Joe was frustrated. He wanted to leave the house. Arguing with any female was always a bad idea, but when it was his wife he never stood a chance, even though he might be right and she in the wrong. She never saw it like that. In her mind, and those of the surrounding areas who were beginning to suspect that Mary was dabbling in some form of dark arts, she’d got herself in too deep and got herself killed.

‘Look at this,’ Annie waved the local paper in front of his face. She pointed to an article by a local journalist about the prevalence of Paganism in the area and a tenuous link to Mary’s death. Joe noticed that it was the same young journalist who’d written the article that upset Fred: Carry Tomlin.

‘That’s enough, Annie. Fred has lost a dear friend, and I’m done with this small town speculation.’

‘You always thought yourself too important for simple folk not concerned with the business of saving the goddamn world, starting here with piles of stones and sheep.’

It was a low blow but one he’d heard before. Joe was an outsider. He was born in Nottingham and, as such, was not considered a local in Cumbria, despite the fact that he’d lived there for over twenty years. Occasionally, Annie used it when she was sifting through her arsenal during a heated altercation, overlooking the fact that she was from Cornwall originally. There was truth in it, and that’s what hurt; he knew that he overcompensated on the conservation side to show his loyalty to the county. It was a desperate act and it surprised him. He stared at her, not knowing what to say. It was thoroughly juvenile and pointless to argue against. He walked out, and expected the parting shot.

‘That’s right, walk away. That’s what you do best.’

He slammed the door and walked to his car. The boys were out. Connor was at a friend’s and Callum had gone to the climbing wall. He’d finally told them about a girl he’d met there. She was called Josie. They’d asked to meet her but Callum had shut down, blushing. They dropped it; he’d introduce them in good time if that’s what he wanted. No doubt, like all relationships at their age, it would last two weeks and they’d never know who she was. He tried to remember what it was like meeting a girl when he was sixteen. All he could recall were Tina Galway’s breasts. He dreamt about them every night. Soon, their eldest son would be more interested in a girl’s breasts than them. Perhaps it had already happened. He’d had ‘the talk’ with both of his sons, and they’d reacted like he supposed he had at their ages.