He explained also that every year he would pile up some of the leftover meat into some sort of strange egg-like shape – moon-eggs he called them – and explained that they were actually quite popular, especially around harvest time, during the time other villagers would leave saucers of milk for the faeries.

Someone came into the shop. I went up to the counter to serve him and I found that it was, in fact, a policeman. Now, in all of the time I’d grown accustomed to serving the village, I couldn’t really see a policeman on the beat there. The policeman bowed and removed his peaked cap. “Good afternoon, young man,” he said, with an air of politeness you’d expect from the more rural or northern kinds of police officer.

“Good afternoon,” I replied, bright with expectancy. “Come to buy yourself a croissant? We pride ourselves on our chocolate ones, you know.” This, of course, was untrue, but I was just making it up as I went along in order to increase the sales. But the police officer shook his head.

“I’ve come in search of a missing farm hand,” he said. He delved into the pocket of his black uniform and removed a photograph. The photograph showed a rather handsome young man with long, dirty-blonde hair, and rather large spectacles. The police officer explained that his name was James Evans, and that he’d been hired some weeks back to work as a farm-hand. Very recently, a couple of days ago, he’d said, the farmhand had disappeared, overnight. He’d last been seen dancing in a drunken state towards the edge of the forest, after having a drunken campfire party with the other farmhands, during which they accidentally blew up their own campfire after pouring their beer onto it. A ferocious argument had ensued, after which Evans had stormed off into the forest.

“You know about this village?” I asked.

“Only just discovered it right now, young sir. Now, do you have any knowledge as to where this Evans might be?”

“What’s all this?” asked Mr Barraclough as he entered the room. He noticed the police officer, and on the spot, his forehead began to sweat. His nostrils flared up, and he walked slowly towards the counter.

“What is a police officer doing here?” he snapped.

“I’m on the trail of a missing person,” the police officer explained again. “Do you have any information concerning the whereabouts of one James Evans?”

“There is no one of that name here.”

“Really? He was last seen heading into the forest which nestles your village.”

Mr Barraclough immediately slammed down his great, fat, pink hands on the counter and stared up at the officer, an expression of defensiveness on his face. It terrified me to have seen him. He looked like a demon right out of hell, although if he’d been wearing a cape, he probably would have made the image I just used a little less subtle. I definitely saw that sinister quality coming through in his voice, especially after what he said next.

“Now, just you listen, Constable. I don’t know who this James Evans is, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Turn back while you still can, for there is nothing to find here. By God, officer, I swear that the rural police will not show any kind of concern, if you just drop the case and just. Back. Off!” He sat down. The officer replaced his cap.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and left the bakery.

Mr Barraclough stared at him, watching him as he left, and the very stare was imposing enough to leave me with some sort of mixture of terror and pity. “No, you won’t,” he said, in a very ominous tone. In hindsight, what they did to the poor police officer cannot have been pleasant. Even after what I’ve experienced, I can safely say that they wouldn’t have let him leave.