Once in a Blood Moon Page 2

  "Come on, old boy," he muttered in his best English accent. "Chin up." He started down the stairs. This place explains a lot about the Brits, he thought to himself. Everything is so goddamned character building.

  Marcus padded through to the kitchen and found a suitable tumbler in the third cupboard he tried. The cap on the bottle of Glenmorangie made a wonderful crinkling sound as he cracked the seal, and, as always, the first sip was the best.

  "That hits the spot," Marcus murmured. He took another sip and felt the tension in his neck slipping away. He rolled his shoulders. He felt so much better, but he didn't feel sleepy—quite the reverse. "Might as well do something useful," he said.

  He took his whiskey through to the front room, turning on light as he went. He'd laid his laptop out on the coffee table, thinking he'd use it in the morning to do some background research before he set out to explore the local area, but he may as well get started now.

  He sat down heavily on the overstuffed couch and lifted the lid of his MacBook Pro. Thankfully the cottage came with decent Wi-Fi and he'd checked the connection as soon as Elizabeth had left him to unpack.

  He took another sip as the Mac booted up, then he wasted no time in digging into his favorite genealogy sites. His eyes lit up as he scanned through his profiles and updates, and the minutes slipped away. This was why he was here. This was why he'd spent all those hours cooped up in a plane eating rubbery chicken and downing stale coffee. This was why he'd battled with the satnav and the rain and the tortuous English roads. He was here.

  His ancestors had lived and strived in and around Temple Ashton for decades. In fact, if it hadn't been for the second World War, Marcus might never have been born. But his granddaddy had been stationed at an airbase only ten miles from the town; he'd met grandma at a dance in Temple Ashton's Town Hall.

  Marcus took a break from the screen and swilled his whiskey around the tumbler, watching the golden liquid catch the light from his laptop. How different his life might have been if his grandparents had decided to settle here. Perhaps now he'd be living in a place like this, steeped in history. And he'd never have met Marcie. He'd never have thrown so much of his life into a doomed relationship.

  "Don't kid yourself," he muttered darkly. There were surely high-maintenance women like Marcie in every part of the world, and he'd always been a sucker for their fatal attractions. God knows why, he thought, and he downed the last of his whiskey. He put the empty glass on the table and stared at it. Why hadn't he taken up with a nice woman like Elizabeth? She seemed sturdy, sensible, down to earth.

  He pushed the thought away and stood up, stretching his back. Maybe he should go back to bed and try to sleep again. He closed his laptop and picked up his glass, then he stood for a moment, listening.

  Had he heard something outside?

  He tilted his head to one side, concentrating. The floorboards in the old cottage creaked every so often, but that couldn't explain this noise. It had been more like a scrabbling, scraping sound. Mice perhaps? Or a cat, scratching to be let inside?

  He went over to the window and pushed the heavy drapes aside. The farmyard was cloaked in darkness. Although there was a full moon, its light did little to help. The holiday cottages were arranged around three sides of the yard, all converted from old stone farm buildings according to Elizabeth, and the fourth side gave onto the main farmhouse. The tall buildings cast deep shadows and there were no streetlights here to lend their sodium orange tint to the night sky. Marcus peered up at the sky and picked out a couple of constellations. There was the big dipper, although they called it the great bear over here.

  It was a fine night and Marcus smiled to himself. But at that moment, the scrabbling noise echoed across the empty yard, and it was louder this time—closer. And too vigorous to be made by a cat. Marcus stood perfectly still, peering into the murky farmyard.

  What was that? A dark shape shifted and stirred. Something was moving, trying to hide in the shadows.

  A crash rang out: harsh, metallic. Marcus swallowed hard. Not something, he told himself, someone. Yes—someone was out there, and up to no good. Maybe they were breaking into the farmhouse. And Elizabeth was alone, wasn't she?

  He stepped back, letting the drape fall, and scanned the room for a suitable weapon, but there was nothing—not even a brass poker by the fireplace. He marched to the front door. There was no phone in the cottage and no signal for his cell phone. And even if he could call the police, they'd arrive too late, especially out here in the middle of nowhere. No. He'd have to deal with this himself. After all, most thieves were opportunists and cowards. As soon as they knew they'd been spotted, they'd make a run for it.

  He yanked the front door open and stood in the doorway, his shoulders squared. "Hey, you!" he yelled. "I see you. I've called the cops. Get the hell off this property!"

  He waited, holding his breath, but there was no response. "Go on," he called. "Get out of here!" And there was that scrabbling noise again. What the hell were they doing out there? Marcus opened his mouth to call out again, but before he could speak, a raucous screech reverberated across the yard. Marcus stepped back, a chill racing across his skin. What creature could make that awful sound? They didn't have dangerous wild animals over here, did they?

  Keeping his eyes on the yard, Marcus reached behind him, fumbling for the door handle. And as he stared in horror, he sensed a movement in the shadows. There was a growl and then something was running toward him, its claws clattering against the concrete as it ran.

  "No!" Marcus cried. And in that instant, a security light flashed into life and the yard was bathed in its dazzling glare. Its beams picked out the animal perfectly. It was no bigger than a spaniel, and its head bore a bold white stripe.

  "Jesus Christ!" Marcus hissed. He put his hand on his chest and pressed hard against his ribcage. It was a goddamned badger! Nothing more than a harmless badger.

  Startled by the light, the badger grunted and changed course, veering across the yard and slipping away into the night.

  Marcus stood on the threshold for a moment, forcing himself to breathe slowly. "Goddamnit," he muttered. "Ridiculous." He shook his head in disbelief. What if Elizabeth had heard him hollering like that? He could try and explain, but she'd surely mark him down as a brash and belligerent redneck.

  He looked over at the farmhouse. Oh god. A light came on at a downstairs window. He hesitated. He could wait and see if she looked out. He could give her a wave and let her know that everything was all right. But that might complicate things further.

  A shadowy figure appeared at the farmhouse window, and on an impulse, Marcus stepped back inside and closed the door. He switched off the light and stood in the darkened room, watching the glow of the security light. When it went out, he crossed to the window and carefully peered around the drapes.

  All the windows in the farmhouse were dark. "Thank God for that," Marcus said. Perhaps she would never know it was him who'd yelled, and he could forget about the whole sorry incident: pretend it had never happened. I sure hope so, he thought. He pictured Elizabeth looking askance at him every time they met, then he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head sadly. "Hell of a day," he said. "Time for bed."

  His eyes were accustomed to the gloom now, but even so, he put his hand on the wall for guidance and felt his way around the room. When he reached the stairs, he made his way up to the bedroom. He was suddenly tired. Very tired indeed.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2015 - TEMPLE ASHTON

  The moment Rob walked in through the coffee shop door, he knew he was in trouble. Sandra stormed toward him, her face like thunder. "What the hell's going on, Rob?"

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. "What? I'm not late. I've had a shave."

  "I'm talking about him." She pointed to the corner table by the window.

  Rob turned and when he saw the problem, his heart sank. The homeless guy from the day before was hunched over the table, his head in his hands, staring listlessly at
the wall. Rob searched his memory for the guy's name: David? No, it was Darren wasn't it?

  "I've asked him to leave," Sandra went on, "but he says he's waiting for you. He says he's a friend of yours."

  "No," Rob said. "I don't know him. I just gave him a coffee, that's all."

  Sandra rolled her eyes. "I should've known. He'll be turning up every day now, expecting a handout." She shook her head. "Get rid of him and don't let him make a fuss. Give him a coffee if you have to, but it's coming out of your wages."

  Rob nodded unhappily.

  "See to it then. I've got things to do." She turned and marched away, flashing her fake smile at the customers, all sweetness and light.

  Rob watched her for a moment. Bloody woman! He'd love to wipe that smile off her face. And he could do it too. So easily.

  He ran his hand over his mouth.

  "Rob, I could do with some help here."

  He snapped out of his daydream. Behind the counter, Maddie was trying to attract his attention. She nodded toward the queue of customers. "Getting busy," she said.

  "Sure," Rob said. "I've just got to do something for Sandra." He walked slowly over to the corner table.

  Darren looked even worse than the day before. The skin around his eyes was so dark it looked bruised, and a jagged scar trailed across his cheek. As Rob approached him, Darren sat up with a start, grabbing hold of the small table and curling his fingers around its edges, gripping it white-knuckle tight. But when he recognized Rob, his expression softened. "All right, mate?" he said, and he smiled, his eyes bright.

  For god's sake, why does he have to look so needy? Rob thought. It just makes it harder. He didn't return the smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. But you're not. What the hell happened to you?"

  Darren reached up to touch his cheek gingerly. "Rough night. Don't ask."

  "Fair enough," Rob said. He took a breath. "I hate to tell you this, mate, but unless you're going to buy something you've got to leave. I'm sorry."

  Darren's face fell. He looked down at the table for a moment, and when he looked back up, the light had gone from his dark eyes, replaced by the haunted stare from the day before. "Oh. I just thought, maybe..." He shook his head and stood up, swaying slightly on his feet.

  "Come on," Rob said. He nodded toward the door. "I'll see you out. Maybe I can slip you a coffee later, when my boss isn't around."

  Darren shook his head. "Don't worry. Forget it." And he shuffled to the door.

  Rob held the door open for him and a hard knot of anger twisted tighter in his gut. It wasn't right. All the guy wanted was to come in out the rain for ten minutes and have a hot drink. Meanwhile, the coffee franchise sold millions of over-priced drinks to people who didn't really need them, pocketing the profits while bending over backward to dodge their taxes. He'd a good mind to defy his boss and tell the poor guy he could stay after all, but Sandra had a mean streak and she'd make his life a living hell for months. It wasn't worth the hassle.

  As they stepped outside, Rob turned to Darren and said, "I'm sorry about this, mate. I really am." He gave Darren an apologetic smile and patted him gently on the arm.

  And Darren turned on him, his dark eyes flashing, his mouth twisted in a snarl. "Get your fucking hands off me!"

  "What?" Rob stepped back and came up against the coffee shop window.

  Darren stepped forward, forcing Rob back against the plate glass. "I'm sick of people like you," he hissed. "You think you can palm me off with a free drink and then wash your hands of me."

  "No," Rob protested. "It's not like that."

  "Course it is," Darren sneered. "I should've known. You bleeding hearts are all the same."

  Rob shook his head. "It was my boss, she said–"

  But Darren didn't let him finish. "Pathetic," he said. He snorted in disgust and started to turn away. But just as Rob drew a shaky breath, Darren turned back and pointed at Rob's face. "You're going to regret this," he hissed. "I never forget a face. Never." Then he spat on the ground and walked away.

  "Jesus Christ," Rob whispered. He ran his hand over his face and took one last look along the street to make sure Darren was still walking away, then he went back inside.

  ***

  As Marcus sauntered along the main street in Temple Ashton, he couldn't help but look up, despite the drizzle. He felt like grabbing his fellow shoppers by the arm and saying, "Can't you see what you're missing?" There was so much to see above the modern plate glass storefronts: a Victorian gable, a Georgian window, an ancient and elaborately carved gargoyle. Some of the stone walls were marked with crosses of cast iron: anchor points to prevent the thick walls from bulging. This place felt more like a movie set than a town.

  But then he found his prize. He stood still and gazed up at the building. Its upper stories were half-timbered: a grid of crooked black beams set into the white wall. It must be hundreds of years old. And beneath the impressive frontage, was a coffee shop. Perfect.

  Elizabeth had thoughtfully provided him with sachets of instant coffee in the cottage's kitchen, but his morning coffee had been weak and bitter. He needed a proper brew, and he needed it an hour ago. He rubbed his hands together and made ready to cross the road, hesitating as a delivery truck approached at an alarming speed. He wasn't sure if it was just the fact that everyone drove on the wrong side of the road here, but the drivers in town seemed like maniacs.

  He stood back to let the truck roll by then checked the traffic both ways. All was clear and he stepped into the road. He could smell the coffee, and it was very good indeed. But what the hell was this?

  There was some kind of altercation in the coffee shop doorway; it looked like some poor kid getting the bum's rush. Same the whole world over, he thought. And just like back at home, he was not sure how to deal with a situation like this. Marcus put his hand in his pocket and fumbled for the unfamiliar coins. But as he watched, the homeless kid stormed off along the street. Maybe just as well—the guy would only have blown the money on booze, Marcus thought, then immediately regretted it. It wasn't like him to be so small-minded. He frowned. He really needed that coffee.

  He squared his shoulders as he marched forward. The coffee shop employee retreated inside and Marcus repressed the urge to grab him by the shoulder and set him straight about a couple of things. Instead, he joined the people waiting patiently in line and glanced at the display of cakes and pastries. Marcie had never approved of his sweet tooth, but she wasn't here and he was on holiday, after all, goddamnit. He decided he'd ask for a croissant. And maybe he'd get an extra shot in his coffee while he was at it.

  ***

  Rob watched the tourist settle himself at his table. American, he thought. That was interesting. He'd listened carefully as Maddie had taken the man's order. American tourists weren't ordinary in Temple Ashton, especially at this time of year. And this man didn't seem like he was on holiday. He'd watched Rob like a hawk as he'd prepared his coffee, and scowled as he'd received his order.

  Rob wiped the counter down, watching the tourist from the corner of his eye. The man was setting up a laptop now. Of course, it had to be a MacBook Pro. The sight almost made Rob drool. If he had a machine like that, he'd get lots of college work done. He'd enjoy it. There'd be no stopping him. But instead, he had to put up with a crappy old PC that worked when it felt like it and spent the rest of the time in an electronic sulk—refusing to respond or crashing out completely.

  Rob checked that Sandra was nowhere in sight then slipped out from behind the counter and went to clear some tables. The table behind the American was cluttered with dirty cups and plates, and as Rob stacked them, it gave him a great opportunity to spy over the man's shoulder. It looked like the guy was struggling with the coffee shop's Wi-Fi. Rob took a breath and seized his chance.

  "Excuse me, sir," he said. "Are you having trouble?"

  The man turned sharply in his seat. "What?"

  "Are you having trouble with the Wi-Fi? It's just that I saw your computer, and sometimes people hav
e a problem connecting. There's interference from the shop next door."

  "Oh. I see," the man grumbled. "Now that you mention it, it does seem a little cranky."

  Rob smiled and indicated the keyboard. "I can set it up for you. Do you mind?"

  The man sat back with a sigh. "Go ahead," he said. "This stuff always seems so easy to your generation."

  "Years of practice," Rob said. He leaned over the table and pulled the laptop nearer. In moments, the Wi-Fi connected and the browser sprang to life. "The router is dual band," Rob said, "but we have separate SSIDs and passwords for each frequency." He lowered his voice. "I'm not really meant to do this, but I logged you into the frequency they use in the office. It's much better. Less interference."

  The man nodded thoughtfully. "I'll pretend I understand some of that," he said with a smile. "Thanks for your help."

  Rob stood up straight and shrugged. "No problem. Here to help." He hesitated. "Are you here on holiday?"

  "Kind of," the man said. "I'm looking into my family tree."

  "Interesting," Rob said. "Staying locally?"

  The man frowned.

  "It's just that, your laptop will remember this network, so if you're in town and you come back in, it should connect straight away."

  "Ah, I see. Yes, I'm staying out of town, up at Great Leigh Farm."

  Rob nodded. "I think I know it." He glanced over to the counter. Sandra was there now, watching him carefully. "Well, I'd better get back to work. Good luck with your research."

  "Sure," the man said. "Thanks for your help."

  "No problem," Rob said. Then he cleared the neighboring table and made his way to the kitchen. Great Leigh Farm, he thought. Interesting.

  MONDAY NIGHT