A Scarecrow to Watch Over Her: The Mulrones, #1

By Craig Saunders

In the heart of rural England Bernie and his wife Margaret cross paths with a dangerous family. People assume the family are gypsies, or maybe travellers, but all anyone knows for sure is that they're the Mulrones, and that the Mulrones are bad news.

Bernie finds out how quickly a man's life can be turned around when the Mulrones teach him the value of family.
Margaret won't back down, though. 

They have their family...she has hers.
*
The Mulrones:
#1. A Scarecrow to Watch over Her
#2. Death by a Mother's Hand
#3. Flesh and Coin
#4. Deadlift

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Fable Books
• Release date: Nov 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973104308

Craig Saunders

Craig Saunders is the author of forty (or so) novels and novellas, including 'ALT-Reich', 'Vigil' and 'Hangman', and has written over a hundred short stories, available in anthologies and magazines, 'best of' collections and audio formats. He tends to write science fiction as Craig Robert Saunders, fantasy as Craig R. Saunders, and most fiction as Craig Saunders...although sometimes the lines are blurred. Imprints: Dark Fable Books/Fable Books.  Likes: Nice people, games, books, and doggos. Dislikes: Weird smells, surprises, and gang fights in Chinatown alleyways.  He's happy to talk mostly anything over at: www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com  @Grumblesprout Praise for Craig Saunders: [Masters of Blood and Bone] '...combines the quirkiness of Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas series with the hardcore mythology of Clive Barker to create an adventure that is both entertaining and terrifying.' - examiner.com [Vigil] 'A gripping accomplishment.' - Murder, Mayhem and More. 'Saunders is fast becoming a must read author...' - Scream. [Bloodeye] '...razor-sharp prose.' Wayne Simmons, author of Flu and Plastic Jesus. 'Plain and simple, this guy can write.' - Edward Lorn, author of Bay's End.  [Deadlift] 'Noir-like, graphic novel-like horror/thriller/awesomeness.' - David Bernstein, author of Relic of Death and Witch Island. 'A master of the genre.' Iain Rob Wright. [Spiggot] 'Incredibly tasteless, shamelessly lowbrow, and very, very funny.' - Jeff Strand.  [A Home by the Sea] 'Brutal and poetic...' - Bill Hussey, author of Through a Glass, Darkly. [Rain] '...the best book I've read in a year.' - The Horror Zine. [Cold Fire] '...full of emotion and heart.' - Ginger Nuts of Horror.

Book preview

Foreword and Acknowledgement

This story was first published by Blood Bound Books as a part of double-header horror feature packaged with Robert Essig's 'The Madness'. It was my first published novella, and that acceptance gave me enough of a boost to carry on submitting stories to publishers.

'A Scarecrow to Watch over Her' features a violent and rather nasty family, the Mulrones. People think they're gypsies, or maybe a travelling family. The truth is stranger, I think. I always intended to return to the Mulrones and find out for myself who they are, especially their matriarch, Ma Mulrone.

The future for the Mulrones? I don't know...yet.

Thanks to Andi Rawson, too, who proofread this revised and updated version (roughly twice as long as the original) and made the story damn near as good as I could hope. Thank you.

Craig

The Shed

2017

1.

Thursday

‘Madge!’

‘What?’

‘Door!’ Bernie, shouting at her from somewhere upstairs.

‘I heard it. I’m doing breakfast!’

‘I’m in the toilet, woman!’

Brilliant.

How just like Bernie. Delivering orders from the throne.

Margaret swore under her breath about Bernie, the persistent caller at the door, and just the general kind of swearing that put-upon people mutter quietly to themselves.

She took the pan off the AGA, wiped her hands on a tea towel, tossed it onto the worktop. The bacon still sizzled as she walked from the kitchen, along the hall, to the front door.

She checked her hair in the full length mirror in the hallway. Grey, but tidy. Good enough. There was a spot of fat on her dress. She thought about a quick change, but the ringing at the door wouldn’t give up.

‘Just a minute!’ she called, pulling her hair back from her forehead with her palm. The strands fell back across her face as she pulled open the heavy door.

‘Oh,’ she said, as she saw the policeman on her doorstep. He was smiling, but that didn’t stop her asking, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, ma’am,’ he said, keeping his smile in place. It came out as ‘marm’. Policemen really did still speak like that in the rural heart of the fens.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m sorry, am I interrupting your breakfast?’

Well, yes, she thought.

‘Not at all.’

He nodded. Took a breath.

'It’s just a courtesy call, really. We’re stopping at all the homes in the area.’ He made a show of stepping back, taking in the view. ‘It’s a nice house.’

‘Thank you,’ said Margaret, a trifle impatiently. She knew full well it was a nice house. It was a Georgian farmhouse; old enough to have space and style, but not old enough to be tumbling down around their ears.

The policeman coughed into his hand. When he took his hand away his beard was slightly askew, wiry ginger strands pointing this way and that.

Margaret wondered what the world was coming to. Policemen wearing beards indeed!

And gormlessly, he stared back.

‘Officer?’ she prompted.

A quick sniff and the man dragged his mind back on track.

‘Ah. Yes. As I say, a courtesy. We thought we should let you know, there’s a load of gypsies coming the weekend. A horse and pony show. The long weekend?’

‘I know it’s a long weekend, officer. Your point?’ Margaret smiled as she said it. She was aware she was being brusque. She didn’t like to be thought of as rude. She was, despite her best efforts, thought rude among the ladies of the parish council. Margaret simply was not a people person.

‘Well, we thought we’d let you know. You know.’

‘No, officer, I’m afraid I don’t know. What about the gypsies?’

‘They’re in Mr. Davis’ field.’

‘I know Mr. Davis. I’m sure who he lets in his field is of no concern.’

The policeman coughed again. This wasn’t going how he had expected.

‘Erm, Mrs...?’

‘Rochette.’

‘Mrs. Rochette, as I’m sure you are aware, gypsies are prone to stealing things, and can be quiet, ah, unsociable, shall we say?’

‘And stealing away babies and suchlike?’

‘Please, Mrs. Rochette. I’m just doing my job. I understand your point, but it’s a fact. We’re calling at all the houses in the area. I’d advise you to make sure your doors are locked, and the barns, too. You may wish to give them the benefit of the doubt, but we’re letting you know for a reason. Thefts in the area rocket whenever the gypsies come, and that’s a fact, ma’am.’

Margaret nodded. She deemed it the quickest way to get rid of the man. Her bacon would be ruined. She was more concerned about that than any gypsies.

‘Well, thank you for the warning, officer. I’m sure I shall take it in the spirit intended.’

The policeman wasn’t sure how to take that. He tipped his hat and rubbed his face, seeming surprised to find his beard there.

‘I’ll leave it to you ma’am.’

‘I should think so,' she said. 'Is that all?’

‘Yes. Good morning to you.’

Margaret sniffed and looked out into the field past the policeman. The scarecrow was down again in the front field. She’d have to tell Bernie about that.

She closed the door.

*

The policeman shrugged and walked away. He’d tried. Some people just didn’t want to listen to sense. Being politically correct was all well and good, but they hadn’t called in reinforcements from three counties on a whim.

He turned up the gravel drive and gave one last look back at the house. It didn’t look secure, but it wasn’t his job to tell them that.

'I'll be a monkey’s uncle if they don’t lose their best silver before the weekend's through,' he said to himself as he crunched back down the drive to his car.

*

Bernard came down the stairs hitching his trousers around his waist. He was a man with an ample waist and very little behind, hence his habit of pulling on his trousers. If he didn’t, they were likely to fall down around his ankles at the most inopportune of moments.

‘Who was