Page 24 of The Other Side

“Oh, for—”

Eventually he managed to herd them towards the gate they’d presumably come through. It wasn’t open, but he managed to push it open before the pair went wandering further down the road. Drum tried to encourage them to go into the field.

“Come on. Back home. You’ve had your little adventure.”

The smaller sheep trotted obligingly through the gate. The larger one stopped. Turned. And set off in the opposite direction.

What the fuck?

Drum slammed the gate shut on the small one and went after the other sheep. Managing to get ahead of it, he held out his arms in a wide, commanding gesture to urge it back toward the gate. The sheep stared. There was a long, tense moment where neither of them moved. If it was high noon and we had guns… He laughed.

“I’m a police officer.” What good he thought telling it that would do, he had no idea.

But apparently, it worked. The sheep turned and headed back in the right direction. Drum breathed a sigh of relief—only for the animal to suddenly dart around him and bolt down the lane.

“You little shit.” Drum took off after it.

Several minutes later, he was breathless, covered in mud, and clutching a very confused sheep around its middle when headlights cut through the darkness. Oh, fuck.

A battered Land Rover slowed to a halt. The window rolled down, and a man in his fifties peered out. “Having fun, officer?”

Drum was currently half-carrying, half-wrestling what felt like a hundred pounds of stubborn animal. “Is this yours?”

“Yes. Everything under control?”

The sheep kicked Drum squarely in the shin.

“Ouch. No.”

To Drum’s horror, the farmer started laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a polite snort. But full-bodied, tears-in-the-eyes, steering-wheel-slapping laughter. Bastard. And did he just take a picture? What the fuck?

“There were three teenagers stealing your sheep,” Drum said through gritted teeth, manoeuvring the animal toward the gate.

“I had a call from the police. A passing motorist had spotted them.”

“I chased them off.”

“Right.”

“And now I’m returning your livestock.”

“You are.”

“Do you think you could open the gate?”

The sheep chose that exact moment to fart, loudly and noxiously. Oh Christ. What a stink. I hope it didn’t shit at the same time.

The farmer finally climbed out of his vehicle, and a moment later, Drum and the beast were parted. The gate clicked shut and Drum leaned against it, breathing heavily.

“Thank you. I’m Fred Breakwater. You got here faster than me. Well done.”

“I took pictures.” Drum pulled out his phone and showed them to the farmer. “Do you know them?”

Breakwater tsked. “The Varley twins and Tim Motson. They live in the next village. Taplow.”

“I’ll speak to their parents.”

“For all the good that will do. Motson’s anyway. Stan Motson’s boy can do no wrong. You’re not able to arrest them, are you?”