Bourn's Edge

By Barbara Davies

GCLS and Rainbow Award Winner.

 

Librarian Cassie Lewis finds her world turned upside down when she agrees to testify against her former shady landlord and he puts a hit on her in revenge. Tarian Brangwen, a Fae, no longer wishes to be Queen Mab's Champion and, in anger, the queen has exiled her from Faerie.

 

Cassie flees west into the mist-shrouded borderlands that lie between England and Wales and finds a safe haven in the sleepy hillside village of Bourn's Edge. There she meets Tarian, who makes a living painting fanciful landscapes and lives on the edge of Bourn Forest, enjoying her new life.

 

Their worlds come together as both their pasts catch up to them. They have to fight both earthly and magical forces before they can settle into a life together in Bourn's Edge.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mindancer Press
• Release date: Jun 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227426048

Book preview

PART 1

BOURN’S EDGE

Chapter 1

THE HEADLIGHTS WERE dazzling in Cassie’s rear-view mirror.

Full beam? What does he think he’s—?

Crump. The collision clapped her jaws together and hurled her forward against her seat belt.

Swearing and gripping the steering wheel, she glanced over her shoulder. Whoever had rear-ended her should be slowing, preparing to get out and exchange insurance details. But a white van loomed large in her rear window—at least she thought it was a van. It was hard to make out in the glare.

Anger gave way to self-preservation. She changed up a gear and stamped her foot on the accelerator. Her car surged forward. So did the van.

This can’t be happening!

At this hour of the evening, most Brummies were eating dinner and telling their spouses about their day. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Cassie would have been home too, though only a greedy tomcat awaited her there. But today was a Wednesday and the library stayed open until seven. And, since the Armitage trial had meant taking a lot of time off lately, when Cassie’s boss asked if she would stay behind and lock up, she had agreed.

She screeched left at the next crossroads, leaving tyre marks on the road, then took a right, keeping to well-lit streets, hoping to lose her pursuer. But a glance in her rear-view mirror showed that the white van was still on her tail. Her tyres scraped along the kerb, and she corrected her steering before looking in her mirror again.

It was hard to make out the man’s face against the dazzle, and she had to squint. He wore his hat, an unflattering knitted affair, pulled low, but she could make out some of his features. Although it was a mirror image, there was something about that broken nose and snaggle-toothed grin. She tried to recall where she had seen him before.

Crump.

The screech of tortured metal set her teeth on edge, and it was several terrifying seconds before her tyres regained traction. Her heart was racing, and she felt sick. The little Toyota wasn’t built to take this kind of punishment. Lord knows what the boot must look like.

He’s trying to kill me!

The idea had seemed fantastic until she gave voice to it. Now it became concrete, and as it did so, her memory’s floodgates opened. She saw a business-suited Nick Armitage standing in the dock, hands clasped around his ample belly, smiling as, at his counsel’s prompting, he recast events in a more flattering light. It wasn’t his fault his men had gone further than instructed, was it? As soon as he had found out, he had reined them in. But he was a businessman, and when people fell behind with their rent . . . He gave a baffled shrug and an it’s-all-been-a-terrible-misunderstanding smile. And sitting in the Crown Court’s public gallery throughout his testimony was the white van’s driver, nodding encouragement and grinning.

He works for Armitage.

The police had told Cassie that the landlord’s threats as he was taken down to the cells were mere posturing, nothing to worry about. She had had her doubts. There was a reason most of Armitage’s tenants had been too scared to testify. His bullyboys had left many with black eyes, broken arms, and smashed furniture.

She had never had any problems in her own dealings with Armitage, but she’d sensed his jovial exterior was a mask, noticed how that perfect smile never quite reached his eyes. As soon as she could find alternative accommodation, she moved out of the dump he claimed was a luxury flat. Then had come the court case, and the police had come looking for her and asked her to testify.

It looked like her instincts about his threats had been right. Her nausea increased, and she clenched her jaws and tried not to panic.

Night was falling, and the lights were coming on in many of the houses on either side of the road. Should she bang on one of those front doors and beg for sanctuary? Ahead of her, the traffic lights turned red. She hunched her shoulders and sailed through. A car coming from her right screeched to a halt, skidding several yards. Its horn blared.

Sorry. The van ignored the lights too. Damn!

Cassie groped in her jacket pocket for her phone. She would ring 999 and report the number plate. But the brief flare of hope faded as she saw that the numbers were covered with mud. I’ll ring the police anyway.

Crump.

Her phone sailed into the foot well.

Changing up yet another gear, she felt the beginnings of despair. At this speed she was barely in control, her careering progress punctuated by shouts from pedestrians and honks from other drivers. If the van didn’t get her, an accident soon would. She glanced in her mirror, though she knew it was pointless, and blinked in surprise. Smoke was pouring from the white van’s bonnet, which had acquired a dent, and it was slowing.

As she watched, the smoke became flames, and the door opened and the driver spilled out. Serves you right, you bastard!

Light-headed with relief, Cassie drove away.

Once the van had receded into the distance she eased down to a more manageable speed, took a right, then a left, then another right, and pulled over to the kerb. She left the engine idling while she got her bearings—this part of Birmingham was unfamiliar.

Reaction set in. Her head throbbed, and she felt clammy. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking and her thoughts were in a perpetual loop. If he tried to kill me once, he’ll try again. What am I going to do? they kept repeating. Until at last the answer came. Ask for protection.

Cassie fumbled in the foot well for the phone then paused. Ringing 999 no longer seemed appropriate, but she didn’t have the number of the police officer in charge of the Armitage case with her. Slipping the phone into her pocket, she resolved to ring him when she got home.

But what if he doesn’t believe me? At least this time the damage to her car would be some kind of evidence. Which reminded her . . .

She got out and walked round to the rear of her car. The sight that greeted her made her suck in her breath. The bumper was missing, and without its protection the boot had taken a terrible battering. The depth of the gouges and the extent of the dents shocked her. She tried to open the boot, but it was jammed shut. The shaking in her hands worsened, and she stuffed them in her pockets and returned to the driver’s seat.

There must be a witness protection scheme. But will they put me on it? Do I want to be on it? She could imagine the upheaval: changing her name, leaving behind all that was near and dear. And what do I do until then? Go somewhere Armitage can’t find me? Where? And what about my job, and Louise’s birthday party? And going to the pictures with Justin and Danny and to Mum and Dad’s for Sunday lunch? And then there’s Murphy . . .

Cassie’s head ached. She took several deep breaths of car-freshener-scented air and tried to regain control.

What’s more important: letting people down or staying alive?

She could see a street name a little further down the road. She found it on the satnav and plotted the shortest route back to her flat, then set off. Armitage’s men might be lying in wait but she must risk it. Odds are the driver of the white van won’t have told him he failed yet.

Cassie turned left at the next T-junction then right at a crossroads, then drove past a cinema showing the film she was due to see with her friends tomorrow. The queuing cinemagoers drew a wistful glance. Only that morning, she had been like them: ordinary, carefree, with a future stretching out ahead of her that promised to be routine, verging on the humdrum. Now she had no idea what lay in store.

––––––––

NIGHT HAD FALLEN a couple of hours ago, but that was no obstacle to one of the Fae, whose night vision was as keen as any owl’s. Tarian shifted her weight from one hip to the other and rested her forearms on the spear’s crossbar. She preferred to hunt under cover of darkness. No mortals were about, and there was less chance of awkward questions.

An owl screeched in the distance, then came the bark of a dog fox calling his vixen. That rustling from the hazel copse to her left was a badger, going about its business. The woodland animals were more accepting of her presence than the owner of Bourn Forest would be. He’d accuse her of poaching, though she’d like to see him explain how she came by meat from beasts that no longer lived in his wood, on this side of the boundary at least.

She shifted her attention back to the eight-foot gap between the ancient oak tree and the ash. It shimmered like a heat haze and a wave of homesickness swept over her. Fool! She’d been here almost two years, and her dreams were still full of Faerie.

With a sigh, Tarian resumed her position beneath the beech tree, whose fresh green leaves had begun to unfurl just this week. Prepared for a long wait, she submerged herself in the sights and the sounds of the forest . . .

After a time, she had no idea how long, something changed, bringing her back to her surroundings. She stretched out the kinks and leaned forward. Was that the baying of hounds in the distance, getting closer by the second? She smiled.

What have you found me? I hope it’s not too large. Last time, Anwar and Drysi had brought her a massive stag, and it had taken her several trips to carry the dismembered carcass home. She raised her spear and braced herself.

One moment the gap between oak and ash was empty, the next it wasn’t. A wild boar, of a type not seen in England’s forests for centuries, came hurtling across the boundary, snorting and foaming at the mouth. In spite of the two wolfhounds at its heels, the boar checked when it saw Tarian, or rather smelled her, for boars have poor eyesight. She had time only to register it was a male, and the vicious curving tusks sprouting from top and bottom jaws meant it must be about three years old, before it gave another snort, dropped its bristly head, and charged straight at her.

Heart pumping, a snarl on her lips, she lunged, putting her whole weight behind the thrust. The spear took the squealing animal high in the chest. It was a fatal blow, and both knew it, but rather than pulling free, the boar threw itself at her, impaling itself even more. Over the razor-sharp point it forced its massive bulk, heaving itself inch by inch along the shaft. The rank smell of boar invaded her nostrils, and the squirming weight threatened to tear the spear from her grip. She clenched her jaw and hung on until, with a snort that was equal parts pain, frustration, and exhaustion, the boar halted at the cross guard. It hung there shivering and panting.

You fought well, boar. Let me speed your passing.

A single expert slash with the knife from her belt cut its throat. Blood spurted steaming onto the forest floor and the baleful gleam in its eyes dulled, became a sightless stare. Then the boar gave one final shiver, and went limp. Tarian let spear and prey fall to the forest floor and straightened in relief.

Her dogs bounded over, eager to receive praise. She called them her good dogs and, when they nosed at the bloodstained carcass, pushed them away with her foot. Their indignant expressions made her laugh.

Tarian bent to cut her spear free, before squatting and setting about the messy business of gutting the boar. The dogs sat on their haunches, tongues lolling, alert for any morsels that might come their way.

Chapter 2

DAWN COULDN’T BE far off.

There had been a lot for Cassie to do before leaving her flat. The most urgent task was to ring the police, but a bored desk sergeant told her that DI Philips, liaison officer on the Armitage case, was on holiday, and his deputy, DS Edlin wouldn’t be in until nine a.m. tomorrow. When she asked what she should do in the meantime, he could offer no useful suggestions. She was on her own, and she couldn’t stay here. It would be the first place Armitage looked.

By then, her miaowing tomcat had put in his request for supper. She opened a sachet of cat food. Normally she found the smell appetising, but tonight, it turned her stomach. Then she popped next door to ask her neighbour if she would look after Murphy. Arrangements for his care made, she focussed on herself.

First: money. She nipped down to the nearest bank’s hole in the wall and withdrew as much cash as the machine would let her. Next: supplies. She pulled out her travel bag and set about filling it. Clothes, underwear, shoes, nighties, toiletries, books to read, food. It was difficult to anticipate what she might need, though, especially as she didn’t know where she was going or for how long. She pursed her lips and added another box of tampons. When she’d finished packing, she put the now heavy travel bag by the front door.

Emails let Louise know Cassie wouldn’t be able to make her birthday party after all and told Danny and Justin that their cinema trip was off. Cassie didn’t go into detail, just said she had to leave town for a while. She unplugged her computer and wished it were a laptop so she could take it with her. Ah well.

The Library had an answering machine, so she left a message on it for her boss. It crossed her mind that she had messed him around so much lately, her job might not be waiting for her when she got back. If she got back. Oh don’t be such a pessimist.

There was no way to avoid speaking to her parents. Bracing herself, she dialled their number. When her father answered, she told him she wouldn’t be able to make lunch this Sunday, and why. As she had expected, the news left him aghast.

What do you mean you can’t tell us where you’re going or for how long? His voice rose in alarm, and she could hear her mother making worried-sounding noises in the background.

How can I tell you, when I don’t know myself? Sorry, Dad. It’s probably better that you don’t know anyway. Less risk to you and Mum.

It’s that Armitage fellow, isn’t it? Nasty piece of work. I told you no good would come of testifying against him.

She sucked in her breath. "Some good did come of it, Dad. He’s in Winson Green."

And my daughter’s in fear for her life. Doesn’t seem like a fair exchange to me.

Cutting the conversation short, she told her parents she loved them and would be in touch again as soon as she could, and rang off. Then she grabbed her travel bag and pulled her flat door closed behind her. The lock snicked shut with an air of finality, cutting off Murphy’s last indignant miaow. Her heart sank, and she wondered when she would ever see her home or her cat again.

Since then she had been driving, ignoring the satnav and picking her route on a whim. She had chosen winding B roads heading west in the main, which made the going slow. If she didn’t know where she was going, Armitage couldn’t either—at least, that was the theory. Sleepy villages comprising a pub and a cluster of houses were the norm. The last town of any size had been Ludlow, its lamp-lit streets deserted apart from the odd fox or hedgehog. She didn’t think she had crossed the border yet but several signposts to Offa’s Dyke meant it couldn’t be far.

They called this part of England the Welsh Marches. Marshes, more like. She had lost count of the number of bridges she had driven across, their rivers rain-swollen, and for the last hour the windscreen wipers had been working flat out. Shropshire was supposed to have beautiful scenery, but she had seen little sign of it so far. Perhaps when the sun came up . . .

The landscape was becoming increasingly hilly, the engine beginning to labour. She changed down a gear and suppressed another yawn. The rhythmic thump of the wipers was hypnotic, but she preferred it to the phone-in shows that were all she could find on the radio at this hour.

In the hope the night air might keep her alert she opened the window. She would have to stop soon, find a place to stay, get the car repaired. Those were her priorities. Oh, and ring the police again, talk to this DS Edlin.

The B road climbed. Woods closed in on either side, until it was like driving through a tunnel. Cassie was beginning to think she would never reach the end of it, when all at once the trees thinned, and she emerged into the open once more. The rain had stopped, and she turned off the wipers.

Without warning, the road went into a series of hairpin bends, following the curve of the hill, and she had her work cut out. At last the road straightened, and she found she had somehow got turned around and was facing east. Because that glimmer of light on the horizon must be the sun, mustn’t it?

It was. Slowly the rim of red became an orange segment, then a yellow-ochre semicircle, and the dim, grey outlines of her surroundings changed, became suffused with colour. As the light intensified birdsong flooded through her open window, and the strange shapes up ahead became houses with chimney pots and TV aerials, and, sprouting from their midst, a church spire.

Bourn’s Edge, proclaimed the sign at the side of the road. She slowed and peered at the houses on either side. There must be somewhere to stay.

She was beginning to think she was out of luck when she spotted the B & B sign. It was in the downstairs front window of a cosy-looking house with a fenced front garden in which sat an odd scarecrow-like figure on a wooden bench. The red letters below the sign spelled out Vacancy.

With a feeling of relief, Cassie parked outside the front gate. She undid her seat belt and was about to get out when a thought struck her. A quick check of her watch confirmed it was much too early to knock at the front door and ask for a room. So with a sigh, she pushed back the driver’s seat as far as it would go, made herself comfortable, and closed her eyes.

Adrenaline wouldn’t let her sleep. She tried to calm her thoughts, but images of the white van growing larger in her rear-view window kept surfacing. Frustrated, she took several calming breaths and focussed instead on that instant when the rising sun had breathed life and colour into the wooded slopes around her. And moments later, she was asleep.

––––––––

THE PRISON GUARD checked he was unobserved before stepping into the cell. Here you are, Mr Armitage, he murmured. Make sure you hide these somewhere safe. He handed Armitage a mobile phone and a charger.

Armitage accepted them with a grin. All phone calls were supposed to be monitored by the prison authorities, but with this he could bypass them. Good man.

Anything else I can do for you? The guard’s eyes were greedy. Evidently the taste of money had left him wanting more.

Armitage glanced round the cramped cell, with its basin, toilet, and modesty screen, tiny TV, and electric kettle with a loose connection. Of the two narrow beds, only one showed signs of use. In a prison filled to bursting point, with two beds crammed into cells designed for one, sole occupation was an unheard of luxury. But Armitage had soon persuaded the other inmate round to his way of thinking—he was now an in-patient in the Health Care Centre.

I suppose getting me out of here’s out of the question?

’Fraid so. The guard’s grin became rueful.

Pity. Well then. I’ll let you know.

Righto, Mr. Armitage.

When the guard had gone, locking the cell door behind him, Armitage dialled his mistress. There was no reply.

He checked his watch. She should be up by now. Maybe she stayed somewhere else last night. Bitch! If she thinks she can start seeing someone else . . .

He rang another number he knew off by heart. A muffled voice answered. From the sound of it, Rigby was in the middle of breakfast.

Rigby? No, don’t talk. I’m paying. Armitage intended to keep the conversation short but not sweet. Listen. Get someone round to Tracey’s pronto. She’s not answering her phone. I expect her to be there, waiting. Give her a good slapping to make the point, okay?

He shifted to the next item on his mental agenda. Now, the Lewis girl. What’s the news? His grin of anticipation faded. What? He listened to Rigby’s excuses with growing disbelief. The van’s a write-off? What am I, made of money? Rigby didn’t seem to know an answer wasn’t required. He promised to do better next time. "You’d damned well better."

Armitage thought for a moment. You’ve got her home address? The answer was in the affirmative, but it seemed Rigby