The Manor

by Keane Jessie

  The car was rounding the bend. Slow again. Were they checking, looking for her? The car cruised past, very slow. Belle held her breath. If they stopped, searched more closely, she’d be done for. They’d throw her back in with those monsters and that would be it.

  The car slowed.

  She couldn’t breathe, didn’t dare.

  Then there was a roar from the engine and the car shot away, surging around a bend in the lane. The headlights faded. The noise of the engine faded too. Soon there was only the endless drenching patter of the rain and the hard, frightened thudding of her own heart.

  Belle crouched there. She waited, shivering, agonized.

  Then she clawed her way back up out of the ditch and lay there for long moments on the verge.

  Got to move.

  They could come back.

  I can’t. I can’t do it, she thought.

  She pushed up onto her elbows, forced herself to her knees and then to her feet. She walked on.

  109

  After seeing Marsha, Milly danced away the night and fell out onto the pavement at two with all the others who were leaving the club. One of the two bouncers on the club door, Sammy, stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  ‘Miss Stone?’ he asked, barely believing it. She looked shot away. He’d never seen her in the club before, mostly she was just at home, in the big Essex house, but now here she was and it was clear she was high as a kite.

  ‘That’s me,’ she giggled, and started to stagger away. ‘Hello, Sammy!’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Sammy.

  There’d been big changes going on. But the king was dead and now Sammy supposed it was long live the new king – and that was Harlan. Harlan was a smooth despicable son of a bitch. Charlie would come straight out and bollock you if he had to, then it would be over, done, and you would be mates again. But Harlan was different. He was a fucking scorpion. He’d always strike with stealth. Sammy knew that if the Stone girl was in here getting wasted, and he let her stagger out into the night unattended, his arse, sooner or later, would get roasted.

  ‘Where you off to?’ he asked, watching her eyes pinballing around in her head. Wasted to shit, she was. No doubt about it.

  ‘Home,’ she shrugged. Then she smiled. ‘Wanna come?’

  Sammy gave his mate and fellow doorman Gazzer a glance that said: All yours, mate.

  Gazzer nodded.

  ‘Come on,’ Sammy said to Milly, and took her arm again because she looked like she was about to wander off and he couldn’t risk that. To Gazzer he said: ‘I’m going to see Miss Stone home, OK?’

  Gazzer nodded again. Sammy stepped out, holding on tight to Milly, and hailed a taxi.

  Milly was staying at one of Dad’s houses on the old manor. Harlan’s house now, but still – he wasn’t likely to come here. She thought of that swish penthouse with the lovely view of the river, so much nicer than this, but she wouldn’t stay there any more, not since Harlan made it clear that territory was marked out as his, and certainly not since she’d learned that that was where poor Beezer had done a nosedive from its balcony and ended up ten storeys down on the concrete below.

  She tried to open the door to the house with her key, but she couldn’t find her key, and Sammy was there right behind her, a hulking presence, but she didn’t feel embarrassed about this the way she usually would. Tonight it struck her as funny. Finally Sammy had to take her bag out of her hands and find the key himself. He got it in the lock and swung the door open, flicking on the lights.

  ‘It’s humble, but it’s home,’ trilled Milly, dancing up the hall to the kitchen. ‘Coffee, tea or me?’ she laughed.

  So this was what it was like to be high. Milly had never felt anything like it. She felt . . . beautiful. She felt powerful. And so confident that she felt she could fly.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Sammy, looking around. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was OK. ‘Anybody else here?’ he asked.

  ‘Why? You going to ravish me, are you?’ she asked, coyly.

  In fact, Sammy was concerned she might sick up and choke to death. She was right out of it. And who’d get the blame then? The muggins who’d escorted her out of the club. Him. He had enough to worry about, without any more aggro on top. He shook his head.

  ‘Someone ought to keep an eye on you. What did you take?’

  ‘What makes you think I’ve taken anything?’

  Sammy thought of the shy, mumbling girl that Milly usually was. She was like a shadow, and had always been overwhelmed by her flashy desperate-eyed mother and her loud as fuck father. She never exactly lit up the room.

  ‘Because this ain’t you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m bored with me,’ she pouted. It was the truth.

  ‘You’re off your face. You don’t want to go doing things like this, trust me. It’s not safe.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ said Milly, shoving past him. ‘You can stay if you like. Or go. I don’t give a shit either way.’

  He listened to her thundering up the stairs like a marauding baby elephant. Heard the slam of her bedroom door. Music started pounding through the floor. Frankie Goes to Hollywood, ‘Two Tribes’. Then he heard heavy footfalls again. She was dancing.

  Sighing, Sammy took off his jacket and made himself comfortable on the couch. He’d go up later, see she was OK. Before ten minutes was up, he was asleep.

  110

  On Beechwood Farm, Jack Tavender was closing up for the night. He’d eaten late after shutting the chickens away and bedding down Lady Marmalade and Goldie, fixing himself a meal from the stew he’d had simmering away on the hob for the last couple of days. Then Trix had started whining and scratching to be let out so he’d opened the kitchen door and let the black-and-white Border Collie shoot out into the night to do her business.

  This had once been his parents’ farm, but his dad had died years ago. Then only his mother had remained, so Jack had helped her out when she grew too old to cope with the manual work. Then she’d died too.

  As their only child, he’d inherited this problematic, crumbling ruin. The farmhouse was old, sixteenth century in parts, and he was doing it up bit by bit, repairing the flat roof over the scullery, propping up the porch with a new oak support beam because one of these days that bastard was going to slip sideways and bring the whole front of the house crashing down with it. Parts of the walls were fixed with big iron stays, and a couple of the old post and truss barns were listed, which was a bugger because you could do sod-all to them without consulting some nob from up on high in the council. He had thought of trying to kit them out as holiday lets, if he decided to stay on. If the plans would ever be passed, which he doubted. But he hadn’t decided anything, yet.

  He was washing up the dishes, setting them on the wooden draining board to dry, years of training in tidiness and cleanliness still with him. Away in the distance, Trix was barking her stupid head off. Nutty bloody dog. His mum’s dog, not his. Trix’s favourite game was chasing cars or cyclists out in the lane, but this sounded closer, nearer to the farmyard itself. He yawned, stretching. He’d been working hard all day. Clearing out one of the haylofts in preparation for repairing the roof, which was leaking. He’d struggled up on the roof alone in the hail and thunder, fixed a tarp up there to hold it, for now. A hot bath, then he was turning in.

  Drying his hands, irritated at the stupid mutt, he went over to the back door and opened it.

  ‘Trix!’ he shouted.

  She was still barking.

  ‘Fucking dog,’ he muttered, pulling his boots back on. Trix had always been obedient when his mother’d been here to order her around. With Jack, Trix had got in the habit of playing up, wagging her tail, turning into a house dog when she was born to be working, meant for herding sheep. Well, they no longer had sheep here on the farm, they’d all been sold off, even his mum’s prize South Downs ram, so Trix was redundant. Jack knew he ought to make her sleep outside, in the kennel, like the outdoors dog she really was, but somehow he’d got into th
e habit of having her in the house. She was dopey, a grinning loon of an animal, but she was company.

  Grabbing the torch, he stepped out into the yard. The rain wasn’t letting up and it was turning damned cold. Trix’s barking was coming from near the biggest barn. She’d disturbed some rats, maybe. He’d had a big vet’s bill last month when she’d tackled a nest and the rats had fought back, biting off half her left ear. He was going to have to get a cat, a good mouser, if he was going to stay.

  If.

  For now, he was treading water, making repairs, tending what little livestock was left – just the chickens and his mother’s horses now, he’d already sold the sad remnants of the dairy herd which had once – so long ago – been his father’s pride and joy. He was trying to decide what he was actually going to do with the rest of his life. And there was the dog, the damned dog. Maybe one of the other farmers around here would give her a home.

  ‘Trix!’ he hollered into the rainy night. ‘Get out of there, you daft bastard!’

  The torch’s beam caught her, eyes glittering. She was standing at the big barn door, which was hanging open, and she was staring into the interior, her hackles raised.

  ‘What you got now then, eh?’ Jack asked her, but she paid no attention to him. ‘You got more guts than sense, that’s your bloody trouble.’

  But he’d shut that barn door earlier.

  Moving cautiously now, he edged forward. People did break in sometimes out here in the middle of nowhere, thieved equipment. One of the local farmers had even lost a tractor, for God’s sake. He reached the dog and grabbed her collar. She let out a single bark of protest, then was still. Deep in her throat, she kept up a steady low growl.

  Jack aimed the torch’s beam into the depths of the barn. Hay bales were stacked up in there. Favourite playground for the rats. But this wasn’t how Trix normally reacted to rats. Usually she’d be off in there, chasing them, getting her arse chewed – or her ears – and running up more sky-high bills for him to pay.

  ‘Someone in here?’ he called out.

  He moved the torch’s beam and yes – there was someone. Movement.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said.

  Lightning flared, and he saw what had moved.

  There was a woman, lying beside the bales.

  She was covered in blood.

  When she heard his voice, she tried to get up. Tried to get to her knees. She looked at him blearily. Her face . . .

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ said Jack.

  ‘Help,’ said Belle weakly. It came out as a wet croak. Then she fell back, unconscious.

  111

  Belle came to because someone was moving her. She was being carried. Everything hurt and she started to protest, but she didn’t have the strength. A door was kicked open and then lights blared and she was being laid out on something hard as rock. Her eyes rolling in her head, she tried to focus. Oak beams above her. Wooden cupboards all around. A kitchen. Warmer in here.

  Oh Jesus it hurt.

  It all hurt so much.

  Her hand fastened on the edge of what she was lying on. A big table. Something wet and hot touched her hand and she was catapulted back to that black-water pond and the caimans biting at her, tearing her to bits. She moaned, full consciousness coming back hard and terror with it. She swivelled her head to see what was happening, panicking all over again. Agony.

  It was the dog. It was licking her hand.

  And there was a bearded dark-haired man, moving toward a phone on an old oak dresser.

  ‘No,’ she tried to say. It came out weird. Her mouth felt odd. Nothing seemed to be coming out of it the way it should.

  He didn’t hear her or couldn’t understand her. He was picking up the phone and starting to dial.

  Nine . . .

  ‘No!’ she tried again but was ignored.

  Nine . . .

  ‘Don’t,’ said Belle, and with a lurch she threw herself off the table. She hit the floor and it hurt. She screamed, it hurt so much.

  ‘Christ alive,’ he said, and stopped dialling. He dropped the phone and rushed back across the kitchen to kneel beside her.

  Belle grabbed his arm and tried to shake him. She couldn’t. She was too weak.

  ‘Don’t phone for an ambulance,’ she said, and it all came out wrong. She gasped, swallowed, tried to make her voice come out better. ‘They’re looking for me. They’ll check the hospitals. Don’t do it.’

  ‘You’re saying . . . ?’ He was staring at her face, trying to make sense of her words.

  ‘Don’t phone ambulance. People . . . looking for me. Bad people. They’ll check. They’ll know.’

  ‘Bad people?’

  ‘Yethmph,’ Belle heard her mouth say. Yes.

  What the hell was wrong with her mouth? The left side of her face was on fire. It was agony.

  ‘Someone’s looking for you? Someone did this to you?’ he asked. The dog crowded in, trying to lick Belle’s face. The man pushed it back. ‘Fuck off out of it, Trix,’ he said, and then he turned back to Belle. ‘OK. I’m going to get you back onto the table, all right?’

  Belle nodded feebly.

  He lifted her back up onto it. Got a towel from beside the sink, rolled it up, tucked it under her head. That hurt. She moaned, grinding her teeth together, swallowing blood. Then he fetched another from a cupboard and put it on her leg.

  ‘This is bad, all this,’ said the man, leaning over her. ‘Your injuries. You need proper medical help.’

  ‘First aid . . .’ said Belle, wincing. It came out fast day.

  He was dabbing the towel on her leg. ‘These look like animal bites. Puncture wounds,’ he said. ‘Not too bad. These’ll heal OK. I’ll clean them out, bandage them up.’ Then he looked up at her face. ‘The blood’s good. Blood cleans wounds. You should have a tetanus shot . . .’

  ‘No. Mumph.’ Belle shook her head.

  ‘What did . . . ?’ He ran out of words. This was worse than bad. She’d been savaged by something.

  ‘Caimans,’ said Belle.

  ‘Clean, yes,’ he said, not understanding.

  Then he moved up to her head, looked at her face. ‘Bad news or good news?’ he said.

  ‘Wha . . . ?’

  ‘Your face. It’s very bad.’

  Belle was staring at him. She was in pain and she was full of fear, all over again.

  ‘There is no good news. Something’s torn a lump out of your face. Your cheek’s hanging down like a flap. I think that’s why your speech is fucked. You need stitching up. You need a medic.’

  Oh Christ. She’d gotten by since childhood on her good looks. She wasn’t vain, but she was used to being the one everyone’s eyes followed. It was just her. And he was saying . . .

  ‘I’m not kidding around here. It’s a mess,’ he said.

  Belle grabbed the edge of the table again, wanting something solid to hang onto when her world had descended into chaos. Out there, maybe they were looking for her, and if they found her she knew she was dead for sure. Out there, her father must be in danger. Maybe he was dead already. And her mother . . .

  Again, the dog licked her fingers as if in sympathy.

  ‘You’ll have to stitch it,’ she said to the bearded man, and she saw understanding right there in his eyes this time. ‘Do it.’

  112

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ he said.

  Belle stared at him mutely. Not kidding, her eyes said.

  ‘These people—’

  ‘Sew it up,’ said Belle. ‘You have to.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Bad. Very . . .’ she gulped. Tasted blood again. She felt weak, so weak. And sick to her stomach. ‘Very bad.’

  He walked away.

  No, he’s going to the phone, they’ll know I got away, Harlan will kill me, they’ll finish it this time . . .

  But he went instead to a cupboard, pulled out a blanket, brought it back and draped it over her. It was warm. She was still shivering, whi
ch was shock she guessed, or horror or some damned thing, but the blanket was good.

  ‘Do it, yeah?’ she said, closing her eyes, weary now.

  ‘It will hurt,’ he warned.

  She knew that. ‘Do it.’

  He went to the cupboard again. Pulled out a first aid box. Brought it back to the table, opened it up beside her head. She didn’t look. If she did, she knew she’d lose her nerve and let him use the phone and then she’d be fucked.

  Then he was gone again. He came back and stood there, looking down at her, holding a dark green bottle in one hand. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He uncorked it and took a swig straight from the neck. Swallowed hard. Then he looked at her again.

  ‘Want some? It’s good brandy. Might take the edge off.’

  Belle tried to shake her head.

  ‘OK.’ He started laying out the things he’d need. Antiseptic. Swabs. Cotton. A fine needle. When he had it all to hand and ready, he looked at her again. ‘Sure?’

  ‘No . . . choice,’ she muttered.

  He went to the sink and washed his hands; then he came back to her and started. The sensation of the needle piercing the flesh of her cheek, the cotton slithering through the bloodied, hyper-sensitive meat of it, was all too much when she had been through so much already. She screamed aloud, several times. The dog whimpered. Time stretched out and the ordeal seemed to last forever. When he was no more than halfway through, the pain was too bad and Belle passed out. Her last thought before she did so was of Harlan Stone’s cruel smiling face. He would be in charge now, no one to stand in his way.

  So she had to live.

  She had to fight another day.

  That thought stayed with her, following her down into blackness.

  113

  Sammy woke up next morning to the noise of someone being violently sick in the upstairs toilet. He padded in his socks through to the kitchen and stuck the kettle on, yawning. Well, she was alive. He brewed up, slopped in milk and took one mug through to the lounge. Hearing the toilet flush and sounds of movement, he took the other mug upstairs and found Milly sitting on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, red-faced and looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge, her light brown hair hanging in her eyes, her clothes dishevelled. He put the tea down on the bedside table.