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checking the barns first, that was like the old man’s sacred duty, a routine that never altered. He almost wished the old man was still alive so that he could thank him for being a predictable old git. Joseph, still intoxicated, giggled stupidly and then grew serious with his thoughts. Now all he had to do was take the body down the hill towards the village and dump it at the side of the road behind the tall hedges lining the grassy verge. There were always gypsies in the area, and they would be blamed for the robbery and murder of the old man. There was no reason that anybody would ever suspect him…
     
    Celia lay on the parlour room floor. She couldn’t move, yet every part of her body shook. The ceiling spun as she stared up at it. She felt sticky hot liquid trickling down her inner thighs: blood. Joseph had gone, and she prayed that her father would come back before he did. Her mind spun with the eerie echo of Joseph’s words as she went over the conversation repeatedly, trying to make sense of it. There had been so many lies, she realised with sickening clarity, and Joseph was a good liar. She didn’t know the man she’d married, loved, and now hated. There were so many deceptions on all sides: her father’s secret affair, Joseph’s motives for marrying her, his greed and love of whisky. Why had she missed the signs? Joseph had called her stupid, a chorus of stupid, over and over again… and she was.
    When she felt capable of moving, she dragged her aching body up the stairs. She locked the bedroom door, didn’t light the lamp, and felt her way to the washbowl by the bed. She scrubbed between her legs and winced with pain, all the time thinking that she would never feel clean again. Falling on top of the bed, she wondered where Joseph was now. She reached out for the lamp and hid it under the covers. If he got through the door and came near her, she’d kill him!
     
    When Joseph had disposed of the body, he returned to the barn. He first cleared away the bloodied straw and cleaned the weapon, which he returned to its usual place. He then washed himself with the buckets of cold water that were always kept there in case of fire, emptied them, re-laid new straw, and unhitched the horses, putting them back into their stalls. He also scrubbed the cart, which was caked in Peter’s blood, and cursed at the length of time it took to get rid of the stains that were now ingrained in the wooden floor. Why do people have to bleed so much? he wondered with a disapproving shake of his head. He took one more look around the barn, checking that everything was in order, before shutting the doors behind him.
    Joseph got a scrubbing brush and a bucket with soapy water from the kitchen and deposited them on the parlour floor, cursing as he did so. The silly cow had bled all over the floor, just like her father; he would have to clean her blood up too! His thoughts raced until he calmed them sufficiently to think more clearly about what was going to happen next. Celia had probably gone to bed, where she’d remain until morning. The police would be turning up at some stage when they eventually found the body of the old man, and he’d have to see them before she did, pave the way for all the questions that would be thrown at them.
    When he’d finished cleaning, he poured himself a large whisky. After everything he’d been through, he deserved it. He felt the satisfaction of a general who’d just won a great victory after a long campaign. The farm was finally his. The inheritance he’d craved in Yorkshire had gone in a puff of smoke, but he’d got what he wanted in the end. A different farm in a different place mattered not. The fact that it was his was what mattered. This was his ticket to the life he’d always dreamed of, the life he deserved.
    He poured another whisky. Celia wouldn’t talk. She still loved him. She would be as silent as the grave they would put her father into, and she would learn to do his bidding.