There’s no time for choice. Before Vernon can step back inside, before he even realises what exactly is going on here, a shadow steps out of the flower beds and a brilliant light flashes in his face.
While directly above him, Jody Middleton shivers convulsively because he knows without any flicker of doubt that when they develop that photograph, they will be able to see his face staring between the curtains with frightened, hunted eyes…
TWENTY-NINE
The Grange, Dunsop, Nr Clitheroe, Lancs
‘HEY, HEY. STAND BY for developments.’ Jacy’s excited voice barks over the answerphone. ‘Make yourself ready. He likes us. He loves us. We’re gonna be big. And what do you think of the name “Haze”?’
Arabella and Belle stare at each other, incredulous. So it worked! Against all the odds it actually worked! Sugarshack is dead and buried and Haze is about to rise from the ashes. ‘I’m not so sure about the name. I thought it was a lavatory spray.’ They can hear some kind of raucous celebration going on in the background and Cyd is trying to be crude in order to upset Belle. Jacy must have pushed him off because the message goes on, ‘Can’t stop now, more sessions to be getting on with. You can count on a quick wedding, my darlin’, so get your glad rags on. I’ll catch you later. Byeee.’
Peaches gives a rueful smile. ‘You should have gone with them, shouldn’t you, Tusker? I bet you wish you had. You could have been celebrating now, instead of being stuck here with me.’
‘What nonsense you do talk sometimes, Peaches,’ says Belle, meaning it, but interested to find herself back in her old role of protector of Peaches once again. It was a role Peaches seems to urge unconsciously on those around her, just like she did at school, as if she didn’t possess the necessary weapons to defend herself. It is a useful trick which Belle, ever perceived as capable, would love to perfect. When does it come? In childhood, because of what you look like, petite and defenceless like Peaches, or dark and argumentative, a show-off, like herself and capable of anything, or is it triggered later as a result of a real failure to cope with the slings and arrows of life? She says, ‘It would be worse than a nightmare to be around any of that lot at the moment. I’m quite happy to wait until they get home, when their bragging will be quite excruciating enough.’
‘He says he’s going to marry you, Tusker!’ And Belle’s pretty face is alight with joy. ‘I think he means it.’
‘He is going to marry me because this man Mathews must think it’s a good idea as far as the new group’s image goes and for no other reason. Believe me, I know him too well.’
‘You’re so cynical! You always were, even at school. You never looked on the positive side.’
‘From where I stood there wasn’t one.’
‘Oh, Tusker! He really must love you—and I think you know that deep inside.’
‘Hell’s bells, Peaches, I wish you’d dry up with your silly little-girl romantic theories. Why must you always view the world through rose-coloured spectacles. Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?’
‘What if he comes home and needs you here?’ Peaches is poring over the map of Scotland. She is stretched out on the floor chewing a pencil in the very same way she used to fidget over her scruffy prep at school. She fiddles with the silver chain round her neck as once she fiddled with her crucifix during the glorious religious phase they all went through together. ‘Perhaps you should stay here and wait for Jacy’s next call. If everything is so imminent, he might well need you…’
‘He doesn’t need me,’ says Belle, listening to her own dry hopelessness with some surprise because she has always been so reluctant to admit this to herself, let alone to anyone else. ‘No, and he never has. It was me who needed him. I got my kicks through him, I suppose, feeding off his energy but protected from the effects of the constant party by my self-assumed motherly role.’ The capable one, the one with the mental First Aid box with the sticking plasters cut to size, forever up to date and handy. What she says is quite true. And when Peaches was called empty-headed at school, it had to be Belle who led the walkout and got sent home in disgrace. She must take up other people’s issues and fight on their behalf, whether they want her to or not. She got expelled in the end for doing exactly that. ‘I wanted excitement. I wanted notoriety, too. But I didn’t dare go out and get them for myself. I knew jolly well I couldn’t have put up with the grief. There was the other side of the coin, too: the worse he got, the more I felt needed. Listen to me, boring you to death with my woes—and I sound so disgusting, don’t I? Like a leech. Like a parasite!’
‘This is so weird,’ Peaches says, ‘because you could have all the excitement you wanted. Here you are, a top model, enough money for a good lifestyle, attention, publicity, open a magazine and there you are inside it, ride down the Tube and you’re there basking beside the escalator, you had it all. I often saw you and thought that and envied you, Tusker.’ She frowns, turns the map around as if she’s been studying it upside down up till now, which knowing her she probably has. ‘Tusker, you’re miles from Scotland!’
‘I told you that, you fool! At least five hundred to Aberdeen. Have you even found Aberdeen yet, Peaches? Come on, give it here.’
‘I have found Aberdeen but I can’t find Ballater anywhere, or Craithie Church. Whatever, it looks as if we’re going to have to stay the night up there.’
‘Well, of course we are, and we’re going to have to leave now if you want to be there for the morning service. I still think it’s the most reckless thing you could ever do and I’m not going to change my mind about that. This is not a sensible option, Peaches. Are you absolutely sure he’ll be there? I couldn’t stand to think we might make a journey like this for nothing. I would never, ever forgive you.’
‘He’ll be there. I checked in the Court circular they do in The Times. There was one opposite my seat on the train and he is definitely in Scotland although they don’t put what they’re doing when they’re on holiday. And you’re right, it’s crazy, but crucial. It’s something I have to do,’ says Peaches, with that martyred Joan of Arc expression on her face again. Dammit, if Belle had known Joan of Arc she would have volunteered to burn for her. ‘I don’t care what happens to me after that. I have to confront Jamie and it’s now or never.’
Yes. This whole thing is quite fantastic. Poor Peaches. But what in the name of heaven is Belle doing involving herself in this sort of madness? Why oh why does she always end up submerged in the dramas of other people? What is the matter with her? Why does she never have any battles of her own worth fighting? ‘You could be walking straight into a trap. You could even end up losing your baby and I don’t consider the Jeep much of a getaway car. That’s if it gets us there in the first place, which I seriously doubt.’
‘I’ve already answered that. How many times must I say this? If Jamie honestly doesn’t want me then I really don’t care. They can go ahead and kill me, if that would suit their purposes.’
‘You don’t really mean that.’
‘Oh, but I do, I do,’ says Peaches with a courageous smile.
‘Clachan Keep. Bed and breakfast. H&C in all bedrooms.’
‘And I should think so too. We are on the eve of the twenty-first century.’ A mile this side of the village and the Jeep splutters with an evil wind as they turn from the main road to follow the sign and take a steep track twisting between heather and bracken, bramble and thorn, up towards the wind-blown pines that stand out against the sky.
‘My God,’ Peaches exclaims, looking out with a shiver and gripping the edge of her seat. ‘I thought The Grange was desolate.’
The worst part of the journey is over and if they can only endure just another few yards they will be safe, until morning anyway. Higher and higher they climb, the track becoming narrower and rougher and the woodlands stretching on either side, pale birches and dark firs amongst the crags and boulders. Apart from the roaring of the vehicle the air is filled with silence. They are high enough now, if they turn their heads, to see th
e long arc of the Grampian Mountains, dark and sombre, rising and disappearing into the ghostly mists of nowhere and an isolated rowing boat puts out on the lake below them, slight as a bug on a garden pond.
Belle is completely exhausted. It has taken them ten hours to get here with the minimum of stops and it is now eight o’clock. At least they are nearer than they expected to be, according to the map. The short morning journey to Craithie should take them less than an hour. They both agreed they’d be better staying somewhere out in the sticks just in case their invisible pursuers are on their trail. The bright red Jeep does tend to stand out in a crowd.
Oh dear God for an early night.
This place is ridiculous. Almost impenetrable and it’s twenty degrees colder up here. Belle, her neck and her shoulders aching to a point of unbearable stiffness, is beginning to believe it doesn’t exist when the track turns into a gravelled drive and they pull up in front of a domineering granite square covered with ivy. There are turrets on the four corners of the house and with all the evergreens and the sombre stonework it is hairy and dark.
Belle turns to her tired passenger and groans. ‘It’s like bloody Dracula’s Castle. Shall we go back? I can’t face this.’
‘But it’s getting dark and starting to rain. No, Belle, please. We’ll have to stay here now. Come on, I’ll go and knock and see what happens.’
A big nose overhanging a lank grey moustache peers out from under a checked peak cap. His knickerbocker suit, the colour of gorse, hangs straight and loose on his tall and angular frame, and a hefty hound with a panting jaw and a pendulous tongue gazes at them with moderate interest over the Jeep door. ‘By Jove, it’s late to be out and about.’ All in a broad Scottish accent which would have to be translated by subtitles were he ever to appear on TV.
‘I hope we’re not too late for a room,’ says Belle, nudging Peaches who is giggling helplessly beside her.
‘Down, Huntress, down!’ booms their host in a deep, commanding voice. And then, to them, in the same warlike tones, ‘You’d better come on in as you’re here. It’s eighteen pounds the night for each of you and that’s with a sturdy breakfast.’
‘Stop it, Peaches,’ hisses Belle. ‘Don’t upset him, for God’s sake. I couldn’t drive another inch. I don’t care what it’s like inside. Stop laughing NOW.’
‘We don’t see a lot of Them, to be honest,’ says the little woman of the house in her button-through overall, pouring tea out of a fat brown teapot after her husband had padded off led by the straining Huntress with her gentle, pathetic eyes, not unlike those of her blustering master. Above the walk-in fireplace hang a pair of bagpipes with a coat of arms, and a vicious-looking tool with what looks like bloodstains on the handle. An entrenching tool, perhaps? Belle dare not look at Peaches. Above the twisted wooden stairs the long-dead heads of stags stared down on them with glassy nothingness when Belle and Peaches went to look at their bedroom. The same, almost-menacing look was echoed in the ancestors’ eyes, imposing paintings in heavy oils in a line along the landing. ‘Well, They keep to Themselves you know, it’s best.’ Their landlady serves them honey and hot scones. ‘But They’re sometimes seen in the village going about their business, and at church of course, and at the hunts. No different from the rest of us, you know, not really.’ She turns to Peaches. ‘Why do you ask, my dear? Are you a keen monarchist?’
‘We want to see Them tomorrow if possible.’ Peaches’ cheeks are bright with excitement and her nervous eyes dart this way and that.
‘They’ll be in church, no doubt.’
‘Do They mind strangers watching?’
‘They’re so used to it I don’t think They notice. But you might have to prepare yourselves to be searched, as you’re not known in the area.’
This is too close for comfort, no longer the far-fetched fantasy it seemed back at The Grange. Belle watches Peaches tuck into her high tea. They’ll probably not search her at all, presuming her absolute innocence. It will be Belle who gets the treatment, the same way it happened at school when they got caught with the booze at the end of term. The next one was the A-level term. Peaches stood no chance of passing anything, she was merely there to pass the time before she went off to finishing school. It was Belle who had the high hopes. Three A levels, all in the sciences, and she was predicted to get straight As in every subject. She’d been conditionally accepted at Oxford with a year out first, touring with a friend. It would be their proud contribution to her future, said her genial father, willing to fund the enterprise.
It was Charlie and Mags who had the idea of a wild, boozy party and everyone else agreed. Peaches tagged along, excited in her lispy, child-like way but no real practical help. She would provide the crisps. Belle, who was mixed up with a barman twice her age in a local pub at the time, was quite obsessed about him, took little interest apart from on the night itself when she helped to smuggle the boxes in. They all got caught because of Peaches’ mindless giggling and larking about. When Belle stood forward and demanded to take the whole of the blame, she was dealt with quite without mercy, and expelled immediately, despite the A levels coming up next term.
What is this need to confess? Is it to do with wanting to be liked? Or a feeling of being more capable of taking the blame than anyone else? Belle has never fathomed it out. Apparently the others did eventually come forward and confess, but they dubbed her the ringleader although she’d had little to do with any of it. Her father was mortified; her mother devastated. You’d think Belle had committed murder rather than got caught in a piece of harmless boarding-school fun.
‘Write to Mrs Coney-Wills, Daddy, please,’ she pleaded in vain. ‘She’d let me come back if you insisted, I know she would. She’s just trying to make me a scapegoat.’
‘I will certainly not write to Mrs Coney-Wills. She has made her decision with the good of the school at heart and I respect her for that.’
‘Please, Mummy, make him listen! If I don’t sit those exams my whole future will be affected.’
‘You should have thought of that, Belinda, when you were behaving so badly. And in her letter to me Mrs Coney-Wills suggests that illegal drinking was not all you were up to either.’
Belle broke her heart, more over Alfie Jamieson, the barman, than the thought of lost exams, it’s true, and Daddy refused to allow her the promised year out as a punishment. It seemed that the wrath of Allah descended and settled upon her head. Her mother would hardly speak to her. Belle heard her talking to her friends in hushed, disappointed tones on the phone. The local schools were doing a totally different examination syllabus so it was no good begging to be allowed to go there. Anywhere private was out of the question, as her furious father refused to pay.
And then she had answered the modelling advertisement and never really looked back since.
She had travelled the world in the end, to her parents’ great disapproval. She had seen all she wanted to see, securely and safely, as part of Jacy’s entourage.
And here she is again, in danger, and likely to be the one caught and punished.
She has brought her friend to the brink, so why doesn’t Belle hold back now, stay here at Clachan Keep and have a good breakfast while Peaches goes on to fulfil her terrible destiny at Craithie Church in the morning? Because Belle knows that Peaches just couldn’t cope without her. She would lose her way, or bungle the whole affair, or panic and end up in deeper trouble.
‘You get the usual little crowd of supporters, there’s not much fuss here,’ goes on their busy little landlady, Mrs MacTaggard, clearing up after them and laying the kitchen table for the morning. ‘Porridge and kedgeree all right for you? We always have that, it is MacTaggard’s favourite. Security is important, of course. These days there are lunatics lurking behind every tree. But those craving personal attention, as most of these hooligans are, wouldn’t choose Craithie as the ideal spot. They’d soon have the furious locals on their trails if they tried anything fishy round here. And on the whole the press are pretty go
od. They do try to give Them as much privacy when They come up here as possible.’
If the fierce MacTaggard only knew what he was harbouring under his roof tonight, he would no doubt steal in and finish them off with the ugly tool on the wall in the kitchen. Belle sighs and looks over at Peaches. Does she truly realise the enormity of the action she is so determined to take? Tonight, in the massive bedroom they share, she will try to change her friend’s mind if she can stay awake long enough, if she can fight off this feeling of total and utter exhaustion, for her own sake, if not for Arabella’s. Because Belle is beginning to realise that whatever happens tomorrow she is the one who will get the blame, as always, accused of being the instigator of the whole ghastly affair. Because everyone knows and understands that silly, soppy Peaches, the lovable, baby-faced Peaches, has no will of her own and is the sort to be easily led.
THIRTY
No fixed abode
TEN FORTY-FIVE PRECISELY. The main security checks were completed early this morning. Now, granite-faced men with walkie-talkies and flinty eyes stand at the obvious bends and corners, bleeping to each other like baby chicks every so often to check that all is well.
As the majestic procession of big black Daimlers rolls into sight between the fir trees, a respectful little flutter of claps can be heard on the pine-filled summer air. Mostly regulars. Sir Hugh Mountjoy looks out of the last car and sighs to himself with relief. Beside him, Dougal Rathbone’s eagle eyes scan the welcoming faces because if he slips up now, if this business should get any worse than it already is, he is out on his ear in disgrace with no pension, despite his noble family connections. Sir Hugh has made that quite clear. ‘Because you’ve handled the whole thing with quite inordinate clumsiness,’ he declares, ‘when you knew very well how delicate it was.’
Sir Hugh did try to deter the Prince from attending church this morning, but his regal mother was with him at breakfast and so he could not pass on the fateful message which might well have been, ‘Trouble brewing, stay home with your head well down.’
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