Page 4 of Too Close To Home

Silence folded neatly over him. Not London silence. There was no such thing here. The quiet in the city carried movement: distant trains, late-night laughter, the restless pulse of millions of people refusing to sleep.

Here was different.

Here was the bottom of a well.

Wind threaded through the hawthorn hedge in long, low breaths. A crow called somewhere across the fields. One sharp note, echoing off stone. His gut cramped with apprehension.

God, it was quiet.

He hoisted the box in his arms, adjusting it against his hip, and walked up the short stone path towards his new home. Not new, exactly. That much was obvious. Decades of rain had bleached the low dry-stone walls silver. The slate roof dipped ever so slightly at the ridge, the chimney leaning with the faint resignation of having held itself upright longer than anyone had thanked it for. Moss threaded the guttering. The windows were small, deep-set, the glass faintly warped at the corners.

But it was new to him.

And strange.

Vastly different from the terrace townhouse he’d been living in for the past fifteen years. This was a single-storey, detached bungalow cottage, set a fraction apart from the others along the lane, overlooking vast woodland and farmland, as if time had nudged it sideways and forgotten to nudge it back. The neighbouring houses sat at uneven intervals. Not close enough for casual familiarity, nor distant enough for full isolation, but far enough to allow privacy. He might not hear the neighbours having sex here. Or have them complain he was.

Not likely anymore.

The thought came uninvited. An observation rather than a meek attempt at humour. It’d been a long time since he’d heard those mortifying bangs on the wall. And he doubted the plaster would flake behind his bedposts anytime soon.

For many, many reasons.

He paused at the gate, gravel crunching under his shoes, and looked back down the narrow lane. No traffic. No sirens slicing through the night. No bass bleeding through brickwork. It was only soft wind dragging along hedgerows and the distant, unhurried hum of nothing in particular.

This was a long way from London.

From glass and concrete and the permanent thrum beneath the city’s skin. From the shared smoggy air, breathed in by thousands before it even reached his lungs. And a world away from the Camden townhouse that had felt cramped and overheated and alive with movement.

Then, almost overnight, cavernous.

Airless.

Empty in a way that no amount of square footage could soften.

He adjusted the box again and mounted the shallow step to the door. The key felt unfamiliar in his hand. This was what he’d asked for. What he’d argued for in a meeting room smelling of mocha lattes and echoing with compromise. What he’d told his superiors he needed after his extended leave and hours of counselling. A clean transfer, a smaller force, somewhere quieter. Somewhere he could work without the noise of a city that knew his name. Where problems strayed onto roads on four legs and got guided back through gates, not zipped into bags under blue lights. Where the worst call might be a missing sheep, not a teenager bleeding out on concrete.

Where he could start again.

Where he could heal.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed inside with his shoulder, nudging the door shut behind him with his heel, scents of dust and stone holding damp, welcoming him into his new home. He’d never been one much for DIY. That had been Chris’s job. Here, he’d have to muddle through or learn to love floral.

The floorboards creaked under his weight as he carried the box through to the sitting room, announcing every step to no one. It looked the same as it had when he’d viewed it and put in his offer on the spot. Someone had inexpertly boarded over the fireplace, and the plaster cracked at one corner as if the house were trying to shrug the covering off. A faint discolouration marked the ceiling near the window, paint lifting in a subtle ripple. The windows looked out over the ridge of moorland pressed low beneath a heavy, iron-grey sky.

It felt temporary.

As if the house were waiting to see whether he would stay.

He was, too.

Maybe this was a mistake. Him moving away this far. Everyone believed he’d come running back to the city, eventually. His old chief was keeping his job open. His dad was keeping their game of chess untouched. Nigella was holding onto the clothes he’d left down there.

Just in case.

He set the box down beside the others as the quiet eased around him again.

Vast.