Haunted Fields (2 page)

2

Freddie rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Even the early evening sun, warming the back of his hand through the open passenger-side window, did little to tempt his hackles down. A rubbery smell heightened his sense of fear, reminding him of how close he had come to taking his final breath. But a stronger aroma, a lingering, putrid smell, quickly filled his nostrils.

‘Manure!'

How would he get used to such a stink? It was as if the country was an alien world, with its own atmosphere, full of air poisonous to his lungs. He knew his headache would soon return.

‘Watch yourself there, pal!'

Freddie gazed up at a balding tractor driver, who was now scrutinising him from an open cab window. Freddie had been distracted by a horse watching him over a hedgerow when a tractor, followed by a trailer load of muck, pulled out in front of him.

‘Don't you need a licence to drive that?'

‘Just what I was going to ask you,' said the tractor driver. ‘Didn't you see me pull out?'

Freddie scowled, spotting a
Welcome to Ravenby-le-Wold
sign on the verge. He was in the right place, at least.

He waited for the tractor to pull away before setting off again, this time ensuring he kept a safe distance between his Corsa and the stinking trailer. Concrete and congested roads had long been replaced by fields of colourful crops, but as he reached the outskirts of the village it wasn't the near miss with the tractor, nor the sudden incline, that made his hands unsteady on the steering wheel.

Cottages hugged the steep, twisty main street. Up towards the centre of the village he could make out a church, a post office, a pub, and even a village green. He doubted Neil Armstrong had felt this out of place on the moon. He winced. There was no Buzz Aldrin to follow him down the ladder. He felt hungry and tired and Tiffany's shadow was proving difficult to shake off.

Up ahead the tractor swung right, its trailer quickly disappearing through the hedge. But as Freddie neared the spot where the tractor had apparently vanished, the entrance to what had to be a farm appeared. A hut, set between stone pillars, guarded a forked driveway. Rhona's directions only took him this far
. Could this be Ridge Farm?
He flicked the indicator skyward and turned the wheel to the right, thinking,
What harm can it do?

A dark figure crunched through the gravel, heading straight for him.

The hut had been empty. According to a sign, the left prong of the fork led to the farmyard – whilst the right, watched over by a CCTV camera, was forbidden to those without an appointment. He had chosen on impulse; chosen recklessly. A woman stood and towered over him as he climbed out of the Corsa. By the way she was dressed, Freddie thought her more likely to be a lawyer than a farmer.

‘Can I help you?' asked the lady. ‘This is the manor, not the farm office.'

‘I'm after Ridge Farm,' he said hoarsely. ‘Would you be able to point me in the right direction?'

‘I can do better than that, Mister–?'

‘Freddie, Freddie Forster.'

He offered the lady his hand. She took it, her grip firmer than he'd anticipated.

‘I'll tell you what, Mr Forster. Why don't you come on in and I'll jot those directions down for you?'

‘Great, thanks!' he said, his feet sinking into the gravel as he followed her. He looked past an ornate water feature towards the vast, noble building, his gaze drawn to a top-floor window. A droplet of water splashed against his face, cooling his cheek as it slid away.

And that's when he saw it – the gaunt, miserable face of a man older than time itself. The face, eyes vacant, looked close to death. Shivering, he watched the face until he could see it no more.
People – living, breathing people – just don't look like that!
he thought.

‘Such a sad face,' he said, without meaning to.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Forster?'

‘Oh, I, err – nice house.'

Her eyes bore into him.

Leaning forward, he lifted the cup to his lips. Tea had never really been a favourite of his – mostly due to Rhona preferring coffee, though partly because anything that didn't go well with vodka tended to rank low on his thirst-quencher top ten. But this stuff, clearly expensive, was something else. He eased himself into the squashy armchair, his mouth creasing into a smile.

‘The manor has been in my family for seven generations,' said the lady, sitting in the companion armchair directly opposite him. She brushed several, fallen strands of her shoulder-length black hair back behind her ear. Her eyes, dark and unyielding, seemed to pierce him every time he looked up from his tea.

‘So, Ursula,' he said, recalling the large portraits of serious-faced men out in the high-ceilinged entrance hall. ‘Is Hawkins your married name?'

‘No!' she said. ‘I'm not married. And I'm not related to the five members of the Davidson clan you saw mounted on the lobby walls either. Not by blood, that is. John Davidson is my step-father. He has no one else.'

Freddie surveyed his surroundings. Ursula's study was as spacious as the lobby, with a high ceiling, walls lined with shelves adorned with books, ornaments, and potted plants. Two large windows looked out over the entrance, offering breathtaking views of the sloping lawns, of a small wood, and of fields. Beyond the estate, the hillside fell away and the land levelled out, exposing yet more fields, stretching on and on.

‘How do you know Elizabeth and Gregory?' Ursula asked.

‘I don't, really,' he said, blowing at the tea. ‘Elizabeth's an old friend of my step-mums'. You might have known her, my step-mum. She used to live in the Ravenby area.'

‘I'm good with names,' said Ursula, taking a sip from her own cup.

‘She's called Rhona, Rhona Forster,' he said. ‘But back then she'd have been a McCall. Her dad was a sheep farmer.'

Ursula spluttered.

‘Are you ok?' he asked.

‘Tea… wrong hole…'

‘Do you want a glass of water or something?' he said, getting to his feet.

‘No, no,' she said, waving him back down. ‘I'll be fine. Yes, I knew Rhona. She had a – how can I put this? She had a certain fondness for my step-brother, Noel.'

Freddie drained the last of his tea, the dregs tickling his throat.

‘I thought you said that your step-dad had no one else?'

‘Mr Forster, Noel was seventeen-years-old when he fell to his death,' she said, leaning back in her chair, gazing at him thoughtfully, ‘about your age, in fact.'

Freddie coughed nervously.

‘Well, when I say fell, I do so only because it sounds less – painful, less violent. My brother was barely recognisable after my father's combine had finished with him. It killed him too, inside.'

So that's why the guy at the window looked so miserable – haunted almost, he thought. Poor chap.

‘I don't know what to say,' Freddie said, placing his empty cup down a little too hastily. ‘That's horrible, I'm sorry. Was it su-?'

‘He fell, Mr Forster,' Ursula said. ‘Farms can be dangerous places.'

3

He peeked into the rear-view mirror as he set off again, searching for the sad face. But the man had gone. Ursula's directions, resting on his knee, seemed easy enough to follow. All being well he'd be meeting Rhona's friend in five minutes.
Brilliant!

Ursula had remembered Rhona all right, choking on her tea at the very mention of her name. What had that been all about? And what had Ursula meant by Rhona having a certain fondness for her dead step-brother? Had they dated?

Yuck!
he thought. He turned his attention back to the gravelled driveway. His stomach was groaning. He hadn't eaten since his late breakfast, which had consisted only of a hastily assembled baguette stuffed with ham, cheese and just about anything else he could find. Even half a dozen party sausages had been crammed in.

Then something caught Freddie's eye. A hare was zigzagging along the verge, threatening to cross his path.

Unfortunately, he hadn't learnt from his earlier lapse in concentration.

His head snapped back into the headrest as the Corsa mounted the embankment. He stamped hard on the brake pedal. For a moment he lost control; the hatchback, having just been at his mercy, became a free spirit. The feeling of helplessness and the sudden lightness in his stomach prompted unwanted flashbacks of a sledging accident from the previous winter.

The Corsa stopped just short of what would have been a nasty drop.

Freddie wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Breathing heavily, he peered over the steering wheel, taking in the view of endless fields, similar to the one he'd had from the window in Ursula's study.

As Ursula had promised, Ridge Farm sat just off the main road which, after carving the village in two, meandered its way along the top of the hillside before falling away down the next slope. Freddie sympathised with his Corsa's tyres as the car rumbled along the potholed track. Veering off towards the farm, the track was flanked by dilapidated sheds, apparently abandoned. Roofing sheets had collapsed from one such shed, taking down a side wall, to be consumed by a mass of weeds which had risen above the rubble. Amongst the weeds and rubble lay disused farm machinery and tools, left to decay.

To Freddie the shed looked like the rotting remnants of a forgotten-about home; a once great and well looked after haven, reduced to a state of greying disrepair.

He parked alongside a shabby four by four and slowly climbed out of the car. An inviting white farmhouse stood before him, his stomach grunting as the smell of cooking drifted from an open window.

‘Well, well,' came a voice behind him. ‘Rhona said you're a greedy one, but look – there's not an ounce of fat on you.'

Freddie turned to see a rounded woman, who he assumed to be Elizabeth, push her way through a rickety garden gate.

‘That was delicious. Just what I needed,' said Freddie, as Elizabeth waddled around the kitchen table to retrieve his spotless plate. ‘Thanks.'

‘You're too kind,' she said, her cheeks glowing.

‘What time is Jessica due back, love?' asked the man seated opposite Freddie.

Freddie looked across at his new boss – Elizabeth's husband, Greg. Many years of outdoor manual labour appeared to have eroded Greg's features. Freddie hoped the summer holiday wouldn't be long enough for the novice sculptor who'd altered Greg's mug to attack his own.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,' replied Elizabeth, pushing a slobbering Labrador down from the table. ‘Down, Betty!'

Freddie could see one good thing, if no others, coming out of his new job. Greg may have been weather-beaten but Freddie could see muscles bulging from beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeves. If he rolled up his own sleeves and got stuck in, Alice's older brother wouldn't be stealing Freddie's next girlfriend.

‘Do you have much to do with Ursu–?' Freddie began, before being interrupted by the door swinging open. A girl he guessed to be around his own age strode in.

‘I hope you weren't about to say Ursula Hawkins' name at our dinner table!' she said.

‘Hey, Jess,' Greg said. ‘Good day?'

‘Until this joker went and spoilt it,' said Jess, suddenly breaking into a smile. She thrust a hand in Freddie's direction. But, he couldn't possibly shake her hand! He couldn't touch her! She'd feel the tremors running through his fingers and the clamminess of his skin! The urge to scratch his chest grew as pinpricks of sweat took hold. Had someone turned the heating on?

‘You must be Freddie,' she continued. ‘And you really shouldn't mention that name in front of mum. Not unless you want Betty's biscuits on your plate.'

Freddie snatched at the offering, his palm sliding over Jess' fingers. It was the wimpiest handshake in history – but at least it was over.

‘Yeah, I'm your new lodger,' he said, taking a long look at his placemat.

Freddie heard Greg strike up about animal food prices, without really listening, as he retrieved his Samsung from his pocket, opening a message that had come through since he'd last checked five minutes ago. The arrival took a second or two to load, and all the time he felt Jess studying him. It had to be a photo. A text message wouldn't take so long to appear.
Weird!
He didn't recognise the sender's number. Then the picture materialised.

‘Are you all right, Freddie?' Jess said. ‘You look like you're gonna be sick.'

Sick? He felt like he was dying. He wanted to die. Who would do this to him? How could they?
He snapped the phone shut but the image remained, burned into his memory forever. His first love, Tiffany, perched on the knee of Alice's brother, kissing, hands all over one another.
What had he done to deserve this?
She'd cheated on him. Fair enough, it happened. But he'd moved on… or had
tried
to, anyway. He didn't need this idiot rubbing his bloody nose in it.

‘Sorry,' he said, scratching his chin, ‘just a bit tired.'

‘I've been saying for years that she'll pay for what she did…' Elizabeth suddenly said, snapping Freddie back to reality.

‘Come on, Mum,' Jess said. Freddie spotted Jess looking across at Greg, wincing. Then her hazel eyes turned on him. ‘Now you've done it. Mum's on one!'

‘Ursula Hawkins…' Elizabeth began, her gaze drifting away. Freddie was reminded of the vacant look in the eyes of the face at the window. ‘She's wicked. And she won't rest until she's got her slippery hands on this place.'

‘All right, dear,' Greg said, fidgeting in his seat. ‘But I'm sure young Freddie doesn't want to h–'

‘It's ok, I don–'

‘She'll buy this farm over my dead body!' Elizabeth said loudly, ignoring Greg and Freddie.

‘Well, that might end up happening if you keep getting yourself all worked up,' said Greg, failing to hide his frustration.

Freddie looked across the table at Greg; hair greying at the temples, lines already invading his forehead. To Freddie, he looked exhausted.

‘I'm sorry,' said Freddie. He gulped. ‘I shouldn't have said anything.'

‘It's ok, lad. It's no secret we're struggling – not a lot of money coming in, plenty going the other way. It's been tough these past few years.'

Disused, dilapidated sheds; caved-in roofs; crumbling walls; abandoned, rusting machinery; even a large rat feasting on a pile of spilled pellets. These had been Freddie's first observations of Ridge Farm. Despite his inexperience and lack of expertise in farming, it had been clear even to him that the farm was struggling.

‘It's a farce,' Elizabeth said. ‘Ursula wrestled governorship of the family business from her step-father, John Davidson. He's a recluse now.'

‘I saw him at the manor, staring out of a window. He looked so sad.'

‘And he has every right to be sad,' Elizabeth said, eyes reddening, ‘after what
she
did.'

‘That'll do, love,' Greg said, the legs of his chair scraping over the floor tiles as he got to his feet. ‘I'll help you with the dishes.'

‘No, Greg. Freddie should know.'

‘What should I know?'

‘Freddie,' Elizabeth whispered, clutching the table as she staggered across to him. He looked up at her, quite sure – just by the wild, bloodshot look in her eyes – that she was mad. ‘Ursula Hawkins is a murderer.'

I just drank tea with a killer?
thought Freddie disbelievingly. He'd had a chinwag with the murderer in the beast's own lair? Surely his ears were playing tricks on his mind. Ursula Hawkins wasn't a murderer. No. This conversation was getting stranger and stranger. Despite her peculiar reaction to him mentioning Rhona, Ursula had seemed friendly enough. Was Elizabeth mad or simply jealous of Ursula's success?

‘Elizabeth!' yelled Greg, shaking his greying temples as he strode over to the sink. He pressed his nose right up against the window, peering out into the darkness, his breath misting the glass. Retreating, he yanked the curtains shut. ‘She'll do you for slander.'

‘Oh come on, Greg. Everyone knows she pushed him.'

Jess turned to smile at Freddie but he knew it was forced. Concern rippled through her cheeks.

‘It was an accident,' Greg said, head slumped. ‘Nothing more.'

‘Are you talking about Ursula's step-brother?' Freddie asked.

‘Yes,' said Elizabeth, arms folded, ‘and she's paying for it now. She's terrified. Noel has returned, you see. And he's after revenge.'

Freddie spotted Greg and Jess exchanging frantic, worried glances. Elizabeth just had to be crazy. So, ghosts were involved now? What would be next – vampires? Had Noel asked a bunch of zombie mates to join him in his quest for revenge? Had he hitched a lift on a flying saucer? Talk of murder had been farfetched, he knew, but murder
did
happen. Maybe not very often, but he'd heard about murders on the news, read about them in newspapers. Ghosts, however… Freddie had grown out of ghost stories long ago. There was no such thing.

‘I'm sorry, lad,' said Greg, moving into the space between Elizabeth and Freddie, as if this would divert Elizabeth's overactive imagination to a friendlier, more cheery topic. ‘Elizabeth's under a lot of stress at the moment. Well, we both are. She isn't always so… so full of mystery.'

‘Stress?' she screamed, pushing past her husband. ‘I saw him. I saw Noel Davidson with my own eyes. His ghost walks this hillside!'

He tugged at his hair; a habit he'd fought from an early age. Gasping, he brought a handful of liberated blonde hairs down into his line of sight. He shivered as he tossed the strands away.

It'd taken him weeks to find the place. But now that he was here, the excitement of the past few days had fizzled out faster than a cheap sparkler. He kept back, well away from the window. He didn't want to be seen again.

Why did he feel so disappointed?
This was definitely the right farm, the right house, the place where his journey had begun. With the curtains open, he had a great view of the family lounging in front of the television – a mother, a father, three sons and a daughter.

It could've been him, he thought. It
should've
been him. If only he'd been dealt a different hand, if only she hadn't done what she did… He could've been sat in front of a television with his own family, instead of… He didn't want to think about it. No good could come from living in the past.
But that's what he was doing wasn't it? Searching, hoping…

He glanced beyond the family, beyond the farm, to the village sprawled across the hillside.
Such a small village, so many secrets…

‘I'll help you with your suitcase,' Jess said.

‘No really, I can manage.'

He didn't want to be a spectator in another family's argument if it kicked off between Greg and Elizabeth. He'd had enough of that in his own home. Although, most of the quarrelling between his dad and Rhona had been over
him
, not ghosts.

‘No, I insist,' Jess said, striding around the table. She grabbed his t-shirt and pulled. He shivered as her hand brushed his neck, as if she'd poured ice down his back.

‘Ok, all right.'

Freeing himself from Jess' grasp, he got up and walked with her out into the hallway, glancing briefly over his shoulder as he went. Elizabeth and Greg faced the sink, whispering. He doubted they were discussing dishes.

‘We need to give them a bit of space,' Jess said, closing the door. ‘Sometimes mum starts crying after she's had a rant about Ursula. It's her way of venting her frustrations. We're really struggling. I doubt we'll still be here this time next year.'

Now that they were alone he felt a little more confident. He even managed eye contact. She wasn't Tiffany but something about her playful smile drew him in. Her brown hair, cut stylishly above her shoulders, whipped his face as she turned to the stairs.

‘I'll give you the tour first,' she said, already marching up the steps, ‘introduce you to your room.'

He hesitated.

‘Come on,' she said, turning at the top step. ‘I can't promise I won't bite but I'll try not to.'

He coughed, wheezing as his throat constricted. His cheeks burned.

‘You thought I was being serious? I'm mucking about, Freddie… you're so cute.'

As he joined her on the landing, he heard the back door slam.

‘But what does Ursula want with this place?' asked Freddie, propped up on one elbow. Jess slouched against the headboard, legs crossed. A bag of Doritos lay between them, surrounded by a choice of dips.

‘She was brought up here,' said Jess, tilting her head back and swigging from a can of lemonade. As she leant back, Freddie caught himself admiring her. Confident, pretty, and full of energy, he just couldn't help himself.

What was he
thinking
? Jess would be nothing but a rebound. Yes, anything that might take his mind away from Tiffany would be a welcome diversion but could he really face getting hurt again? He looked away. ‘When Ursula's parents broke up and her mum got with John Davidson she went to live at the manor.'