Haunted Fields (5 page)

7

Dad had promised he could ride alongside him in the brand new combine on the first day of harvest. But how could he wait that long? The top of the range machine had arrived three weeks ago, just days after his thirteenth birthday. He doubted Rose Farm had been home to anything as cool as this for a long, long time.

‘Come on, Harry,' Dad said, switching the lights off. ‘It's nearly bedtime. I'll lock the shed up in a bit.'

‘Just two more minutes, Dad,' he said, without taking his eyes off the combine. ‘Please?'

‘Ok,' said Dad, chuckling. ‘But don't be long, or your Mum will tell me off.'

Harry could hear the rain drumming on the shed roof. He hoped the weather wouldn't affect the harvest as badly as it had the other year. Even in the dark he imagined himself at the controls, wheel steady in his hands. Dad's returning footsteps echoed in the big shed but he didn't want to go in yet, didn't want to be parted from the combine.

‘I'll be there in a minute,' he said.

Dad didn't reply.

‘I said I'm coming.'

Why wasn't Dad answering him? He turned to glance over his shoulder, expecting to see Mum glaring disapprovingly in his direction. But the silhouette in the doorway was too tall to be Mum, too skinny to belong to Dad, too blond to belong to either of them. Harry froze. He'd seen the face often enough, heard the tale a thousand times… A great wave of noise erupted from within him, a terrifying scream that went on and on, long after the figure had retreated.

Rumours spread quickly – there'd been another sighting – the third in as many weeks. The sightings had all been at or near outlying farms. This time a thirteen year-old boy had seen Noel Davidson's apparition down at Rose Farm where, so Daisy had reliably informed him, it all began. The other sightings had been out in the open, in fields, on farm tracks, in back gardens. But this time, Noel's ghost had been spotted
inside
a tractor shed. Terrified villagers hurried about their business, not lingering, curtains drawn before dark.

By the weekend Freddie had grown tired of the hysteria. He'd been given the Saturday off and decided that he fancied a walk – an opportunity to take stock of what had been a very eventful week. He was seated at the kitchen table, slurping coffee from a vase-sized mug, when Elizabeth waddled in. He looked up to find she was sporting waterproofs and elbow-length gardening gloves.

‘Bit wet for gardening, isn't it?' he said.

‘The wind picked up in the night,' she said, ‘blew a fence over in my vegetable patch. We've just been putting it back together. I thought you'd still be in bed.'

‘I couldn't sleep,' he said, recalling the nightmare that'd woken him in the early hours, disturbing his sleep thereafter. In the dream he'd arrived back home, climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom – only it wasn't
his
bedroom anymore. His bed had gone, replaced by a cot. The baby, Dad and Rhona's creation, stood watching him through the bars. Despite loathing everything the new member of the household meant for him, he'd smiled at the baby. But the baby had started screaming. The screams transported him back to the smoking shelter, listening to the poor kid, who'd claimed to have seen Noel's ghost, wake the entire village.

But even he couldn't deny the striking resemblance between the lad he'd seen leant against the bale and the seventeen-year-old Noel from the photograph in the pub.

‘I'm going for a walk when it stops chucking it down,' he said to Elizabeth, shaking his head to rid himself of the memories.

‘I didn't sleep well either,' she said, eyeing him in the same concerned fashion Rhona so often did. ‘Can't stop thinking about that poor kid. He must have been scared out of his mind.'

Here we go
, thought Freddie, preparing himself for another of Elizabeth's tales of the supernatural. ‘And down at Rose Farm, of all places–' she continued.

‘Hmm.'

‘You heard the screams,' Elizabeth said, unperturbed by Freddie's interruption. ‘Were you frightened?'

‘You know, the children of this village live in fear, tiptoeing around every corner. They're terrified because their parents – their role models – fill their heads with garbage about ghosts,' he said, slapping the table top. ‘Noel Davidson's ghost isn't haunting this village because ghosts don't exist!'

‘Now, now,' said Greg, kicking his boots off as he strode into the kitchen, ‘let's not fall out.'

‘Sorry,' Freddie said, his cheeks burning. ‘But fear is feeding the rumours.'

‘Speaking of feeding,' said Greg, opening the fridge. ‘I'm going to have a bacon sandwich.'

He couldn't meet Elizabeth's eye as she walked past him. As she slipped out of the kitchen, Freddie thought sourly that she was probably going to search for werewolves in the living room.

‘Have you thought anymore about the old outbuildings?' Freddie asked.

‘I don't have time to think, Fred lad. I'm too busy!'

He'd pressed Greg plenty on the roadside stall plan, and though he still thought it his best idea for saving Ridge Farm, why not pitch another proposal?

‘Since you're only using three of the six bedrooms in this house, why don't you start up a bed and breakfast? You and Elizabeth are always around; it'd be easy money.'

‘We'd only be using two of the bedrooms if I sack you and send you back home, lad.'

He couldn't help but laugh. Greg's reply was funny, it really was, but in it he sensed something else – a threat. Greg might as well have replied with, ‘Don't push it!' Freddie was wasting his time.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered the village shop. He'd been enjoying the stroll down the hillside, the freedom allowing him a chance to ponder recent events. He'd listened to the local birds singing; paused to watch a hare lift its ears above the grass verge before scampering away. The exercise had loosened his body, which had been still stiff and aching from his first few days of work. It was only as he'd reached the shop that he realised he'd have to scale the hill to get back to the farm.
What a chore that would be!

‘What can I get for you?'

He squinted, the dimly lit shop taking a moment to come into focus. A short, bespectacled lady with curly grey hair was studying him from behind a dusty counter.

‘Something sweet,' he said, releasing the handle so that the door clicked shut behind him. ‘I'm Freddie. I'm staying with Elizabeth and Greg up at Ridge Farm.'

‘Ah, so you're the young lad I've been hearing so much about,' she said, her eyebrows narrowing as she pushed a set of thick reading glasses further up her nose. ‘I'm Dorothy.'

‘What have you heard? Who's been talking about me?'

‘Not to worry. Nothing bad. Surely by now you've noticed that this village has ears. And I'm well-tuned in to those ears, being as old as the village.'

He glanced around the shop, taking in the array of products crowding countless shelves. Every inch of wall space seemed to have been put to use, though by the thick dust covering many of these products, he guessed a large number were well past their sell by date. He spotted dozens of jars filled with every sweet imaginable on the shelves directly behind Dorothy.

‘Your step-mother also had a sweet tooth.'

The people in this village really do know everything,
Freddie thought. ‘Who, Rhona? You remember her well, then?' he asked, eyeing up a jar of toffees over Dorothy's left shoulder. ‘She's hardly Ravenby's favourite daughter.'

‘She was a kind girl, always remembering her manners.'

‘We
are
talking about the same Rhona, right? R – H – O – N – A! Rhona McCall?'

‘I'm sure she's made a good moth–'

‘–step-mum!'

He shuffled across the shop floor to the counter, Dorothy turning to retrieve the jar of toffees he'd been eyeing up. He watched as she placed the jar next to an old-fashioned till bearing giant levers. He'd never seen anything like it. Did the grotesque contraption run on coal? He dug around in his pocket for his wallet. He'd need some cash. He doubted Dorothy did chip and pin.

‘How many would you like, young man?'

‘Enough to make me feel sick.'

Dorothy hummed tunelessly, scooping toffees into a brown paper bag.

‘The last time Rhona bought sweets from this shop has stuck in my memory,' said Dorothy, placing the bag on a set of brass scales. ‘Clear as day.'

Great!
thought Freddie.
Yet more reminiscing!
He'd had enough of it with Elizabeth. Rhona this! Rhona that! None of them knew her like he did, not the Rhona of late anyway. The Rhona he'd been hearing all about seemed a different person entirely.
What had gone wrong in the intervening years?

‘It was such a sad, sad day…'

‘I'm sorry?'

He leaned in, suddenly interested. But Dorothy had either not noticed his reaction or was taking her time on purpose, desperate to draw him in to a story she'd no doubt told a hundred times. She took care in folding the paper bag.

‘We'll call it three pounds.'

He pulled out a fiver and slapped it down on the counter.

‘Which day was this?'

‘Oh yes,' she said, pulling on a lever, the till springing open. ‘It was a hot summer's day. Harvest was in full swing. A group of children came in to buy drinks and sweets: Rhona and Elizabeth, Ursula Hawkins and Noel Davidson – there must have been twenty of them altogether. Rhona would have been about your age.'

‘That must have been around the time of the acc–' but he stopped himself in time. He didn't want to offend Dorothy.

She handed him his change.

‘They left,' she continued, ‘and returned three hours later. Well, all except Rhona, Elizabeth, Ursula, and Noel.'

‘Perhaps they went home?'

He glanced into the eyes behind the glasses. Tears formed, cascading along the canal-like wrinkles etched into her cheeks. She tried to speak, emitting a tiny croak. It took her a few moments to compose herself, to muster the strength required to finish the tale.

‘An hour later Noel– Noel was dead.'

8

He'd assumed Noel had been alone when the combine had pounced. The possibility that others had witnessed the event sent shivers running through his body.
How grim.

‘That day seems to have had a big effect on this village,' he said, opening the bag of toffees. He tilted the bag towards Dorothy, who'd taken her glasses off, cleaning them on her sleeve. ‘Would you like one?'

‘So very kind of you,' she said, sniffing. ‘But I'll stick to my humbugs.'

So, what about Rhona?
Freddie wondered. It seemed he'd learnt more about his step-mum since arriving in the country than he ever had living under the same roof as her. Had she witnessed Noel's death? If so, it certainly explained a lot. Perhaps that's why she'd never had kids of her own – until now, of course. Had seeing a young lad, possibly even a close friend, die so horrifically made her question having kids? Had this been the reason Rhona had erected so many unbreakable barriers around her motherly instincts?

And had all twenty kids seen him die? Could it also be the root of Elizabeth's madness? He envisaged a village full of traumatised forty-something's walking around seeing the ghost of Noel Davidson at every turn. No wonder they were all so damn superstitious.

‘Thanks for the toffees,' he said, turning to leave, ‘and the chat.'

Back out on the pavement he glanced up and down the street. He cursed himself.
Was he, too, falling afoul of the paranoia?
he wondered. Not every lad with blonde hair was Noel Davidson. He pushed the subject to the back of his mind because, despite being separated from Tiffany for less than a week, he had what could only be described as a date to look forward to.

Delicate fingertips danced along his forearm as the lights dimmed in the cinema. She certainly didn't mess about, he'd give her that. He heard someone sniggering behind him and turned to see Lucas, who'd insisted the two couples sat apart, winking at him three rows back. Jess was resting her head on his shoulder, focusing dreamily on the screen. They looked like a perfect couple! The noise being blasted out into the hall abated as the final trailer finished. He could hear teeth crunching through popcorn, drinks being slurped, laughter, whispers, and Tiffany saying, in his memories:

‘You can put your arm around me if you like.'

Tiffany.
He'd been to the movies with her only once, yet she'd forever be associated with the place. They'd shared their first kiss at a mid-afternoon screening of what had been the latest horror flick. He knew her words would be imprinted on his mind forever.

He glanced at Scarlett. She'd let hair fall across the side of her face that he could see, big green eyes studying him through the auburn curls. Her lips parted as she smiled. He felt her hand crawling down his wrist, destined for his fingers. He eased himself further into the squashy seat and smiled back at her. He had nothing to worry about, he could relax. He must have looked daft, sitting bolt upright, munching his popcorn like a dog wolfing down a treat.

His insistence that they watch something gory had been voted down, three votes to one, in favour of the latest Hollywood rom-com. He'd thanked Lucas for siding with the girls.
What a mate!
He didn't mind really, so long as Lucas stopped egging him on every time Scarlett wasn't looking. If anything happened between them, and it was a big
if
on his part, it'd be on his and Scarlett's terms, not on Lucas Hawkins's.

He looked up at the screen as the opening title sequence began to roll, the dishevelled male protagonist staggering through an urban avenue, shirt un-tucked, scuffed shoes crunching through orange leaves.

Brilliant!
thought Freddie.
Just what I need!
The story of a heartbroken lad, not much older than himself, struggling to come to terms with a loss (he'd skimmed through the free magazine out in the foyer). He didn't care much for happy endings – life wasn't like that. He thought of Mum, of the pain her sacrifice had caused him. He'd about as much chance of a happy ending as he had of seeing the Loch Ness Monster. But he knew deep down that the only chance he'd ever have of realising a happy ending would be if he were to move on. Life, he'd started to realise, rewarded the go-getters.

Scarlett's fingers reached his hand. He gulped. He let her fingers wrap around his and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. And that's when he saw him, close to the front of the packed house, blonde hair standing out even in the near darkness. The lad he'd seen leaning against the bale, the lad who so resembled the long departed Noel Davidson.
Surely, surely it was him… But how could it be?

He'd wait to see if the lad left to go to the toilet at all, or to the atrium to stock up on popcorn and sweets. He'd follow him out, confront him; put an end to all of this. Failing that he'd wait until the end, push his way through the crowd and hope to catch him before he disappeared again. Warm breath tickled his ear.

‘Harvey used to bring me here all the time. I had to pay for myself, of course. This is where he asked me out, this very screen in f–'

‘–Ssshhh!' came a hiss from the moviegoers around them.

Why wouldn't she give it a rest on Harvey?
wondered Freddie. He really didn't care. He just wanted to watch the film.

‘Do you miss your ex?' she asked.

‘Trying not to think about her, you know.'

‘–Ssshhh!'

‘Hey! Keep it down there fella!'

Why did she have to go and mention Tiffany?
thought Freddie. Why did everyone assume he wanted to pour his heart out to them about the most private of subjects? Yes, he often wore his heart on his sleeve when he felt aggrieved but emotions –
real
emotions – would always lose their way as they ascended his throat, the remnants ejecting from his lips in a hoarse babble. He squeezed her hand again.

‘Let's just watch the film, eh?'

But how could he concentrate on a film he didn't particularly care to watch with everything going on? Freddie wondered. He decided to keep tabs on the blonde-haired lad. Scarlett didn't seem to notice his lack of interest in the film, or indeed her. He only hoped she wouldn't quiz him on the rom-com afterwards.

Several times Noel's lookalike turned to glance along his own row so that Freddie was afforded the slightest glimpse of his face. But the light from the screen simply wasn't enough to illuminate his features. The lad really could be anyone. He had to be sure before he confronted him.

After what seemed an age he slid his Samsung from his pocket with his free hand, checking the time. The film had only been running for an hour. He still had thirty minutes to wait.

‘Turn it off,' someone shouted from the back. ‘Didn't you hear the warning?'

‘All right, all right, calm down,' he said without turning round. ‘It's crap anyway.'

He felt Scarlett's head come to rest against his arm. At least he had one supporter in the room. But was he really ready for this? He certainly didn't want to lead her on.
Why can't I just have some fun, like everyone else?
He shifted uneasily beneath the weight of her head, sitting up a little straighter in his seat, prizing his fingers from her grasp.

‘I don't want you to thi–'

‘–is it me?' she asked suddenly. ‘Aren't I as pretty as her?'

‘No, I didn't mean – what?'

‘Forget it!'

What a disaster!
A gap began to form between them, a gap that became so wide they were practically sitting on their neighbour's knees by the end of the film. Finally, mercifully, the protagonist got back with the love of his life and the screen faded to black, the end credits rolling. Freddie jumped to his feet before anyone else on his row.

‘Excuse me,' he said, ignoring the grunts aimed in his direction as he pushed his way towards the aisle. He turned back towards Scarlett, her forehead creased, eyebrows straightening. ‘Just need to check something. Meet you out in the foyer.'

He reached the aisle and bounded down the steps, taking three at a time. Fellow moviegoers either got out of his way or pulled their companions away before he bulldozed through them. As he reached the bottom two rows, searching through the crowd for blonde hair, an elderly man sporting a walking cane rose gingerly from his seat and stumbled out onto the steps.

‘Granddad! Look out!'

The hunched figure collapsed back into his seat, the blow cushioned by his irate granddaughter.

‘He had a hip replacement last year, you idiot!'

Customers turned up ahead upon hearing the commotion, parting as he charged for the door. He pushed his way through people desperate to escape, no one wanting to get held up in the multi-storey next door.

‘What's the rush pal?' a ruddy-faced man bellowed.

He reached the exit, stumbling out into the corridor, the door held open by a disinterested attendant. Moviegoers from the screening of a different film streamed out of an exit across the way.
Brilliant!
thought Freddie. He'd never find him now! Who'd come up with the scheduling? Even he knew two packed screenings leaving simultaneously would cause problems. He'd a good mind to fill out a form and drop it in the suggestion box.

If only he was six-foot-six, he'd be able to glance over the sea of heads, pick the Noel lookalike out no problem. A group gathered outside the toilets slowed the fleeing moviegoers, forcing them into a bottleneck. Bumping shoulders with strangers he pushed his way onwards until suddenly, he reached the atrium. He'd lost him, blown his chance.

The residents of Ravenby-le-Wold would go on being paranoid, would continue drawing their curtains before dark, hurrying home in groups.
Madness!
But perhaps they enjoyed the mystery, the fear it induced, thought Freddie. Life could be tedious, especially in a place so remote the local bus service passed through just twice a day. Noel's ghost gave them something to gossip about, something to scare their kids into behaving themselves with.

‘If you're not in bed before dark Noel will get you,' was one expression he'd already heard.

He'd come to a standstill, agitated figures squeezing past him, hurrying to beat the rush to the car park. He knew he might as well wait for the others or even go back to meet them, explain why he'd left in such a hurry. He didn't doubt they'd think him crazy. Did Scarlett think she'd had a lucky escape? Lucas and Jess would have a right good giggle at his expense.

Turning back towards the corridor he'd just emerged from, he scanned the crowd. Where were they? Why were they taking so long? Surely a teaser scene hadn't followed the credits…
Does the film seriously merit a sequel?
he thought, frustrated. The smell of hotdogs kick-started the rumbling in his stomach. All this hard work had messed up his appetite. He peered across at the confectionary counter and froze.
It was him – it just had to be him!
Unkempt blonde hair, patched up jacket.

‘Hey!' Freddie shouted.

Several people shot anxious glances his way, one elderly lady backing away from him.

‘Oi!'

This lad held the key to Ravenby-le-Wold's salvation!
thought Freddie. He couldn't lose him a second time. Freddie sprung like a greyhound from a trap, his knees buckling, his shoulder crashing into something solid. Popcorn rained down on him.

‘What the–'

Gasps, squeals, a rumble of disapproval.

As the blonde-haired lad turned to face the commotion, strong hands seized Freddie firmly around the waist.

‘Outside! Now!'

His ears were on fire, the sensation quickly spreading all over his face and down his neck. It wasn't him, the features far too blunt. The hair was blonde, the clothes not exactly designer, but it certainly wasn't the Noel lookalike from the public footpath.
What a fool he'd been!
Who was he to accuse anyone else of being paranoid or obsessed? As he was escorted roughly from the atrium he heard pounding footsteps, and Lucas' proud voice:

‘Freddie, whatever's the problem?'

‘I thought I saw a ghost,' he said.