Annabel finally found her voice. “Christ, Scott, I didn’t tell them. How can I go to the police? I was there too, remember?”
“Yeah, Bel, I remember. But only you and me knew where that garage was. Someone grassed me up, Bel, and they had that garage watched, OK? It ’as to be you. Maybe you told ’em anonymous like. So now I’m giving you a little warning. Don’t mess with me, Bel, only stupid gits do that, right.” Without any warning he punched her in the mouth jerking back her head so that it banged on the side of the van. A second fist drove into her stomach and then another. She screamed clutching her arms protectively round the bulge of the baby, cowering away from him, but with nowhere to go.
“You understand, Bel?” He hit her again backhanded across her cheek, gashing her flesh with the heavy ring he always wore, making the blood flow, so that she moaned with pain, clutching her belly.
“Most grasses wind up dead, Bel,” he said, still without raising his voice. “Consider yourself lucky, right? And don’t go talking to them about this, neither, or you’ll be right there beside me for the computer job. “Don’t tell no one, Bel, or I’ll be back for you, right? Even if it’s when I get out again.”
“I didn’t tell the police,” she croaked, “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“You’re a lying bitch, Bel. Now get out.” As he spoke, Scott opened the rear doors of the van and with a violent jolt, jerked her past him, tumbling her out on to the track where she collapsed into a heap, curled up to protect herself from further punishment. Scott got out and looked down at her for a moment, then he said, “OK, Baz, let’s go.”
Baz looked down at her too, and said, “Scott, you ever think it might be that Oliver bloke what grassed you up? Jay says ’e wants your patch, mate. She ain’tnothink… ’e’s your problem, bruv.”
“Get in the van,” Scott snarled, and Annabel tensed herself up for a final blow or kick, but none came; then she heard the engine revving and the van lurched away along the bumpy track.
For what seemed an eternity Annabel lay where she was. She ached from his punches and blows and from the fall from the back of the van. She knew she had to get up and get some help. She knew she must make the effort. She was shaking and cold and her cut face was in the mud, and worst of all, there was a griping pain in her belly.
At last she got to her hands and knees and crawled on to the verge. After a moment more to gather her strength she got to her feet and staggered the hundred yards or so to the cut between the gardens into Dartmouth Circle. Holding on to the fence she struggled up the path and lurched into the Circle beyond. There was a dampness between her legs, but she pushed it from her mind. Only another fifty yards to home, fifty yards and she could lie down again. A wave of pain flooded through her and she had to stop for a moment until it had passed, then she edged forward once more. She was concentrating so hard on her own front door that she didn’t see the car outside Mike Callow’s house, nor see Charlie and Mike beside it.
But Charlie had seen her, and her glance had taken in the blood and the already emerging bruises on Annabel’s face. “Annabel!” she cried, and as Annabel turned and they both saw the true extent of the damage, rushed over to her.
“Call an ambulance,” Mike ordered, and as Charlie ran towards the student house to do his bidding, he picked up Annabel and carried her to her own home. There was no answer when he leaned on the bell, so he placed her gently on the step and said, “Where’s your key?”
“In my bag. Mike, I’m bleeding.”
“Don’t worry, Annabel, it’s only cuts and bruises.” Mike tried to sound reassuring. “The ambulance will be here in a minute. Where’s your bag?”
“I’m bleeding.” Annabel’s voice was weak. “Underneath.” She clutched at him as another wave of pain went through her, and he suddenly realised what she meant.
“Shit!” He looked round him wildly. Charlie came out of the Madhouse.
“They’re on their way,” she said. “Can’t we get her inside?”
“No key,” Mike said shortly, and added very softly. “Charlie, she’s bleeding. I think she’s losing the baby.”
Annabel moaned.
“Here,” Mike fished in his pocket and handed Charlie his keys. “Open my door, I’ll carry her over.”
The ambulance arrived five minutes later, but for Mike and Charlie it seemed far longer. Charlie sat with Annabel, lying on the sofa in Mike’s downstairs study, while Mike waited out in the Circle for the ambulance. “She seems to have been mugged or something,” Mike told the paramedics when they arrived. “We don’t know what happened, we found her outside trying to get home. She’s pregnant and she’s bleeding.”
Within minutes, they had her safely in the ambulance.
“You go with her,” Mike said to Charlie. “I’ll try and get hold of her mother.”
Easier said than done, he thought as the ambulance pulled away, I haven’t a clue where she works. He thought for a moment and then headed across to number six. Sheila will know, he thought. But there was no answer to his ring. He tried Mary Jarvis, but she was out too. Perhaps Jill Hammond will know, he thought and rang the bell of number three. Isabelle, the au pair opened the door.
“Mrs Hammond is not at home,” she told him, “she has gone to the…” she hesitated, searching for the word, “to the death service of Mrs Peters.”
Mike stared at her. “Death service? You mean the funeral? Is Mrs Peters dead?”
“She died on last Sunday,” Isabelle told him. “The… funeral? Yes, the funeral is this afternoon at the big church by Dartmouth Road.”
Mike thanked her and hurried back to his car. She must mean St Joe’s. Perhaps Angela had gone to the funeral too, if not surely somebody there would know where she worked. Within two minutes, he was outside the church. The car park was full, so he double-parked and ran in. The church was empty, but on coming out again, he realised that the day centre in the church hall was buzzing, and so he tried there.
Angela Haven was in a corner, talking to Madeleine Richmond, and Mike shouldered his way through to her.
“Angela,” he said urgently, “thank God you’re here.”
“Mike.” Angela looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Annabel, she’s just been rushed to hospital.”
The colour drained from Angela’s face. “Annabel? Why? What’s happened?”
“I don’t really know. It looks as if she was mugged. Charlie’s gone with her. My car’s outside, come on I’ll take you.”
Angela set down her teacup with exaggerated care and looked at Madeleine. “Will you go home and wait for Chantal? She’ll be home from school soon. Can you tell her what’s happened, tell her I’ll ring from the hospital as soon as I can. Tell her that I’ll contact her dad if I can.”
“Of course,” Mad nodded, but Angela was already pushing her way to the door, closely followed by Mike. No mention had been made of the baby, thought Mad, so perhaps that wasn’t in danger
She edged her way to where Cirelle was talking to Vera. “Cirelle, I’ve got to go.” Briefly she told Cirelle what had happened. Cirelle stared at her wide-eyed.
“But that’s awful,” she said. “Who could have done such a thing?”
Mad shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to go and tell Chantal, so I’d better do it.”
“How badly is she hurt?” Cirelle asked. “Will she lose the baby?”
Mad shrugged. “I don’t know. Mike didn’t mention the baby and Mrs Haven didn’t ask. I’d better go. See you later.”
Cirelle caught her hand. “Will you be OK?” she said anxiously. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. You stay here and help as we promised, OK? I’ll see you back at home.”
Chantal still wasn’t at home when Mad rang the bell, so she went home herself and watched for her to arrive from her sitting-room window. It was almost dark when she at last saw Chantal loafing round the Circle, her school bag danglin
g off one shoulder. Mad went down and met Chantal as she reached her front door.
“Chantal,” she called.
Chantal, who had been searching for her key in her bag, looked up and seeing who it was, said defensively, “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”
“Your mum asked me to give you a message,” began Mad.
“Mum asked you?” interrupted Chantal.
“Annabel’s been attacked. Your mum’s at the hospital with her now. She says she’ll phone you as soon as she can.”
Chantal stared at her. “What do you mean, attacked?”
“I don’t know. I’m just delivering the message, that’s all. Mike Callow came to Madge’s funeral and told her, your mum I mean. He’s taken her to the hospital. She says she’ll ring as soon as she can. She says she’ll tell your dad too.”
Chantal felt the tears well up in her eyes and overflow down her cheeks. She could no more have stopped them than have flown to the moon. It was the final awful thing in a week full of awful things, and Chantal stood on the doorstep and howled. Since Saturday’s drama, Mad had no time or sympathy for Chantal Haven, her own anger and resentment were seething just below the surface, and she was on the point of walking away, but the sound of the wailing stopped her. She sighed and took the keys that were still clutched in the girl’s hand. Opening the front door, she gave Chantal a little push.
“Come on,” she said roughly, “you can’t stand wailing on the doorstep. Inside.”
Chantal allowed herself to be taken inside and upstairs to the living room. Mad sat her down and then put on the kettle. She felt in need of tea herself. Chantal continued to cry and Mad brought a roll of paper towel with her out of the kitchen, dumping it in her lap.
At last, the tears subsided and Chantal looked across at Mad, perched on the arm of the sofa. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed.
“Sorry?” Mad raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry about everything. Sorry about Dan…”
“I don’t want to discuss him,” snapped Mad. She could manage to look after Chantal, make her cups of tea, sit with her if she had to until the phone rang or her father came home, but she could not speak of Dan, or hear that Chantal was sorry, stupid bloody useless word, for what she’d done last Saturday.
Chantal recoiled as if Mad had slapped her, and tears slid down her cheeks again, but silently this time, without the heaving sobs. Mad pushed the mug of tea towards her, and said gruffly. “Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.” She had tried all week to keep thoughts of Dan and his betrayal from her mind; she fought against images of him and Chantal which leapt unbidden into her brain. She had driven her misery underground with the force of her anger, not allowing the hurt to surface, concentrating that anger on both Dan and Chantal, and now here she was having to push the anger aside in its turn, to offer grudging comfort to Chantal as she waited to hear from the hospital on the condition of her sister.
Chantal tried to drink the tea, but it was too hot and she pushed it away. She blew her nose loudly on a piece of the paper towel. Then two things happened, the front door opened and the phone rang.
Chantal leapt to her feet and rushed to the top of the stairs, and seeing it was her father who came up towards her, flung herself into his arms, crying, “Daddy, oh Daddy,” and trying incoherently to explain what had happened.
In the meantime, Mad answered the phone. It was Angela.
“Is Chantal there?” Angela asked.
“Yes,” replied Mad, “and your husband has just got home too.”
“Put him on please.”
Madeleine passed the receiver to Ian.
“Hi,” he said, “what’s going on?”
Angela spoke at some length before, and as she spoke his expression changed from easy openness to one of anxiety. He said, “OK, don’t worry, I’ll come straight over.”
Angela spoke again, and he replied, “I’ll bring her with me, she’s in a hell of a state.” He listened again and then said, “Right, I’m on my way,” and replaced the receiver.
“How is she?” cried Chantal. “Is she going to die?”
“No, of course not.” Ian was reassuring. He put his arms round her and gave her a hug. “She’s going to be fine. You and I’ll go to the hospital now, OK?” He turned to Mad, “You’re Madeleine Richmond, aren’t you? Thank you for looking after Chantal till I got here.”
“How is Annabel?”
“A bit battered and bruised,” he said with an attempt at a smile, “but she’ll be OK.” He turned for the stairs, saying, “Come on, Chantal.”
Mad didn’t ask him about the baby, there seemed little point. He hadn’t mentioned it, which could be either a good or a bad sign; either way there was no need to remind Chantal about it, for she hadn’t asked either. As she watched the tail lights of Ian Haven’s car disappear into the dusk, Spike came stalking across the grass and rubbed himself against Mad’s legs. She bent down and picked him up, burying her face in his soft fur, and as she stood holding him in her arms, she could feel tears welling up in her own eyes. She thought of Annabel lying in the hospital, bruised and battered, with or without her baby, and her rage at what men could do to women boiled inside her. She turned back to the Madhouse. There were lights on now, so someone must be home. Still holding Spike’s comforting warmth in her arms she went across and let herself in.
She found Dean in the living room watching television. When he saw her tear-streaked face, he pretended not to; he simply got up and said, “Hi.”
Mad let Spike drop from her arms and gave Dean a watery smile.
“Is Cirelle back yet?” she asked.
“Yeah, she was. She’s gone out to the gym. She said something about Annabel Haven being attacked. Do you know what happened?”
Mad told him what she knew, and needed to blow her nose again hard when she’d finished. “I’d better feed Spike,” she said, to change the subject.
“Hey, talking of Spike,” Dean grinned at her, “I’ve got a present for you.” He dived into the chaos of his bedroom, returning moments later with a carrier bag. He handed it to Mad. She took it, looking intrigued.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
Mad put her hand cautiously into the bag and pulled out a square metal contraption. It was a cat flap.
“My mate Flintlock, you know the guy I play squash with? Well he’s coming round in the morning, he’ll fit it in the back door for you.”
Mad looked at him and the tears welled in her eyes again. She put the cat flap back in its bag and laid it on the sofa.
“Oh, Dino,” she said smiling through her tears and giving him a bear-like hug, “I do love you.”
Dean’s arms tightened round her and for a moment he laid his cheek against the tumbled darkness of her hair. “Do you?” he said softly, and then in a teasing voice, “I should hope so too!” Reluctantly he let her go and said cheerfully, “Come on, let’s go to the Dutch, I feel in need of a beer.”
JANUARY
Twenty-six
Mad Richmond and her father drove into Dartmouth Circle in early January, at the beginning of the Lent term. It was a grey day with dull and overcast skies, and a dampness in the air that chilled and clung.
As they drove round the Circle they stared in amazement at the number of for-sale boards which had sprouted like weeds in the front gardens, standing like wooden flags of varying colours. Johnson Fountain with its intertwined J and F in red on a green background, stood outside numbers nine and eleven. The red and black logo of Freddie Jones and Co stood stiffly outside number one and number eight, and a Mark Harrison and Son “Sold By” board stood tipsily in front of number four.
“What on earth is going on here?” Nick Richmond said as he drew to a halt outside the Madhouse. “Everybody’s leaving! It must have been one hell of a party you had, Maddo! You’ve frightened them all away!”
“Dad!” cried Madeleine in horror, “don’t say that!”
Nick gave her a quick hug.
“Silly girl,” he grinned, “I wasn’t serious!”
“Well I am!” Mad said standing beside the car and looking round. “Dad there are five houses for sale. That’s half the Circle! There wasn’t one before Christmas!”
“No, well, you guessed that old lady’s son would sell,” Nick pointed out.
“Yes, that’s fair enough,” agreed Mad, “but look, the Havens have sold already and what about the Redwoods? Why would they leave?” She looked aghast at her father. “You don’t really think it was because of our party, do you?”
“No, silly girl, I don’t,” he replied firmly. “There could be any number of reasons for them to go.” He pulled up outside the Madhouse. “Now don’t you worry about it, Maddo, it’s not your problem. What you have to do is get that downstairs bedroom ready for your new girl. What’s she called?”
“Hattie. Hattie Silverstone. I told you, Dad, she’s an education student. She was on teaching practice in London last term, and the landlord of the place where she lived before decided not to have students any more. Four of them are looking for new places, apart from Hattie.”
“Are they indeed?” Nick Richmond looked thoughtful. “That’s bad luck for them.” He got out of the car and said, “Come on, let’s get to grips with this room.”
Mad picked up the cat basket containing a protesting Spike, and they went into the house, where there was a wonderful smell of bacon. “Anyone at home?” Madeleine called, and Dean appeared, tousle-haired at the top of the stairs, wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He had obviously only just got up.
“Oh, hi Mad,” he said. “I’m just having my breakfast. Hallo, Mr Richmond. There’s coffee if you want it.”
Madeleine let Spike out in the hall before following her father upstairs to the living room. It was the usual tip and Mad had to clear a heap of clothes and papers off the sofa so that they could sit down.
“Has Hattie seen the place looking like this?” Nick enquired, looking round at the untidy sitting room.”
The New Neighbours Page 42
