Fourteen Days(70)

“Thanks for that, I really appreciate it,” Richard kindly said. “Could you point me in the right direction please?”

“No problem.” She leaned down to the window. The man moved aside. “Follow this lane until you come to a junction. Then take a left. And then left again. That should take you to the gate.”

“So it’s down here,” he pointed straight ahead, “and then two lefts?”

“That’s right.”

Richard smiled. “Thanks very much. Have a good day.”

“You too,” the man replied. “Mind how you go.”

The car then pulled off noisily down the muddy lane.

After reaching the junction and turning left, he joined a narrow country road which went on for nearly two miles before another left turn came available, prompting him to question the woman’s directions. Hopeful that he was heading the right way, he carried on up an even narrower road, with side bushes brushing past his car. The road continued for perhaps half a mile before finally leading him to a farm gate to his right. Poking his head out the window, he tried to see if there was a farmhouse beyond the gate. There wasn’t, just an empty field of tall, unmanaged grass. He slowly drove on a little further, hoping to see signs of life. After another two or three hundred meters he saw a large wooden house gate covered in flaky red paint. He could see a steep driveway, perhaps a hundred and fifty meters long, leading to a cottage. Still unconvinced that this was the right place, he climbed out of the car, leaving the engine running, and walked over to the gate. Reaching it, he saw a metal letterbox fixed to the wall on the left side of the gate. Richard’s stomach turned with apprehension—written on the letterbox, in faded-black italic letters, was the name: Young.

He had successfully located the farmhouse.

He returned to his car and sat, terrified at the prospect of delving any deeper. Holding onto the steering wheel tightly, he thought of Nicky, wondering why he had been gone so long. I have to go home, he thought. She’ll be worried about me. He nodded, as if convinced that fleeing was the smart thing to do.

But what about the baby? he thought again. I’ve come this far. It’d be stupid to go home now. She’ll understand. I’ll tell her we’ve gone for a beer. It’s no big deal. I’ll phone her, tell her I’ll be another few hours. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll sneak up to the house, peep through the window—and if there are any signs of Peter, or the baby, then I’ll make a run for it. I’ll tell the police when I get home. Make them worry about it. Why should I have to deal with all this? I’ve got enough on my plate.

I’ve got my own bloody life to worry about.

He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up his phone. Just as the phone illuminated, he noticed the words ‘No Coverage’ written across the screen. “Fuck!” He moved the phone around the car, hoping to find a signal—there wasn’t. He got out of the car and walked around the vicinity, hoping to have better luck—there was still no signal. He shook his head, frustrated, and said, “Bloody countryside.”

Climbing back into his car, he reversed a little into a small opening at the side of the lane, trying to hide the car, but still have it near enough for a quick getaway.

He switched the engine off, slipped the phone into his pocket, took a deep breath, and left the car, gingerly making his way up to the gate. Stepping up onto the lower beam of the gate, he tried to get a better look at the house, hoping to see a car parked outside—there was. Noticing the large padlock at the end of the gate, he carefully climbed over and made his way along the bushes. Desperate to remain unnoticed, he kept his body hunched. The sun was still blazing and he could feel sweat dripping down his face, burning his eyes. Up ahead was a large barn. He ran up the grassy hill toward it, eyes still fixed on the house, body still hunched. Entering, he glanced inside through the large wooden doors, praying that it was deserted—it was. Nothing was inside, no animals, no hay, no equipment. Completely derelict. Through a small gap in the barn’s wooden frame he could clearly see the house. The cottage was white, with small windows, a thatched roof, a large chimney, and a small shed attached to the side.

What his next move was going to be was still unclear. His initial thought was to sneak up to the window, like a frontline solider, and observe. But with the clear sky and the large open space between the barn and the house, he knew he would stand out a mile. Maybe I could just knock on the door and pretend to be someone else, he thought. But then he remembered that he had already met Peter Young when he bought the house. But that was months ago, and they only met the one time. Would he really recall Richard’s face? And so what if he did? Would it really make a difference? After all, he would never suspect Richard of knowing anything. And he certainly would never think, nor believe, that the ghost of Christina Long had made contact with him, and shown him everything just by touching him. It seemed absurd, ludicrous, beyond belief—even to Richard.