Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World

by Mike A Vickers

  Celeste stepped out of a doorway behind him, uncoiling the whip. ‘Hey, moron,’ she whispered. He turned, saw her standing with braced feet, a peculiar gleam in her eyes. Confident in his superior strength, he squared up to her, flexing his arms. Muscles, honed by weights and steroids, bunched impressively. ‘Big mistake,’ he growled.

  ‘I beg to differ,’ retorted Celeste. The whip hissed through the air. She judged its trajectory with effortless skill. The tip flicked an inch from his nose, cracking like a pistol shot. His reaction was instinctive – and disastrous. He jumped backwards with a squeak, boots scrabbling on the very edge of the oubliette. Celeste lashed out again on the return stroke, but this time the whip found its mark, slashing viciously across his neck, drawing a thin line of blood. He jerked spasmodically – and down he went as well, tumbling into the pit. A cry and curse from far below indicated his fall had been thoughtfully broken by his colleague. With them both safely trapped, the floor rose up, its balance restored. Once level again, Cutie threw the bolt to lock it in place. Celeste coiled the whip. ‘Nicely done, Sandra,’ she said. ‘Has it really been that long?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Sandra replied tartly. ‘But it has been a while,’ she added with a sigh.

  ‘Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we.’ Celeste eyed the floor. No sound emanated through the oak boards. ‘When was that little beauty put in?’

  ‘When the Hall was built,’ said Cutie. ‘A last line of defence for the Temple.’

  ‘Handy. Right, two down, three still at large. Let’s go find Humph and the rest of his gang.’

  ‘Careful, Celeste, he’s got a knife,’ warned Sandra.

  ‘It won’t make a ha’porth of difference.’

  Cutie and Sandra glanced at each other, then stepped in behind Celeste, both buoyed by her supreme confidence. This woman had no concept of fear.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jenny was being pursued. She’d been spotted by Lardy-Arse and dashed through the kitchen, a place bristling with cleavers and whisks and all manner of handy weapons, but with Leach bearing down on her she barely had time to snatch up the only object even conceivably suited for defence – her favourite frying pan. Thus armed, she scampered away. She could have outrun him, of course, even in wellies. To be honest, so could’ve Long John Silver with his Sunday afternoon leg fitted, but where was the fun in that. Stick to the plan, girl. Instead, she cantered towards the vegetable garden at an easy pace, one ear on the frantic huff-puffing behind. The man was seriously out of condition. A sadist, certainly, but a desperately unfit one.

  Jen slipped through a gate into the walled garden. Now she was on home territory and headed for the far corner where a traditional Victorian timber glasshouse leaned against one wall as if thankful for the support. The slanting roof comprised rows of glass panes, green-edged with moss and streaked with lichen. The humid air inside was filled with the unique scent of geraniums and moist soil. Jenny skipped over the highly patterned floor, loose tiles rattling beneath her feet. They must have once been bright and colourful, but were faded now after more than a century of exposure to the sun. Plants encouraged into enthusiastic luxuriance bushed out on either side, fragrant and lush, every square inch filled with exotic species.

  The place was awash with weaponry.

  Leach smirked. He’d found the prettiest of the lot, now she was trapped in that greenhouse. Probably thought he hadn’t seen her slip inside. Fool! Holding his stun gun in one hand and the last remnants of lemon drizzle cake in the other, he stood in the doorway. She was his, there was no escape – and she knew it. She stood at the far end staring at him. He wanted to think she was cowering – frightened women were so much more pliant – but she seemed far less cowed than he’d hoped. Actually, she looked fairly pumped-up. Hmm, a few zaps from Stewie the Stunner should sort her out. Then he’d have some fun. He stuffed the last of the cake in his mouth, wiped his lemony fingers on his chest, and advanced down the greenhouse, a crumb-covered smile playing on piggy lips. ‘No escape,’ he announced confidently.

  A tomato splattered against his shoulder. More shocked than hurt, he saw she’d fired it from a catapult. The impact was barely noticeable. He sniggered. ‘Try harder, sugar tits. You’ll need something more substantial than a vegetable to stop me.’

  ‘Tomatoes are fruit, you cretin.’

  ‘Don’t care, I’m still coming for you. Nice quiet place, this. You and me all alone. Quite romantic, don’t you think.’ He unzipped himself and fished out Mr Sausage. Might as well let her know what was going to happen.

  Jenny grinned. Excellent – he was circumcised! Now she had another potential target. She brought the catapult up again, pulled it back to her cheek, the strong elastic creaking under the tension. She was a good shot, having used the catapult regularly to scare pigeons off her cabbages, but knew stones would not stop this man. She needed heavier artillery.

  The tomatoes possessed a deadly payload of chilli pepper.

  And not just any pepper. Jen’s pride and joy was her Dorset Naga, a prince among peppers. Nagas made a Scotch Bonnet look about as punchy as a week-old watercress sandwich. In India, peppers from the same family were smeared on fence posts to see off wild elephants! She’d prepared a bowlful, each plump tomato stuffed full of crushed pepper flesh.

  Now she aimed for his eyes.

  The tomato hit him in the face like a missile, exploding spectacularly.

  The screaming started pretty quickly after that.

  Flesh reddened as she watched, swelling obscenely until his features became a horribly distorted mask. The stun gun clattered to the floor, forgotten, abandoned as he sank to his knees, fingers clawing at his eyes. She knew the peppers were volcanic – they’d come with more warnings on the packet than weapons-grade plutonium – but this was beyond anything she could have imagined. Jenny almost felt sorry for him, then remembered this was the man who had made Martha pee her pants and followed up her first salvo with a direct hit on his foolishly exposed manhood.

  This elicited a further shriek of agony as the Naga went to work, burning his bellend hideously. He writhed, arms waving as if he couldn’t decide which part of his anatomy to comfort first.

  Jenny was impressed. Damn, she’d have to grow some more of these little beauties.

  She thought the fight had gone from him, but Leach lunged forward to grab her ankle. Jenny squeaked, kicking and stamping until he lost his grip. He staggered to his feet, eyes slitted and burning like coals, his dangler raw and crimson, and reached for her with clawed fingers.

  Jenny didn’t mess about. She grabbed the frying pan and swung it with every ounce of strength she possessed. It was a sweeping, full-on, two-handed strike, the impact actually lifting her feet from the floor. An impressively loud metallic clang echoed around the greenhouse as the base of the pan smacked him square in the face. Startled birds took to the air from nearby trees.

  It really was a hell of a wallop. Wronged wives the world over would have heartily approved.

  Poleaxed by the blow, Leach sank to his knees and toppled forward like a felled spruce, straight-backed, arms by his side, his mangled face smashing against the tiles.

  Jenny was genuinely astonished. So it wasn’t an urban myth – you really could flatten someone with a frying pan. She examined her weapon. Its handle was badly bent and a nose-shaped bulge humped the centre of its base. ‘Bastard!’ she exclaimed softly. ‘That was my best pan.’ She pulled out the handcuffs and secured one inert wrist to a metal stanchion. The stun gun went into her pocket. ‘Shouldn’t have pissed off the cook!’ she muttered at him, then fled the greenhouse, slamming the door on his prone body.

  ‘Come out, come out wherever you are,’ growled Skinner. He’d just seen the kid and the incontinent old woman slip through the study door into the flower garden beyond and had set off, padding silently like a hunting leopard, but his confidence was shaken by a distant scream, shivering, shrill and shot through with agony. He s
topped dead in his tracks, listening. Another dreadful cry drifted down the wind. That was no woman. Leach? He paused, listening intently, but the cries were not repeated.

  ‘Goddammit,’ he muttered, now a little unnerved. He’d fought in nasty little wars all over Africa, hawking his expertise to the highest bidder, and was ruthless to his enemies, yet there was something unnerving about the tranquil house. Where the hell had they gone? Now more careful after the screams, he pulled his knife and darted into the garden, crouching, ready for anything. He already knew the only other gate in the wall beyond the flowers was secured. He and his colleagues had entered through this gate and locked it behind them to ensure privacy. The two women would be trapped and at his mercy. Perhaps he’d cut them a little. Teach them a lesson. He grinned at the thought. Miller always came up with some great jobs.

  Something gloopy splattered against his chest.

  Startled, Skinner peered down and pawed at the mess. It was very sticky. He smelt his fingers. An overwhelming sweetness filled his nostrils. A lick confirmed his suspicions. ‘Honey,’ he guffawed. ‘Is that the best you can do? Hoping I’ll eventually pass out in hypoglycaemic shock?’

  Two figures emerged from a honeysuckle-covered trellis, both swaddled in protective suits and meshed hats, their hands held behind their backs. ‘Dumbarse! Hypoglycaemia is caused by a lack of sugar,’ sneered Cutie. ‘You should be more worried about what comes with the honey.’ She and her companion held out their hands. Skinner frowned. They appeared to be wearing boxing gloves – but those gloves seethed and shimmered.

  And hummed.

  Cutie knew they were ill suited to a physical confrontation. Neither possessed the bulk, muscle or psychological propensity to violence. This is a common failing amongst librarians. However, they had one priceless advantage – they were both very smart women indeed. They also knew how to arouse a host of small but surprisingly aggressive winged helpers.

  She and Martha flung themselves at Skinner, flicking great gobbets of bee-coated honeycomb over his torso and face. Surprised, he jumped back. Nothing happened for a few moments. The bees just flew away, some dropping to the ground around his feet and twitching forlornly. Skinner looked at the golden mess stuck to his shirt and chuckled. ‘Nice try, ladies, but – ouch!’ The first sting caught him in the neck. He slapped the insect away, leaving the barbed stinger behind, its venom sac pulsing.

  ‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ said Cutie. ‘I’d start running for shelter if I were you. Try the potting shed over there.’

  Skinner hissed. Another sting, this time on the chin and bloody painful. Then another. And another. A dawning horror gripped him when four came in quick succession, like machine gun bullets. Suddenly, a boiling cloud erupted from the hive nestling behind the honeysuckle. Compelled by pheromones leaking from the broken stingers, the bees smothered Skinner in an instant. He waved his arms frantically, but that had never really worked as a defence at any time in the past and so it proved on this occasion as well. The insects attacked with mindless determination, sacrificing themselves without hesitation. Skinner caught an excruciating sting on the eyeball and almost puked at the pain. A desperate need to find sanctuary replaced all thought of attacking the women. He sprinted for the brick potting shed with admirable vigour, the swarm trailing in his wake like smoke from a steam locomotive, launched himself through the heavy plank door and kicked it shut.

  Cutie scampered after him and turned the key in the lock. ‘And that’s how we do it around here,’ she crowed triumphantly. Bees swarmed all over the shed, buzzing angrily. Some crawled under the door to continue their attack. Sounds of frantic stamping and whacking emanated from within. ‘Seems he’ll be busy for some time,’ said Martha. ‘Shall we get back to the others?’

  Celeste knew Miller would be the most dangerous combatant of them all. He was the ringmaster, the lynchpin between the troops on the ground and their distant and as yet unidentified commanders. This needed to be handled delicately. Difficult, seeing as he appeared particularly intent on doing her some damage, but she remained hopeful she might be able to extract some information from him if at all possible.

  He had a knife. Men who carried knives were readily disposed to using them. The knife worried her, but she was armed herself and had complete confidence in her own skills. Martha had chosen well – the whip was a little beauty. Braided rawhide with a short stock, ideal for close quarter encounters, and she’d added some extra zing by knotting the last four inches. She wanted him to suffer for his treatment of Milly. Cruelty to any animal was unjustified. Then there was the emotive subject of her husband’s damaged danglies …

  She picked her spot carefully. In the corridor leading to the library. Doreen had shown her how to set the trap and it was now behind her, unlocked and primed. The other women were gathered safely in the kitchen, the door bolted. Celeste did not want any of them around to distract her while she dealt with this exceptionally unpleasant man. Besides, she had all the help she needed waiting nearby. A back-up. Reserves. The cavalry.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment, Mr Johnstone,’ she said evenly when he finally appeared. His angry calling for his comrades had been getting louder, signifying both his approach and increasing exasperation at their absence. She needed to show him she was not afraid and peered at her reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall, checking her make-up and tousling her hair unnecessarily in that way women have perfected specifically to annoy men who are in a hurry. ‘I think you’ll find you’re on your own. Your associates are now all, shall we say, indisposed. Forgive me for sounding harsh, but I won’t be losing any sleep over their predicament.’

  Miller padded towards her, knife in hand, his face contorted with rage. ‘What do you mean?’

  Celeste dabbed on some lippy. ‘Are you thick or something? Does the employment of words with more than one syllable cause you difficulty?’

  Miller paused, frowning. Well that was unexpected. Of all things, he hadn’t bargained for an English lesson from the stuck-up bitch.

  After one final check in the mirror to ensure all was perfect, Celeste turned to give him her full attention. ‘Let me explain more simply. The girls have brought your men down. All of them are now neutralised, two very painfully indeed. Looks like it’s just you and me, Humph. I’d like to ask you some questions about the brains behind your brawn, but somehow, from the expression on your face, I don’t think you’ll be offering any information, and I’m certainly not going to tell you anything about our plans, so shall we crack on?’ she said in a businesslike tone, uncoiling the whip casually, the chain wrapped around her other fist and dangling almost to the floor. Miller felt a wash of uncertainty. He recognised a creditable adversary when he saw one. Still, he had the knife, a generous physical advantage, full knowledge of martial arts, a complete absence of conscience and a ready predisposition to sadistic violence. A winning hand.

  ‘Sod plucking the parrot,’ he said coldly. This was now personal. ‘I’m going to hurt you in an entirely different way.’ Things had fallen apart badly. He needed to deal with this ginger cow, extract his men and execute a strategic withdrawal. Netheridge would have to come up with a different plan to deal with her perverted prick of a husband. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘So am I,’ she replied with a sunny smile.

  Miller advanced again, crouching low with arms spread wide, a carefully cultured murderous expression on his face. To his slight concern, she did not retreat. Usually, people retreated. Actually, they almost always retreated, often with commendable alacrity. More like fleeing in terror than retreating, but not this time. He knew he cut an intimidating figure, ex-special services guys always did, but the woman stood her ground.

  ‘Time to be afraid,’ he said very softly, pointing at her with the knife.

  Celeste sighed wearily. ‘Save your clichés. I’ve met – and bettered – far worse than you. You’re a bully and a coward, Humph, and compared to Martin Shufflebottom, you’re little more than a p
etulant, pusillanimous pussycat.’

  ‘A what?’ Miller had been called many things in his life, but never that. A blush of righteous indignation coloured his face. ‘And who the hell is he?’

  Celeste spotted the flush. Yes, you’ve still got it, girl. Tease him some more. Undermine his confidence, make him think defeat is a possibility, then force him into a mistake. It had worked at school, no reason to think it wouldn’t work now.

  ‘Martin is a rage-filled psycho. You know, a proper man. He’d never hide behind a knife. Fists, teeth and boots are his weapons. Balls of steel, that one. Entirely out of your league, Humph. I mean, come on, even I can see you’ve got hands of beer-softened veal.’

  Miller went hot. Goaded by her mocking, he pounced. Cut first to incapacitate, then enjoy.

  His lunge was anticipated. Celeste twisted to one side, spinning away before lashing at him with explosive strength, the whip hissing like an enraged cobra. Carried by his momentum, Miller fell into the stroking leather. Pain, indescribable in its intensity, erupted in his neck and shoulder. The knotted tip of the whip curled around his face and excoriated his left cheek and eye. Miller yelped, which in itself was unusual. He hadn’t yelped since inflicting an unfortunate zippering injury on his Old Man during a hasty exit from a Benghazi brothel while moonlighting for Gaddafi in ’98. Rawhide slid across his face, trailing wetness. He touched his cheek and looked at his fingers. Not tears – blood.

  Celeste knew she could not underestimate this man and got in a return stroke with the chain while he stared at his blood-soaked fingertips in shock. Her target was the knife. Heavy steel links crunched around his hand, breaking all manner of delicate bones, but Miller, too, was full of surprises, and instantly switched the blade to his left hand. His arm swung, back and forth, slashing at her, a diabolical grin on his bloodied face, but she held him at bay with the whip and chain.