Page 8 of Twisted Paths

I take a deep breath. “I get out.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do, love,” she says kindly. “But there’s a difference betweengetting outand…putting yourself out there.”

I exhale slowly, keeping my expression neutral. Mrs Higgins has been the village gossip all her life. She knows exactly how to interrogate someone without ever making it sound like an interrogation.

I check my watch. Two minutes until the official start time. Two minutes to be rescued.

Mrs Higgins tuts. “It’s just, well… it’s a shame to see someone aslovelyas you always rushing about on your own.”

“I like my own company,” I say, resisting the urge to rub my temples.

“Oh, of course, of course.” She waves a hand. “Nothing wrong with independence. It’s just, well…” Another pause. Another meaningful look. “Life has a funny way of surprising you when you least expect it.”

I let out a slow, measured breath. “That so?”

“Oh yes.” She glances around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Why, only the other day, I was saying how wonderful it is when certain people cross paths at just the right moment.”

I stare at her. “Mrs Higgins, are you matchmaking again?”

She looks offended. “Me? Matchmaking? Nancy, I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

I narrow my eyes. “You are always interfering.”

She pats my arm. “Only because I care, love.”

Before I can point out that caring should involve less strategic meddling, there’s a sudden, deep, ominous pffffft.

A pause.

Then the smell.

It hits me like a lorry. My eyes water instantly.

“Oh—oh my God,” I gasp, stumbling back. “Whatisthat?”

“Bernard!” Mrs Higgins exclaims, slapping a hand to her nose. “For heaven’s sake, lad!”

The beagle remains completely unbothered, staring at the horizon as if contemplating all his past regrets.

Mrs Higgins glares at him. “Honestly, it’s noxious. I don’t know what’s going on in his gut, but the vet keeps saying ‘old dogs have sensitive digestion.’ I tell you; it’s weaponry.”

I retreat further, hoping the breeze will blow the smell away. “Do you—do you feed him sulphur?”

She sighs. “I’m starting to think he ferments his own meals internally.”

Bernard yawns. His ears flop. He lets out another quiet, deadly toot.

I gag, covering my nose with my sleeve. It does nothing.

Mrs Higgins coughs, waving a hand in front of her face. “I tell you what, love, if he lets one more of those off, I might not make it round this walk myself.”

I blink through the eye-watering horror. We areoutside. In the open air. And yet, it lingers. The Yorkshire breeze, which should be carrying the fresh scent of wildflowers and damp grass, is utterly failing us.

“This is—” I cough, swallowing hard. “This is unnatural.”

Mrs Higgins nods. “I’m not saying I believe in demons, but if they do exist, I reckon one’s taken up residence in his digestive tract.”

I step even further away, frantically scanning the road.

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