John Hammel’s soul isnotliving inside The Hanging Tree …
But what a story angle!
His brain instantly starts drumming up story arcs he can use to write an article. Because there will be an article about The Hanging Tree. He’s sure of it. Just like The Creature had taken over Cherry Hollow, The Hanging Tree has taken over the sleepy, quiet village of Bethgelert, holding its residents hostage to a curse formed a century ago …
The story practically writes itself.
Stephen blinks several times, realigning his vision. When he comes to, he sees a man standing on the other side of the road from him. The man is a farmer, complete with the cap and padded jacket and wellington boots. He even has a collie dog at his side off the lead because, apparently, farm dogs can roam free around here without the need to be constrained.
The man is staring at him.
The back of Stephen’s neck bristles.
He is about to step across the road to approach the man, to ask him why he’s staring, when the butcher’s shop door opens, a bell sounds, and the detective rejoins him, carrying a bag of sausages.
‘We have a lead,’ he says. ‘I suggest we head to see Diane Bevan. She lives at Pen-Y-Bryn, I believe, then we’ll stop by Frank Hammel atBlackberry Farm.’
Chapter 26
SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
I replaced the boards in the hallway as best as I could, using some leftover plasterboard I found in the garage, then hung a large picture frame over it to disguise the join. I stood back and admired my handywork. My dad would notice straight away if he came here, but hopefully the visitors wouldn’t. I made a mental note to come back once they’d left and fix it properly. Perhaps I could create a door, so I could use it whenever I needed because I wasn’t finished with the room behind the wall. Not yet. John Hammel had more secrets to reveal, more things he needed me to know, but I couldn’t risk bringing the papers and journals outside. I didn’t want them to be found by anyone. I still wasn’t sure if my dad knew anything about it, but either way, I didn’t want him to know that I’d found it. A little secret between me and John.
I slid my arms into John’s overcoat and put his sketch into one of the pockets. It was a little big on me and it smelled musty, but it felt familiar and warm.
On my way out, I stopped by the power console and checked it over. The main switch had been tripped, so all I had to do was flip it back on. It must have been a massive surgethat tripped it, but I was glad I’d been able to sort it, ready for the visitors to arrive tomorrow.
When I arrived back home, my dad was asleep in his chair by the fire with a bottle of beer balanced on the armrest, still clenched in his hand. I draped a blanket over him and removed the bottle from his grip in case it fell while he was asleep and smashed. That would only make him angry, and he’d find some way of blaming me.
As I placed the bottle on the side, I noticed a note lying next to an array of empty bottles. It looked like he’d been on a bit of a bender this evening since I’d left. He liked a drink most nights, but it wasn’t often that he drank himself into a stupor. I picked the note up and read the words slowly, carefully. They were written in swirly, fancy handwriting.
The time has arrived. Hand her over. You got lucky once, but it won’t happen again.
I glanced at my dad and then at the six empty bottles next to him. Who had delivered this note?
The note made it sound like whoever had given it to him had been waiting for a specific time or day, that it was significant somehow. The anniversary of John Hammel’s death was coming up, so perhaps that was connected or relevant somehow.
It was also nearing the anniversary of my mother leaving us and the death of my little brother, but I doubt anyone else would care about that as much as my dad and Idid. It had scarred us as a family and we were barely hanging on even now, but the rest of the world had moved on.
Dad was one of the founding members of the village committee, but I couldn’t work out what that would have to do with anything either. John Hammel’s journals mentioned a lot about the village committee and them hiding things, but from the tone of this letter, it seemed my dad was possibly keeping something from them. Something they wanted.
Handherover.
Were they talking about me?
I turned the note over, frowning, and saw another short sentence scrawled on the back. This one made a lot less sense, but did answer the reason why my dad may have drunk himself into a stupor.
Oh, Dad, what have you got yourself involved in?
Chapter 27
STEPHEN
An unsettled feeling wedges itself in the pit of his stomach as he walks with Detective Williams up the road towards their next destination. Every step he takes, his gut tells him something is wrong. His body is sending him all sorts of warning signals, but his brain won't accept them. It just keeps shoving them aside, hiding them under a metaphorical rug like they don’t matter at this point in time.
While the detective recounts what Mr Davies told him in the butcher's shop, Stephen fights with his brain to focus on the words. He hears them coming from the detective’s mouth, knows what each of them mean, but none of them sink in, don't quite make sense. Just a mix of words, jumbled together, each one an individual rather than working together to form a coherent sentence.
