Haunted Fields

Haunted Fields

Text copyright © Dan Moore 2014

Design copyright © Chrissy Fox 2014

All rights reserved.

Dan Moore has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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First published 2014

By Rowanvale Books

57, Brynllwchwr Road,

Loughor,

Swansea

SA4 6SQ

www.rowanvalebooks.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBNs:

e-Pub: 978-1-909902-37-4

Mobi: 978-1-909902-38-1

PDF: 978-1-909902-39-8

Haunted Fields

DAN MOORE

Prologue

From the cockpit of his combine, he saw a figure appear at the edge of the stack. ‘Bloody kids!' he cursed. He'd warned them countless times not to mess about up there. But would they listen?

He glanced skyward, urging the machine forward into the shadow of the towering bale stack. The rain, forecast for early afternoon, seemed to be holding off. He grimaced. They'd never get this field cleared before the heavens opened!

Peeking into the wing-mirror, he could see that the next tractor and trailer were still a good hundred metres away. He turned his attention back to the row of wheat. It was leaning in the gentle breeze, patiently awaiting its fate.

And that's when the figure, spread-eagled, fell across his vision.

He felt a terrific jolt, the machine shuddering, groaning. It felt like he'd driven over a speed bump much too quickly. Despite the cloudless sky, the storm had begun, spraying the windscreen with a fine red mist.

1

‘Do we really have to talk about this now?' asked Freddie, glancing up at the cuckoo-clock above the kitchen door.

‘I will not tolerate thievery in my home!' Rhona replied angrily. ‘You're to stay put until your father gets back. We have things to discuss.'

Freddie watched his step-mum's purpling hands coiling and uncoiling on the table top.
Could this evening get any worse?
he thought. He'd promised to meet his girlfriend, total goddess of the lower-sixth, Tiffany, outside the off-licence at quarter to eight. The party had been due to start at eight – it was now ten past.

‘That sounds great. But I, unlike you, get invited places. I have friends. So, if I could have the other twenty…'

‘No!'

Why doesn't she just hand the money over?
Freddie was proud that he rarely got asked to prove his age when buying alcohol, even coming to accept that it was probably the reason Tiffany had asked him out in the first place. He needed that money! Why didn't Rhona understand? Lads just didn't get second chances with Tiffany Angle.

He looked up at the idle cuckoo as the sound of the front door opening and closing filtered through to the kitchen. Tiffany wasn't going to be happy.

‘Hi, love!' Dad called as he entered the kitchen, tugging at one of the few hairs remaining on his head. ‘Good day?'

‘Relaxing,' Rhona said. ‘Well, until
Mr Want-Now
surfaced.'

Freddie slammed his hand down on the table. ‘Is staying up late against the law now?' He watched his three-quarter full can of Coke perform a drunken dance, slopping bubbling liquid across Rhona's clean tablecloth. ‘It was the end of exams. We earned that drink!' He stood up and made to leave.

‘Hang on!' said Dad, his forehead creasing. ‘Sit yourself down. We need to talk.'

‘We always need to talk,' snapped Freddie, though he did as he was told. ‘It's her you need a word with!'

Could he do anything right? If he wasn't leaving the toilet seat up he was traipsing mud through
her
kitchen. Never anything major – always small, always petty – the same argument, over and over again.

‘So, what's your excuse this time?' asked Dad.

‘It was a misunderstanding!'

‘And exactly how many more of these misunderstandings are we going to have, Freddie? You're seventeen! You're doing your A-levels! You're supposed to be smart!'

He wondered whether it would have been different if his own mum had been around. But deep down Freddie knew the answer. He was baggage, the ghost of a time before Rhona.

Beneath the table, he tapped out a short text message to Tiffany on his Samsung.

Wait for me. Please. x x

‘You startled me,' said Rhona. ‘Barging in like that!'

‘What?' Freddie said, looking up from his phone's screen.

‘I gave you ten pounds,' Rhona replied, the purple spreading to her face.

‘But then I came back in and asked for another twenty.'

‘I was half-asleep.'

‘Oh, I am sorry,' he said, raising his voice as he looked from Rhona to Dad. ‘But if someone says yes–'

‘Enough!' Dad said.

‘Just tell him, Nicholas,' said Rhona, sweeping strands of fallen hair from her eyes. ‘The second half of that two-part drama premiere is on at nine. I was hoping to catch it.'

‘Then watch it, if it stops you from nosing around in my life,' said Freddie. ‘Hey, I might even be able to trick you out of some more money if you fall asleep in front of the TV again. Don't know why you're watching that stupid programme anyway. He dies at the end.'

‘You little–'

‘Enough, I said!' roared his father.

Clawing at his own neck and looking everywhere but Dad's greying eyes, Freddie moved away from the table, towards the door.
Now I've gone and done it!
he thought, cursing himself. Why did he always have to try and get the last word in? Why couldn't he just listen to what his parents had to say and then accept the punishment they handed down to him?

‘Just nod and say sorry,' his mate Ricky had often said.

But it's not as simple as that
, thought Freddie. Ricky didn't have an entire life's worth of guilt pressing down on him. Ricky didn't feel his mum's presence in every choice he made.

‘I hate you!'

The words slipped from his mouth without effort. But he knew they meant little to his parents, their effect watered down by years of quarrelling. He looked up. Rhona smiled triumphantly. He turned back to his dad.

‘And I hate
you
for bringing
her
into our home. Into
Mum's
home!'

His mobile vibrated in his hand. He opened it, reading Tiffany's reply.

Forget it! I'll get Alice's older brother to buy me some. You know him, right? Tall, dark, good-looking! See you there! x

Freddie sighed. Oh, he knew Alice's brother all right; he wasn't a guy who went without attention. This wasn't an empty threat. He had to hurry!

‘It's about time you earned some money of your own,' Dad said.

‘Yeah! What? No!' Freddie said, coming to. ‘I'm not vacuuming your car out again!'

‘Do you remember Elizabeth, Rhona's friend?'

‘Rhona has a friend?'

His dad ignored this, and continued. ‘Well, Elizabeth and her husband Greg own a small farm up north. They often take on an extra pair of hands this time of year.'

He had no intention of going to the country. He was seventeen – they could hardly kick him out, could they? Pocketing his mobile, he held out his hand, expecting payment.

‘You're not taking another penny from me,' Dad said, snubbing his open palm. ‘Besides, you got the job.'

Perhaps they could kick him out!

‘But I didn't apply.'

‘Rhona gave you a glowing reference.'

‘Oh, I bet she did,' snarled Freddie, punching the doorframe. ‘She's desperate to get hold of my bedroom. Probably wants it as a TV room to watch her bloody chick-flicks in.'

‘It'll do you some good,' said Dad, getting up from his seat and moving over to where his son stood. Freddie was now nursing his sore knuckles. ‘It'll be character building stuff, out in the country air. Maybe they'll even give you a wage, and you'll be able to afford to pay for your own petrol. You used to be so keen, Freddie. You and Ricky were always offering to wash cars; mow lawns; dig gardens.'

Freddie couldn't believe it – from Rhona, yes, but from his
dad
? All that linked his father to Rhona was marriage, a choice. But he and Dad shared a bond that only blood could forge.

A chill swept over him. He shivered.

‘
But
– I've made plans.'

‘I'm sorry, son. They're expecting you.'

Freddie turned to leave the kitchen.
Expecting him?
He felt powerless… What about the summer of partying with his friends that he'd been looking forward to? He wouldn't let his parents spoil his fun.

Freddie extracted his head from the toilet and struggled to his feet. What a nightmare the party had been. He raised a sticky hand to his temple. It felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to his brain.
Why hadn't he stopped at three cans of lager, like he'd promised himself?
he wondered.
What had he been trying to prove? It wasn't as if making an idiot of himself was going to win Tiffany back, was it?

Tiffany.

Another wave of vomit rose into his throat as he thought about her. He held it back, steadying himself against the sink before conceding defeat, letting his wounded body slide down the wall, all the way to the floor. So their relationship hadn't exactly been the stuff of Romeo and Juliet – but they'd had fun, enjoyed each other's company, hadn't they?

‘She's been using you, Freddie, mate,' Ricky had told him, not long after Tiffany and her new lover had been asked to leave. ‘And as soon as Alice's older brothers' uses have dried up, he'll be gone and she'll be onto the next one.'

‘You should've made me get rid of her,' said Freddie, the cheap supermarket lager burning his throat as his sips turned ominously to gulps. ‘Before I found her kissing another lad.'

‘Well, you know me, Fred, mate. I need all the facts before I can reach a conclusion.'

‘And what a find you'll be for the world of science, Ricky Einstein!'

He grasped hold of the toilet bowl and hauled himself back to his feet.
Had he known all along what she was really like, and simply refused to believe it?
he thought. It had certainly been a challenge looking past Tiffany's looks. A piece of carrot slipped from his nose.
Perhaps the country isn't such a bad idea after all,
thought Freddie.

Dad's snores bounced around Freddie's skull; his own private thunderstorm.
Great!
Reaching out, he grasped hold of the mahogany drinks cabinet for support.
Room-spin!
Freddie would have done just about anything for a king-sized bed and yet here was his dad, the owner of such a furnishing, asleep on the sofa in front of the television. Again. He left his dad blindly perusing late night shopping products and ventured up the stairs to bed.

Even with a foggy brain Freddie knew to avoid the creaky top step when Rhona was sleeping. He quietly stepped over the obstacle and tiptoed along the landing, comforted by the knowledge that no matter what state he managed to get into, he always ended up back in his own bed.

‘Why?' cried Rhona. ‘Why?'

Freddie closed his eyes, tapping his temples with his fists.
Is she inside my head now?
he wondered. Controlling him, manipulating him from within? Yes, he knew how a dangerous enemy fought wars. Not on the battlefield, oh no! That was far too risky, much too fair a fight. A dangerous, more cunning enemy works away inside the mind of the opposition, frightening him into submission.

‘I love you,' he heard Rhona cry.

This definitely wasn't inside his head.
Freddie turned, and then froze. His parent's bedroom door was ajar, allowing a sliver of light cast by a bedside lamp to creep out onto the landing. He had a perfect view of the scene within. At first he thought Rhona was playing dolls, although, having never had a sister, he wasn't quite sure what
playing dolls
would look like. His only previous experience had been at Stephanie Parker's seventh birthday party, where he'd torn Barbie's head off before encouraging Ken to drop kick it out of the window.

Rhona cradled the doll's clothing in her arms, pressing the fabric tightly to her chest. Suddenly she lifted it up, probably, thought Freddie, to get a good look at it. She sniffed, sobbed. This wasn't right. Something was really wrong here. And then, his eyes growing more accustomed to the light, he realised that it was not an item of doll's clothing at all. It was a baby grow.

‘No! Oh no! No! No!' Freddie groaned.

This can't be happening.
He was drunk, confused, seeing things. But he knew different. Deep down Freddie knew, yes he knew… He'd never really accepted Rhona as his mum. They both knew it. And now she'd gone and got herself knocked up.

A half-brother or sister! Freddie had never envisaged his dad and Rhona having a baby. It didn't seem natural, didn't seem right. Then it dawned on him. To his parents, having a child of their own might complete their marriage. And he, Freddie, would only be in the way.

‘The country it is, then,' he whispered.

The late morning sun filtered in through the front door's frosted glass as Freddie shook his injured limb. Feeling slowly trickled back into his arm, though no sooner had it returned he wished it would retreat again – it seriously hurt.

‘Clumsy idiot,' he said, reaching for the crumpled morning post. Negotiating the last few stairs had been too much for his hangover, his body swelling like an out of control snowball in the ensuing avalanche. The post, which had been left on the stairs, now lay at the foot of them. Freddie spotted a handwritten note amongst bills and junk mail. He picked the note up. It read:

Freddie
,

Directions to Ridge Farm are on the back of this. PLEASE behave.

Love, Rhona

He considered scrunching the note up into a ball, envisaging it flying across the hallway, the hideous family portrait its target. It would make for a great missile. But he thought better of it – Rhona wasn't exactly going to be lending him her Sat Nav anytime soon. He needed those directions.

Halfway along the hallway he paused to admire the family portrait; the latest in a long line of professionally taken photographs insisted upon by Rhona. He scowled. The smiles plastered across all three of their faces looked false, painted on for the benefit of the camera. Would it have hurt his parents to have left at least one photo of his mum on display in the house she had once called home?

‘Out of sight,' he muttered to a grinning Rhona, recollections of the previous night washing over him, suddenly breaching the dam he'd subconsciously built to keep them at bay, ‘out of bloody mind.'