I made it to the shelter of his barn, attached to the side of the house. The barn was dark, and smelt of rotting straw. Rats scurried in the dark. They didn’t sound like they were running away, more like they were trying to get a good look at the unexpected visitor. Or planning a co-ordinated attack.
There was a side door from the barn into the house.
I hoped it was unlocked. Kicking a man’s door down wasn’t the best way to get him on your side.
The kitchen was as rank as the barn, possibly worse. Fewer rats, but only just. Or maybe the rats in the house were quieter.
‘Are you going to come down and sort this out, or am
I going to have to come up?’ I shouted.
‘They’re not taking my farm,’ Streatfield shouted down.
‘Nobody’s taking anyone’s farm,’ I said. ‘But if you keep pointing a gun at all those lads out there one of them’s going to get upset and decide to shoot you first.’
‘Tell them to go away,’ he said.
‘I think it’s a bit late for that.’
There was silence for a while.
‘Bit of a problem,’ he said.
‘I’m coming up,’ I said.
Streatfield was sitting on a wooden chair to the side of the window, his ancient shotgun resting on the sill. He was dressed in his underpants and a filthy vest. The room was dank with mould and it smelt worse than it looked.
‘They want to take the farm,’ he said, as if I didn’t know. As if I’d dropped round for a social visit.
‘Maybe not such a bad thing,’ I said. ‘Let a young man have a go with it. The country needs feeding.’
He looked at me with watery eyes. Tracks on his grimy face showed he’d been crying.
‘Meant to bemyboys.’
‘That’s all in the past,’ I said. ‘We all lost people. Got to get on with it.’
He looked around the room.
‘Did I hurt anyone?’ he asked.
‘You winged one of them. Probably given him a few weeks off sick.’
‘They’re going to put me in jail.’
‘They want the farm,’ I said. ‘Come down and we’ll talk with Neesham. He’s all right.’
‘Charlie Neesham?’ he said, his face lifting.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Sort it out over a pint.’
He looked up at me with hope, a vision of a way out.
‘Stay away from the window,’ I said, as Streatfield got up from the chair.
‘Right,’ he said, leaning across the window to grab his gun.
A volley of gunfire erupted from outside. Like a pheasant shoot; a frenzy of gunfire until everyone had emptied their chambers. I got a mouthful of dust and blood before I could back out into the upstairs hall.
