Chapter 11
The general store was much busier than Rick would have liked. No wonder the warrior queen had been in such a hurry to leave. He tucked his chin down and lurked at the back near the door, the need for coffee singing in his veins. A lady of solid build and mature years was refilling trays of cold meat behind a glass display counter nearby. She was wearing a stern expression, a voluminous pink tabard and plastic disposable gloves.
She caught Rick’s eye, then glanced around the rest of the shop, before her gaze settled back on him. Leaning forwards, she murmured, ‘Can I help?’
‘Are you Barbara?’
‘I am.’
‘Reena told me you make good coffee.’
The woman stripped off the gloves. ‘I do. It’s only traditional filter. If you want all that hot frothy milk palaver, you’ll have to brave The Coffee Pot. Only it’s Wednesday, so I wouldn’t. It’ll be rammed.’
‘Filter’s perfect. Black, please.’
‘Coming right up.’ She handed him a lidded paper cup. ‘That’ll be two pounds. And here…’ She passed him a folded piece of paper the size of a credit card.
‘What’s this?’
‘You’re trying to keep a low profile, aren’t you?’
Rick’s scalp prickled. ‘Why do you say that?’
Her eyes flicked to something behind him. ‘I sell papers.’
Rick followed her gaze. A shelving unit laden with newspapers and magazines stood behind the door. Flaming Nora! Predictable, shouty headlines stalked across them all.
Dr Death on the Run.
Dr Death Disappears.
Where Will Dr Death Strike Next?
Every single paper carried that awful picture of him.
He put a steadying hand on the counter. ‘It’s not… I mean, I didn’t… um…’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t. I’ve seen it all before. Most of what’s presented as news, these days, is horse dung. My Brian always says there are two sides to a spoon.’ She snapped her plastic gloves back on. ‘Let’s face it – guilty or not, you’re going to lose. The court of public opinion has already decided. Having said that, my Brian always says that until the law itself decides otherwise, you’ve as much right to live in peace as the next person. And I agree.’
Rick rubbed his stubble. ‘Uh… thanks…’ Am I seriously having this conversation?
‘The way I see it, lots of folk come to the forest in search of privacy. It happens all the time. Celebrities and whatnot. We’re used to it. You never know who you’re going to bump into in the Crashing Boar on a Friday night. Half of Take That are knocking around here somewhere. My point is, while I can’t speak for the tourists because they’re a law unto themselves, most of the locals won’t give you any trouble.’
Rick’s eyes slid to the slip of paper in his hand. ‘And this?’
‘That’s my number. If you need supplies, text me a list. I’ll get it ready for you to pick up when we’re quiet. It’ll cost you a bit extra, but it’s… shall we say, it’s a special service for private customers. You can get other deliveries sent here too, if you like. Just mark them for my attention with your initials afterwards. We’re dead quiet in here between 6 and 6.30 every morning. Come and get your stuff then. It’ll just be me here, oh… and possibly Elvis, but he won’t say anything.’
‘Elvis?’ Surely not.
‘The postie. Here.’ She put a small paper-wrapped parcel on the counter. ‘Soda bread, cheese and olives. They’ll keep the wolf from the door ’til you know what you need. I’ll add it to your first bill.’ She glanced around the shop again. Rick did likewise.
The door opened. A middle-aged man ambled in; his vast beer belly only partially constrained by a faded Def Leppard T-shirt. He frowned at Rick and did a double take.
‘You’d best get going,’ said Barbara.
Rick was already halfway out of the door, his parcel tucked under one arm.
*
Back at the barn, encouraged by Barbara’s suggestion that most locals wouldn’t give him any trouble, Rick decided to thank the warrior queen next door for the cakes she’d given him. I’ll apologise for the whole cow-scaring thing, too.
He scrunched across the patchy gravel towards the farmhouse porch, grateful that the ache in his leg was easing. A row of tubby sparrows on the pretty gabled roof scolded him as he approached, before flitting down to a lichen-covered stone birdbath set in a rose bed to the left of the door. Arriving on the worn welcome mat, Rick took hold of the shiny metal hoop in the centre of the door and beat a short tattoo. After a short wait, the ancient slab of oak groaned open, just wide enough for a slim, dark-haired young woman to peer out. It was difficult to tell how old she was. Twenty, maybe twenty-two? A bit younger than David, for sure . With heavily kohl-rimmed eyes beneath a wispy fringe, she was, quite patently, not the warrior queen he was looking for.
‘Hi. Is your mum in?’
‘Mum’s dead.’ The young woman’s face was expressionless.
‘Oh!’ Shit. ‘Right. I came to say sorry.’
‘She died ages ago. I’m over it.’
‘No, I… ah…’ Rick scratched his head. ‘I meant about the cows?’
‘What cows?’
‘This morning?’ He pointed at the cowpat-strewn yard behind him.
‘Oh, those cows. Nothing to do with me, mate.’ She frowned. ‘Were they yours? I thought they were Nick’s.’
‘No, I just…’ Rick sighed. ‘Listen. The lady with the red hair, is she in?’
‘Beth? No.’
Beth. So, that’s the warrior queen’s name. Rick stepped back. ‘I guess I’ll try later.’
‘Sure.’ She started to close the door.
‘By the way, can you tell her thanks for the cakes?’
The door stopped moving. Rick now had the young woman’s full attention. From the look on her face, he was no longer sure he wanted it.
‘What cakes?’
‘Uh, she gave me half a dozen cupcakes this morning.’
‘That’s where they went! Bloody Beth.’ A high-pitched beeping sounded from the depths of the farmhouse. ‘Look, mister, I got to go, that’s my timer. If you want to thank my darling stepmother for the cakes she stole from me, come back later. Right?’ She started to ram the door closed again, but then paused and squinted at him. ‘Hang on, haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Wait a minute… It’ll come to me… Yes.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Yes! I knew it. You’re that dude on X? The one that drove over that YouTuber?’
Rick backed away, shaking his head. ‘No. No way. Definitely not me. I’ve never driven over anyone.’
‘There’s a video on X says different.’
‘It’s not something I’d forget.’
‘Nah! Guess not. Anyway, you’re way too old. What are you? Sixty? Seventy?’
Rick stiffened. ‘I’m fifty-four!’
‘Whatever. The video guy, he’s some posh doctor fella from London with pots of money. Near as killed some gamer, apparently.’ She ran a disdainful gaze over Rick’s scruffy hoodie and crumpled suit trousers. She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I’ve got to go. Cakes. Oven. Bye.’
The door slammed shut.
Rick stumbled away as fast as he could. He hadn’t ever run anyone over, but once, very recently, he’d come close. Back in the barn, he opened his laptop.
There’s no way I actually hurt her.
It took mere minutes to find the clip. A short film on a repeating loop. Grainy footage of him and Sal – no doubt shot by Abe. Heavily edited to create the worst possible impression. It was brutal. No one who saw that could think he was anything other than a monster. Rick pushed the laptop aside and rushed to the loo to throw up.