by Celina Grace
“He does what?”
“Merian—“ said Race, cutting across me. “Don’t keep talking.”
“He strangles women with their own hair,” said Merian, ignoring him. She collapsed back into her chair, throwing her hands up into the air. “My god, it is such a relief to finally tell someone. I can’t believe it.”
Blue hadn’t said a word for several minutes. Then he spoke, his voice hoarser than usual. “The first one was an accident.”
“You say that now,” said Merian sharply. “But I was there. I’m not so sure about that.”
“You were there?” I thought I’d misheard for a second. Merian there while Blue and some unknown woman were…
“It wasn’t the first time,” said Race, with what was almost a smirk. “Merian’s got to have some compensation for all her hard work. Hey, Merian?”
Merian was staring down at her hands, at her talon-like nails. She looked ancient for a moment, years older than she actually was. “How do you think he got me to clean up after him the next time? The next time after that? How could I refuse, with that hanging over me?” She stared across the room at Race, her face hard. “What’s your excuse?”
I swallowed. Cold and shaky as I was feeling, my mind was working properly. I could answer that.
“I can answer that,” I said, my voice trembling. “He gets money and secondary fame and the pick of the groupies that Blue doesn’t want. Isn’t that right, Race?”
He looked me in the eye for a moment and then dropped his gaze. “I knew you’d be okay,” he mumbled, after a moment. “You’re not his type. I knew you’d be safe.”
“Oh, well that’s all right then,” I said, my voice vibrating with fury as much as with shock. “So much for my poor friend then, who was his type.” Was. Somewhere within me I was beginning to accept that Janey was dead. And if that were the case, then I was in terrible danger. Now I knew about the deaths – my god, multiple murders – I was pretty sure that they were going to have to silence me. And they couldn’t be sure of that without making sure of my death. I tensed, ready to run.
I hadn’t realised until now, but Cody and Wade – a miraculously conscious Wade – had come into the room. Had they heard? Were they part of it all?
“What’s going on?” asked Cody, after a moment.
“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” snapped back Race. “That’s how you like it, isn’t it, Cody?”
I stared at Cody. “Cody, you’re not involved with this are you? Say you’re not.”
“Oh, Cody knows,” said Merian, with such venom in her voice that even I flinched. “He just prefers to turn a blind eye. Much easier that way, isn’t it, Cody? Then you don’t have to think or do anything about it. Leave it to someone else to do all the hard work.”
I couldn’t get Cody to look me in the eye. He hugged his arms around his body and stared at the floor. Wade stood beside him, looking at nothing.
I remembered Cody’s paintings, how taken aback he’d been at the suggestion that there were figures in the landscapes. Had his subconscious mind betrayed him? Was he depicting what he thought had happened, even while his conscious mind was blocking it out?
“It’s all Cody’s fault anyway,” said Blue’s deep voice through the gathering dimness of the room. The sun was setting outside and the shutters were lit up from the light outside, outlined in a glowing rectangle. “He’s the one who told us all about Astarte. He’s the one who conjured her up.”
“Bollocks!” shouted Cody. He took a step towards Blue, his face contorted. “Just because I happened to tell you about a piece of history didn’t mean I wanted you to go and start having orgies in the clearing in the woods. Murderous orgies, you psychopath.”
Now it was Blue’s turn to step towards Cody. “You don’t talk to me like that, you fucking fag.”
Cody went white. “I’d rather be a fag than a murderer. A triple killer, Blue, you wanker.”
“That’s enough,” Merian’s voice cut through their argument, steely-thin. “That doesn’t matter now. What does matter now is that she knows.” She gestured to me. “We can’t have that.”
“Or what?” I shouted, anger taking over. “I have a name. My name is Eve. Eve! Do you think that reducing me to she is going to make it easier to kill me?
Even as I shouted that, I was swept with a wave of unreality. They couldn’t really be planning to kill me, could they?
Merian clicked her fingers towards me. “Race.”
Race hung back. He pointed to Blue. “That’s not my thing. That’s what Blue does.”
“He’s not going to do her with her hair, you idiot—“
“No, he’s bloody not,” I said, backing away, but no one was listening to me.
Merian kept talking. “Can’t you see? Everything falls apart if we let her go. Dirty Rumours would be finished. Do you want that? The end of everything?”
Blue looked at Race. “Come on, buddy,” he said and his voice was horribly gentle. “It’s easy. I’ll show you.”
“No!” I screamed but the two of them were already walking towards me, Blue in the lead, Race behind, seemingly reluctant.
“Cody,” I begged breathlessly but Cody had his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears. He was shaking his head. “Cody, help me, for God’s sake—“
It was Wade, not Cody who stepped in front of me. Tall Wade, who held out one long arm and the hand at the end towards the men who were advancing towards us.
“No,” he said.
“Oh get out of my way, you stupid junkie,” said Blue with savage contempt. Wade didn’t react. He just said ”No,” once more, with flat finality.
“For fuck’s sake—“ Blue was almost upon his bandmate. It looked as if he wasn’t going to stop. I tried to move, to get my frozen legs to work, but they refused to obey me. It was like I was stuck in quicksand.
Blue put up his hand to knock Wade’s arm out of the way and Wade roared at him, so loud we all jumped.
“No more!” Wade screamed and leapt forward.
The two of them went down, rolling and punching. Their flailing legs knocked over the table that held the candles and the little points of light went flying through the dusk. Where they landed, flames leapt up, lighting up the enormous room. One candle stub landed on Merian’s lap and in seconds, her synthetic clothes had gone up like a torch. She screamed shrilly and desperately and staggered up from her seat, beating futilely at the flames that were engulfing her.
The flames on the floor took hold with astonishing speed. Within seconds, a river of fire was flowing across the floor, greedily swallowing up the ancient floorboards. A bottle of some kind of spirit or other in the middle of the inferno exploded, showering the struggling bodies of Wade and Blue with a fountain of burning droplets. Merian was on her knees by this time, half her hair gone, a terrible sobbing moan coming from her blackened mouth.
Whatever had been keeping my legs frozen to the floor suddenly released me. I stumbled backwards from the terrific heat and turned to run. I almost tripped over Cody, who was crouched on the floor, his arms around his head.
“Come on,” I screamed at him, almost immediately choking as I inhaled a mouthful of smoke. The heat was so intense I could already feel my hair frizzling. I pulled at Cody, coughing furiously. There was a crash behind me as something big collapsed, part of the ceiling perhaps and that was when I gave up trying to drag Cody away. I held my breath and ran, as fast as I could, through the door to the hallway. Even that was thick with smoke and I had to grope with eyes streaming tears, through the fog, until I reached the front door. Pulling it open, I stumbled out, fell down most of the front steps and landed on my knees on the driveway.
Picking myself up, I ran as fast as my heaving lungs would allow down the drive. I could feel blood trickling down from my knees where sharp stones had imbedded themselves into the skin after my fall. I reached the first bend in the driveway, far enough away to not be able to feel the heat from the fire. I bent double for
a moment, gasping for breath.
Something pulled my gaze back to the manor. The fire was spreading fast now – I could see its deadly glitter through most of the windows at the front. Smoke billowed and coiled into the blood-red sky and, for a moment, I was reminded of the pub sign in the village, the woman in a toga with flowing coils of hair. The Goddess.
I stared at the smoke until the shape it had suggested dissolved. Then I heard the voice inside me quite clearly, even over the spit and crackle of the flame and the crash of collapsing floors in the manor. You haven’t escaped. I was drenched in sweat but, for a second, a chill swept over me, humping the skin of my arms into gooseflesh.
Then I turned and ran, as fast as I could, towards the village.
THE END
The Asharton Manor Mysteries
Number Thirteen, Manor Close (2014)
Celina Grace
© Celina Grace 2014
Mike actually carried me over the threshold. It wasn’t very easy because, although he’s taller than me, I’m somewhat bigger than he is, so he almost dropped me as he nudged the door open with his knee and we both got the giggles. Of course, that made carrying me even harder and he just about managed to get within two feet of the sofa before his legs collapsed and we both fell forward, shrieking in unison, luckily landing right side up on the sofa cushions. We lay there, laughing hysterically, and I felt so happy. It just seemed as if everything was finally turning out right for a change.
I’d had a premonition of happiness, the first time I saw Number 13, Manor Close. I was at the doctor’s surgery in Midford, waiting for my appointment to be called, when I noticed a heap of shiny brochures on the little table that usually held dog-eared copies of Hello and Grazia and Country Living. The brochures were produced by a company called Phoenician Building and the photograph on the front of the brochure made me catch my breath. A cottage, built of golden stone, with a sage green front door and pots of colourful flowers on either side of it. A little front garden and a white painted fence. It was a double fronted cottage, pleasingly regular, with a small porch over the front door tiled in grey slate. Mike and I had been house-hunting for a while but I’d not really considered a new-build before. I think most new-builds are horribly ugly, all sterile red brick and nasty plastic windows, but this wasn’t – this was gorgeous. I flicked through the pages of the brochure and discovered the cottage was part of the Asharton Estate, currently being built on the remains of an old country mansion, on the outskirts of Midford. I’d read about it in the local paper. I remembered that the builders had made a big deal of their green credentials – they were salvaging as much of the original stone from the house as they could. Apparently it had burnt down in a terrible fire, years ago. I looked again at the cottage with renewed interest. A brand new house; something that would only be ours, Mike’s and mine, from the very start but with a little bit of history behind it to add interest. It sounded perfect. I was so entranced that I hadn’t heard the nurse calling Mrs. Beatrice Dunhill? Mrs. Dunhill? I jumped up and hurried over to the door when I finally realised I was being summoned, stuffing the brochure into my bag as I did so.
“What do you think?” I asked Mike over dinner. He ate with one hand and turned the pages of the brochure with the other. I picked over my bowl of steamed vegetables without enthusiasm.
“Well, it looks great,” said Mike. He popped a mouthful of steak into his mouth and chewed vigorously for a few moments. I tried not to feel envious. I was overweight and he wasn’t, that was all there was to it.
Mike swallowed his steak and washed it down with a gulp of red wine. “Quite expensive though, isn’t it, Bea? Right at the top of our price range.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But it is in our price range. And you know how long we’ve been looking.” I was quiet for a moment and then said quietly, “I just want to put the money to good use.”
“Of course you do, love,” said Mike. He squeezed my hand gently. “It’s the best use I can think of, a home of our own.”
“How awful that it took an inheritance for us to even be able to think about affording our own home,” I said.
Mike nodded. “That’s house prices for you, nowadays. Extortionate.” He noticed my expression and squeezed my hand again gently. “Come on, love. Your mum would want you to make good use of the money.”
“I’m just sad that she’ll never get to see it.” I wanted to add or her grandchildren, but as they were hypothetical at the moment, I didn’t.
“I know, sweetheart. Why don’t you make an appointment for us to go and see it?”
I turned the pages of the brochure. “I don’t think the estate is finished yet.”
“They’ll have a show home. We could have a look and see what we think.”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly decisive in a way that wasn’t like me. “I’ll do exactly that.”
The next day, we drove out of Midford and took the Bristol road out of the village. We found the turning for Asharton Estate easily; it was clearly signed and there was a small, two-way road that wound through the woods before we reached the outermost part of the estate. It was still a building site, with huge craters of scarred earth and heavy machinery and palettes of building materials. It didn’t look very promising but as we made our way further along the road, the houses gradually became more complete; the empty shells that we first encountered turned into ones which were growing breezeblock walls within their frames, to the houses right at the centre of the estate which were already finished. These houses were arranged around a large square of grass and newly planted trees, with some sort of old monument in the middle of the square. We parked the car next to the sign indicating Show Homes and Estate Reception, and got out.
We had an appointment with the one of the managers of Phoenician Building, a Brian Spencer, and we were ushered into his office by one of those glossy receptionists who always make me feel rather intimidated. I resolved yet again to go back to Weightwatchers and made a mental note to have my hair cut and coloured soon. The pretty receptionist gave Mike a flirtatious glance and although he didn’t respond – I’m not sure he even noticed – I felt a twist of anxiety. I am sometimes keenly aware of how much better looking Mike is than I am, not that it ever seems to bother him.
Brian Spencer was very helpful. Mike explained that we were interested in a cottage on the estate and Mr. Spencer nodded and brought out another thick sheaf of brochures.
“Ah, the Pinewood,” he said, once he’d realised the type of house that we wanted. “That’s a very popular choice. There’s only a few left, I believe.” I must have looked stricken because he smiled reassuringly at me. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Dunhill, there are a few that are still available, and once you put down a deposit then it’s yours for keeps. The Pinewood is perfect for a young couple like yourself, small enough to be manageable but roomy enough to adapt to family life. Do you have children?”
“We plan to,” I said, before Mike could say anything, but I felt him take hold of my hand under the table and give it a squeeze.
“Lovely. Well, you’ll find that the Pinewood will be just right for you now but as it’s got three bedrooms, that’s more than enough space to accommodate the patter of tiny feet!” He twinkled across the table at me and I bit back a giggle. “We have a Pinewood show home just along this street, would you like to see it?”
I nodded fervently. We went outside and strolled down the pavement to a house that stood about twenty feet away. Everything was so shiny-new; the paintwork on the doors and window frames glossy, the slate tiles gleaming in the weak spring sunshine. There wasn’t a scrap of litter to be seen. Probably because no one lives here yet, I told myself.
The show home Pinewood was the cottage of the brochure, come to life. We walked up the tiny front path, a matter of three steps or so and then Mr. Spencer unlocked the sage-green front door. I felt a surge of excitement as we stepped over the threshold.
It was beautiful inside, tasteful and yet comfortable. Th
e floors in the hallway and kitchen downstairs were wooden but the carpets of the open plan living and dining room were of a soft, luxurious cream. It was a bit smaller than I had anticipated but not enough to be a worry. The bay window of the living room looked out onto the fresh green grass of the central square, with the strange old sculpture or monument in the centre.
“What’s that?” I asked, curious, gesturing towards it.
“Oh, that’s the fountain that once stood in front of the original manor house,” said Mr. Spencer. “Lovely old thing, don’t you agree? Gives quite an air of distinction to the green, I always think.”
“It’s nice you were able to save something from the original building,” I said.
Mr. Spencer looked smug. “Phoenician Building always strives to retain as much of the original materials as we possibly can, Mrs. Dunhill. You’ll find that some of the original wooden panelling of the manor has been used in creating the park benches you’ll see dotted about, here and there. And, of course, we have reused much of the original stone in the building of the new houses. Sadly, so much was destroyed in the fire that we weren’t able to use everything we could have wished to.”
We had walked upstairs by now and were looking at the bedrooms. There was a large master bedroom, a smaller secondary one and a somewhat cramped third bedroom over the stairs.
“Perfect for a nursery,” suggested Mr. Spencer, looking meaningfully at both Mike and myself. I wasn’t sure whether to blush or laugh but settled for an embarrassed smile.
The show home was furnished beautifully, everything new and carefully arranged, and perfectly coordinated. There was a vase of fresh flowers in every room and a couple of tasteful, carefully chosen ornaments. Mike perked up a bit in the living room when Mr. Spencer demonstrated the built in entertainment system and the surround sound that could be directed to any room in the house.
