Leah felt her cheeks colour with irritation. ‘Well, as I was about to explain, I’m looking for somebody who—’
‘Are you a journalist?’ the man demanded.
‘Well, yes, I am,’ Leah answered, taken aback.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ the man exclaimed, rubbing his eyes viciously with his spare hand. Leah was too startled to respond. ‘How did you find me? Who gave you this address? Can’t you people take a hint – like bugger off? If I wanted to talk to any of you, do you think I’d have come all the way out here?’
‘I … I can assure you that whatever you think, I—’
‘Just don’t bother. I’ve heard every possible sodding pretext from you lot over the last three months. Get off my doorstep. Is it just you, or can I expect a steady stream of you to start turning up?’ he said, coldly.
‘No, no – it’s just me. I—’
‘Good. Keep it that way. And get lost.’ The man enunciated each word with furious clarity. He slammed the door in her face, and Leah stood still for twenty seconds or more, too stunned to move.
Eventually, her blood singing with indignation, and anger giving her a faint headache at her temples, Leah knocked again, as loudly as she could, and for a long time. But there was no response from the grey-eyed man, or anybody else who might be there, and no sounds from inside whatsoever. It began to rain steadily, and Leah was forced to retreat. She returned to her car, took out her notebook and wrote Natives hostile with an ironic flourish on the first blank page; then she sat and watched the rain for a little while, as it pattered and pooled and trickled down her windscreen. Ryan loved the rain. Even this reminded her of him, and she lived in a country famous for it. She thought of the dead soldier’s wet hair, the way it had been slick against his skull. How much rain had fallen on his body, as he had lain undiscovered for a hundred years? She imagined it tickling skin that could no longer feel; soaking through clothes to flesh that could no longer shiver. Firmly, she banished the thoughts. She did not want the dead man turning up in her dreams.
She made her way back to the main road, then turned and followed the A4 into Thatcham. She parked up and wandered around for quarter of an hour, quickly establishing that she would not want to stay in any of the pubs in the small town. The main shopping street, called The Broadway, was occupied by bottomend chain stores and tiny bank branches. People moved steadily through the growing downpour, their faces and eyes downturned, feet resignedly skirting the grubby puddles. It looked as downbeat and sad as only a small town at the messy end of winter can look. There was an old-fashioned bookshop, though, in which Leah spent a pleasant half-hour browsing and drying out. She bought two books on local history, and got a recommendation from the lady at the till for a good pub, The Swing Bridge, that did bed and breakfast, halfway back towards Cold Ash Holt and down a side lane next to the canal. Leah made her way there, and was shown to a room heavy with chintz and over-stuffed cushions. But it was warm, and had a wide, sweeping view of the rain-sodden water meadows lying to the east. In the distance, through a spindly row of poplar trees, Leah thought she could make out the spire of Cold Ash Holt church. She made herself a cup of tea from the tray, and sat, lost in thought, at the window.
*
The Swing Bridge had a largely local clientele who sat in groups at the bar and on benches along sticky wooden tables, and greeted each new arrival with nods and smiles and soft, drawled words. Leah came down for her dinner at eight and was shown into the restaurant area, which was off to one side of the bar, colder, and painfully empty. She sat at a table laid for two, positioning herself so she could at least see through into the bar. The empty room behind her made the back of her neck prickle. She ordered fish and chips, and wished she’d brought a book with her for cover. She’d had vague ideas about joining a group of locals, and learning some local legends from them, but their conversations all seemed too personal, their groups so closed that she was suddenly too shy to interrupt. There were enough bones left in her fish to keep her occupied.
When she next looked up, she noticed with a start that she was no longer the only person sitting alone. Perched on a barstool, knees gaping uncomfortably to either side, was the man from The Old Rectory. Even though her view of him had been a shadowed glimpse, she was sure it was him. He hadn’t bothered taking off his coat – a shapeless, faded green anorak – and he had a navy blue woollen hat pulled down low on his head. Quite the casual local, Leah thought; but when she looked down at his feet, his boots were of smooth brown leather, the laces tied tightly around sturdy brass studs. They were too clean, and too expensive. Leah’s curiosity mounted. The man was clearly trying not to be noticed, trying not to be recognised. As it was, she saw more than one glance aimed in his direction, more than one muttered comment passed. The man stared resolutely at the drip tray in front of him, and drank a pint of bitter with dogged resolve.