Midnight Endless chimes Then silence again Still no sleep comes But thick darkness smothers me The power cut prevents me reading I should have kept candles in case Eyes open or closed gave no less darkness Then suddenly a whisper, or was it wind outside? It came again, more clearly now, but it wasn’t English “Omnes interficere” from the mouth of a desperate but elderly man Twice more it called and never again then deep sleep engulfed me I awoke quite late, almost nine, washed, dressed and presented myself for breakfast Other guests had eaten and gone apart from one man still seated but still A strange man dressed in clothes from Shakesperian times and still wearing his tricorn hat Then he rose, seemingly without moving his chair and, passing my table, he looked at me When the landlady came for my breakfast order I asked about the strangely dressed guest I’d met She straightened suddenly as if a great shock had become upon her and her face turned ghostly white “That’s the ghost of Robert Catesby, he stayed here the night before the gunpowder plot” she almost whispered conspiritorily “He’d met here with French Catholic men sent by the Pope to support his cause” “Will you be wanting eggs?” I relayed by breakfast requirements and requested a daily newspaper which she brought from another table and returned to the kitchen I spread the newspaper out on the table, the best to gather the headlines, and I was taken aback by it “WESTMINSTER TERROR ATTACK: DRIVER ARRESTED AFTER MAN MOWS DOWN CYCLISTS AND PLOUGHS INTO PARLIAMENT BARRIER” shot back at me from the Telegraph

I was thinking of work as I took Johnson for a walk through the woods. As we neared the edge I could make him out stopped at the edge barking, shufflingon his feet but careful not to proceed. It was like he was hoping some threat would go awayso he could proceed. Probably another dog. Or maybe a sheep had wondered over from the other field. On nearing him I could see that he was barking towards a small cottage, barely visable in the mist. A coldness gripped me from the inside. The thing is we walk this route every day and I’ve never seen it there before. For some reason I felt I needed to be the adult here out of me & Johnson. Don’t be silly. It’s just a house. “Come on boy” I called as I marched off purposefully along the path that skirted the cottage and led back to the gate where I’d parked the car tight against the drystone wall that skirted the approach from the road. A note with my mobile number in the window in case it proved an obstruction to the farmer. “Come on boy” but boy wouldn’t come

By this time I was level with the cottage and could just make out the amber glow of a candle lantern inside.

It took the lead and much forceful pulling, almost dragging, to get Johnson to the car. Once there he seemed to relax a bit. I drove down to the village pub where I always end our walk with a real ale and a slice of “Pie of the Day.” Pie of the day was steak today. Today and everyday. The faded specials board was from a previous landlord’s attempt to attract walking tourists. Pie of the day ended up being the everyday of us villagers.

The pub was a low ceilinged, old beamed building with several seating areas seperated by angled beams. In the back was a real fire that looked warm and welcoming but took all the oxygen from the air, replacing it with a sooty texture. And there at the table next to the fire was the farmer whose field we’d just walked through. Peter Jones.

“Good morning...Peter, isn’t it?” I knew it was but I wanted a gentle way into conversation.

“Your dog been shitting in my field again?” he growled over a mouthful of pie. After a swallow his gravelly face morphed into a smile. “Still, all manure I suppose.” A gesture of friendship. I ventured on.

“Yes. I wonder, who lives in that cottage? Is it anyone I know.”

The smile vanished

“Cottage?”

“Yes in the field by the woods”

“No cottage there”

“Funny that, I didn’t think so either butit’s there now...” I laughed “And there’s a lamp on inside”

“There WAS a cottage there. 200 years ago. Knocked down long before I arrived. Blome lived there killed by his own dog. Demolished after”

It was then that Johnson started snarling.