England 2026: After the Discord

2026

Chapter One

The traveller left the road about half a mile from the village, pushed open a gate hanging lopsidedly from its hinges and made his way over a muddy field towards the river. His boots, misshapen and beyond repair, coldly welcomed the brown ooze as they repeatedly sank below the waterlogged ground. It had rained for a week, the field changing in that time from poor grazing to temporary riverbed, any animals long since removed for lack of pasture and fear of foot-rot. This day, however, had started with a swirling mist that hugged the bottom of the valley like smoke, followed by a shy, watery sun that dappled the leaves apologetically and, once again, rendered the hillsides green. Quickly, the map of the river was redrawn, the peaks and troughs of the field defined, the temporary lake an archipelago; then a broad bay; then a strip of fast-flowing water trapped behind a reef of strewn boulders and fallen trees interspersed with clumps of wiry grass.

The traveller gained the bank and turned in the direction of the hamlet. He paused for a moment to wipe his boots, dipping them briefly into the stream before turning them this way and that, vigorously slithering back and forth until the worst of the mud transferred itself to the sward. His face briefly reflected the pain he felt in his feet. In spite of this, and although the water was icy cold, he didn’t skimp on his ablutions. Making the best of his appearance was important to him.

From a distance, he looked strong, stocky and straight-backed, if a little short at about five feet six or seven. He was somewhat overdressed, perhaps protecting himself against the unreliable April temperatures. On his back hung a heavy grey pack, full of the hidden lumps and bumps of his existence. From a distance, he might have passed for being in his early sixties. Closer to, however, his lined face and liver-spotted hands added at least ten years to that initial impression. He was, furthermore, unshaven.

Wary of his situation but conscious of the importance of making his presence felt, he inserted two fingers into his mouth and whistled three times - three long blasts. He hadn’t risked the road for fear of an attack - too many places treated strangers with fear and suspicion - but long experience told him a well-advertised yet cautious arrival was the best policy. He entered a large copse, still skirting the riverside and blew through his fingers again. A dog barked, answered by another higher up the hill. A robin chattered nervously and made its clumsy escape from a bough above his head. The river bubbled over some hidden rocks and then curled sinuously between two boulders before spreading and slowing over a shingly bed. A small fish swam against the tide and then gave up the struggle, slipping into some reeds and marking his existence with a rhythmic shudder of his broad tail.

Like a heartbeat.

Walking on, the traveller made no attempt to hide his footsteps, but clattered and crashed his way through cut and fallen timber, stirring up a couple of rabbits that ran ahead of him in what appeared to be a random zigzag that he knew to be as predictable, familiar and well-trodden to them as any man-made road might be to him. He was nearing the village now, the stone-grey buildings, tall and short, windowed and windowless, lying like books on an untidy bookshelf tumbling down from the weathered church to the hump-backed bridge, obstructing the view of the valley beyond. The traveller whistled yet again but the note died on his lips as he caught sight of a figure watching from a walled garden a few yards from the water. The villager made no move and said not a word. In his right hand he carried a roughly-hewn club which he tapped thoughtfully against his thigh.

‘Good-day,’ said the traveller, as he moved forward, breaking through the last of the coppice and emerging onto a stretch of grass in need of its first cropping. After a long watchful silence, the villager spoke at last.

‘Stop right there. Don’t move.’

The traveller did as he was told and slowly spread his hands. ‘As you can see, I’m unarmed and I travel alone. I need a rest and a change of clothes and can work for them.’

The villager smirked. ‘You’re too old to work, stranger. Of what use could you be to us?’

‘I’m still strong and fit. I can repair walls and cut wood.’

‘And what if we’ve no walls to repair and no wood to cut?’

‘Then I’ll have to go on. I’ll leave after I’ve had something to eat.’

‘And what if there’s nothing to eat?’

‘Have we come to this? Nothing for a stranger to eat? No welcome for an honest traveller?’

‘Stand over there, by that willow,’ the villager ordered, pointing to a tree that bent crazily towards the river, its thirst for water slowly becoming its undoing. ‘I’ll speak to someone. We don’t take kindly to strangers here. Wait there. Don’t move or I’ll not be answerable. Understand?’

The traveller spread his hands again, this time in a gesture of resignation, before striding purposefully over to the drunken willow tree. He removed his pack, placing it gently on the grass before him and leant against the tree, partly taking the weight off his soaked and pained feet, and folded his arms; trying to look unconcerned. The villager, by his appearance in his early forties, strongly built, just over six feet tall, sandy haired and freckled, waited until the traveller was still, brandished his club by way of warning, and looked back over his shoulder once before he disappeared between two of the crooked cottages.

After a garden gate swung shut, all was silence, save the incessant bubbling of the river as it pulled in its shoulders to pass between the bridge abutments and the occasional chirrup from an invisible bird. Two ducks, silent but watchful, slowly revolved on a pool of calm away from the main flow of the river, the male in idle pursuit, nervous of interlopers and his mate’s infidelity. Every so often, she would shimmy her tail feathers coquettishly, then dip her head below the surface in practiced indifference.

The traveller stretched the cold out of his back and yawned. He hadn’t slept in a bed for five nights but was numb to discomfort. He had been on the road constantly since shortly after his wife died more than two years before. He had buried her himself and then, after a period of listless grief and guilt at things undone and unsaid, he left their home in search of the frayed strands of his life amongst the people he knew best.

He drew his pack closer to him and bent stiffly to undo a strap before retrieving a small image of his wife painted on wood years before by a neighbour. The colours were still bright but the surface was scratched, part of her face missing, her cheek and chin returning to base wood just as she would be returning to dust in that distant land. He wondered how long he would recognise her from the picture, how long before he would have to rely entirely upon recollection. Even now, that shift of loyalty was taking place. The portrait, so important and necessary to him in those early days of loss, was, after all, flat and unchanging, nothing but a poor representation, her expression frozen in oil and varnish, staring out at him with a too-perfect smile he did not remember. That was not how she had been to him, animate, laughing, her face mobile and warm; passionate when young; patient and kind in her maturity. There were days when he no longer referred to her image, preferring to rely on his memories. Maybe ...

‘Hoy, you! Traveller!’

The stranger looked around and saw the villager had reappeared in his position of safety within the walled garden. He acknowledged his return with a slight nod of the head but said nothing.

‘You’re to come with me and no funny business,’ the villager warned, the club still firmly gripped in his hand.

The traveller obediently hoisted his pack onto his back, slipped the portrait of his beloved into his coat pocket and moved slowly towards the man.

‘I’m not armed, save for a small blunted knife, and merely want a few things for which I’m prepared to work. Then I’ll move on.’ He produced an old folding knife from his coat pocket but didn’t open the blade.

‘No money, then?’

The traveller smiled and raised his eyebrows.

‘None, other than a few coins.’

The villager set off through his garden and down a passage between two cottages. The gardens were refreshingly neat and ready for the riot of Spring that lay just around the corner.

‘Who are you, stranger? What’s your name? You’ve got some means of identification?’ The villager muttered, half to himself, ‘you could be anybody,’ in justification for his blunt interrogation.

The two men gained the road before the traveller replied.

‘My name is Robert Oliver. I’ve lived in France for many years. I’ve got evidence of who I am but most of it is in French. I can translate it if you wish. None of that seems to matter now, though - just letters and papers. But, as I said, there’s nothing for you to fear from me.

The villager softened, turned to the traveller and proffered his hand.

‘Sorry for the rude welcome but we’ve had trouble with Bands recently. They’re after food and timber ... had a go at the coppice ... took a sheep, too. We’ve done well during the last two years with growing and harvesting but the news is out and it’s getting more difficult all the time.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Oh, we don’t know, just a Band from the south, the usual thing. They come from time to time but they’re getting more vicious. The score was a casualty on either side at the end of it. They got our landlord, the devils. But we caught one of them. Tried to keep their man alive to learn where they came from but he was too far gone. Old Patrick, our landlord, was beaten over the head and stabbed. The hostelry is always a good starting point for food raids. We keep an eye out all the time but you can’t be everywhere. Hung on for a day or two, he did, but he was getting no better and in a lot of pain. He weren’t going to get well again so we had to send for the Dispatcher.’

Robert Oliver shook his head.

‘Bad business. Do you use the Committee of Three before calling in the Dispatcher?’

‘Yes. And we keep records so there’s no suspicion of wrong-doing. But without proper medical attention he didn’t stand a chance. Well, you can guess how it is. We had another problem too. Old Patrick was also our local brewer and he kept his recipes a closely guarded secret. We are lucky to have someone else here who knows a bit about brewing but it doesn’t taste the same.’ The villager sighed. ‘Patrick put together a good pint of ale, that’s for sure.’ The stranger nodded but said nothing. ‘Anyway,’ the villager added, ‘you’re to come to the inn to explain yourself’.

‘I’m willing,’ the stranger replied, his spirits rising, knowing a summons was a good sign.

They walked up the hill towards the church, the sun boiling the water from the surface of the road into thin, listless steam that stole the sun’s reflection and rendered the road dull and dry. Weeds grew between the stone setts, along the edges of the road and up against the stone walls of the cottages. About half of the dwellings seemed to be either empty - the windows dirty, with frayed curtains drawn tight against the daylight, or death-headed - doorless, windowless, some lacking stone tiles with roof timbers cracking and folding from the unwelcome attentions of wind and rain, all exuding a smell of damp and decay.

The villager seemed to read his mind. ‘Used to be about three hundred inhabitants here but we’re about half that now.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘Gone away or died. Mostly died. The plague came to Wendale about eight years ago, soon after the doctor left. Knocked the young and old down like weeds. Some of our best men were taken and a few good, strong women. People who had not a day’s illness in their lives before that.’

‘Couldn’t you get help?’ His question was ignored. The traveller guessed the villager had lost someone dear to him but was keeping that for himself.

‘Which way did you come, Robert ...? What’s your name again?’

‘Oliver. Robert Oliver. I came from the east. Up the valley from the Vale of York.’

‘You were lucky. Had you tried from the south through the cities, well, you probably wouldn’t be here at all.’

‘I know it’s bad there. That’s why I came around by the Ridings and the Vale but even that was difficult. But, tell me, there must be someone who could have helped with the plague?’

‘No one comes this far. Not now. Before the plague we had our own doctor. He lived out on the edge of the village in a big house that was burned down by the Bands. He escaped with his family and the clothes they were wearing - nothing else. Just the four walls remained. We offered to help, and there were plenty of empty dwellings even then, but he got scared ... him or his wife ... both maybe. He took flight after that and went somewhere he thought was safer, I suppose. You can’t tell how things will turn out, can you? Then there was another doctor from ten miles away but he couldn’t get here after a while - too dangerous and, well you know, other reasons. After that, we had promises and an occasional visit from even further away. That was when the Freedom Laws came into being and after them there was no-one. We have to rely on ourselves now. There’s no other way. My name is Joe by the way. Joe Smith.’ The villager held out his hand and Robert Oliver shook it warmly. ‘I’m a woodsman now,’ he continued. ‘You were in my coppice when I first saw you, that’s why I was a bit anxious. Being the woodsman is what I do for the village. My allotted role, if you like. It’s mainly for the hearth, but the tallest ones come in handy for repairing gates, fences and buildings. We take most of the tall trees from the hillside behind the church, see?’ He pointed up and beyond the church-tower to where a stand of pines stood proudly against the sky.

They walked on in silence, the stranger looking around him at the houses strung along the road. Here and there a bright brass knocker hinted at plucky pride but, even there, close to the village centre, most houses were down at heel or abandoned. Some even had their doors left open, especially those where the lintels had dropped and the doors could no longer be closed.

‘Go around to the right here.’

Robert Oliver, accompanied by Joe Smith, unquestioningly crossed over and turned into a broadening of the road that opened out into a small square. Two or three derelict shops faced each other, signs broken or missing, doors firmly closed. One had its window boarded up. Beside the church stood the village inn; still smart, in contrast, and clearly well used. Two or three men hung around outside the door, the arrival of Robert and Joe silencing quiet conversation. Inside the inn there were about twenty more - some carrying tools and garden implements betraying the fact that they had been summoned at short notice as a result of Robert Oliver’s sudden appearance.

The welcome was not universally cordial. The best the traveller got was indifference and suspicion, while some looked downright hostile. The stranger was ushered towards the bar where a man of about his age sat on a high stool, long silver hair cascading from beneath a slack-brimmed felt hat and curling luxuriously over the frayed collar of a rough jacket. He looked sideways at Robert Oliver, eyeing him up and down as if he were assessing a horse. He nodded but continued his study of the visitor before sighing, sipping slowly at a pewter tankard even though the hour was early, and clearing his throat.

At last, and in very much his own time, the man spoke.

‘Are we to welcome you to Wendale, stranger?’ he asked. ‘Do you wish us well or ill, I’m wondering?’ His voice was high-pitched and hectoring - irritated by the unexpected interruption to his routine.

‘Look at me,’ replied the traveller, spreading his hands by way of visual invitation. ‘I wish you no harm and, as you can see, have not the means to inflict any ill should I even desire to.’

The man on the stool remained expressionless.

‘A bit old for travelling, aren’t you stranger?’

Robert Oliver shrugged. ‘Nothing to keep me where I was any more. The only alternative to staying was travelling.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name is Robert Oliver.’

‘He’s from France,’ chipped in Joe Smith.

‘From France, eh? Cowards, aren’t they lads?’ There was a murmur of approval at this strongly-expressed opinion - clearly universally held. ‘Craven cowards ... snivelling ... weak-kneed,’ the old man continued, to sustained approval from the gathering. Robert raised his eyebrows but said nothing. This was not the moment to make a stand for the country he had so recently left: not the time for philosophical discussion or stout defence of his own opinions.

‘You don’t sound French,’ the old man barked.

‘I’m not French ... just lived there for a while ... there were many of us. They called us the Defectors, do you recall? I was one of them.’

‘You were a traitor?’

‘Not a traitor. Just trying to do what was best for myself and my wife. It was difficult. Hard times, they were.’

The old man nodded. ‘Times are still hard - harder. What are you doing back here?’

‘I’m looking for my family ... my daughter, her husband, my grand-daughter. They may even have had another child since I last heard from them. They used to be in a village near Lincoln but someone there told me they had gone up-country. I made my way west to the plains and then turned north but it’s getting too dangerous out on the vale near York so I decided to come across into the dales here and then over the moors to continue my search.’

‘Does your daughter know you are seeking her?’

‘I doubt it. I wrote but got no reply.’

‘Where do you think they may be residing?’

‘I’d prefer not to say.’

‘Your letter probably didn’t get through. They might even no longer be where you are looking. People move about a lot these days. You know that, don’t you?’

Robert nodded. ‘Of course. I’m not certain they are there at all ... just acting on a rumour. I have nothing else to go by.’

‘Then what ... if you don’t find them?’

Robert shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

‘I have other family ... in these parts, but towards the south, in the Cities.’ Two or three of the company groaned but the old man on the stool hushed them with a glare. ‘I’ve not heard from them for years,’ Robert continued. He shrugged. ‘It’s the same for many, I suppose, the silence, the not knowing. They could be fine but it’s strange not hearing from them.’

Someone laughed mirthlessly. ‘Nor will you, I’m thinking. How long since you saw them?’

‘Eight years. Maybe nine.’

‘Before the Discord?’

‘Yes, before the Discord.’

‘At least nine, then. Did they get out or are they still there?’

‘As I said, I haven’t heard from them. They might have left or could still be there. But it’s my daughter I’m most anxious to see. Since my wife died, she’s the closest.’

A man with steely black hair standing at the bar interrupted the exchange following a respectful nod to the old man on the stool.

‘Returning to your homeland to die, like the proverbial elephant, are you?’ he asked, smiling sideways at his superior.

‘Perhaps.’ Robert let a look of slow realisation cross his face to flatter the speaker.

‘Unlucky if you reach the place of your death before finding your family and fulfilling your destiny,’ the new enquirer continued, his voice filled with scorn. His smile remained as he turned to face Robert, but changed from respectful complicity to cold sarcasm. ‘Unlucky if you died prematurely,’ he suggested.

‘I’m seventy-four years old. I can’t die prematurely.’

At this display of wit, an undercurrent of appreciation rose from the gathering. The visitor looked around at his audience, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, before addressing his chief interrogator. ‘You are at an advantage, Sir. You know my name but have not told me yours.’

‘I am the Squire here.’

‘I guessed that. But what is your name, sir?’

‘I’ll tell you my name if it becomes necessary. Until then my title will suffice. What do you want of us?’

Robert shifted uncomfortably in his shoes, feeling his feet damp and sore. ‘Squire, you can tell from my appearance I am a traveller. I have told you my business and assured you of my wish to move on as soon as possible. But, you can see I am in poor shape. My boots are leaking ...’ he looked towards the floor and a dozen pairs of eyes followed his, ‘... and my feet are sore from walking.’ His eyes travelled up his own shabby form. ‘My garments, as you can see, are rotten. I need to have a change of clothing and would appreciate a meal or two, for which I will gladly work, despite my age’

The gathering murmured and once again fell silent as the Squire spoke.

‘Can you dig graves, old traveller?’

‘I suppose so,’ replied the stranger, spreading his hands. ‘I dug my wife’s grave, but that was more than two years ago.’

‘We need three graves ... two dead already and another close to death. The ground’s wet and heavy in these parts after the rain but the burial ground is on the hillside above the church and should be dry enough by tomorrow morning. Think you can do it?’

‘I’ll try. Can I get a change of clothing first?’

The Squire turned to the assembly and raised his eyebrows.

‘There is a house a few doors up from the river on the right-hand side occupied by a couple - the man is about your size.’

‘And they won’t object?’

There was a wry smile on most faces and someone out of sight at the back laughed cruelly.

‘It is unlikely. They are in the front bedroom, upstairs. They are the ones you are digging graves for.’ The gathering laughed quietly. Respectfully.

‘What did they die of?’

The Squire shrugged. ‘I really have no idea. I’m not a doctor.’

‘Nothing infectious?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps. That’s the risk you ... we ... all have to take. It could be old age, fever, influenza, or even a return of the plague.’ At this, some of the assembly muttered oaths while others crossed themselves in silent supplication. The Squire continued. ‘The gentleman who’s dead coughed a lot and she always had to be worse than him. She went first but that was a race she had to win. She went a week ago and he just lay there beside her in bed barely breathing for another two days. Lucky for you the weather’s still cold. The smell will not be too bad. You can stay at their house for the duration of your visit.’

‘Can I dig their graves today, instead of waiting for tomorrow?’

The Squire smiled and turned to his audience again. ‘Our traveller wants to get it over with. Perhaps he is a little squeamish,’ he said quietly, to nods of agreement.

‘It would be easier for me if they were away from the house,’ explained Robert. ‘I dislike sleeping in the same house as the dead, since my dear wife ...’

‘I’ll help with the work,’ suggested Joe.

One or two of the assembly did not approve this show of support.

‘You see how welcoming we are, Mister Oliver?’ the old man volunteered coldly. ‘A home, a change of clothing and, furthermore, an offer of assistance with your duties. Better get started then. The deceased had no family here so you can just do the deed. Oh, and there are no coffins. No spare wood for such luxuries at present. We still have a vicar, in the name of Paul Goode, so he might say a few words over the bodies. Now, off you go. I’ve a Committee of Three to convene. That may provide a third body for your grave-digging, but not until tomorrow at the earliest. Go now.’

Robert’s expression of gratitude was not acknowledged. He and Joe left the inn and retraced their steps towards the river. Four or five doors above Joe’s house stood a smart end-of-row cottage with a pretty garden that stretched around the house.

‘We used to laugh about this place,’ Joe said. ‘They came from Halifax-way with their wealth about twenty years ago and smartened the place up. It was a bit fancy for us but they kept themselves to themselves, a bit stand-offish ... they wanted the village but not the villagers. Moved in elevated circles here ... they were friends with the doctor, before he ran away, with Paul Goode the vicar, with the Squire too. But, comes to us all in the end, eh? Rich or poor, six foot under. Death’s a great leveller. That’s where we are all going, into the dark.’

Joe, followed by Robert, walked up the short path through a garden full of wild spring flowers to the front door and busied himself moving the thick and prickly stem of a climbing rose away from the still closed door. Satisfied with his work, he turned to Robert with a flourish. ‘Welcome to your new home,’ he breathed. Joe pushed the door ajar and ushered Robert inside. ‘Want to see the task first?’

‘Yes. As I said ...’

‘Hard to sleep in a charnel house, I know. It’s best not to show weakness, though ... appear strong, indifferent, unemotional ... that’s the way here nowadays. Ever since the Discord.’ Robert nodded. ‘Emotion can make one careless,’ Joe continued. ‘You’re among friends here but best to hide your feelings as there may be Harkers around.’ He laughed a little nervously. ‘You just never know. Perhaps I’ve just signed my death warrant. Maybe you’re a Harker in disguise.’

‘I’m not a Harker. Come to think of it, you, equally, might be a Harker.’

‘So I might,’ Joe replied. ‘Except that I’m not. I’ve run into trouble with Harkers, though.’

‘Really? What was it about?’

‘A case of too much ale, a loose tongue and a silly comment ... on my part, naturally. My fault. Misquoted or quoted out of context. Idle remark about religion or our lords and masters. I should have been more careful.’

‘What did you say?’

Joe led the way up the stairs. ‘Do you know?’ he said, turning briefly to assure himself Robert was following, ‘I don’t even remember what I said. And I can’t think I even meant what I said, whatever it was. As I say, it was just idle chatter after an ale too many.’ He gained the top of the stairs. ‘They’re in here, front room. Ready?’

Robert didn’t reply but gritted his teeth and closed his eyes momentarily. Joe opened the door.

The smell was obvious ... unmistakeable ... a mixture of putrefaction, stale air and bodily wastes. It filled the room and insinuated itself upon the interlopers - their flesh, their clothes and in every breath they took. The bodies lay side by side under a thick grey blanket drawn up over their heads. Superficially they looked like mediaeval tomb statuary, their features worn away by the centuries and the attentions of curious fingers. Robert covered his nose ineffectually. The window was snibbed tight shut against insects that, nevertheless, crawled interestedly over the glass and window frame, trying to find a way in for nourishment and a place to lay their eggs. Robert shuddered and absent-mindedly tried the handle to ensure it was tightly locked.

‘Don’t open it,’ Joe commanded, misunderstanding Robert’s intentions. ‘Ten minutes with the window open and we’d be working in hell.’

‘I wasn’t going to open it,’ insisted Robert, ‘On the contrary, I just wanted to make sure it was firmly shut.’

‘Trust us for that. Normally we get around to these things before the bodies are cold but we’ve had a lot of things on; added to which we had to deal with a bit of flooding during this last week. It has been very wet and the river above the village always floods. The edicts of Freedom Law Three include putting the living before the dead in one of the main clauses. Let the dead bury the dead, the vicar says, but unfortunately they don’t, so we have to do it for them.’

The two men turned again to the prone bodies. ‘At least they died together,’ Joe murmured, folding back the blanket to reveal heads tightly bound in linen bags tied around the neck with hemp rope, for all the world like guilty and hanged criminals recently cut down from the gibbet. ‘I don’t know if you do this in France, Robert, but we bag them to keep the flies out, particularly in summer. That’s just until we can get them buried.’

‘Well, thank you for offering to help me.’

‘Nothing better to do, but be careful with how you express things now. We don’t help each other. We help the village - Wendale. It’s the village we are protecting and trying to keep going, not each other. That was part of the last Freedom Law - Seven - which made it incumbent on us all to display a sense of civic pride that must transcend any personal emotional ties or falsely imagined obligations. Right, well, if you’re ready, I’ll get my hand-cart and bring it to the front door. Then we can carry them down.’

‘Should we dig the graves first?’

‘Grave, Robert. Grave. They can go in together. It saves time and effort. And no, we’ll take them up to the church where the vicar will join us and then we’ll just move them up to the burial ground and dig the hole. The vicar will then say his bit over the bodies. There might be another one tomorrow. Old Martha, she lives next to the church. She’s over ninety and has lost her mind ... and she is very weak. Her skin is like parchment. The Committee is sure to agree to call the Dispatcher.’

‘Is the Dispatcher local? It’s usually a he, isn’t it?’

‘York,’ replied Joe, nodding to the second question.

‘What does he do?’

‘When they’re that weak it’s usually garrotting. Doesn’t take a moment. Or smothering. I prefer smothering for old people, it seems more respectful, but he prefers garrotting. You know they’re gone, he says, whereas with smothering, I’ve seen it for myself, the old people can just start up again. That’s his argument and who can disagree with him? I wouldn’t like his job, would you? Wait here, I’ll fetch the cart. I won’t be gone long.’ With that, Smith stumbled noisily down the stairs. Robert watched him from the window as he turned down the sunlit street towards his house to retrieve his makeshift hearse.

‘I suppose I have you to thank,’ Robert whispered to the bed’s occupants.

In no time Joe