Despair wasn’t a word in the Capstick lexicon. Ida knew well what ‘annoyance’ was from dealing with the likes of Mrs Pettiford and her interfering ways. ‘Irritation’, too, particularly when the marketplace became busy with tourists in the summer, making cycling across the cobbles even trickier than normal. And she’d experienced ‘trepidation’ when it came to Rick Procter, the property developer making her uneasy ever since he bought Twistleton Farm off Joseph O’Brien for a song. But ‘despair’ . . .?
That particular emotion had served no role in her life. So as she sat at Samson’s desk and heard the front door slam, the slap of footsteps followed by the sound of a car pulling away, she couldn’t put a name on the dark weight sitting on her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.
She’d thought she was doing the right thing. When she’d turned from the filing cabinet and seen the young woman with the blonde hair standing in the room, the detective who’d supposedly been helping Samson all this time, she’d actually felt a wave of relief. For in that split second, Ida had realised that here was the person who’d attacked her. The person who had threatened Delilah’s intricate plan. And while that threat was there in front of her, it couldn’t be causing Samson any harm.
So Ida had been more than happy for Barry Dawson to unleash his inner hero and attack the intruders with his Vileda 1-2. And she’d been even happier when Sergeant Clayton and Constable Bradley turned up, too. Because as long as the young detective was delayed, Samson was safe.
With this in mind, it hadn’t proved much of an effort for Ida to keep her mouth shut while the sergeant did his best to prise the truth out of them, convinced that her silence was the only way to protect Delilah’s plan and give the group at Mire End Farm the time they needed to secure a confession that would finally exonerate Samson. Not even the threat of being arrested was enough to loosen her tongue and make her spill the beans about what was really going on in the town. But then Danny Bradley had got that call from Arty Robinson and suddenly the panic she’d felt when she’d regained consciousness was back.
Joseph had been kidnapped by someone matching the description of Ida’s attacker, at a time which meant DC Green couldn’t possibly have done it. Which suggested the detective’s protestations of innocence concerning the assault on Ida might be genuine.
There was someone else out there. The threat on Samson’s life was far from neutralised. And despite all those trackers and gadgets and the three screens no doubt still blinking away upstairs, Ida had been powerless to stop it.
‘Ida, you want to tell me what this is all about?’ Danny’s voice made her jump, so caught up in her anguish that she’d completely forgotten the young policeman was still over by the filing cabinet. ‘You know you can trust me.’
‘No,’ she whispered, squeezing the word past the lump in her chest, not caring about the ambiguity of her reply.
‘How about you, Barry?’
Ida turned to see the shopkeeper shake his head, mop by his side, looking less courageous than he had earlier, as though he too had had the stuffing knocked out of him by this latest twist in events.
‘So,’ continued Danny into the silence, ‘we just stay here and wait for things to happen. Leave whatever’s going on in the capable hands of Sergeant Clayton and that Met detective . . .’
Ida knew what he was up to, trying to cajole her into action. But there was no point. There was nothing she could do; she’d already made too much of a mess of things.
For she held herself to blame for all of it. Those blasted pies. If she’d stayed put as Delilah had told her to, none of this would have happened and Joseph O’Brien would be safe in his apartment instead of—
She shuddered, reluctant to complete that thought. She’d known the man for decades, ever since he’d arrived in Thorpdale on a wet autumn day with Kathleen, the pair of them calling in at the Capsticks’ cottage to introduce themselves as new neighbours. Not long married, they’d taken possession of the farm at the top of the remote dale, which had been lying abandoned for many years.
With neither George nor Ida being the best of conversationalists, it could have been awkward. But Joseph had beguiled them with his lilting accent and gentle humour, and as for Kathleen, she’d achieved a miracle, putting George so at ease that instead of scurrying out to the workshop to tinker on a tractor as he normally did when folk called by, he stayed put, sitting next to the range, his eyes never leaving her face.
The devotion engendered in the Capstick siblings that day had never waned, the pair of them doing everything they could to help out during the difficult times of Kathleen’s illness and beyond, but ultimately left to watch on appalled as the perfect little family at the top of the dale became torn apart by grief. So it had been with great pride that Ida had accepted Delilah’s request for assistance in combating this latest danger that was casting its shadow over the newly reunited O’Brien family. A chance to make amends for the time when she had been powerless to intervene. And now . . .
Joseph O’Brien was in real danger. No doubt Samson, too. And it was all because of her.
Head pounding from the blow she’d sustained, the last vestiges of Ida’s resolve gave way and she brushed the sleeve of her cardigan across her cheeks, aware of an unfamiliar dampness on them. She was crying.
Danny Bradley watched on in horror as Ida Capstick wiped her sleeve across her face. The woman everyone thought was made from granite was in tears. Quiet dignified tears tracking down her cheeks.
His first instinct was to go over to her. His second was to stay well back. Either way, he was mortified that such a stoical person had been brought to this. Yet another indication of how serious the situation was. A situation he still knew nothing about.
Frustrated beyond measure, he slumped down the wall into a sitting position, next to the Weimaraner in the dog bed. Despite his recumbent position, Tolpuddle had watched on warily for the entire time Sergeant Clayton had been interrogating the two women, and even now, in the relative calm, while his head was on his paws, his eyes were fixed on Ida.
‘You’re a good boy,’ said Danny, fondling the dog’s ears. He was rewarded with a soft sigh and a wag of the tail. But still Tolpuddle’s attention was on Ida Capstick. And when Danny glanced up, it was to see that Ida was staring at him.
‘Happen as that daft mutt likes thee,’ she muttered, tears gone, a steely eyed regard boring into the young constable.
Danny smiled. ‘The feeling’s mutual.’ He patted the dog’s flank, this time being granted the privilege of Tolpuddle rolling onto his back, offering up his stomach for affection. ‘You’re just a softie,’ murmured Danny, obliging the dog with belly rubs. ‘No wonder Delilah loves you.’
From the corner of the room, lying curled in his bed but far from sleep, Tolpuddle had been watching her, the woman who smelled of bacon and biscuits and a sharper smell that tickled his nostrils, like lemons. He’d felt the tension, a fizz of anxiety in his stomach. For it had been a stressful half an hour since returning from the walk into town, his belly full of pie, his back warm from the sunshine.
Having done his best to defend his friend from the terrifying shadow, the door had slammed shut, cutting him off from her, and all he could do was bark and bark and bark, anxiety ratcheted up to maximum, and it had felt like forever before the door reopened, and she was there, soothing him, the man from next door by her side. But the dog had sensed her unease. Sensed that all was far from normal, and when the intruders had arrived, it hadn’t taken much for Tolpuddle to tip over into a frenzy once more.
Two outbursts in such a short while had shattered him, so he’d slunk to his bed the minute things had begun to calm down. Only it hadn’t been calm. That buzz of tension there the entire time, like the annoying hum of the fat bumblebee that had been trapped in the office once when he was trying to sleep. Like then, he’d tried to close his eyes, to rest. But there’d been raised voices and then a clatter of chairs and some of the people in the room had hurried away. And now, he could sense not only tension. But sorrow.
Eyes on the woman, he lay there. And then the young man sat down beside him. A hand on his head.
Tolpuddle felt the tight strings of his anxiety begin to loosen. He shifted slightly, let the man rub his belly.
‘You’re just a softie,’ murmured the man. ‘No wonder Delilah loves you.’
That name. Her name. Tolpuddle felt a pang of separation. He rolled back, onto his front, lifted his head and barked. Got to his feet and barked again.
Tolpuddle wasn’t to know, but it was the perfect catalyst.
It was just what Ida needed. A canine kick up the backside.
With the sharp bark from Tolpuddle cutting through the fog of emotion that had caught her in its grip, she stood up, hand going to her pocket for her mobile.
‘Are you calling Delilah?’ asked Barry, on his feet now as well, as though he too had been galvanised by the dog’s sudden injection of energy into the room.
‘I am indeed,’ stated Ida, turning to Danny, who was scrambling up off the floor. ‘And when I’m done, young man, I’ll tell thee all about what’s going on.’
‘Right,’ said the constable, visibly flustered by the change in Ida’s attitude.
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the reason for her sudden trust in him had been provoked by the dog. For Ida had learned that Tolpuddle was an exceptional judge of character, and if he had faith in the young policeman, that was good enough for her. Particularly when things had all gone pear-shaped and a bit of official help might be needed.
But all thoughts of confiding in Danny Bradley slipped her mind when she looked at her mobile, and the message on it. A text message that had come in during the kerfuffle with DC Green and her man-mountain, and Ida had missed it.
Three words. Clear instructions from Delilah. Instructions that meant things had gone haywire.
‘What’s that?’ Barry was peering over her shoulder, staring at the text.
‘That,’ said Ida, with a grimace, ‘means they’re in even more trouble than we thought.’
Barry gulped. As though he’d had enough excitement for the day. ‘So what do we do?’
Ida looked at him, his grip still tight on the mop, his shirt untucked from his trousers, a spatter of blood – not his – on the collar, and his normally neatly combed hair sticking out wildly.
‘We?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘We.’
She continued to regard him as she thought about Delilah’s instructions. The fact she was supposed to keep them quiet. And she thought about the danger slinking across the dale, like the fox visiting the summer meadows at dusk, when its prey were at their most plentiful.
That danger which had crept into Bruncliffe. So stealthy. Against folk just as defenceless as the rabbits playing in the evening sun. Only rabbits weren’t defenceless, for Ida knew well the sound of strong back feet thumping on the hard ground. The sound of a community warning.
‘We,’ she said, turning her gaze from Barry to a confused-looking Danny, ‘are going to thump like hell. And then we’re going after whoever it is behind all this!’
Barry nodded, uncertain as to what she meant, but liking the tone of it. Then Ida opened the WhatsApp group, composed a succinct message and, like a buck rabbit, started thumping for all her life was worth.
‘What makes you think he was abducted?’ Sergeant Clayton was standing in the residents’ lounge at Fellside Court, the courtyard outside just catching the afternoon sunshine, turning the blossom on the trees into a riot of colour.
But the sergeant didn’t have time to dwell on the beauties of nature. He was surrounded by agitated pensioners who seemed about to start a riot of a different kind.
‘Because I’m telling you, the person he left with is the same person who was in the Fleece, fixing the coffee machine! And we saw their van speeding away from here just as we arrived.’ Arty Robinson was a perilous shade of puce, Edith Hird’s hand resting on his arm, whether in support of his agitation or in an attempt to soothe, it was hard to say. ‘Tell him, Rita,’ he said, turning to an elderly lady with an impish face beneath short grey hair, who was sitting in a nearby chair. ‘Tell the sergeant what you saw.’
Rita Wilson didn’t need a second invitation. She sat forward and pointed across the courtyard to the windows of a flat opposite. ‘I was just locking my front door when I saw Joseph get out of the lift with someone. I spoke to him, he replied, and then they left. I only caught a glimpse of his companion but I presumed it was a woman because of the ponytail but then—’
‘Did it seem like Joseph was being coerced?’ interrupted DC Green.
A dry laugh prefaced Rita’s reply. ‘With my eyesight, I could just about make out who it was, so I can’t add any subtleties, I’m afraid. But what I will say is that when he spoke, Joseph muddled up mine and Arty’s names, getting them wrong.’
‘A befuddled pensioner is hardly evidence of a crime in progress,’ muttered the detective, turning to the sergeant in exasperation. ‘We’re wasting our time here. We need to find Samson.’
‘Now listen here, young lady!’ Edith Hird had gone into full headmistress mode, standing tall, her piercing gaze skewering DC Green as it had skewered many of Bruncliffe’s troublesome children over the years. Sergeant Clayton almost felt sorry for his London colleague. Almost. ‘We might be in our twilight years but that doesn’t mean we don’t know trouble when we see it. By mixing up those names, Joseph was clearly trying to send us a message that he was in peril. And even if you disregard Rita’s testimony, it’s highly irregular behaviour for him to just disappear without a word. Especially when he’d agreed to meet everyone in the cafe.’
‘And it was lasagne today, too,’ added Clarissa Ralph from the other side of the room where she was putting a plaster on DC Green’s associate, the huge man dwarfing the pensioner’s diminutive frame. ‘His favourite.’
Under normal circumstances, the day’s menu being offered as evidence that something untoward had happened would have made Sergeant Clayton roll his eyes. But in the short drive between the Dales Detective Agency and Fellside Court in DC Green’s car, the Met detective had filled him in on what was going on. He’d struggled to get his head around what she was saying.
Samson O’Brien was the target of an assassination attempt and instead of working with the detective to foil it, young Delilah Metcalfe had gone rogue, leaving DC Green trying to track the pair of them down before the assassin completed his assignment.
It seemed so preposterous. An armed hitman roaming around the town, trying to kill someone on demand. But since Samson’s return to Bruncliffe the previous autumn there’d been a succession of events almost as unbelievable, and looming over them all had been the shadows from O’Brien’s previous life as an undercover officer. Shadows which seemed to have finally taken on a more substantial form.
‘Okay,’ said Sergeant Clayton. ‘Let’s presume Arty’s right—’
‘I am right!’ protested Arty.
‘—so we’ll put an alert out for the van and for this mystery woman—’
‘Man. It was a man.’ Everyone turned to look at Rita.
‘You said it was a woman,’ said Arty.
Rita shook her head. ‘No, you said it was a woman. I said I thought it was Ana Stoyanovic. At first. But then I saw them moving and even from the little I saw, they moved like a man.’
‘What about in the pub, Arty? Did you think it was a man or a woman?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I’m not sure now. I only caught a glimpse of them leaving and what with the ponytail and all . . .’ He gave Edith a worried look. ‘I might have made a mistake. It could have been a man.’
DC Green let out an audible sigh and Edith glared at her.
‘Right, I’ll call Troy and ask him. In the meantime,’ continued Sergeant Clayton, aware that time was ticking on, ‘we urgently need to know where Delilah and Samson are. Can anyone here help me with that?’
Several pairs of eyes dropped to the carpet, heads bowed, gazes turned towards the window, and it would have taken an idiot not to sense that the group of pensioners knew exactly where the Dales Detective duo were. And what they were up to.
‘I realise you’ve all taken an oath of secrecy,’ said the sergeant wryly, ‘and I admire you for your loyalty. But this isn’t the time for amateurs.’
Arty Robinson couldn’t help himself. ‘Amateurs? Think you’ll find we did okay!’
‘What does that mean?’
A sharp elbow from Edith and Arty shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered.
Sergeant Clayton stared at the residents of Fellside Court amassed before him, the hesitancy of moments before replaced with stark defiance, chins tilted, arms folded across cardigans. No sign of them being willing to talk.
‘This isn’t a game,’ he said quietly. ‘According to DC Green here, there’s a real-life assassin on the loose and it would be better if we could find him before he finds Samson. And if Arty’s right, then Joseph may well have unwittingly become part of all this. So whatever it is you’re holding back, I’m begging you to tell me now.’
Silence. Broken only by the soft shuffle of slippers on carpet and the wheeze of Eric Bradley’s breathing.
The sergeant glanced at DC Green, who looked like she would happily lock the lot of them away until they talked. Then he gave a resigned nod.
‘So be it.’ He turned to leave. And a cacophony of phones sounded.
‘When you said you had transport on standby . . .’ Danny Bradley shouted the words but even so, Ida capped a hand around her ear and shrugged in incomprehension.
No surprise given the racket of the engine thumping beneath their feet.
He’d almost refused the lift but there’d been no alternative. Either he went along with Ida Capstick or he was left out of the loop. She’d been adamant, baulking when he’d suggested calling in at the police station to collect a car. And he didn’t blame her. Right now, Constable Danny Bradley wasn’t sure he trusted the police either.
Because according to Ida’s jaw-dropping report on the day’s events, there was a hitman currently being detained at Mire End Farm whose express purpose had been to kill Samson O’Brien in an effort to silence him ahead of his impending court case. What’s more, it appeared the assassin had been sent to Bruncliffe by someone within the very establishment Danny worked for.
It took some believing – not just the idea of a contract killer in a Dales town being neutralised by a group of locals, but also that the force Danny was so proud to be a part of could contain such evil. Ida Capstick wasn’t known for flights of fancy, however, and neither was Danny naive, so he’d taken her at her word. A decision made easier by the fact he’d never really been convinced of Samson’s alleged criminality.
It had been too neat all along. The accusations laid against Samson’s door were serious, there was no doubt about that. Stealing drugs from the evidence locker and selling them on to an organised crime network was almost as bad as it could get. But what Danny had never understood was why, if he was guilty of such crimes, did Samson come back to Bruncliffe? Surely if the net was closing around him he would have run? And if he’d been guilty of the charges laid against him, he’d have had the money to do so.
This was without even considering the man’s character. While Danny Bradley was only a recent recruit into the police, he regarded himself as an astute judge of his fellow man. And yes, he knew he had a tendency to idolise, placing the likes of Delilah Metcalfe on a pedestal because of her fell-running abilities. Danny would also be the first to admit that at first he’d placed Samson O’Brien right up there with her, in awe of the undercover officer’s legendary exploits and meteoric rise. But in the last few months, when he’d really got to know the man, Danny had realised that Samson deserved his status on that pedestal, not just for the myth, but for the reality.
He was an exceptional copper. He was an exceptional person. And Danny had seen nothing to persuade him otherwise. So when Sergeant Clayton had unquestioningly accepted DCI Thistlethwaite’s request for them to spy on Samson, it had struck a wrong chord with Bruncliffe’s constable. For although Danny held Samson in high esteem, he didn’t trust Frank Thistlethwaite an inch. Which meant, right now, he couldn’t trust his own sergeant either.
Hence the need for alternative transport to get them up to Rainsrigg. Only, not quite this alternative . . .
They’d hurried out of the Dales Detective Agency, Ida, Barry, Tolpuddle and Danny, to see George Capstick coming along Back Street on top of his ancient Little Grey tractor, a shotgun case slung across his chest.
‘You have to be joking!’ Danny had exclaimed, as Ida gestured for them all to hop on the rickety platform attached to the back.
But one look at Ida’s face had made it clear there was no levity involved at all. George had passed her the shotgun case, revved the engine as much as you could with a Ferguson TE20, and they’d set off towards the marketplace.
A minute into the journey and they weren’t even through town. Danny Bradley could only hope that they weren’t Samson and Delilah’s only chance of rescue.
While the grey tractor rattled its way across Bruncliffe, in Fellside Court the energy in the lounge had shot up as hands reached into pockets and handbags to retrieve mobiles, all followed by a collective gasp.
‘Arty!’ Edith Hird was looking at the retired bookmaker, aghast, phone held out in front of her, while her sister, Clarissa, had slumped back in her armchair in a swoon, a low murmur of disquiet now rippling around the room.
Sergeant Clayton watched the pensioners react to whatever they’d been sent, like a flock of goldfinches set twitching by the sudden appearance of a sparrowhawk. Then he stared at Arty, who was looking a lot less confident than moments before.
‘What’s going on?’ the sergeant demanded.
There was a lull of uncomfortable silence, Arty shaking his head in a residue of defiance. When someone finally spoke, it was Eric Bradley.
‘We have to tell them, Arty,’ he wheezed, giving an apologetic look to his friend. ‘What choice do we have?’
‘He’s right,’ murmured Edith.
Arty’s head dropped. ‘The quarry,’ he said quietly. ‘Samson and Delilah are in trouble and heading for the quarry. Ida just sent out an alert.’
‘Rainsrigg?’ asked Sergeant Clayton. ‘Why would they be heading there? Did Ida say?’
‘No. But I’m guessing it has something to do with Joseph being taken. Ida told everyone to head up to help them.’
‘Everyone?’
‘There’s quite a lot of folk involved,’ said Edith, chin tipped up in pride. ‘Most a lot more mobile than we are.’
‘And armed?’ The sergeant got no reply. He didn’t need one. The look on Arty Robinson’s face was enough. ‘Jesus!’
‘Armed with what? Mops?’ asked DC Green, with a hint of scepticism.
‘Shotguns,’ came the curt reply. ‘You’re in the countryside. Most buggers round here have a licence.’
‘Christ!’ DC Green turned pale. ‘This has all the makings of a trap. The hitman couldn’t find Samson so he took the next best thing. It’ll be a bloodbath.’
‘Unless we get up there first.’
But Edith was shaking her head. ‘It’s not the hitman who’s up at Rainsrigg. It can’t be because he’s been taken out of the equation.’
DC Green’s jaw dropped. ‘You killed him?’
‘No! He’s at Mire End Farm. Clive Knowles and some of the others are trying to make him talk.’
‘Any joy?’ asked Sergeant Clayton, torn by conflicting feelings of dismay and admiration at the revelation.
‘Not a word,’ muttered Arty. ‘Not even with Cupid—’
The sergeant put up a hand to silence him, not wanting to hear the details of an operation that was probably on the wrong side of legal. ‘All I want to know,’ he said, ‘is if you lot have the hitman under control, then who the hell has Joseph O’Brien?’
‘We don’t know.’ Arty’s voice shook. ‘But the sooner we all get up to the quarry the better.’
DC Green was already hurrying towards the door with her colleague, Sergeant Clayton following, mobile pressed to his ear, the ringing tone cutting off before he could leave a message. Wherever DCI Thistlethwaite was, he wasn’t answering his phone.
Shoving the mobile in his pocket, the sergeant headed along the corridor, aware of a multitude of footsteps in his wake. He turned, prepared to instruct the pensioners to wait where they were.
‘Save it!’ snapped Edith, at the forefront of the group. ‘We’re coming with you.’
The sergeant simply nodded. If he’d learned anything since the return of Samson O’Brien to Bruncliffe, it was that the reprobate and the Metcalfe lass engendered a level of loyalty in folk the like of which he’d never seen before. With the click of walking sticks and the rapid shuffle of slippers following him, he hurried towards the exit of Fellside Court.
Out of Fellside Court, over the hill that reared up behind it, across the jag-toothed clints and grikes of the limestone pavement, all the way to the bulk of Pen-y-ghent, mist long since burned away, and then dropping down the rough land past a cluster of grouse butts, there below was Mire End Farm, a mere six miles as the crow would fly it. Less than a second away for Ida’s WhatsApp message.
When her thump of alarm had sounded three minutes before, there’d been an explosion of activity which, should a crow have happened to be flying over, would have startled the bird high into the air, for suddenly the back door of the farmhouse had slammed open and men spilled out into the yard. Running. Heading for the vehicles parked by the barn. A couple of sharp shouts, a burst of engines, and in a spray of gravel, they’d pulled away, hens sent flapping in their wake.
The lone woman who’d watched them leave stood for a moment or two, waiting for the silence to settle on the empty farmyard. Then the back door closed and she returned to the kitchen where a man was seated by the hearth in an armchair. Not a guest as such, his legs bound tightly to the ancient range, hands tied in front of him. Not a guest but still treated with courtesy, a cup of tea to his side and a plate of bacon, eggs and black pudding on his lap, all pre-cut into bite-sized portions. He looked up at his host, resuming her seat at the table, a shotgun in front of her. Then he turned his concentration back to his meal. For he hadn’t eaten anything as tasty in a long while.
While the cars were speeding away from Mire End, further up the dale on the outskirts of Bruncliffe, a 4x4 and trailer had not long ago pulled into a farmyard, the bonnet still warm, the driver’s door open but the interior empty. With the engine stopped, the racket coming from the trailer could be heard, a clattering and stomping like the very devil himself had been imprisoned within. Then the door of the house flew open and a figure emerged, running. Heading for the copse-covered hill behind the farm. Heading for the path that led up to Rainsrigg Quarry.
Another figure appeared in the doorway, shouting uselessly for them to stop. The runner kept going, already in the trees. A couple of beats of indecision and then the figure from the doorway was leaping into the 4x4, turning it and heading out onto the road. Turning right towards Bruncliffe, trailer and all.
In Bruncliffe itself, there was a similar upheaval around the police station. Already one car was racing down towards the viaduct, filled to capacity, a woman at the wheel, a massive hulk of man next to her and two grey heads in the rear. And an oxygen tank. A minute later, a police car pulled out of the station, a man in uniform driving, a rotund pensioner next to him and a sharp-faced older woman perched on the edge of her seat in the back. Together the vehicles sped through the town, towards Gunnerstang Brow. A lot closer as the crow flies than Mire End Farm.
Even closer was a vintage grey tractor, pulling past the allotments, beginning to tackle the steep incline. Surprisingly fast for its age, it too was burdened down. A man sat on the high seat in the open cab, guiding the Little Grey up the hill, while behind him, on a makeshift platform designed for transporting sheep, stood his sister, a Weimaraner, a young policeman and a man clutching a mop. While they were the closest of all, they still weren’t close enough.
For up at the top of the long climb, in through the entrance of the disused quarry, along the rough track that led to an empty cottage, was a small red car. Its doors were opening and a man and a woman were getting out to stand in the bleak dusty landscape of barren stone and rusting machinery.