Free Viridian Tears by Rachel Green Page B

promising anything. Where did you find it?”
    Joseph’s eyes narrowed and he began mumbling to himself. Meinwen was too polite to eavesdrop though she couldn’t help overhearing the word ‘trucks’ several times. “By the canal,” he eventually admitted. “Not saying where.” He put his tobacco pouch down and took out the key again, snatching it away when Meinwen reached for it. “No more touching. Take your photograph.” He held his hand out flat, the key across it.
    Meinwen slid open the lens cover and held out her phone. It clicked and Joseph snatched his hand away as if it had been bitten. “There. Done. You have your photograph. Now go and research it.”
    “But the flash didn’t go off.” Meinwen examined the image on her phone screen. Despite the lack of flash she was sure she could fiddle with the image on her laptop.
    “You go now.” Joseph had picked up his pouch again made shooing motions with it.
    “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
    “Mebbe tomorrow. Mebbe next day.” Joseph returned to his ammonites as if he’d dismissed her from his thoughts already.
    Meinwen nodded and picked up her bag, leaving Joseph and the clearing behind. He was one of the colorful locals the police always referred to when criticized for the number of homeless in Laverstone. He had somewhere to live, a disused railway carriage on the siding at Denholm Lane, though he was more often off camping in the woods than at home in his carriage. The council made annual attempts to offer him a flat or a place at one of the sheltered housing units but he always declined and they assuaged their guilt about him by supplying him with fresh blankets and food drops once a week. There was reputedly a nephew, somewhere, but no one had ever seen him. Few people even knew his last name.
    Meinwen crossed Pettin’s Field by way of the public footpath over the barrow and the stile into Quarry Lane. She could have followed the lane all the way from where Joseph was camped, but it traversed the head of the quarry and would have added twenty minutes to her journey. Pettin’s Field was an easy shortcut if barrow wights weren't a concern.
    Quarry Lane led into Quarry Bank and she stumped along, loosening her coat despite the deepening sky. After the morning rain the air was heavy with damp and her vigorous walk through the woods had left her hot and sweaty. A left turn took her into Gaunt's Lane and toward Winston’s garage. Just the spot for a personal thank you for helping her new friend and a cup of tea. She could use his bathroom, too. She didn’t mind going in the woods but the comfort of indoor plumbing was worth holding a full bladder for.
     

 
    Chapter 9
     
    Meinwen stepped gingerly through the front yard of Winston’s garage. She didn’t generally mind mud but the building site had more in common with the Somme than with the garage she remembered. The clusters of rusted and decaying cars had gone, replaced by an expanse of concrete and a series of low walls made of concrete blocks. The original building, made of timber and metal sheets with corrugated iron roofing still stood, though Winston had shown her the plans and it would be demolished and rebuilt when the new section had been completed. The only thing that would remain when the building work was finished was the huge radio mast occupying one fenced-off corner of the yard. It had stood since the seventies, at first a booster for the burgeoning Citizen’s Band radio enthusiasm, then for the exponential growth of mobile phones in the nineties. Red lights blinked on the top, though no airplane ever flew that low.
    A light shone under the door and she hurried toward it, avoiding the larger puddles highlighted by their oily sheen of reflected streetlights. The door was, like the rest of the building, painted a deep British racing green with ‘Gaunt's Garage’ in friendly letters that made her think of ice-cream in fifties-style diners. She knocked, waited a moment and