by Jenna Grey
The journey back home seemed to pass in a foggy haze; Polly’s brain was on overload, hardly able to cope with so many thoughts and emotions. Had all of that really happened? It was just too much. One thought, one action at a time, that was the answer. Just get home and act as if her whole world hadn’t just been turned completely upside down. She could do that. She just had to do what she usually did and try to put all other thoughts out of her mind. She had to forget Liam, forget Finn, forget everything Bert had told her and just be Polly Nightingale.
When Polly got home, her uncle was still in bed, even though it was lunchtime; she breathed a sigh of relief and made for the kitchen. She bought some groceries on the way back, just in case her uncle was around and she needed an excuse to explain her absence; her rumbling tummy growled its approval. It was only when she was sitting nibbling her cheese and pickle sandwich that the full implication of what had just happened impacted on her and she realised just how much excrement she’d landed herself in. She had to calm herself as much as possible before the Uncle from Hell descended on her.
She was so lost in her misery that she almost didn’t hear the doorbell. She was in half a mind not to answer it. There wasn’t likely to be anyone calling at this time that she’d want to talk to anyway. The bell rang more persistently, and she finally decided she couldn’t ignore it any longer. When she opened the door, she wished she had ignored it. Dalbert Winchard, in all his fat little obnoxiousness, stood on the doorstep with a smirk on his face that made Polly get a taste of bile in her mouth.
“Ah, sweetness, what a lovely surprise,” he simpered.
“Mr Winchar––”
“Oh, please call me Dalbert, my darling, I’m almost a member of the family.”
He pushed his way in before she could stop him. Polly trotted after him, finally catching him and taking hold of his jacket sleeve to pull him to a halt.
“Is my uncle expecting you? He’s not up yet; I’m afrai––”
She was interrupted as her uncle came down the stairs, still dressed in his silk dressing gown, his usually super neat hair rumpled, his eyes sleep-laden.
“It’s all right, Polly – bring us some tea in the drawing room,” he drawled, stifling a yawn. “I’m glad you could make it, Dalbert, we have a great deal to discuss.”
Polly was very tempted to curtsey, but just bit her lip and nodded a syrupy-sweet grimace of a smile.
The two of them walked through to the drawing room and shut the door, leaving Polly fuming. The only good thing was that she was far too angry now to be afraid.
She made the tea, still so furious she almost smashed a saucer as she slammed it down on the tray, muttering expletives under her breath. She wondered if they would notice a dollop of rat poison in the cup.
Then, Polly realised something else. This was too good an opportunity to miss. She had promised Bert and Finn she’d be careful, but surely a bit of cautious spying couldn’t do any harm? If she could just get some idea of what they were up to, it would really help Bert. She carried the tray up, almost walking on tip-toe, and stood outside the door for a moment to see if she could hear what they were talking about. They were speaking in low tones, but she managed to catch a few words by putting her ear close to the door. There was a limit to the amount of time she could reasonably spend eavesdropping because even her uncle knew how long it took to make a cup of tea, but any information she could get would be useful.
They prattled on for a few minutes about irrelevancies that she didn’t really understand. There was something about a warehouse, concern that it wasn’t safe. She tucked that snippet in her mental notebook and glanced up at the hall clock. Two minutes had already past, and she still hadn’t heard anything of any real interest. Three minutes. She was beginning to panic; the tea was getting cold.
Then…
“The others are getting nervous; they had no idea of what they were getting into...” Dalbert said, although Polly had to struggle to catch every word. Her uncle’s voice was louder, and she caught most of what he said.
“They are so limited in their understanding, if only they realised the potential of what we are doing here, the great possibilities. People have killed, and done monstrous things to possess the power we now hold in our hands.”
“Are you quite sure we can trust them now?” Winchard continued. “If they...”And she couldn’t quite catch the rest.
Her uncle gave a very unpleasant laugh.
“But they have seen the power that stone possesses, my old friend, the power we possess – they would never dare betray us.”
“And you’re sure that it’s safe?” Winchard asked.
Her uncle fell silent for a moment.
“Oh, quite safe, Dalbert, quite safe.” And the threat in his voice was unmistakable.
“Of course, of course,” Winchard stammered, and Polly could hear the fear in his words.
Polly digested what they’d said, almost afraid to breathe, and certain they would hear the pounding of her heart through the door. She suddenly realised that what she had heard was of such importance that she couldn’t allow her uncle to suspect she’d overheard anything; if Bert’s supposition about what it was they possessed was correct, then she was quite sure they would do whatever they had to do to protect their secret. She turned on her heels and walked back along the hall, deliberately bumping into the small hall table a little way along and making as much noise as she could to announce her arrival. She backtracked and knocked on the door the moment she reached it. There was a barked ‘come’, and she went in, laying the tea tray on the table and turning to leave.
“Make up one of the guest rooms, will you? Dalbert is going to be staying with us for a few days,” her uncle said, glancing down at the splashes of spilt tea and sugar on the tray with a look of disapproval.
Polly’s heart cramped, and she felt a terrible emptiness creep over her. She just stared at them, trying to find the right words, her thoughts a panicked staccato beating in her head.
“Yes... of course,” she finally managed to get out. “Sorry about the tea; I bumped into the hall table,” she mumbled.
“Yes, we heard,” her uncle said, through clenched teeth.
Polly edged her way towards the door, sidling around Winchard’s chair.
“I’ll need to do some shopping and get some extra food in,” she said. “I don’t have enough housekeeping money for three people.”
Her uncle flapped a limp wrist hand at her.
“Take what you need – just make sure you get a receipt,” he said, pointedly.
Polly could feel her face reddening, her panic turning to outrage at his veiled accusation that she was stealing her own money from him.
“Are there any foods you don’t like?” she asked Winchard, desperately trying to stay the right side of civil.
Winchard smiled, a green-toothed, unpleasant grin that never reached his eyes.
“Brussel sprouts, sweetness, other than that I am a man of eclectic tastes when it comes to food. I’ll eat almost anything,” he said, eyeing Polly up and down as if he was deciding which bit of her to sink his teeth into first.
Polly kept a smile plastered to her face and said:
“I’ll nip down to Mr Argeli’s and see what I can rustle up for you.” She hesitated, trying to keep her voice light and casual. “Oh, does that mean you won’t be going to London tomorrow, Uncle? I need to know to make sure I get enough food in for us.”
“No, we won’t be going – perhaps the day after ‒ I’ll let you know. You can collect the tea tray later. We’ll have a light tea at around five. Some sandwiches will do – oh, and not that godawful fishy muck you dished up yesterday. Get a decent bit of ham off the bone.”
Her uncle dismissed her with another wave of his hand and Polly left before her knees gave way completely.
At any other time, she would have been fuming at being spoken to like that in front of someone else, but she was so unsettled by the sudden turn of events her thou
ghts had turned into tumbleweed. Okay, she mustn’t panic. She could use Mr Argeli’s telephone and call Bert to put him off and tell him what was going on. The thought of Dalbert being here for even a day was horrifying – that man made her flesh crawl. Sod it; she’d have to make the best of it. First things first. She had to make that phone call.
She went to the money box that she kept hidden under the sink to get some cash. She realised immediately that there wasn’t enough there if Winchard was going to stay here for more than a couple of days. She’d have to go to the bank and get some money out and put up with her uncle’s snide remarks about her overspending. Ham off the bloody bone indeed. As for him more or less accusing her of stealing from him... She took out £20 and put the box back, looking up at the clock. It was still only 2.15.
She practically ran down to the village, desperately anxious to pass on the information she’d gleaned from her eavesdropping to Bert before she forgot what had been said. She had to stop him turning up on the doorstep tomorrow morning. She cursed herself for not having a mobile phone, but when she’d mentioned it to her uncle he’d made such a fuss about her having one, she’d dropped the idea just to have a quiet life. She was sweating by the time she got to the shop. Mr Argeli blinked at her as she burst in, gasping for breath.
“Please, can I use your telephone, Mr Argeli? It’s an emergency – it’s only a local call, and I’ll be quick,” she panted, giddy and slightly disoriented. She had pink fireworks sparking in her head.
Mr Argeli just nodded and said:
“Of course, my dear, help yourself. No trouble, I hope?”
“There will be if I don’t use the phone. I arranged for someone to come to the house tomorrow thinking that my uncle would be out, but he’s not going.”
Mr Argeli tutted.
“Not that I wish harm to anyone, but your uncle is one man I would not weep over if he ended up under a bus.”
Polly laughed.
“There are times when I’d like to be the one driving it,” she replied.
She picked up the receiver, dialled…
...and got the answer-phone.
No, please God, no. She had no choice but to leave a message and hope they received it.
“We’ve got to postpone,” she gabbled, terrified the beep would cut in before she’d said all she had to say. “Uncle’s not going to London tomorrow, and Winchard has come to stay for a few days. Something important is going on; they’ve found some kind of stone that possesses great power. Winchard asked if it was safe and my uncle made it very clear that it was and that Winchard shouldn’t press the subject any further. It seems the other members of their group are getting nervous, afraid of what they’re doing and I got the impression that it is something monumental and very dangerous. That’s all I could find out, and no, I didn’t take any risks to find it out. I’ll call you when it’s safe to come.” Then she got the beep.
She let out her pent up breath and sagged. What if they didn’t get the message? She had to just pray that they were diligent about listening to their answer phone. If not she was in big, big, trouble. If Bert turned up on the doorstep tomorrow morning... She didn’t even want to think about it.
She bought as much food as she could carry, some cheap stewing steak and vegetables to make a casserole, and some packet soups. She staggered back home, going straight back down into the kitchen to make sure that she didn’t bump into anyone. Her uncle would ring for her if he needed her – oh yes, he rang; there was an old servant’s bell that he’d pull when he wanted her to come up and do something for him. She began peeling and chopping the vegetables, attacking them with considerable violence, still furious with her uncle for treating her like bloody Cinderella.
“My, that looks as if it’s going to be something good,” the voice said behind her, almost in her ear. Polly leapt a good foot in the air with a shriek, the knife slipped, and she sliced through her finger. The shriek turned into a roar of rage as she spun around to see Dalbert Winchard standing practically on top of her. She was still holding the bloodied knife in her hand, and it took every ounce of her willpower not to take a slice out of him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you bloody moron!” she yelled, all fear forgotten. Then she winced as the pain hit and she hissed through her teeth, holding her dripping hand up and grabbing for a tea towel.
“Oh, Princess, I am sorry,” he said, sounding nothing like it. ‘Do you have a first aid kit?”
Polly was afraid to look and see just how bad the cut was; it hurt like hell. She pulled the tea towel away and saw that it wasn’t quite as bad as she thought and wouldn’t need stitches – it was still a very nasty gash, though.
“In the cupboard there,” she snapped. “But I’ll do it. You keep away from me – you’ve done enough damage for one day. What were you doing down here, anyway?”
“I just came down to say hello,” he said, sauntering to the cupboard, with no urgency whatsoever and taking out the kit. “I thought as I was going to be staying for a while it would be good for us to get to know one another better.” Polly felt a little tremor of fear run through her because she didn’t have to belong to Mensa to know just what Winchard meant by ‘getting to know her a little better’. The look in his eyes was sending the message, loud and clear.
“Well, probably not the best time to do it when someone is chopping vegetables,” Polly said, trying to stop the bleeding; the pain was making it hard for her to concentrate. She flipped open the first aid kit and took out an antiseptic wipe, trying to open the packet with her teeth.
“Here, let me do that for you,” Winchard said, moving closer again.
“No, I’m fine thanks,” she snapped, shooting him a warning look. He stopped in his tracks, still ogling at her with obvious intent. She managed to get the wipe open and cleaned the wound, wincing as the sting hit her. She pressed some gauze over it to try and stop the bleeding, but it didn’t seem to want to stop. Winchard was still hovering like a wasp around a pot of jam and Polly wanted him gone. She managed to pull a strip of band-aid from the roll and just wound it over the gauze as a makeshift dressing, rinsing the knife under the tap and laying it on the draining board. Winchard was still there.
“I feel so bad about this,” he said, sidling up to her again, his insincerity palpable. Polly put up her hands in a stop sign to keep him from coming any closer.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot to do, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to chat while I’m doing dangerous things in the kitchen. We can sort something out for later,” she said, forcing a grimace of a smile. Of course, that later was never coming, but she thought it prudent to offer him some incentive to back off for the time being. She busied herself, just moving things about to try and get the message across that she wanted him gone, but he was still there and moving closer all the time. He was almost pressed against her back now, breathing down her neck. She felt his podgy hand slip around her waist.
“Take your hands off me, now,” she said, through clenched teeth, spinning around to face him. When she saw the look on his face, she knew she was in real trouble. His sweaty hand slipped down to her thigh and began to tease up the thin cotton of her dress. She grabbed his fingers with her uninjured hand and wrenched them off, making sure she dug her nails in. “Take your bloody hands off me!” Winchard kept that same vile smile plastered to his thin lips. Bert’s words echoed in her head. He has committed the most dreadful acts against women. She couldn’t allow herself to give way to fear; she couldn’t.
“You’re really in no position to give orders, girlie,” he said, putting his hand back again. “If it weren’t for your uncle’s kindness you’d be living on the streets. You should remember that.”
Polly grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand from around her waist, the fear-driven out by rage.
“Oh, I do, all the time, but thank you for reminding me! Now get the fuck away from me, or I will hurt you.”
He started laughing
hard then, his face reddening so much that Polly thought he might have a seizure. She could only hope.
“And what do you think a little snip like you could do to stop me if I wanted to press the matter?” he asked, gulping in air between giggled words.
“Why don’t you try me and find out?” she replied. Even she was shocked at how violent her words were.
Polly glanced across at the knife lying just a couple of feet away from her. He saw her looking at it, and he stopped smiling, his humour vanishing instantly.
“You won’t reach it before I get to you,” he said.
She could see from the look in his eyes that this was no game; this man was past reasoning. She felt a tsunami of panic sweep over her because if it came to it, she knew that he was right – she would never stand a chance against him if he really wanted to get to her. She glanced down at his groin – he was rock hard; that bulge in his trousers was making all of the decisions for him now.
“You’d be surprised at how fast I can move with the right incentive,” she replied, bracing herself for his attack.
He stopped then, momentarily, gauging the situation and Polly thought that he’d finally got the message that she would defend herself using all and any means. He had only seen the timid side of her, the nervous doormat who let people trample over her, who would do anything to avoid an all-out confrontation. He gave a puzzled frown, curious now, not quite so sure of himself. Here was a Polly he hadn’t seen before, a Polly that seemed to excite him more than ever.
He was on her before she had a chance to move, to think, to even draw a breath. He pushed her hard against the draining board, putting one arm across her throat, pressing into her windpipe and making it hard for her to breathe. She struggled, using every ounce of her strength to try and free herself, but small as he was, he had more strength than she did. He pushed harder against her windpipe, and she started to see pink stars popping in her head. The world swam around her as she struggled to breathe and darkness began to close in. She tried desperately to pull his arm away, the pain searing through her as she opened up the wound on her finger. He was enjoying her pathetic resistance, his face twisting into a sadistic grimace, his eyes betraying him. He pushed his knee between her legs, trying to force her knees apart, his free hand edging up under the dress and trying to pull her pants down; the pressure across her throat eased just a little. She could breathe again, at least enough to drag in some air and stop from passing out. His hand was inside her pants, and he managed to get them down to the top of her thighs.
