going to do more field work this afternoon.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jerry Sampson had a lot to do that day. He had already plowed his far field, and now he had gone back home to pick up his lunch, and then he had to go and make sure everything was going well with the harvest of the cabbages in his south field. Jerry had been a farmer all his working life, he came from a family of farmers, it was the only life he knew, but one that he was very happy with. Other farmers seemed to do nothing but moan. They were never satisfied; one year they would be saying there had been too much rain, the next that it was too dry. The way that Jerry saw it was that you had to make the best of what nature threw at you. There was nothing anyone could do to change the weather.
Jerry himself had no real livestock, just a few chickens for his family’s own egg supply, but he knew that some of the neighbouring farms had sheep and or pigs. Lately these farmers had found even more reason to complain. There had been a spate of killings, a few sheep or pigs here and there. Jerry suspected it was the work of foxes - one had tried to get at his chickens a few weeks back - but the rumour mill was running wild with speculation. His friend, Walter Murray, was convinced that his prize ram had been eviscerated by outer space aliens. Jerry found the notion that these supremely intelligent beings, with technology capable of transporting them across the unimaginable distances of space, came all of this way with the sole purpose of, rather messily, dissecting Walter’s prize ram.
The more popular, but no less ridiculous, theory was that there was some kind of wild animal living out on the fens and marshes. The general consensus of opinion was that it was some kind of big cat. Jerry’s neighbour, Alf Tipps, swore he saw it running through the long grass on Maltham lane. He said it was massive and moved really quickly. Jerry, however, knew that Alf was a raging alcoholic and a compulsive liar. It was that idiot Charles Altman who had started all of this. Before he came to Darton, Jerry had never heard anyone mention big cats, but since that so called scientist had set up camp in town, suddenly they were everywhere. The local paper wasn’t helping, they kept mentioning it.
Jerry had a happy but hardworking life and he did not have time to be worrying about aliens and monsters. Just because a few animals had been killed, and some teenagers had run away from home, there was no need to jump to foolish conclusions.
These were the things going through Jerry’s mind as he headed back to his tractor, his packed lunch under his arm. The sound of an engine pulling into the driveway made him stop and look back in that direction. A small car he didn’t recognise was pulling into his drive. Jerry stood looking as the young man got out of the car. He was a stranger, but from the polite smile and friendly wave, Jerry guessed he was selling something. The young man walked over to him, Jerry was usually polite to salesmen, but today was a very busy day.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as the young man approached. ‘I’m really busy today, so whatever you’re selling make it quick.’
The young man arrived with an outstretched hand, which Jerry took and appreciated the firm handshake.
‘Hi. I’m not actually selling anything,’ the young man said. Of course, Jerry knew that this was what they all said.
‘Then what can I do for you?’ Jerry asked.
‘My name’s Karl Morgan,’ the young man said and the reached into his pocket. ‘My brother Phil has gone missing. His car was found near here, just on Maltham Lane. He sells farm insurance. I just wondered if you had seen him?’
The young man, Karl, handed over a photograph. Jerry recognised the man in the picture instantly; he had only seen him the week before. He began to nod.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He came by last week, nice lad, I bought a policy off him. He was very prompt, I got my cover note the next
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jerry Sampson had a lot to do that day. He had already plowed his far field, and now he had gone back home to pick up his lunch, and then he had to go and make sure everything was going well with the harvest of the cabbages in his south field. Jerry had been a farmer all his working life, he came from a family of farmers, it was the only life he knew, but one that he was very happy with. Other farmers seemed to do nothing but moan. They were never satisfied; one year they would be saying there had been too much rain, the next that it was too dry. The way that Jerry saw it was that you had to make the best of what nature threw at you. There was nothing anyone could do to change the weather.
Jerry himself had no real livestock, just a few chickens for his family’s own egg supply, but he knew that some of the neighbouring farms had sheep and or pigs. Lately these farmers had found even more reason to complain. There had been a spate of killings, a few sheep or pigs here and there. Jerry suspected it was the work of foxes - one had tried to get at his chickens a few weeks back - but the rumour mill was running wild with speculation. His friend, Walter Murray, was convinced that his prize ram had been eviscerated by outer space aliens. Jerry found the notion that these supremely intelligent beings, with technology capable of transporting them across the unimaginable distances of space, came all of this way with the sole purpose of, rather messily, dissecting Walter’s prize ram.
The more popular, but no less ridiculous, theory was that there was some kind of wild animal living out on the fens and marshes. The general consensus of opinion was that it was some kind of big cat. Jerry’s neighbour, Alf Tipps, swore he saw it running through the long grass on Maltham lane. He said it was massive and moved really quickly. Jerry, however, knew that Alf was a raging alcoholic and a compulsive liar. It was that idiot Charles Altman who had started all of this. Before he came to Darton, Jerry had never heard anyone mention big cats, but since that so called scientist had set up camp in town, suddenly they were everywhere. The local paper wasn’t helping, they kept mentioning it.
Jerry had a happy but hardworking life and he did not have time to be worrying about aliens and monsters. Just because a few animals had been killed, and some teenagers had run away from home, there was no need to jump to foolish conclusions.
These were the things going through Jerry’s mind as he headed back to his tractor, his packed lunch under his arm. The sound of an engine pulling into the driveway made him stop and look back in that direction. A small car he didn’t recognise was pulling into his drive. Jerry stood looking as the young man got out of the car. He was a stranger, but from the polite smile and friendly wave, Jerry guessed he was selling something. The young man walked over to him, Jerry was usually polite to salesmen, but today was a very busy day.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as the young man approached. ‘I’m really busy today, so whatever you’re selling make it quick.’
The young man arrived with an outstretched hand, which Jerry took and appreciated the firm handshake.
‘Hi. I’m not actually selling anything,’ the young man said. Of course, Jerry knew that this was what they all said.
‘Then what can I do for you?’ Jerry asked.
‘My name’s Karl Morgan,’ the young man said and the reached into his pocket. ‘My brother Phil has gone missing. His car was found near here, just on Maltham Lane. He sells farm insurance. I just wondered if you had seen him?’
The young man, Karl, handed over a photograph. Jerry recognised the man in the picture instantly; he had only seen him the week before. He began to nod.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He came by last week, nice lad, I bought a policy off him. He was very prompt, I got my cover note the next
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