I spend the rest of my first evening relaxing. I take a long hot shower, warm up a tin of soup and dip some of Mrs Richardson’s fresh-baked bread in it. Then I pig out on more of her scones I find in my bread bin. I gather from Mrs Richardson—the fount of all local wisdom and knowledge—that the nearest food shops are in Haworth, about five miles away. I’ll drive down there tomorrow, get properly stocked up on junk food. I also want to check out the tourist shops, especially anything remotely like an art gallery where I might be able to get my prints on display.
I clamber into bed, exhausted, at about nine thirty. Despite everything, I muse, life’s good. It hasn’t always been, but just now, it’s really pretty peachy.
* * * *
The next three days are occupied exploring my new neighborhood and setting up my housekeeping, such as it is. I’m no domestic goddess, but I can warm up a ready meal or two. And Mrs Richardson seems inclined to help feed me too. The day after I arrived she phoned to ask if I wanted to have tea with her and Rosie. I accepted. We had home-made ham and mushroom pizza and ice cream to finish. Rosie’s favorite I gather. Mine too probably.
The famous vending machine is about a fifteen-minute walk from Smithy’s Forge and does indeed stock fresh milk, eggs, spuds, bacon and bread. I even had to queue to use it because I arrived just after a bunch of about fifteen Japanese hikers, all wanting to top up their supplies and lug them along the Brontë Way. And those bags of spuds don’t look especially light to me. Still, who am I to comment?
Quite often I meet up with Rosie and Barney as I’m strolling up the moorland hills behind my cottage looking for some decent viewpoints to photograph. I’m eager to start building my portfolio. Turns out Rosie knows these moors like the back of her hand, a proper little Emily Brontë in the making, and she has appointed herself as my guide. She shows me the tourist hotspots of Brontë Falls and Top Withens as well as some of her own favorite places. My collection of landscapes is looking quite promising.
My choice to relocate here in West Yorkshire was not random or casual. This location is perfect for what I have in mind. My plan is to build up a range of pictures, especially panoramics, celebrating and showcasing the natural beauty of this area. The best of these I’ll have professionally printed, some onto canvas, others as posters. And I’ll negotiate with local tourist trade retailers to stock my stuff, sell it in situ, to visitors and locals. But mainly visitors, I expect. I’ve already spotted a couple of likely outlets in Haworth, so now I need some decent samples of my artwork to show them. My proposition will be that I will supply the stuff to them for free—they’ll display it, sell it and take a cut of the proceeds. There’s little or no risk to my partners, no outlay required from them, so I’m optimistic I’ll get some takers.
Once I’ve established myself here, I can look at other areas in the vicinity. The Yorkshire Dales are only an hour or so away, the North York Moors a little farther. The Lake District is two hours away, so is the Peak District. I intend to develop my materials in each of those places, identify local outlets to partner with, and replicate my model in other tourist areas, the national parks and areas of outstanding natural beauty. And once I’m done with those, and if I want to venture farther afield, there’s Snowdonia to start on.
Oh yes, this place is ideal.
This is my fourth day here now, and I’m just beginning to feel I’ve got the lie of the land a bit now. I’ve had my tea at Black Combe twice, and it’s a wonderful feeling to have friends. Just ordinary, nice friends. I know which shops to head for in Haworth. I’ve made myself known at the post office in case there’s any mail for me from Gloucester University or my solicitor. I’ve got a form from the medical center to register with a GP—important because I tend to suffer from violent migraines. There’s medication I can take to help control the problem—the prison doctor prescribed it for me and it worked a treat—so I need to get a supply sorted out here. Even Sadie seems to have gotten over the trauma of the trip up here and her introduction to Barney, and is content to snooze her life away on her favorite cushion.
It’s late afternoon following another delightful and fruitful excursion up onto the surrounding moorland. It’s been a misty day, damp and drizzling, with absolutely fabulous lights and shades up on the moorland hills. I have some absolutely stunning shots to work with, even if I do say so myself. I was soaking wet when I arrived back at Smithy’s Forge, courtesy of a sudden downpour as I was making my way home, so I took a quick shower when I got in. I was so excited about today’s pictures I just pulled my old toweling bathrobe on before getting to work on editing today’s shots. I tied the belt tightly around my waist, thinking I could dry underneath it and get dressed later. Or not. Since I live completely alone now it’s up to me.
I’m completely engrossed in tweaking and tinkering with my pictures via the wonders of Photoshop, my laptop set up on the table by the window to benefit from the best light, when a sharp knock at the door rattles around my quiet little home.
Startled, for a moment I forget where I am, forget that this is a safe place. My home now. I stifle the urge to hide, and instead call out, deliberately shoe-horning at least the suggestion of confidence into my voice, “Who is it?”
A male voice answers, “Tom Shore.”
Tom Shore. My landlord. I need to thank him properly for the welcome pack and the logs. And for directing me to Black Combe first instead of leaving me to try to find this place on my own. And for letting me keep my cat. I glance out of the window and see a battered, khaki-colored Land Rover parked on the narrow road outside. I’d have preferred to meet my new landlord fully dressed, but I guess I’m decent enough in my ankle-length thick toweling bathrobe. And he has turned up unexpectedly, he can’t really complain. I leap up, pull my belt nice and tight round my waist, and pad barefoot across the room to open the door, a big smile plastered across my face.
And the bottom drops out of my world.
It’s him. The man from the riverside in Bristol. The man Kenny and his dickhead mates mugged, the very same man whose state-of-the-art camera is now sitting on my table. It couldn’t be more prominent and incriminating if it were illuminated in green neon. Exhibit A, m’lud.
I feel the blood drain from my face as I wait for him to recognize me. Without a shadow of a doubt I know that matters will not take long to be resolved from there. I’m dead. Simple as that.
If I’d been able to lay claim to even the remotest shred of composure I might have slammed the door in his face, made some sort of excuse and made a run for it. It wouldn’t have taken me more than a few minutes to sling everything I own back in my car and be out of here. But in that moment, unfortunately, presence of mind eludes me entirely. Instead, I stand in the open doorway gaping at him.
“Is this a bad time? I can come back later if you’d prefer…?” He makes no move to enter the cottage, just stands there, on my doorstep, a puzzled expression on his face. His very pretty face, I now idly note. It was dark when I last saw him and he was covered in mud. And his eye was swollen and pretty much closed, none of which enhanced his appearance. But now he looks fine, better than fine, he’s stunning. He’s absolutely beautiful in that male way that some men can manage and seem to find so effortless. Men who are perfect.
Tall, solid, golden—Tom Shore is without any doubt at all the most gorgeous specimen of masculinity I have ever come across. Not that I’m a connoisseur exactly, but still, even I notice these things. He’s also big. Huge, in fact, towering over me despite standing on the step below me. And the last time he saw me he promised faithfully to wring my neck if he ever got his hands on me. Well, now’s his chance. This won’t take long.
“Are you okay, Miss McAllister? You don’t look well…”
Still I stare, desperately searching for something, anything, to say. Anything to get rid of him.
He’s obviously baffled by my bizarre behavior, but valiantly hanging onto his good manners. All very commendable really, which is more than could be said for me as I make no attempt to either ask him to come back later, or invite him in. I’m just rooted to the spot, and speechless with fear.
Clearly at something of a loss, he tries once more. “Look, I can tell it’s not a great time. I’ve got some papers for you, and I need to take a quick reading from the electricity meter if that’s okay. Then I’ll get off and leave you to it. Okay?”
Still I stand in the doorway. Still I make no response. And now he’s beginning to lose his patience—there’s a distinct edge to his voice, of what I’m not sure, but it unnerves me even more.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Miss McAllister? Look, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I do need to just come in for a moment…?” He’s looking at me, and makes to step forward.
That’s all it takes, and I lose it. “Get out! Get back and leave me alone!” I try to slam the door in his face, but it’s already much too late.
The door bounces off his shoulder and I scramble frantically back into my little sitting room, clutching my terry robe to my chest as I try to run for the stairs. I trip over the hem of my bathrobe and find myself on my knees behind my fireside chair. I hear his footsteps, heavy on the solid wooden floor, as he quickly skirts the cluttered furniture to reach me. I’m desperately scuttling across the floor as he looms over me, his shadow blocking out the light from my small window. He crouches in front of me, trapping me between the chair and the wall.
“Whoa, Miss McAllister. I only want to drop off your lease contract and read your meter. I’m a farmer, not a bloody ax murderer. Here, let me help you up.” He holds out his hand, and I cower away from him, covering my head with my arms. Perplexed, and no doubt by now convinced he’s got a total nutcase for a tenant, he drops his outstretched hand, stands, backs away.
“I’ve upset you, obviously. I don’t know how, but I’m sorry. I’ll leave the contract on the table. And I’ll just check the meter then I’m gone, okay?” He strides away from me into my tiny kitchenette, crouches in front of the cupboard under my little sink, then he’s back, passing me on his way out.
“There, done.” He turns, and I peep up at him in time to catch him looking longingly at the door, still swinging open. Seems he can’t wait to get out of here and away from his crazy new tenant. But he stops. He keeps his distance but still he’s here, dominating my tiny home.
“You sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He’s making no move toward me, but looking at me very carefully now.
Still totally unable to function normally, I shiver and try to curl myself into a tinier ball. And that’s my undoing. Maybe if I’d been able to keep my nerve, act more naturally, brazen it out, he’d never have made the connection. But no, I’ve got to draw attention to myself by groveling on the floor, at his feet. Now, that’s me looking familiar. It was only a matter of time before he started to put it together.
“Have we met before, Miss McAllister?”
Oh God! Oh Christ!
“You look like… You remind me of someone. I’m not sure, though…” There are a few more seconds of silence as he rifles through the recesses of his memory looking for me, for where he’s seen me before. Then, inevitably, he has it.
“Fucking hell! It’s you.” He doesn’t raise his voice. His tone is icy, withering. And all the more terrifying for that. But he does now come over to me, and I can see his boots a few inches from my hip as he stops alongside me, glaring down no doubt at this heap of rubbish shivering on his nice, polished wood floor.
“You thieving little bitch. I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”
In that instant, in that clash of recognition, my old life comes hurtling back at me in all its undimmed ugliness, the violence and the fear still intact and ready to engulf me once more. I’m choking on toxic, soul-shredding terror. I experience a moment of bewildered, horrified disbelief. How did this happen? What’s this ghost from my past doing parading up and down in his steel toe-capped work boots in my wonderful, shiny new present as though he’s every right to be here? And poisoning my future.
I remember him vividly from our one previous encounter on that dark, damp riverside in Bristol as being a large man, muscular, solid. But now he just seems huge, monstrous, my small cottage dwarfed by him. I know how this is going to end. Kenny was handy with his fists, I’ve been beaten up by a man before. Many times. But I suspect this will be the last time. I probably won’t survive this. Not only is Tom Shore three times my size, he also hates me. With good reason. He has a score to settle.
Tom Shore, my landlord in Yorkshire, the owner of my beautiful new home, whose goodwill is so fundamental to my well-being now, is the same man whose pockets and briefcase I rifled through eighteen months ago in Bristol as he lay battered and bleeding in the mud. And now, it’s his turn.
He’s standing over me. I don’t raise my head but I can see his work boots, dusty and well worn. I stupidly wonder why he’s not wearing wellingtons. He’s a farmer, he said. I thought they all wore wellingtons. His jeans are blue denim, also well worn, soft. He’s not shouting at me, but his voice is low, controlled, ominous. More dangerous somehow.
“What the fuck are you doing here? And where’re the rest of your thieving crew? Have you followed me here? So help me, if you robbing bastards have started your bloody antics here I’ll strangle you, and let the police have what’s left when I’m done.”
I don’t answer. I just huddle on the floor, trying to shrivel even smaller than usual. I’m not even crying—terror has pushed me far beyond that, robbed me of any voice at all.