Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  "Darren Dunlin, stop that now!" cries Bella, rushing forward.

  It is too late. Darren has already driven the knife deep into his victim, slitting her open from throat to groin. The coven immediately scatters, torches bobbing away down the hillside. Only Bluebell is left behind.

  "Awch, Carol, ma ain true luve," wails McNab, taking her shattered body in his arms. "Whit hae they daen tae ye?" There is a clang as one of her ballcock breast-implants falls out and rolls away. McNab scrabbles after it in the darkness and tries to stuff is back. "It's aa ma faut,' he sobs. "Tae think ah left her for that . . . craiture."

  "Please don't cry," says Bella, putting a comforting arm round him. "We might still be able to patch her up. Aunty's terribly good with a needle." She rounds angrily on Bluebell. "You're a wicked, wicked, girl. Just you wait till I tell your mother."

  "I don't care if you do," sneers Bluebell. "She won't believe you, she hates you. You stole her boyfriend."

  Bella stares at her. "That's not true! He left of his own accord. They had a row and he left. It was nothing to do with me."

  "Anyway," says Bluebell, "it's the other one you should be worried about." She smiles a cruel smile. "The thing is the symbol and the symbol is the thing. Remember?"

  "Whit daes she mean?" frowns McNab.

  They stop at the edge of the travellers' encampment. Apart from the dull thump of heavy-metal from one of the lorries it is peaceful and deserted, most people having turned in for the night.

  "Which one is it?" asks Bella.

  McNab shakes his head crossly. "Ah naether ken nor care. Let's gang hame."

  "McNab, this is urgent! She could be dead or dying."

  "Humph, ah dout it."

  They are just about to knock on the nearest door when they become aware of a large, shadowy shape. It is the pantomime horse practising a little dance, all by itself in the darkness.

  "Excuse me," says Bella politely. "You don't happen to know where Carol Emden lives, by any chance? She's very . . . big."

  There is a low muttering as the horse considers this.

  "Over there, ducky, the double decker," says the front half.

  For some reason this causes the back half to start sniggering, then loudly fart.

  "It's the oats," explains the front half longsufferingly.

  "Yeah, I get more than him cos I'm at the back," says the back half.

  The front half tosses his mane disgustedly. "Oh you're so crude, you."

  There is a dim light in the bus's downstairs windows. They climb onto the rear platform, now acting as a porch, and following the instructions to 'push once,' ring the bell. A toad-like man answers the door. Behind him, in the soft glow of an oil-lamp, is a remarkably cosy, chintzy parlour. A woman in a silk dressing gown pulls it more tightly round her and looks away.

  "Yes?" says the man.

  "I'm terribly sorry to bother you at this time of night, but we're looking for Carol. It's rather urgent."

  "Do I look like Carol?"

  "No, of course not. I just —"

  "Well why come to me, then?" He turns to go back inside, then stops and looks Bella speculatively up and down. "You a friend of 'ers?"

  "Sort of," says Bella.

  "Then tell 'er if she don't come up with the rent pronto, she's out. I'm not a bloody charity."

  "But where . . ."

  He jerks a finger at the ceiling. "Up there."

  They pause at the top of the stairs. It is the sort of bus with a lowered walkway along one side and rows of four seats. The seats have been removed and the walkway is now a corridor giving on to a series of tiny rooms, each with its own door. The first one is open. Bella peers inside. "Oops, sorry."

  "Hey man, got any weed?"

  "Er, no, I haven't. Sorry. You don't happen to know where —"

  "In here," calls McNab from further along the corridor. His voice has a hollowness to it.

  Carol II is sprawled half on and half off the narrow bed. Her eyes are open and staring, but it's not clear if she is conscious or even alive. Her bloated, naked body is stained with blood and her hands are like red gloves. From the corner of her mouth comes a dribble of vomit.

  Someone appears behind them. "Hey man . . . oh shit!"

  "I'll get an ambulance," sighs Bella.

  On the way out they encounter Pat and Thurston. "We're worried about Bluebell?" explains Pat. "She hasn't come home. Have you seen her?"

  "She's been a very naughty girl," says Bella, and tells them what happened.

  Pat and Thurston exchange glances.

  "Well where is she now?"

  "I don't know; she ran off."

  "Didn't you try to stop her?"

  "How were we supposed to do that? I told her to go home. Perhaps she's there now. I have to call an ambulance."

  *

  Miranda paces the kitchen, arms folded, occasionally stopping to gaze disbelievingly at her aunt's handiwork.

  "How long was she actually gone?"

  "All night, and most of this morning."

  "Is she all right? I mean . . ."

  "Fine. Marched in as cool as a cucumber apparently."

  "I feel so responsible. I should have stopped her seeing him."

  Veronica shakes her head. "Pat's tried, goodness knows, but there's a limit to what you can do. She's sixteen now; you can't lock her up all day."

  "She'd have listened to me, I know she would. Where do you think she was? With him I suppose."

  "Perhaps. My guess is she was just hiding somewhere, waiting until her mother had calmed down a bit. Pass me one of those ballcock things please, dear."

  "Which?"

  "Either, it doesn't matter. The green one."

  "What did the police say?"

  "She didn't tell them."

  "She didn't tell them!" cries Miranda, aghast. "Why ever not? Anything could have happened to her."

  "Nothing that couldn't happen during the day I shouldn't have thought. Anyway, it's not as simple as that. Look at it from their point of view. She's a traveller of no fixed abode, a single mother, unemployed, who home-educates her children; and now her daughter's been dabbling in black magic. She'd be lucky not to have all three of them taken into care. Do you think I should give her nipples? If you put them up this way you get nipples and if you put them the other way you don't."

  "Goodness, I don't know. What was she like before?"

  "Can't say I ever noticed. Actually, no, I think she'll have to go without or the fabric won't stretch. The trouble is, it's so rotten it won't take the thread. For two pins I'd completely re-skin her; it'd probably be quicker."

  "What about the other one?"

  "No, I'm not ready for it yet."

  "Not that! I mean the other Carol, the real one. Is she all right?"

  "Oh, her. Rather poorly, I'm afraid."

  "Why did she do it?"

  "God knows."

  "Well I think the whole thing's utterly squalid and horrible," declares Miranda. "I don't know how you can be so laid-back about it all; those repulsive people parked out there, on our land! It's all Bella's fault and it's no good you saying it isn't. If it wasn't for her and her blasted Stones, none of this would have happened. If I had my way I'd have the damned things smashed up and sold for hard-core."

  Veronica just shakes her head. "If you want my opinion, nothing much that happens round here is anybody's fault. We're just pawns in some weird game."

  "What's that supposed to mean? What game?"

  Veronica throws down her needle. "It's no good, I can't do this. I shall have to consult the next of kin. I think I may have some pinkish fabric somewhere. It's got little flowers on it, but I don't suppose he'll mind that."

  *

  At McNab's eco-house there is tension in the air.

  "What's that supposed to mean, a shrug," says Bella, angrily. "Don't you shrug at me! Is it true or isn't it? Are you still in love with Pat?"

  Thurston shakes his head, turns to McNab.

  "Of
course not," interprets McNab. "She came to me for help, that's all. How could I not help?"

  Thurston nods indignantly.

  "Why you?" demands Bella. "Why did she come to you? Why not one of the others? Why not Jason or Denny, or Uncle? And why didn't you tell me you changed a wheel for her? She really enjoyed telling me that!"

  "You weren't here; you were at work." offers McNab.

  Thurston nods again.

  "That's no excuse! You could have told me later. That's what your notebook's for; the one I bought you. What else have you been doing with her I don't know about? You might know how I'd feel about it, going behind my back. Is it true or not? Is there anything between you two?"

  Thurston, looking hunted, turns to McNab.

  "There was, but there isn't now?" suggests McNab doubtfully. Thurston shoots him a 'Gee, thanks pal,' sort of look.

  "I didn't ask you," snaps Bella. "You keep out of it. What would you know, anyway?"

  "Ah am keepin oot o it!" protests McNab. "Ah wantae keep oot o it."

  "Well go away, then. Get out of here. This is a private conversation."

  "But this is ma hoose!"

  Bella turns her back on him. "She told you to get lost, didn't she? I heard her. You had a big row about the boat and she told you to get lost. Did you try to go back to her? Do you still love her?"

  Thurston doesn't answer.

  "Do you?"

  Thurston turns away, gazing through one of the peculiarly off-set windows.

  "I see," says Bella. "You tried to go back but she wouldn't have you, so you thought you might as well make do with me, is that it?"

  Thurston shakes his head vehemently, mouthing no, no. He reaches out and tries to take her hand.

  "Don't touch me!" cries Bella, snatching it back.

  "Attagirl!" chuckles Hester. "You tell him."

  "You can shut up as well."

  "Ah ne'er said onythin!" protests McNab. "No a wird."

  Quite suddenly, Bella begins to weep. "So I'm second best am I? Second best to plain, frumpy Pat! And I thought you loved me. I really, really thought that for once someone loved me."

  Thurston looks desperately at McNab.

  "I do love you," says McNab. "I love you more than . . . anything," he adds lamely.

  "Shut up!" shouts Bella. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I want him to tell me, not you. Go on, tell me. Tell me you love me, if you do. Tell me you love me more than her. I want to hear you say it! You!"

  Thurston opens his mouth, a look of pleading desperation on his craggy features. He mouths the words: I love you. I really love you, trying to take her in his arms.

  "I don't believe you," cries Bella, pushing him off, hitting him. "I want you to really say it. Out loud! We've been married two months and you've never said it. You've never said anything, not ever. I want you to say it."

  Thurston looks at her with hurt in his eyes, then ducking out of the little house he runs blindly from the clearing.

  "Nou ye've daen it," mutters McNab.

  "I don't care," says Bella, knuckling away the tears. "I hate him."

  *

  "We may have a little problem in there," says Charlie, surreptitiously inclining his head.

  Heather Dunnock peers through into the saloon bar. It is occupied only by a young couple, cuddling in a corner, and the hulking figure of Thurston, waiting to be served.

  "Pissed?"

  "He can hardly stand up."

  "How many's he had?"

  "Don't know, I've lost count. Maybe ten or twelve."

  "Twelve what?"

  "Old Toms."

  "Twelve Old Toms! He ought to be dead!"

  Colin Dunnock wanders in from the restaurant. "What's to do?" he enquires amiably.

  "It's Thurston. He's on his twelfth Old Tom."

  "He wants another," says Charlie. "Won't take no for an answer."

  "Pissed?"

  "As a newt."

  "All right, I'll deal with it."

  Colin picks up a cloth and ambles down the bar. Thurston is leaning heavily on the bar-top, his huge hands flat upon it. His head is sunk into his shoulders and his eyes are small and red-rimmed, giving him the look of an angry bull. Despite his being not entirely upright, he still appears considerably taller and wider than the burly publican.

  "Hello Thurston, mate. All right?" enquires Colin, casually wiping the bar-top.

  Thurston nods blearily, pushing forward his glass.

  "Don't often see you in here on your own. Where's Bella today, then?"

  At the sound of his wife's name, Thurston raises one shoulder and gives a vigorous little shake of the head, as if he has an insect in his ear. He thrusts forward his glass again, rather more aggressively.

  Colin decides to take the bull by the horns. "Charlie says you've been hitting it a bit hard. D'you think maybe you've had enough? Better get along home now, eh? Sleep it off."

  Thurston shakes his head again. With an emphatic little jerk he pushes the glass right under Colin's nose.

  "Sorry mate," says Colin. "No can do. House rules."

  For a moment they stare at each other, Colin calmly wiping, Thurston screwing up his features in growing rage. Suddenly he raises the glass and bangs it down with enormous force. Colin jumps back. Somewhat to his surprise the glass remains intact. There is, however, a distinct dent in the formerly pristine bar-top. The young couple in the corner wisely decide that this is the moment to get up and creep away, sidling out between the tables. Thurston turns and eyes them balefully.

  Colin takes the glass off him. "Look, you can have another half, and that's all. Then go home, eh?"

  Thurston watches him begin to draw the half of Old Tom, then, leaning across the bar, he clamps his hand firmly over Colin's own.

  Colin watches helplessly as the glass fills to the top. "All right, a pint. But that's your last, okay? That'll be eighty pence please."

  The giant obediently gropes in his pocket and takes out a small purse. He fumbles it open and empties out the entire contents. It amounts to sixty-five pence.

  "I'll settle for that," says Colin and retreats past the glass partition, back into the public bar.

  "Coward," says Heather. She and Charlie have now been joined by a couple of curious regulars and by Darren, who is peering in through the swing-door.

  "Have you any idea what someone that size can do?" says Colin defensively. "He could wreck the place and who's going to stop him? He's already dented the bloody bar-top. Anyway, he's skint now, thank God."

  "I reckon you should call the police," says one of the regulars, "before he gets really nasty."

  "I most certainly will not. I haven't had them in here in ten years and I don't intend to start now."

  "Back again, I'm afraid," says Charlie lugubriously.

  Colin swings round. "I don't believe it! No-one can sink a pint that fast."

  "I'll go this time," says Heather, straightening up and tugging at her top. "He's always been all right with me. You phone Windy Point. If you can't get Bella, try McNab or the Commander." She puts on a nice, open smile and sallies forth. "Good afternoon, Thurston. How are you today?"

  Thurston pushes forward his glass.

  "I don't think you can afford it, can you, dear? We don't do credit I'm afraid."

  Thurston scowls. Leaning over the bar-top again, he puts the glass awkwardly under the beer pump and pushes at the handle.

  "Now that's enough!" says Heather angrily. She tries to snatch the glass off him, but only succeeds in getting most of its contents down her cleavage. Thurston immediately sinks the rest. "Oh, honestly!" she snaps, scooping ineffectually at the frothy wetness, "I'm fed up with this. If you don't go home right now, I'm going to call the police. Do you understand?"

  Thurston glares at her. He starts to lean threateningly forward, pointing a wavering finger, then a thought seems to strike to him. Swaying from side to side he surveys the empty room before lunging for the rear entrance, knocking over a couple of chairs as he
goes.

  Everyone sighs with relief.

  "That's the last time he comes in here," says Heather emphatically. "And I don't care whose husband he is."

  "He never normally has more than a pint," says Charlie, "and McNab often finishes that. Wonder what's got into 'im?"

  "No-one answering at Windy Point," says Colin, reappearing.

  "It's all right, he's gone," says Heather. "I shall have to go and change my top, it's soaking."

  "I'm not so sure . . ." begins Charlie.

  Everyone jumps as a shattering crash reverberates through the building, followed by a distant hissing sound.

  "Not the toilets again," groans Colin, plaintively. "Why is it always the toilets?"

  Thurston reappears carrying an entire W.C. bowl, together with a good deal of its attendant plumbing. Everyone dives for cover as he raises it above his head and with a great roar hurls it the length of both bars, where it scatters glasses and bowls of peanuts before skidding off to demolish a row of optics. Then as they watch, mesmerized, from their various hiding places, he does a sort of squat-lift against the moulded bar-top, the muscles of his great arms bulging, and the sinews of his neck standing out like guy-ropes. Slowly, unbelievably, the solid, inch-thick mahogany is peeled upwards. There is a series of loud cracks as the fixing screws are torn from the carcassing beneath and a melodic gurgle as the beer pumps come adrift from their pipes.

  "Police now?" suggests Heather.

  "What? Yes! For Chrissake, yes!" cries Colin, recollecting himself. "Tell 'em to bring a bloody straitjacket while they're at it."

  "No, wait. Give me a minute," says Darren, coming out from behind the swing door. "I'm good at drunks."

  "You? He'll marmalize you!"

  "No he won't: I have the gift. I can hypnotise them. What's it worth?"

  "What d'you mean, what's it worth?"

  "To get him out of here. How about a private party for thirty, all paid for?" suggests Darren. "Including disco."

  "A disco! You must be joking!"