by Claire Sandy
When Fang griped from her basket, Shen slumped, as if attached to the child by an invisible cord. ‘Quiet, please, sweetheart,’ she said, a little desperately.
Clive laid a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘C’mere, little ’un.’ He fetched Fang and propped her on his lap.
‘I’ll never have a baby,’ said Scarlett.
‘You’ll change your mind,’ said Zane.
‘Shut up,’ said Scarlett, reaching over him for the salt.
Zane shoved her away, ducking as she fought back.
‘We’re eating,’ said Clive.
‘ And?’ Embedded between his women, Zane was cocky.
‘And,’ Clive’s face puckered into anger, ‘I wish that boy would stop messing about. He’s not ten.’
‘I am,’ said Dan.
Zane muttered something to Scarlett and she sniggered, turning it hastily into a cough.
‘Guys, don’t be rude,’ said Mike.
More indulgent than her husband, Evie was grateful the teens had shaken off the prevailing lethargy, and glad that Scarlett no longer took Zane at supercool face-value. Once a girl kisses a boy, the game’s up; they both know who’s really in charge.
Zane flung a crust of bread at Tillie. His father responded, in character, by scolding him.
‘God, Zane, grow up,’ said Tillie.
I bet Scarlett’s glad she came, thought Evie as her daughter’s freckled shoulders shook with merriment. She’s found a boyfriend and a friend. The affinity between Scarlett and Tillie had bloomed while nobody was looking. Lucky Zane, thought Evie, cosy between his honeybunch and her new BF.
‘Yeah, grow up, little Zanie,’ giggled Scarlett. ‘Your baby sister is embarrassed about you!’
‘Her?’ Zane pointed a fork at Fang, who was sifting through Clive’s rice like a forensics expert. ‘I’ll probably never see her again after this holiday.’
Clive said, ‘Zane, stop being a prick.’
‘Mummy!’ Mabel almost screamed, in her haste to alert her mother to this terrible crime. ‘Clive sweared in front of me and I’m only a kid!’
‘Shit, Clive,’ said Shen.
‘Well played, Shen,’ said Mike, helping himself to more rice.
‘You’ll live, Mabes.’ Evie chucked the child’s cheek.
‘What is a prick?’ asked Miles.
Paula slammed down her fork.
‘Oh God,’ groaned Shen.
Jon got as far as ‘Look, let’s just—’ before being interrupted.
‘Everybody,’ shouted Clive, his arms outstretched, ‘shut up.’ He resumed eating. ‘Thank you.’
As if night had barged in before its appointment, the garden was dark when they finished eating. Evie was first on the terrace, staring out into the black, impatient for the rain. She wanted thunder, lightning, a whirlwind; so that the drama within her body matched the one outside.
A striped awning, neglected up to now, was tugged into place.
No longer still, the air was full of rolling, churning activity. The leaves bristled, their customary susurration growing louder until it turned into a different sound altogether.
A deep-throated rumble boomed around them.
‘It’s starting, kids!’ called Evie. The awning creaked and complained as the striped sail rolled out of its niche. She put out a hand, palm up. ‘Where’s the rain?’
Shen scuttled to stand beside Evie. She was every bit as superstitiously afraid of thunder and lightning as Prunella and Patch, both of whom had disappeared.
The teenagers swarmed out, glasses in hand, like visiting celebrities, and made for the balustrade. ‘Did you hear that!’ squealed Scarlett, as the sky growled again.
‘What’s with the leaves flying about?’ Zane picked a twig out of his coiffeur.
‘It’s a mini-typhoon,’ laughed Tillie.
A mischievous wind gusted, support act for the headlining tempest. Small branches, torn leaves and dust snatched from the earth reeled and rolled.
‘Confetti!’ shouted Dan.
‘Come under the awning, darling!’ The wind snatched away Evie’s words.
Always keen on his rights, Dan shouted over the booming and the whooshing, ‘You said we could get wet!’
Appearing with Fang in his arms, Clive’s shirt-tails blew in the air and, behind him, Mike squinted against the wind.
‘We really do need the garden lights tonight,’ griped Mike. ‘I’ll demand a refund. The brochure promised lights.’
The olive trees in their pots waggled their pale arms, adding to the surreal nature of the night.
‘I don’t like this.’ Paula stepped out from the kitchen. ‘Jon!’ she ordered, peremptory for once. ‘Pull the glass doors shut, or the house will be full of debris.’ Her skirt flew up, exposing pudgy knees. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
‘So you keep saying, Paula. Let’s just go with it, for once.’ Jon yanked on the doors and guided her, like a long-suffering maître d’, under the awning. ‘The rain should arrive any minute.’
Out in the dark, a giant hand shook the garden. When Evie said, ‘Isn’t this fun?’ she wasn’t sure if she meant it.
A blinding silver line tore from the sky to the earth. It was rewarded by a communal scream.
‘I’m off inside,’ said Shen.
‘Me too,’ said Paula.
‘Hang on.’ Mike took off towards the steps. ‘I’ve just realized: the garden light switches must be in the garages.’
‘Of course,’ said Evie.
‘It won’t be half as scary if the garden’s lit up.’ He jumped down into the blank black beyond the steps, making for the row of whitewashed garages to the side of the house.
‘Stay, Mummy.’ Miles slipped his hand into Shen’s. There was no way, Evie knew, Shen could withstand Miles’s use of the long-abandoned ‘Mummy’.
‘OK.’ Shen sniffed. ‘I can smell . . . what can I smell?’ Damp vegetation was on the air.
‘And what’s that noise?’ screeched Scarlett from the edge of the terrace, keen to ramp up the drama.
‘Rain, silly.’ Tillie banged her shoulder against Scarlett’s. ‘Lots and lots of it.’
The rain – sheets of it – pounded into the dry earth, drawing near to Wellcome Manor’s jurisdiction. Bilious clouds hung over the house, like a heavy fringe on its brow.
‘Where’s Mike?’ fretted Paula. ‘He should be back by now.’
Just as Evie felt spooked – Paula’s fears were contagious in this volatile setting – a far-off shout placated her.
‘Found them!’
Like a slap in the face, the rain hit. Wellcome Manor, no longer a fortress, was a shaken snow-globe.
‘Hang on!’ Mike’s voice found a way through the noise and the wet. ‘It’s a bit stiff!’
‘Oo-er, missus,’ shouted Scarlett, cowering under the jacket Zane held over their heads. Tillie apparently preferred a soaking to his gallantry.
Dark, wet blots blossomed on the stone. The dogs’ dish bowled past on its side. Dan jumped to avoid it. Paula tugged Amber beneath the awning, which jerked and jumped, as if desperate to fly off like a striped bat. Evie’s hair whipped over her eyes and she put an arm around Mabel. The little girl was shaking.
‘OK! Tell me if this works!’ Mike’s voice was a reedy note in the tumult. ‘TA-DAA!’
Hidden lights, squirrelled into corners and crevices, flashed on just as lightning ripped a wound in the sky.
The screams competed with the furious clap of thunder. They screamed partly for the crescendo of noise and light, and partly for the man it lit up on the lawn.
Tall and broad, his balaclava made him the stuff of nightmares. As flummoxed as his audience by his sudden illumination, he stood, arms by his side, motionless.
Evie had one thought, diamond-bright and megaphone-loud: Paula was right.
The man charged. Like a bull. Like a lorry. From standing start to breakneck speed. His roar could be heard above the crashing of the storm.<
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‘Inside!’ Evie dragged Mabel to her with one arm, Shen and Miles with the other. Dan, soaked to the skin, adhered to his mother like an Elastoplast. Propelling her blob of whimpering humanity as best she could, Evie headed for the glass doors as if they were the gates of heaven.
‘Let me go!’ Paula fought Jon, who was trying to drag her along with him. ‘Let me go to him!’
Knees pumping, the dark man grew bigger than the sum of his parts, as he pounded over the sodden ground.
‘Move!’ Clive, almost choking on his own spit, foisted Fang on his wife. The beloved baton was almost dropped as they fumbled, but as Shen’s arms closed around the baby, Clive barrelled off towards the steps, almost colliding with Tillie, who was dodging through the scrum, reaching out to Paula.
‘Mum,’ she rasped. ‘Mum, it’s happening!’
‘Inside!’ shrieked Evie again, as her older daughter followed Tillie across a terrace suddenly transformed into an obstacle course of bodies. ‘Come on!’ Everybody was accounted for, as she herded her unwieldy charges towards the doors. Except one.
‘Where’s Dad?’ mewed Scarlett, her face close to Evie’s.
She looked back to see Mike tear out of the garages. Her stomach dropped away as she realized he was on a trajectory to meet the creature hurtling across the grass.
‘Inside,’ she repeated; the only remnant of her vocabulary left to her, it seemed.
There was a collision in the squall as Clive hurtled into Zane, who was also heading for the steps. ‘No, you don’t.’ Clive turned the boy neatly, but Zane spun on his heel.
‘Let me!’ he yelled.
‘Zane!’ Shen found her voice, as she, Evie and the children reached the glass doors. ‘Zane!’
A shove from Clive sent Zane towards the house. Clive leapt down the steps, almost stumbling.
The bifold doors were never closed. And yet they were closed. Evie’s wet fingers slipped on the long chrome handle.
‘Mummy, quick!’ Dan’s stubby fingers were in the way, as Mabel and Amber made wordless noises, beating the glass with their fists.
Wiping her fingers on her jeans, Evie batted away Dan’s hand and tried again.
‘What’s the problem?’ Jon sounded at breaking point as he pinioned Paula, who bucked like a Bedlam inmate.
‘It won’t . . .’ No point in wasting breath. Evie, children clinging to her like baby monkeys, peered through the glass; Dan’s manic rattling had clicked the latch shut. ‘Are the French windows open?’
‘What?’ screamed Shen, holding the wriggling, shrieking Fang to her chest.
Evie turned, desperate to see what was happening, desperate not to see it. Still the man bellowed, his mouth a wet gash in the woolly slit of his mask. He surged, solid and unstoppable, now only a few paces from the foot of the steps. A damp bundle lay in the grass behind him. Her husband.
Evie pushed Mabel away and sprang. Yet she got nowhere. ‘Get off me,’ she spat at Jon, who’d relinquished his grip on Paula to hold Evie back.
Jon was stronger than he looked.
Lightning sputtered again. Liberated by Jon’s pounce on Evie, Paula streaked over to the bench, hair flattened, expression savage. ‘You can have me!’ she shouted.
Now it was Evie who turned jailer, to hold onto Tillie. ‘French doors!’ She crawled crab-wise, with Tillie strait-jacketed in her arms, The Eights huddled around her. They stopped, shocked, as Clive and the stranger met at the foot of the steps. At speed. There was no finesse to this; Clive’s plan seemed to be to topple him with his sheer bulk.
A hand on Clive’s chest fended him off, as if he was a ballerina. Clive’s spine met the edge of a step with an audible crunch.
The man took the steps two at a time. When Zane broke away to run at him, he was met with an elbow in the nose and he, too, went down.
The body count was rising.
‘I’m here!’ shouted Paula, her hands in the air, like somebody greeting a relative at the airport. ‘I’m all yours!’
As if remote-controlled, the man changed direction at the top of the steps. He turned away from Evie and the children, towards Paula.
Jon flew off the ground, but his tackle was met with a casual shove, almost an aside. As Jon hit the floor, Paula bowed her head, awaiting the inevitable.
Something warm and rounded was pressed on Evie.
Fang was in her arms, and Shen was dashing through the downpour. As the apparition lunged for Paula, Shen launched herself at his shoulders and hung there, as if glued.
He staggered and pirouetted, but Shen clung on. Her hands went to his face, blinding him, tugging at his nostrils.
The tenor of his howls changed, from fury to pain.
‘Yes!’ shouted Evie, keeping Fang’s face to her chest.
The man lost his footing and crashed to the floor, with Shen as his buffer. Her Ooof! brought an answering moan from Evie. Dan threw a plant pot. Shen, however, didn’t need their assistance; she sprang up, skidded and righted herself and, with a movement that was both elegant and fierce, faced him with both her tiny hands up, their pale palms out.
He did the same, but with no elegance, flying at her as if to flatten her.
Deftly Shen grasped the assailant’s raised right wrist with her left hand and pulled it down. It went smoothly, it folded in fact. With the same grace, she used her other hand to press against his elbow. The huge, bulky, bogeyman followed his arm, like a good doggy doing a trick, as she bent it backwards to the floor. His nose hit the flagstones. He was still suddenly, all his violence neutered.
The picture made no sense. A dainty woman standing over this Minotaur.
Tillie stepped forward, too close for Evie’s comfort.
‘Dad, it’s over,’ she said.
DAY 12
Saturday, 22nd August
Dear Mum,
You were right. This holiday is better than I thought it would be! Last night we almost got murdered!
Zane
Sitting on the loo, bracing herself for the post-mortem of last night’s extraordinary events, Evie was planning.
She liked to plan, and this would be one of her proper set pieces. It would happen tonight, with no watchers in the woods, no heart-stopping violence. There would be candles and tranquillity. Children would be a-bed. And she would tell Mike everything, and they would work out how to proceed, and her burden would be halved. Well, perhaps not halved. But it would be shared.
She remembered now, from the last time, how this calm had descended. She was grateful for it; one of the body’s coping mechanisms, she supposed. Evie would talk Mike through the options, and he would say, ‘Don’t worry’ and she would agree with him that they could cope. Because, she thought, tapping her bare toes on the tiled floor, we have to.
His face still muddy from his lie-down on the grass, Mike broke one of the cardinal rules of their marriage and barged into the bathroom.
‘Hey! I’m on the loo.’
He was naked and agitated. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘About the earth being round?’ Evie tore off some plush toilet paper; even the loo roll was posh at Wellcome Manor. ‘Get out, Mike! You know I prefer to wee in private.’ Even the kids respected that law.
Mike was nervy, practically jogging on the spot. He wasn’t really there with her, Evie realized; he’d jogged back to the past and he didn’t like the scenery one bit.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I can’t talk on the toilet, OK?’ Not about this, anyway.
‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘No comment,’ said Evie, eventually.
‘Christ!’ yapped Mike. ‘“No comment” means yes.’
‘It means “No comment”. That’s why the phrase exists.’ She shifted. The toilet seat dug into her thighs. ‘It means I don’t want to comment in the midst of a peaceable wee-wee. Surely you understand that?’
‘“No comment” means yes. PR people say “No comment” when they’re asked if their celebrity client has sex w
ith monkeys.’
‘In that particular case, “No comment” would mean yes. But not in mine.’ Evie wasn’t at her best with her knickers around her ankles. ‘Can we, you know, continue this later? In a room without a cistern?’
‘I’ll support you, Evie.’ Mike, still wired, sounded lost, despite the valiant words. ‘We’ll go to the doc together, the minute we get home.’
‘No comment, Mike.’
He was beyond making a game of it. ‘We coped before. We’ll cope again.’
‘Seriously, Mike, later.’
Mike backed away. ‘But I’m right?’
With her big toe, Evie slammed the bathroom door. Why must he always muddy the water, disrupt her carefully planned scenes?
He had previous convictions in this area. Most nights he whacked on the overhead fluorescent tube, so that its glare cancelled her artfully placed candles on the dinner table. He squirted ketchup all over her made-from-scratch Pad Thai. And the gossamer nightie purchased for its concealing qualities would be pulled off, to unmask her cellulite, before she’d struck a single sultry pose.
The late breakfast was a free-for-all. Toast and cereal and butchered fruit on the kitchen island, alongside scraped-clean Ben & Jerry’s tubs and packs of salami. The adults’ hive-mind concurred: let the little mites eat whatever they want.
Taking a cup of the strongest coffee that the machine could muster, Evie went to the terrace, the setting for last night’s drama and last seen bristling with stab-vested police officers, the beams from their torches striped with rain, and the static from their radios crackling.
All was spick and span, every trace of the commotion washed away by the last of the healing rain. The sun was back, taking its rightful place at the centre of the heavens, warming the house and the gardens and Evie’s grateful, upturned face.
Butterflies redoubled their efforts in paying court to the delphiniums, and bees buzzed pompously through the lavender. Wellcome Manor had risen above the scandal: if two world wars couldn’t bring it to its stately knees, one furious git in a balaclava stood no chance.
The Eights careered out from the house, pulling at each other, shouting, looking nothing like hapless victims. Even Amber was lively this morning; perhaps, thought Evie, seeing her own personal hobgoblin do his worst and fail is just what she needed.
