The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  The marquee she’d seen during her interview with Sir Oliver was lit up from the inside, and shadows danced on the outside as people walked past the spotlights in the encroaching twilight. Music started from around 7pm, at around about the time Georgia had reached the hole in the wall.

  There were so many ways this could go wrong, and she modelled all of them as she crouched and prepared to squeeze through. Her recent experience at the ghyll – that terrible squeezing sensation around her middle, as if she had been caught in the jaws of a monster – was fresh in her mind, and it struck her that being caught in this tunnel, and remaining stuck there forever more, was a possibility. Or perhaps remaining stuck, calling for help, until a sudden rain shower flooded the passageway. Or worse still, the ghastliest joke of all – perhaps she might meet a grinning skull in the dark – bones she’d never seen with her own eyes before, but bones that she knew.

  As it was, she got to her knees, her waterproof backpack clutched before her, taking several deep breaths as she eyed the passageway. There was nothing much to it – two or three feet at the most – but it would be tight. And the fading light meant she was staring into a dark tunnel with no sign of anything at the other side. She got into the water, suppressing a cry as cold water clutched at her ankles over and above her boots. Then her hands were in the water, tricking down the faint decline. It touched her chin, and slapped her face. She gritted her teeth, pressed her mouth together, breathed deeply through her nose, and then went through.

  There was a smell of mould, dank vegetation, and also of death. Undoubtedly, bacterial life forms that would have looked very interesting backlit under a microscope. Stones dug into the pads of her fingers, only slightly more unpleasant than the places where her fingers sank into unspeakable softness. And there was one part where the jaws of the trap closed in tight; she had to close her eyes and force her way through, the level of water reaching her mouth, then tickling her nostrils. She thought: I will stay calm. I can edge backwards if I get stuck. If I can’t go on, don’t go on.

  Then her forehead touched metal.

  That’s when Georgia came closest to screaming. She reached out with her free hand and felt the edges of iron bars. Perhaps four or five of them, set into the gap, so as to ensure irrigation from the tributary but to block any dumb brutes and predators from trying to crawl through. Like her.

  She felt a treacherous sense of relief. No option but to go back.

  Then, as she released the bar, she felt it spring back just a little. She tried again, curling her hand around the bar. Thin. Textured – the smell of rust mingled with the other interesting scents of the channel. She pushed; it gave.

  The bar snapped; it was almost rusted through. The others gave her more of a problem. She pulled these out towards her, thinking that this would make it easy for her crawling back out. Soon there was a gap, and she grunted as she forced her way through it, feeling the jagged edge of the broken bar slither the length of her back.

  But it was soon over.

  When she emerged out the other side, Georgia couldn’t have said she felt reborn, exactly, unless it was with one eyebrow arched. But she felt a sense of elation once she’d crawled out of there, her front soaking wet and cold despite the warm air, her feet wet and uncomfortable. There, up ahead, was a thick line of trees with the marquee and the spotlit outline of Chessington Hall behind it. Every window was lit, and many of them had people passing through. Georgia hadn’t realised that the treeline would be quite so sparse. On the online maps, and from a distance when viewed through the drone, it had appeared to be a thick line of trees, a natural border ended by the stone wall on the outside, which completely encircled the house. Judging by the stumps that angled out of the pine-needle-strewn forest floor, it would seem that some of these had been cleared recently.

  Anyone looking out of that window could probably see me, she thought.

  This made undressing even more of a fraught experience. She chose the biggest tree in the initial line next to the stone wall, and got changed into her second outfit of the night. This one was not quite so comical – and indeed, given its passage in her backpack, she had to be deadly serious about it. It might only have taken a minute or two to get completely changed, but she studied herself in a compact mirror, straightening her hair, straightening her clothes, making sure she didn’t obviously look like she’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Which might still happen, Georgia thought, wryly.

  Taking care not to snap her heels, she stowed the backpack with her ‘travel clothes’ underneath some ferns. She had props, which had thankfully survived the trip in the backpack. Perfume and baby wipes had been another preparation she had made, but she doubted they’d make much of a difference when it came to the stench of the tunnel. So be it.

  She darted from tree to tree, drawing ever closer to the hall. She was just about clear and preparing to collect herself when a man blocked out the light in front of her. He was tall, and dressed for the outdoors, with a heavy tweed jacket, boots and a flat cap. His face was lean, and hard-looking.

  ‘You!’ He bellowed, pointing. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  31

  It can’t be that bad, surely. It can’t.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  Georgia made sure to clink the glasses as she lifted them. ‘Oliver sent me out to fetch some of the champagne flutes. We’re running a little low. He said there had been a few left out here from earlier.’

  ‘Out here?’ If the man had a moustache, it might have bristled. ‘Why would people be drinking out here?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir. Thankfully they weren’t smashed.’ She balanced the glasses on a tiny tray she held loose in her other hand.

  ‘Quite. Well. Best you’d be getting back, now. You don’t want to be out here when the fun starts, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Of course not, sir. Very good.’

  She had no idea who this person was, or if she had cut the deference a little thickly. She had simply slipped into a role, one familiar from a lifetime of TV dramas and movies. It had been good enough, though, in that he hadn’t seemed suspicious. There was only comeback at the end: ‘Make sure you don’t get yourself into a mess going through the trees. You look like you’ve crawled through a tunnel.’

  She laughed, though her heart thundered. This, it turned out, was the wrong response, as he took a step closer to her and said, from a murky region lower down in his throat: ‘You seem keen. Bit of experience to you, as well, if you don’t mind me saying. And all the better for it. Ollie usually likes them a little young for my tastes.’

  ‘Sir.’ Georgia had a sudden inkling to run.

  ‘Maybe at the end of the night, you might like to join me for cognac? Perhaps at the billiard rooms. That’s where the reasonable adults like to go, after hours.’

  ‘It’s a long shift, sir. I’ll keep an eye out for you once it’s over.’

  He showed no trace of excitement or furtiveness – he merely nodded, as if she had promised to have his shoes buffed before morning. ‘Excellent. I’ll look out for you. Your name is…?’

  ‘Rachael, with an AE.’

  ‘Well then, Rachael with an AE. I’ll look forward to getting to know you later.’

  She endured the brief intrusion of his hand on her back, gentle but still proprietorial. Then she made her way through the trees, out of cover, into the light.

  The glasses and the tray had been props, a flimsy cover story, which had nonetheless gotten her so far. It was the only practice she’d put in. She had guessed the uniform for the serving staff, and she’d been just about on the money, to see some of the young women passing by the windows of the lower floor of the hall. Except they were all at least thirty years younger than Georgia, but they did at least have on white blouses, black shirts and black tights. Her heels had been a mistake – she cursed herself for an idiot for not thinking that sensible shoes were all the better for waitressing, and not heels – but she had
gotten this far. One of the waitresses passed by with a tray of assorted drinks, and did not give Georgia a second glance.

  Emerging fully from the forest, she took in the long, flat lawn, which had been studded with flaming lanterns, leading off towards the main thicket of woodland, at the other side of the estate. Huge gates at the bottom of the gravel drive and the twisting roadway were now closed, and manned by men in high-vis waistcoats.

  Just off the main hall, the sound from the marquee made it seem like it was any other garden party or wedding. There were torches lit around the perimeter, giving the entire scene a cosy glow in the early night, a homeliness despite the vast scale.

  There were security guards perched outside the tent, stolid and forbidding as Corinthian columns. Her natural instinct was to change direction, and was disturbed to note that this caught the eye of one of them. But they let her pass through, and she made her way down the gravel driveway towards the hall itself.

  Georgia squeezed her way through a closing door behind one of the serving girls, who kindly held it open for her with her hip while holding onto two empty trays. ‘Busier than last year, eh?’ the girl said.

  ‘Booming. Just as well, eh?’

  ‘Surprised they won’t hear the yelping back in Ferngate.’

  ‘When’s the main event, again?’

  ‘Not too much longer. They tend to start after all the speeches are done, and they’re just about over with.’

  ‘Hope we get to see it,’ Georgia said, following her through a tight passageway towards the sounds and smells of the kitchen.

  ‘You must be joking! I’m locking myself in here when they sound the horn. Last place I’d want to be. Hey – let me take that for you. Whereabouts were these, then? I thought the tables were cleared.’

  ‘Someone spotted them out in the forest. I was sent out to collect them. Ended up in a bit of a mess. Look at my tights.’

  ‘Christ, you were taking a chance out there, love. Here, just balance the tray on the top of that plate – your tights are fine, but I’d go and sort your shoes out, if I was you,’ she said, kindly. ‘Oliver hates it when the staff don’t scrub up right. Take a few minutes, if you can.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’ Georgia took a left turn back into what she suspected was the main hall, cursing the sound of her heels on the floor. She remembered a bathroom on the bottom floor, where she spoke to Sir Oliver the other day. The place was intimidatingly bright, like a hotel foyer. Several people in tuxedos and evening gowns were sprawled around the couches and alcoves set along the far side; one young man who had a whiplash fringe like a young Elvis was attempting a passable version of ‘Wonderwall’ on the piano. She saw the women’s washroom, and made straight for it.

  She found a stall and sat down on a seat, shaking, trying to control her breathing and rein in her pulse. She had only had a brief glimpse of herself in the huge, gilt-edged mirror borrowed from a Narnian princess, a flare of tied-back blonde hair and white blouse, but she dreaded to see the details.

  From behind the door in the stalls, she heard two other women enter the toilet. Her tremulous breathing seemed louder than their whispers, but she soon tuned in.

  ‘You been paid yet?’

  ‘Yeah. Cash in hand.’

  ‘How much? I hope you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  ‘Me too.’ A sigh of relief. ‘I was worried I was getting ripped off. I heard some got a grand.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that. I think it’s five hundred across the board.’

  A low whistle. ‘Some amount of cash on the go, here.’

  ‘Look around you, darling.’ At this, there was a jarring moment of recognition for Georgia; it was the girl in leopard-skin she’s seen on Bewley Street.

  ‘Well. It’s nice to be in here for a change.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Not a fan of the outfits, though.’

  A harsh laugh. ‘Fair play, you’re spot on, there. I don’t think I’ll be asking to take this home.’

  ‘We might not have any of it left to take home.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ There was a note of unease in that voice, now.

  ‘Well, it gets a bit rough. That’s why they’re paying us.’

  ‘They’re paying us to bend over and then keep our mouths shut about it, darling. But what do you mean by “rough”?’

  ‘After they let us go. They don’t go easy. That’s what I heard.’

  ‘When you say don’t go easy… what are you comparing it to, exactly?’

  The door to the toilet banged open. ‘What’s going on in here?’ said a harsh voice – a woman’s voice. For a moment Georgia was back at school; she could almost picture one of her friends frantically stubbing out a cigarette.

  ‘What does it look like?’ came the truculent reply, from the girl with the leopard-skin outfit. ‘I’m touching up my make-up, then I might go for a piss. All right with you?’

  ‘You’ve got two minutes to do what you need to do – then you’re heading out. Understood?’

  ‘Heading out for what? A parade? Inspection?’

  ‘Exactly right.’ Two steps were taken – judging by the shift of the shadows beneath the stall door, Georgia guessed they were towards the girl she’d met at Bewley Street. ‘Less than two minutes, now. If you’re not out of here, you lose your fee and you get thrown out. And you don’t get to come back next year. I hope that’s all clear?’

  ‘Yeah love. Don’t worry. I’ll be out in one minute and whatever.’

  ‘Good. I am timing you.’

  ‘Come on,’ said the other girl.

  Footsteps, out the door. Then the leopard-skin outfit girl sighed, and zipped up a handbag.

  ‘You’ll leave that in the foyer on your way out. And if any phones in your possession are still switched on…’

  ‘Yeah, I heard the rules, love. Don’t worry. I will comply. Are you a prefect?’

  ‘I’m head girl.’

  ‘Suits you.’ The leopard-skin pattern skirt girl then left.

  There was complete silence for a moment; Georgia let a long, slow breath escape. She heard distant sounds, somewhere else in the building, and the almost subliminal buzz of the overheard lighting.

  Georgia got to her feet. When her hand closed on the lock, the door rattled, right in her face.

  ‘Who’s in there?’ It was the same woman, the “head girl”.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  ‘You’ve not got a minute, whoever you are. It’s starting soon.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘What’s going on in there? If you’re in here, you’re working, and that means you’re coming out.’

  ‘I’m busy at the moment!’ Panic had crept into Georgia’s voice.

  Then she heard the lock to the door turn, and disengage. Georgia pictured it from the other side; a slot in the lock, wide enough for a penny, the doorman’s friend. The person on the other side was opening the door.

  She turned, fell to her knees and opened the toilet lid, just as a face appeared. She caught a glimpse of it.

  And then she did feel genuinely nauseous.

  She had recognised the voice of the girl in the leopard-skin print skirt from Bewley Street. But she had not recognised the voice of the woman blocking out the light in the open toilet doorway.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ asked Adrienne Connulty.

  32

  I wonder what the grounds would look like with row after row of statues in it. Women in veils, women with their faces covered. Wouldn’t it look amazing in the mist? It’d take a brave person to walk through them, on their own. Who’s the ghost – them or you?

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  Georgia expected a hand to clamp down on her neck. She jammed her face into the bowl, trying not to gag at the chemical and organic smells; and trying not to retch in genuine anxiety and fear.

  It had been Adrienne, all right. In a camera-shu
tter moment, she’d seen that heart-shaped face, and a powder-blue trouser suit over the top of an open-necked blouse. She was dressed for work, not play.

  And she had surely seen Georgia’s face.

  But then Adrienne said, gently: ‘You need to get out on deck – that’s the orders.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Georgia said, trying to make her voice thicker, more stricken. ‘Nervous stomach… Maybe a bug.’ And here she retched.

  ‘God’s sake,’ Adrienne said, in genuine disgust. ‘I don’t want to catch it, do I? Please don’t tell me you’re working in the kitchen. You are, aren’t you? Idiot. Get yourself cleaned up.’

  ‘I’ll be two minutes… I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. Sorry you were born. What’s your name?’

  ‘Rachael.’

  ‘Rachael what, smart-arse?’

  ‘Rachael Quinn. Rachael with an AE.’

  ‘OK. Rachael Quinn. I’ll take note of that.’

  The footsteps retreated. The bathroom door swished open and closed.

  Georgia got to her feet, shaking worse than she had after she had emerged from the tunnel. A quick check of herself in the mirror yielded better than expected results. She used a spare clip to pin back her hair, the same way the red-haired girl had styled it, letting a lock fall across her forehead. It was the closest she came to wearing a mask; and how she wished for one at that moment.

  She headed back across the foyer, cringing at the very notion of a powder blue trouser suit hovering into view. And then she saw it – moving out of the front door, and heading west, towards the mews.

  Georgia headed right, towards the marquee. People were spilling out now, all men in tuxedos except for the serving staff in white. She stood near a large hedge fashioned into a geometrically precise gateway, almost completely denuded of its agricultural shape and function until she was close enough to touch it. She had a full view of the festivities from there, and there was no one else nearby.

  The women were gathered in the long lawn and garden space. There were perhaps twenty of them, with a variety of skin colours, although tending mostly towards white. Georgia saw that they all wore short white gowns, cut quite high on bare legs, and what appeared to be white pumps, even ballet slippers, on their feet. They were all young and beautiful; many were tall and statuesque, long legs and long hair let loose around their shoulders. They stood in a long, ragged row, chivvied by the same tall man in hunting tweed who had spoken to Georgia as she emerged into the woods.