Aurora - Blood Moon Epilogue

"For saving them. Exactly. What you did was an act of self sacrifice."

"What about the other six?"

"They don't count. There was no premeditation."

"Don't count? Three of them were kids."

"Whose father was driving at two hundred kilometers an hour." Watson said in frustration, "Head down. Texting."

"I'd left my convoy, Damon. If it weren't for me-"

"No!" Watson raised his hand, "I'm not having it, Penny. I've seen it before. All you're doing is confirmation bias. And I can tell you, one hundred percent. You don't believe it any more than I do."

Penny took a step back. "Who the fuck do you think you are you, Mister? And what are you doing to me?"

"I'm a grumpy, opinionated old man with zero tolerance for bare-faced bullshit. Your real problem is that you have survivor's guilt. It stands out like dog's balls."

"What the fuck...?"

"Gotcha, Pen! Dead to rights."

The sky rumbled as if to verify the verdict. They both looked up, to find the distant towering cu, now not so distant, had matured into a hulking great thunderhead. "Don't look now..." Watson intoned, as the first icy downdraught ruffled the grass. "I think we've got company."

"See that?" Penny said bitterly, "That's probably god. About to strike me dead as punishment."

Watson looked around for a stick or a rock. "Really? Well where the fuck was that sky-dwelling old idiot when you were sitting there in that truck? Was he too busy eating popcorn out of a cloud-sized bucket to intervene? Watching an orphanage burn down? Or the latest war? God. Don't make me laugh."

Penny cringed as a big, fat raindrop, fresh from the stratosphere, hit her fair between the shoulder blades. "Fucking hell. Now we're in for it."

More and more raindrops splattered all over the ground as Watson Delved into his backpack, then extracted the waterproof shell. "Here, Penny. Put this on."

"That's okay," Penny said, fending him off, "you-"

"Don't argue, Penelope. Ally said I had to look after you, and who's gonna mess with her?"

Exhaling as if put-upon, Penny took the coat. "If you get pneumonia and die."

"Try and make it look like an accident." Watson said, pulling on a black thermal running top.

They set off into the downpour, Watson with his head down, Penny striding hard to keep up, having to jog now and then when she fell behind. The old man stopped after what felt like a couple of k, and turned on the spot getting his bearings. "We should have been there by now."

"Sure we're on the right path?"

"That's a very deep and meaningful question, Pen." Watson replied, unfolding the plastic-coated map. Visibility was poor in the teeming rain, down to a couple of hundred meters, but he tapped the map with a fingertip in a fit of valiant optimism. "We're looking for this turnoff, off to the right. Can't be too far."

The sky rumbled again, announcing its intentions. "Great!" Penny huffed. "Survive a flippin' car smash and being banged up abroad, then make it back just to be killed by lightning."

Watson, who was on friendly terms with thunderstorms, gave her a pat. "Relax, Pen, lightning hates rain. That activity's way out on the periphery." He looked at his wrist, suddenly missing the massive gold timepiece he'd worn in Ab Aldafra as a prop. "We should be there soon."

"Remind me." Penny said. "Next time I'm tempted to join you for a stroll."

Watson shrugged. "You could have just stayed home."

"Thanks for the tip, Captain Hindsight. But I didn't want you wandering around out here all on your own."

Watson nudged her ribs. "So you DO care about me."

"Don't get your hopes up you crazy old man. Shall we go?"

Scaling a style, ten minutes on, they crossed a babbling brook over a picturesque bridge. Either the solid wooden structure had been thrown up in the past couple of hours, or they were lost. Hopelessly. Under an unrelenting downpour in a far-flung wilderness. At least he was. Penny was in her element, acting the part of mobile rebuke. Watson looked up as movement caught his eye to see the white roof of a car, speeding right to left across the skyline. "Civilisation at last! I wonder what the world's come to since we've been gone."

"I don't remember a road."

"They work fast, these locals." Watson affirmed. "A road. That bridge. I wonder what else they've made?"

Meters from the road, beside the path, they found a waist-high plaque mounted on wooden posts, sporting a scratched and graffitied map of the local walking tracks. With a pindrop, 'You Are Here.' While Watson compared the signboard to his plastic covered map, Penny turned on the spot. "So where now, Vasco Da Gama?"

"Should have brought my phone." Watson grumbled and Penny opened her mouth, about to cut him off at the knees. "JOKING!" he said, as the sound of a labouring engine caught his ear. He turned, peering into the rain, to watch a geriatric Land Rover emerge out of the gloom. Fifty years old if it was a day, the battered old hack was barely crawling along, engine revving like a race car on the grid at Le Mans. Doing his level best to look harmless, Watson stood back, waving the driver down as the mud-spattered green vehicle drew slowly abeam. The passenger-side window wound down and a rosy-cheeked young female offered a smile. "Wasson, then? You alright?"

Watson gestured at the alien landscape. "Just went for a walk to the cliffs and it started to rain. I think we missed our path on the way back."

A voice spoke up and Watson looked past the smiling young woman at the driver to her right. The ruddy, weather-beaten old man, in cloth cap and ancient oilskin raincoat, could have been a character straight out of TV, 'All Creatures Great And Small' or something by Hitchcock. As Watson stood blinking, unable to decipher a word, the girl translated. "Granfer wants to know if there's anything we can do."

"Well," Watson said, looking around, "some directions would be good."

The old man spoke again and the girl relayed. "Granfer wants to know where you're staying."

"Oh..." Watson frowned, resigned to an uphill battle. 2 strangers out in the rain, one, an older man, obviously a foreigner, with a silent, glaring, if pretty young woman in tow. With no idea where they'd come from or where they wanted to be. "Look," he said, "to be honest, all we did was follow the GPS. It's an old stone farmhouse, a double-storey, and some stables, somewhere between the road and the coast. We've been here since yesterday but I'm not quite sure of the actual address."

The once peaceful rural communities were these days blighted by short-stay holiday visitors, with renovated homesteads catering to aliens and exotics from as far away as London. They came, they went, they left their litter behind, and few of them made themselves welcome. After a largely unintelligible exchange with his young granddaughter, the old farmer jerked his head at the Land Rover's back seat. The girl smiled. "Granfer says at least come in out of the rain."

Wrestling the rear door open, Watson stood aside while Penny climbed in. Hopping in after her he shut the downpour outside, swiping his face with the back of his arm. "Oops," he said, "we're getting the seat all wet."

The old farmer coughed up an asthmatic chuckle. "Granfer says don't worry." the girl laughed. "Just as long as you're not gonna murder us."

Watson blanched and Penny crossed her arms, teeth clenched, jaw muscles twitching. "Yer noo t'concern y'self wi any a' that, stranger." the farmer pressed on. "Been much worse 'ad on them seats afore... newborn lambs awl covered in blood and snot. Muddy dorgs an' cowshit an' all manner a muck!"

"Oi!" the girl laughed, giving her grandfather a shove. "Granfer!"

The old farmer said something in broad Cornish and the young girl twisted in her seat. "If you can just describe the place you were stayin at'. And Granfer wants to know who might be the owner."

"Bragg." Watson said, warming his hands in front of a heater vent. "Byron Bragg. He's a lawyer."

The two locals said, "Ohhhh...", and after a quick conversation, the girl looked over her shoulder. "He's that short little fat fella, in't he? The bald one? From London?"

"From Australia, actually." Watson hedged, rather than admit they'd never met.

"That posh King's Counsel? So you're a friend of his?"

"A friend of his brother."

The farmer was speaking in tongues again and his granddaughter heaved a deep breath. "HIS BROTHER'S FRIEND, GRANFER."

"Oooo arrr." the old man nodded, and garbled a comment.

"He's the fella who paid to have the village hall rebuilt." the girl went on. "When it burned down. Out of his own pocket. He's that Mister Bragg, int' he?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. "Mmm hmmm."

"He were so kind, you know. He rebuilt our hall and took that big city developer to court. Who wanted the site. Wouldn't take a penny in return."

Another exchange and the girl looked around. "Granfer says he knows that farm. Thistledown. Back that way by two or three mile. Granfer said we can drop you off if you like."

"Look," Watson said, "a lift would be awesome. If you don't mind."

The grandfather looked at his granddaughter, frowning. "Did 'ee say aweful?"

"AWE-SOME, GRANFER! HE SAID AWESOME! THAT MEANS YES."

As the geriatric Land Rover sat chugging on the verge another car swished by, greeting them with a toot of its horn. Revving till the engine was just about valve-bouncing, the old farmer performed a twenty-point turn, then set off back the way they'd just come, wipers hopelessly outmatched by the rain. After crawling along in first gear for half a mile, he changed-up a gear and the creep turned into a dawdle. The girl and her granddad sat chatting for a while then the girl turned round. "My name's Milly." she announced over the roar of the engine, "And this is my Granfer, Bert."

"Damon and Penny." Watson said, then sat back listening while their rescuers conferred. Milly twisted in her seat again. "Granfer says you're not from round here."

"No," Watson admitted, "I'm actually from Australia. And Penny's from-"

Penny's fingers dug into his knee and Watson shut up.

"Australia." Milly said to her granddad who shot her a frown.

"Yer wha?"

"AUSTRALIA, GRANFER. AUS-TRA-LI-A."

The old farmer wheezed with laughter again and spoke to his grandchild.

Milly looked at Watson beaming. "You ARE lost Granfer says."

"Tell me about it". Penny muttered, peering out the window.

Another conversation took place in the front and Watson steeled himself for the continuing interrogation. Just wait till he got to the part about his impersonating a billionaire. And stealing a king's helicopter. And Beck and Ally. And Cassandra and Suong. Ingots of gold gaffer-taped to his back, one of which spared him an impromptu hepatectomy. Listening in, Watson picked up a snippet now and then- something about loan sharks and a brother-in-law. Milly turned around. "Granfer said. Nan's cousin moved to Australia twenty-some years ago. Alec. Alec Quinn. Moved to Queensland, Granfer says. He's wondering if you might have come across him."

Watson rubbed his jaw, frowning. Wondering, what was the population of Queensland again? "Mmm... nnno... can't say I have."

"Tall bugger." Bert said over his shoulder. "Garra bitta wonkey auld oi."

"He's got a wonky eye." Milly explained.

"Left or right eye?" Watson asked shrewdly, while Penny crossed her arms, glaring with disapproval.

Bert and Milly conferred. "Right eye, Granfer reckons." Milly said, as the old farmer overshot a fancy white gate and slammed on the brakes. "Stroppy old ram head-butted him in the eye." Milly explained, as Granddad stirred the gearstick to the sound of a chainsaw hacking a sheet corrugated iron. Backing up, he ground the gearbox into first again and off they lurched, trundling down the drive.

Finally, mercifully, the beleaguered old vehicle pulled up beside the Watson's pristine white Range Rover- outside the two-story, gothic stone farmhouse. Before releasing them back to the wild, Bert offered his guests a long-winded history lesson, Milly translating on the fly. "This used to be the old Thatcher place." she explained. "In the same family for hundreds of years... The last Thatcher, Camus, was a right villain, Granfer says. A thief and a swindler, and a pilferer to boot. Cattle, sheep, what ere' he could steal, including neighbours' women.

"He had a wife as well, daughter of a local bishop. Pretty young thing, who gave Camus seven poor little-uns. Left to fend for themselves most of the time while Camus took to drinkin', spendin' his days and the family fortune in the ale house in town. Story goes, Mrs. Camus fell in love with the ostler. Big, strapping young man, and the scandal became the worst kept secret around. No one blamed her mind you. Everyone hated her husband as much as she did. But when Camus found out he went into a drunken rage. Beat poor Emily to wi'in an inch of her life, then left the house with a shotgun to settle the bill. They found Mister Thatcher at the bottom of the cliff, smashed like a crab. With his head missin'. When the police came round they found it in the kitchen. In a pot. Poor Emily had lost her mind, you see. Used her 'usband's head for mock turtle soup."

"Mock turtle?" Watson frowned. "You don't say."

The old farmer spoke and Milly explained. "Mock turtle. Only it's usually made wi' a calf's head."

Watson arched his eyebrows, cursing his lack of a recording device. "Don't suppose you'd notice much difference."

"Well, the little-uns certainly didn't. Ate it up and begged for more, poor starving little buggers. The authorities come and took poor Mrs. Thatcher away. She woulda' hanged too, but the evidence went missing so they sent her to Bedlam. Some say it was the ostler who stole Thatcher's head and buried it in the garden. Or threw it over the cliff, who knows? But they say old Camus Thatcher is still wandering around, searchin' for his bonce till this day."

"How?" Penny said under her breath. "Does he use a white stick?"

"No, really..." Watson cut her off, "it was worth getting lost just for that. Mrs. Thatcher and the mock turtle soup. It's got 'ballad' written all over it."

"Head's still around here somewhere, Granfer reckons. They still haven't found it."

"Well," Watson offered his hand, "we'll make sure to let you know if we stumble across it."

"Will you be you staying long?" Milly asked, taking his frigid paw in her warm, gentle hand.

"No!" Penny said, "We won't."

"We'll probably grab a cuppa and a bite to eat then hit the road." Watson said.

Old Bert weighed in and Milly converted the prattle to English. "Granfer wants to know where you're going. If it's back to London then you might want to see. There's been a big crash on the motorway. On account of the rain. It's closed."

Penny exhaled, nostrils flaring. Of all the rotten luck...

"I'll make sure to check." Watson nodded, reaching for the farmer's hand. They shook.

"Take care, Mister...?"

"Damon. Just call me Damon."

"Damon. And Granfer says, if you ever come across old Alec in Queensland, make sure you say hello. From all of us In the old country."

"Alec." Watson nodded. "I'll keep an eye out."

Opening the door, he slid sideways across the seat and waited, stiff with cold, while Penny dismounted and stood, shoulders hunched, beside him. Milly wound down her window and offered a smile. "And use little rocks next time."

Watson tilted his head. "Little rocks?"

"Instead of breadcrumbs. To find your way back."

"Rocks." Watson snapped his fingers. "Brilliant idea!"

Standing in the rain, they watched the relic depart in a cloud of blue smoke to the sound of tortured metal. "What lovely people." Watson said, then turned to lead the way up the five stone steps.

"Not to mention stark raving bonkers." Penny growled. "Turtle soup. What a load of hot cock."

"MOCK turtle, Pen. All the real ones had already been eaten."

"And 'Say hello to Alec.' Jesus Christ."

"I know, right?" Watson said, tapping a code into the keypad, "I owe that tall, one-eyed, lanky streak-of-shit a ton of money. For that bridge he sold me in Sydney. No way, I'm steering clear." Opening the door he ushered Penny inside, then followed, drenched from head to toe and chilled to the bone. Locking the door behind him, he looked around to find the farmhouse had been tidied, the fire set, dishes put away, the fridge restocked and used joints replaced. "Look out", he said, "the farmhouse elves have been for a visit."

Saturated from ankle to thigh, Penny struggled out of her jacket and hung in on a peg in the entrance. "Maybe we can catch one." she said dourly. "Make the little sod take us to his pot of gold."

Sitting on a trestle in the entryway, Watson kicked off his shoes. "I'm pretty sure that's leprechauns, Pen."

"Elves, leprechauns." Penny shrugged, rubbing warmth back into her thin, pale arms. "They're all tarred with the same bloody brush. If he hasn't got a pot of gold himself, he'll have a relative who does."

"And he can take us to the underpants gnomes while he's at it." the old man muttered. "I've got a bone to pick."

******************************************************************************************

After twenty minutes soaking under a hot shower, Watson emerged with his core temperature just about normal. Flat-out, naked in the middle of the bed, he briefly considered calling Tan to demand a confession, sure, by now, she had no intention of ever making the journey. Nor any of the others for that matter. On second thoughts, she'd just spin such a plausible tale he'd just wind up feeling guilty for doubting her. Nor did he want to return with his tail between his legs. After all, he had an image to protect. Saver of lost and damaged souls, the master of Zen. Sitting with a groan, he pulled on a pair of grey track pants, followed by a long-sleeve, green Merino T-shirt.

Windows rattled as another passing deluge battered the panes and the old stone farmhouse put its shoulder to the storm. A wild, inky night settled over the land, and drawing curtains on all but the panoramic windows, the Watson paused to tap the barometer. 999. The storm that jumped them should have come as no surprise- back on Aurora he would be well and truly battened-down. Kneeling at the fireplace, he set a match to the kindling and stood watching the flames, inhaling the scent of a freshly lit fire. With the lights down low, the spacious dwelling took on the feel of an ancient ship, timbers creaking, rigging singing, as it ploughed through a storm-tossed sea.

Cracking the fridge he leaned inside. The farmhouse elves had left a selection of pre-prepared food, including stews and soups in Tupperware containers. Sadly no mock turtle- Watson imagined pulling some hair out of his bowl- so he decanted a hearty chicken and vegetable instead, then set the copper-bottomed saucepan on the gas-range. While it warmed, he sliced a sourdough loaf from end-to-end, racking the first hand in a four-bay toaster, then gave the fire a stir, before padding across the slates to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

All at once he felt a presence beside him. Savouring the first waft of freshly-washed female, he turned his head, to find Penny in his baggy grey hoodie, hem hanging down, halfway to her knees, sleeves rolled up over her thin, pale arms. "Hope you don't mind." she said as he blinked in surprise. "I found it hanging over the railing. My stuff's all in the dryer."

"Mind?" Watson said. "Of course I don't mind. As long as you don't wash it before you return it."

Penny hooked her hair behind an ear. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Watson shrugged. "Oh, you know. Old yachties superstition."

Edging in beside him, not quite touching, Penny peered deep into the gloom. "Shame about the fuckin' weather."