Look, she said and sighed, I don’t normally tell
guests this for obvious reasons. I don’t even like to think
of it. But, I’m telling you – there is no horse. There was a
murder in that field two years ago – a local woman – and
there hasn’t been a horse in there since hers.
She wouldn’t divulge any more.
…the whole thing’s been quite traumatic, best not
to dwell.
But dwell I did, Ava. Of course.
Sitting against the radiator, I googled it.
Goodgod. So grim.
A local woman killed while tending to her horse.
She’d threatened to report an ex for an assault
and he had paid some village guy to murder her.
They’d been caught – the ex and the assassin –
both in prison.
There had been a lengthy court case involving half
the village – police incompetence, lost evidence, a lucky
break that cracked the case involving a hotel’s camera
being turned outwards for a few crucial minutes while a
window was being cleaned.
I fried an egg and ate it in the kitchen.
On the CCTV – the spider’s web, now spider-less,
was still, the field looked ominous behind.
I couldn’t stop my brain, Ava.
Visualising.
The windows all around me were opaque. I thought how
easy it would be for someone to watch me eat my egg
and not be seen.
I sprinted past the cold, dark rooms as though
they might reach out and pull me in.
The next day there was a note
pinned to the studio door:
roses are red, violets are blue
I want to be inside you.
The boat lads were all pretending not to watch me find it.
Stifled laughter.
I locked the door and lit the stove.
When the alarm went off, I escaped to the safety
of the pub again.
