Page 11 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Watch your step,’ snapped Fred. ‘Those dahlias are worth more than the lot of you put together.’
One man smirked but made a show of stepping away from the pots lined up in regimental fashion against a wall.
‘We’ll be checking everyone’s outhouses,’ added the other man forcefully. ‘You’ve got to do it all yourself now. Police are too busy. You never know who might be harbouring one of them.’ His gaze focussed on Ivy, a little too intently. ‘You’re next.’
She cringed. They were coming toher shed. For Omar.
She could refuse, but that would only draw attention. Gripping her bag more tightly, she forced a laugh. ‘I doubt you’ll find anything as useful in mine as in Fred’s – maybe a decent bunch of spiders.’
‘Won’t take long to check,’ one of them said smoothly.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She willed her voice to stay light. ‘If you like the scent of damp, be my guest.’
‘We’ll finish Fred’s place first. Need to do a proper job,’ he said airily, which made Ivy realize she had only minutes to protect Omar from this band of vigilantes.
Using her shopping as an excuse, Ivy dashed off and let herself into her own cottage. Jez gave a welcoming yowl, jumping up and rattling the sides of his cage. She released him, dumped her bag on the kitchen table and unlocked the back door. The rain had started up again, spattering on the path. The little dog scampered between her legs and shot off towards the shed. Oblivious to the rain, Ivy ran after him, smiling at the back half of the pup’s body swinging sideways, making it look more like he was running in a haphazard zigzag rather than a straight line.
Ivy yanked open the shed door and the puppy slithered between her legs as she stepped inside, shutting out the rain behind her. The scent was familiar, dank but pleasant, yet the space looked completelydifferent.The mess – the scattered tools, the toppling stacks – was gone. A strip of wood, seemingly carefully chiselled, replaced the handle of her broken spade – the one she’d been meaning to mend for months.
Omar sat in the corner, legs stretched out, dishevelled despite the surrounding order. Mud still clung to his clothes; dirt smudged his cheek. His dark hair fell over his forehead and his beard looked slightly more bedraggled. But beneath the exhaustion was that same determination – the sharp tilt of his jaw, the deep-set eyes that locked onto hers.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she whispered. ‘There’s—’
He scowled. ‘Where should I go?’ His voice was hoarse, weary.
On the other side of the fence, she could hear footsteps clattering on Fred’s path. Her breath came fast. Sheshouldtell him to go, she had done enough to salve her conscience, it was time to focus on finding a job, on scraping her life back together.But he had fixed her spade. He hadtidied her shed. Two small acts of care.
Ivy held out a hand. ‘They’re looking for you. Come with me. Now.’
Omar hesitated only a moment before rising and reaching for his duffle bag.
They burst through the back door, soaked from the rain. Their footsteps slapped wetly against the floor, water pooling around their shoes. The house exhaled a comforting milky sweet smell of puppy, as if welcoming them. A shadow moved past the window. The vigilantes were about to check her shed. They would find nothing untoward other than the crocheted blanket. As she pushed Omar away from the window, her breath shuddered. She hadn’t thought this through. She was committed now. She knew next to nothing about this man. How much danger had she just placed herself in?
They stood, dripping, an awkward silence swelling between them. Ivy became conscious of the soft tick of the mantel clock, the press of Jez’s damp body against her leg and the puppy’s gentle panting as he caught his breath. Omar looked around, shivering slightly, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. Ivy’s eyes flicked to his soaked clothes: mud-streaked jeans, a dirty shirt clinging to his frame.
What now?
She wrapped her arms around herself, heart thudding. She asked herself what the vigilantes outside feared. Omar hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t even raised his voice.
‘Go upstairs,’ she said. Her voice felt foreign in her throat, brittle. ‘Use the shower. I’ll ... I’ll wash your clothes.’
Omar blinked, unsure at first, but then nodded. As he disappeared up the stairs, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, Ivy grabbed the spare towels from the linen cupboard. Her hands trembled as she picked up his clothes from wherehe’d peeled them off by the staircase, the fabric heavy and sodden giving off a whiff of exotic spices.
She loaded the washing machine with shaking hands. The hum of it starting up seemed too loud, too obvious. Ivy wiped her palms on her jumper and stepped towards the kitchen window. Peering out through the lace curtains, she saw flashlights bobbing among the hedges. Someone called her name, casual, almost friendly, but there was an edge beneath it.
A knock at the back door made her jump.
She opened it a crack. Rain misted in. A man stood there, his boots caked in mud, his waterproof jacket glistening. Behind him, others lingered at the edge of the garden.
‘Afternoon, Vicar,’ he said, his breath steaming in the cold air. ‘Mind if we have a quick look? We’re making sure no one’s slipped through.’
Ivy smiled too widely. ‘Of course. Just the garden though.’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You leave the shower on upstairs?’
Ivy’s mouth went dry. ‘Oh! I ... I wanted to clean the puppy’s paws. I run the water first to warm it up.’ She forced a laugh.
There was a pause.
