Daddy's Here

by Lucy Wild

  “I’m guessing no one’s ever down this before.” He began pushing her downwards and Abbey was surprised by his strength. This wasn’t what she had planned. He hand slammed onto her rear, making her buttock sting with pain as she yelped loudly. Looking down, she realised there was only one thing she could do. Lifting her leg, she shoved her knee upwards, connecting with the most sensitive part of his body. She watched as the man winced in surprised shock and then collapsed to the floor, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  Abbey was just turning when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “You know the rules,” a bouncer shouted in her ear, “no fighting in here.”

  “Get your hands off me,” she snapped back. “You animal, who do you think you are, manhandling a Moncrieff?”

  “Unluckily for you, I am in charge of client safety and I saw what you just did to him. Now out.”

  “But he was about to assault me,” Abbey replied, looking down at the prone figure on the floor. “Does he just get away with trying to force himself on me? That man needs arresting!”

  “Course he does,” the bouncer smiled as if to say he’d heard it all before. “Come on, off we go.”

  He began leading her through the club, Abbey clawing at his hand the entire time. “Don’t you know who I am?” she screamed as she was shoved out onto the street. “I’ll have your job for this, you fucking pleb.”

  “No doubt you will,” he replied. “Now go home and sober up.”

  “I will get you!” Abbey said, stamping her foot and pointing directly at him. “Mark my words, you’re done here.”

  “Go on, piss off before I call the police.”

  Abbey spun on her heels, stomping towards the garage, unable to believe what had just happened. Thrown out of her favourite club by some working class gorilla with no clue how powerful she was, how important she was. He’d pay though. When her father heard about what happened, he’d be on the dole queue by the end of the week. That’d teach him what happened to people who manhandled Abigail Moncrieff.

  Chapter Three

  The fresh air smelt good. She had to admit that. The journey from the city had taken an age, her father driving so slowly she might as well have walked, as she informed him several times an hour.

  “Why couldn’t I bring my car?” she asked as they caught up with yet another tractor.

  “Because you crashed your car, sweetie,” he replied patiently, not even trying to overtake. “I don’t know how long until it’s driveable again.”

  “If you’d bought me one with better brakes, I wouldn’t have done,” she replied, thinking how easy it would have been for her car to race past the tractor. She’d have been there hours ago.

  “You drove to the club whilst drunk. You left it more drunk. You crashed your car. Or did you forget? You were asleep when the police found you, your phone in the middle of sending a message. You’ve no idea how much it cost to get them to drop the charges, I’ll be funding their Christmas party for a decade.”

  “I want to drive my own car.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you can’t until it’s fixed.”

  “That’s just like you. You never let me do anything I want to.”

  “Sweetie, please, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  “You better.”

  It had just gone noon by the time they arrived at the new house. It seemed smaller than the last time she viewed it. “Is this it?” she asked as she climbed out of the car. “This isn’t it, is it?” She stretched her back before turning to her father. “Tell me this isn’t it.”

  “Don’t you like it, sweetie?” her father asked, unlocking the gate so he could drive the car in.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she replied, heading down the path into the village. So they were going to live here? The place was so small that in ten minutes she’d reached the last of the houses and the end of the footpath, there was nothing else but road and fields. Turning round, she headed slowly back, catching her heel in a muddy puddle at the edge of the path.

  Swearing loudly, she looked around for something to wipe away the mud. In the garden next to her, a row of clothes was wafting back and forth on a clothes line. That’ll do, she thought, pushing open the gate and grabbing the nearest thing from the line. It was a white blouse, just the right size to scrape the mud from her shoe. She tossed the blouse back into the garden once she was done, not noticing the villager watching her through the cottage window at the far end of the garden.

  There was a small lane to her right a few houses later and she walked down it, spotting an orchard filled with apple and pear trees. Without stopping, she walked through the open gate into the orchard, reaching up and tugging at an apple, biting into it as she returned to the lane. Not bad, she thought as she chewed slowly. Organic at least. At the far end of the orchard, another villager watched her with his arms folded.

  She tossed the remains of the apple onto the road before crossing to the far side of the village, peering through windows and then moving onto the next house. Seeing a bicycle leaning against a garage wall, she decided to try it out.

  Having not ridden in years, she wobbled at first, almost falling before gradually getting the hang of it, freewheeling down the slope back towards her new house. Behind her the owner of the bicycle stood by the garage, watching her go. She reached her new house a minute later, letting the bike fall to the floor as she walked up the gravel drive to the house.

  The place had a thatched roof on one wing, the other topped with red tiles. There were four floors of mullioned windows, flowerbeds lining the drive, potted plants nearer to the house. It did look pretty, it just seemed smaller than last time. When she’d come to the last viewing with her father, it had seemed enormous. Would it be big enough for her to live in? Would there be space for her to start a business? To keep all her shoes? There better be, she thought, pushing open the front door and walking inside.

  She could hear her father on the phone and she found him in the kitchen, barking loudly into the receiver. “Right, fine, I’m on my way.”

  He hung up. “Ah, there you are sweetie. Something’s come up and I need to pop back. The removal men are coming this evening, just get them to put stuff where you like and I’ll sort it when I get back.”

  “How long are you going to be?” Abbey asked, looking around at the cavernous interior of the house. “Are you going to leave me alone here?”

  “You’ll be fine, you’re a big girl. I shouldn’t be too long, a week at most.”

  “A week? You expect me to spend a week here without being able to drive anywhere? What am I supposed to do with myself?”

  “Read a book? Unpack a bit? Get to know the locals? I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.”

  “You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you? Can’t wait to get away from me. I bet the removal men murder me and it’ll serve you right if they do.”

  “Sweetie, I know you’re angry right now but I’ll make it up to you when I get back. How about I hire a helicopter next week? Take you up to Scotland again? Go to that spa you like?”

  “Fine,” she said, pouting as he kissed her cheek. “But you better be back soon.”

  “Just knock on a few doors, say hello to a few people. The time’ll fly by, I promise. You could even invite your friends down if you want?”

  “I can’t show them an empty house, they’ll laugh at me. Are you an imbecile?”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I love you, Abigail, I’ll see you soon.”

  Chapter Four

  Abbey woke up the next morning to the sound of someone hammering on the front door. “All right,” she muttered, climbing out of bed and wrapping her dressing gown around her. The morning air was cold, she had yet to work out the heating controls for the place, having spent most of the previous evening dealing with the utterly incompetent removals men.

  No matter how much she’d snapped at them, they didn’t listen, just dumping boxes everywhere. It had taken a fifty to get them to set h
er bed up and they’d done that begrudgingly. You’d think they’d be grateful for the extra money.

  She’d been up late, unable to sleep as the sounds of the settling house unnerved her. When she had finally drifted off it was into dreams that disturbed her, a time before the death of her mother, back when she was little. The hammering on the door woke her up in the middle of a deep sleep and she was still groggy by the time she reached the hallway, the cold floorboards under her feet making her wince. “All right,” she shouted again as she reached the door, the hammering echoing around her skull. Roll on getting a new set of staff sorted out so she didn’t have to answer the door herself.

  “Hello, yes? What?” she asked, pulling open the door and finding a smiling old man looking back in at her. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi there,” the man said. “You’ve just moved into the village, haven’t you?”

  “So what?”

  “Well, I’m the head of the village council and I wanted to be the first to welcome you.”

  Abbey noticed him glancing down at her chest, typical old pervert. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her. “Right, thanks. Anything else?”

  “Well, yes there is one thing. We’re having a council meeting this morning and we’d love for you to attend.”

  “Right, I see. Thanks but I’m not really dressed for it. Maybe next time?”

  She went to close the door but his hand slammed into the wood. “You don’t understand, Miss Moncrieff. It wasn’t a request.”

  “What are you doing? Let go of my door.” She tried to push his hand away but as she did so, two more men appeared next to him, neither of them smiling. “What is this?”

  “The welcome committee,” the first man said, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her out of the house.

  “Hey, stop that. Let go of me, what are you doing? Help!” She screamed at the top of her voice but nobody seemed to care. Her feet dragged through the wet grass as they pulled her struggling figure out of the garden and onto the path beyond. “Where are you taking me? My Father will hear of this! Let me go!”

  “Oh, hush,” the first man said, hoisting her over his shoulder, ignoring her kicks to his back, her fists hammering on his chest as she was carried over the road and through a gate towards a Victorian village hall. The door was open, ready for her it seemed, and she was taken into a room filled with people.

  No wonder no one came to my screams, she thought, they’re all here. The entire village seemed to have crammed into the hall, every silent unsmiling face looking at her as she was carried down the aisle and deposited on the stage next to an ancient figure seated behind a dark wood table.

  The three men surrounded her, arms folded as she scowled out at the unnervingly quiet crowd. “What is this?” she asked, trying to push past the men but finding them as solid as brick walls. “What’s happening here?”

  “Abigail Moncrieff,” the ancient man at his table boomed out, his voice echoing round the room. “You have been brought before the village court to face trial before a jury of upstanding citizens. How do you plead?”

  “How do I plead to what? What the hell is going on?”

  “You are charged with ruining the peace of the village, stealing an article of clothing, criminal damage, theft of an apple and theft of a bicycle. How do you plead?”

  “Don’t you know who I am?”

  The ancient figure nodded to the men holding her. One reached behind her and slapped her bottom, making her shriek in pain and anger. “Ow! What the hell are you doing? Did you see that? He just struck me? I’ll have you arrested for that. You can’t just hit someone, you all saw it. He hit me!”

  “Silence!” the ancient man roared. “All I want to hear from you is guilty or not guilty. How do you plead?”

  “I’m not putting up with this. I’m going home, get out of my way.”

  She was spanked again, hard enough to make her feel very scared. The silent faces watching her did not move to help her. Nobody she knew was anywhere nearby. Her phone was at home, her father away for days. Her bottom stung from the first spanks she’d received since she was little. A thought of her mother came into her mind, the way she’d treated her when she was tiny, thoughts she’d long blocked out. Looking about her, she saw her mother’s face in her guards. She felt as if she were shrinking as she stood there, becoming smaller, more at risk of pain she did not deserve.

  “Well?” the man asked her. “Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty,” she snapped, trying to hide her fear by speaking louder, folding her arms, her feet pointing inwards. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “We shall see. Call the first witness.”

  An elderly woman stood up from the crowd, shuffling up the aisle to stand on the stage as the ancient figure addressed her. “You are Valerie Robinson of The Crescent Cottage, are you not?”

  “I am, Mr Watson.”

  “Tell the village what you saw?”

  “I was having a breath of air by my back door just yesterday when I saw a little girl snatch my favourite blouse from the washing line.”

  “And what did she do with your blouse?”

  “She used it to wipe some mud off her shoe.”

  “And what did she do with it after that?”

  “She threw it back into my garden.”

  “And do you see the little girl responsible for that heinous act in this hall today?”

  “I do.”

  “Where is she?”

  “There, Mr Watson, right there.” She pointed at Abbey who shrank back before her furious glare.

  “Thank you Mrs Robinson. You may sit. Next witness.”

  A middle aged man in a checked shirt stood up, passing Mrs Robinson in the aisle as she returned to her seat. He climbed the steps to the stage, standing facing the crowd.

  “Your name, Sir?”

  “Anthony Carmichael.”

  “And what did you observe yesterday afternoon?”

  “I saw that woman there walking into my orchard without my permission.”

  “And did anything occur whilst she was in the orchard?”

  “She stole one of my pippins.”

  “Did she indeed? You may be seated. Final witness, if you please.”

  Another man stood, this one in shirt and tie. He strode onto the stage, shaking his fist at Abbey. “You deserve everything you’re going to get,” he snapped at her.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Abbey said, a tremor appearing in her voice. “Let me go home, please.”

  “Silence!” Mr Watson said. “Now, what is your name?”

  “Richard Smith, Mr Watson.”

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr Smith, I know yesterday was particularly traumatic for you.”

  “It’s okay, Mr Watson. With your support, I’ll get through this.”

  “If it’s not too hard, please tell us in your own words, what you observed yesterday afternoon.”

  “That wicked child stole my daughter’s bicycle from my garden.”

  “Did she indeed? Well, thank you Mr Smith, I know how hard that must have been for you. Please sit down.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Abbey said. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re all insane.”

  “You have heard the evidence,” Mr Watson said, talking over her. “How do you find the defendant?”

  “Guilty!” the room shouted in a single voice.

  “Hold on,” Abbey said, holding up her hands. “Don’t I get to defend myself?”

  “You have been found guilty as charged,” Mr Watson said, sitting rigidly upright for the first time. “For such crimes, you would normally be expelled from the village. But our own Papa returned just this morning and he has offered to handle your punishment. I sentence you to a week in his nursery.”

  Chapter Five

  When Mr Watson said, “Take her away,” Abbey almost collapsed, her legs losing their strength. A nursery? A week in a nursery? What on earth were they talking about? It h
ad to be a dream, it couldn’t possibly be real. Nothing this bad ever happened in reality. She was stuck in the arms of the two men dragging her out of the village hall, a crowd of people lining the pavements to watch her go.

  She was still in a daze when she was reached the lane at the edge of the village, a house looming large before her. It stood alone surrounded by a muddy field, no road leading up to it. Instead there was only a gap in the wall that lined the road and beyond that a worn track that headed up to the front door. The house itself looked ramshackle, loose tiles had slipped on the roof, ivy climbed over the walls, though the windows were untouched. The mud under her feet squelched as the men forced her up the track, not letting go of her until they were on the doorstep. “What do you expect me to do?” she asked, looking defiantly up at them.

  “Knock,” one said. “Papa will be waiting for you.”

  “Papa? My father is in there? What’s he doing in there?” She rapped on the door, shouting, “Father! Daddy, I’m here. Help me!”

  The door swung open a moment later and she staggered back at the sight of the figure that appeared before her, falling into the arms of her guards. “You…you’re not my father.” She recognised his face. “Not you,” she muttered, remembering how he’d looked when she’d kneed him between the legs in the club. “Please, not you.”

  “Hello, little girl,” the man smiled, a wide mouthed smile that looked like it might swallow her up like the wolf and Red Riding Hood, “I’m your new Papa.” He turned to her guards. “Bring her in.”

  The men nodded, shoving Abbey in through the door, slamming it closed behind her, leaving her alone with the towering bulk of a beast in front of her. “This way,” the man said, taking her by the hand, his enormous fingers swallowing up hers, leading her through the house.

  Abbey followed him, certain that if she tried to yank her hand free, he would tear her arm out of its socket without breaking into a sweat. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.