The Drowning Ground by James Marrison Read Free Book Online Page B

barking at, Mr Fernsby? Did you see anyone cutting across the back of the hill? Not a dog-walker – someone else?’
    Fernsby paused, thinking. ‘No,’ he said.
    â€˜Perhaps you remember something else?’ I asked. ‘Anything at all? Doesn’t matter if it seems of no consequence. Like the dog. When did it start barking? Can you remember? Are you sure it only started to bark later?’
    Fernsby’s eyes dimmed, and he sat back, thinking harder, worrying at the edges of his memory. ‘No, it was definitely later,’ Fernsby said finally. ‘As I was on my way back across the field – on my way back home. Frank lost his patience with it. He started shouting and gave it a wallop. But it didn’t seem to do any good. The dog just got more and more worked up.’ Fernsby pushed himself further back in his chair.
    â€˜But there’s something else, though, isn’t there?’ I said, pushing him, albeit gently for now. ‘Something was wrong, wasn’t there? There was something else you didn’t like about yesterday’s walk.’
    Fernsby nodded reluctantly. He reached for another cigarette, thought better of it and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Well, as I was nearing the end of the walk … it was funny, I kept on looking up at Hurst, because I was sure he was staring at me. You know I could feel … well, it was like I could feel him staring at me. But he wasn’t: he was bent over, working. He wasn’t paying attention to me at all. It’s silly but…’ Fernsby shrugged, too embarrassed to go on.
    â€˜You felt as if you were being watched,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you?’
    â€˜Yes – I suppose that’s it,’ Fernsby said, relieved that I had said it for him. ‘You have to try to understand,’ he said. ‘It was getting dark and … well … I suppose I got a bit jumpy. Jumbo seemed to want to go home as well. It was like he was dragging me away from there – probably just desperate for his tea – practically pulled me out of that field, didn’t you, Jumbo?’
    Jumbo, I noticed, had moved much closer to the fire and was on the verge of once more setting himself alight. But maybe Jumbo wasn’t quite as dumb as he looked.
    â€˜I could hear Frank raving to himself on the top of the hill, talking to himself. That, and his dog barking like mad. It was getting dark after all, so I suppose I was really glad to get out of there.’ Fernsby laughed half-heartedly. ‘Fell over when I climbed over the stile,’ he said, lifting up his bandaged hand and showing it to me.
    Yes, I could just imagine Fernsby and his dog moving through the growing darkness, the animal pulling his master’s frail frame along the path and towards the gate. An old man made worried by the sudden eeriness of the hill, but not really wanting to admit it to himself. And, once back amongst the reassuring lights of the village, Fernsby would have no doubt reprimanded himself for having got all worked up over nothing. Finally in the safety of his home. On goes the latch.
    The sound of the wind blowing through the trees on Meon Hill came back to me, and with it a memory of the damp, used-up smell of Hurst’s corpse. I imagined someone moving quickly and silently towards Frank Hurst as he worked in his field. I thought of the hill; imagined a blurred shadow peeling itself away from the darkness of the trees. For a moment, in the darkening light, I seemed to see Hurst’s hunched-over back, and then his panic-stricken face as he turned.
    I looked up. The old boy was staring at me again. Another cigarette in his mouth.
    â€˜Downes,’ Fernsby said thoughtfully. ‘The name – it’s English, isn’t it? But you’re not from here, are you?’
    I sighed and stood up. I get this a lot. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not.’

7
    It was a relief to be