Chapter 3

Jim was cold. He was annoyed. He was, more importantly, stuck in a country lane in the pouring rain with no phone signal. What were his options? He could wait until the rain stopped and hope that somehow, magically, the signal returned along with the sun. Not likely. So, that option was not an option and he was just making himself angrier. The only real option was to get out and walk to a place with either signal or a phone. That meant getting very, very wet. He looked in all directions, trying to decide which way would involve the least amount of walking. Not that it really mattered. Approximately five seconds in this rain would drench him through to his core. He slid his phone into the pocket of his soon-to-be soaking wet jeans and held the car keys in his left hand. In a swift motion, not unlike that of a slightly uncoordinated newborn monkey, Jim opened the door and stepped out onto the road. He stood ankle deep in the huge puddle he had forgotten he was trapped in and cursed his stupidity. He skipped up to the tarmac and jogged to a nearby tree, which provided a small modicum of cover.

This area of road was entirely rural. There were lots of bushes, a few trees, and fields in all directions. There was also, to Jim's surprise, a single house that he had not previously been able to see. From his position in the car, and with the overhanging greenery caressing his bonnet, it was fair to say that he had not been able to see much of anything. He looked at the house, although it was slightly unfair to call it such. It looked more like a stately home. Bright yellow, oddly, and situated about 200 metres up a gravel path between two patchy, green fields of grass.

There were three-foot-high solid rock walls all the way along the road, extending from Jim's rather sad-looking car until they reached a wooden gate, approximately fifty metres away. The gate was panelled, and although he could not see if it was padlocked, he was certainly confident that he could climb over it if necessary. Surely someone was living there, Jim thought. It might even be National Trust; that would be even better as it meant normal people working there with modern technology rather than some crusty old bint who probably sent messages via carrier pigeon.

Soaked to the skin already there was very little point in running, so Jim walked alongside the rock wall until he reached the wooden gate. As suspected, there was a padlock linking it closed to a post, so he used the panels as a makeshift ladder, and clambered over. He landed on the muddy grey gravel with a satisfying crunch and took in his surroundings. The path was straight and long, leading to what was presumably the house's main entrance. The fields on either side were not really fields, but huge expanses of grass, split into sections that would have been beautiful gardens once upon a time. Trees filled the far edges with bushy but fruitless branches. It looked typically old-Britaina throwback to a time when the UK was important. Nowadays, of course, the UK was just a small island generally disliked by the rest of the world, and those families who once proudly owned houses like these were fast becoming an oddity, rather than a regular feature of the countryside.

The house, or mansion, seemed even bigger now he could see it properly. Its front entrance, albeit a very large, chunky wooden door, was enveloped by an arrowhead shaped arch jutting out in front. On either side of the entrance were an equal number of high, vertical, rectangular windows with lead-lined markings, six in total, reaching the edges of the building. The house looked as though it was two main storeys high, although an arched roof probably contained a set of large attic rooms. There were two chimneys, with smoke pluming from neither. There was also a distinct lack of light or activity apparent from each window. It might be daytime, but the sky was stormy, grey and almost entirely cloud-covered. There were no cars parked in the front driveway area, andmost frustratingly of allno signs indicating it was part of the National Trust. If the grounds were not so well-maintained it would look abandoned and lifeless.

The gravel path connecting to the open front driveway split into paths snaking around each side of the house. From his distant position, Jim could see that the house went back quite far and there were other smaller buildings, or outhouses, further back to the rear side of the building. These were also unlit and apparently free from activity.

Bowing his head to avoid the rain from getting in his eyes, he stuck both hands deep into his pockets and trudged at a belligerent pace up the gravel path. The crunch of each step hardly audible above the sound of water pelting every surface.

It took about 2 minutes until the rain suddenly stopped tattooing his head. He was stood under the archway, a metre from the door. There was no doorbell. Of course not, he thought, sarcastically. Anything from the twentieth century onwards must be too new for a place like this. A doormat sat on the floor and looked rather out of place, being too small for a door this size and very grubby indeed. There was also an engraved name on an oval plaque: 'Neates House', it read, in a deep cursive font.

A large, black door knocker the size of his head faced him at eye level. He rapped with it twice. No response. He tried again a few more times with a lot more force. Minutes passed with no answer. He stepped back out from under the arch and looked both left and right. Which way now? He decided to walk to the right, along the eastern edge, and made his way round the side of the building, looking in each window as he passed.