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Firestone Copse; chapter 1

I'm in a generous mood, so thought i would post chapter 1. not even first draft quality at this stage. i dont like giving too much away, but this gives an idea of what the book will be like. its a murder mystery. sort of.

1.

The storm has taken firm grip of Firestone Copse, battering the Tudor buildings and blowing relentlessly through deserted streets. Lashing on every tile of every roof, the rain is torn this way and that by the indecisive winds. It forms puddles with ambitions of becoming lakes. It batters windows with smearing globs the size of a man’s palm. No patch of ground goes unsoaked by the searching fingers of icy water. Most of the towns Eighty or so occupants sleep uneasily, tortured by the howling winds and the fear of what conditions daybreak will bring. At the southernmost point of the hamlet is an ancient church, still in weekly use but only on the Sabbath and to a dwindling congregation. Next to this is a small cottage, where the vicar sleeps peacefully despite the weather. If you walked to the bottom of the graveyard you would find a barrier of angry trees fighting against the wind. They form a wood that surrounds the buildings of the town with a ring of trunks and unkempt undergrowth. The wood’s grip around the town is only broken by the one road that sweeps through it, allowing people to dash through without needing to stop, without needing to pay any mind to the old buildings or the people that make them their homes.

???The time is 12.30 am Sunday morning.

Along the road struggles a car, driving as fast as it can against the wind it heads doggedly toward Firestone Copse. The wet road is dangerously slippery, the rain splatters ceaselessly against the windscreen turning the road ahead in to a patch of bleary grey in the weak headlights. The car suddenly screeches to a halt, skidding for five yards and narrowly missing a fallen tree that lies across the road, a victim of nature’s murderous onslaught. The car edges around the branches carefully, trying to avoid being scratched by the thinnest branches that up to a few minutes ago were reaching toward the murky cloud above. Once safely around the driver zooms the car away again in to the night, and in to the beleaguered buildings.

At 2 am, the vicar’s sleep is rudely disturbed by a knocking at the door. It is not a loud knock, and the first was not the one that woke him. The knocks come ceaselessly, but it takes five minutes for them to wake the vicar. When he finally hears them, he sits up  and leans over to his bedside table to begin fumbling in the dark for the switch to his lamp. He finds it, flicks the switch, and his eyes peer squinting through the brightness at his clock.

‘My lord.’ He curses in surprise, climbing sleepily out from under his duvet. The knocks continue, thumping unhindered through the cottage. His feet slip in to his well worn slippers. He sways sleepily to the door where he pulls on his big comfortable dressing gown. Still the knocking comes, echoing up to his ears. He walks out to the landing, switching on the light, and clumps down the stairs. He switches on the hall light at their foot, unlocks the front door but leaves the latch on. He takes a deep breath, and opens the door. He glances outside but there is no one there. It was only on opening the door that he realises the intensity of the weather. His sleepy disposition had robbed him of the faculty to consider what conditions awaited him behind the door. The wind and rain immediately bluster in to his face, rushing past him and in to the house. The cold rids the house of heat, the rain soaks his dressing gown and sinks through to his pyjamas. He tries to slam the door shut against it, but finds it blocked. At the foot of the door is a man he hadn’t noticed, slouched in to the foetal position. His head tilts forward and lurches back, slamming against the wood and this, the vicar realises, is the cause of the knocking. The man’s coat is muddied and torn and he is soaked through. He realises that his presence has been acknowledged and stops banging against the door, raising his head he turns gingerly to face the vicar.

‘Oh bless you father.’ His voice is almost inaudible against the storm, and with the effort of speaking he slumps unconscious on to the porch. Lying on his back reveals him to be an elderly, but not older gentleman. He has a prominent moustache and a few days growth on his cheeks. He is pale, almost grey, and looks very ill. The vicar doesn’t need to think, he immediately opens the door, and pulls the drenched man awkwardly in to the house. With him over the threshold closing the door against the storm becomes easier, but is still an effort against the elements. His unexpected guest is heavy, and the vicar is old and lacking the strength of his youth. It takes him a considerable toil to drag him in to the small living room of the small cottage. The vicar prepares a makeshift bed for him out of sofa cushions in front of the fire. He removes his coat and shoes, and rushes to the spare room for blankets. On his return the man has not moved, and does not move, save the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He rolls him on to the cushions, making him comfortable in the recovery position, and then covering him with the blankets. He quickly sets about getting a fire lit, constructing a pyramid of logs and filling it with newspaper and twigs from a conveniently placed basket. After a few minutes the kindling is relenting to the heat and flames begin lapping hungrily at the logs. The vicar returns to his room and takes the blanket from his bed. On returning to the living room he makes himself comfortable in the armchair, covering himself with the blanket. Once settled he sits looking at the man. He wears a well-tailored suit, his shoes are drenched and covered in mud, but this does not distract from the fact that they are obviously expensive. This is no vagrant, the vicar realises, this chap is in some kind of trouble. Perhaps, he hopes, this man’s car has broken down and becoming lost in the copse he stumbled upon his front door. He hoped it was nothing more serious. He did his best to stay awake in case the man stirred, but he soon drifted off, sitting upright, back in to his deep sleep. There was of course no way he could know just how serious the business involving this man was, or how it would affect his life over the next seven days.