But I was right this time. The farm was inland from the coastal madness that descended on Newquay pretty much all year round, but summer was peak twat season, and I didn’t want random out-of-towners fucking up my house. “It’s not happening, Emma. I don’t care what you’ve done. Undo it, and leave it alone.”
Emma opened a cupboard on the rickety dresser and grabbed a handful of plates. She banged them down on the kitchen table without looking at me. “I’m not undoing anything. And it’s not a bunch of randos—it’s one guy, and he wants the room for the whole summer.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “The whole summer?”
“Yes. Ten weeks. Payment up front. All we have to do is give him a kitchen cupboard and space in the fridge. We don’t even have to feed him.”
“How much are we charging him?”
“Fifty quid a night.”
“What?”
“You heard.” Emma took the heaping plate of sandwiches from Mum and dumped them on the table. “Fifty quid a night for ten weeks, Joe. That’s three-and-a-half-grand. Enough to fix the tractor, the horsebox, and pay some of these goons.”
She gestured around the table. No one looked up from their lunch, apparently disinterested now the storm had passed, and perhaps satisfied in the knowledge that no matter how dire the farm’s finances ever were, theyalwaysgot paid.
Eventually got paid.
Whatever.
“Who is he?” I demanded. “And why does he want to hole up here for ten weeks? Just because he’s on his own, doesn’t mean he’s not a weirdo.”
Emma sighed and noisily dragged a chair from under the table. “He’s not a weirdo. Do you think I’m some kind of idiot? The app checked his credentials when he signed up, and he sent me a link to his blog when I accepted his booking so I could see who he was.”
“Show me.”
“No. I’m having my lunch. You can have a look later when you’re done being an idiot for the day.”
And that was apparently that. Defeated, I left the rest of them to their lunch and drifted out to the stables. Most of the horses were out in the fields, but a few of the most ancient knackers were in the stalls: Tauna and Carric, Noel, and my oldest four-legged friend, Mani. I whistled through my teeth and he came to his door, his whiskery nose searching automatically for the miniature hay cube treats I always carried in my pockets. I fed him a couple and knocked my head against his solid neck, my favourite place for brooding when the responsibility of the farm overwhelmed me.
But I couldn’t hide in the stables forever. The morning’s work had been done in my absence, but I still had a mountain to climb before I could catch up on the sleep my police station adventure had cost me.
I kissed Mani goodbye and left him to his life’s work of chewing up his manger. First on my list was the broken fence post in the top field. On better days, I’d have driven the tractor up there, but that was broken too.
It was getting dark by the time I made it back to the house. Everyone had left for the day, even Sal and Emma had gone home to the bungalow they shared on the other side of the farm. I fed the cats, picked up the post, and found a covered plate in the oven. Then I took my dinner into the shambolic place we called a living room and ate in the solitary silence I often craved during the day.
Sal’s chicken stew was amazing. The stack of red-topped bills, not so much. I flicked through them with growing unease, glad I’d left them until after dinner. Most could wait a few more weeks before things started getting cut off, but our feed supplier was running out of patience. I checked the farm’s online bank accounts to see how many public donations had rolled in over the last few days. Not enough. It was never enough. There were many things we could live without—nice cars, new clothes, even electricity if we relied on the ancient stove for heat and cooking. But if we couldn’t feed the horses, we were wasting our fucking time.
Depression settled over me in the dull haze I’d come to expect when I didn’t have a pub brawl to distract me. When did it end? When we were homeless and all the horses destroyed?
I took the bills outside and chucked them on the manure heap. When I returned to the darkened living room, I remembered the blog of our impending houseguest. Emma had left it open on the farm’s cracked tablet, but even the damaged screen couldn’t hide the glossy city lifestyle of whoever the hellHolistic Harrywas. His blog was crammed full of snazzy fitness shots and close-ups of grass-coloured smoothies, and it was clear that wherever he was coming from was a world away from life on the farm.
A few shots showed him lifting impressive weights in the gym. Despite myself, I zeroed in on his torso, taking in the bunched chest muscles and rippling abs. I’d always had a thing for hench dudes, but despite living in surfer country, it had been a while since a bod as hot asHolistic Harryhad passed through my limited orbit. I wondered idly if he had a face to match, but sadly the few images of himself cut off at the neck.
It also disproved Emma’s argument that checking out his blog proved who he was. There was a link to an Instagram account, but that shit was beyond me, so I checked out his biography page. His occupation was listed as a holistic physiotherapist and life coach. It meant nothing to me, but why would it when I knew nothing but the farm? Anything that wasn’t horses—or surfing, back in the day—was a mystery to me, and I liked it that way. The bloke didn’t sound like an axe murderer, but I was still bound to hate him.
* * *
Harry
Google Maps cut out on me just past Newquay town centre. I switched to the sparse directions my host had sent me but began to despair as I passed rows and rows of surfer vans and beach shacks, hoards of glitter-faced teenage girls, and the boys in too-tight shorts who trailed after them.
None of it looked anything like the idyllic farmland I was searching for, and I began to wonder if I’d come to the right place. But then the road headed inland and the vibrant seaside community faded out. I turned down a succession of narrow lanes until Ifinallyspotted the hand-painted wooden sign for Whisper Farm.
The lane to the farm was the tightest of all. My car was small, but I was sure it wouldn’t fit and prayed I wouldn’t meet a vehicle coming the other way.
My hands were sweating by the time I pulled up outside the tidy bungalow where I’d arranged to meet Emma Carter, my host for the summer. I parked up and got out, gazing around at the outbuildings and fenced-off paddocks. There was no sign of any stables, though. Perhaps I really had fucked up my navigation.
