you’ll be gone before long – Cressida starts filming The Unfeeling with Randy Rory next week and my guts tell me it’s all going to kick off then. Now get lost.’
Back in the cottage he wasn’t surprised to see that the fire in the front room had died in his absence. He went and got the duvet, noticing that the bedroom fire had extinguished itself too, and wrapped himself up to lie on the smelly sofa.
Everything about the cottage depressed him, from the way you could only get enough hot water for a bath that barely covered your legs, to the dark-wood wardrobes in the bedrooms that looked like coffins. It felt like the kind of place lots of people had died in, and when he looked at the lumpy single bed in the spare room with its crocheted cover, he wondered whether one of the bodies was still in there.
At least that would explain the smell.
By the time he laced up his walking boots that evening, he had worked himself up into a nasty stew of bitterness and when he arrived outside the Roman Sentry in Yarfield he wanted to punch something or someone. Preferably a northerner, or failing that, O’Dowd.
It hadn’t just been three miles through enemy territory; it had been three miles and then another foot-chewing extra half-mile. He was sure he had blisters coming.
He’d felt horribly exposed walking through all that green, sure that out there in the dark there had been something, or more likely lots of somethings watchinghim. If the torch went out would they move in for the kill? His heart had been permanently thudding at every rustle in the long grass, every weird cry from God knew what. Once, the torch beam had picked out two horrible shining eyes by a fence and he’d yelped and stumbled on to his hands and knees. When he’d retrieved the torch there had been an indignant baa and a sheep had peeled away into the darkness. Not far from the pub, something white had come out of the sky towards him before veering away. He was convinced it had been a vulture.
His hands were frozen, but his body was sweaty from walking in his jumper, fleece and cagoule with his bandana wrapped round the lower half of his face. Fantastic, now everyone’s first impression of him would be of a cold-handed, sweaty, smelly, wild-eyed nutter.
He reached out for the handle on the pub door, his determination to get the job done the strongest it had been since O’Dowd had blackmailed him into doing it. If he had to be especially sly or even hard-hearted, so be it. Get the job done and bugger off back home.
He stuck a hearty, slightly gung-ho expression on his face and walked into a large room with sepia views of the countryside on the whitewashed walls and a healthier fire in the grate than the ones he’d managed to get going. A group of men sitting round a table turned to stare at him.
‘You here for the Drama-Club meeting?’ the barman called and Mack heard one of the men at the table tut.
When Mack admitted he was, the barman said, ‘They’re out back. Sonia said you’d be coming. Get you a drink?’
Despite desperately wanting a vodka and tonic, he bought Matt Harper a pint of something called ‘Sheep’s Tackle’ and headed towards an archway at the back of the room, aware that the surge of adrenalin now roaring around his body was taking his mind off his sore heels. He glanced at his watch. Only five past seven, she might not be here yet.
Under the arch he went and had to conclude that no, she definitely wasn’t here yet, unless she was an old lady of about eighty dressed in a lilac suit, one of two men or a full-sized snooker table jammed up against the far wall.
The man facing him with a pinched little face and a turned-down mouth had given him an unfriendly look when he’d walked in, but the other bloke, the one with his back to him, had turned and smiled. His eyebrows were so thick and dark, Mack had thought for an instant that he had black masking tape stuck on his face, and those, along with his short, closely
Back in the cottage he wasn’t surprised to see that the fire in the front room had died in his absence. He went and got the duvet, noticing that the bedroom fire had extinguished itself too, and wrapped himself up to lie on the smelly sofa.
Everything about the cottage depressed him, from the way you could only get enough hot water for a bath that barely covered your legs, to the dark-wood wardrobes in the bedrooms that looked like coffins. It felt like the kind of place lots of people had died in, and when he looked at the lumpy single bed in the spare room with its crocheted cover, he wondered whether one of the bodies was still in there.
At least that would explain the smell.
By the time he laced up his walking boots that evening, he had worked himself up into a nasty stew of bitterness and when he arrived outside the Roman Sentry in Yarfield he wanted to punch something or someone. Preferably a northerner, or failing that, O’Dowd.
It hadn’t just been three miles through enemy territory; it had been three miles and then another foot-chewing extra half-mile. He was sure he had blisters coming.
He’d felt horribly exposed walking through all that green, sure that out there in the dark there had been something, or more likely lots of somethings watchinghim. If the torch went out would they move in for the kill? His heart had been permanently thudding at every rustle in the long grass, every weird cry from God knew what. Once, the torch beam had picked out two horrible shining eyes by a fence and he’d yelped and stumbled on to his hands and knees. When he’d retrieved the torch there had been an indignant baa and a sheep had peeled away into the darkness. Not far from the pub, something white had come out of the sky towards him before veering away. He was convinced it had been a vulture.
His hands were frozen, but his body was sweaty from walking in his jumper, fleece and cagoule with his bandana wrapped round the lower half of his face. Fantastic, now everyone’s first impression of him would be of a cold-handed, sweaty, smelly, wild-eyed nutter.
He reached out for the handle on the pub door, his determination to get the job done the strongest it had been since O’Dowd had blackmailed him into doing it. If he had to be especially sly or even hard-hearted, so be it. Get the job done and bugger off back home.
He stuck a hearty, slightly gung-ho expression on his face and walked into a large room with sepia views of the countryside on the whitewashed walls and a healthier fire in the grate than the ones he’d managed to get going. A group of men sitting round a table turned to stare at him.
‘You here for the Drama-Club meeting?’ the barman called and Mack heard one of the men at the table tut.
When Mack admitted he was, the barman said, ‘They’re out back. Sonia said you’d be coming. Get you a drink?’
Despite desperately wanting a vodka and tonic, he bought Matt Harper a pint of something called ‘Sheep’s Tackle’ and headed towards an archway at the back of the room, aware that the surge of adrenalin now roaring around his body was taking his mind off his sore heels. He glanced at his watch. Only five past seven, she might not be here yet.
Under the arch he went and had to conclude that no, she definitely wasn’t here yet, unless she was an old lady of about eighty dressed in a lilac suit, one of two men or a full-sized snooker table jammed up against the far wall.
The man facing him with a pinched little face and a turned-down mouth had given him an unfriendly look when he’d walked in, but the other bloke, the one with his back to him, had turned and smiled. His eyebrows were so thick and dark, Mack had thought for an instant that he had black masking tape stuck on his face, and those, along with his short, closely
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