For Rye, Gavin Gardiner [13 ebook reader .TXT] 📗

but would you mind staying with my father for a few hours this afternoon?’

She imagined the dismay on his face.

‘It’s just a few errands I need to run,’ she continued. ‘I need to collect his medication and see to a couple of other things. I’ll be straight back, but I still wouldn’t want him left on his own.’ She gouged her nails into her palms. ‘Again, I’m really sorry.’

Renata felt within Edwin Ramsay’s hesitation a groping for some way out, but there was none. The young vicar couldn’t be seen to turn down the chance to spend time with the man he’d succeeded, one of Millbury Peak’s most esteemed inhabitants.

‘It would be a pleasure,’ he surrendered.

‘Thank you, Miss Wakefield,’ said Mr Oakley, the elderly pharmacist. The wrinkles of his face curved around a spreading smile. ‘Send my regards to your father.’

She crammed the bottles of Dexlatine and packets of hand soap into her satchel and hurried out of the chemist, hugging Quentin’s grey blazer to her chest. She’d only ventured through this cobbled excuse for a high street a couple of times since her return to Millbury Peak. The stone archways and thatched roofs, anachronism at its finest, watched authoritatively over the same handful of faces scuttling out of the butcher’s, popping into the bakery, or scrutinising the town noticeboard. Still, this sedate countryside settlement of barely a thousand was a thronging metropolis compared to the desolate rock of Neo-Thorrach. Creeping through the time capsule that was Millbury Peak, she felt more exposed to those eyes of knives than ever before.

She walked past Millbury Hardware, then a small locksmith, before stopping at the abandoned shell that had been Harper’s Books. She checked her hair in the window’s reflection before pausing to gaze through the filthy glass at the empty shelves. Mr Harper would be six feet under by now – like her mother – and she felt a twang of regret that she’d never taken the time to thank him for encouraging her love of literature. She fiddled with her hair one more time then stepped away from the window, but stopped as a sudden thought hit her. She turned back to Oakley’s Pharmacy.

Mr Oakley looked up as the bell on the door tinkled. ‘Miss Wakefield,’ he said, flattening the sprinkling of white hair on his head, ‘was there anything else I could do you for?’

‘Yes, sorry, there was one last thing,’ said Renata, tugging her duffle coat tight. ‘You asked me to pass your regards onto my father. You know him?’

‘Who doesn’t!’ he grinned. ‘Mr Wakefield was the backbone of this town for more years than I can count. Its moral standing, its faith, worship; he was a big part of all those important things.’ The aged man cleared his throat. ‘Isn’t that the way with every town’s vicar? A fine man, your father.’ He held a steaming mug to his wrinkled lips. ‘A fine man indeed.’

Renata stepped closer, forcing herself to make eye contact. ‘Yes, Mr Oakley. And may I ask,’ she continued casually, flicking away an invisible hair, ‘what of my brother, Noah? Do you know him, too?’

He sipped. ‘Ah, Noah. I was going to ask you about him. I remember you both well. “Always an ill pair”, that’s what your mother said when the two of you moved away. Never saw it myself. Always thought you kids were the picture of health.’ He wiped a drop of coffee from his chin, taking a concentrated moment of recollection. ‘“Fragile girl”, your mother used to say once you were gone. That’s all she seemed to be able to say. “Such a fragile girl. Such a sensitive girl.” You were both taken away to some specialist children’s hospital up north, apparently.’ He cocked his head in further concentration. ‘Were away for so long, so long indeed. Can’t remember seeing either of you again, come to think of it. Grew up and got yourselves lives elsewhere once you got better, I suppose. That’s the way these days, Miss Wakefield, isn’t it now? What was wrong with the pair of you anyways?’

‘You’re mistaken, Mr Oakley. My brother was never in hospital with me. He stayed in Millbury Peak.’

He looked her up and down. ‘My family and I have lived here since you were a little girl, Miss Wakefield. I know everyone in this town.’

Renata’s heart quickened. ‘But Noah wasn’t even involved in the accident, he—’

‘Miss Wakefield,’ the man scowled, suddenly realising he didn’t need to be grilled by some big shot writer – especially a woman, ‘I know nothing of any accident, and a man of my age doesn’t care to be pushed. I’m afraid I have a busy day ahead of me. Will there be anything else?’

Renata glanced around the empty shop, then at the crossword puzzle on his desk. She stumbled back, his eyes suddenly soldering irons against her skin, knives in her flesh.

‘No, no. I…’ The burning was agony, the knives unbearable. She reached for the door handle. ‘I’ll give my father your regards.’

The air traffic control tower emerged in the mist. The fog obscuring its upper portion gave it the appearance of a skyscraper disappearing into the clouds, but this disused airfield would be nothing to Quentin. He’d come from another planet, one of cities full of real skyscrapers, and heaving streets thronging with eyes. She shivered at the thought of that sprawling Eastern Seaboard anthill an ocean away.

The airfield had served mostly as a maintenance site during the Second World War, and was surrounded by towering, corrugated iron fencing, its steely ripples having succumbed to decades of rust. Today, a small portion had been removed to make way for a temporary entrance, next to which stood a sign:

NO ENTRY!

FILMING IN PROGRESS

Rye Productions

When the production crew first arrived, a group of Millbury Peak’s more active residents had taken up arms against the invasion,