Haunted Fields (8 page)

‘No!' said Jess, lifting a hand to cover her gaping mouth. ‘Please. No!'

But he knew what had caused the fire in the sky; deep down he knew Ridge Farm had suffered a terrible blow, a blow that could very well tip it over the edge of the precipice.

12

He galloped like a racehorse bearing down on the winning post. Glancing frequently over his shoulder he could see that Jess was keeping up with him, a constant dozen-or-so lengths back. As they left Ravenby-le-Wold's cosy, well-kept cottages behind, the steep, twisting lanes passed by in a mad blur. A sharp incline on Freddie's right blocked Ridge Farm from view.

‘Please!
Please
don't be the farm!'
What had he done?
He'd meant well. He'd tried his hardest, put his own sweat and tears into the place. He cared about the farm, and about the family. He felt a part of their life.

He neared the summit He could hear Jess's footsteps on the road behind him, pleas mirroring his own silent ones reaching his ears. Tarmac flew by under his feet, a dark path leading him to the beast. Yet he didn't seem to be getting any closer. Time had slowed to a painful crawl, and for no other reason than to prolong their suffering.

Suddenly his senses awoke. A cruel spitting sound sought him out. Smoke tickled his nostrils. The glow reflected in the clouds forced his hands up to shield his eyes. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to know. Yet he had to. The family needed him. He prayed that flames were licking their way up the side of a building on one of the neighbouring farms. He prayed for Ridge Farm to be spared. Guilt consumed him. He should've listened. He should've left when instructed. First the note, then the brick – now what? He'd soon find out, the hillside reaching a plateau.

He rounded the corner, his eyes locking on to the dragon's breath. Even from here he could feel the intensity of the blaze. Beautiful, yet utterly destructive. He stopped, rocking as Jess crashed into him, collapsing. He held her shaking body, cradling her warm head. Her cries, barely audible over the roaring inferno, cleared his mind.

He retrieved his mobile with his free hand, the flames licking higher and higher, devouring the straw. The old barn creaked, letting out a groan, threatening to break under the searing heat. His mouth fell open as a support leg collapsed inwards, falling through the fire with a hiss, before bouncing from the stack, landing with a thud. Suddenly the bales disappeared, a great sea of sparks blown into the night sky. Riding on the breeze, the sparks drifted over the hillside and out across the plains.

Something gave way inside him. He felt as if he would collapse in on himself, just as the steel support had done moments before.
It‘s my fault!
He half-expected to find a vulture circling above, waiting to pick at what remained of him.

‘Call them,' Jess bellowed. ‘Call the fire brigade.'

She pushed her face further into his shoulder. He tapped the three digit number into his mobile.

‘Fire!'

How can the operator be so calm? Come on! Come on! Hurry!
He rushed through the address. He knew he could do nothing now. He couldn't fight fire. He led Jess towards the entrance to the farm, glancing beyond the farmhouse, his eyes drawn to the dancing flames, illuminating the surrounding area with flickering shapes. As the light cast over the rough ground was momentarily extinguished, he watched dark figures moving around the barn.

It had to be a trick of the mind, his overactive imagination teasing him. Or was it a trick of the light?
No!
It couldn't be… the arsonist? Surely the fire had been started deliberately. The culprit wouldn't still be at large, would they?

Jess clung to him, her nails pinching his skin through his t-shirt. What would her parents make of this? They were dining at a restaurant in a nearby town, celebrating a friend's birthday. He wished they'd hurry home. And how long would the bloody fire brigade take? It had to be at least ten miles to the nearest fire station. Not that they'd be able to save the old, dying barn.

‘Call your mum and dad,' he said, holding her out at arm's length. ‘Everything's going to be fine, I promise. I just want to check something.'

He released her, backtracking. She blinked at him, opening her mouth to speak. He turned, leaping into a sprint, cutting an unswerving path towards the fire. Jess' words were drowned out by the fire.

As he neared the barn the heat scorched his cheeks. He lifted a hand to his face, running his fingers through his eyebrows, surprised that they were still there. He spotted movement in his peripheral vision, close to the barn, yet not quite near enough to be a part of the inferno. A heel – a human heel, alive and most probably attached to a foot, appeared momentarily, as flickering, grotesque shapes danced across the surrounding area.

The fire – a feral monster, born out of hatred. Light and dark. Shadows. The unreal heat. The ice cold hollow feeling invading his core. He'd not wait for the police this time. He had to catch the person who'd done this, who'd hurt people he cared about. He gritted his teeth, fighting his way forward into the heat, into the unknown. Worries about remaining stealthy soon filtered away – no one would hear him above the crackling and the hissing.

He moved past the fire, out into the farmyard, the blistering heat scorching his back, even through his t-shirt. Nothing moved – not livestock, or wild animal, or arsonist.

‘Where are you?'

He turned back to face the way he'd come, a disquiet creeping over him. He'd left Jess by herself.
Crap!
He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to her. She'd been in shock.

Headlights bobbed as a vehicle raced along the track, heading straight for the house. It had to be Elizabeth and Greg. He envisaged the expression on Elizabeth's face, the thoughts that'd be running through her mind. The distress… Greg would take it on the chin. But Elizabeth… this could ruin her.

A cloud of debris erupted from the barn with a shriek. Freddie threw himself to the ground, the air driven from his lungs. He gasped. He felt like a fish out of water. More sparks joined the great cloud of smoke drifting over the hillside. He hugged the rough ground, still gasping, witnessing Ravenby-le-Wold's premature bonfire night celebrations from the wrong side of the safety cordon. The heel – the arsonist, had vanished.

He got back to his feet and moved into the shadows, listening to Betty's terrified yelps.

‘There's no such thing,' he said to himself. ‘Ghosts don't exist.'

Who was he trying to convince? The heel had belonged to someone very much alive, that much he knew. But even so, living or dead, the arsonist would pose a very real threat to him. He ploughed on regardless. An owl hooted from the rafters of a nearby shed, no doubt alarmed by the flames.

He scanned the immediate vicinity, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dimly lit farmyard. The fire cast orangey, flickering light across several adjoining buildings. Shivering, he slowed to a crawl, half-expecting a golf club or a lump of timber to materialise before his eyes. No – this coward would attack him blind, from behind. The thought did little to boost his waning confidence. Wherever he looked he saw moving shapes, blonde-haired figures lurking. Every nightmare he'd experienced came to life, pulling at his fraying nerves, testing him.

Finally he reached the wooden gate at the far end of the yard. He vaulted it and moved on, maintaining a safe distance from the electric fence which protected Elizabeth's vegetable garden from sheep. He skirted the field until he found another gate, without seeing a single sheep, flinching at every sound.

Unless the arsonist had concealed himself somewhere on the farm (certainly a risky ploy), there were only two directions in which he could realistically flee. And as Freddie had entered the farm from the road, he knew that the only other swift escape lay in a rarely used track, situated along Ridge Farm's southern border.

What would he do if he caught up with the arsonist – supposing there was only one? Confront him? Challenge him? Speak with him?
No
, thought Freddie. He'd try and overtake him quietly, get a bloody good look at his face, identify him. But as the grassy field ended and Freddie found the gap in a hedge that led to a field of knee-high wheat, doubt crept over him. Had he really seen a figure close to the fire? Had the shock of seeing the bales alight merely thrown fuel on an already overactive imagination?

And then, as doubt threatened to send him back to the farmhouse, he saw something up ahead. A figure was moving gingerly along one of the tractor tyre tracks. He was no predator, yet he felt a tingling in his belly, felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, fear and excitement rolling into one.

The figure moved like a man. Not overly tall, medium build. But he couldn't be sure of anything – the figure was just a dark outline in the distance. He'd have to shift if he was going to catch up with him, and he'd have to do so quietly. Should he change course? Perhaps move along one of the adjacent tyre tracks?
No.
Tailing his quarry lessened the risk of being spotted. He could feel the hard day's graft in his legs as he gained on the figure ahead, but not quickly enough.

He saw the figure reach the edge of the wheat field, and quickened his pace. He had to chase down the perpetrator of the fire, just had to. The gap was closing all the time. Freddie finally reached the field the figure had crossed into, a field left fallow by Greg, narrowing as it sloped away with the ridge, funnelling towards the border with Ursula Hawkins' land.

Weeds and wild flowers made the going tough, and noisy. He had to get a good look at him! He accelerated, crashing and stumbling through the thickening undergrowth. Panting hard, his eyes fixed firmly on his target, he pumped his arms.

Suddenly, a far off, wailing siren woke the night. The arsonist glanced briefly over his shoulder. Freddie gasped, ducking. He threw himself into the weeds without getting a decent view of the figure's face. He knew he'd been spotted.

‘Damn!'

Time seemed to slow as he waited. Slowly, he lifted his head, peering through the undergrowth. The figure was moving, taking advantage of the interlude.
Brilliant!
thought Freddie. He'd never catch up with him now, not in the dark.

The relief he'd felt at hearing the sirens quickly dissipated – the old barn couldn't be saved.

‘Hey!' he shouted, realising he sounded a lot braver than he felt, ‘Stop!'

Freddie saw the fleeing arsonist glance over his shoulder again, watched as his feet got caught up in a wild bush, as he lost his balance. He fell to his knees and rolled over and over, the steepening slope aiding his descent. As the fall fizzled out Freddie watched the figure embrace it rather than fight it, using the momentum of the final few rolls to return to his feet and scramble away.

He pumped his arms harder, lengthening his strides, but the weeds and long grass slowed him, whipping his knees, his thighs. As the ridge funnelled into an arrowhead he caught a glimpse of the arsonist disappearing through the boundary hedge. Faster and faster he moved, the ridge sloping away to – to nothing.

And that was what he faced as he dug his heels into the earth, trying to stop – nothing, the southern tip of the farm. He slid, unable to ward off the approaching hedgerow. Thorns tore at his face, at the exposed flesh on his arms, as he hurtled through the hedge.

Suddenly he was falling – not sliding and tumbling as he had as he'd passed so ungracefully through the hedgerow – but falling, with nothing to rein him back in. He reached out and grabbed at earth, at roots, at anything, his fingers finding nothing but air. He grimaced, bracing himself for impact.

13

He slammed into the dirt, a needling pain darting through his tailbone and up his lower back. He screamed but no sound escaped, his lungs burning, rebelling. Had he broken something? Jarred his back? He squinted through the darkness. Which way was up? Which direction was he facing? Pain was all that cemented his place in reality.

Footsteps echoed all around him. He had no idea how close the arsonist was, or in which direction he was moving.

‘Get up!' he told himself.

A cornered animal would fight. He had to be ready. Movement – some way down the hillside. Or was it? The foreign nature of this new environment seemed to have robbed him of his ability to judge distance. He reached out blindly, grasping a handful of what felt like tree roots, hauling himself upright. He couldn't allow the person who'd done this to escape, not having come this far. Releasing his grip on the roots, he tested his balance – it wasn't great, his eyes, still a little sensitive, gradually adjusting to the night.

The track cut an unswerving path through the hillside, brushing Ridge Farm's southern boundary, before disappearing over the summit. With hedgerow-topped, lopsided banking running along either flank the track was shielded from view. His gaze fell upon the outline of the fleeing arsonist.

An engine fired up, spluttered. The rear lights of what could only be a getaway vehicle lit up the groove carved into the hillside, offering Freddie a clear view, as whoever was behind the wheel pushed down a little too hard on the accelerator, sending a volley of stones through the night. He listened to the clatter of stone on stone, as they rained down a safe distance from him. And then he was alone.

He slumped, hands on knees, the adrenaline beginning to subside.
Christ
, his back killed! How had he let the beast escape? He'd gone and let everyone down! The injustice of it all consumed him. He let out a howl that even to his own ears sounded inhuman, slumping to his knees.

Freddie pushed the kitchen door open and staggered in, the chatter within dying upon his sudden appearance. PC Smith rose from the table.

‘Good evening, Mr Forster. Done with chasing ghosts, are we?'

He had neither the energy nor the will for an argument, wanting nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep and forget about the entire episode. But he had suspicions that he wasn't going to be granted his wish, that he'd be forced to relive the nightmare, bit by bit.

‘I don't believe in ghosts,' he said, taking in his surroundings.

Greg cradled Jess's head in his arms. Elizabeth, stony-faced, gazed into space, her arms dangling by her sides. The scene presented Freddie with visions of a grief stricken family in the aftermath of a loved one's death.

‘It was you who called the fire brigade?' said PC Smith, gesturing for him to sit down on the chair beside him.

Freddie did as instructed, wanting this to be over quickly. He could feel his eyelids drooping, his concentration waning.

‘It was.'

‘This is serious,' PC Smith warned.

‘I'm aware of that.'

‘Do I have your full attention?'

‘I want the person who did this caught as much as you do.'

Freddie didn't appreciate the policeman's tone. It seemed aggressive, pre-planned, as if a strategy – a way to tackle him, had already been thought out.
Great way to treat the star witness!

‘Ok, first of all – where were you this evening?'

Visions haunted him. Flickering blue lights – a dozen fire fighters directing jets of water at the dying flames – the fire, though under control, smiling, victorious in death. He shuddered as he relived the journey back to the house.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I'm tired. Can we do this tomorrow?'

PC Smith leaned back in his chair, wide-eyed, arms folded.

‘I asked where you were this evening.'

What‘s the miserable oaf getting at?
wondered Freddie. He'd been the one who'd discovered the blaze, the one who'd alerted the authorities.

‘Down at
The King's Head
, with Jess.'

‘And what time did you return?'

PC Smith unfolded his arms and leant forward, taking a pencil in his stubby fingers. He scribbled something in a notepad. Freddie heard Jess sobbing quietly into Greg's shoulder.

‘We saw the fire as we reached the top of the hill. I phoned the emergency services straight away. I know – I'll check the call history on my mobile.'

‘That won't be necessary, Freddie. I know what time you called the emergency services, I simp–'

‘What are you getting at?' He stretched out an arm, pointing a finger towards the window. ‘Why don't you get out there and find the person who did this!?'

This idiot was really starting to get under his skin, burrowing like a termite.

‘I asked what time you arrived back here, not what time you called the emergency services…'

‘Well, they're obviously the same!'

He didn't like where this was going. Am
I being accused of starting the fire?
he wondered. Of causing the despaired-looks plastered all over the faces of the family gathered around the table? He cared for them, for their future. He wanted to return smiles to their faces. Why would he set fire to the bales, when he'd worked so hard to help return the place to prosperity?
Stay calm! Don't snap! Breathe
!

‘You'd like me to believe that, wouldn't you?'

‘Jess can vouch for my whereabouts, as can several others who were drinking in
The King's Head
this evening. I had nothing to do with the fire.'

He suddenly realised he'd been shaking as he spoke, his balled fists hammering the table as he uttered each word. He could only imagine what colour his face had turned. PC Smith retreated a little. He had no evidence, of that Freddie was certain. Surely he wouldn't persist with this ridiculous line of questioning. The arsonist was slipping further and further away. If they didn't act soon they'd never catch him, never get to the bottom of it all.

‘Can ghosts start fires, Freddie? Can ghosts throw bricks at car windscreens?'

‘I don't know about ghosts,' said Freddie.

He could feel the monster stir within him. He tiptoed around it. He couldn't explode at a police officer again. It'd make him look as guilty as hell. ‘But the man I chased away from the fire most definitely could have.'

‘And that is where you have been, all this time?

‘Yes.'

‘You'd love for us to believe that, wouldn't you? Freddie Forster – the hero! I'm starting to build a very clear picture of you in my mind, and it isn't a pretty one. I know all about your days of getting into trouble, from my colleagues down south. We keep records, you see.'

‘I was a kid. I had problems tha–'

‘Did you start a fire in a derelict building?'

‘It was a long time ago. There were a few of us. They made m–'

‘A simple yes or no will do.'

Visions took hold of him once again. He knew this vision would haunt him more than any ethereal figure could. The barn – a relic of good times past – ruined beyond repair. Once the fire had taken hold, nothing could've been done about it. This was clear from the damage that'd been caused in such a short time. Ash, flames, smoke. Twisted girders, broken support legs. Fallen beams. Shattered roofing sheets. A dying mother cradling a baby in her arms. Utter destruction.

‘No!'

‘Mr Forster – I know all about it!'

They must have checked him out after the incident with his car windscreen, thought Freddie.

‘I think that'll do officer,' said Greg. ‘Freddie's been through enough, we all have. Why don't you come back in the morning and take a statement?'

‘No!' said Freddie. He wanted this over with. ‘They need to catch whoever did this. I chased a man across the fields. He escaped in a vehicle parked on the track that goes right down the hillside, at the far boundary.'

‘What did he look like?' asked PC Smith.

‘I didn't get a good look at him.'

‘Did you get the registration of the getaway vehicle?'

Freddie shook his head.

As the fire fighters went about extinguishing the last of the flames and securing the area, Freddie nursed cup after cup of strong, hot tea. Necessity had awoken some fight, some perseverance inside Elizabeth that kept her busy, fussing over everyone, holding them all together. Freddie glanced up every now and again as Greg, resolute as ever, mumbled on about how they'd go about recovering from the blaze.

‘Insurance… replacements… new barn… builders…'

Jess said nothing. Cups of tea went cold, along with all attempts at conversation with her.

‘Come on, love,' Greg said, swirling the dregs of his fourth cup round and round. ‘Eat something, at least.'

Jess looked over at Greg through bloodshot eyes, her scowl loaded with intent. Surely she wasn't blaming her parents for the fire? thought Freddie. Or was there more to it? Was she blaming them for this entire mess? They'd tried their best! They'd fought hard! And still, despite everything, they were regrouping, filing back into formation, planning their counter attack.

As the shadowy shapes of the fire fighters filtered away, Freddie's glances out of the kitchen window became less frequent. He sensed a change in the atmosphere around the table. Elizabeth's newfound enthusiasm seemed to dwindle, the front she'd put on wilting. Her full attention, it appeared, had diverted to her daughter – still slumped and barely responsive – with yet another untouched cup of tea cooling in front of her. Elizabeth glanced from Jess to Greg, shaking her head. Greg turned to Freddie.

‘Do you mind giving me a hand with something, lad?'

‘Sure.'

Freddie got up from the table and followed Greg through to the dining room.

‘Close the door behind you.'

Freddie did as he was told.
What is this about?
he thought tiredly.
I just want to sleep, to forget about this mess.

‘I need to ask a favour of you.'

‘Anything.'

‘Elizabeth and I need you to keep an eye on Jess for us. We're worried about what she'll do. If she suspects anyone, anyone at all, or even thinks she knows where she might find information that could lead her to find who did this, she'll go after them. You two seem to get on really well. We need you to keep an eye on her. I don't want her getting tangled up in all this. Do I have your word, Fred lad?'

‘Yes, but–'

‘No buts, lad.'

‘Ok.'

But deep down Freddie knew that if Jess caught onto a scent, he wouldn't be stopping her, he'd be joining her in battle.

‘Thank you.'

‘Is this about Ursula?' he asked.

‘We both know my wife is fixated with Ursula Hawkins. I don't want Jess getting it into her head that Ursula is in any way to blame for this. It was probably kids.'

‘What is it with Elizabeth and Ursula?'

‘I don't know,' said Greg. ‘Only they could tell you that.'