Free The River Burns by Trevor Ferguson Page A

don’t interest me one whit,” she explained to him. “I’ll die before I sell. So improving property values can do nothing more for me than raise my taxes. But feel free, talk away.”
    Jake Withers, she saw, was staring at the patch of yard where her scooter stood parked. Old ruts from another era remained perceptible along the rising lawn to the garage behind the house where her husband used to park his car. Lawn tools were stowed back there now, and her scooter over the winter. “Just imagine,” the young man brayed, “a gleaming black driveway. Ma’am, for the addition to your property value you should really pay me double, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t charge you double. In fact, because you’re a senior and I respect seniors, I’ll give you a discount right off the bat. Ten percent, no questions asked. I’ll also cut the deposit in half. Ma’am, it’s too hot a day to bicker or barter, so I’ll just give you the best deal possible and lay it on the table. Or on the lawn, ha-ha . First, I want you to imagine that gleaming black driveway up from the road to your garage. A beautiful thing, no? A beautiful thing, indeed. Imagine it!”
    â€œWould you excuse me a moment?” she asked him quietly, and went back inside.
    Jake Withers had heard that phrase earlier in the day, or one like it, and this time his antennae were alert.
    â€œYou don’t own a shotgun, do you?” He chuckled nervously.
    â€œCertainly not,” she assured him, and carried on inside. She emerged shortly carrying a croquet mallet.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Jake Withers asked her.
    â€œWhat does it look like?”
    â€œI’m not sure. It’s colourful enough.”
    â€œA croquet mallet.”
    â€œWhat’s it for?” To err on the side of caution, he took a farther step down.
    â€œGiven that you want to destroy my croquet lawn with your ridiculous driveway, I thought that it might be perfectly fitting for me to bop you one over the head. It won’t hurt that much. I am old, not so strong, so there shouldn’t be too much blood. Don’t you think that’s fitting?”
    â€œOh, come on!” Jake Withers did a complete spin. “What is wrong with you people in this town! I’m here to pave your driveways and increase your property values and you treat me like I’m the criminal! You’re the criminals! With your shotguns and your weapons! I’m just trying to earn my living here!”
    â€œNot at the expense of my lawn, you won’t.”
    She didn’t have to run him off, he was already leaving on his own accord. He threw his driveway samples into his backseat and flung his hands in the air as he berated the wind. Whatever he was muttering to himself, the flurry came upon Mrs. McCracken as unintelligible.
    She watched him drive off, then returned with her mallet to the cool sanctuary of her home where Buckminster yawned in apparent approval. “I’d be better off with a dog,” she told him. “A yappy mutt.” The cat had heard the threat before, and so stretched out, nonplussed, to help cool his furry self.
    â–    ■   ■
    Up from the riverbank, in from the pubs and cafés, out from the curiosity shops, and down from the trails through the woodlands, excursion train passengers flowed back towards the town’s centre and the train station. Tara Cogshill found herself carried along by that current, but as she passed the store she visited earlier she stepped inside. The man with the combed-over haircut and slender nose was hoping for her return. She confessed that his eyes were not so beady, that they were probably his finest feature, soft with a greyness, but believed that they ought to be beady given his subtly creepy demeanour. Icky.
    â€œYou mentioned a business proposition.” He wrung his hands together as he spoke. “I confess that I