The Drowning Ground by James Marrison

out of Fernsby’s stuffy living room and into the falling snow. Away from self-igniting golden retrievers and worried old men. I strode past the other homes in the cul-de-sac. It was starting to snow even more heavily now, and the December air felt raw. I turned up the collar of my coat, although it seemed to do me no good at all, and as I did so I caught a glimpse of television light reflecting against a windowpane in one of the houses.
    On the TV was a children’s programme, though it was playing to an empty room: the children were off somewhere, probably having their tea. The screen showed a crowd of plastic penguins dancing in circles around an iceberg. There was something compelling about the image, hypnotic even, and I found myself, almost against my will, watching the penguins sliding around and around, and then suddenly skidding off the ice and tumbling into a pale blue papery sea. I came to myself as soon as they hit the water and began to walk towards the car waiting for me at the end of the road. Graves looked pretty anxious as I approached, which pleased me. He leant across the front-passenger seat, pushed open the car door, and I looked in.
    â€˜Any luck with those house keys?’ I said.
    â€˜I’m afraid not, sir. There was blood on them, and forensics need to confirm whether it belongs to Hurst or to his attacker. No results until tomorrow and,’ Graves added nervously, ‘that’s at the very earliest.’
    This really wasn’t all that unexpected, but I was annoyed nonetheless. It was already dark, and, drumming my fingers loudly on the roof of the car, I began to consider what to do next. Should we try to break in now or was it better to wait until the morning? For a moment I just couldn’t decide. It would be easier in the morning – but, then again, I had been waiting a very long time to get back into that old house.
    â€˜I don’t suppose you know the way?’ I said, more gruffly than I had intended.
    â€˜To where, sir?’ Graves said.
    â€˜The house,’ I said. ‘Hurst’s house.’
    â€˜But why? We can’t get in without the keys?’
    â€˜We’ll just have to find another way in, then. Shouldn’t be too difficult for a young fellow like you,’ I said, before clambering into the car and out of the snow.
    I gave him the directions. Graves made a face, shrugged and switched on the engine, and the flashy Peugeot estate nosed cautiously out of the narrow street and towards the village green. I had a quick look at him and shook my head. He was certainly no Powell, and I was stuck with him.
    I stared out at the water of the pond beyond the green as we drifted alongside the low wooden railings towards the pub, thinking about Powell lying in the stark surroundings of the hospital ward before his doctors decided to send him home. The Christmas lights, strung loosely along the branches of the trees, were mirrored dimly in the water, so that the water went to yellow and then to black again.
    I stared out at the pond: muddy and grey-banked, it glimmered darkly at the far edge of the village, ignored and forgotten. Lower Quinton hadn’t really changed much over the years. The pub was still there, of course, near the pond on the other side of the green.
    It seemed to be doing a good trade. A small party was heading towards the doors. The men, dressed in dinner jackets, all looked pleased with themselves, while some of the women seemed a little out of breath, as if they had squeezed themselves too tightly into their dresses. A Christmas office party, by the looks of it, and one that had got off to an early start. When the doors opened, laughter burst out, muffled by the closed windows of the car.
    â€˜We’ve found a few more dog-walkers, sir,’ Graves said, as we turned a corner and left the pub behind, ‘but it seems as if there’s more than one place where people walk their dogs around here. Some take them