Borrowed Time by Robert Goddard

bend ahead of us, the sound of its approach deadened till the moment it appeared by the banks and hedges to either side. It was a large maroon estate, travelling too fast for such a narrow lane. It slewed round the corner, peppering a garden fence with pebbles, then swung back to the crown of the road and headed straight for us. Instinctively, I grabbed Bella’s arm and pulled her towards the ditch. Only for the driver to realize the danger and slam on the brakes. More pebbles showered up behind him, followed by a crunching skid and a cloud of dust. Far too late for comfort, he lurched to a halt.
    And stared blankly at us through the open side window of the car. He was a man of fifty or sixty, with a thatch of silver-grey hair and a round sagging face. Loose skin hung beneath his jaw where once it might have sat confidently as a double chin. His cheeks were hollow, his eyebrows drooping. And he was crying. His eyes were red and brimming, the tear-tracks moist against his skin. For a second or two, he looked at me, as if trying to frame an apology. I saw him lick his lips. Then he mumbled, “Sorry,” released the brake and coasted on down the lane.
    “Stupid bugger,” hissed Bella. “He could have killed us.” I heard him engage a gear and speed up, moderately this time, as if he’d been shocked back to reality. “What did he think he was doing?”
    “Probably didn’t
think
at all. You know what it’s like. Some old codger who’s never passed a test or driven in town.”
    “He wasn’t
that
old.”
    No. He wasn’t. Nor did he fit the picture I’d painted in any other way. He hadn’t looked remotely bucolic. The car was new and in good condition, for which we could be grateful. And he was disorientated by grief, not failing faculties. But I was reluctant to draw the obvious conclusion—that he’d been mourning one or both of the people killed at Whistler’s Cot. Why I couldn’t have explained. Unless it was the intensity of his grief, the glimpse it had given me of the passion such events could stir. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to admit how deep it could run, how formidable it could be. Perhaps I just didn’t want to understand.
    We went on, both of us shaken but pretending not to be. The bend approached, then fell behind. The cottages thinned. Hints of field and heath appeared beyond the hedges. And then we were there. I recognized Whistler’s Cot instantly from newspaper photographs: an old half-timbered dwelling facing the lane, with a modern brick wing running away behind and a garage to one side, set a little back from the line of the house. A gravelled path between led to the rear, without gate or hindrance. The garden looked neglected, the house likewise. Tiles slipping, paint peeling: money spent but never followed up, or never replenished. The name, Whistler’s Cot, carved on a wooden sign in runic characters. And some weird sculpture by the front door, half cherub, half God knows what, crudely carved by design, one hand raised, as if to beckon or bar the way but uncertain which.
    “Is this it?” asked Bella, a note of disappointment in her voice.
    “Yes. This is all there is.” I glanced around. Several windows were open. When Bantock was alive, that wouldn’t have meant much. Now it implied occupation. His family, perhaps? If so, I didn’t want them to notice us. “Shall we walk on?”
    “Aren’t we going to take a closer look?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Well, I didn’t drive a hundred and fifty miles just to
walk on
. Let’s see if there’s anybody in.” She started towards the door.
    “Bella!”
    But she wasn’t to be deterred. Pausing only to stick out her tongue at the statue, she rapped the knocker. Then, when several silent seconds had passed and I’d begun to hope she might give up, she rapped it again, louder.
    At which the garage door slowly swung up and a figure appeared beneath it, craning across the bonnet of an old Triumph sports car to operate the handle. He