On Beulah Height

TWO

On the morning of the fourth day of the Lorraine Dacre enquiry, Geordie Turnbull rose early.

He had a hangover, not the sort that makes you turn over in bed and burrow under the sheets in search of masking darkness and the sanctuary of sleep, but the sort that sends you stumbling to the bathroom to void the contents of your gut one way or the other, and wish you could do the same with the contents of your head.

Ten minutes under a cold shower set at maximum force brought him closer to the possibility that there might be life after coffee.

It had been a long time since he felt like this. His release from custody and return to Bixford hadn’t brought him the relief he’d hoped for. First off, there’d been the press who both in person and on the phone had pestered him all day. Then there’d been the attitude of his fellow villagers. Fifteen years ago in Dendale it had taken him aback to see the speed with which he’d declined from good ol’ Geordie to the Fiend of the Fells. But there he’d been an offcomer, an outsider tolerated because he was pleasant company and would soon be gone. Here in Bixford he thought he’d set down roots, but the taint of being questioned in a child abduction case soon showed him how shallow those roots were. Not that anything had been said, but an overheard whisper, a turned-away glance, even the over-sympathetic tone in which they’d asked about his ordeal down at the pub, had been enough to send him home early to his thoughts and his own whisky bottle.

Now, towelling himself vigorously, he wandered from the bathroom to the kitchen. His brain was clawing its way painfully to normal consciousness level, but how far it had to go was evidenced by the fact that he’d filled his kettle before he registered that the back door on to the patio was wide open.

This jolted him several steps further up the slope, and when he heard the footstep behind him, he twisted round, flailing with the kettle at the intruder.

The man swayed back, easily avoiding contact with anything other than the lash of water whipped out of the spout. Then he stepped forward and brought his forehead crashing against Geordie’s, paused to examine the effect, before driving a vicious punch into the unprotected belly and raising his knee to receive the man’s face as he doubled up. Finally he strolled round the retching figure, pushed a kitchen chair against the back of his legs and pulled him down on to it by his hair. Blood from Turnbull’s nose and split eyebrow spattered his naked belly and thighs. The intruder pulled some sheets of kitchen roll and tossed it on to his bloodstained lap.

‘Blow your nose, Mr Turnbull,’ he said. ‘I think there’s something you want to get off your conscience. When you’re ready, I’d like to talk with you about it.’