by Jilly Cooper
There was no furniture in the high vaulted hall, but Stancombe led her into a large drawing room with flames leaping in a big fireplace, walls lined with mirrors and leather sofas, fur cushions and a floor covered in thick, dark shagpile. In one corner, four-legged and big as a Welsh cob, stood a vast television. In another was a table covered in glasses and a trolley groaning with every kind of drink. In the centre of the room stood a strange padded leather table about three feet off the ground. Twigs and rose thorns clawed and scrabbled at the windows, like the buried-alive trying to escape from their coffins. At least the windows had handles in case she wanted to make a quick getaway.
Cadbury’s hackles had gone straight up, his pink lip curled, his normally genial yellow eyes were hard and reptilian. He had no use for Stancombe, who in turn was furious Dora had brought a chaperon, but decided not to make a fuss. She looked so adorable in her school tie with her chubby little legs sticking out from underneath her beige pleated skirt and flesh visible in the gaps between the buttons of her white shirt.
Anthea was too mean to buy Dora new uniform until she was absolutely bursting out of it, and would have been appalled if she’d realized how additionally seductive this made her daughter look. Stancombe, who’d just taken the brake off any inhibitions with a vast line of coke, felt himself boiling over with lust.
As Dora plonked herself down on a brown leather sofa, Cadbury wandered off to explore, which suited Stancombe. It would enable him to shut the bloody dog away in another room.
‘What would you like to drink?’
‘A crème de menthe frappé,’ said Dora airily, ‘but shouldn’t we see Kerfuffle? Another buyer might get there first.’
‘He’s in the stables, only five minutes from here.’ Stancombe waved vaguely in the direction of the window behind her.
‘I want to try him out.’
‘Of course. They’ve got an indoor school.’ Hell, he’d forgotten how to frappé ice. He was so on fire, he’d melt anything he touched.
‘Wasn’t the Queen lovely?’ said Dora brightly. ‘I thought it went so well.’
Stancombe picked up a steel hammer. ‘It was a cock-up from start to finish. Whatever one’s reservations about Hengist B-T, he’d have known how to run a show like that. Alex couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery.’ Bash, bash, bash! The ice was going everywhere.
‘It’s awfully hot,’ said Dora, ‘can we open the window?’
‘Take off your cardi, then I can admire your sexy figure. You get tastier every time I see you. Said I ought to put you down like a fine wine but I think you’re grown-up enough for love now.’ As he handed her her drink, his fingers caressed hers.
‘I am too,’ beamed Dora as he sat beside her. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend. I’ve wanted him to be my boyfriend for nearly three years, since he played Romeo.’ She took a gulp of crème de menthe. ‘That’s lovely, rather like mouthwash, but I don’t want to be drunk in charge of an event horse. I’ve always fancied older men,’ she went on dreamily. Stancombe preened, then scowled as she added, ‘Paris is two years older than me.’
If I bang on about Paris, it’ll put him off, thought Dora hopefully. He won’t dare try anything if he’s Mummy’s boyfriend.
‘Would you like a tour of the house?’ murmured Stancombe.
Suddenly aware of his burning thigh pressed against hers, Dora jumped to her feet. ‘I’d rather see Kerfuffle – and where’s Cadbury? I bet he’s found the kitchen.’
She ran out into the hall and, turning left, discovered herself in a room with a vast double bed and walls lined with more mirrors. On the bedside table was a pair of handcuffs, some manacles and an evil-looking black whip with a long lash, which was certainly not intended to be used on Kerfuffle.
Dora froze, increasingly aware she was in the presence of evil.
‘“The Good Life”,’ sang Sacha Distel sforzando. No one would hear screams over that.
Next moment, Stancombe had grabbed her, hands going everywhere, like the sinewy tentacles of a mad, starved octopus. ‘Little Dora,’ he whispered, crashing his horrible, hot, full lips down on hers, ramming his great, hard, fat tongue between her teeth.
‘Don’t,’ squealed Dora, ‘let me go, you disgusting old man, or I’ll bite your tongue off. I’ll guillotine your willy. I trusted you because you’re Mummy’s boyfriend. She’s a JP and I’m under age. She’ll bang you up for this. Stop it. STOP it!’ She tried to knee him in the groin as shirt buttons under siege were pinging everywhere.
‘You know you want me,’ taunted Stancombe, as wildly excited by her antagonism as by her plump, young flesh.
‘I bloody don’t, I’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Stancombe was tearing off her shirt, scrabbling for the hook of her pink gingham bra, about to rip it off in his frustration. ‘You need a real man, not that little wimp.’
‘I don’t, he isn’t, I love Paris.’ Dora aimed a kick at Stancombe’s shins.
‘Stop it, you snotty little bitch.’ As he pinned her against a mirrored wall, she was impaled by an erection big as a rounder’s bat. ‘Can’t you get it into your fucking head, Paris is gay.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ panted Dora. ‘He wasn’t gay with my friend Bianca, or Amber, or your stuck-up daughter. You’re just as green with jealousy as that crème de menthe.’
‘Paris is a little tart,’ hissed Stancombe. ‘Look at the way he flashed his ass at Theo and Hengist and Artie and Biffo, all eating out of his hand.’
He was foaming at the mouth, veins like snakes writhing on his forehead. Dora had never seen anyone so angry and would have been scared witless if she hadn’t been so furious.
‘Come and look at this.’ Grabbing her hand, Stancombe dragged her back into the living room where he pushed her down on the leather sofa. Then he took a video from the shelf and rammed it into the television.
Dora took a gulp of crème de menthe. She must get out and where the hell was Cadbury? Next moment, ridiculous, jiggy music flooded the room and despite everything, she burst out laughing at the sight of a lot of fat, naked old men dancing round, whooping and drinking out of champagne bottles. It was like the Elephants in ‘Carnival of the Animals’, except they had waggling willies instead of trunks.
‘Oh yuk, yuk, yuk cubed,’ cried Dora as they started groping each other, fondling and slapping each other’s bottoms. Then she gave a gasp.
‘My God, that fat one’s Russell someone, Mummy knows him, he’s the planning officer. And there’s revolting Ashton Douglas who Dame Hermione sang happy birthday to. He’s got his socks on too; expect he’s frightened of getting verrucas. God, how gross – and there’s Col Peters, vile pig and Rod Hyde’ – Dora couldn’t help giggling – ‘with a wincy little willy.’
But when Stancombe fast-forwarded the tape, Dora shrieked in real anguish to see that Russell Someone was humping away – ‘Oh God, no!’ – on top of a thin, very young girl, lying on her front on the same leather table that was in the centre of the room, with her face concealed by flopping white-blonde hair. Although her hands were tightly tied together in front and Rod Hyde and Col Peters were laughing and holding her down, she was putting up a hell of a struggle.
‘My God, poor little girl,’ screamed Dora, ‘he’s raping her. How can you allow something so terrible? Turn it off, I can’t look.’
‘Yes, you can,’ hissed Stancombe, yanking her head back towards the screen as the camera zoomed in. ‘Look at the Eiffel Tower on his shoulder. That’s your little rent boy.’
‘My turn, my turn,’ Ashton was now yelling, prising off Russell and taking over, to whoops of excitement from the others, and shafting away with unparalleled viciousness.
‘Just watch,’ gloated Stancombe as, in close-up again, the camera captured below the blindfold a long nose, lips curled back in agony, and teeth plunged into the black leather. The exquisite bone structure could only belong to Paris.
‘You revolting pervert,’ screamed Dora, hammering her fists against St
ancombe’s chest, ‘you were raping him, that’s what the Upper Sixth threatened to do to my brother Dicky. How dare you hurt Paris when he was a little boy in a children’s home with no parents to protect him? That is the most disgusting, horrible thing I’ve ever seen.’
Rushing towards the television, Dora pressed the eject button, grabbed the video and, yanking open a window, hurled it out into the bushes.
‘You stupid bitch,’ howled Stancombe, ‘you’ll pay for it.’
‘How could you film something so sick?’ howled back Dora. ‘So you could blackmail Ashton and Rod Hyde if they stepped out of line?’
‘That’s enough, it’s your turn now, no one knows you’re here.’
But as Stancombe lunged at her, they were both distracted by excited squeaking. Shoving Stancombe off balance with all her might, Dora ran to yet another room, a sort of study with a big desk. Here she found Cadbury, his pink nose deep in a wardrobe, his tail going like a windscreen wiper on speed.
‘Drop!’ yelled Stancombe, hurtling forward and kicking Cadbury viciously in the ribs.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ screamed Dora, grabbing a steel lamp.
But Cadbury had been living at home with Anthea and shut in the kitchen and kicked in the ribs once too often. Next moment he’d thrown himself at Stancombe, knocking him to the floor, standing over him, growling furiously.
‘Bastard dog.’ Stancombe tried and failed to grab Cadbury by the balls.
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ panted Dora, ‘serves you right for persuading Mummy to have him castrated. Pity she didn’t have you done at the same time.’
When she first peered into the wardrobe, she thought she’d stumbled on a linen cupboard, then slowly realized Cadbury had sniffed out pillows and pillows of white powder.
‘Good boy, good, clever Cadbury, keep him there.’ Dora rushed next door and seized the handcuffs. Wrenching a terrified Stancombe’s hands behind his back, she clicked them shut. Then she bound his ankles very tightly with her Boudicca house tie.
‘That’s a reef knot – only thing I learnt in the Brownies. You won’t get out of that, nor would Joan approve of such disgusting language,’ she added, pulling his green silk handkerchief out of his pocket and shoving it in his raging mouth.
‘Let’s see what else you’ve got in here.’ Returning to the wardrobe, Dora found several briefcases bulging with notes and, at the back, a sleek, black gun, which she laid on the desk.
‘You evil man . . .’ Then, horror and revulsion taking over from a sense of achievement: ‘How dare you do that to my boyfriend?’
Picking up the house telephone she dialled 999.
‘I want to speak to Chief Inspector Gablecross, it’s very urgent.’ Then, after a pause during which Stancombe wriggled like a netted tuna to free himself: ‘Hello, Chief Inspector, this is Dora Belvedon, could you come at once? I’ve just conducted a citizen’s arrest on Randal Stancombe. He’s in big trouble. He’s got a lot of white stuff in his cupboard that doesn’t look like baby powder.
‘My dog, Cadbury, deserves a medal, he’s been so brave. I’ve tied Stancombe up but he’s not in carnival mood, so please hurry. I’ve no idea where I am, but it’s quite grand with pillars at the bottom of the drive topped with monsters . . . now I remember, Mr Brett-Taylor’s got one on his crest: they’re griffins. The park railings are all broken and could never keep a horse in and it’s a very shaggy old house with high ceilings. There’s the doorbell, it might be Uncle Harley back, so please hurry.’
As the bell rang more insistently, Cadbury barked, uncertain whether he ought to rush to the door or guard Stancombe, who mumbled furiously through his handkerchief that Dora would now be for the high jump.
The doorbell rang again. Grabbing the gun, holding it behind her back, Dora tugged open the door to find Ashton Douglas, with his arm round a beautiful fair-haired little boy, cooing, ‘Come on, Bwad, you’ll love this wonderful house. Good evening,’ he added with his thin smile. Then, clocking Dora’s ripped, undone shirt, paused, unsure what game she might be playing. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Stancombe.’
‘He’s not here.’
There was a crash from next door.
‘It’s a man mending the boiler,’ squeaked Dora.
Ignoring her, Ashton ushered Brad into the study.
‘What the hell?’
Cadbury growled, but with more uncertainty. He needed another line of coke.
‘Don’t untie him, Mr Douglas,’ ordered Dora, whipping out the gun, ‘or I’ll fill you full of lead. The police are on their way and this gun is loaded.’
‘Don’t be silly, little girl,’ said Ashton, hastily shielding himself with a terrified Brad.
Oh help, thought Dora as the doorbell rang yet again.
‘You wouldn’t dare fire that gun, put it down.’ Ashton, setting Brad aside, was about to untie Stancombe’s feet.
‘Oh yes I would.’ Aiming above Brad, Dora shut her eyes and pulled the trigger. As a bullet shattered the mirror above his head, Ashton dropped Stancombe’s ankles. ‘And next time you go kiddy-fiddling,’ she added furiously, ‘take your socks off.’
‘What are you talking about?’ spluttered Ashton.
‘A disgusting film of you gang-raping Paris.’
Ashton’s face turned as green as his suddenly panic-stricken eyes. Next moment, Brad made a bolt for it. Catching him with her left hand, Dora drew him close: ‘It’s OK, you’re safe now.’
Someone was leaning on the bell. Backing towards the front door, keeping her eyes on Ashton, Dora put on a deep voice and cried: ‘Who’s there?’
‘Open up,’ said a familiar, reedy voice.
‘Mr Fussy,’ exploded Dora as she opened the door.
Alex was disguised by a false beard, a deerstalker and dark glasses; his open-neck shirt, however, revealed his wobbling Adam’s apple.
‘Your friends are in there, you disgusting old man.’
Seeing the gun and Nemesis in the form of a Middle Fifth student with her clothes torn off, Alex turned and bolted slap into the arms of PC Cuthbert, who’d been working out with Gloria and who had no difficulty arresting Alex and slapping him into handcuffs.
PC Cuthbert was accompanied by a policewoman, into whose arms Dora thrust a sobbing Brad. Rushing back to Stancombe’s telephone, punching out numbers, she was deep in conversation as Paris erupted into the room, fists clenched, eyes blazing, snarling like a snow leopard about to spring.
‘Where’s Dora, what the fuck’s going on?’
Cadbury thumped his tail as Paris took in Stancombe flailing on the ground, Ashton cringing in the corner and Dora with all her buttons ripped off, putting back a receiver. Completely losing it, Paris leapt forward, enfolding her in his arms, clinging to her like a drowning man to driftwood, frantically kissing her over and over again.
‘Are you OK? Omigod, what did that bastard do to you? Did he hurt you?’
‘I’m fine, honest. I was just ringing Paul Dacre to ask him to hold the front page.’
For a moment Paris gazed down at her in disbelief, exasperation and then love.
‘For fuck’s sake, I’ve been through every hell in the world worrying about you. No one knew where you were. I thought I’d never see you again.’ Paris’s voice broke as, trembling violently, he clutched her tight. ‘And don’t watch, you bastard,’ he added, giving Stancombe a big kick.
‘I left my mobile behind, I wanted to ring you but I couldn’t,’ gasped Dora who, as reality reasserted itself, had started trembling far worse than Paris. ‘I had to be brave for Cadbury and because I was so desperate to see you again.’
Tears were trickling down Paris’s cheeks.
‘I imagined such terrible things happening to you, I can’t tell you . . . They’re like . . . so terrible.’ Having furiously wiped his eyes with his sleeve, still clutching Dora, he turned towards Ashton.
‘Many happy weturns, Mr Douglas, wemember me?’
His voice was so filled with contempt and loathin
g that Dora shivered, Cadbury dropped his ears and Ashton backed terrified into the cupboard.
‘We’ve never met,’ he gibbered.
‘Yeah, we did. On your fortieth birthday, remember, at a waif-swapping party at Oaktree Court,’ spat Paris. ‘I don’t figure this birthday’s going to end quite so well for you.’
For a second his fingers tightened convulsively on Dora’s arms, then, as she said shakily, ‘It’s OK, I’m here for you, I love you,’ police poured into the house.
‘Break it up, you two,’ said Cosmo, tapping them on the shoulder a few minutes later. ‘Well done, Cadbury. Christ! Look at that Charlie.’ He snorted a pinch from a claws-punctured bag. ‘It’s very good; I suppose we can’t have the odd kilo for rounding up this gang of thieves?’
‘How did you ever find me?’ asked Dora, still keeping the firmest hold on Paris.
‘We followed Mr Fussy,’ said Cosmo, nodding at Alex who was remonstrating with PC Cuthbert.
‘I can explain everything, officer.’
‘And I can tell you, Alex, baby,’ called out Cosmo chattily, ‘that like Trafford’s minge-drinkers, you’re going down for a long, long time.’
While Col Peters, Russell Lambert, Des Res and Rod Hyde were being rounded up, all on their way to the party, Dora had a brief private word with Chief Inspector Gablecross.
‘There was this hideous video in the machine which could send this lot to the electric chair. Could Paris possibly not see it? I chucked it out of that window into some bushes in the direction of the stables.’
‘There aren’t any stables,’ said Chief Inspector Gablecross grimly. ‘You’ve been very lucky; Stancombe’s a very dangerous man. You must have been frightened.’
‘I had Cadbury,’ said Dora fondly, ‘and, frankly, when a true writer gets on to a good story, they feel no fear.’
138
The police proceeded to fillet Stancombe’s various properties and unearth every kind of skulduggery, more drugs and arms in other deserted warehouses and evidence that he had massively bribed Ashton, Rod Hyde, Alex Bruce, Russell, Desmond Reynolds and Col Peters with villas in hot countries and huge dollops of cash.
