Keppelberg by Stan Mason Page B

died.’
    â€˜That means our population’s fallen to one thousand and ninety-nine,’ calculated another man in the hall. ‘We need this stranger to balance the books.’
    â€˜Then we need to find him to check his motives,’ called out another woman. ‘But what if he doesn’t like Bridget McBain?’
    â€˜We’ll have to wait and see,’ related the Chairman solemnly. ‘The police will undertake a thorough search of the village tomorrow morning to apprehend the man. If he’s still here, he’ll soon come to light.
    The meeting went on in the same vein for a while and I wasn’t certain whether they were out for my blood or willing to let me meet Bridget McBain... whoever she was. It was sad that her husband had died but why didn’t he take his tablets over a period of time? What had that to do with anything? And why was the Chairman so concerned that the population in the village had been reduced by one person? It didn’t make sense! Clearly, everyone in the village was young but that didn’t obviate the fact that accidents happened... some of them with fatal results. And what did the Chairman mean when he said ‘there is a stranger within our midst who has his own agenda which is unknown to us and we need to stop him before he does something to upset the balance within this community?’ It all sounded so sinister. What possible danger could I be to this village?
    The meeting broke up just after nine o’clock and everyone left the hall with the Secretary being the last one to leave after turning out the lights. I stepped out from behind the large flag and wandered to one of the bench seats to rest my weary bones. Then I climbed on to the stage finding a couple of cushions on the seats which I used as a pillow and back-rest for the night. It was more uncomfortable that the filthy slim flea-bitten mattress in the cell but at least I had somewhere to sleep. I lay behind the table on the stage, placing two chairs on their backs to hide me from sight which was just as well because the door to the hall opened, the light went on, and the Secretary returned looking round as though searching for something she had dropped. However, she soon switched off the light and closed the door so that I was left in peace. Oddly enough, I slept very well that night. There was an eerie silence all around but no one was there to disturb me.
    When daylight came, I rose, shook myself down, and went outside. As I inhaled the fresh morning air, Basra seemed to be more hospitable than Keppelberg. At least in Iraq I was free to roam anywhere I wanted to... within reason. Here, in Keppelberg, I was to be arrested on sight in my own country for a deed of which I was innocent. I suddenly realised how angry innocent people became when arrested and were put on trial for something they hadn’t done. Such feelings of emotion were entirely negative and I gave myself some very good advice to stop the self-pity. It would do me far more harm than good in the long run. I wondered where Wayne Austen was at this particular moment, smiling to myself as I envisaged him in the oldy-worldy clothes that he wore in the village. He was probably miles away hoping not to have to face my sister with the news that I was still here,
    For the moment, I needed to do something desperate to secure my position and an idea quickly formed in my mind. Moving into action, I went to the nearest house and knocked on the door. A woman answered staring at me in surprise.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ I began politely. ‘Can you tell me the address of Mr. Townsend... the Chairman of the village committee?’
    She paused to think for a moment and then conceded. ‘I’ll take you there,’ she offered, closing the door behind her and leading me out on to the path. She walked on for about two minutes with me in tow and then pointed to one of the houses. ‘He lives in that one!’
    Before I had the