The knocking sound got worse. Paul looked for a place to pull in. On this winding country road, there weren't too many spots where he could stop the car safely. The car began to lose power badly. He ground to a halt in a field gateway and the engine died. Grinding the starter proved pointless so Paul sat behind the wheel in the darkness and gathered his thoughts. It had been a bad day and it seemed to keep getting worse. It began with that row with Helen. Then he'd had his mobile stolen and had to go and buy another, Then to cap it all he'd lost the Smithson account and had spent half the night with bloody Gerry trying to explain why. He took out the new phone and saw what he had expected. There wasn't the ghost of a signal out here in the wilds.
He climbed out of the car and locked it carefully out of habit. No-one, he thought, is going to steal it. Paul could not remember seeing any houses behind, so he set off down the road ahead keeping to the right and trying to keep to the dim outline of the white line that followed the edge of the road. Thank goodness it wasn't cold. St Luke's Little Summer they called it. Those few days around 11 October when sometimes the warm weather returns before autumn really gets hold. He kicked his way through occasional drifts of leaves and listened to their dry, crisp crunch. He was comforted by their familiar sounds. There were no night noises. He had always thought the countryside a noisy place even at night, owls hooting, foxes barking, and the leaves stirred by the night breeze but the night was silent and still. Only the sound of his feet and his breathing broke the oppressive stillness. That was what made him kick the leaves, to hear normal noises.
He was about to speak, to talk to himself out loud just to hear his own voice, when he heard the music. It was faint but he could hear it up ahead and to the right. He quickened his pace, wanting to find the music, find a phone, get out of this dark night and feel safe. He was nearer to the sound now. It was a dance band, something like Glenn Miller, that style. Now he could make out the tune, it was Blue Moon. He came across a track to the right. It was overgrown in the centre as if cars did not regularly use it. The sound drew him on, and he made his way along the dark path brushing aside the bushes that whipped at him. A dim light could just be made out and he hurried towards it just as a man in the desert stumbles towards the oasis.
The whitewashed walls of a house gleamed dully. Chinks of light escaped from behind heavy curtains and a rosy glow shone out from the stained glass above the door. Paul grasped the knocker and brought it down sharply twice, a good solid rap-rap. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, the drawing of bolts. The door opened and, in the half-light, he could see a woman in her twenties with hair that hung in waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and her warm smile was outlined in scarlet lipstick. She wore a patterned jumper and a full skirt that fell below her knees.
Yes?" she said.
‘I'm sorry to bother you at this hour but my car broke down. I wonder if I might use your phone?’
‘Please, come in,’ she stood aside, allowing him to enter the dark panelled hall. Turkish rugs covered the polished parquet flooring; a Tiffany lamp on a small oak table cast a warm light over the large black telephone.
‘Help yourself,’ she said and walked through a door into what surely must be the sitting room. The Glenn Miller sound had sunk to a hiss. As he picked up the heavy receiver the tune began again. His fingers fumbled on the unfamiliar dial. He knew he was in the country but he would have thought that even here the push button phone might have found its way from civilisation. The crackling line gave him a number unobtainable sound. He carefully replaced the receiver and knocked on the door of the sitting room entering hesitantly.
The woman was standing by a wind-up gramophone swaying gently to the music. Her long slim fingers held a cigarette; she blew out smoke and smiled that scarlet smile showing even white teeth.
‘Everything alright?’ she asked.
‘Your phone doesn't seem to be working,’ said Paul.
‘Oh, is it on the blink again, I'm afraid it's often like that?’ She spoke in a cultured voice that would not have been out of place at the BBC. She made 'often' sound like 'orphan'. Paul felt that he had stepped into a dream.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said when the silence became painful. The record had ended and the needle hissed.
‘I'm not sure I should.’
‘You look as if you could use a stiff one.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Whisky alright?’
‘Please.’ She poured a generous measure from a cut-glass decanter and handed him the heavy glass.
‘Well if you' re stuck for a bit we'd better make the introductions, I'm Fiona, Fiona Carlton.’ She held out her slim hand. As he took it he looked into those smiling eyes.
‘Paul Goodwin. Do you live here alone?’
‘Lord no,’ she said sinking into a floral armchair, ‘my husband's upstairs. He's a bit of an invalid, don't you know, doesn't get down here much. He's in bed.’
‘What will he think about you entertaining a stranger at this time of night?’
‘I don't really care what he thinks, Paul, he can think what he likes. I'm a lot younger than him you know. I'm a modern woman and I do what I like.’ She poured herself some whisky and drank it in one draught, drew on her cigarette and blew out the smoke provocatively. She rose and moved towards him, the smile becoming predatory. Paul heard a movement behind him and Fiona' s eyes widened.
‘George, what are you doing down here?’ Paul turned to find a man standing at the door. He was dressed in pyjamas, dressing gown and carpet slippers. He was in his forties but his pale haggard face looked older. Paul took all this in just a split second before his attention became riveted on the revolver in George's hand.
‘So, you're no longer content to take them to seedy hotels, Fiona. You've started bringing them home.’ The voice was thin and peevish and the gun waggled at Paul.
‘Don't be ridiculous George. This man's car broke down. He came to use the phone.’
‘And has he? Has he used the phone?’
‘It's not working,’ Paul stammered, his eyes never leaving the gun.
‘You don't seem very good with mechanical things, do you? Car broken, phone broken, but Fiona's not mechanical you should be alright with her.
‘George, put that thing down, let's talk about this.’
‘Everything seems broken doesn't it, Fiona? George doesn't work properly either does he Fiona? That's why you seek your fun elsewhere isn't it? Isn't it Fiona?’ He raised the gun and it shook in his hand. ‘Well now I'm going to break things. He pulled the trigger and the whisky decanter exploded into bright fragments. Paul took Fiona in his arms. It was a reflex action, the woman was in danger, he was in danger. George mistook the action and aimed the gun at the two frightened figures ‘Well doesn't that look cosy? Seems as if your luck is in, whatever your name is, your car breaks down and you end up with a girl in your arms. Enjoy it while you can.’ The gun spat twice. The record on the gramophone shattered and a glass splintered.
‘George, please!’ Fiona screamed.
‘Well, sir, we've not been introduced and I’ve no wish to shoot a man I don't know. I'm George Carlton and the lady you are cuddling is my wife, but then you know her already.’
‘Paul, Paul Goodwin. Look Mr Carlton this is a mistake.’
‘Yes, it is a mistake and you made it.’ As George raised the revolver there was a crash from the hall. George turned as a figure burst into the room.
Paul spun Fiona around and they crashed through the curtains of what Paul prayed were French windows. As they picked themselves up from the lawn there were shots and a scream.
‘This way,’ cried Fiona as she grabbed his hand and led him through the darkness of the garden and into the lane.
It took the best part of an hour to reach the nearest habitation, the small town of Mexton. They stumbled into the police station and found reception empty. Paul hammered on a glass panel and pressed the bell.
‘God I must look a mess, I’ll go and clean up, shan't be a tick.’ She disappeared into the Ladies.
The frosted glass panel slid open to reveal a plump sergeant with a mug of tea in his hand.
‘Steady on sir,’ the sergeant said, and Paul realised he still had his finger on the button.
‘Sorry, but we've been attacked, a man with a gun.’
‘Where sir?’ The sergeant looked ready to spring into action.
‘At a house, I don't know exactly where it is, Fiona will know, she's in the Ladies. It was her husband George Carlton.’
‘Carlton, sir? George Carlton? You'd better come through.’ The sergeant opened a door and invited Paul through.
‘But Fiona, she's in the Ladies.’
I'll let her through when she comes out. Have a seat; I'll get you a cuppa.’
‘We don't have time for tea sergeant, there's a man loose with a gun. I think he's killed someone.’
‘Yes, sir, I know. We do have time believe me. You sit there, I'll get the tea.’ Paul stared disbelieving as the sergeant poured a large mug of tea, added milk and three spoons of sugar. Then he poured in something from a bottle he kept in a drawer. ‘There, sir, think you’ll find that’ll hit the spot. Now tell me what happened.’
The story poured out of Paul in a stream so rapid that the sergeant had to tell him, several times, to slow down. As Paul told of the gunshots the sergeant remained calm and unflustered.
‘Fiona is a long time. I’ll see where she is.’
‘You do that sir, then come back.’ The sergeant sipped his tea and waited patiently. Paul returned and sat down. Gone has she? I thought so. Now you finish your tea and I'll tell you a thing or two. I'm sorry to tell you, sir, but Fiona Carlton is dead.’
‘But I was just...’
‘You've just been with her? I know, but the fact remains that she is dead. Her husband killed her and her lover and then turned the gun on himself. Now I know you find that hard to believe after what you've seen tonight but it is true. It happened a long time ago, sir, in 1938. It was 11 October just like today. This'll be their seventieth anniversary as it were.’ Paul looked at his mud and grass stained fingers and the cuts on his hands. ‘You're not the first to come here like this. You're the third I've dealt with and I've been here fifteen years. My old Sarge had a couple as well. I try to make sure I take the night shift on this night each year, I'm supposed to have a constable here as well, but I send him off home. I can soon dig him out of bed if there's real trouble.
‘So, they died in 1938?’
‘Yes, they were all found in the sitting room, George in his pyjamas, the two lovers fully dressed. George must have heard the bloke arrive, Steven I think it was. Anyway, the husband worked his way downstairs and caught them 'in flagrante' as it were. It'll be light soon. I’ll give you a lift out to your car.’
‘It broke down.’
‘Yes, sir, you said. I'll take a look at it for you.’
The police car pulled up at the end of the lane and, in the grey light of morning, they walked up to the house, or what remained of it. Sections of wall remained, none higher than a couple of feet. Shrubs and trees grew among what little was left. Paul stood in awed silence.
‘They left the house as it was. No-one wanted the place so they couldn't sell it. Even the local farmer refused to take over the land. Each year a little more of it vanishes. I hope that when it's all gone they'll be able to rest but I doubt it. I'll come with you to your car sir. I think you'll find it'll start first time. They usually do.’
‘And this happens every few years?’ Paul asked.
'Yes, sir, but tonight was a bit different. This time she got as far as the station. That's not happened before. Perhaps that'll make a difference, who knows. Let's leave them; we've got lives to live. We'll get your car started and then you and me can be off to our homes. It's been a quite a night. I'm just glad it only happens once in a blue moon as they say.'
