Open Writing

'Up the ill, turn roit at the top an there you be,' said the old man.

I thanked him and drove on. Having parked, I knocked.

'Come in,' said Calvert. 'Did anybody see you? Did you speak to anybody?'

'Yes, there was a friendly old chap back there, down the hill.'

'Friendly? You mustn't trust anybody around here.'

I stared at his sallow face and straggly hair. 'If you dislike it so much,' I said, 'why do you stay?'

He stared back at me. 'I'll stay,' he said, 'for as long as it takes.'

*
Over dinner he told me he'd gone to live there after losing his job in the City. 'And now I work from home.'

('Doing what?' I didn't ask.)

'But why here, in this village?' I asked.

'Because it's where my sister lived ... in this very house.'

'Lived?'

'Yes, she's gone now . . . they did her in, you know.'

'No!. .. What do you mean, did her in? Who did her in?'

'Never you mind . . . I'll sort the bastards out.'

*

Having decided not to stay the night, I drove back down the hill and parked at the village pub. I went in and saw the old man I'd met earlier.

'Did you foind the place?' he asked when I'd bought him a drink. 'Yon Calvert, ees roind the bend, ee is - as mad as a atter.'

'He told me about his sister,' I said.

'Aah, is sister. .. she were a witch, that un, an one noight we -'

'Shut up, you old tosser,' the barman said.

I keep meaning to go back to see how Calvert is getting on.