A quiet place, then—that gunfire notwithstanding. Sleepy, even, though in fact it wakes early by and large, as most of those who live there work elsewhere, and tend to be on the road by eight. So perhaps a better word would be
Though even harmless villages suffer screams in the afternoon.
“Jesus!” River screamed—too late. Full-body armour wouldn’t have helped him. Prayer was all he had, and then not even that: just prayer’s echo, bouncing around his thoughtless skull as his body went into spasm, and then again, and then stopped, or seemed to stop, and his eyes relaxed behind their tight-shut lids, and the darkness he was locked in became softer.
After a while, his companion said, “Blimey,” but it didn’t sound like a good blimey. Rolling off him, she pulled the sheet up to her shoulders. River lay still, heartbeat returning to normal, skin damp—he’d lasted long enough to work up a sweat.
But doubted he’d be raising that in mitigation.
It was mid-afternoon, a Tuesday, River’s third week in Upshott, and he lay in the curtain-darkened bedroom of one of the new-builds on the northern rise, a house rented under his cover name, Jonathan Walker. Jonathan Walker was a writer. Why else would anyone come to Upshott, out of season? Even if Upshott had a season. So Jonathan Walker wrote thrillers, and had an Amazon entry to prove it,
His companion said, “I used to have a T-shirt.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I read your body language.”
Her name was Kelly Tropper, and she tended bar at The Downside Man: she was early twenties, petite, flat-chested, with crow-coloured hair; a string of adjectives River would have found dispiritingly inadequate if he really were a writer. She also had creamy, unfreckled skin, a curiously flattened nose, which gave her the appearance of pressing up against a pane of glass, and had described herself in his hearing as a cynic. She wrapped her leg round his. “Not falling asleep now, are you?” Her hand explored him. “Hmm. Not totally lifeless. Still need a few minutes, though.”
“Which we could fill with conversation.”
“You sure you’re not a girl? No, wait. You came too fast to be a girl.”
“Let’s keep that between us, shall we?”
“Depends how you make out in round two. That village notice board’s not just for show.” She moved her leg. “Celia Morden pinned a review of Jez Bradley there once. She said it wasn’t her, but everyone knew.” She laughed. “Don’t get that in your big city London, do you?”
“No, but we have this thing called the Internet. On which similar things happen, I’m told.” Which earned him a nip on the arm. She had teeth. He said, “Were you born here?”
“Ooh, getting personal?”
“Well, not if it’s classified.”
She nipped him again, a little less sharply. “My folks moved here when I was two. Wanted to get out of London. Dad commuted for a while, then joined a practice in Burford.”
“Not farming stock, then.”
“Hardly. Mostly urban refugees round here. But we treat strangers nicely, don’t you think?” She stroked him again.
“And do you get many of those?”
She tightened her grip. “Meaning?”
“I was just wondering what kind of … turnover the village sees.”
“Hmmm.” She resumed stroking. “That better be all you meant. And it still makes you sound like an estate agent.”
“Background,” he improvised. “For the book. You know, how quiet it is now the base has gone.”
“The base went years ago.”
“Still …”
“Well, it’s pretty dead. But getting livelier.” Her eyes flashed. They were startlingly green, River thought. He was hoping she was going to come up with a sudden memory, suppressed till now: a bald man who appeared a few weeks ago; a name, an address … Three weeks, and he’d yet to catch a sniff of Mr. B. He’d become an accepted feature at The Downside Man, and locals greeted him by name; he knew who lived where and which houses were empty. But of Mr. B he’d glimpsed not hair nor hide, a silly phrase given his naked dome, but it was hard to concentrate with Kelly doing what she was doing with her fingers, and now—“That’s more like it,” she said slowly—with her lips, and then River lost his train of thought entirely, and instead of being an agent in the field he was under the covers with a lovely young woman, who deserved a better accounting than he’d managed earlier.
Happily, this time he provided it.
