The baked concrete of the runways shimmered and danced. Heavy wheels screeched and left rubber on the scarred surface. As if the sun was in need of assistance, an amplification. The blast and heat of the jetwash caused the marshallers to curse and turn away as they waved their directions to the pilots. Birds flitted and jinked through the heavy air chasing the small flies and midges, which exploded, from the yellow grass. A long, hot summer rare in England blasted the Norfolk countryside. 1976 was about to become even more memorable.

The evening promised to be just as hot as the day. I strapped on the helmet and kicked the old Suzuki alive. It was great to be finished. The shower had, worked but now the shirt I wore was darkening in the creases and, lines of wet salt made the hair under my helmet stick to my skin.

The smell of jet fuel lingered on the breeze as I accelerated away from the airfield and down the long stretch toward the village of Narborough. Groups of airmen were already heading to the village. It was a perfect evening for a few beers. Quaint village pubs were about all there was to offer so close to the base. But, I was off to other pastures. The hedgerows flashed by insects and me destroyed themselves on the helmet and the handlebars. My skin stung to with the impact of their tiny bodies. I looked over the hedgerows at the fields of wheat and laughed to myself. It was a great time to be alive. A great time to be in love.

My destination lay around ten miles away through the peaceful, roads, which thread, hither and thither around the villages and farms between Swaffham and King’s Lynn. I knew my route without thinking. Why, I chose the right fork I’ve no idea. Once committed, I continued. I could use the ford over the small river but on my mate’s bike I didn’t relish dropping it. Never mind, I thought. Nice evening and I can come into Castle Acre from the back route. I pressed on. Jane and I were off to The Ostrich.

As I rocketed along I could just make out in the distance the old Priory. Ruined now, it must’ve echoed in the long, distant past, to the chanting of Gregorian monks, or mediaeval friars. A horror film was made there in recent times. No wonder. Beautiful in the daylight but creepy at night. It was about this time that things seemed to get hazy. I thought I recognised the farm buildings up ahead. I knew there was a small pathway into the village somewhere in the vicinity so I slowed and, …turned.

The track ran down the side of the farm. It lay rutted and strewn with stones and rocks. To the right, the back of the farm outbuildings formed a wall in which small cottages were fronted by equally small and, extremely neglected gardens. About midway along, a door into one of the cottages stood ajar. In the garden an elderly couple were sitting enjoying the sunlight together. Luckily, I slowed because just as sure as I had seen the dog, I knew he was going to come and get me. No real threat to me but sure enough he kept coming. I applied the brakes too quickly and the front wheel slid slowly off to the side. The whole world spun around me and I hit the ground hard. I heard the yapping of the dog as he ran off. Dust swirled around me and the bike’s engine stuttered to a stop.

I gradually began to get my bearings and levered myself up. The first thing I saw was a lined and darkly tanned face bending over the bike. He looked at me and tut tutted. ‘Ah you a’roit boy’?

I examined the face. Sharp nose and small watery eyes looked my up and down. He pointed to my leg. My jeans were torn and a long gash was allowing gore to run down my leg and shoe to the dirt. Splashes of red disappeared as they fell into the fine dust and the grains smothered them. The Samaritan wore a thinly striped, collar-less shirt, the sort considered quite ‘cool’ at the time with a black waistcoat over. His sleeves were rolled up to show strong but hairless arms. On his head was a black, brimmed, fedora hat. It was hard to guess his age but I reckoned about 70 odd.

‘Cup o’ tea’?

The words struck me as out of place. I was examining my friend’s bike. Knackered. Foot- rest bent, petrol tank dented, indicator light broken and, the handlebars scratched to buggery. Who’d think a bit of gravel could do so much damage? I looked around for the dog. He was waiting anxiously, a hundred yards up the track. The old man spoke again. ‘Cup o’ tea’?

‘Um, I …er, No thanks. I’d best be getting on. I’ll have to get this sorted’. Over his shoulder I could see an old lady. She leaned on the old gate leading into her garden. The one with the door open. The sun prevented me from seeing into the cottage but a small table and two chairs stood in the garden. On the table were plates and a teapot. She wore some sort of dress covered with an apron. Her hair was up in a bun. She too was thin and wizened. ‘Do he want a cuppa? She spoke past me.

‘No, really. Thanks. It’s very kind of you but I’ve only got to go to the village.’ I nodded my head in the direction of Castle Acre. Both of them turned to look as though this was a novel thought. Castle Acre, the Metropolis! I picked the bike up and wobbled my way down the track limping. The dog backed off as I approached him and, as if I was intent upon revenge jinked and dodged his way past me back to his owners.

I stopped as I tried to wrestle the bike over the small footbridge and looked back along the bank of the stream. The farm buildings were invisible now. Hordes of midges and silent trees blocked my view but the yapping of a small dog filtered through the dusk. When I eventually reached the top of the village, I was in lather. A 250 is heavy work when it’s being being pushed uphill. I limped round to the back of Jane’s house. The concern and fuss, which my arrival attracted, was gratifying. Jane and her mum fussed over me while her brother tut tutted at the state of the bike. I recounted my tale with enthusiasm. Milking it for all it was worth. My girlfriend was busy bathing the wound and readying a bandage while her mum fussed around with cold drinks and soothing words.

I noticed Jane’s mum looking at me strangely. ‘Where d’you say you come off? Over the river?

‘Yeah. An old farm with some cottages. They offered me a tea’. She nodded as though in affirmation.

‘We still going to the pub? I ventured.

Later that evening we sat in The Ostrich chatting when Jane’s uncle came in. He looked over and waved then, plumped himself down in his usual spot at the bar. I was never too sure of his age but Jane said he was her mum’s older brother by at least 10 years. Everyone knew him. As the evening wore on, my recollection of the accident became more lurid. I had been travelling faster. The dog got bigger and the damage to my leg was more serious. Jane’s uncle laughed from where he sat as he caught the odd word from our table.

Suddenly, for a man of few words he interjected across the room. ‘Where d’you say it was’?

I left the table and went over to where he sat with one of his regular companions. ‘The owd fahm ‘cross the stream’. He toyed with his pint. ‘Bottom o’ the village you say’? His companion looked at me as he licked his rizzla paper. ‘Shouldn’t think so’.

I ignored him and addressed the uncle. ‘Yeah, you must know it. You’ve been in the village a long time’? They exchanged glances before the uncle looked at me and grinned. ‘Oi hen’t lived heah that long boy’! They both chuckled.

‘What d’you mean’? I looked back at Jane and nodded her over. As she arrived, she put her arm around my waist.

The uncle’s friend grinned at Jane. ‘Young fella’s askin’ ‘bout the owd fahm. Oi reckon these owd Raf boys got a owva-active ‘magination eh’? The two men laughed. Jane frowned and asked ‘Why’?

The uncle’s face grew serious. ‘Jane, that owd fahm hint got no-one livin’ there. Hint bin no one there since afore oi wa’ a boy’. She frowned. ‘Well, if Neil says it happened and you say it didn’t, I’ll go with his version’. She squeezed my arm. ‘Tell you what we’ll take a walk, …..Now. You can show me where it happened. It’s a nice night for a walk’.

We giggled and wobbled down the steep hill. Occasionally, a snog deflected us but, eventually, we reached the footbridge. Apart from the trickling water passing beneath us, it was very, very quiet.
The path was hard to follow. Nettles and branches brushed against us as we stumbled along in the dark but the night was warm and we hugged each other. I didn’t remember the path being so long but we persevered until we hit gravel. Off to the left, and rearing up from behind the trees, dark walls and roofs listened to our progress. Not being a country boy, I was beginning to dislike the lack of streetlighting but Jane seemed quite at home. Until, we rounded the corner.

If darkness has a frequency which can be measured, the darkness which we bumped into now, would be ultra, ultra-low. Nothing tangible. Nothing you could see. Something which could only be sensed. Deep inside me, a tuner was zip zapping across the channels looking for a register to compare with. Nothing. No single experience in my life had a comparison with this feeling. Jane had gone silent. Her giggling had stopped as if a switch had been turned. We stood at the bottom of a lane. To the right dark, half-formed shapes loomed above us. The bushes and hedge bristled with …. Silence. But to our left, where the shadows lay over each other like the cross-hatchings on a madman’s sketch, the black faces of the ruined cottages stared back. No light shone. The gardens were overgrown with decades’ growth of weed and bramble. The glassless windows glared, as if at offended at our presence, at our temerity. Words came back to me. ‘Oi hen’t lived heah that long boy’!

My eyes began to water. I heard a sob and Jane’s hand grabbed mine. Her fingers were icy and her nails dug into my skin. We turned and walked quickly to the path without speaking. As we hit the path we started running and, as we ran, our fear fuelled our fear and we broke into headlong flight. We charged across the brook and into the lower village. Without saying word, we panted our way back up the hill.

In the cold light of day, it’s easy to rationalise. To dismiss as fantasy or mistake the things we don’t understand. The bike squeaked and rattled under me as I passed over the footbridge. Again the weeds grabbed at the bent footrest and the trees tried to sweep me off but, at last, I reached the lane. The cottages stood unchanged. The gardens were jungle, unkempt and untouched by human hand. From the look of them, for aeons. Broken windows and guttering festooned the scene. In each garden, a smashed and rotting door lay frozen in the sunlight. No evidence at all of my accident the previous evening. Not even a tyre mark. I slowly drove up the lane toward the main road. At least it was still there.

As I turned onto the tarmac I heard, ever so faintly, possibly in my mind, but who can be sure, a small dog yapping wildly.