From above, it is indeed a green and pleasant land. Fields, trees, and narrow lanes create a verdant patchwork in this valley; an ode to the beauty of an ancient land, writ large in the sward, and punctuated by a small village nearby, and a few tiny hamlets of two or three houses.

Drawing a little closer, the eye is inescapably drawn to a large house set on a hill at the top of the valley – the mons at the isthmus of the thighs that formed the sides of Edgemore Vale. From the size of the squared ‘C’ shape of the structure, the expensive slate of the roof tiles, the large number of chimneys, and the carefully manicured lawns and shrubberies, it is owned by a family of great stature and wealth.

Down the hill – the long, arrow-straight driveway from the manor pointing its location – is a modest dwelling, a rambling barn alongside it. The house is more a cottage, and the barn lacks the expected farming implements and livestock nearby. The lane between the two properties has seen a surprising number of motorcycles come and go, in loud, harsh harmony.

The cottage is attractive, but the eye is inevitably hijacked by the beautiful architecture up the hill, captured by the white pebble driveway, mugged by the perfect gardens, and raped by the welcoming grandeur of the wide solid-oak front doors set in a glorious Italian marble entranceway. If the smaller house is the epitome of Middle England, this noble neighbour is its royal crowning glory.

The arched windows are wide-eyed to allow the occupants to take in all the glorious views that burst forth on all sides. Extending into the distance are the multi-hued forests that stand to attention on the heights of the valley, mirroring each other as they stretch into the remoteness. A small, artfully redirected river makes its way along the estate’s lower edge, the driveway bridging it at the majestic gateway. Wild geese, moorhens and swans decorate it as if painted into the tableau by a master artist who enjoyed a cliché.

Up at the manor house, within a pair of those immaculately polished windows, sat what used to be termed ‘a spinster of the parish’. All who saw her were unanimous in their description of her; ‘beautiful’, ‘elegant’, ‘high-class and handsome’, and even ‘magnificent’. However, those accounts were more rumour than eye-witness testimony, as those who had seen her in person over the previous four and a half years were few. But the rumours abounded, echoing back and forth.

Behind the windows, the room was panelled in amber wood, its elegant perfection enhanced or marred here and there by one of the small masterpieces left behind by her deceased parents. A chandelier hung from the ceiling in its crystalline glory, although practical electric lights had replaced the candles. As always, Lady Charlotte Evans sat behind the elegant George II desk, a masterpiece in mahogany with ebony inlays, that was carelessly devalued by the modern computer monitor and keyboard set upon it. The drawers had been designed to hold valuable papers, the finest writing implements, riding gloves of kid-skin, or valued mementoes of secret amours. Now, however, they were home to everyday miscellaneous bric-a-brac; a half-finished bottle of bourbon, a few packets of cigarettes and lighters, batteries, a small electrical screwdriver, dozens of pens, a few paperbacks.

The daughter of a peer of the realm, she worked carefully, putting the finishing touches and final polishes to her ninth novel. Even at this stage, with the publishers making advance sales, her latest bodice-ripper was almost guaranteed to be another best-seller. Working to an unbreakable internal deadline, she laboured tirelessly, only stopping now and again to light another cigarette – and glance upwards. It was a habit – a bad habit. She knew it was terrible for her, but she couldn’t stop, and she didn’t seriously want to. The cigarettes were almost as bad.

The next time she looked up, she noticed a patina of dust on its surface and immediately knelt on the desk to wipe it off with a duster she kept specifically for that purpose. With a murmur of satisfaction, she slipped back down and retook her seat in the high-backed chair, ensuring her view.

The once again pristine mirror, mounted on the slant, was high and broad, allowing her to see the views through both of the windows behind her – her desk placed against the wall opposite them. She hated the sight of the uninhabited cottage; resenting that it remained in her thoughts, continually trying to displace the beautiful, lusting maidens, the hard-bodied, well-endowed heroes, and evil – albeit sexually fascinating – villains who populated the novels which kept her large coffers overflowing.

She never ever looked directly at the cottage at the end of her driveway. Never directly. Only in reflection could she do that; knowing it was a totem, a juju, almost a voodoo fetish of her ill-fortune. If she looked directly at it, she would be cursed forever. She was too level-headed to believe in those things consciously, but somewhere down in the crocodile brain that had survived since man’s ancestors had still infested the branches of trees, she firmly knew it to be true.

Charlotte feared it, but couldn’t resist the need to watch and see whether it would become inhabited once again. She had no idea what she would do if it did, and equally had no clue what to do if it didn’t. All she could do was watch. And hope.

In the mirror, two bikes – big tourers with custom paintworks – slowed and pulled to a halt on the verge outside the cottage. Charlotte’s mouth suddenly felt filled with sand, and she swallowed hard. She recognised the nearer bike.

The rider of that sleek golden machine dismounted with effortless grace and removed his helmet. His blond hair fell free around his shoulders.

“Oh,” she murmured to herself, her heart rate increasing. It was Gareth, which meant the other biker was Geraint. The Welsh twins always rode together, as if joined by an invisible cord even more robust than their shared blood.

Charlotte stared at the mirror. It was the first time they had returned since ... since that day, and she didn’t know what that augured. Eyes locked on the mirror, she scrabbled for her cigarettes and lit one up. Her hands shook so much it was hard to direct the tiny flame.

Her levels of anxiety and hope were soaring equally as another bike pulled up, this one with extended front forks. It was Hector, still riding that ridiculous machine that hated the narrow, winding British country lanes and kept trying on each bend to throw him into a ditch or oncoming traffic.

In a trice, the newcomer had his bike up on its main stand and was hugging the twins. His helmet came off, and even at that distance, Charlotte could see the bald head and long droopy moustache. She rose to her feet, walking to-and-fro restlessly, always ensuring that her gaze didn’t fall directly on the newcomers. She dithered for a moment, and then, keeping herself obscured by the drape, opened the left window slightly. Immediately she heard the sound of more engines, the growls grating and tearing through the silence of the valley.

She turned back to the mirror to see four more motorcycles pull in, creating a line of shining, multicoloured metal mounts, like horses at a hitching post. Helmets off, the seven men clustered together to create a little knot of laughing, joking, oh-so-male friendship. Backs were slapped, laughing neck-locks imposed, and one-armed hugs traded in the traditional A-Frame posture that men adopted to ensure their groins never came too close together.

Hector did kiss K on the lips, but that wasn’t new.

K was an immigrant from Kyrgyzstan, and his name was just about unpronounceable, so the club had shortened it to his initial. A well-muscled man, K had a quick temper and a propensity for using his fists on those who insulted him, the club, or most especially – Hector. So it wasn’t too huge a surprise when he’d declared that he and Hector had fallen in love and were going to marry. She remembered how everyone had looked to Lance when the pair made their official announcement. He had laughed, stood between them with his arms around their shoulders and said they were his brothers, so what difference did it make who they loved? Any insult to them would be an insult to all.

And that was the end of that.

Percy, Boris, and Lammy, the riders who had arrived with K, worked together at Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise and were decent, upright family men. However, they were periodically tempted into confiscating some weed from miscreants trying to smuggle it into the country – for club use. They never took much, just enough to take the pressure off club members looking to buy supplies from random dealers who might have grassed them up.

Charlotte felt the tension in her stomach rising. Could it be? Was the club getting back together? If so ... would he be there?

That question, that thought, that possibility gripped her so hard, she felt faint.

Shaking it off, she tried to think about how best she should react if he turned up. What would be the best way to approach him, what could she say, and how might he respond?

Her mind was whirling, a tempest of half-forgotten longings and ne’er forgotten love, and almost in self-defence, it took her back to the beginning.

“Boy! What are you doing here, boy?” She was seven and full of righteous indignation at the trespass she had discovered.

“Exploring, girl,” he replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

“You’re not allowed here,” she declared. “This is private property. I could have you whipped for being here.”

“Bollocks to that!” He laughed openly at her, which made her blood boil. “Nobody is going to whip me. That’s olden-days stuff. Besides I’m not doing any harm. I’m just exploring. There’s all sorts of really cool stuff to explore here. I’m gonna be an explorer when I grow up. And don’t call me boy! I’ve got an actual name, you know.”

“Alright, what’s your name, boy?” she called to his back as he wandered off behind a rank of rhododendron bushes.

“Ain’t telling you. ‘Cos then you’ll tell on me and try and get me whipped. I ain’t stupid.”

Furious, she stomped around the bushes to find the complete absence of a small, handsome, infuriating boy.

Over the next months she found traces that he had been on the estate; a small figure carved in the trunk of an ash tree, a tiny, red toy bus dropped near the fountains, a small gap forced in a hedged wall in the maze. But she could never catch him. She’d told her father about the trespasser, but he hadn’t taken much notice – which was relatively normal. So it was all down to her to protect the family domain.

What really annoyed the young girl most was that the mysterious boy seemed to be having a whole lot more fun in her garden than she was.

After her ninth birthday party – which had been a dull affair consisting mostly of jelly, sweets, stupid school friends, and an even more stupid clown – she had taken a book to a distant part of the garden, looking for solitude to nurse her disappointment. She’d wanted several new books, and received none of them.

“Whatcha reading?”

She’d almost screamed at the sudden voice. It was him; older and bigger, but just as handsome and infuriating.

“A book. You should try one sometime. My mother always says it expands the mind.”

“Well, my mum says it expands your arse if you spend all day sitting on it, reading.”

“That’s stupid.”

“My mum ain’t stupid. You’re stupid!”

“You’re stupid!”

There was silence for a while until she just couldn’t bear it any more.

“What’s your name? I won’t tell on you.”