they?’ My shoulders sagged. ‘Well, you’d better take the cake.’ I thrust the bag towards him.
Ash seemed to find speaking difficult. ‘You think I’d trust you?’
‘You think I’d poison a cake?’ I countered, disgusted.
‘I think Deverick might.’
‘You have got to be kidding me!’
‘Well, perhaps not. But only because it would be a bit obvious. Do you know him well?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘He’s a manipulative bastard.’ That wasn’t the whole truth, but it would do. Ash surprised me by laughing.
‘Oh, you noticed that, did you?’
I pulled a face. ‘Anyway, Michael didn’t make the cake, my mum did. And I made the sloe gin last year.’ I pulled it from the bag. ‘Want me to prove it’s safe?’ I twisted off the cap and tilted the bottle to my lips, taking a good obvious glug. Rain washed my upturned face but I hardly felt it as the warmth of the spirit hit my throat and the distilled flavour of autumn hedges engulfed me like an embrace. ‘See,’ I said, gasping slightly, ‘it’s fine.’ I passed him the bottle. He took it from my hand and put it to his lips, never taking his eyes off my face, as if he were answering some challenge.
I grinned.
‘Very nice. Avril, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve been asking around?’
‘I talked to a gardener. Older man. He said you were his boss.’
I shrugged and nodded. The gin had roared straight to my head.
‘Do you know what it is that Deverick’s doing here?’
‘No.’
‘Then be careful. He’s using you, Avril. In ways you can’t even imagine.’
‘You what?’
‘Did he tell you what happened to the men he sent into Grange Wood before you?’
I shook my head.
‘The first one died. Ask him.’ Ash took the bag from my hand. ‘Thanks. If Deverick did send it, tell him I’ve got a bezoar and he’s wasting his time.’
‘What the hell’s a bezoar?’
Ash smiled enigmatically ‘Just tell him.’ His attention switched to the darkness behind me. ‘You came out after dusk after what happened the other day? Do you remember what I told you?’ When I didn’t respond he added sharply, ‘Bull Peter?’
‘I wasn’t just imagining him then?’ I said weakly, trying to make it a joke.
‘That’d be one hell of an imagination you have.’
‘I brought a big torch.’ The alcohol was making my cheeks burn.
He looked me over thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got guts.’
It seemed a dismissal. He watched as I retreated to the gate and climbed over, doing my best to look dignified. Only when I was safely on the other side did the disappointment hit me. It was getting on for really dark now, I was on my own again and not even bribery could thaw the attitude of the best-looking man within miles.
The best-looking man who wasn’t my unscrupulous and possibly dangerous employer. ‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to myself.
I was nearly home, in fact I was just coming up to the back of the cottage, when above the rattle of raindrops on my hood I heard a snort and round the corner of the building stepped a familiar bull-horned figure. My heart leapt into my throat then crashed back into my stomach. ‘Oh Christ!’
He snorted again, softly. I could see the gleam of his rain-slick skin. His dark eyes flashed rings of white.
‘Stop there!’ I snapped, raising the torch in both hands. ‘Don’t move or you know what I’ll do!’
The threat was pathetic, but he stopped dead. His broad chest rose and fell.
‘Oh, you do understand English then?’ I should have switched the torch on anyway, but I didn’t. The smell of wet cow wafted to me. I took a cautious pace forwards. ‘Bull Peter? Is that your name?’
His head tilted, bovine ears flicking forwards to catch my voice. I could see his nostrils flaring and narrowing with every breath. His neck was very thick, his head – apart from the horns and the ears – human but blunt and heavyset, with chestnut curls on his scalp. His skin was precisely the same
Ash seemed to find speaking difficult. ‘You think I’d trust you?’
‘You think I’d poison a cake?’ I countered, disgusted.
‘I think Deverick might.’
‘You have got to be kidding me!’
‘Well, perhaps not. But only because it would be a bit obvious. Do you know him well?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘He’s a manipulative bastard.’ That wasn’t the whole truth, but it would do. Ash surprised me by laughing.
‘Oh, you noticed that, did you?’
I pulled a face. ‘Anyway, Michael didn’t make the cake, my mum did. And I made the sloe gin last year.’ I pulled it from the bag. ‘Want me to prove it’s safe?’ I twisted off the cap and tilted the bottle to my lips, taking a good obvious glug. Rain washed my upturned face but I hardly felt it as the warmth of the spirit hit my throat and the distilled flavour of autumn hedges engulfed me like an embrace. ‘See,’ I said, gasping slightly, ‘it’s fine.’ I passed him the bottle. He took it from my hand and put it to his lips, never taking his eyes off my face, as if he were answering some challenge.
I grinned.
‘Very nice. Avril, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve been asking around?’
‘I talked to a gardener. Older man. He said you were his boss.’
I shrugged and nodded. The gin had roared straight to my head.
‘Do you know what it is that Deverick’s doing here?’
‘No.’
‘Then be careful. He’s using you, Avril. In ways you can’t even imagine.’
‘You what?’
‘Did he tell you what happened to the men he sent into Grange Wood before you?’
I shook my head.
‘The first one died. Ask him.’ Ash took the bag from my hand. ‘Thanks. If Deverick did send it, tell him I’ve got a bezoar and he’s wasting his time.’
‘What the hell’s a bezoar?’
Ash smiled enigmatically ‘Just tell him.’ His attention switched to the darkness behind me. ‘You came out after dusk after what happened the other day? Do you remember what I told you?’ When I didn’t respond he added sharply, ‘Bull Peter?’
‘I wasn’t just imagining him then?’ I said weakly, trying to make it a joke.
‘That’d be one hell of an imagination you have.’
‘I brought a big torch.’ The alcohol was making my cheeks burn.
He looked me over thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got guts.’
It seemed a dismissal. He watched as I retreated to the gate and climbed over, doing my best to look dignified. Only when I was safely on the other side did the disappointment hit me. It was getting on for really dark now, I was on my own again and not even bribery could thaw the attitude of the best-looking man within miles.
The best-looking man who wasn’t my unscrupulous and possibly dangerous employer. ‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to myself.
I was nearly home, in fact I was just coming up to the back of the cottage, when above the rattle of raindrops on my hood I heard a snort and round the corner of the building stepped a familiar bull-horned figure. My heart leapt into my throat then crashed back into my stomach. ‘Oh Christ!’
He snorted again, softly. I could see the gleam of his rain-slick skin. His dark eyes flashed rings of white.
‘Stop there!’ I snapped, raising the torch in both hands. ‘Don’t move or you know what I’ll do!’
The threat was pathetic, but he stopped dead. His broad chest rose and fell.
‘Oh, you do understand English then?’ I should have switched the torch on anyway, but I didn’t. The smell of wet cow wafted to me. I took a cautious pace forwards. ‘Bull Peter? Is that your name?’
His head tilted, bovine ears flicking forwards to catch my voice. I could see his nostrils flaring and narrowing with every breath. His neck was very thick, his head – apart from the horns and the ears – human but blunt and heavyset, with chestnut curls on his scalp. His skin was precisely the same
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