Witch(3)

From deep within the farmhouse, I heard the sound of heavy footfalls descending from above. I looked back at the door to see a guy of about thirty enter the kitchen. This guy was stocky, with a well-built body. I could have practically climbed the humpty-bumps of his six-pack, which were plainly visible beneath the tight white T-Shirt he was wearing. I didn’t know what relation he was to the farmer, but knowing my luck, it was probably his younger gay lover.

“This here is my son,” the farmer said. “He’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

I looked at the farmer then back at his son. Other than the muscular forearms, there was no other similarity, thank Christ. Unlike the other guys I had fooled about with in the past, Michael was older and had an air of confidence – maturity – which the others hadn’t always had. He had unruly, curly black hair, which draped across his brow and around his neck like a bunch of springs. He was unshaven, but not so much that he had a beard – just a shadow of black bristles – and I couldn’t help but get a tingling sensation as I quickly imagined what they would feel like against my skin. His eyes were a pale green, and his complexion was bright and ruddy, I guessed due to all the hours spent working the fields in bad weather. He wore a pair of scruffy jeans, and his feet were bare. He knew I was looking at him with more than a casual stare. I looked away, not before I saw his eyes twinkle mischievously back at me.

“Officer,” he said, coming towards me, holding out his hand.

“Constable Sydney Hart,” I smiled back at him.

He shook my hand, his fingers strong and rough as they enclosed around my fist. At first I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but Michael held my hand just a fraction longer than perhaps was necessary.

“Constable,” he smiled, releasing my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“She needs a statement or summin’,” the farmer cut in. “I don’t have the time. If I’d known calling you out was going to cause so much trouble, I wouldn’t ‘ave bothered.”

“It’s no trouble,” I said, looking back at him, and as I turned my head, I could see that his son was now studying me. It was like his eyes were boring through my uniform, as if I were standing in the dimly-lit kitchen naked. It didn’t make me feel uncomfortable – I was used to it. With my blond hair, full lips, and petite figure, I had grown used to men staring googly-eyed at me, or practically tripping over their tongues as they turned their heads to take a second look. It was just men – it’s what they did. Since joining the police force, I had only to turn up at a drunken stag night to have groups of pissed-up men holding out their wrists and begging me to arrest them. The only date I would’ve given them was with the custody officer when they sobered up the following morning.

Turning to look at the farmer, I said, “It’s just that I have to take a few details so I can file a report...”

“Well, my son can tell you all you need to know,” he moaned, heading towards the back door and pulling it open. “It was Michael who found the busted lock.” Then he was gone, heading back out across the fields to do whatever it was he so urgently needed to attend to. I kind of got the impression that if I had been up for storming over to the witches’ place, as he had called them, he would’ve taken a little more interest in the crime reporting process. But as there obviously wasn’t going to be any lynch mob forming today, the farmer had lost interest.

“Take no notice of my father,” Michael suddenly said. “He can be a miserable old sod at times.”

I turned around to discover Michael had moved from the kitchen door and was now leaning back against the sink, his thick arms folded across his chest.

“Aren’t you a little bit young?” he said.

“What do you mean?” I quizzed him.

“To be a copper, I mean,” he half-smiled.

I couldn’t be sure if he was being patronizing, teasing me, or just flirting.

“I’m old enough,” I said with a stare.

“For what?” he grinned.

“For all sorts of things,” I smiled back.

There was a pause as we eyed each other across the kitchen. Feeling uncomfortable for the first time since I had laid eyes on Michael, I took out my pocket notebook, and said, “If you just tell me what happened, I can write up my notes.”

“So how old are you?” he asked, ignoring my question, not wanting to leave the previous topic.

“Twenty,” I said, my eyes still fixed on my notebook.

“Legal then?” he pushed, and I knew even without looking up at him that he was smiling.