The Journal of Jonathon Lindey From the main part of the journal - Page 18
Wandering back past the church I came upon a largish building with the door ajar. Pushing the door open I discovered I was in the village school which also be seemed completely abandoned. Why? There was no shortage of children about, and they weren't off getting the harvest in. As I watched a bird flew out of a roost it had built in the ceiling. No one had used this school for a long time. Leaving yet another puzzle behind, I walked down to the southern part of the town. The buildings here were just as depressing and neglected as those in the rest of the town. As I walked down the inappropriately named 'Willow Lane' a flicker of movement at the periphery of my vision caught my attention. Turning round I looked up at the second floor window whence the movement had come - and looked straight into the eyes of Mr McCandlass, the registrar who was killed in Washington. He looked straight at me and then turned and moved further into the room, out of sight. Shaken, I returned to the inn, my mind in turmoil. What was McCandlass doing alive? Why was he here? Was he in league with those whom I opposed? Had my cover story been penetrated? What should my next move be? Dusk was falling as I returned to the inn. I ate and stayed in the tap room for a while. There was a fair sprinkling of locals, but they all spoke in murmurs and I was unable to hear any of the conversations. Occasional glances were cast in my direction and I guessed that I was the main topic of conversation. Studying the other customers I realised that the common denominator was despair - they all wore expressions of despair to one extent or another. After a while I left for my room resolving to make an early night of it. The truth, though, was that the whispering was starting to get on my nerves. Around midnight I woke up with a start. I could hear stealthy footsteps in the corridor outside my room. There was a faint rattle as someone tried the door to my room, but I had taken the precaution of wedging a chair under the handle. They were unable to budge it and the stealthy footstep retreated back down the corridor. Needless to say, my sleep for the remainder of the night was fitful, and I was pleased when the grey light of a new dawn made its way through the grimy window of my room. I took a drink from my hip flask in lieu of breakfast and made my way down stairs. The hostellier asked me if I'd had a good night. I looked at him closely, but his face only showed polite disinterest, with a tinge of the despair I'd noted the previous night. |
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