Page 9 of The Other Side

His panic attacks usually announced themselves with small things first. A strange awareness of his heartbeat. A feeling that the air had become thinner. The conviction that something terrible was about to happen. The sensation of not being able to breathe. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

I am all right.

I can do this.

I am safe.

There is nothing here that will hurt me.

He opened his eyes and waited. Nothing happened. Just birds squawking in a quiet garden. Eventually he let out a slow breath.

“Get a fucking grip,” he muttered.

The words sounded harsher spoken aloud. He shut and locked the doors and looked at his phones. Both fully charged. Both within reach. Ridiculous, really. He wasn’t eighty years old. He wasn’t trapped or helpless. Not now. Yet he found himself crossing the room and checking both screens anyway. No missed calls. No messages. He counted the knives in the drawer and let out a shaky breath.

When he felt calmer, he had a shower. He came out of the bathroom with his towel wrapped around him and somewhere upstairs, a floorboard clicked. His shoulders immediately tensed. He wanted to laugh at himself but he couldn’t. He padded silently up the stairs and froze when he saw his bedroom door was moving. Oh fuck.

He couldn’t lift his feet. Every muscle was locked. Then a gust of wind from the landing window pushed the door wide open. Bloody hell. There was no danger. It was just pressure equalising. Physics. Drum stayed still for a moment longer. Then he walked into the—of course it’s fucking empty—bedroom to put on clean clothes. To his shame, the first thing he did was look under the bed.

His first day on the job would be a long one. He had a new world to map out, one with hills and valleys, and a lot of steep lanes. Drum had a plan. Calver was not on the list of places to visit. Not today. Instead, he’d drive to Stoney Middleton, park up, walk along one side of the main road, then turn around and come back on the other. It had sounded simple enough when he’d scribbled it in his notebook. In reality, there were far more hills than he’d bargained for.

Tucked into a dramatic limestone valley, Stoney Middleton was a picturesque settlement with cliffs rising above narrow streets and traditional stone cottages clustered at the base. Drum didn’t confine himself to the main road. He climbed a steep lane lined with pale limestone cottages, their small front gardens spilling over with summer flowers. By the time he reached the top, his legs ached and his lungs burned. Not as fit as I thought.

Despite the warm weather, smoke drifted lazily from a chimney. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked as Drum passed before deciding he wasn’t worth the effort. I’m not. He carried on until the houses thinned out, then stopped to admire a view stretching across rolling fields before making his way back downhill.

He took his time. Being seen was part of the job. He nodded to people cleaning windows, exchanged greetings with a gardener, and paused beside a low stone wall, removing his cap as though admiring the scenery while secretly catching his breath.

A door opened nearby. An elderly woman stepped outside into a front garden bright with pretty flowers. She was carrying a watering can. She looked him up and down with curious eyes.

“Good morning,” Drum said. “What a lovely garden.”

“Thank you. Good morning to you too. Are you our new PCSO?”

“I am. My name’s Drum.”

The woman’s face brightened immediately. She set down the watering can and held out a hand.

“Lily Edwards. How lovely to meet you.”

Drum shook it. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Likewise.”

“Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?”

The invitation came so naturally, it felt rude to refuse. “That would be delightful.”

Lily proved to be delightful too.

Her cottage was cool, insulated from the sun by the thick walls. It was also very tidy and smelt faintly of lavender polish and something freshly baked. Family photographs covered almost every surface. Some showed children and grandchildren, while others depicted stern-faced relatives from decades past.

Over tea and homemade fruitcake, Drum learned that Lily was eighty-one years old. He would never have guessed. She moved about the kitchen with ease and possessed a memory sharper than many people half her age. More importantly, she knew everything.

Or at least everything worth knowing.

As she refilled his cup for the second time, Drum listened patiently while she explained the history of nearly every house in the village and all the folklore.

“The house with the green door used to belong to the village blacksmith.” She pointed through the window. “And the cottage opposite was a bakery until the seventies. Terrible shame when it closed.”

Drum nodded.