17
The first sound that came to Richard from out of the haze was that of people talking. Excited voices, full of expectation and good humour. These were not the same as the ones he’d heard previously. No jollity then, only threat, anger, accusation. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, and gradually the world around him came into focus.
He had left behind that leaden sky, which threatened a storm. The images of Penwright’s writhing, burning body were replaced by a bright, blue sky and a warm, uplifting sun, almost as he were in a different place and time.
Blinking, he wasn’t sure how much of what he saw was reality or mere fancy. He sat on a bench under the shade of a chestnut tree and looked out over a well-kept village green. In its centre stood a white Maypole, adorned with long, brightly
