‘Around Blackthorn Lane? I never thought he’d sell. That farm’s been in his family for
centuries.’
Blackthorn Lane. The road where the accident happened.
In my lower back, the parasite of pain I’ve had since the accident burns and expands into my gut. I grip my stomach.
Alex replies, ‘Well, we’ve known the Briggs family for generations. My father tried to get a project going on the land years ago – back in the seventies he was going to build
some flats – but there was too much red tape involved.’ I bend over the sink. ‘This time we’re only taking a section of the woods close to the road. It’s mostly a
brownfield site, though you wouldn’t know it. The vegetation has completely swamped what buildings were there as the place has been idle so long. Bill will get to keep most of his arable
land. He’s up for selling more in the future though. It could be a real money-spinner.’ The voices have relaxed again, the filter of business soothing the stilted evening. ‘My man
at the council’s assured me the planning’s nearly gone through. Bit of local resistance to public rights of way and whatnot, protected species claptrap. They’re threatening to set
up camp. Load of work-shy pikeys if you ask me. But we know how to get round these things – it pays to be a member of the same golf club as the councillors, if you know what I mean –
and we’re about ready to start digging. There are a few transients around there, some old vagrant who lives in a caravan. A lunatic by all accounts. Dug his heels in years ago when my father
was trying to develop the area, but all he does now is walk everywhere with a bloody briefcase. So there’s no one really to kick up much of a fuss, and nothing the bulldozers can’t
handle.’
A white-wine bile creeps up my throat. The walking man. I didn’t know he had a home. A caravan in the woods. He must have been on his way home to shelter from the rain when I hit him.
Almost there, then never home again.
‘And on the subject of funding,’ Alex continues, ‘one of our investors is looking a bit shaky. We’d love to have you on board but you’ll need to step on it. I know
it’s a different avenue from your normal line of business, but we’d only be asking for your investment at this stage, unless of course you wanted to be more involved. I’m sure you
understand the politics of a new project, how sometimes we need to push through the formalities sharpish, and not all the paperwork ends up going through the formal channels. One or two members of
the planning committee may need some guidance casting their votes in our favour.’ I hear him slurp his drink. ‘It’s impossible to get these deals passed without a bit of
persuasive currency changing hands. I should know, I’ve worked on enough of them.’ A wine glass chinks. ‘No wire taps in here, are there?’ he adds with a guffaw.
I peel off my cardigan and hold on to the edge of the sink. Freezing air blasts through the open window, but the cold does little to help the sweat. The pain is a lump in my stomach. I
retch.
‘Do you need a hand?’ Jane’s voice is close. I turn to see her holding a pile of plates. She puts them on the side and rushes forward. A knife falls from the stack and jangles
on the floor. Jane’s fingers are chill against my flushed skin. ‘Good Lord, are you all right?’
‘Would you mind leaving me alone?’ I say. ‘Please.’
But she continues pulling at my arm and calls out, ‘David, David, your wife! Come quick. She needs you.’
I shudder at the thought of what it is I need from David.
The two men join us in the kitchen. David comes up behind me and picks up my cardigan, throwing it over my shoulders while prising my fingers from the sink. Alex fills a glass with water and
tries to get me to drink, but the water splashes down my front. A surge of vomit comes into my throat. I swallow it down. Jane fiddles with my arm and it’s the tickle of her
centuries.’
Blackthorn Lane. The road where the accident happened.
In my lower back, the parasite of pain I’ve had since the accident burns and expands into my gut. I grip my stomach.
Alex replies, ‘Well, we’ve known the Briggs family for generations. My father tried to get a project going on the land years ago – back in the seventies he was going to build
some flats – but there was too much red tape involved.’ I bend over the sink. ‘This time we’re only taking a section of the woods close to the road. It’s mostly a
brownfield site, though you wouldn’t know it. The vegetation has completely swamped what buildings were there as the place has been idle so long. Bill will get to keep most of his arable
land. He’s up for selling more in the future though. It could be a real money-spinner.’ The voices have relaxed again, the filter of business soothing the stilted evening. ‘My man
at the council’s assured me the planning’s nearly gone through. Bit of local resistance to public rights of way and whatnot, protected species claptrap. They’re threatening to set
up camp. Load of work-shy pikeys if you ask me. But we know how to get round these things – it pays to be a member of the same golf club as the councillors, if you know what I mean –
and we’re about ready to start digging. There are a few transients around there, some old vagrant who lives in a caravan. A lunatic by all accounts. Dug his heels in years ago when my father
was trying to develop the area, but all he does now is walk everywhere with a bloody briefcase. So there’s no one really to kick up much of a fuss, and nothing the bulldozers can’t
handle.’
A white-wine bile creeps up my throat. The walking man. I didn’t know he had a home. A caravan in the woods. He must have been on his way home to shelter from the rain when I hit him.
Almost there, then never home again.
‘And on the subject of funding,’ Alex continues, ‘one of our investors is looking a bit shaky. We’d love to have you on board but you’ll need to step on it. I know
it’s a different avenue from your normal line of business, but we’d only be asking for your investment at this stage, unless of course you wanted to be more involved. I’m sure you
understand the politics of a new project, how sometimes we need to push through the formalities sharpish, and not all the paperwork ends up going through the formal channels. One or two members of
the planning committee may need some guidance casting their votes in our favour.’ I hear him slurp his drink. ‘It’s impossible to get these deals passed without a bit of
persuasive currency changing hands. I should know, I’ve worked on enough of them.’ A wine glass chinks. ‘No wire taps in here, are there?’ he adds with a guffaw.
I peel off my cardigan and hold on to the edge of the sink. Freezing air blasts through the open window, but the cold does little to help the sweat. The pain is a lump in my stomach. I
retch.
‘Do you need a hand?’ Jane’s voice is close. I turn to see her holding a pile of plates. She puts them on the side and rushes forward. A knife falls from the stack and jangles
on the floor. Jane’s fingers are chill against my flushed skin. ‘Good Lord, are you all right?’
‘Would you mind leaving me alone?’ I say. ‘Please.’
But she continues pulling at my arm and calls out, ‘David, David, your wife! Come quick. She needs you.’
I shudder at the thought of what it is I need from David.
The two men join us in the kitchen. David comes up behind me and picks up my cardigan, throwing it over my shoulders while prising my fingers from the sink. Alex fills a glass with water and
tries to get me to drink, but the water splashes down my front. A surge of vomit comes into my throat. I swallow it down. Jane fiddles with my arm and it’s the tickle of her
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