Surefire Page 4

  “What? What’s happened? Where is he?” I’m stammering, my voice already starting to break.

  “He’s on his way to hospital. Air ambulance. He asked me to let you know.”

  Thank God for that, at least he was conscious then. At some stage. But, Christ, the air ambulance?

  I’m already digging in my pockets for my car keys as I quiz Seth. “But, what happened? How bad is he?”

  The main news imparted, Seth is a man of few words now. “Tractor overturned. Mr Shore was trapped underneath it, but we managed to get him out. He was talking, but crush injuries can be nasty. The ambulance crew wanted him in hospital.”

  Crush injuries. Christ!

  “Which hospital? Airedale?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to come and pick you up, take you down there?”

  By now I’m already half way out of the door, my car keys in my hand. “No. No thanks, I’ll make my own way. I know where it is.” My voice is shaking, but every instinct now is screaming at me to get to where Tom is.

  “Okay. I’ll see you there then. Bye, Miss McAllister.”

  I hang up, forgetting to say goodbye. Moments later I’m hurtling down the narrow lane heading for Keighley, Airedale General and Tom.

  * * * *

  Crush injuries can indeed be nasty, but mercifully Tom is not after all to be the proof of that. His injuries amount to a monster concussion and a few badly bruised ribs. The hospital want to keep him in overnight for observation, but as long as no other complications surface he should be home tomorrow.

  Sitting beside Tom in a quiet side ward, I can’t help crying with relief. Reassured, Seth has departed to take care of things back at Greystones. I’m clutching Tom’s hand and trying not to look too closely at the electronic gadgetry arranged around him. All of it is merely precautionary, the nurse has assured me, but still it terrifies me.

  The last time I was in a hospital, my baby was dead, and I know I came perilously close to losing Tom today. My stomach lurches, I actually feel faint just contemplating that. Over the last couple of years I’ve got used to loss, or I should have. I’ve had plenty of practice. I now realize I’m nowhere near immune to grief and pain, and Tom is as vital to me as oxygen. I grasp his hand tighter, determined never to let go.

  “Sweetheart, don’t cry. It’s nowhere near as bad as it looks. Hurts when I laugh though…”

  His wry smile just makes me more weepy. Resigned, he leaves me to cry for a while, get it out of my system. Tom has never encouraged me to bottle up my feelings, so he settles for stroking my hair as I lay my head on his pristine white hospital covers and sob.

  Eventually my sobs give way to a bout of unladylike gulping and hiccupping. He laughs at me, and I see what he means about his ribs hurting as he winces and grunts in pain. Serves him right for scaring me like that, and now that the initial shock has subsided I can find it in me to be unsympathetic.

  He retaliates. “So, I guess all this outpouring of grief means I’m forgiven for the other day, when I threatened to murder your fox cub, and then took my belt to you.”

  I glance around, hoping none of the hospital staff are within earshot. His remarks might take some explaining. I punch his arm.

  “Idiot. Keep your voice down.”

  He shakes his head sadly, his expression grave. “Oh, dear, I suspect our next serious conversation will have to be about respect. And not calling your Dom an idiot, especially when he’s laid up with cracked ribs.”

  I see his smile, hovering at the corners of his lips, and the familiar twinkle in those gorgeous green eyes, and decide to push my luck.

  “Cracked now? They were only bruised a few minutes ago.”

  “Have a care, Miss McAllister. Your lovely bottom hasn’t entirely recovered from our last visit to the barn.”

  “You and whose army, Mr Shore? You don’t look to me as though you could lift a pencil, let alone a spanking paddle.”

  “Well maybe I’ll have to help him out then. After all, what are friends for?”

  I whirl in my seat to see Nathan lounging in the doorway, grinning at us. Well, at me mainly. He continues, obviously enjoying himself immensely, “Is that right, Tom? You need an army to help you sort out your cheeky little sub?”

  Tom shifts in the bed, winking at me before assuring Nathan that whilst it might be a struggle, he’s sure he’ll eventually rise to the occasion. I flush beetroot. My face burns, right to the roots of my hair. Mortified, I try to collect my wits as Nathan pulls a plastic chair from a stack in the corridor outside Tom’s side ward and makes himself comfortable next to me. He peers critically at Tom for a few moments, appraising the damage, then launches in with his questions, “Well, you don’t look as bad as I expected. What have they said?”

  Tom shrugs, and from his grimace I get the impression that’s painful too. “Just bruises and concussion. Could have been worse.”

  Privately I’m also in total agreement, but I offer no further comment.

  Nathan nods. “So, how long are you going to be stuck in here?”

  “Till tomorrow probably. Then they say I can come home as long as I take things easy.” His expression leaves the pair of us in no doubt regarding his opinion of that prospect, and now it’s Nathan’s turn to be unsympathetic. He has it down to a fine art.

  “Bed rest, that’s what you need. And chicken soup. I’ll have a word with Grace.”

  “Fuck off if that’s the best you can come up with. Me and Ashley were talking.”

  “Ah, right. You were just discussing your current predicament. Is she in need of a spanking then? My offer still stands.”

  I flinch and might have squeaked. They both turn to me, grinning broadly, and Tom takes my hand

  “She’ll keep. And stop embarrassing my sub, if you don’t mind. She’s had a bad day.”

  Nathan looks at me more closely, obviously concerned now. “Yes, I can see that. Sorry, love, didn’t mean to upset you. When you’ve done fussing over the wounded soldier here, we want you to come over to Black Combe. Grace’ll have the spare room ready. Eva reckons you shouldn’t be rattling around that farmhouse on your own, and I think she’s probably right. She usually is. Comes of having a PhD I suppose.”

  I have no doubt regarding the strength of Eva’s credentials, but I shake my head, not wanting to put them out.

  Nathan’s having none of it. “You’ll come, or I’ll send Grace to fetch you. You really don’t want to be arguing with Grace.”

  And so it’s settled.

  The matter of my accommodation for the night resolved, and my initial shock now quite dissipated, I’m sufficiently calm to be able to ask Tom what on earth happened. Nathan also seems to want the gory details and leans forward on his elbows to hear the explanation. I presume Tom’s been driving tractors for years without mishap, so what went wrong today? His answer is succinct.

  “Moles.”

  “What?” I’m not sure I heard right. Nathan neither apparently, as he glances to me for some sort of translation. We both return our gaze to the patient, at a loss.

  “Fucking moles.”

  Ah. That’s what I thought he said. I try to formulate some sort of coherent image. Swerving the tractor to miss a jaywalking mole? Distracted by some X-rated moley antics somewhere close by? What? How?

  “You mean moles, fucking?” Nathan helpfully seeks to clarify, obviously on the same wavelength as me. Who’d have imagined that?

  Tom chuckles, no doubt at the expression of absolute mystification plastered across both our face. And he decides to elaborate.

  “Fucking moles, digging their tunnels under my lower meadow. They make the ground spongy, and if there’s too much underground activity it creates caverns. A heavy tractor can easily overturn. Mine did.”

  Nathan’s just as bemused as me. “But, can’t you see where they’ve been? I mean, you rustic types can tell things like that by sniffing the air can’t you? Wouldn’t there be molehills or something? Some clue?”

  I migh
t have been a little more polite, but essentially my questions would have been much the same. Tom looks at him patiently, obviously used to Nathan’s general ignorance of rural affairs.

  “Not necessarily. And there aren’t always molehills. If I’d known the little bastards had been scurrying about under there I wouldn’t have driven a fucking fifty grand tractor across it, would I? Which reminds me, I need to sort out the insurance. Hope it covers moles.”

  Me too. A fifty grand tractor disappearing under a meadow sounds like a big deal. I wonder if moles qualify as an act of God? And I also wonder how we’ll get rid of the things now they’ve taken up residence under Tom’s fields. My nerves won’t stand another day like this.

  “What can we do about them?” I blurt out the question, and both men turn to me.

  Tom seems to think the matter of marauding moles is under control. “Seth will already have all that in hand. We have a few remedies of our own we can try, and if all else fails we’ll call in the professionals. Mole-Busters. Unless you have anything particular in mind, Ashley?” Tom looks genuinely interested, but then ruins it. “After all, I know your views on protecting wildlife.”

  “Ah, yes, the fox cub. I heard about that.” Nathan looks amused and I know I have Eva to thank. Is nothing to be considered private around here?

  Tom takes pity on me. “We’ll recover the tractor, and hopefully the insurance will cough up and it’ll be fixed. Then we stay off that field until the moles are no longer in residence and the ground settles again. Unless you fancy spending a few nights up there with a shotgun. You could blast the buggers every time one pops its head up. We could even start a mole-whacking visitor attraction, like at a fair, and make some money out of it. How does that sound?”

  It sounds fucking stupid to me, and I tell him so. Before I punch him again, and he finally orders Nathan to take me home so I can’t do him any further damage.

  Chapter Four

  Dinner at Black Combe the following week is actually a wonderful evening. Tom’s now pretty much fully recovered, and the terrifying incident of the tractor and the moles has been relegated to a matter for joking about. I could never have imagined this just a few months ago, the four of us just laughing and enjoying each other’s company, the proceedings helped along nicely by Nathan’s twenty quid a bottle red wine of course. Tom made good on his promise regarding a lesson in respect, and once more I’m not able to sit comfortably. Eva keeps grinning each time I shift in my chair. Tom can’t quite conceal his smirk either. It’s a knocking bet that someone has let Nathan in on the secret too, though just for this evening he’s on his best behavior and apparently too polite to let anything slip.

  We knock back quite a lot of Nathan’s fine wine between us, so Tom and I stay over.

  * * * *

  Both the men have early starts, well early-ish, so it’s just me, Eva and Grace enjoying a late breakfast around the Black Combe kitchen table at around eleven the following morning. I’m once again giving Isabella her bottle, having begged Grace and Eva to let me do the honors.

  “So, will you have any more children, do you think?” Eva eyes me across the toast and marmalade, her question quiet but intuitive.

  Grace excuses herself, something about having washing to sort out upstairs

  I shake my head, emphatic, vehement. “No, not me. Once is enough. I couldn’t go through all that again.”

  I had related the story of my ill-fated pregnancy early on in our acquaintance. Eva seemed to sympathize, but words are cheap and I wondered if she truly empathized with my loss. Her own maternal instincts are not much in evidence, though baby Isabella lacks nothing in the way of parental care and affection, even if the latter is mainly provided by Nathan. On this occasion though, she seems genuinely interested in probing further.

  “All what? Who’s to say it wouldn’t work out completely differently the next time? Tom would wrap you in cotton wool. No more excursions to the barn for you…”

  And that might be a pity, though it’s not the main reason I’m shaking my head. “No, I’m not risking it. Never again.”

  “That would be a shame, because you’re a natural. You and Tom would make great parents.”

  “Like you and Nathan, you mean?”

  “Well, like Nathan. I’m still learning. But I learn fast, that’s my specialty. We’ll do all right. And so would you, if you take the chance.”

  I shake my head again. I really can’t see it. Not me. Eva looks unconvinced, but she’s made her point, at least for now, so she drops the matter.

  I’m content to just while away the day here and nearly ignore the persistent buzzing of my phone. I’m determined not to do any work today if I can help it, and I don’t immediately recognize the number calling me. I don’t intend to take the call, then I relent, some instinct at work perhaps. Or maybe I feel a need to deflect Eva’s attention away from my prospective motherhood, or lack of same. Whatever, I hit the green button. “Hello, Ashley McAllister…”

  “Miss McAllister? It’s Mr Miller. Ernest Miller, of Hampson and Miller. In Gloucester.”

  I think for a moment, then the penny drops. “Oh, yes, Mr Miller.” It’s my solicitor, the lovely old gentleman who saw me without an appointment and helped me sort out my mother’s affairs. His firm now acts as my agent with the student housing folk, looking after the financial side of things and forwarding me my quarterly checks. “What can I do for you? There’s nothing wrong is there?”

  “Well, actually, yes. There is.”

  I listen quietly as he explains the reason for his call, and I have to agree. Something has gone very, very wrong indeed. There’s been a fire, last night, at my house in Gloucester. I hear his words, try to make sense of what he’s saying. Extensive damage, smoke and water, fire doors, tenants asleep inside…

  “Was anyone hurt?” It’s the only thing I can think of at this moment, and I desperately wrack my brains for anything else I could possibly have done to make the place safer. Did I miss something? Did I do enough?

  “No, Miss McAllister. Everyone got out safely. The property’s badly damaged though…”

  “Safe? You say they’re all safe. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. But you’ll need to talk to your insurers, and the Student Housing Team. And the fire service will want to investigate as it was a HMO…”

  “A what?”

  “HMO—House in Multiple Occupation. They need to check that you complied with all the fire regulations. I’m certain you did though, so nothing to worry about there. But the formalities, the process, the insurance, it’s all rather complicated. Are you planning to be down here at all in the next few weeks?”

  “What, yes, yes of course. I’ll come. I’ll be there later today. Oh, God, are you sure no one’s hurt?”

  “Quite sure. Today you say? I’ll be here at the office all day then, let me know when you arrive.”

  I hang up, briefly tell Eva what’s happened, and that I’ve got to go. To Gloucester. Now.

  She agrees, but doesn’t think I should be haring off alone. “What about Tom? He’s out on the farm somewhere. He’ll go with you. It’ll be easier to sort things out if you’re not on your own.”

  She’s right, and I hit Tom’s button on my speed dial. I get the unobtainable signal—he’s obviously in one of the many mobile phone black spots around here, one of the perils of rural life. I leave a voicemail, and Eva promises to keep trying him as well. Thanking God or whoever else might be listening that we came over here in my car last night, I sprint for my faithful little Clio. Tom scrounged a lift from Nathan this morning so I’ve still got my transport. I make a brief detour to the farm to grab a bag, chuck in a few things to tide me over for a couple of days and I’m back on the road, heading for the M65.

  All the way down the monotonous gray drag of the M6 and the M5, I’m turning over in my head all the things I did to try to make my house safe and fire-proof. I read the regulations carefully, installed everything that was required
and a lot of the additional recommendations too. I spent a bloody fortune, but it’ll have been worth it if those precautions meant that my tenants survived the fire. What did Mr Miller say, they all got out safely? Did he mean no one was injured? It’s at last sunk in that no one died in my house last night, but what about smoke inhalation? Horrific burns? Other terrifying images swirl around my head as all the possible disastrous consequences compete for the honor of distracting me from the road. A naturally careful driver, I give myself a talking to and get a grip. The last thing I need right now would be to find myself catapulted into the central reservation for good measure.

  And accordingly, three fraught hours later, I’m pulling up outside my mother’s house, my house now. Or what’s left of it. I should have gone to the offices of Miller and Hampson, but my autopilot instinct brought me straight here. I need to survey the damage for myself, assure myself there isn’t still some unfortunate student cowering under his bed, burnt to a crisp.

  Of course the front is blackened, the door completely destroyed. There’s yellow and black police crime scene tape across it, and a policeman standing solemnly beside the remains of the door. A fire service incident investigation unit van is parked in my driveway, so I assume the fire investigators are inside now. I need to talk to them, I need to know what happened. I fumble with my seat belt and manage to scramble out of the car. I walk down the path in something of a daze. My house, my beautiful house. What a mess.

  “Sorry, Miss, you can’t go in there.” The solemn policeman places himself firmly in front of me just as I would have clambered past the police tape. I look up at him, bewildered. “But it’s my house. I own it. I used to live here. I need to go in.”

  “Sorry, Miss, it’s a crime scene. I can’t let you pass.”

  “But…” Then it sinks in. Crime scene. “What crime? It was a fire. Just a fire…”

  “Who did you say you are, Miss?”

  “I’m Ashley, Ashley McAllister.” Then, “Or Sharon Spencer. I was Sharon Spencer. My mother lived here, Susan Spencer. She died…” My voice trails off, I’m babbling. And PC Solemn is on his radio, no doubt reporting to higher authorities that a mad woman with more names than anyone should rightly lay claim to is demanding entry to his crime scene. Sure enough, he turns back to me.