BooksBarbecue
Back The Hollows
Chapters (77)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Dedication
  5. PART I
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. PART II
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. 31.
  38. 32.
  39. 33.
  40. 34.
  41. 35.
  42. 36.
  43. PART III
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. 40.
  48. 41.
  49. 42.
  50. 43.
  51. 44.
  52. 45.
  53. 46.
  54. 47.
  55. 48.
  56. 49.
  57. 50.
  58. 51.
  59. 52.
  60. 53.
  61. 54.
  62. 55.
  63. 56.
  64. 57.
  65. 58.
  66. 59.
  67. 60.
  68. 61.
  69. 62.
  70. 63.
  71. 64.
  72. 65.
  73. PART IV
  74. 66.
  75. 67.
  76. 68.
  77. Acknowledgements

She cried out in fear, then realised it was only the first embankment and stumbled sideways through the gap. One last look back, at the slab above the hole and the three black charcoal lines, and then she broke into a shambling run, faster than she’d gone in years, gulping at the searing air till she tasted blood. She had to slow down, before she gave herself a cardiac. But it was a long time before she could do so, what with the sounds coming out of the hole, that carried so clearly on the winter air.

10.

10.

The inside of the Land Rover was pleasantly warm, but it was the sight of Wakeman Farm, rather than the cold, that made Ellie want to stay inside. Or, better still, turn around and drive back home to her bed. She’d had a late shift scheduled today, hence the all-night drinking session with Milly and Noel: she’d intended a lie-in, followed by a fry-up to counteract the consequences.

But the road to Matlock was still cut off, and until it was clear, she and Tom were all the village had. That was the job, and she’d signed up for it, so Ellie pulled on her hat, opened the door and got out, shivering at the cold.

Wakeman Farm was a farm in name only, had been for years. It was clean and whitewashed, with a paved drive, rockery and floral garden: Sally Beck liked her home to look pretty. In summer the rose trellises on the front of the building turned the plain white frontage, grey stone and black earth into a riot of colour. Whenever Ellie drove past in summer she’d slow down to admire it.

It was always hard to imagine the land being warm again at this time of year, but more than ever today. Only one trellis remained attached to the house; the other lay scattered over the front drive. The wooden frame hadn’t just been pulled down but torn apart, along with bundles of rose creepers that had been twisted and snapped.

The storm last night had been fierce, but the trellises had withstood worse winds than that. Grant Beck was a builder and joiner by trade, and knew his job; he’d put them up himself. Besides, smashing up the trellises was one thing, but the roses would have taken serious work. Strength. The wind wouldn’t have done that; nothing short of a tornado would, and climate change or no, there’d been none of those last night.

It took serious application – anger, or outright hate – to put that kind of work in, especially on something as innocuous as a rose trellis. Likewise, the wind might have smashed one or two windows if the storm turned to hail, but not every single one. Let alone the door.