the two dogs leapt out, running excited circles, sniffing and sampling. This was their playground now.

Where next? Eyes hunting around. Impatient boots crossed over the yard. He pushed at an old rotten door. The brick building it secured was obviously used as a produce store at some point. It was dark inside, the smell of dusty grain, he needed a torch. Closing the door, leaving it for another day. Like a child in a sweet shop looking around. He noticed the barn, the centrepiece of all the outbuildings. Striding over to it. It was large inside and much lighter with windows, old and rustic, no doubt as old as the farmhouse, sporting the same wavy roofline, the walls buckling with age. There was no door, he stepped straight through, looking up to the rafters. The remnants of old Swallows nests hung underneath. There was no real use for the building anymore, redundant, empty, and certainly in need of some attention just to stop it from falling down. This was the barn – the carrot – with conversion options as constantly hinted at by the sales agents.

Unimpressed, he returned back to courtyard. An old tractor sat close by, an ancient contraption from a past generation, as dormant and inactive as everything around it. Fipps made a beeline to it. He hadn’t noticed it before on his previous two visits, it was summertime then, the grass and the weeds obliterating it. The rusted old machine hadn’t moved in years, nevertheless he climbed on, sitting on the open seat. With both hands he grabbed the steering wheel, trying to move it – it was seized fast. Curious still, he flicked at the pedals. Not surprisingly the old beast was stuck in the process of being reclaimed back by Mother Nature. Rusted, but quaint, in a way. He wondered, leaning over looking at the engine. ‘I wonder?’ Climbing off, dusting his hands. ‘Probably not.’ Turning away, calling the dogs over.

He spent the rest of the day checking, looking, investigating, arranging what bits he’d brought along. He couldn’t use the open fires [there were three] The chimneys needed sweeping – a job for the local guy. The front room housed a sizeable fireplace, the chimney running up between the bedrooms, each room having its own wood burning stove. The cast iron range in the kitchen seemed okay, but better to get that checked as well. Noticing that by now, there was a definite chill in the air, the early December evening had brought a creeping mist up to the farm, though they’d forecasted a rainy few days. Perhaps it would be wise to have the roof looked at first, then the chimneys? He wondered. The surveyor’s report highlighted a leaky roof with some rain water damage to the loft. He decided, best to sleep downstairs for the time being – it was warmer. The utility room adjoining the kitchen would make for a temporary bedroom. He’d packed a sleeping bag, brought some basic clothing spares, essentials, a razor, towels, aftershave. Bachelor stuff!

For temporary heating it would be a good idea to buy in one of those portable gas fires, it would heat the downstairs nicely – might need two of them then! And I could do with the local shops for those little bits, the local pub should also receive a visit. He was a regular at his last pub. Hopefully the ‘local’ here in nearby village, Darkley Heath, would prove to be the heart of village camaraderie.

He’d taken Megan and Oscar for their evening walk. The varied acres of land that came with the farm accommodated a quiet stream, he was told, flooding in the winter was completely normal, occasionally bursting its banks and washing over the adjoining fields. On its way south it fed a sizeable pond, before continuing along, skirting by Darkley village itself. There was 22 acres in total, loads of land, much more than he knew what to do with. For now, just the novelty of having it all to himself was enough – out here there was no one, nobody to tell him to do anything he didn’t want to. This was Fipps’ new kingdom.

Even with the torch the darkness was intense and exciting. Taking lazy pondering steps back to the house, he thought; it was like travelling back in time, no streetlights, no car lights, no urban strife. Nothing, nothing, nothing to ruin the solidity of night. He noticed the night sky above. Almost a perfect starry night that lacked a good moon. The hum of a distant plane, it’s lights just visible over and away on the horizon. It was just perfect, welcoming, soulful. With all of these feelings, he didn’t feel at all alone or misplaced unzipping the sleeping bag, climbing inside, a few homely comforts dotted around. A lamp, an opened bag of wine gums, the trusty torch, and a magazine dedicated to self-sufficiency. With Megan on one side, Oscar on the other, both snuggling up. He spent a few minutes reading through the magazine; How to Compost Your Toilet. Finally switching off the side lamp, yawning to the end of a very long day, finally over. He lay back, shifting his head into the makeshift pillow of coats and a towel. Staring up to the ceiling, the abyss above him, it was pitch black. He was too excited to sleep even though he had to be up early the next morning, he’d set the alarm for 6.30. The removals wagon was due midmorning, then there was some serious hard work to do.

The busyness of raindrops began to patter across the kitchen windows sounding therapeutic, like handfuls of grain, rhythmical. ‘Perhaps I’m taking all this country thing a bit too far,’ he whispered over, stroking Megan’s ear. ‘And it’s great isn’t it.’

CHAPTER 2

The tall figure of Lord Thomas Hamilton wandered absently around over crisply laid gardens. Lawns with grass so short and perfect made the walker extra careful not to disturb the baize of green all uniformed and untouched. He continued, crossing a narrow gravelled pathway lined with plant and shrub collages. His hunched shoulders and purposeful swinging steps allowed his thoughts to flow freely without too much distraction. He tugged at the tweed collars of his jacket, lifting them higher to baffle the fresh northerly breeze that had followed in from last night’s rain, and though the skies were clear and the sun shone painfully, the air was void of any useful heat.

Tom [as known by friends] seated himself on the old oak garden bench, clasping his fingers behind his head, and leaning back. With some reluctance his eyes drifted over to the large building that stood in his wake; his own seat of residence – Hamilton Hall.

There was majesty to the place, indeed, it was impressive, in places exquisitely wrought and beguiling, and always cherished through the many generations that had resided there.

He admired the high castellation’s crowning the walls and buttresses, these ivy-clad ramparts were an integral part of the structure as were the characterful leaded windows, and the bevelled mouldings which they sat in.

But he seemed too troubled to allow his wandering stare to last for more than a few moments. A closer inspection revealed problems. Maybe it was the destructive claws of the clinging ivy, or time and its unforgiving forces that had worn away at the surfaces, pitting the brickwork, rounding its edges and softening their look. Work needed to be done.

Time really was telling on the 18th century Hall, chewing away at the sanctums and bulwarks, bringing a forlorn mood to its former appeal. Flaking paint hung loosely around the oddly placed windows and doors, exposing bare damp wood beneath. The slate roofs, grainy and weathered had lost some of their number and stood out like toothless smiles. It all needed money, so much money.

Hamilton Hall’s overheads were massive, and rising annually. These days there was barely enough money at the end of the month to cover the House wages let alone his wife’s lavish lifestyle, let alone any costly repair work.

Tom plucked a cigarette away from a gilded silver case and tucked it loosely between his lips. He snapped the case home with a gentle squeeze and placed it back in his top pocket. With the same hand but with some hesitation this time, he felt his way into a different pocket, and carefully pulled out a silver hipflask. A little sluice of Brandy eases the mind. At least that was his excuse. To Tom, drink seemed to be his only ally these days, it gave him a lift, dissipated his worries, and in return for more abuse rewarded him with confidence and a sense of security. Oddly, his drinking gave him a sobriety; at least that was his idea of it as he squeezed his lips tight around the tiny neck of the flask, sucking in a measure. The sweet tasting medicine stung for a moment, though its warmth soothed, and almost immediately the heady effects that strong drink gives lifted his worries further away from is mind. Satisfied for now he screwed the cap tight and slipped the flask away again.

After lighting the cigarette he continued his listless ponder around the gardens.

This used to be my playground. He smiled to himself. A cascade of memories began to flood his mind.

He heard familiar voices talking to him, taking him back to the fun that was there. He could see his younger brothers and Annabel his tiny sister, her frame so slight and pale, hiding from him. He could see them all, but secretly played their game. Not wanting to spoil their fun, he would turn this way and that, feigning puzzled, until one by one their heads popped up, pointing and laughing. And the fun began again ...

Suddenly strong hands clasped around his young shoulders. He looked up – into the smile of his father. Those strong hands guided him closer, almost to a hug, and as they walked through the grounds they would talk, sometimes until the sun cast long lazy shadows over the two of them, before it dipped away, darkness following. Happy days, long and carefree.

Then one day those strong hands grew weak and trembling, soft but listless. They became hands that needed to be held.

The cancer had spread quickly, growing happily in its new host, robbing his father of vigour and power, replacing it with rot and pain. Those last few days with Edward were special, not just because time was short and precious, but a life long bond was about to end. It was a raw time, shared by the whole family, especially by Tom. And for the first time in his life, he felt alone.

On the day of Lord Edward’s death a cloud appeared over Hamilton Hall, Sullen and grey, clinging to the building placing it in a state of grieving. It never left. It was as if the building had died with him, those few years ago.

His mother, Lady Harriet Hamilton hadn’t remarried; the thought was almost a betrayal to her husband’s memory. For her, her children and grandchildren were enough love, and she still resided at the Hall, happy to see Thomas take responsibility for it. But for her state of mind. That once youthful mind that was his mother ebbed back to a time of splendour, fun, glamour, and pageant. She often reminisced, reliving things from the past; when she met the newly crowned Elizabeth at Buckingham Palace, how they had once chatted, as girls do, and how tiny the Queen Mother was. Her beautiful mind was becoming stuck in a time vault, often repeating herself, and quite often forgetting the mundane things that happened daily. More and more over the last two years that heart of hers so giving and natural suffered with bouts of confused depression. The family were to be informed – these signs were the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease.

Hamilton Hall had been left to Tom, the eldest of five. The Estate was financially divided between them. Though the substantial acreage of land it sat within, accruing rents and income was left with the Hall. Lord Edwards’s liquid assets had been divided between family members, with the lions share going to Tom. This extra was put aside for the Hall, its grounds, building maintenance, and general upkeep. However, Edward hadn’t budgeted for Lady Zara. Beautiful and sexual. Tom’s wife had an insatiable appetite for spending money, wherever it came from.

Without even realising, Tom had taken another swig from the hipflask and time had not yet crossed noon.

The breeze stiffened again blowing leafs from the trees, breaking the seasons grip once more and scattering them freely across the lawn. He checked the time, reminding himself that his financial advisor/accountant, Victor Wallbray was due to make a phone call later that afternoon. If ever there was a mind that could solve the issues he worried over, Victor was the man. Tom would make arrangements for a working visit, it always threw up new ideas, and hopefully Zara’s exuberant fortieth birthday bash could fall within budget.

He turned his attention back to the Hall, letting all distraction fall from his shoulders once more, to continue his slow ponder back to the house.

It was the sound of high heels clicking across the shiny marble tiles that had woken him. Sitting up, clueless and surprised by his slumbering predicament, succumbing to the comfy Chaise in the Orangery. The hipflask on the table next to him was empty.

The clicking heels had walked straight past, saying something, the words having a coldness to them, but lost in the bleariness, he straightened himself, flicking both hands through his short but messy hair.

‘Zara,’ he called, ‘is that you?’ There was a pause, the heels stepped slowly back to the voice, dragging themselves to a halt. She crossed her arms and leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe.

‘Good morning,’ her voice low and lacy.

‘What time is it?’

No reply. Tom squinted, repelling the dusty sunlight that poured in through the large windows surrounding him.

‘Darling, will you page Fletcher for me, I want my shopping unloaded from the car,’ her tone a little more demanding.

Tom stood up, the excess brandy troubling his balance.

‘I’ve had such a busy morning with Miranda. We’ve just about covered every Boutique and store before falling headfirst into Cappuccinos girling over things, as we ladies do.’

Tom stood silent, the views stretched to the horizon, and his thoughts for a few moments seemed to be just as far away. He pressed the call button on the pager.

She stepped over to him, draping her arms over his shoulders.

‘Just a few of this winters must-haves,’ smiling sweetly. ‘And a little something for us,’ low and lacy again.

‘Us?’ Confused.

Provocatively she slid her hand across his middle, then to below his belt. ‘Something for the bedroom, Tom, to help with your little problem,’ she giggled tapping a finger over his fly-zip.

Tom looked away feeling suddenly stupid, the hug dying quickly.

‘Oh Tom,’ she muttered, pouting, ‘it’s been such a long time,’ her eyebrows raised in anticipation. Then those lips reached forward for a slow kiss, ‘you’ll love me Tom – there so sexy and provoking, I’ll be wearing it all on my birthday, so you can unwrap me.’ She purred, her face almost touching his.

He ran a hand through her hair, slowly gliding through a cascade of brunette tumbles, so young looking, and yet she was ... untameable, and at times unreachable; he was obsessed with her.

‘Tom,’ her head slanted to one side, resting on his playful hand, ‘you’ve been drinking again,’ disappointed, her eyes studying his.

‘Only a wee dram,’ his smile more hopeful than genuine.

‘What, a whole hipflask?’

He released the soft tumbles, allowing them to fall around her shoulders perfectly replacing themselves.

The growing footsteps of Fletcher, the long serving butler, broke the silence.

‘We’ll talk later Zara.’

She placed the Jaguar’s keys into the butlers hand,

‘There’s shopping in the boot, Fletcher.’ Her voice harsh again. ‘If you’ll unload it and then have Mrs Ellen tend to the clothes.’

Playfully, she turned back to Tom. ‘I just cannot wait darling, this birthday party is going to be fabulous, the best ever.’

11.48a.m. ‘Oh fuck.’ Yanking at the zip, it was sticking. Fipps’ limbs were trapped and cocooned like some ailing grub struggling to break the sleeping bags hold. ‘Oh shit.’ Louder, the zipper finally bursting open. Flaying himself free of the warm cosy bag, righting himself, slapping his forehead in frustration. He snatched the battery alarm, shaking it. ‘Tell me you’re fucking lying.’ It wasn’t of course. He’d overslept.

Pulling on his clothes, grimacing at the cold damp feel of them. Racing through into the kitchen, looking out through the windows, for any sign of the removal lorry due ages ago. There was no one. The courtyard was empty, he sighed. ‘Had they turned up, then left again?’ He scrambled around for his mobile phone, checking for any missed calls. Surely they’d have rang if they had turned up. Hesitating, he paged through speed dial, stopped at the haulage number and clicked CALL.

He lit the two gas burners, filled the camping kettle. Breakfast this morning would be a few wine gums, maybe a round of toast if the bread wasn’t too mouldy. The haulage wagon had been thankfully delayed somewhere on the M4. Arrival time was put back to early afternoon. He couldn’t believe how long he’d overslept, but then it had been a rough night of weather, with outside noise and much discomfort within, his fragile sleep had been broken more than a few times.

It had rained heavy through the night, muddy puddles gathered in the hollows. He stepped on the doormat outside, the dogs barging past, both running for morning businesses. Concerned about the wet weather, Fipps peered up at the roof, checking over the slates. He would check the attic for any leakages as soon as he had time. It was on his mind.

The hum of a wagon brought him to the windows of the front room. He scraped back one of the decaying old curtains. It was them. He watched the tall lorry rock from side to side as it crept along the driveway. A small transit type van followed on behind.

Red labels for the kitchen, blue for downstairs, green labels for upstairs only. That was his system, and every box, carton, case or bag had a colour label stuck to it.

With the wagon doors open, Fipps’ face dropped to one of worry. It was full. The tail-lift descended to the ground loaded with more boxes and one man donned in a brown smock, a bored expression, an unlit roll-up wedged into the corner of his mouth. His helpers stood waiting. How he was going to fit all this into the farmhouse, god only knew. Seemingly, it had all doubled since leaving it behind in storage.

Megan and Oscar had been rounded up and shut into the front room. They were excited with all the smells of familiarity, running circles around everyone’s feet, barking, and generally getting in the way.

‘Red in the kitchen please.’ Fipps politely called over to the token teenager, about to ascend the stairs with a wrong ‘un. They all worked in silence, occasionally mumbled instructions were passed between roll up and his three other crew. In shuffled furniture, his antique Welsh Dresser looking the part, Fipps studiously overseeing the safe manoeuvring of it, from lorry to kitchen. Storage cupboards, his comfy bed, box after box of stuff. ‘Blue downstairs, anywhere will do.’ Fortunately green labels were few and far between, less work climbing the narrow stairs – the bed proving near impossible to make it up there, but they managed it.

A new sound, of cheerful whistling, then crunching footsteps across the gravel. A smiling face appeared tapping on the back door, quickly stepping out of the way as roll-up and another shuffled awkwardly through with a heavy trunk. ‘The postie?’ Fipps wandered over.

‘Mail.’ He called cheerfully, taking a small bundle of envelopes from his bag. ‘Just a few, quite a few actually.’ He handed them over. ‘Welcome to Darkley.’ He nodded.

‘Thanks.’

‘Won’t keep you.’ He turned again, picking up the whistling tune, footsteps crunching away.

He hadn’t expected any mail. But then the money grabbers can move fast. He sifted through. ‘Junk, junk, more junk.’ He placed one to the side. Handwritten and stamped. It looked private. I’ll open it later.

It was much later, well after six before the last box was plonked down, somewhere near to the kitchen. There was literally no more room for anything else. ‘Roll-up’ and his three crew at last bolted the wagon doors, the lorry pulling away into the darkness leaving Fipps, once more on his own, in silence, but at least happier with all of his belongings around him. ‘Now it really feels like home.’ Placing his electric kettle on the side, the mug tree next to it, a stack of saucepans, steel and shiny. The big Wok he’d hang on the wall like before. The wooden breadbin was placed on the side, finding inside coffee, tea, sugar, and biscuits.

Finally he sat, on his own chair in his own home, lifting his legs up and planting them on top of his office desk. Meg’s and Oscar were outside – he’d let them out earlier, both just content to explore, sniff and pee.

He’d already begun punching through some of the other red label boxes, finding some essentials, but really, for today, that was enough. He was exhausted, and deserved something different this evening. Surprisingly, he felt in a social mood, especially after spending a such laborious day with roll-up and his three cronies, hardly a word had passed between them. He fancied company tonight other than the dogs. Sebastian Fipps, although loving solitude and privacy, also craved friendships, talking and mixing. He remembered seeing a quaint looking pub back in Darkley village. Something to eat first, though.

The only food he had quick and ready was a pot noodle, a bag of wine gums, half a loaf of bread [ several days out of date]. The fridge was empty of course, having plugged it in several hours ago, it hummed pleasingly. That was another thing – where are the big shops? A big drive away. Definitely not tonight! The thought of tucking in to a bar meal was just the thing that finally persuaded him.

Leaning out from the door, he whistled both dogs in, opened two tins of dog food, slopping it into bowls. That’ll keep you quiet.

Pulling on his old leather jacket and a baseball cap. Should I drive or walk? Shouldn’t drive if I’m sampling the local brew! Or should I? It can’t be that far. He was about to leave, grabbing keys, checking for wallet, leaving a light on, until he spotted it – the letter delivered this morning. A white handwritten envelope. He opened it, tugging out a Good Luck card, tastefully picturing a country scene. It read;

Dear Seb.

All the best with your new home.

Hope everything goes okay. Been thinking about you.

Jo x

Just a few words, but it knocked him for six. Landing on the chair again in shock, a pleasant shock, finding himself smiling and staring back into the words. It was Jo, of all people, his ex. They’d split up five months previous. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since, nor had they ever intended to keep in touch. The smile faded, a faint sadness blighting it. Not for the first time since selling his home and leaving Surrey had he thought of her. In truth though, he’d often thought of her, the stupidity of splitting up, waiting for her to make the first call he thought he deserved – but which never came, until now maybe. He flipped the card over looking for a contact number, or any hint of an invitation