The Ghosts of Sleath Read Online Free PDF

a slow, almost leisurely, pace. The sound of the diesel engine was even worse in the confines of the bank-sided lane, the decibels only slightly lower than those from a pneumatic drill. So much for the peace and quiet of the countryside, thought Ash as he wound up the window. And the black fumes that occasionally spewed from underneath the machine did little for the sweet country air and the freshness of the rain.
    Ash became aware that his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles were showing white. He flexed each of his fingers in turn, loosening the tendons, willing himself to relax. He rested his elbow on the window’s edge and took the cigarette from his mouth. He blew smoke over his shoulder in a steady stream. His fingers soon began to drum impatiently on the steering wheel.
    A minute went by and he decided a friendly toot on the horn wouldn’t do any harm. The driver in front neither looked round nor pulled over and Ash wasn’t sure if the man was playing games or really hadn’t heard. Either way, there was nothing he could do: a cat could barely squeeze past the tractor, so narrow was the gap on both sides.
    ‘Come on,’ he said aloud as they approached a passing-place cut into the bank. The man in front drove relentlessly on.
    They went by a gate whose muddy entrance would easily have allowed the tractor to pull in to let him through, but the other man ignored it. A little irritated by now, Ash pressed the horn button again, this time holding his thumb there for severalseconds. Still he was ignored. He wound the window back down and poked his head out, ready to call after the farm-worker, but saw that the bank dipped just ahead and a grass verge ran alongside the lane for quite some way.
    He flicked the cigarette out of the window and readied himself to step on the accelerator. There would be just enough room and enough time to overtake the lumbering tractor if he drove partly on the verge.
    Ash waited for the right moment, then pushed his foot down, swinging the car to the right so that the wheels on that side mounted the verge. He increased speed, the front bumper almost grazing one of the tractor’s great rear wheels as it passed by. The Ford lurched and rocked, but he held the steering wheel firmly, keeping it steady.
    He drew level with the muddy tyre and glanced anxiously at it. He kept as far away from it as he could, but there was a ditch or deep rut on the other side of the verge that restricted his options for manoeuvre. Incredibly, the hooded man still hadn’t noticed him - or at least, was pretending he hadn’t. Ash thumped the horn, anger behind the blow.
    But the tractor appeared to be matching his speed, the big wheels keeping him at bay. It even seemed deliberately to be moving over towards him.
    With dismay, Ash realized that he was running out of space: the grass verge ended abruptly thirty yards or so ahead and the bank, tree roots entwined in its earth, reared up again.
    He slammed on the brakes and the nearside wheels began to slide over the wet grass, causing the car to veer inwards.
    Ash shouted something, probably a curse, as the Ford bucked and skidded and the bank loomed larger in the windscreen. He was going to hit it.
    He pumped the brakes to release the lock and held the car straight, afraid of pulling over into the tractor and just as afraid of crashing into the bank. He froze -
    - and the tractor suddenly swung away from him, sweeping through a gate into a field on the left of the lane.
    Ash yanked the wheel round and the car shot off the grass, the right-hand tyres now gripping.
    He kept his foot away from the brake pedal, allowing the car to coast, relief instantly dismissing the fear - although not the stress. But now he saw there was a narrow, hump-backed bridge ahead and there was no time to stop. He could only pray there was nothing approaching on the other side.
    The car hit the rise of the old stone bridge at speed and Ash’s head almost