Read Online FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) by D. M. Mitchell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: D. M. Mitchell
Ads: Link
within weeks – but, like so many people, he felt comforted in the presence of verdant earthiness. Back to basics. In touch with Mother Earth, all that New Age stuff. And the garden centre actually felt like a kind of oasis, set apart from the hum-drum of everyday life; still, quiet, heavily scented, a refuge of sorts.
The sort of place he’d expect a guy like Adam Tredwin to have, really. As he tramped slowly up to the battered old entrance to the wooden building that made up the large shop, his mind travelled back to when he was a kid and first met Adam. On the banks of that stream, throwing grass into the water. Even then, he remembered, it was as if Adam Tredwin was one with the land about him. He noticed how tenderly he plucked the grass and how he paused before throwing each blade into the stream, as if performing a silent prayer. When he eventually got to play inside the Tredwins’ back garden, Adam showed him a patch where he was growing vegetables. He talked about them as if the rows of carrots were his children, and even then George found this a little odd. But, he guessed, a kid with no friends has to make friends somewhere, even if that was with vegetables, so he left it at that and got on with the more important business of playing their games.
The inside of the shop was far cooler than the outside. An electric fan had already been set in motion over by the counter. There was the familiar smell of compost and hay in the air. There were racks filled with gardening implements, and another with outdoor clothing and Wellington boots, and still more crammed with colourful packets of seeds. He heard a chirruping from his left and went to investigate. Around the corner of the central aisle he came across pet birds for sale in large cages, and beside these hamsters and rats.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the hamsters, poking his finger through the thin metal bars and wiggling it.
‘Good morning,’ came the reply, which almost made him start.
He turned round to see a tall, slender man standing behind him with a large bag of dog feed in his delicate hands.
George could tell straight away that this was Adam Tredwin. He could instantly see the young kid beneath the thick veneer of adulthood. He still had that attractive, almost feminine face; pale, smooth-skinned, high-cheeked, full-lipped, and the years had been far kinder to him than to me, thought George. Adam’s head of thick dark hair – looking like it needed a good comb – had traces of grey hair in it, the only major concession to being in his late thirties. As far as George could tell, the man had an enviably flat stomach, unlike his own which had started to balloon with a tad too much good living (if you can call a high-fat, low-fibre, alcohol-soused diet a good living), slender, though surprisingly muscular, arms poking from a T-shirt, and long athletic legs encased in a pair of dirty jeans and disappearing into a pair of grubby Wellingtons.
Staring into Adam’s face, George immediately saw the ghost of Sylvia Tredwin. As if her spirit had risen from the deep recesses of his faded memory to haunt him again. For a moment he was speec hless. He had no idea that the sudden recollections of his childhood past prompted by seeing Adam would be so powerful, or indeed filled with such indescribable meaning. He had long ago consigned the memories to what he termed his brain’s dustbin.
‘Looking for something in particular?’ said Adam Tredwin pleasantly, heaving the sack of feed into a more comfortable position.
‘Actually, I wasn’t looking for anything…’ he replied. ‘Well, I was…’ he said uncertainly.
Adam frowned. ‘George?’ he asked tentatively. ‘George Lee?’
George smiled. ‘Yeah, that’s me. George. You remembered me.’
He put the bag down and held out his hand to shake. ‘Of course I remember you. You haven’t changed a bit.’
George shook his hand. ‘You’re a good liar, Adam. I know I’ve changed a lot. But
The sort of place he’d expect a guy like Adam Tredwin to have, really. As he tramped slowly up to the battered old entrance to the wooden building that made up the large shop, his mind travelled back to when he was a kid and first met Adam. On the banks of that stream, throwing grass into the water. Even then, he remembered, it was as if Adam Tredwin was one with the land about him. He noticed how tenderly he plucked the grass and how he paused before throwing each blade into the stream, as if performing a silent prayer. When he eventually got to play inside the Tredwins’ back garden, Adam showed him a patch where he was growing vegetables. He talked about them as if the rows of carrots were his children, and even then George found this a little odd. But, he guessed, a kid with no friends has to make friends somewhere, even if that was with vegetables, so he left it at that and got on with the more important business of playing their games.
The inside of the shop was far cooler than the outside. An electric fan had already been set in motion over by the counter. There was the familiar smell of compost and hay in the air. There were racks filled with gardening implements, and another with outdoor clothing and Wellington boots, and still more crammed with colourful packets of seeds. He heard a chirruping from his left and went to investigate. Around the corner of the central aisle he came across pet birds for sale in large cages, and beside these hamsters and rats.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the hamsters, poking his finger through the thin metal bars and wiggling it.
‘Good morning,’ came the reply, which almost made him start.
He turned round to see a tall, slender man standing behind him with a large bag of dog feed in his delicate hands.
George could tell straight away that this was Adam Tredwin. He could instantly see the young kid beneath the thick veneer of adulthood. He still had that attractive, almost feminine face; pale, smooth-skinned, high-cheeked, full-lipped, and the years had been far kinder to him than to me, thought George. Adam’s head of thick dark hair – looking like it needed a good comb – had traces of grey hair in it, the only major concession to being in his late thirties. As far as George could tell, the man had an enviably flat stomach, unlike his own which had started to balloon with a tad too much good living (if you can call a high-fat, low-fibre, alcohol-soused diet a good living), slender, though surprisingly muscular, arms poking from a T-shirt, and long athletic legs encased in a pair of dirty jeans and disappearing into a pair of grubby Wellingtons.
Staring into Adam’s face, George immediately saw the ghost of Sylvia Tredwin. As if her spirit had risen from the deep recesses of his faded memory to haunt him again. For a moment he was speec hless. He had no idea that the sudden recollections of his childhood past prompted by seeing Adam would be so powerful, or indeed filled with such indescribable meaning. He had long ago consigned the memories to what he termed his brain’s dustbin.
‘Looking for something in particular?’ said Adam Tredwin pleasantly, heaving the sack of feed into a more comfortable position.
‘Actually, I wasn’t looking for anything…’ he replied. ‘Well, I was…’ he said uncertainly.
Adam frowned. ‘George?’ he asked tentatively. ‘George Lee?’
George smiled. ‘Yeah, that’s me. George. You remembered me.’
He put the bag down and held out his hand to shake. ‘Of course I remember you. You haven’t changed a bit.’
George shook his hand. ‘You’re a good liar, Adam. I know I’ve changed a lot. But
Similar Books
