Chapter One Hundred
Havermouth, Present Time
Leighton Richard lived on a farm just outside of town. The high fences surrounding his property indicated that he kept deer, although the fields appeared to be empty, the deer obviously preferring to hide amongst the scrub to the rear of the property. There was a giant timber barn painted black with ‘Leighton Richard’ in man-sized white lettering on the road-facing side and ‘Potter’ in smaller letters.
A sign on the gate declared that they were entering the property of Leighton Richard, Potter, and editor of the Havermouth Exposé. There was an honour box arrangement by the gate, where the latest version of the Havermouth Exposé could be purchased.
Aislen snagged a copy and dropped a few coins into the slot whilst June opened the gate. She drove forward along a well-maintained driveway towards a tidy little house whose sandstone construction spoke of it being original to the area. Under the bullnosed veranda, a grey-muzzled, old dog flicked an ear, as much to shoo off a fly, in acknowledgement of their arrival.
They rang the doorbell and waited for a long time, before looking towards the barn.
“Try there?” Aislen suggested to June.
“Yeah, maybe he’s working,” June agreed.
“Don’t worry about escorting us over,” Aislen said to the lazy dog. “We can find our own way.”
They crossed the yard, past a vegetable garden and several rabbit pens, the occupants coming to the wire mesh with hopeful eyes and wriggling noses.
“Dinner?” Aislen wondered.
“Pets?” June replied, but her tone wasn’t entirely sure.
“You don’t sound confident about that,” Aislen noted.
“Leighton… well, he’s Leighton,” June replied.
“What does that mean?”
“Well,” June blushed. “You’ll see.”
They both came to a standstill as they rounded the corner of the barn. There was a circle of gravel that Patrick would approve of, Aislen thought dryly, and three domed shaped structures stood like strange cairns at the points of the clock, with the barn forming the fourth point. A man, shirtless, sweating, and smeared with black streaks of ash, bent over the open door of one of the domes, through which flames flared in a ferocious dance.
He closed the door and wiped the back of his forearm across his forehead as he turned. He was drenched with sweat, Aislen saw, and was fucking gorgeous, with thick brunette hair tied back from a square-jawed face, shadowed with more than one day’s growth, and bright blue eyes.
“Oh, yum,” Aislen murmured to June. “One thing Havermouth has going for it is the men. They seem to come in varying levels of panty-dropping, and this one is definitely top-shelf, sire my children material.”
June smothered a scandalized giggle. “Aislen!”
“I’ll share,” Aislen winked at her. “After I’m done with him.”
“Can I help you?” Leighton asked, as he walked towards them, his smile politely charming.
“Oh, definitely,” Aislen replied. “But don’t let us interrupt. You just finish what you’re about and we’ll watch whilst we wait.”
“Hi… June,” he said to June, dredging her name from his memory. “And you are?” He asked Aislen.
“Aislen Carter,” she watched his face as she announced herself and saw recognition, but not subterfuge. “I think you knew my father.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the kiln and then back at his two visitors. “Cup of tea?” He suggested.
“Sure,” Aislen agreed readily. “Why not?”
He led the way into the barn – though it was not used to house animals. There were shelves of finished pottery tagged for sale, and more containing labelled jars of powders and liquids that looked, to Aislen, like a witch’s pantry of spell components.
A pottery wheel and chair were set next to a table coated in mud and dust – his work zone. There was an office with a beaten-up leather couch on the mezzanine, and an office set below it. Against the rear wall was a basic kitchen set up. He arranged three of his own-made teacups, Aislen thought, from their unusual shapes and interesting glazes, and set the kettle to boiling, before turning and leaning his hips back against the bench whilst he regarded them.
“This isn’t a social call,” he observed. “And I don’t think you’re here as customers. Which leads to two possible reasons for your arrival,” he turned back to the kettle and poured boiling water over home-made tea bags, the air filling with the fresh scent of mint. “You are here about Patrick Carter’s campaign to expose that the police force of Havermouth are protecting the sons of wealthy and powerful families in the area, or you’re here to ask me if I’m the Secret Keeper.”
“What would you answer be?” Aislen wondered as she accepted a teacup from him. She liked the glaze he had used, she decided. There was something earthy, and yet also opulent about the texture of it in her hands, in the shimmer of green and gold over the cream and brown base. “Are you the Secret Keeper?”
His blue eyes watched her over the rim of his teacup as he raised it to his lips and blew across the surface, dislodging steam to disperse like smoke. “You know I’m not the Secret Keeper, Aislen Carter,” he replied, his voice warm.
“And why do you say that?” Aislen found herself smiling back at him. There was something entirely engaging about him, she thought, something that sucked a person into his warmth and made them want to confess to all manner of things.
Not a werewolf, she tried to think logically. No, Leighton Richard wasn’t a werewolf, nor was he a vampire. But he was something… something supernatural.
“Because, I am not,” he replied. “You are the Secret Keeper.”
“Ah,” Aislen sighed the word out. “What gives you that impression?”
“Well,” he sipped his tea. “Timing and opportunity. You arrived just before these newsletters began, and the latest version touches on the subject of abuse by Havermouth’s wealthy and influential families’ sons against girls without the same advantages,” he met her eyes, and she wondered if, like Talen, he knew that she was not an ordinary human, or if, like the werewolves, he saw her as just a slightly more troublesome human. “Which means, I am guessing, that you have found your father’s work.”
“Were you the reporter that he was speaking to?” Aislen asked, although she was more than certain that she was correct. She avoided answering his question. Whilst she did not think that he was the murderer, she wasn't prepared to take the risk.
“I have had conversations with your father about the matter,” he confirmed. “Though I advised him that it would have to be iron-clad evidence for me to print it or I would be subject to multiple defamation lawsuits. Do you intend to continue his pursuit of justice for those girls and their families?”
Aislen took a mouthful of tea. It was good, she thought, a home-made and organic blend of lemon and mint harvested from his own garden. “No,” she told him. “I plan on destroying what he had.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. Why would you do that?”
“Because, I don’t think those girls told their stories to him, made the choice for their photos and history to be used. I think a bunch of parents, disgruntled over the behaviour of their teenaged daughters got together and decided to do this. Maybe they’re right about the assaults. Honestly, knowing the boys of this town, they probably are right,” she amended. “But that doesn’t make it their decision to make, or their story to tell. If those girls wanted to share what happened to them, then they are free to do so, but a group of parents whose children are now independent adults don’t get to make that decision for them – not even for those girls that didn’t make it, or can no longer make the choice themselves,” she added, thinking of Heather Arren and the other girls who had not lived to adulthood.
“And yet you wrote a Secret Keeper bulletin about it,” he said.
“I never said that I was the Secret Keeper,” she raised an eyebrow and blew on her tea. “But, if I was, you will note that the poem gives no details and names no one. Havermouth knows them already, as Havermouth also knows who is truly to blame for those crimes – not the girls that they label whores, not the stupid boys who have been taught that they have free rein to fuck where they choose without consequence, no… It is Havermouth that enables this. The police force for covering up, the wealthy and influential for bribing their way out of this trouble, and the rest of Havermouth for standing by and watching it happen without saying anything.”
“The failure to act when there is a duty to act,” Leighton murmured. “Or the bystander effect?”
“A bit of both,” she replied. “I think one is responsible for the other, don’t you?”
“What is the bystander effect?” June asked uncertainly.
“The more people there are witnessing an emergency, the less people are likely to respond, as they assume that the responsibility lies with someone else, or that there is someone more qualified and able than they to respond. There is a diffusion of responsibility,” Leighton explained.
“Basically, it’s not their problem, not their shit show,” Aislen said. “So, they do nothing.”
“In law,” Leighton continued. “There is the situation where if you encounter an injured person, you are not obligated to help them, but should you start to do so, you are then obligated to continue doing so. As a result, many people are reluctant to become involved in a situation, as becoming involved means they are then required to stay involved.”
“Fuck,” Aislen muttered under her breath. She was involved now, she thought to herself. Did that obligate her to see it to its conclusion?
“Well,” Leighton set his teacup to the side. “I’d best return to work. Kilns are like children – they require constant attention and feeding.”
“I like your work,” Aislen told him. “I’ll have to come back to shop sometime soon.”
“I am always happy to have a new customer,” he replied, as he walked back out of the barn. “Of my pottery or of my news bulletin.”
It wasn’t until she was back in the car that Aislen looked at the Havermouth Exposé that she had bought. The title read: “The Secret Keeper for Mayor?”
“They’re joking,” she said.
June glanced over at the paper. “Oh, no,” she replied with a grin. “Didn’t you know? The popularity polls are showing a landslide win for the Secret Keeper.”
“What will Havermouth actually do if the Secret Keeper wins?” Aislen wondered, shaking her head in wonderment as she drove back out of Leighton Richard’s property. “I mean, they need someone to fulfil the role of mayor, don’t they? What does a mayor even do?”
“Holds meetings and decides what to do for the good of the town,” June shrugged. “You should come forward, Aislen,” she added. “Tell them that you are the Secret Keeper and claim the role of mayor.”
“Oh, no,” Aislen shook her head vehemently. “I can’t be mayor. I’m a fucking BL comic book author. I draw cock for a living. I would be an awful mayor. I hate Havermouth. I’m only here until…” She trailed off, her thoughts returning to the Triquetra. She was only in Havermouth because she didn’t want to give up on the Triquetra, because in the deepest darkest recesses of her heart, she wanted, somehow in some way, for things to work out with them.
Where did that leave her and Talen?
She heaved a sigh.
“Think about it,” June prompted. “At least think about it. Honestly, Aislen, you would be an improvement over every other mayor this town has seen. At least you know right from wrong.”
“Do I?” Aislen was dubious.
“What you said about those girls… yeah,” June said. “And you stayed to help Guy out. So, yeah. You have my vote, for what it is worth.”
“Thanks,” Aislen was flattered, despite her reluctance to take the role. “Not that I intend to come out as the Secret Keeper, but thanks anyway. Oh,” she added. “Do you know a Charlotte McKenzie, by the way?”
“Charlotte?” June raised her eyebrows. “Sort of. Why?”
Aislen blew out a breath. “Five years ago, I should have said something to her, but I was too stuck in my own misery to try to alleviate hers. All this talk of duty to act and the bystander effect – it’s about time I did what I should have done five years ago and make sure that she’s okay.”