1994
Somewhere in The South of England …
The sun had already started to set as Oscar pulled over.
His car, a battered black Golf with one working speaker and a rucksack of half-folded clothes on the backseat, had started coughing two miles past the last petrol station. The needle hadn’t been quite red, but close enough. Now it sat dead on the verge of a single-track lane, mist curling over the fields.
Oscar clenched his fingers around the steering wheel and held on tight.
“—Brilliant—”, he hissed under his breath, closed his eyes for a second and then kicked his way out of the car.
The damp road curved out behind and ahead, vanishing into the brambles and low stone walls of nowhere. A sign post stood casually beside him …
‘Welcome to Wrenford. Please drive carefully’
Oscar slid his palms over his face and growled into his hands.
He stumbled back - he could smell the scent of champagne on his breath.
He shoved his hands into his tuxedo jacket and started walking.
The air was still, no wind, just the soft crunch of his smart leather loafers on wet gravel.
A crow sounded once in the distance, then stopped.
The fields on either side rolled gently upward, but everything felt closed; bushes grown too high, trees twisted too tight …
He walked for ten, maybe fifteen minutes before he saw the rooftops and electricity pylons; stone cottages, chimneys, a low pub with peeling red paint.
Wrenford was a postcard, one of those villages you drive through on the way to somewhere better - no people in sight, just warm yellow glow in a few windows, neatly trimmed hedges and a few sparrows pecking into puddles.
Oscar peered up at the next sign above him, this one suggesting something closer to comfort.
Oscar shoved the pub door inward and entered with a yawn.
Warmth folded around him at once, thick with woodsmoke and damp wool; the smell of ale, old varnish, rain drying slowly on stone.
Flames burned in a wide fireplace to the right, its crackle catching on the rims of pint glasses and the edges of faces …
Conversation dipped and rose again, a few eyes lifted - not startled, not curious enough - just the right amount of acknowledgement with a glance that told him this place was theirs, not his.
Oscar swallowed as the pub door clanked shut behind him.
“Cosy …” he whispered to himself.
Behind the bar stood a woman in her fifties, platinum blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that looked like it had been redone several times that day - her sweater sleeves were rolled, her hands steady as she wiped the counter - when she looked up, her gaze landed on Oscar and stayed there.
“Evening, love,” she said, warmly, as though she had been expecting him, “You look like you’re here for a reason.”
The words slid neatly into place, Oscar felt them settle.
“My er, yes, my car,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder, “It died about a mile back. I don’t suppose you’ve got a phone I could borrow?”
The woman’s smile did not quite reach her eyes.
“Course,” she tipped her head toward the bar, “Sit. You’ll have a pint, or …” her eyes narrowed at his tuxedo, “… Is it a glass of bubbly.”
It was not phrased as an offer.
Oscar took the closest stool, rested his forearms on the bar and glanced around, his blue eyes assessing his surroundings, “Glass of bubbly will do,” he sniffed.
It was what he expected - an awkward environment created due to a ‘posh stranger’ walking into a pub that wasn’t used to posh strangers - a few odd looks, nothing hostile, nothing warm - just that quick, practiced scan people gave when something new disrupted the rhythm of a place they’re used to …
An elderly man with a gold tooth at the far end of the bar leaning on a walking stick looked him over, then turned back to his pint.
A younger lady in a short dress sipping a gin and tonic by the window met his gaze for half a second too long, then looked away as though she’d been caught doing something impolite.
A sad looking woman in a wheelchair near the fireplace paused mid-sentence, eyes flicking to Oscar before carrying on - he attempted to cheer her up with a little wave, however her grunt suggested she wasn’t interested.
Oscar smirked and rolled his eyes - just when he thought there would be no small talk, a voice arrived at his side.
“You’re too fancy to be from round here.”
Oscar turned his head.
Perching at the bar with a rum glass mostly filled with ice was a man perhaps twice Oscar’s age, mid forties, maybe, old enough to know himself, young enough to still enjoy it.
He was good-looking in a quiet, unshowy way; jaw length dark hair pushed back from his face, a short beard that suited yet softened him. Besides the kind of features that drew your eye without demanding it, what mostly stood out was the ease of him, the confidence to take the stool beside Oscar without asking, to speak as though the space between them already belonged to him, as though Oscar’s arrival had simply given him a reason to move.
Oscar shook his head as he quickly reminded himself to respond, “Just er, just passing through,” he chuckled unintentionally, then bit his lower lip straight after, “Heading to Hexham … Was er, was meant to be there by six.”
The man lifted his glass in a small, private salute, “Well, you’re in Wrenford now,” he took a sip, watching Oscar over the rim, “You been to a party?”
A tall glass of prosecco arrived without Oscar seeing who placed it down.
He took it anyway, grateful for company of the glass, it gave his hands something to do - he took a quick sip immediately - he needed it, the cocaine buzz was starting to wear off.
“It was my graduation,” he didn’t even wince as he swallowed down the fizz, “From—”
“—Eton,” the man sneered, “Or somewhere posher?”
Oscar grinned over his glass and took another sip, “Is it that obvious?”
His man’s gaze wandered over Oscar, unhurried yet interested; it travelled over his soft, pale hands, the pinks of his fingers and the neat trim of each fingernail …
The glimmer in his eye caused by inhaling drugs from boys already graduated, the thickness of his lips stained red from kissing girls who were just as drunk as he had been, the curl in his hair parting that might have been more neatly styled several hours ago, the damp cuffs of his smart trousers, the scuffed leather of his shining loafers, marked with mud from the lane …
“Your shoes are soaked,” the man said gently, “You should take those off, before you catch something.”
Oscar let out a short laugh, it sounded wrong in his own ears, “I’m er, I’m alright,” he could actually of really done with removing his shoes, but he wore sheer socks underneath and his aim was to currently nudge away any wondering eyes, not draw them closer.
“Suit yourself,” the man shrugged, then added, almost kindly, “We take care of people here, y’know. Especially visitors,” his eyes lifted again, green, amber, or were they red? Oscar couldn’t tell if it were the fireplace playing games before the man leaned in and whispered with a smile, “… Especially ones who look like they pay well …”
Oscar felt the heat of the fire at his back, the air close and watchful; the warmth seemed to press inward, not just against his skin but beneath it - he realised he was suddenly very aware of himself, his posture, his breathing, the space his body and its stand-out appearance occupied not only on the stool, but within the pub itself.
“Gosh I,” he raised both eyebrows, “You lot are a lovely bunch, uh—”
—The man turned and offered his hand.
“I’m Reid.”
Oscar hesitated - after all, he hadn’t come here looking to make friends - where was that bloody phone?
The longer Reid held out his hand, the quicker Oscar had to take it - the grip was firm, lingering just a second longer than necessary - rough, as if used to manual work.
“Oscar Blackwood.”
Reid smiled, slow and knowing, “Welcome, Oscar Blackwood …” his hand slid away, “… You’re just in time …”, his smile lingered for a moment after the words left him, and then he was gone, not abruptly, just finished.
He slid from the stool, placed his empty glass of rum at the bar, and disappeared through a side door Oscar hadn’t noticed before.
The space beside Oscar cooled at once, as though it had never been occupied at all.
Oscar chuckled into his prosecco and then aimed his confusion to the landlady who returned with a cloth deep inside a wine glass.
“That was a bit dramatic …” Oscar scoffed, taking a sip from his drink, foam clinging to his upper lip, “… In time for what?” He asked.
As he wiped the fizz away with the back of his hand, looking towards the door Reid had used, half expecting him to reappear, the landlady ignored his question and then asked her own.
“You staying the night, then?”
Oscar’s eyebrows flattened into a deep line, “Oh, I—” … he looked down at his drink, then at the ticking clock above him, “… I was hoping to get the car sorted, give my … Er, my girlfriend, a call.”
She nodded, as if he’d confirmed something rather than suggested it.
“Road’ll be worse after dark, and there’s rain coming again,” she glanced toward the windows, where the glass had begun to mist, “You won’t get a tow out here tonight.”
Oscar clenched his teeth, took a big gulp of his prosecco and bobbed his left knee repeatedly, “It’ll only be a quickie,” he urged, “Pretty please …”
“We’ve rooms,” the landlady added, “Above the pub. Nothing fancy. But clean. Warm …” A pause, “… And you’re already here.”
The words landed gently, almost flirtatiously, as Oscar glanced back at his drink, half gone now - the flames from the fireplace weren’t the only things warming his middle - the quiet murmur of the room settled back into itself.
“Oh yeah?” He grinned at her generosity, tempted to push it, “What’s the price?” He asked, “I haven’t got much …” he knew he was wealthier than most of the people in this pub combined, and so did the landlady.
The landlady put away the now clean wine glass and adjusted her blonde bun for the sixteenth, seventeenth time of the day? “Eighty quid usually, but because yer handsome and loaded, I’ll give one to you for a hundred, breakfast included.”
Oscar placed the prosecco glass back on the bars surface and slipped adjusted the loose bowtie dangling around his neck.
“I’ll pass,” he shook his head before glancing up at the landlady, his stare remaining on her eyes as a way to assert himself, “Just the phone, come on …” he even clicked his fingers.
The landlady exhaled through pursed pink pips, then reached beneath the bar and brought out a landline phone - old and yellowed, the cord stretched tight from years of use.
She slid it across the counter, “You’re lucky you’re cute,” turned away, and headed to the other side of the bar to serve a waiting regular.
Oscar quickly dialled his ‘girlfriend’s’ number from memory - boop, beep, boop, boop, boop, beep, boop, boop - the line rang …
And rang …
And rang …
… Until it cut to voicemail.
He hung up without leaving a message.
He tried again.
Nothing …
He dialled his dad, one ring, then silence, the call dropped.
When he set the receiver back down, the landlady was watching him as she pulled a pint of Guinness - not with concern, with something closer to curiosity.
“First class all as half cut as you?” She asked.
Oscar picked up the phone and tried his ‘'girlfriend’ again - after another round of rings and another arrival at voicemail, he spoke into the receiver.
“Ben, hi, it’s me. I’m er, my car broke down just outside a village called …” he had already forgotten the name - he peered at the landlady, who mouthed it for him, “… Wren, Wrenford. I’m in some kind of pub, the … Laughter’s Rest. Call here when you can, alright, pal?”
The landlady smirked as Oscar placed the phone down defeatedly.
“They’re probably tied up,” Oscar said, though he wasn’t convinced himself.
“Well,” she said, straightening at his choice of words, “Lucky for you, there’s a garage in the village. They’ll take a look in the morning.”
Oscar watched the landlady as she picked a packet of cigarettes from her bra and snatched one from inside, “Oh? There is?”
“Oh yer,” she said, “I used to shag the owner. He’ll sort it,” there was a lighter inside the pack too - she lit up the cigarette and puffed on it twice, “He won’t charge you,” she then gestured the packet towards Oscar as an offering.
The bluntness caught him off guard - he laughed, briefly, without meaning to, and then nodded quickly.
The landlady blew smoke towards Oscar and handed him the pack.
Oscar squinted, hiccuped and picked a cigarette out from the plastic gold casing - he popped it on the edge of his lips and then leaned over the bar, his waist hooking the edge.
The landlady kept her cigarette between her mouth and moved in towards Oscar - sound no longer existed as they both closed their eyes, the amber of her cigarette lighting the end of his.
He dropped back onto his stool and huffed out a cloud of smoke as he looked towards one of the pub windows - it had started to rain and behind the glass everything was fading into dark.
“How far is this garage?” He said.
“Not far,” she took a long drag from her cigarette and exhaled smoke through her nose like a dragon, “But not walking distance. Not in this, and not with shoes like yours, posh boy.”
Oscar sighed out a snigger and nudged his prosecco glass closer to the landlady, nodding once.
“Alright,” he gave in, “Guess I’m staying put …”
The shower was far too hot.
Oscar stood under it longer than he meant to, head tipped back, both fists clenched at his sides while water struck his shoulders in a steady, punishing rhythm.
Prosecco sat sharp and fizzy in his stomach, layered over champagne, over warm glass of red from earlier in the afternoon, over everything else he’d swallowed and sniffed since midday.
His head felt buoyant, slightly detached, as if it belonged to someone half a step behind him.
He laughed to himself once, quietly, then stopped.
The room steamed up fast, his thoughts slid, he closed his eyes …
The day bled back in flashes; applause, stone buildings, sunlight on polished shoes, his name called out in a hall that expected greatness as a matter of course.
Then something else threaded through it …
A sound.
Not in the shower, not in the room the landlady had kindly given him, far beyond the walls of the pub …
Muted, rhythmic, human …
Oscar frowned and tilted his head, water running into his ears - voices, dozens of them, low, overlapping, and under it, or inside it, a rise and fall that might have been chanting …
Or laughter?
He reached out and twisted the tap.
Creak.
The water cut abruptly, the silence rushing in to replace it.
Drip, drip, drip …
The sound didn’t stop.
He stepped out of the shower, skin prickling in the cooler air, and dragged a towel over himself without much care.
His heart was beating faster than it should have been - too much drink, too much sniff - he was still buzzing, wired, the afternoon refusing to leave his bloodstream …
Naked, damp, he crossed to the window.
Outside, the village lay pooled in darkness; a few lights burned softly and beyond them, at the edge of british countryside normality, the village hall stood alone, lit from within, windows glowing like watchful eyes.
The sound came from there.
Oscar’s mouth went dry.
You’re just in time.
Reid’s voice surfaced uninvited, neat and mild, as if spoken only seconds ago.
He pulled the curtains shut with a sharp movement and stood there for a moment.
“Go to bed, you bloody fool,” Oscar muttered.
He dropped the towel, crossed to the single bed, and lay down without dressing.
The discarded pieces of the day lay in a heap by the wall; tuxedo jacket shrugged off and thrown, bow tie twisted, loafers tipped on their sides, sheer socks half inside out - evidence of the version of him that downed prosecco with the fun landlady downstairs, before he decided to shed himself.
Oscar switched off the lamp and rolled onto his front, burying his face into the pillow.
Sleep tugged at him, thick and uneven and with it, came fragments …
A bathroom cubicle, tiled and loud with cheering boys the same age as he.
His reflection, flushed, white dust wiped away hastily from below his nose.
His bow tie once tight at his throat, hands clapping his shoulders, someone shouting about Hexham later, about a party, about not letting the night finish …
Keys in his hand, the engine coughing into life, the road blurring.
You’re just in time.
The words threaded through it all, folding the memories together until he couldn’t tell which came first.
Oscar groaned softly and rolled onto his back, then sat up.
His heart was racing now, too fast, skittering - the chanting hadn’t stopped, if anything, it had grown steadier, more assured.
He couldn’t just lie there.
He stood, pulled on his trousers, then his shirt, not bothering to button it properly.
His loafers slipped on easily, familiar and grounding.
He paused at the door, listening.
The pub was quiet, almost expectant, as if everyone had left and gone to this party in the village hall …
Oscar opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the corridor, then began to move carefully downstairs, drawn not by curiosity exactly, but by something looser and harder to name.
Outside, the night waited.
And the hall’s lights burned on, patient and unwavering, as if they’d been left for him.
“Take it all!
Take it all!
Take it all!”
Oscar was pushed forward with the sound, carried rather than walking …
Bodies pressed in from every side; shoulders, elbows, hot breath on his neck.
The village hall was packed, far more people than he’d thought possible for a place like Wrenford; young, old, thin, heavy., familiar faces from the pub, others he didn’t recognise, all moving as one, all chanting the same words with frightening conviction.
“Take it all!
Take it all!
Take it all!”
His mouth was dry, his head throbbed, he needed a drink, something cold, something grounding …
He craned his neck, searching stupidly for a bar, for a counter, for anything recognisable - there was nothing - just people, heat and noise …
He was shoved again, spun slightly, then forced to a stop …
The chanting faltered.
Oscar looked up, and his jaw fell open.
At the centre of the village hall’s main stage, a woman lay collapsed on the wooden boards.
Young, dark-haired, naked, though it was the stillness of her body that struck him more than the fact of it.
Her chest rose shallowly, her limbs were slack, as if whatever had been asked of her had been taken to its limit.
Behind her stood Reid.
His hands were raised, fingers curled unnaturally, like claws mid-gesture.
His jaw was clenched so tightly Oscar could see the muscles jump beneath his skin.
For a second, Reid didn’t look mild or helpful or ordinary at all - he looked feral, as if he’d just finished something that required effort.
Kneeling at the woman’s feet was the old man from the pub.
The one with the walking stick.
His back was to Oscar.
He rocked slightly, making a sound low in his throat.
“… Uuhhnnn … Uumnnn …”
Not pain, not pleasure, something closer to relief, gratitude, maybe …
When the woman was suddenly lifted by several people and carried off behind the stage, the sound cut dead.
Silence fell.
The old man let go of the stick.
It clattered to the floor.
Slowly, with purpose, he stood.
Straightened.
Then he took a step.
And another.
He walked perfectly, easily, like a man decades younger.
The hall erupted so quickly, so loudly that Oscar’s shoulders lifted into a startle.
Cheers tore through the crowd, people surged toward the old man, hands reaching, voices raised in celebration …
Oscar was shoved backwards by the force of it, stumbling, heart hammering, vision tunnelling.
“Bloody, christ!—” Oscar went to leap forwards, but in the chaos, he caught Reid’s eye.
Reid smiled.
Then he pointed.
Straight at Oscar.
You’re just in time.
Something in Oscar broke loose.
He turned and forced his way out, lungs burning, pushing through bodies until cold air hit him like a slap.
Huff, huff, huff …
Outside, he barely made it a few steps before retching, vomiting into a puddle by the hall wall.
His bile, yellow and chunky, blended with the rainwater as the moonlight shone down over his shame.
His hands shook, his vision swam.
You’re just in time. You’re just in time. You’re just in time.
The words echoed, over and over, folding in on themselves.
And then—
—Oscar woke.
Daylight pressed softly through the thin curtains.
His head split with pain.
His mouth tasted sour.
He was naked, sprawled on the single bed, limbs heavy, sheets twisted beneath him.
Hungover and …
Hard.
So, so hard.
Erect, throbbing, his manhood pressed between he and the mattress.
He pushed himself up slowly, biting his lower lip, completely unaware of Reid standing in the doorway.
“Morning,” Reid announced his presence casually.
Oscar jolted, scrambled for the bedsheets, gathered them around himself and spun around so that he faced Reid.
“Fucking h, hell! How long have you been standing there?” Oscar’s cheeks boiled pink.
Reid folded his arms and.
“I fixed your car,” he said, “You’re free to go.”
Oscar stared at him, questions crowding his throat.
The hall … The woman … The old man … The pointing finger …
But beneath the confusion, beneath the fear, something else stirred.
Something he hadn’t expected.
Disappointment.
Oscar stood on the gravel in his tuxedo, the hangover pressing behind his eyes like a slow, patient thumb.
White shirt creased, bow tie hanging loose around his collar once again, untied; sheer socks pulled up a touch too high, loafers dulled by last night’s dew.
He felt absurdly overdressed for the morning, like a guest who hadn’t understood the rules of departure, but this is what he arrived in yesterday, he didn’t have much choice.
His car sat a few feet away.
Fixed. Cleaned. Polished to a brightness that didn’t match the rest of the village. The paintwork caught the sun like it was new. Even the tyres looked scrubbed.
Oscar blinked at it.
“That’s … Impressive,” he said, fingering the inside of his tux for his wallet, “How much do I owe you?”
Reid didn’t look up straight away - he ran his thumb along the bonnet, wiping away a speck that might not have been there in the first place - when he did look back, he smiled.
“On the house.”
Oscar frowned slightly, “You … Said, in the pub, you help visitors,” he cocked an eyebrow, “… ‘Especially ones who look like they pay well’ …”
Reid’s smile deepened as he gave a small, conspiratorial wink.
“I did a lot last night.”
He held out the keys.
Oscar took them, turning them once in his hand, feeling the weight - he didn’t put them in his pocket, not just yet.
“Yeah,” Oscar said lightly, “I’ll be honest, what the fuck was that?” He chuckled.
Reid tilted his head, as if genuinely considering how much to say.
“You could always stay another night,” he said, “Come this evening. We’re doing it again.”
“It,” Oscar looked down at his feet and pursed his lips, “… ‘It’ …” he repeated.
Reid stepped back, gesturing vaguely toward the village.
“It’ll be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. You’re—”
“—You’re just in time,” Oscar said, finishing it for him.
Reid laughed quietly, pleased.
Oscar hesitated, then nodded toward the hall, though it wasn’t visible from here, “It was like a … Healing thing, right? That old man. He can walk now.”
Reid’s tone stayed casual, almost proud.
“That ‘old man’ has signed up for the first marathon he’s run since 1968. Offer’s there, toff.”
Oscar looked down the lane that cut out of Wrenford, sunlight pooling along it.
Beyond it were fields, roads, service stations.
His friends.
The party that had probably never ended … Champagne instead of prosecco, fun instead of quiet.
Then he looked back at Reid.
At the man who had seen him naked and sleeping. The man who stood in a village that did impossible things to people. The man who spoke like staying was the most natural decision in the world.
Oscar leant against the side of his car.
“Is she alright?” He asked suddenly, “The girl.”
Reid had already turned away, lifting the bonnet of another car - he didn’t look back.
“You can go back to your girlfriend,” he said, “Your nice spoilt life. Or you can stay here and find out, alright? Witness something you won’t ever see anywhere else.”
He glanced over his shoulder then, “What’ll it be?”
Oscar pushed himself away from his car and shook his head.
“I’m not spoilt,” he said, standing there in a tuxedo, owning the priveledge of a hangover.
When both of them realised what Oscar had said was borderline stupid, they both chuckled.
Oscar slipped the car keys into his pocket as his stomach growled, sharp and insistent.
He swallowed.
“Can we eat first?”
Reid gave Oscar an understanding nod, and then he gestured to the tuxedo still clinging to him like it were the only belongings he had.
“Better that,” Reid said, “I can get you some clothes that don’t stink of booze.”
Both back at the pub, dressed in Reids clothes that hes loaned, feels ‘part of the village now’. In the daylight the pub shows more details. A feather arrangement dangling as decoration. Asks Reid questions, blunt ones. When Oscar gets a beer, Reid asks ‘do you have a problem?’. Oscar does but he lies. How long have you lived here, what do you do. Reid asks Oscar questions as their food arrives. What is the goal in their conversation?
The landlady returns, ‘that girlfriend of yours is on the phone’. Before Oscar goes to jump for it, Oscar stops him. Wipes some gravy from his lip. As Oscar speaks to his girlfriend on the phone, Reid asks the landlady what he’s saying. ‘He’s making excuses. Sounds like mission accomplished, you’ve secured the next soul.’ or something like that.