4. 4.
4.
T he meal Darach had prepared wasn’t terrible. Better than tinned oxtail soup. Eating after that particular demonstration, however, proved difficult. Folke could’ve sworn the men were watching him, the silence impenetrable between them. So thick he felt suffocated by it. Every clink of his fork against the plate seemed worse than a thunderclap directly inside the front room.
And there was thunder.
Outside.
Deep rumblings forming into roars, vibrating the window panes.
“Do storms like this happen often here?” asked Finlay.
Folke swallowed, coughing against a grain of beef trapped in his throat. “Not like this.”
His poor Garments.
“They’ll be alright, Shepherd.” Darach, as if reading his mind. Or the slump in his shoulders.
Folke couldn’t respond, setting the fork down before turning toward the fire. He’d always enjoyed the way its heat seeped into his bones, warming him through better than a shot of whisky.
Whisky.
Folke had never been one for alcohol. Wouldn’t even know of its taste were it not for Eleanor bringing a bottle to celebrate her hard earned rank of Sergeant two years ago. Not that Crossing Wells ever saw much crime, its residents too old to cause trouble. People going missing was the worst that ever happened in the village. Usually the elderly walking off, or the rare teenager longing for a city life.
Or herds of sheep disappearing into thin air.
Not that anyone cared about that.
Whisky sounded good right now.
“Can I take yer plate for ye?”
Folke’s heart catapulted itself into his throat. The three strangers had fallen so silent, he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.
“No.” He stood, a thunderstrike masking his sharp intake of breath at the jolting pain in his foot. “I’ll take yours.”
A plate eventually scraped across his outstretched one.
“Thank ye,” murmured Darach.
“Mine,” said Finlay.
Folke’s free hand drifted around the three plates to hold them steady. “Anything else you’ve dumped on my floor that I should be aware of?”
“I said I was sorry.” Thomas grunted. Sounded like he’d been sitting on the floor by the stove. “Here, you stubborn git.”
Another plate slid into his hold.
“Stop adding so much wood to the fire,” Folke said tersely. “It’s too hot and I’ve a limited supply.”
“Yes, sir .”
He ignored the obvious taunt, walking past Finlay and Darach and out into the hallway. Balancing the plates on his forearm, Folke traced the path to the kitchen. Tiles cooled his throbbing foot, while water stung his hands as he washed up.
Brown water. . .
Suddenly, he became heedful of sediment scratching stoneware under the cloth. He’d been drinking it all this time. It was probably safe enough to wash dishes with.
Movement just outside in the hallway, nearly drowned out by the spluttering tap. Folke turned his head in its direction. He caught something about a first watch from Finlay, which followed a gust of wind that reached him in the kitchen. The front door slammed shut.
“You got spare beds?”
Folke took his time answering Thomas. Turned the taps. Shook water off his hands. Reached for a towel that didn’t seem to be there any longer, and let his shoulders drop in defeat.
“Upstairs, door to the left of the lavatory.”
“Good man,” Thomas lilted. There appeared to be a pause. Then, “Oh, in case you didn’t see, I saluted you—”
Smack .
“Ow!”
“Get to bed.”
“I’m going!”
Bare feet angrily slapped up the stairs.
Darach’s exaggerated sigh danced over the air a spare few feet behind Folke. “Eighteen might as well be a bairn as far as I’m concerned.”
Folke frowned. “How old are you, then?”
“Tell me yer name first.” Nearer, now.
He shifted into the man’s direction, wiping his hands along the bottom of his shirt. “Folke.”
Not that it mattered when they would part ways sooner rather than later, one way or another.
“Suits ye. ”
“Does Thomas understand that actions have consequences?” Folke asked.
“Aye, I imagine so.” Darach sounded curious.
“Then he’s not a child.”
A chuckle. “Reckon?”
“I wasn’t a child at eighteen. Young, but not a child.”
“I suspect ye were never fully a child, if ye catch my meaning.”
Musk-laced talcum powder drifted closer, along with the warmth of someone who had been sitting by a fire.
Folke wavered, sensations of lips brushing over his fingertips tingling, unbeckoned. “You’re making assumptions.”
“I am.” Another pause. “Forty-five.”
“And. . .Finlay?”
“Late thirties, I suspect.” Darach huffed out his mirth. His warmth moved to Folke’s left. “I ken his carnaptious nature suggests otherwise.”
“How did you three meet?” Folke realised he was delving for information and not even being sly about it. Not that keen, after all. “I’m not trying to. . .pry. I only think it’s curious how three vastly different people have ended up coming to these rural parts, wanting to live in limbo.”
Darach hummed, in agreement or musingly, Folke wasn’t sure. “It is very curious, Folke.”
Much like before, no further explanation was given.
Better not push it.
“There’s another bedroom upstairs, across from mine. It hasn’t been used in a while.” Or ever. “I think my mother ended up using it for storage. I couldn’t tell you what state it’s in but I think there might be a bed in there.”
“Kind of ye, but I’ll be alright. If ye dinnae mind me sleeping on the settee?”
“You’ll need whisky then,” Folke offered wryly. “To help with the back pain that will plague you for days to come.”
He spoke from experience.
“Oh, ye have whisky?”
“I think so. Somewhere around here.”
If it was still any good.
A chuckle, mellisonant. “Ye’re very gracious, but I canae.”
“Need a sharp mind when it’s your turn to keep watch.”
There was no sense in pretending he didn’t know something was going on. They might not want to tell him, but he wasn’t going to feign ignorance, either.
“Trust me, Folke, it’s better this way.”
Strangely, Darach’s response gave him comfort. At least Folke knew he wasn’t imagining things, that there was something to worry about.
That part wasn’t very assuaging, though.
Folke pushed away from the counter and made for his bedroom.
The storm had yet to abate as he slipped under the covers, springs trilling, poking him in the back. He turned to lie on his side. As if that would block out the noise, mood souring with every bang and jerk of the shutters. Exhaustion had made itself known the moment he laid down, but he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes.
They could come into his room and kill him whilst he slept.
He should have put the chair against the door—
The front door creaked open. Dragged shut by the wind.
Rather, he should have kicked them out of his home—
Muffled voices. The door again.
“Can’t see a bloody thing!”
Thomas was awake, then.
“Use your fucking flashlight!”
Folke sighed, wondering what Eleanor would have done, had she been in the same position. Probably arrested them all, only to be told by the Superintendent to stop making the other constables look bad.
What would she say, learning he wasn’t even trying to escape?
Folke turned to lie on his back. Toyed with the simple, plastic buttons of his cotton pyjamas.
Darach had promised to look for his sheep. He’d even kept a lookout for them while fetching things from wherever. That was more than the police had ever done for him, already.
He sat upright. Debated going back down there. The least he could do was tend to the fire, ensuring Darach would be warm once he returned from watch duty.
He laid back down.
Finlay would be down there. On his own at best, with Thomas at worst, and he didn’t much care for either of them.