Zara Stoneley - Country Rivals

It turned out to be harder than anticipated. There were no signs, no street lights and the names of the country lanes mysteriously changed at what appeared to be random points. He’d needed a map and he couldn’t get a signal on his mobile, and his hands felt like they were about to drop off from the combination of freezing cold and juddering handlebars.

When he’d finally spotted the entrance gates to the Tipping House Estate he’d dropped the bike, punched the air and done a jig. Then he’d realised that he couldn’t get in, which was slightly sobering. But with the promise of a well-paid job hovering just out of reach on the horizon he’d decided he had to be resourceful.

He’d clambered over a stone wall, torn his jeans on a barbed-wire fence, had brambles wrapped round his crotch (thank God for thick denim) and stood in more than one pile of smelly fox poo. He stank and was frayed at the edges, but he’d been proved right.

As he’d absentmindedly brushed a hand down one long denim-clad leg, his blue-grey eyes never leaving the image, he had to admit it. Tipping House was awesome. The perfect country pile. Full, no doubt, of stuck-up toffs and their horse-faced wives, but what the hell? It was the building he was interested in, not its inhabitants.

From his vantage point in the woods there was no sign of the fire damage that had caught his attention online, and even with the heavy cloak of night time, pierced only by the silver-white slivers of winter moonlight, the grand old building seemed to glow with a grandeur that spoke of majesty and pride. It shouted out, well murmured in a very upper class way, ‘country estate’. It was all about what ho’s , stiff upper lips, hunting parties and Hooray Henrys. Even the lawn was bigger than a bloody football pitch. Which was exactly what film-maker Seb Drakelow, and his demanding bitch of a wife, were after.

Jamie wasn’t really into stately homes and all the pretentious crap that went with them. What he was into was ideas. And this idea was going to pay off big time. The Tipping House Estate was going to win him some points and a permanent job. Pandora had more or less said as much – although whether he trusted her word or not was debatable. But he did trust Seb, and Seb was going to be impressed.

The world might have been his oyster since leaving university, but it was a pretty cramped shell when all you were getting was the word ‘intern’ to slap on your CV along with an endless supply of cheap coffee and the kind of pay that didn’t cover a week’s worth of train fares. He desperately needed to get a place of his own. Urgently. Living with a librarian was seriously cramping his style, even if he was very fond of her. His mother. How the hell was he ever going to get a girl to take him seriously if he had to admit he’d moved back home?

It wasn’t that there was any shortage of girls in his line of work, and with his loose-limbed frame, generous smile and earnest gaze Jamie had always had his admirers. But they tended to mother him rather than show any desire to strip off their clothes and drag him into bed.

There was a subtle change in the quality of the light as the clouds drifted, and Jamie focused back on the job. The clouds were clearing from over the moon – which was his sole source of light. The photographs he’d already got weren’t bad, but this was his chance to get the winner. The perfect moonlit mansion. He lifted his camera to get one more shot. And that was when it all started to go wrong.

‘Shit.’ It was a ghost.

His mouth dried, his throat constricting, his gaze locked on the viewfinder. The figure was lit by the moon, as white as death, smack bang in the middle of his line of sight.

Except this was a solid mass, not the watery, wispy apparition he’d imagined a ghost would be. Some part of his brain told him that he should still be able to make out the mansion, through a shadowy form. That a ghost should be elusive.

Jamie knew he should run or take a photograph. But he couldn’t do either. He couldn’t even glance up to take it in with his own eyes. Second-hand, through the camera, was enough. He was mesmerised. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. As he stared, transfixed, the auto focus in the viewfinder of the camera flickered, trying to fix onto and sharpen the apparition.

Which was the precise moment when his mobile phone had beeped its way into his conscience and he’d picked it up with trembling hands to find an irate ‘ Well? ’ text message from an impatient Pandora. The sight of her profile picture had rather brought him back to reality. Then he’d heard the clunk of the shotgun.

* * *

Jamie stared at the wellington boot, which didn’t appear to have moved.

‘Show yourself, man, or I’ll send the dogs in after you.’

‘No fucking chance, you loony.’ He stayed where he was, one hand clutching his precious camera to his chest. A ghost would have been easier to handle than this trigger-happy harridan.

Another shot rang out, alarmingly close, splinters of bark bouncing off the canopy of leaves that covered him, and Jamie froze. His ears picked up the clunk of the gun being reloaded, or at least that’s what his imagination told him it was. In his world nobody carried shotguns or fired at strangers.

He supposed he should wriggle his way, commando style, to freedom. Not easy with a camera like a brick in one hand. And she’d probably pepper his arse with shot, or send the hounds in to drag him back. Christ, he was going to need new jeans after this. His inner action hero had obviously abandoned him.

‘After him, boy, flush him out.’

‘Well, Mum, I’m not quite sure this was what you had in mind when you said a degree would broaden my mind,’ he muttered under his breath as the sound of snapping twigs heralded the oncoming dog. The Hound of the Baskervilles meets Miss Havisham, was his second thought as the snuffles and panting got closer. Although Havisham Hounds sounded more like a pub than a horror film. He had to breathe, calm down. Think rationally.

There was a rustle immediately to his left, the smell of sweet doggy breath, and Jamie opened his eyes – which he hadn’t realise he’d shut. Whiskers tickled his cheek, above them a black, wet, shiny nose. Jamie all but giggled in relief as he realised that it was a Labrador grinning down at him. It plonked itself down on its haunches by his shoulder, tongue lolling, tail swishing through the leaves.

Jamie, who’d never heard of anybody being eaten alive by a Labrador, even though they’d eat more or less anything, offered a hand. The dog sniffed, then licked him with a noisy slurp.

‘Bertie stop that, you bloody traitor.’ Bertie stopped and glanced up guiltily over his shoulder, and so did Jamie. Straight into the barrel of a very old shotgun, gripped by even older, liver-spotted hands. ‘And don’t even think about running off. Darned safety catch, sticking again.’

Jamie wasn’t even sure he could get up without help, let alone run. ‘Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?’ He nodded at the barrel, which was a damned sight steadier than his wavering voice.

‘I’m perfectly competent.’

Which he took as a yes. Despite the firearm pointed at his heart he could feel the blood returning to his extremities with a rush. His fingertips started to throb. ‘It might be nice if you pointed it somewhere else.’ She didn’t. ‘I thought you were a ghost.’