Peter Helton - Rainstone Fall

‘Honeysett.’

‘That’s the one. What a stupid name. I’d never heard of him.’

‘I’m Honeysett.’

‘Thought that’s what you said.’

‘It was my car you saw, but I didn’t drive it there. Neither did I stick a dead body in the back. But I’d like to know who did.’

‘That’s understandable, but why ask me?’

‘Got to start somewhere. Where can I find the farmer who owns the field?’

He snorted his contempt. ‘Blackfield? Some farmer. Keep on down the lane, take the first turn to the left, cross the Lam via the bridge, then keep going north, ignoring all else until you see a big ugly mess. And that’s just his face. Ha! You can’t miss it, his place is a shambles. Though what kind of reception you’ll get I can’t say.’

‘You don’t think much of him, then? As a farmer, I mean.’

‘I don’t think much of him in any capacity. He’s not doing much farming though, that’s for sure.’

‘Then what does he do?’

Jack Fryer pulled his unshaven face into the caricature of a grin. ‘That’s a damn good question and you should definitely ask him that. And please come back and let me know what his answer was.’ This thought seemed to produce some genuine mirth for a moment, then his smile vanished without a trace. ‘Now if that’s all, I’d like to get on with this shit here.’

‘Sure. I’ll see myself out.’

On my way to the front door, while searching in my pockets for matches to light a much-needed Camel, I came across a crumpled piece of paper. I unfolded it. It turned out to be the so-called map Cairn had given me at the Rose and Crown. The thing was hand-drawn in black biro in a shaky and spidery line, and the tiny writing on it was so illegible it took me a moment to decide which way was up. I turned round and walked back into the rancid kitchen. ‘One more thing. .’

‘Yes, Mr Columbo.’

‘This is supposed to be a map of the area. Show me where I am.’

‘You’re back in my kitchen which is. .’ He smoothed the map on the table and squinted at it. ‘Here. That squiggle is Spring Farm.’

‘Do you know someone called Albert?’

He shook his head.

I felt stupid but I had to ask it. ‘Do you know of any witches around here?’

‘Can never find one when you need one, right? Are you as weird as you appear or is this gin faulty?’

‘Just stuff some kids told me about a witch living in the valley.’

‘Kids? Oh, I think I know who they mean, the Stone woman. Stupid brats. It’s like you’ve stepped into the Middle Ages when you set foot in the valley. People are as superstitious as ever. Hardly surprising with a whole new generation of New Age brats desperate to believe in any kind of crap as long as it’s different from the crap their parents believed in.’

‘Stone woman?’

‘Yes. That’s her name. She’s not as stony as all that. I suppose she’s a target for that kind of thing. Calling her a witch, I mean. She grows herbs down at Grumpy Hollow.’

‘ Grumpy Hollow ? Are you serious?’

‘That’s what the place is called. Always has been. No idea why. When we were kids we’d go and play at the Hollow, there’s a couple of springs down there and we found it quite spooky but perhaps it was just because it had a weird name.’

‘Is it near here? Can you show me on this map?’

‘Yeah, it’s right there, it’s marked even, see it?’ He pointed to another squiggle and some writing that I had thought spelled Guppy Horror, which wouldn’t have surprised me one bit, this being Somerset after all. I folded the map back into my pocket. ‘Right, thanks. This time I’m really out of here, promise.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Once outside again I finally got a cigarette lit and took it as an excuse to wander about in the yard. You can’t really ride a motorbike and smoke at the same time so it was plausible that I’d hang about for a bit longer. Not that I knew what I was looking for but I thought I’d recognize it when I saw it. That’s how I had always worked in the past — hung around, made a nuisance of myself, stuck my nose in. The mist had thickened even further, which gave me the irrational feeling that the valley itself was trying to make things difficult for me, though Jack Fryer had been helpful enough. I sauntered further towards the back of the long chicken shed where a steel-grey double door turned out to be locked when I tried to open it. A couple of paces further along and the square-faced man suddenly swung round the corner again, still carrying his shit scraper. ‘Did the farmer say you can come round here?’

‘He didn’t say I couldn’t,’ I suggested. ‘I’m just having a fag before getting back on the bike.’

He simply stared hard with disapproving eyes and gave me the distinct impression that he considered me another bit of shit to be scraped out of the yard.

I ignored it. ‘What’s that Stone woman like down at Grumpy Hollow?’ I asked, hooking a thumb in the general direction the map had indicated.

His eyes widened and he gripped the scraper’s handle harder. ‘Stay away from there if I was you.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘S’not a good place, it’s a witchy place. And the Stone woman, I’m not saying she’s a witch but you can’t help but wonder. Stuff you hear.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Strangers coming and going. Weird stuff she grows.’ He shrugged. ‘I heard someone say down the Surgery that half the stuff she grows is poisonous. Stuff like that.’

‘At the surgery?’

‘Brains Surgery.’

‘Brain surgery?’

‘It’s a pub in Larkhall, Brains Surgery,’ he said slowly. ‘Brains, it’s a beer.’

‘Poison? I wouldn’t have thought there was that big a market for it.’

He shrugged again. ‘You don’t know, do you?’ He turned and walked away, once more rounding the corner of the shed in pursuit of avian excrement. I didn’t follow him. Whether he meant that I didn’t know or one never knows I wasn’t certain, but if someone told me there was a witchy place full of poison then I considered it my duty to go there and be scared.

As I walked towards the Norton I could just make out Jack Fryer’s face through the grimy kitchen window behind his stacks of mouldy dishes, watching me. I gave a cheery wave with the hand that held the cigarette, hoping it might explain why I was still there, then took a last puff, flicked the butt into the weeds by the gate and kick-started the bike. It took a few goes, the Norton never did like murk.

By now I could see no more than a hundred yards in any direction. It was a stupid idea to ride deeper into this valley which I didn’t know at all. If the fog got any thicker I’d have trouble finding my way around. The complete absence of signposting made me wonder whether the signs that were taken down in 1940 to confuse an invading Jerry had ever gone up again. The lanes were just wide enough for a tractor around here so I pootled slowly along, having no desire to become embedded in the back of some farm machinery. After a while a turn-off came into view on the left, an unmade road that led downhill and looked slippery. It was. But the Norton coped admirably with the wet, rutted track that curved down steeply between hedgerows. I only caught glimpses of sheep in the fields on either side, sitting about in dripping, dispirited huddles. I didn’t want to depress them any further so refrained from shouting the traditional ‘Mint sauce!’ at them. I was too busy trying to keep the bike steady anyway. When I finally reached the bottom I was confronted by a stand of trees, a stream and no bridge. The lane disappeared into the stream and reappeared on the other side. In other words, a ford. It wasn’t exactly a raging torrent but after a week of nearly solid rainfall this was no babbling brook either. There was no easy way of telling how deep it was at the centre without walking right in. Fallen leaves from the mixed bit of woodland the stream bisected here had been churned into slippery mush by heavy tyres. That was the trouble with the countryside: most of it was built with four-wheel-drives in mind. I had one-wheel-drive but just didn’t fancy turning round so I pointed the Norton at a likely-looking spot in the brook, put it in first and opened the throttle wide. The rear wheel raced, eventually found some grip and propelled the bike forward. Before I knew it I was completely drenched in icy water and plastered with mud. The engine sputtered and died on reaching the other side of the stream, probably feeling it had done enough by getting me across. I wheeled the bike to a tree where I could leave it leaning and draining, feeling quite a bit like leaning and draining myself. I knew it would be hopeless trying to restart the engine straight away. Having stuck my helmet on the handlebars I set off on foot. If the scribbly map was right then the path that led through this narrow band of trees would lead directly to Grumpy Hollow and ‘the Stone woman’, as Jack Fryer put it.