What rubbish. What sensational nonsense. Whoever wrote this was counting on an influx of gullible tourists to swell the coffers of the pub and tea-rooms.
‘But Saxonhurst’s most unpleasant secret concerns the ruined barn on the edge of the fields.’
Adam shut his eyes, remembering that fateful day at the aforementioned edifice, Evie in rut, her naked body glorying in its lascivious degradations. She had bewitched him that day. Perhaps something unearthly did dwell amongst those rotting spars. He read on.
‘To fully understand its gory history, we must go back 300 years, to the time immediately after the English Civil Wars, when Royalist Parham had been comprehensively trounced in battle by the forces of Parliament. Cromwell and his Puritan followers were never popular in Saxonhurst and its environs, and the village traditions were threatened by the arrival of missionaries, bent on changing everything.
‘In this solemn time, everything was banned. Maypoles and dancing on the village green, drinking at the inn, even the convivial suppers villagers had enjoyed on quarter days – all were frowned upon under the new regime. But Saxonhurst did not take well to the Puritan yoke, and resistance was mustered. This core group of rebels were led by one John Calderwood, a gentleman of the village, thought to have practised law in Parham.’
Calderwood? Adam racked his brain to think of any villagers of that name, but he couldn’t. Either the man had no descendants, or they had long since left the area. Before he could return to his studies, the phone rang.
The conversation with the Archdeacon about parish affairs and plans and the next Diocesan Council meeting drove the book out of his head.
He went up to bed, leaving it open on the coffee table, forgetful of its presence.
From his bedroom window, he could see the Fleece and he tried to make out the window of Trevelyan’s room. A chink of light shone through the curtains, but surely nothing could have happened between Evie and the journalist, especially considering the state he was in. No, Trevelyan would be snoring, fully clothed, in his bed, and Evie would have given up in disgust and gone home.
She was at home. She was asleep, in her bed, curled up, eyelashes dark on her cheeks … She was not with a man.
He would never sleep if he thought she was with a man.
The coffee had been a bad idea, on reflection, and he tossed and turned in his lonely bed, jumbled thoughts crowding in his head and refusing to clear. The maypole, Evie leaning over so he could rub cream into her bottom, the haunting of Saxonhurst, that Trevelyan character, Evie’s family, the order of service for next Sunday … It went on and on, turning unexpected corners, coming back to the same places, like Alice’s looking glass world.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because his bedroom became a different place, with an open fire crackling in the sealed-up fireplace and plain white walls. Dark beams crossed the ceiling overhead, and outside in the churchyard he could hear unholy shouts and wails.
He rose from his bed and padded to the window. The uncovered floorboards were splintery and rough on his bare feet. He opened the casements, then pushed aside the wooden shutters. Outside, in the churchyard, there was a small bonfire made under the yew tree, and villagers were dancing and carousing around it.
The heathen spawn of the devil! In the house of God too.
He felt himself overcome with rage and he bellowed through the window at them to put out the fire and go to their homes.
They wore masks, so he could not identify them, and their replies came in the form of rude gestures.
This was the village he was meant to save. What chance did he stand?
He lit a candle, pulled on his clerical garments and hastened down the stairs, ready to disperse them with threats of calling the soldiers from the garrison at Parham.
When they saw him bustling down the path, they disappeared, leaping over the gate with catcalls and laughter. He tried to give chase, but only one of them was slow enough to be caught.
He whipped off the mask and found a girl, a young woman, a beautiful vision with dark curls and glowing, impudent eyes.
Evie.
He knew it was her, and yet she was a stranger and this their first meeting.
In the light of the dying fire, he held her by the shoulders and harangued her.
‘What means this? Why do you seek to desecrate this place?’
‘We want our village back from the likes of you. We want dancing and cider and Christmas. We don’t want your rules.’
‘The rules are not mine, they are Cromwell’s, and they are enforced for the sake of your immortal souls.’
‘We won’t have it.’
‘Who is “we”?’
‘You’ll know. Let me go!’ She struggled free of his grip and hared away, vaulting the wall with energetic ease.
He looked after her, knowing that his soul was under threat, but not knowing quite how.
He extinguished the fire and returned to his bed.
Puritans were on Adam’s mind when he dressed the next morning. His own manner of dressing was reminiscent of those severe pilgrims, always in black, always simple yet striking. It seemed his 17th-century precursor had just as difficult a job in inculcating virtues into the people of Saxonhurst as he did.
After a light breakfast, a whim took him into the church, to see if he could find the name of that vicar whose flesh he had seemed to inhabit in his dream.
On the board in gold lettering, he found the name Tribulation Smith, incumbent between the years 1647 and 1651. As he pondered the terrible crimes of nomenclature committed by those God-fearing souls, another name caught his eye and drew it down the board. J. E. Lydford, the author of the book, had been vicar here in the 1950s. That explained the sense of familiarity he’d had.
Pondering this, he returned to some administrative tasks in his study, but he found it hard to concentrate with the book calling to him from the living room.
He was about to give in and sneak in an hour’s reading when the doorbell rang.
On the step, he was mildly disgusted to find a pale-faced Trevelyan, in the company of an even paler Julia Shields. No sign of Evie – with any luck, she had seen sense and gone home.
‘Vicar, I wonder if you could do us a favour.’ Julia dived in without preamble. ‘Trevelyan needs somebody to show him how to get into the manor estate, but I simply must dash into Parham this morning. Hospital appointment, you see. Could you possibly show him to the gap in the wall?’
‘Can’t he find it himself?’
‘He’ll need someone to keep watch.’
‘Oh no. No, no. You can’t ask me to do this. I don’t approve, for one thing. This is your crusade now, Julia. I don’t discourage it, but I can’t have my name linked to it.’
‘They’re filming Evie today,’ said Trevelyan thickly. ‘Big scene. She’s the star.’
Adam’s stomach lurched. He looked from Julia to Trevelyan, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘Did you tell him to say that?’ he asked Julia abruptly.
‘Of course not. I didn’t know. He’s the one who spent the evening with her. I suppose she told him herself.’
‘Yeah,’ Trevelyan confirmed.
‘And does she know you’re planning to sneak up with your telescopic lens and take candid pictures of her?’
‘No,’ Trevelyan admitted. ‘She thinks I’m here to do a picture story on arable farming.’
‘You lied to her, in other words.’
‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ said Julia in clipped tones.
‘I’m not sure which of you is the devil,’ muttered Adam. ‘Possibly all of you.’
‘I’m just doing my job,’ said Trevelyan with a yawn.
‘A job that involves sleeping with and betraying the local women?’
‘Look, if you don’t want to come …’
‘I’ll come. Give me a minute.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ said Julia, rolling her eyes. ‘Right then, I’m off. Good luck. Hope
you get your exclusive, Trev.’
‘Yeah, cheers,’ he drawled, waving vaguely before turning back to Adam. ‘You ready?’
Adam looked pointedly at the camera slung around his neck. ‘Just as well you’ve still got that,’ he said.
‘Yeah, yeah, thanks, Monseigneur. Let’s go, shall we?’
Adam followed him along the path.
‘Reverend,’ he said. ‘Not Monseigneur. I’m not Catholic.’
‘You’re all the same to me,’ he said.
‘What do you think Evie will think when she finds out you’ve plastered her naked body all over the celebrity magazines?’
Trevelyan stopped and stared at Adam. ‘Are you serious? She’ll fucking love it. Pardon my French. I’d put money on her having her own low-rent reality show by this time next year. Girl’s got star quality.’
Adam thought about Evie, carried off to London, the new sex symbol for the nation. Nausea gripped him.
They were careful to avoid being seen as they crossed the road and slipped into the woodland that surrounded the manor’s walls.
‘So,’ said Adam, trying out a bluff man-to-man tone that didn’t quite come off, ‘what’s your angle going to be?’
‘My angle?’
‘This story. Are you in Julia’s pocket or do you have a different story to tell?’
Trevelyan exhaled deeply.
‘Well, I don’t know, to be honest with you. It depends who wants to pay me the most money for the story. I can make it shock horror or I can make it a lighter piece about saucy goings-on in the village, you know? I know Julia wants the full-on Daily Mail hands-in-the-air, what’s-to-become-of-us? But I don’t have a personal agenda. What about you? I guess you disapprove?’
‘I don’t approve of pornography, no. But I think Julia is seizing a moral high ground she doesn’t really occupy for her own ends. She wants the house back, by hook or by crook.’
Trevelyan stopped dead.
‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered.
Adam heard nothing but crackling twigs and chirping birdsong.
‘No.’
‘Listen.’
Adam heard singing, a sweet, almost ethereal voice. The softness of it led him to believe it must be close by, in the trees. They were close to the break in the wall now, but was it safe to go through?
‘Is this it?’ Trevelyan whispered, squeezing himself through, shaking the hedge as he tried to elude its stiff twigs.
‘There’s someone nearby. Perhaps we should wait.’
‘No, come on. It’ll be fine.’
He held out a hand to Adam, who took it with misgivings, unwilling to be caught red-handed, as it were, in the middle of a porn set.
They tiptoed through the dense copse, the singing voice always nearby, until Adam caught a glimpse of a bright red scarf and ducked back.
Trevelyan, however, had not seen it and he blundered onwards. It must be the singer.
Seconds later, Adam heard Evie’s voice.
‘Trev! What you doing here?’
Chapter Eight
‘OH. HULLO.’
‘And you’ve brought your camera. I think someone’s got a naughty plan.’
‘I just wanted … You know, just for personal use. A few shots.’
‘Wank material? But you need everyone’s consent for that, love. Didn’t you know?’ She raised her voice. ‘Oi, everyone! I’ve found a stray photographer in the wild.’
‘No, no, I’ll go back, don’t …’
‘Come on, love. Come and have a look at what you wanted to see. Come with me.’
Adam allowed himself a moment of Schadenfreude. The odious Trevelyan had had his plans scuppered. But he supposed he ought to go and keep watch over him, in case the situation turned ugly. He edged forward, slowly and carefully, following the sound of cracking branches and footsteps ahead.
Soon he had his view of the lawn at the back of the manor, the pool in the distance. In the immediate foreground, camera crew and actors milled around, putting on make-up, drinking coffee and chatting. Into the midst of this, Evie pulled Trevelyan along as if leading a recalcitrant dog on its lead. She was wearing a tiny black dress accessorised with the bright red scarf Adam had caught sight of.
‘See! You’ve got real wildlife in your grounds, Seb,’ said Evie, stopping in front of the Lord of the Manor.
Sebastian looked the journalist up and down. ‘Who the fuck are you? And where have you come from?’
Adam could just make out the remark above the murmur of chat, which was dying down as people began to take an interest in the little scene.
‘I’ll leave,’ offered Trevelyan. ‘If you want. But I can get you some press interest, if you’d like that.’ He held up his camera. ‘Do you fancy it?’
Seb’s lip curved upwards.
‘You’re a journalist?’
‘Yeah, freelance.’
‘Why didn’t you approach me directly instead of creeping around in my bushes? You want to make trouble for me, don’t you?’
‘No, no, seriously, no. I don’t.’
Sebastian sat in his director’s chair and considered the situation for a while. Adam saw Trevelyan look around himself anxiously, checking for escape routes. He ducked down further, not wanting to be discovered himself.
‘I’ve got a story for you,’ said Sebastian suddenly. ‘It’s a good one. You’ll be able to sell it to a lad mag or a top-shelf version. My Day As A Fluffer. What do you think?’
‘What? You mean …’
‘You know what a fluffer is, don’t you?’
‘They, uh, they get the performers – ready.’
‘Ready, yeah. Hard. You can suck my actors’ dicks for them before they fuck their colleagues. What do you think?’
‘Um … I’d rather not. Not really.’
Sebastian tutted and shook his head. ‘No nose for a story,’ he said.
‘You wouldn’t mind doing it with your hands, though, would you?’ suggested Evie. ‘It’s ever so easy. And you could help us girls too. I could do with a hand with my vajazzles. And he could do all the lubing.’
‘That sounds – acceptable,’ said Trevelyan weakly.
Adam clenched his fists. He didn’t know what vajazzling was, but he didn’t want Trevelyan doing it to Evie, that was for sure.
‘Fine,’ said Sebastian. ‘We have a runner. Oh, but you aren’t taking the pictures. I’ll do that. Hand over the camera.’
‘I’d rather not …’ Trevelyan saw that he had little choice, though, and the camera was taken from around his neck and relinquished.
‘Good. Now, I think our Evie needs some ornamentation. Would you be so kind?’
Evie grinned impishly and dragged Trevelyan by the arm over to a chair. Sitting down on it, she raised her skirt and spread her legs without a word, revealing everything within to whomever cared to look. Then she reached down to a big compartmentalised box at the side of the chair and drew out some little sparkly gems on plastic backing.
Adam watched Trevelyan taking instructions from her and decorating her shaved pubic triangle with the tiny multi-coloured gems until he had successfully depicted an unfurling rose bud.
It was some measure of Adam’s infatuation that he did not look away once, even when an enthusiastic threesome scene was filmed a few metres away from Evie’s chair.
The groaning and grunting washed over him, the cocks plunged unseen into their corresponding cunts. All that filled Adam’s world was that tiny sparkling inverted triangle and the parted lips beneath.
He watched, barely breathing, as Evie pulled off her dress and scarf and allowed Trevelyan to dress her in a crotchless latex catsuit. This took some time, a great deal of talcum-powdering, followed by an heroic struggle of tugging and yanking. Eventually, she was second-skinned in shiny black and ready to have Trevelyan fasten her thigh high boots.
His next task was to scrape back her mane of unruly hair and fasten it in a severe bun. He required the help of the on-set stylist for
this, but seemed to relish taming it with quantities of gel and hairspray.
Evie wasn’t Evie any more, thought Adam. This foreign creature in her intimidating black with her sharply accentuated cheekbones wasn’t the girl he longed to take under his wing and keep from the wicked world.
She was the wicked world.
But it was a role, he told himself, a part she had to play. And he still maintained that she had found herself in this situation by default, rather than seeking it out. He had to believe it. Evie’s entire persona was a role – the outrageous, sexually flamboyant animal-girl. She had been groomed for it, by this mysterious grandmother of hers. What chance had she stood?
Trevelyan handed her a whip, a thing with an ornate, jewelled handle and many strands of braided black leather.
Adam shook his head. His Evie was no dominatrix. She taunted him so because she wanted him to tell her where to stop. She wanted him to raise his hand and say “Enough” and take her for his own. She wanted this. Why else was she coming to his Bible study lessons?
All the same, he was intrigued at the figure she cut, striding around, flicking the whip so it swooshed. Trevelyan stood well back, afraid of catching a tip across the cheek.
Kasia, in a ballet skirt and glittery pasties and little else, came running out from the house, her expression perturbed. She had some bad news, Adam thought.
‘Seb, just had Cal on the phone. He can’t make it. Rugby injury – he needs to see a physio.’
‘Shit,’ said Sebastian, and Evie’s face also fell.
‘I ain’t put this thing on for nothing, have I?’ she demanded, trying to pluck at the latex, but finding it unpluckable.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sebastian. ‘Without Cal, you can’t play this scene.’
‘Why not?’ said Evie. ‘What about him?’ She pointed at Trevelyan with her whip.
‘What?’ Trevelyan looked up from lubricating another girl’s anus, his shock of hair dishevelled.
‘You can be my sub, love. What do you think?’ She sauntered over, caressing the underside of his chin with the strands. ‘Can’t deny you deserve a whipping, can you? Leading a girl on like that last night. You played me for a fool.’
Saxonhurst Secrets Page 9
