Part 1 (1/2)

THE HOLLOW MEN.

by KEITH TOPPING & MARTIN DAY.

For Charlotte sorry your sister's book has more jokes in it - MD.

'There is no such thing as society.

There are individual men and women, and there are families.' and there are families.'

- Margaret Thatcher, 1987 Margaret Thatcher, 1987

FIRST PROLOGUE.

THE b.l.o.o.d.y a.s.sIZES.

To some, the moon was the face of an ancient witch, pale against a thunderous sky. To fishermen, grateful to be far from the sea during the howling gale, it was 'the old in the arms of the new', a silver crescent that brought ill luck.

Inland, where the storm was at its worst, the moon was visible only when the clouds, like black ink in churning water, parted for a moment. The moon's sad face regarded the storm-lashed land, its cold expression unchanging as it watched a single figure braving the driving rain.

The door burst open and a whirlwind of rain and rusty leaves rushed into the tavern, accompanying a man bent double against the storm. He turned to close the heavy oak door and let out a long sigh of relief as the warmth from a crackling log fire began to draw the chill from his aching bones.

'Is this the foulest night that ever was on G.o.d's earth?' he asked, removing his tattered, soaking greatcoat. 'Thy finest ale,' he added quickly, and moved closer to the fire.

''Tis a night when the devil a monk would be, Long John,'

agreed the innkeeper as he poured a mug of beer.

The newcomer was tall, with a thin, pockmarked face. The others looked away whenever his cold blue eyes came into contact with their own.

The landlord left the ale just within reach of the man, who removed a dirty copper coin from a small leather purse. 'Old Lucifer 'imself, aye, and no mistake!' said Long John with a guffaw, although the others in the tavern seemed reluctant to share in his laughter.

There was a lull in the storm, and a chilly silence settled over the inn, broken only by the howl of a distant dog and by the clop of approaching horses.

'Two riders. And a coach,' said the landlord, moving to the widow.

'Only a wicked man would be out on a night like this,' said one of the taverners, casting an anxious Sideways glance at Long John.

Again the door was flung open, to admit two men, swathed in thick black cloaks and broad hats.

'Welcome, sirs,' said the innkeeper as he reached for two mugs.

'Treat me like a stranger, Tom Spence?' said the first man, removing his hat and shaking the rain from it. He was even taller than Long John, and seemed as broad as a barn door.

His eyes were a piercing green.

'Joseph Jowett?' asked the innkeeper, nervously. 'Been a long time. Never thought I'd see thee back in these parts.'

'Aye,' said Jowett. 'Nor I, Tom Spence.' He paused and looked around the tavern's dingy interior, moving to the fire to warm his hands. 'My master will stay in thy finest room this night.'

A look of unreasoning terror crossed Spence's face. 'Tell thy master, Joseph Jowett, that 'e ain't welcome in this place,' he stammered.

Jowett looked up with an expression of plain amus.e.m.e.nt on his face. 'Hear that, Richard?' he asked his companion, who was also chuckling to himself. 'We're to tell the master that Tom Spence o' Hexen Bridge don't want the King's Men in his tavern.'

'Sirs, I never did mean to say -'

'Good,' snapped Jowett. 'Because my master don't take kindly to having his custom refused by the likes of 'ee, Tom Spence.'

'Aye,' said Richard, whose gruff accent indicated the north country. 'He has been known to end a man's livelihood over such an impoliteness. And he must be to his bed afore night is come, or there shall be grave retribution.'

Spence turned, calling into the kitchens. A young serving girl bearing a lantern appeared, and she began to question the innkeeper's whispered instructions. 'Taint no business o'

thine,' he snapped angrily. 'The gentleman commands chambers and victuals.'

She hurried off towards the stairs.

'Hold,' said Jowett. He strode across the hushed room, and turned the girl's face towards him. 'What be thy name, girl?'

'Sarah Hatch, sir,' she said, quickly, averting her eyes from Jowett's piercing gaze. There was a slight quiver in her thickly accented voice.

'Ah,' said the man. 'Hear that, Richard?' he asked, to his companion's obvious amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Sarah Hatch, eh?' He looked her up and down with a lascivious grin, then grasped her slender arm tightly, causing her to wince in pain. 'You're all skin and bone, Sarah Hatch. B'ain't no meat on 'ee, least ways not enough for the King's Bull to go hunting for rabbits, eh? Eh?' He sn.i.g.g.e.red across the tavern to his friend, then returned his attention to the girl. 'Be kind to old Joseph, and ye shall have a s.h.i.+lling.' He paused. 'Be thy mother's name Mary?'

The girl nodded, mute with fear.

'Aye. The resemblance is plain. She was a fine, strapping woman, your ma. Tell 'er Joseph Jowett o' Hodcombe was asking after 'er.'

'That I will, sir,' said Sarah, pulling free of Jowett and hurrying up the stairs, the candle sputtering and dying as her movement extinguished it.

'Buxom girl, that Mary Hatch,' Jowett said to no one in particular. 'Knew 'er since she was no bigger'n a sparrow.'

'She's old and sick now, Joseph,' said Spence. 'These years ain't been kind to her.'

'They ain't been kind to any of us,' added Jowett sadly.