Lottery - 1. Chapter 1

Nat knew he was going to be late, although it wasn’t his fault. Ever since leaving London, continuous rain had made the roads treacherous. The clocks had gone back a week ago, meaning it was now dark by six in the evening. It was almost as if all the other drivers had forgotten what it was like over the summer months to drive in darkness and rain. He’d been held up by two accidents and three sets of roadworks so far. It had nearly been enough to make him turn around and return to his comfortable apartment, except for Grant’s unexpected message just over a week ago.

They’d met at senior school. From the first time Nat saw Grant, there’d been a spark between them. They’d soon become friends, then later, friends with benefits. By the time they went to uni, they were inseparable. Nat was the sensible one, while Grant was the instigator of wild parties and absurd schemes. His cautious nature kept Grant from going too far. They were good for each other.

After they’d finished at university, Nat knew it couldn’t last. He’d inherited his parents' attitude to life; you studied, then settled down into a career with a decent company. Working hard gave you the means to live comfortably, although not extravagantly. Grant had very different dreams. He spun stories in which they’d one day own a castle, throwing extravagant parties for all their friends. The idea was fun, but bore no resemblance to real life. Grant didn’t consider his middle-class background as a barrier to acquiring the lifestyle portrayed in glossy magazines and lived off money juggled between credit cards. He took temporary jobs which sometimes paid well, but more often didn’t. Most months, it was Nat who ended up paying for what Grant called ‘the mundane’. Things like rent, utilities and food.

They’d spilt up two years later, when Nat realised he couldn’t carry on like that any longer. He still loved Grant - he didn’t think he’d ever stop loving him - but he couldn’t live with him. Since then, his life had became far more sensible, his career moving in the right direction, but sometimes it all felt so predictable. So dull.

The sat nav warned him of a left turn in five hundred metres. Thankfully, the rain had eased off a little, but he had no idea where he was. All around, the countryside’s impenetrable darkness closed in. The map on his screen showed nothing but fields out there, interwoven by countless small streams and larger rivers. After several weeks of storms and rain, they were very near to overflowing. Many parts of the country had already suffered from flooding. Here, close to an area where King John’s treasure had been swallowed by an encroaching tide in 1216, it was surprising the land wasn’t already underwater.

The roads were relatively straight and without much traffic. Nat allowed his mind to wander again, confident now he’d arrive before the event was due to start. Some sort of fundraising thing in aid of flood victims, he recalled, although Grant had been unsurprisingly vague in his description.

After they’d split up, Grant had launched a variety of hospitality businesses which began well, but always failed. They’d kept in touch mostly through Facebook. Nat couldn’t help thinking that despite Grant saying he didn’t have any money, he seemed to attend a lot of glamorous functions.

‘You have to network,’ he’d always said. ‘If no one knows who you are, you’ll never get anywhere.’

Ironic really, that he’d ended up out here, in the back of beyond. It was a turnaround that had always struck Nat as slightly odd. Grant had also been vague about the circumstances that had led him to inherit a farm; something about a legacy from his grandmother. Anyway, five years ago he’d moved to Slowley Marsh. Pictures on Facebook showed the transformation of the rather run down Victorian farmhouse into something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an article on stylish country living. Also in those pictures, Nat had noticed the increasing appearances of someone called Rupert. It hadn’t been entirely surprising when, three years ago, their engagement had been announced, followed by an expensive-looking wedding the following year. He hadn’t been invited. Another reason why it had puzzled him to receive the message. Why get in touch now, after all these years? More to the point, why had he accepted the invitation?

‘Turn right in two hundred metres,’ the sat nav announced. It looked like an even more minor road than the one he was already driving along.

So, why had he accepted? Intrigue, certainly. Maybe a deep down hope that Grant’s perfect lifestyle and marriage wasn’t as glossy as it looked in the pictures and that he was really calling for help to escape from the country? He’d visualised them driving off, pursued by a mob of yokels brandishing pitchforks. Unlikely, of course, but it proved that the old feelings still simmered below the surface. No one else had ever made him feel so alive as Grant.

There were still no lights anywhere, no signs of habitation. Maybe he had passed through a weird gateway into another dimension? Maybe the rest of the world had ceased to exist during his drive and he was travelling through an endless void? It was only when a huge agricultural vehicle, festooned with high-powered lights, blazed from the darkness to pass on the other side of the road, that he was reassured. Plus, a cluster of houses began to show on the edge of the screen, indicating he must be nearing his destination.

Grant had given him the address. Marsh Grange. He’d assumed that was the name of the farm and was surprised when he turned through a gateway that had clearly been designed to impress a hundred years ago, but had fallen into decay. The walls to either side were covered in ivy, which looked as if it was holding the brickwork together.

He drove up a potholed track toward an impressive old house with every window alight. Tudor? Jacobean? He wasn’t informed enough on architectural styles to be certain, but it looked as if it had been there a very long time.

A few other cars were already parked on the large forecourt. Well, two battered Land Rovers and an ancient MG. He pulled up alongside, glad the rain had finally stopped, although he still felt a little like Brad (minus Janet), arriving at the Frankenstein Place. What had he let himself in for?

He’d barely unloaded his overnight bag from the car when he heard his name being called. Grant had thrown both imposing front doors wide, letting more light spill down the steps and hurried to greet him with a hug. He smelled as good as he ever had and didn’t look a year older than when they’d parted ways.

‘Glad you got here at last.’

‘Yes. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was bad.’

‘I’m not surprised, with this weather. Although, it’s clearing now.’ He glanced up at the sky, making Nat follow suit. The clouds were ragged now, torn apart by a wild wind. A low, red moon was visible above a copse of dark trees and lit them with a ruddy glow. ‘There’s the blood moon.’

‘The what?’

‘Oh, that’s what they call it round here. The nearest full moon to Halloween.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Listen to me, sounding like a real local yokel. Come on inside. Rupert’s getting things ready in the ballroom.’

Nat followed him into the house. It didn’t feel much warmer than outside. That must be why country people wore all those layers; shirts, waistcoats, woollen suits. Grant himself was wearing a very well tailored example of the look. It made Nat, in his travelling casuals, feel even more out of place.

‘You can put your bag here for now.’ Grant opened another door into a room where subdued lighting revealed the gleaming beady eyes of stuffed birds and animals trapped within their glass cases. ‘I’m sorry to have to hurry you, but we have to go and fetch the book.’

‘The book?’

‘For the lottery. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No. I knew it was some sort of event.’ He’d imagined a charity ball when Grant’s message had said it was to help with the floods.

‘I’ll drive. It’s okay.’ He gave that nervous smile again. ‘Give us a chance to catch up. People will begin arriving soon.’

‘I should change.’

‘Don’t worry. No one’s going to be very formal.’

Nat hoped not. He didn’t want to stand out as the only scruff amid the country set.

‘Everyone from the village will be here,’ Grant explained. ‘The ballroom’s the only room big enough to hold them all. Plus, it’s traditional.’

‘I see.’ He didn’t really and hoped Grant might explain more on their way.

Grant led him towards one of the battered Land Rovers; not the sort of vehicle Nat had ever imagined him driving by choice. Still, he supposed it was practical, out here. It rattled into life, smoke pouring from the exhaust. Grant drove much faster through the potholes than Nat had dared in his car and he found himself having to hang on to the seat until they reached the main road.

‘So, what is this about?’ he asked, recovering his breath.

Grant kept his eyes on the road, not a bad thing at the speed he was driving. Nat was amazed he’d forgotten all the times he’d been a passenger with Grant, wondering how they’d managed to escape death yet again. ‘It’s the lottery,’ he repeated. ‘Local custom.’

‘And why am I here, if it’s for locals only?’

‘You’ll find out. I can’t tell you much more than that.’

They roared into the village. A few old-fashioned orange street lights illuminated rows of cottages and a Post Office. The local pub was floodlit in a similar colour. A swinging sign revealed it was called the Scapegoat. ‘Unusual name,’ he commented. As they got out, he noticed the sign depicted a stylised goat, pierced by almost as many arrows as Saint Sebastian in his martyrdom. If you displayed something like that in London, it would almost inevitably create waves of outrage from animal lovers. Out here, though, he had a feeling of stepping into an older time, where such things went unmentioned.

'Right. Come on.’ Grant led the way into the pub, which was oddly empty for the time of evening. A few drinkers were finishing up their pints, or pulling on coats.

‘Cutting it a bit fine, ain’t you?’ said a wizened old man. ‘We’re off up to the Grange now.’

‘Sorry.’ Grant shrugged. ‘Only we had to wait for the stranger to get here.’ He nodded toward Nat.

‘Ah, yes. Got to have a stranger, for the lottery. Makes sure it’s fair.’

‘Got the book there, Bill?’ Grant called over to the bar. A ruddy-faced and portly middle-aged man acknowledged him, then beckoned Nat over. He reached beneath the beer pumps and drew out a worn leather satchel, firmly secured shut by an elaborately knotted thong with a wax seal.

‘All there,’ he said. ‘Not been opened since the last time.’

He handled it almost reverently. Nat felt obliged to do the same. ‘Thank you.’

‘See you later, Bill,’ Grant said, leading Nat back towards the door.

It was a pity. He could have done with a pint after the long drive. Still, there must be drinks back at the house. He opened the passenger door and leaned over to drop the satchel on the back seat.

‘No, don’t do that,’ Grant said sharply. ‘Keep hold of it. Guard it with your life.’

‘Really? Isn’t this all a bit extreme?’

‘We take it very seriously round here.’

‘Oh, so it’s “we” now,’ he joked, hoping a little levity might mask his increasing nervousness. Something felt very odd about all of this. It was like one of those dreams you step into, unsure of what you are meant to be doing, while everyone else seems to know exactly what’s going on.

‘Well, I’ve lived here a while and marrying the Lord of the Manor definitely qualifies me as a local. Which means I’ll be taking my chance tonight, along with everyone else.’

‘Let’s hope you win, then.’

‘Don’t,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s… bad luck.’ He started the Land Rover. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

Nat puzzled over that as they set off again. ‘And why were you calling me a stranger back there?’

Grant put his foot down. ‘No offence or anything. It just means you don’t live here.’

Nothing else was said on the drive back. As they rattled over the potholes again, Nat noticed the moon had risen higher, illuminating land covered in water. The only reason he could be sure it wasn’t an ornamental lake in the grounds was because of the half-drowned trees rising from the surface.

Many more cars had parked outside the Grange and a steady stream of people were entering the open doors. As Nat got out, he noticed the stares as people saw what he carried. They parted to make way for him as he climbed the steps. It was probably the nearest he’d ever get to being a celebrity. He smiled at a few of them, but they all seemed very serious. His sense of unease grew stronger. He’d seen enough films about weird rural rituals to worry. But this was the twenty-first century, for god’s sake. No one really acted like that anymore. Did they?

Once they were inside, he pulled Grant into the room where he’d left his bag. Those eyes all seemed fixated on him.

‘What?’ Grant sounded surprised.

‘I’m getting a very bad feeling about this,’ Nat said. ‘I’m not going to end up as some sort of human sacrifice, am I?’ Just saying the words seemed absurd.

‘No!’ Grant shook his head. ‘Believe me, you’re the safest person here tonight. I wouldn’t have asked you, otherwise.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Have I ever lied to you?’

Nat thought back. ‘Well, there was that time you swore blind you hadn’t drunk the last bottle of wine in the flat. Or when you said you’d paid for the TV license.’

‘Trivial things.’ He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. ‘I mean it. No harm will come to you.’

Strangely, he believed it. Grant had never lied about anything really important.

‘I wanted you to be here in case…’ Grant slumped in a chair.

‘In case?’

‘Well, if I draw the first or second number, it’s bad enough. But the third… If I draw the third, would you help me?’

Nat wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking, but this was Grant, after all. ‘I’d always help you. You know that.’

The door opened and a tall man with dark curly hair looked in. Nat recognised him from the Facebook photos as Rupert, Grant’s husband. ‘No time for chatting now,’ he said, rather brusquely. ‘It’s almost time.’ His eyes fixed on the satchel. ‘Has Grant told you of your responsibilities tonight?’

‘I think he was just getting to that part.’

Rupert glared at Grant. ‘I can see I’ll have to do this, as well,’ he said, somewhat impatiently. ‘If you could make sure everyone’s assembled…’

‘Of course.’ Grant left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Rupert’s dark eyes glittered as brightly as those of the dead creatures around the walls. ‘You have to break that seal and take out the book. Then you hand out the numbers. Three will be drawn, at random, also by you. Do you get that?’

‘It sounds fairly simple. I think I can manage.’ Nat had taken an instant dislike to Rupert. He wasn’t bad looking, but he had an attitude that grated. Centuries of privilege, probably, plus a sense the common folk were just things to be used and discarded.

‘Good. Then let’s go. Everyone wants to get this done with.’ Rupert held his upper arm in a firm grip, as if afraid he might try to make a break for it and led him to the ballroom.

It was a large room, dimly lit. Candles blazed in tarnished chandeliers, as if for some grand Victorian ball. Their flickering light drew the eye away from the well-worn parquet flooring and peeling paper in corners where damp had taken hold. Evidently, the Lord of the Manor couldn’t afford the upkeep on his family seat. Nat guessed there were probably only a few usable rooms in the whole place and that he probably lived in the comfort of Grant’s refurbished farmhouse.

Everyone turned to look as he was propelled to a table placed on a raised platform. It had been draped in a slightly moth-eaten red velvet cloth. Two bundles, wrapped in faded tapestry had been placed at either end. In the centre, a large copper bowl gleamed dully.

Rupert left him alone and went back to join everyone else. Nat wasn’t sure how to begin, but a grey haired woman to his left pointed at the satchel. ‘Show them the seal.’ She sounded like a school teacher, used to being obeyed.

He raised it, hearing the low murmur of voices die down.

‘Now, open it.’

The wax was brittle, so it didn’t take too much effort. Inside, Nat saw a leather bound ledger. It smelled of age and dust; like an old library. He removed the book carefully and set it down on the table, then opened the cover.

The first few pages had been cut away, but in those left, he could see numbers, drawn in heavy black ink in an old fashioned writing style. It seemed to be exactly the same format as any book of tickets used for a prize draw or tombola. There were no perforations though, so they would need to be hand cut. A pair of scissors, also contained within the satchel, provided the means to do that.

‘I’m the cutter,’ the woman told him. ‘It’s my job, as it’s yours to hand out the numbers.’

‘Ah, right.’

The villagers began to form an orderly queue, all seemingly knowing their place in this ancient ritual. Although a few children were present with their parents, Nat noticed no one who appeared younger than eighteen joined the line.

It was very organised. Nat handed out the newly cut numbers as everyone stepped solemnly up, one at a time. He met Grant’s eyes briefly as he received a slip of paper. Even Rupert joined in. No one, it seemed, whatever their status, was exempt. He recognised Bill and the wizened oldster from the Scapegoat as they took their turn.

It took a fair while and although the process was boring, no one complained. Even the children watched in silence. Nat expected they knew more about this than he did.

Once everyone had their numbers, the woman cut the duplicates free, then Nat folded each in half and dropped them into the copper pot - cauldron, he kept thinking - until they were all done. During this time, it seemed the air became thicker with anticipation. Wax trickled down from the candles, dropping onto the tablecloth and the floor, thick as blood. It landed on a few of the villagers, but they didn’t even flinch.

‘It’s done,’ he announced, feeling the need to say something.

‘Now, give them a good stir around, then draw one at a time and read it out. Just three, mind.’

He wanted to say he’d seen enough raffles drawn in his time, but it didn’t seem appropriate.

Slowly, he stirred the slips of paper around, reluctant now the moment had come. What was going to happen to those who were chosen? Clearly, from their expressions, it wasn’t something pleasant.

‘Go on,’ prompted the woman. She clutched her own slip of paper tightly, having opened it once to check the number within.

He picked one up, heart beating faster. What if Grant had drawn its duplicate? Then, seeing all the avid gazes upon him and realising he couldn’t back out, he unfolded the heavy paper, revealing the black number. ‘Four, two, seven,’ he read slowly. All around the room, people glanced again at their slips of paper. He heard a few sighs of relief.

‘That’s me.’ A woman Nat guessed to be in her mid-thirties pushed her way through to the front. She went unerringly for one of the bundles and raised it aloft. Instead of going back to her former place, she carried it toward the door. Several people patted her on the back and mumbled something. It was too far away for Nat to catch the words. She waited by the doorway, seeming uneasy, yet strangely determined.

The tension escalated another notch as Nat fished around for the second number. ‘Three, six, two,’ he read.

A middle-aged man with military bearing marched purposefully up to the stage, as if taking part in a Remembrance Day parade. Nat almost expected him to salute, but he merely took the other bundle and went to join the woman.

Nat hesitated to draw the third. It felt as if everyone in the room were holding their breaths. A woman leaned on her partner’s shoulder, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. People crossed fingers, or wrung hands together. A young couple near the back clung together frantically, as if afraid they might be torn apart at any moment. Nat caught Grant’s eyes again.

‘Draw the third number,’ the grey-haired woman hissed. Others took up her words. ‘Draw the third, draw the third,’ they chanted.

His fingers brushed against the neatly folded pieces, wondering what would happen if he refused. He didn’t think that would be a good idea. Finally, because he had to, he settled on one and held it high, then slowly opened it. ‘Three, three, nine,’ he read.

For several heartbeats, no one moved. Then Rupert gave a short laugh and held up his ticket. ‘I have it,’ he announced dramatically. ‘Well, what a turn up.’

Everyone was staring at him. Nat heard a few mutters. ‘Claim the honour,’ someone said. Another followed, until it was soon taken up as a chant just as had happened earlier when exhorting Nat to pick the last number.

Rupert looked around very calmly. ‘I think you’ll find there’s a precedent to be followed in this unusual circumstance. In thirteen forty-nine Lord Hubert was named the honour bearer, but his wife Matilda took his place. It’s all in the book.’

Eyes turned to Nat. The book still lay open on the table in front of him. He quickly turned the pages, to find the written numbers gave way around three-quarters of the way through to a much more ancient document, written on parchment and sewn in. He recognised Latin as the language. Before he even had a chance to try and translate - damn his rusty schoolboy Latin - the school teacher snatched it away from under his nose.

‘We will need to consult the book,’ she announced. ‘Decisions must not be taken lightly, nor on the spur of the moment.’

‘Now, listen to me…’ Rupert seemed slightly flustered.

‘You may be the Lord, but you have also been chosen in fair lottery.’

Nat was glad to see him taken down a peg or two. He glanced over at Grant, who looked terrified. ‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed silently, even though he felt anything but calm.

Several of the older villagers, including Bill from the pub, clustered around the woman, who was pointing out certain passages. Rupert hovered on the edge of the group, while the rest also closed in around them. Nat was ignored; his part was over now.

Grant edged towards him slowly. When he was close enough no one else could hear, he hissed softly. ‘We need to get out of here.’

Nat agreed, but he wasn’t sure how they’d achieve it. While most of the villagers were interested in the debate taking place, it surely wouldn’t take much to attract their attention. ‘How?’

‘Trust me.’

How many times in the past had he said that before embarking on some wild escapade? Still, he’d promised to help Grant. He had no idea what the verdict would be, but it was probably best not to wait around and find out.

Grant held out his hand. Then he pulled Nat close and began to dance around the empty part of the ballroom floor. A few people watched them for a while, then evidently decided whatever they were doing was harmless. Grant brought them steadily closer to the panelled wall, made a few flashy turns, then suddenly pushed on a part of the dado rail firmly, revealing a black opening. He pulled Nat through before he had a chance to protest. It was utterly dark inside, but Grant turned on his phone torch. ‘Come on!’

The floor was uneven and the light wavered as they ran. Nat could only trust Grant knew where he was going. There wasn’t time to ask questions. All he could concentrate on was not slipping or stumbling. They passed a few other tunnels leading off the main one. Grant took the third. It was lower, forcing both of them to hunch over so as not to bang their heads on the roof. Suddenly, Nat became aware of light ahead; a pale, silvery light. A draught of outdoor air made him realise they were close to the exit.

‘Where are we?’ he gasped.

‘Hag’s Wood,’ Grant said, leaving him none the wiser. ‘From here, there’s a route to the farm.’

‘How soon before they follow?’

‘Hopefully, they’re still arguing. And only Rupert knows how to open the secret passage. He’ll probably have expected us to take one of the tunnels leading directly outside the Grange, to the cars.’

Nat wondered how much he’d thought this through beforehand. ‘Lead on, then.’ In the next few minutes, he was glad he’d kept up his fitness. He hadn’t run so fast in years. Thankfully, a lot of it was downhill. He recognised the farmhouse from pictures he’d seen on Facebook. As they reached the gravelled drive, Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote control. The garage doors opened unhurriedly, giving Nat a chance to look behind him. He expected to see an angry mob racing down the hill after them, but so far, their luck had held. Maybe Grant had been right in his guess?

‘We’ll take the Boxster.’ Grant ducked under the door and opened a key safe within, pulling out several sets of keys. The lights flashed on a sleek, low sports car as Nat heard the clunk of doors unlocking.

Grant hesitated for a moment. ‘Maybe there’s time to fetch some of my clothes?’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Nat felt like shaking him. ‘They may not be after us right now, but I’d rather get out of here without any drama, if that’s possible.’

‘True. I can always send someone back, I suppose.’ He gave one last, fond look at the house. ‘Bye, old place. Don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again, one way or another.’ He slid into the driver’s seat while Nat climbed in the passenger side. The car roared into life. Grant gave him a cheeky look. ‘Remember how I used to drive those old bangers? Now I’ve got a car that really moves! Belt up and hang on!’ They slid sideways on the gravel before heading down the drive - thankfully far less potholed than at Marsh Grange - then with a screech of tyres, hit the tarmac.

‘This isn’t the quickest way out of the village, but I’m hoping that’ll confuse them.’

‘I’m hoping we don’t need to confuse them.’ Nat glanced back again as the village green went past in a blur. The country roads were poorly lit, but the Porsche’s powerful lights made them bright as day. Nat saw eyes shining and creatures jumping aside as they flashed by. He didn’t dare look at the speedometer.

Grant’s eye’s flicked to the mirror. ‘Someone’s after us, but we’re only a mile from the main road.’

‘How far will they give chase?’

Grant gave small shrug as he steered around another sharp bend. ‘Who knows? But I’m not stopping until we reach Peterborough at least.’ He glanced in the mirror again. ‘They’re not catching up, at any rate.’

Nat held on to the edges of his seat, although, to be honest, he didn’t need to. It was extremely comfortable and supportive, even when the car was drifting a corner. It helped steady his nerves, at least, until they reached the main road, where Grant pulled out in front of a huge truck. The blare of the horn faded behind them as they sped away.

‘That’s better,’ Grant said. ‘You can relax now. We’re over the parish boundary.’

‘Aren’t we breaking the speed limit?’

‘I’ll pay the fines gladly if we get clocked by a camera.’ At last, his face relaxed from the intent mask of concentration it had been during the flight down the lanes.

Nat’s heart slowed down a little. ‘So, are you going to tell me what all that was about? I think I can guess, but I just want it confirmed so I don’t feel like an idiot with an overactive imagination.’

‘Well, I’ll give you the short version. Every time the village has faced some sort of threat, the lottery’s been drawn. They did it for the Black Death, the Civil War, various natural disasters and so forth. The third ticket chooses the scapegoat; the sacrifice. The other two are for the people who are appointed to do the deed, so to speak.’

‘But Rupert wanted to get out of his obligation?’

‘Exactly. He was trying to persuade them to accept me in his place. Bastard.’ Grant banged the steering wheel.

Nat had to ask. ‘So am I to suppose things haven’t been entirely rosy in paradise?’

‘Not lately.’ He sighed. ‘Not since we married, really. Well, to be honest, a bit before that, but I wasn’t going to say no to the wedding of the century.’

‘You were hoping to get your hands on his huge tracts of land?’

‘Already did that and it’s not so huge.’

Nat couldn’t suppress a smile.

‘Anyway, I’m the one with the money, thanks to gran. Death duties and the upkeep of that old pile have eaten away at whatever fortune Rupert’s family once had.’

‘You’re better off than he is? That’s an excellent motive for trying to off you.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything else.’

‘I like to be prepared for any eventuality these days. You were the one who taught me about forward planning.’

Nat stared at the road ahead. The blood moon, high and silver now, illuminated a wide river to the left of the road. He wondered what the villagers were up to now that their ritual had been so rudely spoiled. ‘What will they do?’ he said aloud.

‘I’ve no idea. And I don’t really care. I can sell the place through an agent, I suppose, then start divorce proceedings.’ He sounded sad.

‘I wish I could have done more.’

‘You did everything right. We’re both alive. It’s only forty-two miles to Peterborough.’

‘Shit! I left my overnight bag at the Grange. And my car.’ He envisioned the locals burning it in revenge.

‘You can always buy more clothes. And it was an old car. It’s not a big deal.’

Nat was reminded how easy it was with Grant. No worries about anything. ‘I suppose we can stay at a Premier Inn or a Travel Lodge once we get there.’

Grant gave him a pained look. ‘Are you joking? When there’s a perfectly decent four star spa hotel I have an account with?’

It was just like the old days, Nat reflected. He leaned back in the seat and let the miles fly past. Suddenly, life wasn’t boring any more.

He woke the following morning in a luxurious king size bed. The television played softly in the background as Grant, sitting up, fiddled with the remote. ‘You’ll want to see this.’

He turned up the sound. A warmly dressed woman holding a microphone stood in front of a wooded area festooned with crime scene tape ‘…police were called to the village of Slowley Marsh late last night. A police spokesman said there had been an unfortunate accident following a party. Rupert Marshwick, a prominent local landowner, was found dead in this wood behind me…’ He pressed the mute button. ‘Looks like I won’t be needing that divorce after all.’