Unsure by Ashe Barker Read Free Book Online Page A

areas of outstanding natural beauty. And once I’m done with those, and if I want to venture farther afield, there’s Snowdonia to start on.
    Oh yes, this place is ideal.
    This is my fourth day here now, and I’m just beginning to feel I’ve got the lie of the land a bit now. I’ve had my tea at Black Combe twice, and it’s a wonderful feeling to have friends. Just ordinary, nice friends. I know which shops to head for in Haworth. I’ve made myself known at the post office in case there’s any mail for me from Gloucester University or my solicitor. I’ve got a form from the medical center to register with a GP—important because I tend to suffer from violent migraines. There’s medication I can take to help control the problem—the prison doctor prescribed it for me and it worked a treat—so I need to get a supply sorted out here. Even Sadie seems to have gotten over the trauma of the trip up here and her introduction to Barney, and is content to snooze her life away on her favorite cushion.
    It’s late afternoon following another delightful and fruitful excursion up onto the surrounding moorland. It’s been a misty day, damp and drizzling, with absolutely fabulous lights and shades up on the moorland hills. I have some absolutely stunning shots to work with, even if I do say so myself. I was soaking wet when I arrived back at Smithy’s Forge, courtesy of a sudden downpour as I was making my way home, so I took a quick shower when I got in. I was so excited about today’s pictures I just pulled my old toweling bathrobe on before getting to work on editing today’s shots. I tied the belt tightly around my waist, thinking I could dry underneath it and get dressed later. Or not. Since I live completely alone now it’s up to me.
    I’m completely engrossed in tweaking and tinkering with my pictures via the wonders of Photoshop, my laptop set up on the table by the window to benefit from the best light, when a sharp knock at the door rattles around my quiet little home.
    Startled, for a moment I forget where I am, forget that this is a safe place. My home now. I stifle the urge to hide, and instead call out, deliberately shoe-horning at least the suggestion of confidence into my voice, “Who is it?”
    A male voice answers, “Tom Shore.”
    Tom Shore. My landlord. I need to thank him properly for the welcome pack and the logs. And for directing me to Black Combe first instead of leaving me to try to find this place on my own. And for letting me keep my cat. I glance out of the window and see a battered, khaki-colored Land Rover parked on the narrow road outside. I’d have preferred to meet my new landlord fully dressed, but I guess I’m decent enough in my ankle-length thick toweling bathrobe. And he has turned up unexpectedly, he can’t really complain. I leap up, pull my belt nice and tight round my waist, and pad barefoot across the room to open the door, a big smile plastered across my face.
    And the bottom drops out of my world.
    It’s him. The man from the riverside in Bristol. The man Kenny and his dickhead mates mugged, the very same man whose state-of-the-art camera is now sitting on my table. It couldn’t be more prominent and incriminating if it were illuminated in green neon. Exhibit A, m’lud.
    I feel the blood drain from my face as I wait for him to recognize me. Without a shadow of a doubt I know that matters will not take long to be resolved from there. I’m dead. Simple as that.
    If I’d been able to lay claim to even the remotest shred of composure I might have slammed the door in his face, made some sort of excuse and made a run for it. It wouldn’t have taken me more than a few minutes to sling everything I own back in my car and be out of here. But in that moment, unfortunately, presence of mind eludes me entirely. Instead, I stand in the open doorway gaping at him.
    “Is this a bad time? I can come back later if you’d prefer…?” He makes no move to enter the cottage, just