Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  "No!" cries Bella. "You have to believe me. I saw them, in the dining room. I saw them as clearly as I can see you now."

  "Why wouldn't you see them clearly?" asks Martin, frowning. "I mean, if you were there." Even Simon is looking at her strangely now. What is the matter with them all?

  "That horse is making a heck of a racket isn't it?" says Nick, looking round.

  Suddenly there is a storm of barking, a terrified scream and a cry of, "Help! Help me!"

  "That's Jacqui!" exclaims Jo, and they all rush to the door.

  What follows happens very quickly, Best Beloved, so I'll put it in slow motion for you, like in one of those action films.

  First, the yard lights come on, dimly illuminating through the driving rain, the ranks of stable doors, the clock tower and the great gates. Cowering in a corner is Jacqui, her arms covering her face, while Lotty, Dotty and Spotty Botty give her their usual boisterous welcome. Here also is Bluebell, shouting at the dogs to 'leave' and cuffing them angrily away. Panning right, we see Miranda attempting to calm a wild-eyed Bucephalus, his hooves crashing and clattering on the glistening cobbles, while a little further off we find the slow-fast flying figure of Natividad in pink peignoir and slippers, crying: "¡Señora Broadmayne, Señora Broadmayne, muchos policías, en el jardín!"

  Into this long instant of time strides Jo, bent, presumably, on rescuing Jacqui, but she is brought up short by the sight of Miranda, whose fate it is to be at that moment directly beneath one of the lights. "You!" she cries, and her hand flies immediately to the scar on her face.

  Recognising Jo as her long-ago attacker, Miranda steps back in alarm. She manages to dodge the first flying fist, and the second, but her centre of gravity is all awry and slipping on some sodden horse-poo she falls heavily to the ground, losing her grip on the bay's reins. Bucephalus, half-crazed with fear and the smell of fear and finding himself without the comfort of restraint immediately proceeds to kick out wildly in all directions, his great, iron-shod hooves sending Jo flying before crashing down on and around his stricken mistress.

  Added to this mayhem is now the sound of a siren. Blinding headlights rake across the yard, picking out in their rain-streaked beam a bemused-looking Rat and Reg Woodcock, both in dinner jackets. "All right everyone, this is the police," says a megaphone-amplified voice. "Please stay exactly where you are."

  It is all going terribly wrong. Snatching up an armful of papers, in the desperate hope, even now, of finding something incriminating, Bella looks round for Simon."Quick, follow me," she cries, and makes straight for the 'secret' exit through the tithe barn. It is only when she gets to the other side, pushing open the opposing door that she realises he is not with her. For a moment she hesitates, even walking a few yards down the farm track, then, heart pounding, she creeps back.

  In the yard, things have taken an unexpected turn. Miranda is still on the ground where she fell, a grieving Natividad cradling her head on her knees, while Martin, of all people, is tenderly draping his anorak over her. Rat is attempting to comfort an inconsolably weeping Bluebell while Nick and two policemen are struggling to control the still terrified stallion, his great black shadow bucking and rearing on every wall. Jo lies unconscious in a pile of manure, alone and apparently unnoticed and the dogs are seemingly everywhere, barking hysterically. But of Jacqui, and more importantly Simon, there is nothing to be seen. For a second time, Bella turns and flees.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The dim headlights barely penetrate the driving rain as Bella cranes forward, peering through the misted windscreen. With her is Miranda, great with child; she is groaning, pleading to be taken to a hospital. Bella ignores her. The place to have babies is at the Stones and that is where they are going. Once they have taken the teat they must be exposed to the elements for seven days and seven nights. Those that survive may be brought home and named. Boy children must be killed, that is the law.

  They are not alone; with them is a nun, her face so lovely it hurts. She leads them into the night, looking back now and then to be sure they are following.

  Jo is there. She has a small axe in her hand. She is sitting in the dust in the hot sun, driving it repeatedly into a furze stump, each time crying: "Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!"

  "Penny in the swear-box for you," says Jacqui. She says it every time. It is rather irritating. Jacqui is the nun. She has on the outfit she wore at the party, her erect nipples pushing at the silver-lamé fabric. "Come on," she says and taking Bella by the hand she leads her urgently along the landing, peering into the darkened rooms.

  "But what about Jo?" says Bella, hanging back.

  "Blow Jo. She doesn't own me. I can do what I like."

  The baby is born, pink and clean, onto the altar stone. It is a boy. Jo steps forward and butchers it neatly with a few deft strokes of the axe. There is no blood, just arms and legs and a small, severed head. It rolls off the stone onto the wet heather. Bella doesn't scream. She is used to heads coming off; it is an unvarying part of the dream. She becomes aware of something out there, in the darkness: a dozen pairs of unblinking yellow eyes. They are creeping steadily closer. The sacrifice is for them and they are hungry. She can smell their foul breath and feel the moist pads of their paws tapping her face. "Get out!" she cries crossly. "You're not supposed to be in here!"

  In the amber semi-darkness she scrabbles for the bedside lamp, knocking it over. It's the Mafia. She goes to strike one and it hisses, standing its ground. Thoroughly alarmed, Bella feels for Simon's comforting bulk beneath the duvet. He isn't there. She lunges for the capsized lamp and switches it on, blinking in its sudden light. The cats fall back, but slowly, as if reluctant to be cheated of their prey. The one that hissed is the last to go. She doesn't remember seeing it before. It must be an outside cat. Even to its tail, it uncannily resembles Sylvester; would be identical but for its unburned black-and-white fur.

  It is four-thirty in the morning. Wrapped in Simon's towelling dressing gown, Bella sits curled in the bedroom chair and waits, sipping a coffee. It is cold in the room and very quiet. The only sound is the tap dripping into the sink in the kitchen. She could easily switch on the electric fire, and deal with the tap, but for some reason she choses not to move. She has a barely conscious idea that she doesn't want to attract the cats; they seem strange tonight. For a while she dozes.

  It is six-fifteen. She hears the milkman go by and the occasional car on the bypass. She can tell it is still raining by the hiss of the tyres. She tries to picture what has happened to Simon. Suppose he's been caught and arrested? That would be awful! But when she went back, he wasn't there. Everyone else was there, except Jacqui. It's much more likely he managed to get away. If he did, they wouldn't even know to look for him. They wouldn't even know he'd been there. Unless someone split, of course. But even if they were to catch him, what could they charge him with? What could they charge any of them with? The police were too early. She specifically instructed them to wait until her signal. She was going to use the little whistle, the one on her key-ring. She and Simon would slip away and the others would be caught red-handed, stealing valuable documents, wrecking the office. They might even go to prison. Simon wouldn't want anything to do with them then; she'd be rid of them. She'd be rid of Jacqui too! It would be in all the papers and she'd get her publicity. Questions would be asked, reporters would come. Miranda and Aunty would have to come clean about what they were doing. It was the perfect plan, a magnificent, brilliant plan, but it all went wrong. It all went wrong because of stupid Miranda. What was she doing with her stupid horse at that time of night? Does she sleep with it? Why does nothing ever go right for her? It's as if some malign fate is against her, thwarting her every move.

  She wonders nervously about the baby, her baby, the Saviour of the World. Miranda is always being kicked about by horses, but what about the baby? Babies are well padded, aren't they, in their nice, safe, watery little world? Surely he will be all right? This breaks her dream and she shivers. Perha
ps that's why she has it so often. Perhaps it is trying to tell her something.

  Suddenly she sits up, eyes staring. Suppose they're together? She hadn't thought of that. Suppose they escaped together, into the grounds? That would explain why he is taking so long. She would be limping, holding him up. Perhaps he can't get her back over the wall? She bristles at the thought of them together all night, in the darkness; Jacqui clinging to him, her arms round his neck, her big, pneumatic breasts pushing against him. "Please don't leave me! Please don't leave me! I love you!" No doubt he will try to make out that he couldn't just abandon her. Well she isn't having it! She isn't prepared to compete for his affections with that little trollop. He's going to have to choose. He's going to have to show that he only cares for her!

  No, calm down, that's stupid. You're being stupid. He's not with Jacqui; he's alone. He's much more likely to be alone. She will almost certainly have given herself up; that's the sort of person she is: a quitter, no moral fibre. Simon, on the other hand, would have every reason to try and get away, fifty thousand pounds worth of reason. Besides, he wouldn't stay with that creature, even if she were to plead with him. Not when it came to it. Not when the chips were down. He's not stupid. He's not going to throw away fifty thousand pounds and marriage to a beautiful heiress with a hundred and twenty-two generations of accumulated erotic skills at her fingertips for the sake of some silly little airhead like Jacqui.

  It is seven o'clock. There is a greyness in the sky now, over towards the bypass. Simon isn't coming home. He could have crawled here on his hands and knees by now. Clearly something has happened. He has been caught and charged. Miranda is really bad and they are all hanging about in casualty. Please, she prays, not that! If the baby dies, she will have to get her pregnant all over again. If Miranda dies she might have to dump Simon and marry Michael. It wouldn't be difficult; he has always fancied her more than Miranda. Who wouldn't? That would give her half the estate. It would be stalemate, wouldn't it? Or would her Aunt have a casting vote? She wishes she knew more about that sort of thing. She suddenly realises she is stiff and blue with cold. Pulling herself together she makes another coffee and closing the door against the cats, snuggles under the duvet. She is very, very tired.

  It is nine o'clock, broad daylight. The cats are meowing and scrabbling at the door. Reluctantly she stretches and rises. She would like a bath, but the priority is to find out what has happened to Simon. A complete sweep of the area is indicated. Not an easy task when so far from the Stones; their power being, as McNab likes to point out, inversely proportional to the square of the distance. Also, going somewhere specific is relatively easy, searching is much harder. Brushing out her tangled hair she shakes it thoroughly loose then does a few yogic exercises to limber up. For this to work she must be completely relaxed. She must be a sort of human antenna, open to all wavelengths. Sitting on the floor she takes up her accustomed position and staring unseeing at the familiar, rose-pattern wallpaper quietly intones the first mantra.

  For a long while, much longer than usual, nothing happens. Then very slowly she becomes aware of that familiar sense of separation, her immortal soul rising, first through the lathe and plaster ceiling, then the roof tiles, then soaring rapidly away, leaving her empty body in its little attic room, far below.

  Just as on the first day of her ascent to the priesthood Bella rises steadily higher, then begins to circle, first over Bradport, then over the Heath and Tenstones village and lonely Windy Point. There is no hint of Simon in any of those places. Then, as she passes in a great sweep over the rain-glistening suburbs of Pinebourne, she suddenly stops and begins to plummet earthwards, drawn towards the subliminally faint glow of his aura. It's where Jacqui and Jo live. She recognises the outside of the house from when they once dropped them off after a meeting. It is a broad, tree-lined avenue with big Victorian houses. This particular one is converted into flats. A little typewritten card in the bottom doorbell reads: J. Dowitcher / J. Gadwall. Bella can't ring the bell of course so she goes straight into the ground floor flat, through the wall.

  There is no-one in the kitchen or the living room. She knows it must be the correct flat because there are various animal rights and agitprop posters on the walls, all mixed up with sentimental pictures of puppies and kittens, some of them hand-painted on black velvet. Yuk! The one bedroom is still in semi-darkness, the curtains closed. From it come little moans and whimpers.

  Bella goes boldly in. (It is easy to be bold when no-one can see you, Best Beloved, but you alone are responsible for what you find.) There are two single beds in the room, with a bedside cabinet between them. Lying athwart the beds is Jacqui, her body on one and her feet on the other. She is naked, apart from her socks. She goggles at Bella, wide-eyed but unseeing, from upside down. Crouching between her thighs, so low as to be almost invisible, is Simon. In the darkness his tousled head resembles a huge merkin, extending her pubic hair. As she watches he kneels up and reaches for an open bottle of Asti Spumanti.

  Bella packs her clothes into three Tesco bags, rejecting, for reasons of space, any that she has worn three or four times already. Into a fourth bag she puts her most important books and magazines, her grimoire, her make-up, and such of their collection of tapes and records as she can firmly identify as her own. That, with Mr Grumpy, is all she can carry.

  Searching for some paper she writes 'I hate you' on it in black felt pen and leaves it prominently on Simon's pillow. After a moment or two she comes back, screws it up and writes instead: 'Hope you enjoyed your drink!' This she rejects as being rather vulgar and instead writes: 'You never did that with me!' which is so patently untrue, except in the narrow sense that she would never permit him to buy cheap sparkling wine, that she immediately discards it and writes: 'You never did love me. I could tell.' This she also rejects and writes 'Well I just hope you'll be very happy together, that's all'. After which she permits herself a little weep before taking the whole lot and shoving them into one of Simon's work shoes, together with the front-door key and her engagement ring.

  Going downstairs she unlocks the rat room and opens all the cages, allowing the few survivors either to wander out onto the landing, should they desire a quick end, or to stay put, if they don't. Then she goes to the ground floor and opening the dining-room door, permits the inside cats to mix promiscuously with the outside cats. They all begin to meow at her hungrily. She ignores them. Tucking Mr Grumpy under her arm, she picks up her bags and sets off without a backward glance.

  *

  Veronica reaches for the telephone. "Five-three-six-nine . . . Oh, hello Simon. Yes she's here. I'll pass you over . . . What? Why not? Simon I'm sorry, but apparently she doesn't want to talk to you. Have you two had a row? . . . Oh I see . . . Well I don't know anything about that . . . No, she's only just arrived. Hang on . . . Yes, hang on a minute, Simon. He wants to come over. He sounds upset to me. He says you left a note or something."

  "Well he can't. I don't want to see him. I never want to see him. Tell him to get lost."

  "I most certainly will not. Tell him yourself. I'm not doing your dirty work for you."

  Bella folds her arms and walks pointedly to the other side of the room.

  "Simon, I'm sorry but apparently she doesn't want to see you either . . . Well I can't make her . . . No, I haven't a clue I'm afraid. Look, we're in a bit of a two-and-eight here; Miranda's in hospital. She was trampled by a horse . . . Yes, I'm afraid so . . . Yes, well that's what we're worried about of course . . . Yes of course I will. Simon, you don't know anything about this I suppose? She —"

  Bella grabbing the phone: "Simon, I don't want to see you ever again and that's that! Just leave me alone . . . No! Goodbye!"

  "Bella, you didn't have to snatch the phone like that. That was very rude."

  "I'm sorry, but I just don't want to see him."

  "Why? Whatever's happened?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "I see. Well that's good because neither do I. I've got
enough to worry about as it is."

  "He was unfaithful to me, that's what's happened; with some silly little vet's assistant, barely out of her teens. I hate him."

  "Simon! Surely not?"

  "He's a man isn't he? They're all the same. Anyway, I caught them at it, in flagrante. It was disgusting"

  "Well if that's the case I'm very surprised."

  "I'm not. They're all the same. I hate them." She makes for the door. "I'm going to the Stones. I may decide to die there."

  "Not so fast, young lady!" Her aunt swings in her chair, blocking her way.

  "What?"

  "Bella, I'm going to ask you something and I want you to be truthful. Do you know anything about last night?"

  "Only what you've just told me."

  "Do you know these people? Have you met them?"

  Bella wonders how much her aunt already knows. She has often proved surprisingly canny in the past, almost as if she has psychic powers of her own. The best course is probably to own up to the less important bits and deny the rest like mad. "I've met some of them," she says, guardedly.

  "Who are they?"

  "They're a cell of the GA — Gaia's Army."

  "And what is that?"

  "They're sort of eco-guerrillas, or think they are. They fight for animal rights and the environment and so on."

  "And these are friends of yours?"

  Bella shakes her head vehemently. "No, not friends; definitely not friends. They came to one of the FROTH meetings, that's all."

  "I see. And why would they want to break into the estate office?"

  "I really don't know."

  Her aunt contemplates her balefully. Her threateningly turbid aura now visibly expands to engulf not only her chair but even the little occasional table by her side. "I'm sorry, Bella, but I don't believe that."