On Beechwood Farm, Jack Tavender was closing up for the night. He’d eaten late after shutting the chickens away and bedding down Lady Marmalade and Goldie, fixing himself a meal from the stew he’d had simmering away on the hob for the last couple of days. Then Trix had started whining and scratching to be let out so he’d opened the kitchen door and let the black-and-white Border Collie shoot out into the night to do her business.
This had once been his parents’ farm, but his dad had died years ago. Then only his mother had remained, so Jack had helped her out when she grew too old to cope with the manual work. Then she’d died too.
As their only child, he’d inherited this problematic, crumbling ruin. The farmhouse was old, sixteenth century in parts, and he was doing it up bit by bit, repairing the flat roof over the scullery, propping up the porch with a new oak support beam because one of these days that bastard was going to slip sideways and bring the whole front of the house crashing down with it. Parts of the walls were fixed with big iron stays, and a couple of the old post and truss barns were listed, which was a bugger because you could do sod-all to them without consulting some nob from up on high in the council. He had thought of trying to kit them out as holiday lets, if he decided to stay on. If the plans would ever be passed, which he doubted. But he hadn’t decided anything, yet.
He was washing up the dishes, setting them on the wooden draining board to dry, years of training in tidiness and cleanliness still with him. Away in the distance, Trix was barking her stupid head off. Nutty bloody dog. His mum’s dog, not his. Trix’s favourite game was chasing cars or cyclists out in the lane, but this sounded closer, nearer to the farmyard itself. He yawned, stretching. He’d been working hard all day. Clearing out one of the haylofts in preparation for repairing the roof, which was leaking. He’d struggled up on the roof alone in the hail and thunder, fixed a tarp up there to hold it, for now. A hot bath, then he was turning in.
Drying his hands, irritated at the stupid mutt, he went over to the back door and opened it.
‘Trix!’ he shouted.
She was still barking.
‘Fucking dog,’ he muttered, pulling his boots back on. Trix had always been obedient when his mother’d been here to order her around. With Jack, Trix had got in the habit of playing up, wagging her tail, turning into a house dog when she was born to be working, meant for herding sheep. Well, they no longer had sheep here on the farm, they’d all been sold off, even his mum’s prize South Downs ram, so Trix was redundant. Jack knew he ought to make her sleep outside, in the kennel, like the outdoors dog she really was, but somehow he’d got into the habit of having her in the house. She was dopey, a grinning loon of an animal, but she was company.
Grabbing the torch, he stepped out into the yard. The rain wasn’t letting up and it was turning damned cold. Trix’s barking was coming from near the biggest barn. She’d disturbed some rats, maybe. He’d had a big vet’s bill last month when she’d tackled a nest and the rats had fought back, biting off half her left ear. He was going to have to get a cat, a good mouser, if he was going to stay.
If.
For now, he was treading water, making repairs, tending what little livestock was left – just the chickens and his mother’s horses now, he’d already sold the sad remnants of the dairy herd which had once – so long ago – been his father’s pride and joy. He was trying to decide what he was actually going to do with the rest of his life. And there was the dog, the damned dog. Maybe one of the other farmers around here would give her a home.
‘Trix!’ he hollered into the rainy night. ‘Get out of there, you daft bastard!’
The torch’s beam caught her, eyes glittering. She was standing at the big barn door, which was hanging open, and she was staring into the interior, her hackles raised.
‘What you got now then, eh?’ Jack asked her, but she paid no attention to him. ‘You got more guts than sense, that’s your bloody trouble.’
But he’d shut that barn door earlier.
Moving cautiously now, he edged forward. People did break in sometimes out here in the middle of nowhere, thieved equipment. One of the local farmers had even lost a tractor, for God’s sake. He reached the dog and grabbed her collar. She let out a single bark of protest, then was still. Deep in her throat, she kept up a steady low growl.
Jack aimed the torch’s beam into the depths of the barn. Hay bales were stacked up in there. Favourite playground for the rats. But this wasn’t how Trix normally reacted to rats. Usually she’d be off in there, chasing them, getting her arse chewed – or her ears – and running up more sky-high bills for him to pay.
‘Someone in here?’ he called out.
He moved the torch’s beam and yes – there was someone. Movement.
‘What the fuck?’ he said.
Lightning flared, and he saw what had moved.
There was a woman, lying beside the bales.
She was covered in blood.
When she heard his voice, she tried to get up. Tried to get to her knees. She looked at him blearily. Her face . . .
‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ said Jack.
‘Help,’ said Belle weakly. It came out as a wet croak. Then she fell back, unconscious.