“Look,” he said, as he let him out. He held Jock by the arm and pointed up at the bright blue sky. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
“What is this place?”
“Old McDonald’s farm.”
Kenneth chuckled at his own joke.
He opened the boot and pulled out a large, heavy bag. To Jock’s horror, it moved.
“Is there someone in there?”
Kenneth pulled a pistol from his waistband. “You’ll see in a minute. Start walking.”
Jock shook like a leaf as he walked through a yard filled with chickens. There was a stable, where a couple of tired-looking horses chewed hay. They looked away as he passed, as if they knew what was about to happen.
The air was filled with the stench of manure. His mother was always harking on about the delightful smell of the countryside, but Jock could not abide it. To him, the stink was as bad as the overflowing toilets he’d encountered at festivals. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and wished there was a way to zip up his nostrils.
“Here we are,” said Yara, stopping in front of a pigpen. “Aren’t they just darling?”
Jock shrugged. There were five or six large, fat pigs. Yara leaned over to stroke one and it butted her away. None of them looked particularly cute or cuddly. They were filthy, their legs and hinds caked in mud. The one nearest Jock glared at him, and then, with a twitch of its tail, it turned around and stuck its head down to the ground, burrowing with its snout.
“Pigs’ll eat anything,” Kenneth said, shaking the bag out on the ground in front of the pen. Jock watched in horror as Wanda tumbled to the ground, her big hair completely flattened.
“You kidnapped Wanda?”
He stared at Yara in indignation.
“What? I did it for you,” she said, defensively. “She was stealing your limelight. Without her, your career’s going to take off big time.”
Jock sucked in his breath. Wanda was famous. She was a regular on TV panel shows. Constantly being interviewed on the radio. News of her disappearance would make a splash. People would be looking for her, even if they weren’t looking for him.
“But I need people like Wanda!” he blurted out. “I have to have people to look up to, to inspire me.”
“No,” Yara shook her head emphatically. “She was stealing your thunder. She always has. Without her, you’re going to be bigger than ever.”
Kenneth looked from Yara to Jock.
“OK, oinks. Feeding time!”
He picked Wanda up and dropped her down into the pen.
“No!” she screamed, as the hungry pigs surrounded her, squealing loudly.
“Please!” Jock said. “Let her out!”
Wanda looked from one pig to the next. Each one looked at least two hundred pounds and they were all snorting and baring their teeth. Then the largest pig pushed its way forward. Jock knew very little about pigs, but he knew a boar when he saw one. He recognised the razor sharp tusks. The boar was built like a tank and he smacked his lips loudly, sticking his tongue in and out in a gnashing motion.
“Wanda, take my hand!” he said, leaning over the pen. He was terrified of the pigs, especially the boar. There was something menacing in the way he kept staring at him and snarling.
Wanda’s hand went to her hip, and she produced her bullwhip. With a quick flick of her wrist, she had aimed it at Kenneth and ensnared his shoulders, netting him like a prize at a country fair. Kenneth struggled to loosen its grip.
“Don’t just stand there, grab the gun!” Wanda yelled. “Quickly, the pigs are eating my Manolos!”
Jock gawped. He had never fumbled in another man’s waistband before and the thought made him uncomfortable.
“What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Right.”
He lurched forward and grabbed the gun quickly, his cheeks aflame.
Yara laughed loudly.
“You’re not even holding it right,” she told Jock. “I bet you can’t shoot for toffee.”
“Well, luckily, I can.” Wanda said.
Somehow, she mounted one of the pig’s backs and stepped from one animal to the next, until she was safely back over the fence. Without pausing to catch her breath, she snatched the gun from Jock’s hand and fired.
“She shot me!” Yara screamed. “The bitch shot me!”
Jock looked down. The bullet had grazed Yara’s ankle, creating a small trickle of blood.
“What the hell?” Kenneth yelled.
A second bullet shaved Kenneth’s ear. “Oh my god, I’m bleeding!”
“Now get in the pigpen,” Wanda ordered, pointing the gun from one to the other.
Yara looked at Kenneth, who raised his hands in surrender.
“Now, then,” he said. “Let’s be reasonable about this.”
“Don’t make me shoot you again!” Wanda yelled.
Jock recognised the line from one of her books. Wanda always had a catchphrase.
Cautiously, Kenneth and Yara climbed into the pen.
“Now stay there and count to one hundred,” Wanda said, backing away.
“But the pigs!” Yara yelped.
“Not my problem.”
Jock and Wanda watched as the pigs surrounded their former captors, sniffing loudly as they investigated the intruders in their pen. Yara stumbled backwards and must have accidentally stepped on one of the pig’s trotters, because it clamped its mouth around her leg and chomped.
“Arggh!” Yara howled, but the pig did not attack her further. Instead, it lifted its head and looked at Jock. Its eyes were bright and shiny, and he was certain that she must be a female pig, because she had the most beautiful eyelashes.
“Get off!” Kenneth howled, as one of the other pigs licked his face. Wanda giggled as it sampled his beard with its tongue.
“Come on, let’s get going, shall we?” she said.
Jock looked at Yara and Kenneth, now surrounded in the pig pen.
“Will they be alright?”
Wanda threw her hands up in the air. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
She spun on her heel and the buckles on her red cowboy boots jingled as she strode through the farmyard.
Jock was unable to look the horse in the eye as he passed, but he sensed it judging him as they returned to the car.
The keys were still in the ignition.
“I’ll drive.” Wanda said.
“We’re not insured to drive this car,” Jock pointed out.
Wanda threw her head back and laughed. “Thanks, I needed that.”
She climbed in the driver’s side and scooted the seat forward, so she could reach the pedals.
“Come on, what are you waiting for?”
There was a bottle of turquoise nail polish lying on the passenger seat. He placed it neatly in the glove box and fastened his seatbelt.
“We drive on the left,” he reminded Wanda, as she sped down the road.
“Left, smeft.”
All the same, she moved over a little, so that she was now driving in the middle of the road. Woe betide anyone who tried to get past her.
“Slow down!” Jock gasped, as she sped down the country roads. He was still feeling delicate, and Wanda’s driving was not helping matters.
The road was lined with bushes and trees and there seemed to be nothing but fields for miles around. Then, finally, they turned a corner, and on the left was a farmhouse.
“Stop!” he yelled.
Wanda slammed on the brakes so hard he nearly went through the windscreen. She switched off the engine and he sat there for a moment, catching his breath.
“Come on,” she said, leaping out. “What are you waiting for?”
The farmer must have heard them, because he came out of the house, clutching a mug of tea. He looked doubtful as they explained what had happened and Jock wasn’t sure he believed them.
“I suppose you’d better come in,” he said, begrudgingly, and led them in to a warm, cosy kitchen that smelled of fresh bread and bacon.
<
br /> Jock waited while Wanda phoned the police, his stomach rumbling loudly.
“Do you want a bacon sandwich?” the farmer’s wife asked.
Jock shock his head with regret. Hungry as he was, he didn’t think he’d be eating bacon just yet. Although it did smell rather good.
“So what happened to you folks?” she asked, as she set large mugs of tea in front of them.
“I was kidnapped by a psycho,” Wanda said. “This crazy man was waiting for me in the car park this morning. He picked me up and bundled me into his car. Normally, I could have fought him off, no trouble. But I’d had a big night and no coffee. I’m no good without my coffee.”
“You poor thing,” the farmer’s wife said. “It must have been quite an ordeal.”
Jock nodded. “It was.”
“Why? What did she do to you?”
“She made me write her a book,” he said.
The farmer’s wife looked at Wanda and rolled her eyes. “You poor thing.”
Being way out in the countryside, it took the police some time to reach the farmhouse, and then they had to work out where the pig farm was. Jock hoped there would be something left of Kenneth and Yara by the time they were rescued. It had looked like a horrible way to die.
Home Sweet Home
Robbie and Dylan were still playing on the Wii when Jock arrived home. A sea of crumbs lay on the floor between them, along with a pile of scrunched-up Coke cans. Robbie had decided it was best to stay up until Dylan went to bed so that he wouldn’t be tempted to go out looking for alcohol. The trouble was, Dylan had not gone to bed so instead, they had played game after game.
“I thought you were in your room?” Dylan said, as Jock walked in, his clothes torn and muddy.
The stench of the farm clung to his skin, which had been damp and sweaty to begin with. A day’s worth of stubble protruded from his face, and his hair stuck up on end.
Jock opened and closed his mouth. Thank god for Wanda. What the hell would he have done without her?
The intercom buzzed loudly and urgently.
“It’s Keeley,” said the voice in the static. “I just spoke to Dad. Mum’s left him.”
Jock’s heart went cold. “When?”
“Two days ago. She didn’t even bother leaving a note.”
“She wouldn’t do that!” he said, with certainty.
Keeley buzzed again.
“Are you going to let me in or what?”
“She was always threatening to leave,” Keeley said, when she came upstairs.
“But she never meant it!” he said. “She was just trying to get a reaction out of him.”
“How do you know?”
“I know Mum.”
Keeley’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, she’s your mum again, is she? I wouldn’t have thought so the way you’ve been carrying on.”
Keeley glanced at Robbie, who was still concentrating on the Wii.
“For your information, being a parent doesn’t always come naturally. We can’t all be good at it. Not all the time. Some of us - most of us – cock it up at least once in a while.”
Maybe Keeley had a point. It had felt good to slate his mum in his dedication. But maybe he should have said those things to her in private. Had she really deserved such a public dressing down?
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Keeley said, in her best motherly voice. She was only three years older than him, but it felt like a lot more. Keeley was a proper adult, in a way he could never hope to be. He felt like he was still stumbling through life, screwing up right, left and centre.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” she asked, as he walked towards the door.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “I need to get something.”
Maybe he would get it right this time. He would dedicate his new book to his mum, but it would be a kinder, more considered dedication. The fans would hate it, especially Yara. But it might help to square things with Mum. And Keeley, too.
God, was he even going to be able to collect his manuscript? With everything that had happened, it was probably going to be treated as evidence. It might take months to get it back. Yara might refuse to give it to him. Did she have the right, he wondered. It was her computer, and her printer paper, even if the work was his.
He went down to Yara’s flat and tried the handle. It was locked. Of course, it was. If only there was a way of getting in. Maybe Dylan would know. He went back up and asked him.
“You’ll need a good-quality axe,” Dylan said, without batting an eyelid.
“I don’t want to destroy the door,” Jock objected. “I just want to get in, so I can get my manuscript.”
“I’m sorry, you’re making about as much sense as an electric squirrel right now. Get in where?”
“Yara’s place. Downstairs.”
“Yara’s?” asked Robbie.
“Yeah.”
Dylan scratched his head. “Jock, you can’t just go breaking into people’s flats. It’s against the law. What’s come over you?”
“What’s come over me? That woman kidnapped me! She’s been holding me hostage all night. I can’t believe neither of you noticed I was missing.”
“When were you missing?” Dylan asked.
“Never mind that, I just really need to get back into Yara’s. She’s got something of mine.”
He turned to head back out the door, when Robbie placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hold on. I’ve got a key.”
“What? Why? You barely even know her!”
“Sid’s not been well,” Robbie said. He walked over to the coffee table and fished about in what was meant to be a fruit bowl, but currently housed M&Ms.
“Who’s Sid?”
“The bloke who looks after the building. He’s been in hospital, so I’ve been helping him out. He gave me the master key for the building.”
Jock’s blood boiled. All the time he’d be trapped downstairs, Robbie could have let him out. If he had just got off the flaming Wii long enough to realise he was missing.
“Hand it over,” he snarled.
“I’m not really supposed to,” Robbie said, looking a bit doubtful.
“I told you, she’s got my manuscript.”
“All the same…”
“Hand it over!”
Everyone, including Keeley, stared at him in shock.
“You alright, Jock? You don’t look yourself.”
He snatched the key from Robbie and charged downstairs. He was vaguely aware of Dylan running after him, but he didn’t stop. He inserted the key into Yara’s lock and turned it. For a moment, he felt resistance, then the door opened.
“Hadn’t you better knock first?” said Dylan. “She might be in.”
“Believe me, she’s not,” Jock said, striding over to the desk where he’d spent the night. His precious manuscript lay on top of the printer, where Yara had left it. He picked it up and clutched it tightly. He felt something akin to the kind of love you’d feel for a newborn baby, but without all the dirty nappies.
He turned to go.
“What was that?” Dylan asked.
“What was what?”
“Shh!”
They both stood still and listened. A tapping noise. It was coming from the bedroom.
“Hello?” Jock called, nervously. “Yara?”
He walked across the room and reached for the handle, but it wouldn’t open. “Is there someone in there?”
The tapping noise grew louder. Tap! Tap! Tap!
“Hmmm…” came a muffled voice. “Hmmm…”
“Mum!” Jock squealed. He rattled the door handle, but it wouldn’t open.
“Stand back, I’m going to break the door down,” Dylan said.
“That only works in films,” Jock told him, but he moved sharpish as Dylan charged towards him. He watched in amazement as Dylan’s shoulder made contact with the door at just the right angle. It burst open with a crack.
“Mum!” Jock cried. “Oh god, Mum! What ha
s she done to you?”
They hugged each other tightly.
“I’m so sorry, Mum. I never meant for this to happen. Any of it.”
“It’s not your fault,” his mother said, returning his embrace. “That woman’s a lunatic.”
“But if I hadn’t written what I did about you, then she would never have taken you. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”
He hugged her again, horrified to see the cuts and marks on his mother’s skin.
“We have to get you to a doctor.”
“I’m OK.”
“No, you’re not, Mum. Please, let me take care of you.”
His mum looked at him with an odd expression. Her lips were clenched tightly, as if she was fighting with herself. “Like I said, it’s not your fault.”
She walked past him, slowly and painfully, and proceeded to stomp her way up the stairs. When she reached Jock’s flat, she collapsed onto the nearest sofa, without uttering a word about the state of the place, which was most unlike her. Jock slumped down beside her and fought the urge to put his arms around her. She looked like she could use another hug, but she was as prickly as a hedgehog. Tentatively, he leaned a little closer.
She sniffed the air. “What is that smell?”
“That’s me, I’m afraid.”
“Right, well off to the bath with you.”
“I’m going! I’m going!”
He rose slowly from his seat. Keeley dug out the first aid box and dressed their mum’s wounds, while Robbie made her a cup of tea. Dylan brought her pillows and a blanket, and put on the History Channel for her.
Keeley’s phone bleeped, and she picked it up to read the message.
“Dad’s on his way.”
“About bleeding time!”
“So now we know where all that blood came from,” said Robbie. “but how did Yara get into our flat to plant it?”
Jock’s mum flushed. “I must confess, I have a key,” she said, dropping her gaze. “I had it made last time I came to stay. I thought it might be useful. For emergencies.”
Jock swallowed his anger. His mum was no angel, but she’d been through a terrible ordeal. Just for today, he would cut her some slack.
Also by Lorna Dounaeva
The Perfect Friend Page 8
