Abe's Scythe

          CHAPTER ONE - ABE

Abe Samerton slid the upper section of his bedroom sash window down and inhaled deeply.  Standing in just his night shirt he beheld his world.  Beyond his back garden, where he grew mainly vegetables, the village lay sleepy and still with just one or two chimneys lazily curling smoke from their newly lit stove fires, (very few families had those new-fangled electric cookers installed, because in fact, even though it was 1942, very few families had electric connected to their cottages in such a remote rural community.)  His wife Mary would be downstairs now, swearing and cussing their fire into life before putting the big back kettle of water on to boil.  He looked beyond the village to the patchwork of fields and paddocks.  One of those paddocks was his.  It was just over an acre, inherited from his Dad.  His Dad had owned six acres in all, but had six sons.  Being unable to read or write, and not fully trusting any who could, Abe’s father had left no Will, so when he died Abe’s mother had given her sons’ an acre each, deciding wisely that a little of something was better than a load of ill will.

Filling his lungs once more with the sweet, clean, early morning air Abe decided that today would be a good day to cut the hay.  He only had the weekends to see to his small parcel of land, working the rest of the week as either a barman at the local hostelry or around the local farms doing odd jobs.  The paddock was too small to warrant the hire of a mechanical mower and the only other tool worthy of the task was the one hung up in his barn.  In truth he only had Saturday, Mary still had an old fashioned way of thinking, and frowned upon those who would work on the day set aside for the Lord.    Yes, today was the right day for cutting hay, there had been soft, warm rain earlier in the month, but the past week or more had been dry, and it promised to stay that way for a couple of weeks more.

 

Abe shaved, dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen.  Mary was nowhere to be seen.  Abe grinned. She was probably still out in the lean-to seeing to the goats, who would be the beneficiaries of today’s hard labour cutting hay.  They had started keeping goats when their eldest had developed an allergy to cow’s milk, the hay from his paddock and his grazing rights on the Common meant that they had an ample supply of milk at a cheaper rate then they would buying it in from elsewhere.  The reason for Mary being held up in her house hold chores would almost certainly be due to the youngest nanny goat. Mary had named her ‘Orrible Creature, amongst other more profane names.  ‘Orrible Creature was still fidgety and ticklish when it came to milking and would sometimes get a hind foot in the pail, or shift forward to deposit her small black offerings, also in the pail.  Abe decided not to wait for Mary’s return to the kitchen, she was a short tempered woman at the best of times, ‘Orrible Creature was probably fraying her last nerve at this moment and it was too beautiful a day to have to patiently listen to a list of complaints about the animal.

 

Knowing that Mary would send their youngest Matt with sandwiches wrapped in a blue chequered cloth and a small flagon of cider to the paddock mid-day, Abe settled for having just a drink of water before going down the garden to the small barn where he kept his tools.  As he entered the barn he stopped to admire the bow handled scythe hanging on the wall before he took it down.  It was a thing of beauty, a real man’s tool, the woman’s tool, the hay rake, was hung beside it, and  Mary would use it in a few days’ time to turn the hay.   The scythe fitted him so well that he could almost believe that it had magically adapted its shape and handle grip from his fathers to his own when he had inherited it.  Its snaith was made from yew, and several generations had turned the wood a golden brown, darker where the user’s hands came into contact with it when working.  The slightly curved blade, dark and grey, glinted in the light from the open barn door; it looked for all the world like the beak of some fabulous and evil bird.  It was not the original blade, but one his uncle, a blacksmith, had forged for his father on his wedding day.  The scythe’s outer blade edge was well peened and almost paper thin and he had sharpened it just last evening, it held its edge well and Abe knew it was unlikely that he would need to sharpen it during his day’s work; nonetheless Abe put the small whet stone in his pocket.  Shouldering the scythe Abe set off to mow his one acre hay field.

                                                                                       ***

”Busy?” Bert Applewhite the Duty Sergeant enquired, popping his head around the office door.  Detective Sergeant Bob Halmer looked up, but it was his boss Detective Inspector Harry Penvelly that answered saying, “Not particularly Bert, what’ve you got?”  Bert came into the office, saying as he did so, “Report’s just come in, some old chap up on the Farlow Housing Estate swinging his large tool around.”  Bert could barely conceal his smirk.  “What kind of large tool?” Bob asked, before his boss could make any crude comment.

 

Disappointment registered on Bert’s face.  He enjoyed a risqué crack with Harry, young Bob was a bit of a spoilsport with his serious slant on life.   Bert checked the slip of paper in his hand, “Um, the lady who called it in, Mrs Winslip, describes it as a very large curvy cut-throat razor, the sort that’s in the film ‘Sweeny.’”   “My god!”  Said Harry, with alarm, “Has anyone been hurt?”  “No, not as yet,” replied Bert, “A few cars have got some pretty nasty, and very expensive, gouges taken out of them, and one or two wheelie bins have been cut clean in half.  The old man hasn’t approached anyone, and doesn’t appear to be menacing in any way, he’s just walking slowly up and down the road sweeping it in a half circle, like he was mopping a floor, or so says Mrs Winslip.  Mike Keen should have arrived on the scene by now, but he’s on his ownsome and might need back up.”  “Right, come on then Bob,” said Harry getting up and taking his jacket off the back of his chair, “Let’s go and see what kind of razor can be used to mop streets, and what kind of road cleaner uses one, and why.”

When they arrived at the Farlow Housing Estate and had carefully pulled up behind PC Keen’s Panda Car, they could see that Keen had, more or less, control of the situation.  As they left the car Bob remarked, “How on earth could a scythe be mistaken for a cut-throat razor?”  “Well,” replied Harry, “I suppose they both have a handle one end and a very sharp edge the other, and if you had never seen a scythe, but had seen a cut-throat……..”  Keen had raised his hand toward them, indicating that he didn’t need, or want, them to come any further.

The Panda Car’s back door was open and the old man was perched sideways on the back seat with his legs in the road.  He looked very hot and tired.  ‘Old’ would be complimentary in describing his age, he was ancient.  Grasped firmly in his hand was the scythe.  Harry was relieved to see that the sharp end was pointed away from Keen.  Keen was slightly bent towards the old man, talking.  But whatever Keen was saying didn’t appear to be going down well with the old boy, who was shaking his head furiously and arguing back at Keen, saying,  “Talk sense boy, talk sense, I got work to do.  Now if you have a message, get on with it, I ain't got all day.”

A crowd had gathered around the Panda car, and Harry saw a number of children amongst them, obviously an old codger with a deadly weapon was far more interesting than anything on the computer.  That was the trouble with computer games, thought Harry, they blurred the line between reality and fantasy for youngsters, this lot had no sense of the danger they may be in should the old man decide to ‘go off on one’ with his scythe.

Harry decided that Keen had time enough trying to persuade the old man to hand over the scythe; it was going to have to be taken from him, by force if necessary.  If he waited any longer he would have to call for more uniforms to clear the ever increasing curious onlookers away, and keep them away.  He took a step forward when a hub-bub in the crowd made him stop and turn toward them.  A young man in his early twenties was elbowing his way through shouting, “Don’t hurt him copper, he’s my Great Granddad!”  As the young man broke free from the crowd and hurtled past, Bob caught him by his shirt collar.

Bob swung the youngster round so he was facing Harry, who demanded, “And what is your Great Granddad doing mowing the road?”  The youngster’s face was a storm of anger as he shouted at Harry, “Don’t you dare make fun of him, he’s ill in his head, it’s not his fault.  He wouldn’t harm no-one; he’s a smashing old bloke.”  The ‘smashing old bloke’ was totally oblivious to his Great Grandson’s arrival, having not stopped chiding Keen to ‘get on with it and stop wasting time, and asking daft questions.’  Harry’s expression softened as he realised what was going on.  “Alright son, but we are going to have to take the scythe away from him, will he hand it over to you?  First up though, what’s your name?”  “I’m Matt.  He’ll hand it over to me, he sometimes thinks I’m his youngest son, who was my Grandpa, his name was Mathew too.”  Matt replied, not taking his eyes off his Great Grandfather.  “OK,” said Harry, “What we are going to do is this, you shall slowly walk over to your Great Granddad and my Sergeant here will walk behind you  with his hand on your shoulder, no, no, don’t look worried, it’s just in case there is any trouble, so the sergeant can push you out of the way.  If the old chap gives you the scythe, pass it straight on to the sergeant. Alright?” Matt nodded.

Matt, as casually as was possible with a copper’s hand resting on his shoulder, walked over to where his Great Granddad was sitting.  “Hello Pops,” he said.  The old man snapped his head round and he grinned, “Ah Matty, ‘bout time you showed up, hope your Mother sent a pile of grub, I missed me breakfast.  I’m trying to tell this, this fancy peacock that I don’t loan me scythe to strangers,” he turned back to look at Keen with a scowl and growled, “You’ve a bloody cheek asking.”  “Quite right too Pops, only Ma says you’re to go on home, she wants you for something.  I’ll take over here.” Matt kept his voice light and conversational as he reached for the scythe.  ‘Mmm,’ thought Harry to himself, ‘That was too pat, I wonder how many times young Matt has been sent to retrieve his Great Granddad and  scythe.’

Without a murmur the old man handed Matt the scythe, who in turn gave it to Bob.  Keen, now standing upright, nodded in the Great Grandfather’s direction and quietly said to Matt, “Will the old man be OK if I give you both a lift home?  It’s not going to frighten or upset him in any way?”  “He’ll be fine now,” Matt replied sadly, “Once I’ve taken the scythe off him he goes quiet and back into himself, he don’t take too much notice of what’s going on around him.  It’s the scythe, once he gets his hands on it, it sort of makes him young again, makes him think he’s young again.”

When Keen had helped Matt settle the old man down in a comfy armchair with a mug of tea back at his home, he took a few notes so he could type them up for his report back at the station.  The old man was ninety five year old Abraham, more commonly known as Abe, Samerton.  He had lived all his married life in the little tumble down cottage, but alone for the last thirty years since the death of his wife.  It was only in the last year that his family had noticed that his mind had started to slip in time.  Up until today Matt had managed to way-lay him before he reached the Farlow Estate, scythe in hand.  Matt wasn’t sure why he made his way there, but seemed to think that he might have owned a bit of land that way in the distant past.  Both Abe’s sons had passed away, and his Grandson Andrew, Matt’s father, had little to do with him, believing him to be nothing more than a stubborn old nuisance.

 

Mostly Abe was OK, he was incredibly fit and agile for his age, and could look after himself.  Kindly neighbours would pop in now and again to do a bit of cooking and cleaning, although Abe, providing Matt wrote a list for him, could do most of his own shopping.  Abe would on occasion see the world as it was for him sixty odd years ago, and when those occasions coincided with warm, dry days then the urge to shoulder his scythe and go off would come over him.  Matt spent as much time as he could with his Great Granddad, having a genuine affection for the old man.

Before leaving by the back door Keen asked Matt, “You know he might be better off in care, he’s only going to get worse, would you like me to put you in contact with the Social, they can supply you with a list of really good local care homes?”  “No!”  Snapped Matt, “We’re OK, we gets by fine.”  Then almost as an afterthought Matt asked, “What are you going to do with his scythe?”  Keen sighed before he answered, “Well, of course you must understand that we can’t let him have it back, he could do himself a mischief, not to mention other people.  Does your Dad have somewhere safe he can lock it up, where your Pops can’t get hold of it?”  “Yes,” Matt replied, “He’s got a lock up.”

Five weeks later the day dawned warm and dry, Abe Samerton made his way down his garden, past the weeds and stinging nettles which had long taken over from once neatly rowed vegetables and his wife’s fragrant roses that bordered her precious herb garden, he was heading towards his small barn, as he trudged down the path he called over his shoulder, “Send the boy down early, it’s about time he learnt how to use the scythe, don’t you fret Mary I’ll see he don’t cut his own balls off, heh, heh.”

 

He threw open the barn doors and looked up expectantly.  His toothless jaw dropped open as, instead of his beautiful scythe, he saw an empty space on the wall.  “Bloody thieving, no good barsteds, they’ve had me scythe!”  Fuming with anger and determined to find the ‘barsteds’ that had it away with his scythe and give them what for Abe grabbed the nearest long handled tool to give them what for with.  As he gave the handle, which belonged to a very heavy sledge hammer, a furious yank a pain shot from his shoulder down his arm.  “Drat,” he swore, believing he had tweaked a muscle.  But the pain spread across his chest, making him feel as though he had been gripped in a vice………….Then there was blackness……..Then there was nothing.  So passed Abe Samerton.

After Abe’s funeral the scythe was returned to the small barn, where, along with other vintage tools, was sold at a house clearance auction.  Matt, with that week’s wage in his back pocket was just too late before the final bid was knocked down to the trader that bought it as part of a job lot and was more than pleased with his purchase.  He was the owner of a reclamation yard and was therefore a knowledgeable dealer in vintage tools, he knew as soon as he saw it the beauty and true worth of the scythe.  It would need no restoration; someone had cared for it throughout its life.  He rubbed his hands together sensing a large profit when he sold it on.

CHAPTER TWO – THE HARVESTER

Police Constable Drew Hamilton was the newest recruit to the Town’s Police Station.  He had spent the first three weeks of his career filing, fetching tea and biscuits, and running messages.   Sergeant Mike ‘Happy’ Young decided it was time to introduce the rookie’s boots to the pavement and take him out on his rounds that night.  They were to pay particular attention to Clovey Common, there had been numerous complaints that late night dog walkers hadn’t been cleaning up after their pooches.  Normally these complaints would have been passed on to the appropriate ‘Town’s Open Spaces and Recreational Committee,’ a department of the local council, but things had come to a head when an irate mother had plonked her three year old child on the Duty Sergeant’s desk and declared, “If you won’t do nuffin’ about the crap, then you can clean the little bugger up,” and promptly left the police station, leaving her non too fragrant offspring where she had plonked him.  It soon became apparent that the ‘little bugger’ in question had possibly not only fallen over into dog’s doings, but had quite likely jumped, rolled, and stood on his head in it too.  A directive from Duty Sergeant Bert Applewhite was issued, under no circumstances did he wish to see any more dog shitty three years olds on his desk….get out there and find the members of public who were failing in their civic responsibilities, or else.  The last ‘or else’ part was left to the PCs’ imaginations, and they were in no doubt that a Desk Sergeant could make a humble coppers life a misery.

Sergeant Young’s nickname ‘Happy’ was a misnomer, as it was generally agreed upon by his fellow officers, uniformed and plain clothed alike, that he was the most miserable git ever born of woman.  Before they left the Station Happy thrust a handful of small black plastic bags at Drew saying, “If you see someone walking away from their dog’s woopsie, give him one of these and make him pick it up, escort him to the nearest Dog Do-do bin, they’re the red ones, and then caution him that should he neglect to clean up in future, he’ll be in trouble.”  Hoping to lighten what he thought was a ridiculous task for a policeman to do Drew made the mistake of asking, “What if it’s a woman Sarge?”  “What?” barked Happy, frowning.  Smiling weakly and already regretting his attempt at a jest Drew explained, “You said ‘he’ and ‘him’ what if it’s a woman?”  A look of deep sorrow passed over Happy’s face as he replied, “Look son, no-one likes a smart-arse, especially one that’s still wet behind the ears, just do yourself a favour and do as you’re told, without the wise-cracks” 

So armed with their black poop bags the Sergeant and his young PC set off for Clovey Common.  They would spend a little time patrolling there before continuing on their beat around the town, calling back at the Common before they returned to the Station for a cuppa, after which they would repeat the whole routine.

Clovey Common wasn’t just a haven for late night dog walkers; it was also a favourite night time spot for courting couples, joy riders, underage drinkers, and, on the rare occasion, a convenient place to use a stolen car to transport and hide a dead body.  It was equally as busy during the day, when, amongst others, it would attract yet more dog walkers. Mothers and their children would frequent the Common to either catch a breath of fresh air whilst having a crafty fag (the mothers, not the children, at least not when they were still young enough to be accompanied everywhere by their mothers,) or use it as a short cut from a nearby housing estate to the nursery school and the shops.  And due to its many criss-crossing paths it wouldn’t have been a proper Common without its Lycra clad joggers and cyclists.

 

Clovey Common also saw more than its fair share of what can only be described as ‘nutters,’  be they naked streakers, men, and once a woman, dressed up as a variety of ‘Super Heroes’ and of course the obligatory ‘flasher.’  With his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trade mark unbuttoned grey trench coat, he would lurk behind trees or bushes only to leap out and reveal his exposed nether regions to unsuspecting women in the vain attempt at shocking them into screaming, or if he was really on form he hoped to see his luckless victim faint dead away. The local women however, were not as easily shocked as they were angrily offended and most ‘flashers’ ended up in the A & E Department at the local hospital, one particularly inept individual having to wear a truss for the rest of his life.  But never in the history of the Common had it ever been host to a ghost…….as yet!

Drew and Happy had not walked a hundred yards along the main path of Clovey Common, the beams of their flash lights lighting the shadows cast by a small new moon, when a gasping cry of, “Help, oh god help me,” came from the bushes to their left. Along with the desperate pleas for help was a crashing, snapping of branches, and a rustling of leaves that gave the hint that someone was heading, panic stricken, in Drew and Happy’s direction.  A young man burst head-long through the undergrowth, much closer to the policemen then they had anticipated, Happy caught him by the shoulders before he fell and then held him at arm’s length to get a good look at him. Wearing jeans and trainers with his shirt both un-tucked and unbuttoned exposing his bare chest, his eyes were wide in shock and fear.

Drew immediately realised that both the youth and the sergeant recognised each other.  This was born out by the almost comic exchange of, “Kevin Barrett!” from the sergeant, and, “Sergeant Young!” from the youth.  Happy tightened his grip on one of Kevin’s shoulders, purely on the principle of that if it was one of the Barrett brothers, then they had to be getting up to no good.  “Now then Kev,” Happy growled, “Your Ashley been giving you a seeing to again, what have you done to upset him this time?”  Kev tried to bend double in an attempt to get his breath back, but was firmly held upright by Happy’s hand, his breath when he managed to speak came out in short gasps, “No, no, it, we, we saw it, it’s real,” Happy picked up on the ‘we’ and asked urgently, “We, Kev, what do you mean ‘we,’ who are you with and where are they?”

Both Drew ad Happy were staring hard at Kev, who was looking around him in bewilderment,”B-b-but, she was right w-w-with me,” stammered Kev, hysteria took over his voice as he went on, “Oh god, it’s got her, it’s got Everline….EVERLINE!”  Kev tried to wrench himself free from Happy’s grasp, which made Happy hold him all the firmer, this time with a burly arm around his neck.  Drew stepped forward in case his sergeant should need assistance.  Happy shouted down Kev’s ear, “Calm down son, calm down, we can’t help you unless you tell us what you are raving on about.  Now, PC Hamilton here will go and look for, Everline was it? Everline, and you shall tell me what is going on, from the beginning.”

 

Drew was about to set off in search of the missing Everline, when a young female pushed passed him, neither Drew, Happy or the distraught Kev had seen her appear from the bushes a few yards away further up the path.  She stormed up to Kev, whose eyes held a mixture of relief and impending doom upon seeing her, and with the flat of her hand landed a resounding wallop across his cheek, “That’s for running off and leaving me alone in the dark, and that,” a second slap was delivered to Kev’s cheek, “Is for screaming down my earhole and near deafening me.”

The young woman then looked up at the sergeant, in a quiet voice, a little more than a whisper, she said, “Oh…. Uncle Mikey.”  Sergeant Young seemed to expand in size, his face darkened in anger.  Punctuating every word with a shake of the hapless Kev he shouted at the girl, “AVELENE YOUNG!  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON THE COMMON WITH, WITH THIS NO GOOD TOERAG, AND WHY’S HIS SHIRT ALL UNDONE AND UN TUCKED?”

Drew called for a Panda car to collect them during the ensuing shouts of accusation and explanations between uncle and niece, punctuated by Kev’s forlorn screams of  pain (Happy still had his arm around the youngster’s neck, wrenching his head off whilst angrily remonstrating with Avelene was becoming a real possibility.)  Kev, amongst yelps of pain, was imploring them to ‘run for their lives’ because ‘it’ was still out there, and would be after them.  He was however ignored, Happy and Avelene having bigger issues than an ‘it’.

In the Panda car, driven by Mike Keen, a sulky silence fell upon Avelene and her uncle.  Kev was still nervous and jumpy, startling every time the car radio made its incomprehensive broadcasts.  Mike cast a sideways glance at Drew and raised his eyebrows in a silent question as to what was going on, Drew in response shrugged, he had no clue either.  Once they had arrived at the Police Station, Bert Applewhite decided that under the circumstances, those being the family relationship between Happy and Avelene, Drew and Happy should go to the canteen for a cuppa, and bring their note books up to date, Bert would talk to them later.

Avelene and Kev were put into separate Interview Rooms, with a cup of tea and a biscuit.  Bert couldn’t leave his desk to talk to them, and the only other Sergeant on duty was involved, so with a deep sigh he rang the upstairs office. To Bert’s relief Bob Halmer answered, and after Bert had told him as much as he knew, which was little enough, Bob agreed to come down and talk to the youngsters.  As Bob returned the phone to its cradle Harry Penvelly looked up from his mountainous pile of paperwork and asked, “Mind if I sit in Bob, I promise I won’t butt in, just give advice…….but only if you ask for it.”   Bob knew that the request was purely rhetorical, so he nodded, and filled his boss in as to what was going on.

They talked to sixteen year old Avelene Young first.  She also had not a clue what was going on, except that she was still blazing angry at Kev for running off and leaving her alone on the Common.  They had been canoodling, and she hadn’t seen what had frightened Kev because she had been busy keeping Kev out of her blouse.  “All I know is that he gave a blood curdling scream, leaps up and runs off, once I had found me handbag I followed him, to give him a piece of my mind, and there he was being shaken by the head by my Uncle Mikey,” said Avelene, who was now obviously bored with the evenings proceedings and had fished her nail file from the depths of her handbag and was busy giving herself a quick manicure.  Bob was about to ask what the girl meant by Sergeant Young shaking Kev by the head, but thought better of it, instead he promised he would arrange transport to take her home.

Kev was still shaking and upset, the sight of Detective Inspector Penvelly did nothing to soothe his nerves, they were well acquainted with each other, but not in a social way.  Rubbing his hands over his face Kev whined, “I ain't done nuffin’ wrong, an’ I’m sick of being ignored.”  Harry gave what he hoped was a kindly smile and replied, “We will be the ones to decide if you ‘aint done nuffin’ or not Kev, and Detective Sergeant Halmer is kindly here to give you his full attention…….now, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON?  My monies on you being up to something.”  Bob held a hand, palm first, up to his superior, imploring him to be quiet.  Taking a seat Bob turned to Kev and said, “Now then Kev, in your own time, tell us…me what you saw up on the Common.”  Giving Harry a disparaging look Kev took a deep breath and told Bob what he had seen.

Kev had been making out with Everline, (both Bob and Harry had tried to correct his pronunciation of the girl’s name, but had given up when Kev had frowned and said, “That’s what I said.”)  They had been laying down on the grass, just kissing, and Kev admitted that he was trying to undo her blouse, “Not that I would’ve forced her into doing anything she didn’t want to do, I really like Everline, even if she is a copper’s niece, I’ve got respect for women,” Kev clarified.  He had gone back to gently kissing the girl’s face and ears, hoping to ‘put her in the mood,’ when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

At first he had thought it was a peeping-tom spying on them and had half raised his body to shout a warning for the voyeur to, “Get out of it and take your dirty mind with you,” then he realised that this was no peeping-tom.  It was in fact exactly like a picture he had seen in an ‘arty-farty’ book at school.

Harry shouted, “Well, what was it then, we haven’t got all bleeding night!”  This earned him a cold look from Bob, who encouraged Kev, in a more kindly manner, to continue.

“It was……it was,” said Kev slowly, deciding to go for the full dramatic line in the hope that this would knock DI-god-all-bloody-mighty-Penvelly back on his heels, “It was The Gloomy Harvester!”   “It was the bloody what?” Yelled Harry in response.  Kev was a little taken aback by the lack of impact his words had on Harry, and in a more uncertain voice replied, “You know, The Gloomy Harvester, you often see pictures of him in old books, and he’s on my Auntie’s Tarot Cards, he wears a long black tatty coat with a hood and carries a what-you-may-call-it, a stickle I think it’s called.”

Both policemen stared hard at Kev in total incomprehension, Kev decided to give it one more shot and said, “He’s in the Bible, on a horse.”  Light dawned in the detectives’ eyes, causing Harry to raise his eyebrows and then look down at his feet in a very thoughtful manner.  Bob leaned forward and gently informed Kev, “Kev, you mean The Grim Reaper.  He carries a scythe, I think you must be mistaken, he’s not real, he’s mythical, perhaps it was a trick of the light, there is a moon tonight, perhaps……..”    That was as far as Bob got.  Kev had started to protest, but over both their voices came the angry boom of Detective Inspector Penvellys voice.

“THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH OF THIS NONSENSE, I’m sorry Sergeant but I cannot allow this debacle to continue.”  Then leaning on the table with one hand and waving an exasperated finger of the other under Kev’s nose, he continued.  “I’ll tell you what really happened, you little sleaze-bucket, shall I?  You couldn’t have your filthy way with Avelene Young so you decided to up and leave her, alone on the Common, a sixteen year old girl, you, you pile of  uncaring dog’s shite.  Only when making your escape, you ran straight into the long arms of the law, aka, Avelene’s Uncle Mikey.   All this Grim Reaper rubbish is your way of trying to wriggle your way out of trouble.  Now, get your sorry arse out of my police station before I charge you with wasting police time, GET OUT NOW!”

As he got to the interview room door, Kev spun on his heel and in a voice full of hurt pride he said, “I’m not lying, I’m not.  I did see that thing.  And I’m going to prove it, you’ll see.  You’ll be sorry.”  As he left Kev tried to underline his point by slamming the door behind him, only to discover that doors fitted with pneumatic cylinders cannot be slammed, rendering them useless as an object of emphasis.   He further discovered how solidly built they are when he kicked it.  He finally left the building, and muttering under his breath limped his way home.

 

Back in the interview room Bob opened his mouth to say something, but it was his turn to receive Harry’s waving finger and angry words.  “I don’t want to hear another word about this, get PCs’ Young and Hamilton to type up their notes and then you can file those notes somewhere where I will never have to set eyes on them again.”

Words, once out of the mouth, can never be recalled.  And believing that you have said the last word on a matter can lead to that last word turning round and biting you firmly on the bum.

CHAPTER THREE – MADNESS COMES TO TOWN

The first hint of the madness to come started early the next morning.  Harry was standing at the sink in his kitchen listening to the radio whilst having a shave.  Knowing what the weather is going to do that day is a fair indication of what kind of a work load he could be in for.  Wet and miserable and most people would stay indoors, bright and sunny and those same people would be outside, walking, gardening, visiting friends and a host of other activities that would see them leaving their houses empty and sometimes unlocked, and their purses in unfastened hand or shopping bags.  The towns home grown pick pockets, con artists, and burglars would be stirred into action by the lack of precipitation, and Harry and his team would be having a busy day.

The small local radio station would always broadcast the news before the weather forecast.  ‘News’ was a lofty word for what was actually gossip, as most of the items were supplied by the town’s folk themselves.  Sandwiched in between the miraculous relief a listener had obtained when using stewed Spanish Onion paste on her painful bunion, and the face of Our Lord appearing in a six year olds bowl of Cornflakes, was the report of a ‘ghostly apparition, dressed in black and carrying a curved and deadly looking weapon, that had materialised the previous night to a young courting couple on Clovey Common.’  Harry had been still musing over the miraculous stewed Spanish onion paste and had nearly missed the report of the ghost before the news reader went on to the Cornflakes.

Harry rinsed the last of the soap from his face and smiled whilst thinking, ‘Poor Kev, he went to all that bother of phoning in his ridiculous story just to wriggle his way out of trouble, and he hadn’t even had his name mentioned.’  It struck Harry that the youngster might very well have a soft spot for Avelene Young, even if he couldn’t pronounce her name right, the story was as much for her benefit, as an excuse of why he had lost his nerve and ran off when trying to woo her, as it was for her police-man uncle.

He had missed the weather forecast during his musings, ‘Still’ he thought to himself, ‘as my ol’ Mum used to say, the only sure fired way of telling what the weather is doing is to stick your head out of the window.’  Harry gave a short chuckle at this and looked up at the kitchen clock, plenty of time for a full English at the canteen.  Harry lived on take-aways and meals bought at either The Riverside Café or the Police Station canteen as both were equally proficient at dishing up lashings of Harry’s favourite food, which mainly consisted of cholesterol in the form of greasy animal fats, which it was also cooked in.  It wasn’t that he disliked cooking, he just really hated washing up.

What the radio had missed in its report of the ‘apparition’ the local rag, ‘The Town Cryer’ had made up for.  Harry, chuckling quietly to himself, sat reading its (via Kev) version, engrossed with a forked sausage half way twixt plate and mouth. There was certainly more detail than Kev had given in the Interview Room.  For a start the ‘respectable’ young couple had been walking hand in hand over the Common.  The ghostly apparition had materialised out of a mysterious mist.  ‘It would had to have been mysterious,’ thought Harry, ‘Everyone else was having a perfectly clear night with a bit of moon light chucked in for good measure.’  Harry barked out a laugh when reading on he realised that there was a moon in this scenario too, only a full one, with the apparition outlined against it.

Harry re-dipped his sausage in the fried egg, by way of freshening it up, and took a generous bite before returning to what was proving to be a very entertaining and amusing story.  The reporter who had written down Kev’s story had obviously been more than helpful at filling in the blanks.  The ghostly apparition was now wearing, not a long black hooded coat, but a “flowing and tattered robe of midnight black, the hood of which was drawn up to conceal whatever horrors the face of the creature might hold.  One skeletal hand grasped the shaft of a scythe, not the humble agricultural implement such as our forefathers would have used in field and pasture, but one of black, evil hewn wood, covered in mystic symbols which appeared to writhe and turn beneath the terrified gaze of the innocent young couple.  The blade of the scythe glinted with untold menace in the moonlight, its curve resembling the bill of some fabulous and mythical bird, awaiting its masters bidding to snatch away the souls of mankind.”

“Bloody hell, he’s good!” Said Harry out loud referring to the writer, and attracting a number of confused looks from other early morning diners at the Police Station Canteen.  Now absolutely entranced by the story Harry took another bite of sausage and read on, but only for a few lines more.

“The young man, Kevin Barrett, aged 17, regardless of his own safety drew his young companion, Everline Young, age 16, behind him, thus shielding her innocent body from the danger of the Harvester of Souls with his own.  Kevin then went on to display the kind of courage and fortitude that is rare in the youth of today by reciting the Lord’s Prayer into the face of the Satanic creature, then, with a……….”

That was as far as Harry was able to read before the first “BWHAHAHA” burst out of his sausage laden mouth, he was now laughing so hard the tears had blurred his eyesight. The loud gawaffs were punctuated by the occasional splutter that swallowing a large lump of egg soaked sausage can cause.  Realising that he was now the centre of the canteens attention, he turned to a copper on the table next to him, and shaking the paper vigorously at him said, “Have you, HA-HA-HA, read this, this, HA-HA-HA, rubbish, if you, you, cough-cough, need HA-HA-HA-cough, something to cheer you up, cough-HA, then read it.”  With that Harry took a swig of tea and still chuckling left the canteen to start his days’ work, feeling really happy.

Back in the canteen PC Drew Hamilton, who had also read ‘The Town Cryer’s’ story and was feeling tired and grumpy after the end of his first night’s duty on foot patrol, looked at the PC who had been the subject of Harry’s paper waving and was sitting next to him, and said, “He wasn’t there when we picked Kev Barrett up, he didn’t see the look of genuine terror on that boy’s face.  I was there, and I did see it.”

Kevin Barrett had been paid £100 by The Town Cryer for his ‘Real Life Story – My Encounter with the Harvester of Souls,’ half of which he generously gave to Avelene Young.  This, if anyone had stopped to question it, was the reason in the days of utter madness that were to follow, she never repudiated a word of Kev’s story.

The next morning saw a flurry of ‘Readers Letters’ in the Town Cryer, some calling the story ‘utter rubbish, born of the fevered imaginings of a teenage mind,’ and the newspaper should be ‘utterly ashamed of itself for printing such garbage and letting its standards slip into the gutter.’  But there were many more who were firm believers, stating that, ‘the folk-lore of impending doom held in such high regard by our forefathers should not be so readily dismissed as having no foundation in truth.   What better proof, if proof were needed, of the validity of such an entity than the Bible itself.”  (Interestingly no Biblical references were given, mainly because there isn’t any.)

The passing days saw the argument rage on, and not just in the paper, listeners were invited to have their say on the radio, and they did, in their droves.  The coffee houses, cafes and pubs became forums for debate and one punch up.  The name ‘Harvester of Souls,’ although after the first day this was abbreviated to just The Harvester, was on every ones lips.  Primary school teachers spent half of lesson time trying to shush children from talking about it, and the other half trying to explain it.  Mother’s complained to the school that their kids weren’t sleeping because of nightmares caused by ‘the teachers inappropriate mentionings about the Harvester,’ little realising that their sharp eared little darlings were picking up more information about it from their parents’ whispered conversations and eagerly informative older siblings, then they were from school, the fact of the matter being that this was one of those occasions when ‘the pupil served to teach the master.’

 

It all served to give the town an interest in its hum drum life and to boost the sales of the Town Cryer.  Harry however had forgotten all about it, he had had a laugh and moved on, his interest in the matter had ceased the moment he had reached his office on that first morning, shame really, but such is a coppers life.

Nobody really took much note of the first few members of the public reporting their own sightings of The Harvester at the Police Station.  They were of the ilk of ten year old boys doing it for a bet, or silly thirteen year old girls out for a giggle, and of course the occasional drunk, who swore it was The Harvester, but it might have been a pink elephant.  Then came the older, and what one would expect to be much staider citizens, (amongst whom are those body of women who are avid church goers and even view the WI as ‘Jezebels’……. every town has them)  they stood before the Duty Sergeants Desk demanding to know ‘what the Law was going to do about The Harvester. As it  was in fact the Law itself that had caused the manifestation of this spectral horror because it had been negligent in its duty to improve the moral standing of the town’s youth with the Lord.  It was obvious that the reason for The Harvester haunting the Common was  a warning as to the wicked things going on there.’  The situation was starting to become more than a nuisance.

 

The nuisance turned into madness when the trickle of reported sightings became a flood of daily ritualistic observances at the Duty Sergeant’s Desk.  Real panic had briefly ensued when a young mother had reported that her six week old baby had been snatched by the Harvester, quick thinking by an experience WPC had averted a mob going heavy handed to the Common to do away, once and for all, with the monstrous Harvester beast.  (This of course meant any poor, skinny, hapless, butt ugly vagrant dressed in dark clothing that might happen to look like a Harvester beast, or any kind of beast for that matter.)   The WPC first calmed the crowd down enough to persuade them to wait awhile until she had the full story, then she ushered the young mother into another  room.  By quietly questioning her the WPC had discovered that the young woman was a first time mother and suffering from the usual sleep deprivation that accompanies new babies, it turned out that she had inadvertently left her infant outside the Supermarket, and had panicked before thinking.  The baby was found by the WPC sleeping in its pram where its mother had left it, blissfully unaware of the mayhem that had been narrowly avoided on its behalf.  The situation wasn’t without its lighter side however, and that was to come shortly before its very darker side.

CHAPTER FOUR – THE LIGHTER SIDE

Charlie Harriet was a big man.  Standing six foot three inches tall in his stocking feet and weighing about sixteen stone, the only description for him would be a big man.  Although he was not a bully, he was used, mainly because of his size, to getting his own way, or at the very least, finding himself frequently at the front of a queue.  He was one of those men who other men stood aside for, he never had trouble attracting the bartender’s eye when buying a drink, not that he often had to, “Here Charlie, I’ll get this round in,” was perhaps the most frequently heard sentence in Charlie’s local, The Black Horse.  Charlie was considered by all who knew him as ‘a man’s man.’

As is frequently the case of large men, he was ruled over at home by his five foot two inch dictator of a wife, Ethel.  This was in no way any cause of distress to Charlie, indeed his mother had been the same, and she was only five foot.  It was the norm in Charlie’s life to be governed by these diminutive despots.  In short, Charlie loved his Ethel, whether Ethel fully returned such feelings would always be a matter of debate.  For Ethel’s heart was ruled by another.

Mister Tweety was a six inch tall, four and a half pound Chihuahua, much beloved by his ‘Mummy’ Ethel.  He was in equal proportion despised by his ‘Daddy’ Charlie.  Not that Charlie would have done anything to harm the little beast, he just found it hard to form any kind of bond with it.  It wasn’t just that Mister Tweety owned the sofa and the bed, with the full approval of his ‘Mummy,’ it was the objectionable way he had of enforcing his ownership.  When Charlie sat on the sofa next to Ethel to enjoy an evening’s viewing on the box, there would be in the background of his hearing a noise very similar to that of a blue bottle buzzing against a window pane.  Should he keep very still then the noise would cease with what sounded like a triumphal ‘hurumph.’  If, however he twitched even the smallest muscle then he would find himself subject to a whirlwind fury of an attack, a scrabbling nightmare of sharp teeth and overgrown nails.  It was the same at bedtime, either he had to put up with Mister Tweety’s onslaught as he got into the bed he was supposed to share with his wife, hoping the little brute would calm down sooner rather than later, or sleep in the spare room.  Ethel did nothing to remonstrate with her little darling, saying in that high pitched, soppy way that a lot of people use toward their pets, “Oo’s a naughty Mister Tweety den, not letting oos Daddy into bed.  Don’t oo love oos Daddy den, don’t oo?  Awww come here my cutey Tweety-weety Pie, oos Mummy loves oo.”  This would go on for ten minutes, until Charlie found the prospect of sleeping in the spare bedroom a rather pleasant one.

The phone call when it came was to lead to Charlie Harriet being the only witness as to what, or who, The Harvester really was, it was just a crying shame that he was to be too drunk to remember a thing about it.

Ethel’s brother-in-law Sid had been on the other end of the line.  Her sister Myrtle had been taken ill, and had insisted on being nursed at home.  Sid was finding it all too much for him to cope with.  Not a particular healthy man himself, the endless running up and down stairs, helping Myrtle to and from the loo, and in out of the bath, combined with insisted upon housework and shopping was becoming too much for him.  Ethel, never one to be found lacking when it came to family duty, agreed to come at once, well almost at once, and stay for a few days to give Sid a break.  Returning the phone to its cradle she turned and gave Mister Tweety a very concerned look, it was, however, nowhere near as concerned as the look her husband was giving him.

Myrtle owned two homicidal and sociopathic Siamese cats, Bee-bop and Jankers, (the ridiculous naming of their pets was a family trait.)  Ethel realised that taking Mister Tweety with her was out of the question, Myrtle’s cats had a highly sensitive nature, he would have to stay with his ‘Daddy.’  Charlie had pieced together what was happening from Ethel’s side of the telephone conversation, he also was aware of the impossibilities of Mister Tweety going to Myrtle’s house, the cats would regard him as a take-away home delivery, his chances of coming home in one piece, or even alive, were, quite frankly, none.  With a sinking feeling Charlie realised that he was going to be left alone for a few days with the rat-sized canine Hitler from hell.

After she had packed her suitcase Ethel wrote out a list of dos and don’ts for Charlie.  The dos and don’ts almost entirely concerned the welfare of Mister Tweety; it appeared that Charlie would be left to fend for himself for a couple of days.  As the taxi beeped to let Ethel know it had arrived and the meter was running, Ethel ceased her billing and cooing over Mister Tweety and reluctantly put him down on the sofa.  Waving the list under Charlie’s nose for a final time she anchored it down on the dining table by way of the fruit bowl.  With the parting words of, “Behave yourself, and look after my baby,” Ethel gave her husband a peck on the cheek and departed.

 

About ten minutes after Ethel had left the house Charlie had at least tried to befriend the mutt.  After all they were, in a way, in the same boat.  The woman who cared and saw to them was gone for a couple of days, they only had each other for company now.  Charlie  made the mistake of reaching down to ruffle Mister Tweety behind the ears, his reward for such a bold attempt at being far too intimate (in Mr Tweety’s opinion at least) were several small puncture marks on the back of his hand.

Charlie decided that to capitulate in this one instance was easier than facing a full scale battle with the dog, Charlie spent the evening watching the TV from the armchair, leaving Mister Tweety to lord it over the sofa.  Just before bedtime was when Mr Tweety would take his last walkies of the day, (it said so on the list.)  Charlie decided to approach it with at least some enthusiasm, after all dogs liked a walk, didn’t they?  Getting Mr Tweety’s lead off his special hook in the kitchen Charlie strode back into the living room trilling, “Walkies Tweets, want go walkies boy?”

Mr Tweety raised his head and giving Charlie a look of pure malevolence he barred his teeth and growled.  “Look mate, you’ve got to do this, it’s on the list, now come on, let me put your lead on, the sooner we get this done the sooner we can turn in for the night.”  To his horror Charlie realised that he was negotiating with the little twat.  “Right,” said Charlie in a much more authoritative voice, “If you want to do this the hard way, then that’s fine by me….Come here, you little bugger!” ……  Charlie now had a second set of puncture marks on his hand, and the dog was still leadless.

 

Charlie stood back to recoup and rethink.  He would obviously have to go in heavy handed now, he didn’t want to hurt the animal, it was Ethel’s beloved pet, just letting the dog out to the garden to do his business and skipping walkies altogether was not on, Ethel would question him on her return, and he had never been able to lie to her.  Talking the cushion off the armchair he once more advanced towards his adversary.

At Charlie’s approach Mr Tweety half rose in crouched aggression, Charlie thrust the cushion at his nose.  As the dog sunk his miniature razor teeth into the fabric and shook it Charlie clipped the lead to his collar and smartly took a step back.  Keeping Mr Tweety at arm’s length and on as a short a lead as possible without hanging him, Charlie took Mr Tweety for his night time walkies.

They had returned by the back door, Mr Tweety had a dog basket in the kitchen so he could watch his ‘Mummy’ cooking.  With a grin that nearly split his face in two, Charlie hoisted the dog into the basket and leaving his lead on him, hurriedly left the kitchen shutting the door firmly behind him.  The indignant howling and scratching at the door had lasted a good half hour, but now all was quiet as Charlie stretched out once more and looked forward to a good night’s sleep in his own bed.

The next day saw the pair carefully skirting round each other.  Except for feeding and walking him Charlie ignored the little beast. The lead, Charlie decided, could stay in place, he just had to wait until Mr Tweety was either walking away from him or asleep on the sofa before making a grab for the end.  Later in the afternoon Charlie thought he would just make sure he was, more or less, attending to Mr Tweety’s needs, so he checked the list, which he had barely glanced at before.  To his horror were the firm instructions,  double underlined, that Mr Tweety was to wear his blue harness when being taken for walkies, and definitely not be walked from his collar as this could harm his neck.

Considering the short leashed, partial strangulation mode Charlie had employed in walking the dog to date this posed a serious problem.  What if he had already caused irreversible harm to Mr Tweety’s neck, Ethel would never, ever in a million years forgive him.  He went and fetched the blue harness from the kitchen.  It was a full ten minutes before he could fathom what part of the dog went where and how it was fastened up.   That was the easy part, the hard part would be getting the dog into the harness.  Before he even attempted that Charlie decided what he needed most was a drink.

As he crossed the small snug of The Black Horse a pint of best ale was already waiting for Charlie on the bar.  Before he had downed it a second appeared at his elbow.  Feeling a good deal more relaxed Charlie joined in the conversation going on around him.  Half way down his third pint Charlie let it slip that Ethel was away tending to her sister, and to the accompanying remark of “Why the cat’s away eh Charlie” his first double whisky of the evening appeared.  After about his fourth the barman, with as much tact as possible, suggested that Charlie had had enough and ought to be making his way home.  Fortunately, considering his size, Charlie was not  aggressive when drunk, and with a nod and a slurred, “Godda take Misser Twatty fer ‘is wa..(hic)..keez now anyway,” he staggered and reeled his way home.

For some inexplicable reason Mr Tweety stood still whilst Charlie tried, in his drunken confusion, to get the harness on.  At one point he earned a snap and a growl for causing a painful  ‘wedgey’ on the poor animal by getting which end of the dog was which muddled up, (Mr Tweety was, shall we say, a complete boy dog, making any sort of wedgey both personal and painful.)  Eventually Charlie managed it and sat on the living room floor to admire his achievement, it didn’t look comfortable, but at least it was on.   Taking hold of the lead, which was still attached to Mr Tweety’s collar, and bouncing off walls, doorposts, and when he eventually reached the front garden, the hedge, he took his dog for a walk.

Half way down the road from where he lived, and looking down at Mr Tweety, who had appeared to have grown considerably in the last ten minutes, Charlie pronounced, “Tell you wha’ boy, awww you’re my goo’ ol’ fella me lad aintcha, we gonna go fer a walKeez, we ganna go uppa Commonnnn.”  It took another ten minutes for Charlie to haul himself back to his feet, with the  help of a Royal Mail Post Box, which he duly thanked; a rational part of his brain had told him that walkies require putting one foot in front of another, not crawling along on his hands and knees.

They eventually made it to the Common, Mr Tweety, either trotting along keeping up with Charlie when Charlie managed to get up a head of steam, or patiently waiting whilst Charlie sorted his legs out to negotiate the kerbs, never took his eyes off what he now saw as a wonderful and interesting human.

A little way into the Common Charlie was considering the tricky manoeuvre of turning around and heading for home when a figure came out of the trees on one side of the path and hurriedly crossed to the other, but not before  Charlie had got a good look at his face.  “’Ere,” yelled Charlie, “Where’s yer doggy?”  Charlie recognised  the man as someone he had often had a pint with, and had seen him not an hour ago in The Black Horse, and he had definitely had his dog with him then, Charlie remembered because he loved dogs.  On consideration Charlie thought that maybe it would have been difficult for the man to walk his dog carrying that, that, big thingy thing.  Charlie swayed back and forth a while, there was something about that big thingy thing that was striking a cord somewhere under the alcohol sloshing about in his brain.  Suddenly the pieces clicked together, “’Ere,” he yelled to the trees where the man had disappeared five minutes ago, “You’re ‘im, ‘aint yer?  You’re that ‘Arvester blokey.  HA HA, what a joke, you ‘ad everyone going there, you wait till I tell ‘em up the pub.”

The next morning Charlie staggered downstairs, wishing the painful ringing in his head would stop.  It did, the moment he realised that it was the phone and answered it.  It was Ethel, Myrtle was feeling much better and she would be returning that afternoon.  Charlie managed an, “Oh good,” before the line went dead.  He looked around him in bemusement, he really couldn’t remember a thing after, oh god, how many whiskies had he had last night, he couldn’t even remember  leaving the pub, let alone how he had gotten home, and where was the bloody dog?  The kitchen door and the door to the back garden were wide open.

The ‘bloody dog’ however was curled up asleep in his kitchen basket. Charlie noted with some confusion that the animal had his harness on.  How on earth had he managed that, he wondered.  The harness was badly twisted and there was already a sore reddening of the skin showing where the fur had been dragged forward from its natural growth.  “Awww mate,” he murmured, “Let’s get you out of that rotten contraption before the missus gets home.”  He was about to turn and fetch the cushion from the living room when Mister Tweety woke up.

The diminutive dog hurled himself at Charlie, but instead of the usual snarling and snapping, its tall was lashing back and forth, and when Charlie dared to extend his hand down he found it being licked.  Charlie smiled and picking the dog up he said, “You’re not a bad little chap really are you, just couldn’t stand all that Mumsey-Wumsey crap the missus kept dribbling out at you.  It would fair get on a saint’s last nerve, it was certainly wearing yours thin.”

Ethel was surprised, and not a little jealous, of Mr Tweety’s new found loyalty to his master.  Charlie insisted that they change the dog’s name, buy a second basket for the living room, and make it law that he sleep in the kitchen at night.  Ethel was further surprised at how she felt about Charlie’s new found authoritative manner, and Charlie was pleasantly surprised at how enjoyable bedtime was becoming.

Charlie and his little dog Troy became a regular feature at The Black Horse, Charlie’s only regret was that he couldn’t introduce Troy to his drinking mate’s dog, and he wondered why his friend had stopped coming to The Black Horse.

CHAPTER FIVE – AND THE DARKER SIDE

The meeting of the Paranormal Investigation Society met monthly (usually) at the Scout Hut.  Up until a few weeks ago it had a membership of six, which included its founder member and chair Professor Jonathon Sable, Prof to all who knew him.  The advent of The Harvester had seen the Societies numbers swell to twenty, including seventeen year old Kevin Barrett.  Kev wasn’t overjoyed at being a member, the others were old and quite boring, and there was that other sigma of the Society insisting that its name be abbreviated to PIS.  This had caused raucous laughter from Kev’s brother Ashley, who had roughly shoved Kev, albeit with playful intentions, and had said, “PIS eh? And I expect that’s exactly what they’d do, in their pants, if they were ever to see a real ghost.”  But at least at the Society, who’s meetings were now bi-weekly, (providing the Scouts weren’t occupying the hut) listened to Kev and took what he said seriously, very seriously.

This Extraordinary Meeting of the PIS was drawing to a close.  It had been called to plan the Societies outing to Clovey Common in an attempt to capture the Harvester either, but hopefully both, on a sound recording machine, or visually on video, courtesy of Mrs Brown’s mobile phone.  (The local PIS was small time, hence it had only small time phenomena capturing equipment.  ‘The sound recording machine’ was also by courtesy of, but this time Mr Brown’s mobile phone.)  Kev had been barely paying attention, it was all too much like school, when the Prof announced the day and time of their meet Kev’s full attention was returned.  The Prof concluded by asking, “Now then, has anyone got any questions?”  Kev’s hand shot up, and scrambling to his feet he said, “About the day Prof, I don’t think…….”   The Prof held his hand up, stopping Kev in mid-sentence, then shaking his head and smiling he informed Kev, “Kevin we cannot change the day to suit any individual member’s plans, we would never get anything achieved if we did that.”  Flustered, Kev came back with, “No Prof, but that’s not what I……”  But Kev’s words were being ignored and lost in the general hub-bub of ‘goodnights’ and ‘see you in a couple of days’ time’ inter spaced with several, ‘isn’t it all exciting, I can’t wait.’  There was one, ‘waste of bloody time, if you ask me,’ but this really was ignored as it was muttered by the husband of one of Societies most ardent followers, who was only there under protest.

Kev followed everyone out into the street, and as they  headed for either the car park or their better situated houses, he walked home to the Council Estate alone.  ‘It’ll be alright on the night’ was one of his Mum’s favourite sayings, from some long forgotten TV programme, and perhaps it would be ‘alright’, but Kev doubted it, he very much doubted it.

The night of the PIS meet at Clovey Common was clear and half-moon bright.  There was a slight nip to the air which was a clear warning that autumn was just around the calendar’s corner, in fact, on the very next page.  It was a good night for ghost hunting, or phenomenon research, as the Prof liked to call it.  It was also a good night for other nocturnal goings-on.

The Society members quickly organised themselves amongst the trees which completely surrounded the small, and hidden, area of grass where Kev had first spotted the Harvester when trying to woo Avelene Young.  The feeling of impending doom weighed heavy on Kev’s shoulders and must have been clearly written on his face, because just as he was about to set off for his appointed watching place, the Prof placed his hand on his arm and kindly said, “Why so gloomy Kevin?  Was it something important you had to miss to be here?  You know tonight could be the vindication for all you have told us, you should be happy.”  Kev gave a long drawn out sigh before he answered, “I am pleased to be here, really, it’s just that tonight might not be the best night, ‘cos tonight’s the for……….”

Kev’s words were drowned out by the high pitched, buzzing drone of a two stoke engine, followed by the not so high pitched yell, reminiscent of the ‘Texan Holler’ of “YeeeeeeHawwwwww!”  “What on earth was that?” asked the Prof, visibly shaken, “That” replied Kev sadly, “Was what I’ve been trying to tell you about, it’s Wednesday night, the night of the Joyrider’s Meet.

Before the Prof could question Kev further a mountain bike closely followed by a converted ride on mower came hurtling out of the trees, to the accompaniment of a startled squeal from one of the PIS lady members.  “This is outrageous!” Fumed the now angry Prof.  Kevin shrugged and replied, “I know, but there ain't nothing can be done about it, not even the police interfere with The Meet, as I say, nothing can be done.”  “Oh, can’t there?” The Prof fumed on, “We’ll soon see about that!”  He set off with a determined stride back through the tree line, hastily caught up with, and followed by, the rest of the attending PIS members.  Kev, giving another sigh and a shrug followed on after them.

They broke back through the tree line to another, and much larger, stretch of grass, this one had a slope and at the top of the slope was a gaggle of youths, mostly boys.  They were sat on, or stood by, a collection of assorted transport.  There were several more mountain bikes and besides the converted ride on mower, there were a number of ‘dirt bikes’.  There were no cars however, Kev himself had driven the only car to turn up at a Meet three years ago, and that had caused a whole heap of trouble.  Several older lads were standing round a large motorbike, greatly admiring it.  Besides smoking what looked like a ridiculously fat cigarette they were also passing round a quart sized plastic bottle, they were being loud and obscenely vocal.  It was to this group of youths that Professor Jonathon Sable headed for, followed closely by his throng of PIS members.  Kevin had spotted his brother among the pot-smoking, cider swilling youths and decided to hang back a bit.

Tapping the black leather clad shoulder of Ashley Barrett the Prof said, “I say, would you all mind  shoving off, we are trying to conduct a scientific experiment here, and quite honestly you are ruining the ambiance.”  Kev closed his eyes tightly and winced, that really wasn’t the kind of thing one ought to say to Ash.  Ash turned around slowly, and first looking the Prof up and down he placed his fingers in the centre of the Prof’s chest and replied, “No mate, but I’ll tell you what, why don’t you shove off.”  And with that gave a push on the Prof’s chest, not enough to knock him over, just enough to make him take a step or two backwards.

Mrs Brown rushed to the fore, screeching, “You hooligan, how dare you lay hands on our Professor.”  And with that she swung her handbag in a wide arc and caught Ash an audible wallop to the side of his head.  Ash’s mates had started to laugh, Ash being clonked by some old biddy, other than his Mum, with her handbag was hilarious.  The hilarity was short lived.  The Prof, regaining his composure and his footing, rushed at Ash and with both hands extended pushed him back, hard.  Ash went tumbling backwards into the motor bike, which in turn fell heavily to the ground with the tinkling of a broken wing mirror, and the ominous crunching of buckled metal work.  The mark had now been most definitely  over stepped.

Ash got to his feet, pushing and shoving was one thing, but damaging his precious bike was quite another, he swung his fist at the Prof but missed as  Kev rushed over to intervene by grabbing his brother about the waist, only to receive a painful elbow in his eye………that’s when everyone decided to  join in.

Someone, at some point, had the presence of mind to call the police.

The scene, once the two Panda cars containing four burly coppers each, an ambulance and a paddy wagon arrived, looked like a setting organised by the Re-Enactment Society, only without the pikes and fancy costumes.  Fists, handbags, and one half empty plastic quart bottle were flying in all directions.  One or two groaning bodies were either half crawling away from, or back to, the battle.  The most furious contestants of all were the Barrett brothers, they were rolling down the slope locked in what appeared to be complicated and painful wrestling holds.  They rolled right to the feet of a waiting PC Mike Keen, who grabbed each brother by his shirt collar, and after ascertaining that under the blood and mud there were no serious injuries, marched them off to the paddy wagon.

The paddy wagon couldn’t hold all the contestants, some were told to sit down and wait till it’s return.  Surprisingly few needed the services of the ambulance crew.  One or two stitches here, a cold compress there and even they were ready to wait their turn for a ride in the paddy wagon.  All except one.  Professor Jonathon Sable was out cold.  The ambulance crew left their sewing and compressing to attend to him.  Although they were in no doubt that he would come round eventually as they could find no serious injuries on him, they decided that it was better to be cautious than sorry and took him off to hospital.

The front reception of the police station was becoming very crowded and noisy, and amongst cries of ‘I want my lawyer,’ and ‘this really isn’t on’ (PIS members,) along with “Bloody coppers, I’ll get you done for police brutality’ and ‘it was them lot what started it’ (Joy Riders,) the Barrett brothers decided to resumed their battle just as Harry Penvelly reached the bottom of the stairs from his office.  With a grunt he briskly headed for the corridor that lead to the cells and Interview Rooms, where Sofie the cleaning lady was mopping the floor.  “Excuse me Sofie,” he said picking up her large bucket of dirty soapy water.  He arrived back at front reception just as PC’s Keen and Hamilton were trying, unsuccessfully, to separate the warring brothers.  “Stand back, stand back constables,” instructed Harry, and when he reached the brothers emptied the bucket over their heads.

The effect was almost magical.  The brothers Barrett sat, separated at last, on the floor, their hair straggling and dripping, they didn’t look best pleased at their unexpected dowsing, but they were quiet and still, as was everyone else in the room.  All eyes were turned in Harry’s direction.  As he reached the second step back to his office he stopped, without turning, he addressed the entire room, “I’m having all those apprehended on the Common booked on a charge of causing a breach of the peace, Sergeant see to it.”

 

He took one more step up and this time he did turn, his face was sombre and set as he said, “I’ve just received a phone call, Professor Jonathon Sable died five minutes ago of a massive haemorrhage to the brain, so none of you are going anywhere until I find out who shoved or punched him so hard that he fell and hit his head, and then I am going to charge that person with manslaughter, I would like it to be murder, but unfortunately I’m not the one that writes the rules, I’m just the poor sod that has to see them kept.”  And with that, leaving the entire room shocked and stunned, Harry returned to his office.

CHAPTER SIX – “NEVER MENTION IT AGAIN”

Realistically Harry knew he would never be able to ascertain who threw the punch or gave the shove that led to the Prof’s death.  He had followed procedure and had interviewed and taken statements from all who were involved.  All of them had been quiet and subdued, still reeling from shock. No one tried to lay the blame for the fracas on anyone else’s shoulders, not even the Joy Riders.  They knew that perhaps, even if it was in a small way, they all had to bear the responsibility.  Everyone involved admitted that they had either shoved, pushed, punched or hit over the head with a plastic bottle or handbag, someone during the course of the evening, but as to who, they could give no definite answer, Harry was inclined to believe them, and he was in no doubt that the Prof had in all likely hood given as good as he had got, well, almost.

 

Once everyone had been processed and had been told  that they would be informed by letter of the date of their appearance before the magistrate, he let them go.  He had left the Barrett Brothers till last.  He knew that neither of them had caused the Prof’s death.  Ashley had only thrown one punch and that had missed, the rest of the time he had been locked in combat with his sibling.  Kev had been the reason why Ash’s punch had failed to connect by wrestling him to the ground.  When he told Ash he was free to go home, Ash replied, “I’ll stick around and wait for the kid, if you don’t mind, he can help me get my motorbike down from the Common.”  Harry nodded. He wasn’t particularly worried that the brothers would kick off again, in fact they probably would at some time in the future, that’s what these brothers were like.  But not tonight, tonight Ash instinctively understood that his younger brother would need him around, he would never have admitted to this being the true reason for waiting for Kev, Ash was perfectly capable of getting his own motorbike off the Common.

Kev; in a way Harry was blazing angry at him.  His stupid story had led to this tragedy.  He entered the Interview Room fully intending to give the lad a proper dressing down.  Kev was sat at the table, his elbows and forearms resting on the surface, his head bowed.  Clutched in both hands was a paper tissue, a box of them was by his elbow, and the waste bin beside him was full of them.  Harry nodded to the WPC who was standing to one side of Kev, her eyes held the plea for him to take it easy on the lad.  Kev looked up at Harry, the youngsters eyes were red rimmed and a genuine tear was sliding down his cheek.  He was just a kid, a bloody stupid kid, but just a kid.

 

Harry realised that there was nothing he could say, no words could make Kev feel any deeper remorse then he did at the moment.  Harry sighed and quietly said, “You’ll get a letter informing you of your court appearance in a few days’ time, now go home, your brother’s waiting for you in reception.”  As Kev reached the door, Harry, with a very firm tone to his voice, said, “Kevin,” Kev turned to face him, Harry continued, “That’s it, no more, I don’t ever want to hear another bloody word, do we understand each other?”  Knowing that Harry was talking about The Harvester, Kev replied, “Yes Mr Penvelly, I swear.”  He then went and joined his brother in the Front Reception.

The next few days saw a complete change-about in the town.  Instead of The Harvester being on every-one’s lips, no one wanted to talk about him.  It would have been impossible to do so without going on to talk about what had happened on Clovey Common and the sad death of Professor Jonathon Sable, it would have been disrespectful, and more than a little ‘sick.’  So no more was said, nothing further mentioned.

When Charlie Harriet heard the sad news announced over the radio he felt a strange pang of guilt.  A feeling that somehow he could have done something, but it was as fleeting as a shadow crossing his path.  It wasn’t as though he ever went up the Common, he walked little Troy down by the river.  The feeling had come and then it was gone, never to return.

   

Harry saw to it that the town’s overall attitude also prevailed at his Police Station, he never wanted to hear even the slightest whisper from any of his team speculating who or what The Harvester may or may not have been.  It was over, finito, a stupid story made up by a stupid young man, and that was all there was to it.  So with this strict admonishment to ‘never mention it again’ came the lost opportunities of finally piecing the truth together.

CHAPTER SEVEN – “HE WAS PROBABLY MISTAKEN”

Steve Baily was a retired Detective Inspector.  When he was still on the force he had become the mentor to a young, and at times overly enthusiastic, Detective Constable Harry Penvelly.  The easy going friendship had lasted even after Steve’s retirement, indeed it had been Harry who comforted Steve, (with the aid of a large bottle of Jack Daniels) on the death of his wife Jilly.

Being unable to stand any more of staying at home in the company of the sweet sad memories that surrounded him in the house he had shared with Jilly, Steve applied for, and got, an allotment.  The allotment bordered the lower slope of Clovey Common. Harry would often turn up to either relax on a deck-chair outside the little shed that came with the allotment, or put his back into turning the soil, or even the compost heap.  The men rarely spoke whilst there, Steve was more than aware that Harry used his allotment as a foil to the stresses of work.  The silence that would drift gently down on them after their initial greeting, was a comfortable one.

A couple of days after the tragedy on the Common Steve was alone on his allotment when, after an afternoon potting out his winter green seeds, he suddenly became aware that the sun was close to setting.  It was a beautiful late summer’s evening, far too nice to go home yet.  The fence that marked the end of his allotment and the start of the Common was easily hopped over, a walk to ease out his stiffness from bending over his seeds trays for hours would be just the ticket.  The Common would be quiet, people were still staying away out of either respect or fear.  That meant no yapping uncontrolled dogs, no equally uncontrolled bellowing of the dogs’ owners, and no shrill screaming laughter of young teenagers as they played their last game of ‘tag’ or ‘kiss chase’ before making their way home before it got dark.  He would be able, for once, to hear the birds’ beautiful evening song instead.

He decided to walk to the top of the long slope.  The morning after the tragedy people had come and left floral tributes to the Prof.  Steve would like to see them before it got too dark, plus it might be his only opportunity to do so, the Open Spaces and Recreational Committee would probably have them cleared away in a couple of days’ time.

As he reached about half way up the slope he looked up and saw at the very top of the slope, against the blazing red of the setting sun, the outline of a man carrying a pole with a beak-like curve to its end.  Steve had stayed close to the tree line on his ascent, so it was highly unlikely that the man would have been able to make him out amongst the shadows.

Steve stood still, deciding to watch and see what the man might be up to with his strange looking ‘pole.’ The man had also stopped, and un-shouldering his implement began to swing it, curved beak close to the ground, in an easy, rhythmic arc.  “Good grief,” said Steve under his breath as he realised what he was watching.  This posed a problem.  The whole town was trying to move on from the shock and distress of that dreadful night, Steve was well aware of the importance of moving on after a death, another reported sighting of The Harvester would reopen a still healing wound.  But doing nothing was not in his nature.  He decided that he would talk over what he had seen with Harry, and whatever decision Harry came to, he would abide by.

At this time of the evening, if Harry had finished work, then Steve knew that he would, as likely as not, find him in the Taverner’s Arms.  The Taverner’s Arms was known as a ‘copper’s pub.’  It was a place where off duty policemen could go and socialise without the sideways looks, and muttered comments they would more likely get when visiting any other drinking hole around town.  Even the landlord was an ex-policeman.  Popping his head around the door, Steve spotted Harry propping up the bar and talking to the landlord.  Steve walked over to Harry and tapped him on the shoulder, Harry turned and seeing it was Steve asked, “Hello Steve, what’re you having?”  “Just a half of Best, cheers Harry,” replied Steve, “Can I have a word?”

When they both had a glass in their hands, they moved over to the ‘cubby.’  The landlord had bought four gentry pews from builders who were demolishing an old church.  He had an upholsterer pad them and had placed them, each high backed pair, facing each other with a small table between the sitters.  Because of the very high backs made of solid oak they formed a fairly private place to ‘have a word,’ useful in a copper’s line of work.  It was in the cubby, sat opposite each other that Steve told Harry what he had seen earlier that evening.  Harry didn’t interrupt Steve until he had finished, then he looked up at Steve from the beer mat he had been fiddling with, and gave a very large sigh.

Steve reached over and patted Harry’s arm, “I know mate, but I thought I’d better tell you.  In my old coppers opinion, it was the ‘tail end charley’ of it all.  You always get one who wants to kick it off again.”  Harry slowly nodded in agreement.  “That was my initial thought as you were telling me, and quite frankly, that is what I am going to go with.  Going after this weirdo would be exactly what he wants, and it would serve the town, as a whole, no favours.  Ignore him, he’ll soon get fed up.  Steve, if you please, not a word of what you saw, in fact, you never saw it, right?”  This time it was Steve who nodded in agreement.

Early the next morning in their shared office, Harry was telling Bob about his conversation with Steve.  Bob pursed his lips in thought for a moment then said, “You know sir, he was probably mistaken in what he saw.  I’ve met Mr Baily several times and his specs are very thick, he’s very short sighted even with them.  It might be possible that he saw a golfer practising his swings, the action he described is very similar.  The ‘curved’ part of the ‘pole’ could have been nothing more than the club’s cover half slipped off.”  Harry smiled when he replied, “I know Bob, I know, but Steve’s a proud man, I could hardly hurt the feelings of one of my oldest mates by telling him he’s a short sighted as a daft old bat.”

Harry shook his head sadly and continued, “It’s so hard to rationalise, all this, all which has happened, that it was caused by something that never has existed, a fantasy, a myth.  And yet there are rational people out there, in our town, that will swear black’s white that that is exactly what they saw.  It was like the whole town was taken over by some form of hysteria, the last wisps of it even affecting the imagination of a solid ex copper like Steve.  I’m glad it’s over, but I’m sorry that it ended the way it did.”

  

CHAPTER EIGHT – DREW’S MISTAKE

Just off the corridor that led to the Interview Rooms and the cells was the Duty Room.  It was here that the uniformed police officers did their behind the scenes, off the street work, occasionally it was used as a Major Incident Room, but more usually it was where reports were typed up, orders taken and received, and other odious chores, nearly all to do with the never ending paper work was undertaken. (Now-a-days it was done on the computer, but time consuming and boring none-the-less.)  It was to this room, at about the same time Harry and Bob were talking over Steve Baily’s mistaken sighting that Duty Sergeant Happy Young came looking for PC Drew Hamilton.

Happy had been going through the back log of Harvester Sighting Reports, he was going to put them in an incident box and lose them somewhere in the cellar of the building where the police archives were kept.  Fortunately he had taken a bit of time just to go through them and had come across a report that was nothing to do with The Harvester, it had been logged in by PC Hamilton, and no action had been taken on it.  This oversight was a misdemeanour, and needed a stern reprimand.

Drew was sitting at a computer when Happy came into the Duty Room.  As Happy briskly instructed him, “Hamilton, my office, now,”  Drew quickly shut the computer down.  Happy had noticed this and hoped the youngster wasn’t further compounding his sins by using the Station’s computer for his own private use.

The Duty Sergeant’s office was a small room off the main Duty Room, it contained a desk, a filing cabinet, and a couple of office chairs, it would have been impossible to contain more.  Happy sat down behind the desk but didn’t invite Drew to take the other chair, instead he slipped the Incident Report across the desk at him.  “Well, Constable, did you do anything about this?” said Happy, his voice stern.  Drew looked down at the form, and hesitatingly replied, “No, Sarge, it was to do with The Harvester, and we were instructed not to follow up on……”  “Where,” barked Happy over the young constable’s last words, “Does it say anything about The Harvester on this report?”

Drew felt his face redden with indignant embarrassment.  Scanning his eyes over the report he then pointed to a word.  Happy looked down to where he was pointing and growled unpleasantly, “You did go to school, did you not Constable?”  Drew was tired after another long night duty and could not prevent the blush deepening as he replied, ”Yes sir.”  “Then,” Happy continued, ”I can only assume that you were a very inattentive student, in no way does that say ‘The Harvester,’ that word there spells out ‘scythe,’ and the word before it reads ‘stolen.’  Now will you please explain why you would choose to ignore a report, made by a member of the public whom it is your duty to serve and protect, of an item of their property that has been stolen?”  Drew opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, then gathering his thoughts, said, “I thought it was a hoax, like the others, we were told to book in and then ignore all references to The Harvester, and because it was about a scythe I thought……..sorry sir.”

Happy stood, and picking up the incident report, he curtly said, “To avoid a complaint of police negligence, which in this case would be justified, we are going to pay a call on,” and here he looked down at the report, “one Mr Lesley Downton at his reclamation yard, the last thing we would want is a member of the public to feel neglected, would we Constable?”  Drew answered the required, “No sir.”  He was about to say that he was off duty in five minutes, but wisely thought better of it.

Taking a car from the Station’s car pool, they arrived at the reclamation yard of Lesley Downton in less exhausting (from Drew’s point of view) time than walking.  The reclamation yard was once the town’s old fire station, it had also been for a short time a Chapel of Rest for a funeral parlour.   To the back of the building was a large concreted yard, and it was here that Downton took the policemen, to view the scene of the crime.

Drew, feeling that it would go well with him if he put in some kind of intelligent observation, asked Downton, “Do you have any kind of CCTV Mr Downton?”  “No,”  replied Downton, “Up until now I didn’t think there was any need.”  “Was the scythe valuable?”  Chipped in Happy.  Downton sighed and shuffled his feet before replying, “Well, not as such, not while it was here in my yard.  But on E-Bay I was expecting to get at least a couple of hundred for it, the American’s go crazy over authentic vintage tools, especially what they call Olde English.”   “So,” continued Happy, sensing the man’s embarrassment, “How much was it worth, what did you pay for it?”  Downton gave a small cough before hurriedly informing him, “Twenty-five quid, bought as a job lot.  Another of the tools in the lot was stolen too, a manky old hay rake, I was going to burn that.”

Happy took a moment before he asked another question, “Mr Downton, do you really want us to pursue this matter?  I think our time would be better spent advising you on a CCTV set up for your yard, you can put this minor theft down to a ‘lesson learned.’”

Downton readily agreed, and Happy promised to send him literature from reputable and police approved security firms.  As they were leaving Downton said, “There was something strange though, where the tools were taken from, held down with a brick, was twenty five pounds in notes.”

Back in the Duty Sergeant’s Office Drew was once more stood before a seated Happy, who was telling the young policeman, in a much more kinder tone than he had used previously, “I think Constable that this is a case of ‘ least said, the soonest mended,’  your oversight will not go on your record, but, I never, never want to have a talk like this with you again.  Now, that’s it, the Gov’ner wants no more mention of The Harvester, or what he may or may not have been carrying either I assume.  So this will go no further than this office……..by either of us, do you understand?”  “Yes sir,” said Drew, grateful to have gotten away without blotting his copybook.

And that really was the end of The Harvester.  Except that somewhere on the outskirts of the town there was…………

CHAPTER NINE – ABE’S SCYTHE

………a small barn.  On the back wall of the barn there was hung, side by side, an exquisite scythe and its companion hay rake.  A young man was stood in front of the scythe his hand gently and lovingly rubbing the warm golden wood of its snaith.  “Not tonight Pops,” he murmured, “Full moon now, might be seen.”

He loved taking the scythe to the Common and using it, it was made to be used not just looked at.  Pops had taught him well, all those awkward moments in the garden swinging at nettles and weeds, with Pops sitting on an upturned barrel laughing at him and telling him, “Mind you don’t geld yerself boy, your Ma’d never forgive me.”  But the knack of it had finally come to him.  Pops would never give any indication that he had mastered the scythe because the next time the old man set him to using it, it was as though they had gone back to the very start of the lessons, Pops was unable to move from that specific moment in time.

Then Pops was gone, and after the auction so had his scythe.  Matt had tried to get from the bank to the auction in time to put in a bid, but was just too late.  He did however recognise the purchaser.  The next day he had gone to the reclamation yard with the intention of begging, if necessary, Downton to part with the scythe at a profit, which would have meant handing over all of his wages.  But the office was locked up and the yard had been deserted.  Matt couldn’t leave without the scythe, he had spotted it at once in the yard, propped carelessly against the wall, exposed to the elements.  Neither did he intend to steal it, so placing the exact money that Downton had got for the entire job lot of tools under a brick, he wrapped the scythe in some old sacking he found nearby and reverently placed it in the back of his pick-up.  He had also taken the hay rake, for some reason he felt that separating them was wrong.

Matt’s father decided to keep the tumbledown cottage, and had generously told Matt that if he renovated it to a top spec he would make over the title deeds to him on his twenty fifth birthday.  If however Matt put neither effort or interest into the enterprise then it would be put on the market.  There was never any question in Matt’s mind that he would not be able to comply with his father’s directive, he loved the old cottage, it was part of his history, part of what made him who he was, because of the old man who had once dwelt there.  It would take time, a long time to bring the cottage up to scratch, but the feeling of completeness, of belonging that the old cottage brought him, was well worth the hard work.  And it was only right that the scythe should be there, in the barn.

Matt had been well aware of all the furore caused by The Harvester.  But he never once connected it with himself and his covert mowing sessions on the Common.  As far as he knew, and he was absolutely certain of it, only one person had seen him with the scythe, perhaps one other when he had chosen to use it at dusk instead of by moonlight, but on that he had his doubts. He had seen the merest flicker of movement in the tree line.  If it had been a person surely they would have said something, after all that man had died near to where he was mowing  only recently, what he was seen doing would not go unremarked.

That Charlie would even be able to remember seeing him was unlikely.  Matt had passed so close to him he had smelt the whisky fumes, they were so strong that he felt heady himself after getting a lungful, still it had been a reminder to be more careful, and so as not to jog Charlie’s memory in any way, he had carefully avoided him.  Matt was unsure if mowing the Common was an illegal act or not, but he didn’t want to chance the activity forbidden him, in a way using the scythe was how he could still feel close to Pops. The cottage would eventually be changed and modernised, but the scythe would never change, it was the only way Matt felt he could hold on to his Great Granddad for a bit longer, he still missed him.  Yes it had been a close call, and one he was not eager to experience again.

Matt neither understood nor was particularly interested in whatever it was that Kevin Barrett had been banging on about.  Matt had been in the year above Ashley Barrett at school and had disliked both brothers intensely.  As Matt closed and locked the small barn doors he whistled to his dog Sam to join him.  As he wasn’t going mowing he would take Sam for a good run over the Common.  Although he wasn’t aware of it, that was exactly what Matt had done on the night Kev Barrett had seen The Harvester, and that particular night just happened to have been the one before the morning he had gone to the reclamation yard and brought Abe’s Scythe home.

                                                                       The end

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