Free Breeding Ground by Sarah Pinborough Page A

Court before deciding that if I didn’t turn my back on it then, I never would. My whole body shaking, I tucked the knife into my belt and faced in the other direction, biting back the conviction that the thing was instantly behind me, and stepped out onto the street. I pushed myself forward, concentrating on the sound, focussing my thinking away from the fear that bubbled through every pore.
    It was distant, but it was definitely coming from somewhere in Stony. Even in this silence I doubted that I could hear anything from Wolverton or the other surrounding villages. It didn’t seem to be coming from
     
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    any of the estates on the south edge of town, so I turned onto Russell Street and headed north. It was light, fluffy forties Hollywood music, the slightly tinny quality of the recording becoming clearer as I walked. At least I knew I was heading in the right direction.
    Blossoms dropped from the trees that lined the pretty street as I followed the tune like a rat following the pied piper, although I don’t think his repertoire ever included anything by Frank Sinatra or those other old crooners. I passed the closed primary school and the high walls of the old folks home, and kept with the kerb of the road moving past the uneven line of cottages and houses. I was glad they were set well back from the pavement, mostly hidden by shrubs and weeping willows. I didn’t want to see what was going on inside. I didn’t need to.
    Finally, the houses thinned out and the road curved right past the small path leading down to the ancient overgrown graveyard that sat forgotten in the heart of our town. Its sunlight was blocked by overhanging trees, leaving it in eternal twilight, the names on the stones long ago eroded, a true place of peaceful rest. I wondered how long it would take for the modern one on London Road to reach the same state. I doubted anyone would be popping in there with fresh flowers or a lawnmower in the near future.
    The music was definitely clearer now, as ahead of me the high gates of the Stony Stratford Sports Club reared into view, one side of thin grey steel bars arched open wide, inviting me onto the gravel drive as Vera Lynn burst into song with “We’ll Meet Again,” from somewhere beyond. To my left, the empty tennis courts gleamed in the sun, and peering to my right I
     
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    could see the huts a couple of hundred yards away that made up the cricket and football clubs, but all that was coming from their direction was a light breeze cooling the air.
    I paused and stared ahead of me at the source of the sound. It was floating out from behind the neat hedgerows of the Bowls Club, the roof of the Clubhouse just visible from where I was standing, irritatingly blocking any view I might have of whomever was playing it. For all I knew, a madman was waiting there, his shotgun raised, ready to blow the life out of anyone who answered his call, and despite all that had happened, I wasn’t ready for that. But still, if I wasn’t willing to take a risk on someone, then it was going to be a lonely existence for as long as it lasted. And if the person on the other side of that hedge was still in control of their senses, then they were braver than I was, drawing so much attention to themselves. Or perhaps, they just hadn’t seen what I had so far this morning.
    Keeping my footfalls as quiet as possible, I padded up the neat path to the waist high garden gate that signalled the club’s boundary. On the other side lay the pristeenly mowed green, pretty flowers growing in flawless beds set back against the hedges. It looked like a pensioner’s paradise, and for a brief moment my heart ached for halcyon days it seemed unlikely I would ever have.
    Lifting the latch, I took a deep breath and pushed the gate open, my legs ready to once again burst into flight in the opposite direction if I needed them to, and stepped onto the path, turning to face the clubhouse thirty or so feet away.
    There was a chair on