I grip the menu tightly. ‘I don’t want to see it. We’re out of here.’
‘It’s only another couple of nights,’ he reasons. ‘And nothing happened last night.’ I stare at him. ‘Well, apart from ... the other ... I mean, nothing paranormal.’
‘I guess not, but I’d rather stay at an Airbnb than here.’
‘There wasn’t anything available, but I’ll do another check this morning.’
‘Good. Even if it’s a hovel, I’d rather stay there,’ I say, feeling relieved.
‘I’ll remind you of that when you can’t sleep because the bed is hard as nails and the plumbing is dire. You’ll be begging to come back here.’
‘I doubt it. Anything is better than sleeping with ghosts.’
Klint studies the menu page. ‘What are you having? I like the look of the full English.’
Good to see there’s nothing wrong with his appetite—even if his balls are bruised.
After breakfast, I decide to go into the village and leave him to his thesis. This time, he’s broken the skin, so I need some medical supplies to deal with it even if antiseptic cream and a sticking plaster won’t fix the underlying cause.
Klint’s apology can’t mend physical hurts, but it goes some way towards soothing my emotions. After his ‘I’m so sorry, it must be the stress’, a brief inspection of my arm, and murmurs of ‘Does it hurt?’, followed by a conciliatory hug in the bedroom, I head off.
Trudging along the road that leads to Haworth and battling a fresh headwind, I reflect on his admission that he’s stressed. Maybe that’s all it is. Stress can affect the body and mind in different ways. But his sleep biting has been happening more lately. Perhaps I should skip the chemist and go to a pet shop—for a muzzle.
I didn’t mention my dream about Dain and Keeper to Klint. But the images, and feelings associated with it, are still vivid in my mind. As I pass by the Brontë Parsonage, I hover on the verge of going up there. Dain might be interested in hearing about it, especially as he seems to have an affinity with Emily.I could tell him about the dream, see what he makes of it, then be on my merry way.Of course, I know it’s an excuse to see him again; and it could quite likely backfire, painting me as a fruitcake. At this point, I think I’m better off ignoring the impulse and finding a chemist.
However, as quaint and lovely as Haworth is, trying to find a practical shop in the main street proves impossible; and I have to walk down the hill and past the train station. Keeping mum about my ailment is another issue as the elderly male chemist starts playing twenty questions when I rock up to the counter with two packets of plasters, a tube of Savlon, and a couple of bandages for good measure.
‘Is this for you? Or a loved one?’
‘Me.’
‘Do you currently have an injury?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Um, my arm.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s nothing. A scrape.’
I didn’t expect anyone to be that interested. But it’s a small town, and perhaps he doesn’t get anyone buying more than paracetamol and corn pads.
When he suggests having a look at it and I refuse, he throws me suspicious glances as he rings up the items. I grab the small bag he hands me and hurriedly leave the shop, feeling like he’s thinking I’m self-harming or something.
Walking back through the main street, I pass the café where we had lunch and happen to glance through the window. There, sitting on the counter under a Perspex cover, is a large Victoria sponge—Klint’s favourite cake. It’s dusted with icing sugar and oozing cream and jam. It’s also fresh and virginal—no one’s taken a slice out of it yet. Perfect!
I push open the door and go in.
The girl who served us last time is writing something in a notebook but looks up and smiles. She really is pretty—green eyes, long wavy auburn hair, clear pale skin, and a sprinkling of freckles across high cheekbones.
‘Hello again. What can I get you?’
Oh, she remembers me from the other day. It feels like a lot’s happened since then.
‘Hi, a latte and a slice of the Victoria sponge to go, thanks.’
