Wicked! (132 page)

‘Who’s going to guard your mum’s house?’

‘Who’s going to guard me?’ snapped Dora.

Outside, night had fallen like a shroud. No stars or moon pierced the sooty gloom as they left Bagley village and sped out of reach of street lamps, lighted windows or even chinks of light under doors, deep into thickly wooded country where trees writhed under the rising wind’s lash, down by-roads carpeted with red and orange leaves, which danced in the headlights like the flames of hell. Even Uncle Harley’s jewellery didn’t lighten the dark. In horror Dora realized she’d forgotten her mobile.

‘Can I borrow your telephone to ring my boyfriend?’

‘There’s no signal here.’

Dora clutched Cadbury tighter. Kerfuffle had better be good.

As Uncle Harley turned through pillars topped by winged monsters, with eagles’ heads and lions’ bodies, and drove up a long, pitted, bumpy drive, Dora couldn’t see any horses beyond the rusty broken railings. As the car rattled over a sheep grid, she thought she must be careful of Cadbury’s legs if they had to make a run for it. Ahead towered a house, shaggy with leafless creeper, which fell over the windows like too-long fringes.

‘Where are we?’ she asked nervously.

‘Here,’ said Uncle Harley.

Meanwhile, over the border in Rutshire, Mags Gablecross, avid to hear details of the Queen’s visit to Bagley, was awaiting her husband the Chief Inspector’s return for supper, when the telephone rang. It was Debbie, Larks’s former cook, asking if Mags knew of Janna’s whereabouts.

‘She’s in Wales with Emlyn. They’re getting married, isn’t it lovely?’ Then, when Debbie didn’t react: ‘Are you OK, Debs?’

‘Yes – no. I’m worried, Mags. I’ve handed in my notice here. Janna was right all along about Ashton. He’s vile and he never stops watching my boys. I think he’s put a two-way mirror in the shower.’

Mags shuddered. ‘How horrible.’

‘It may sound stupid, but I think something evil’s going on. Russell Lambert had a birthday party here at Ashton’s place back in August and instead of wanting me to help out, Ashton insisted I looked tired, and packed me and the boys off to the seaside for the weekend.

‘Anyway, it’s Ashton’s birthday today. Stancombe called him first thing about some party this evening. I picked up the phone by mistake and got the impression’ – Debbie’s voice shook – ‘Randal was lining up some little girl “for dessert” – those were his words – then Ashton laughed and said he’d be bringing something much more to his own taste.’

‘You don’t know where this party’s going to be?’

‘No idea.’ Debbie started to cry. ‘I thought I was imagining things but Brad went to his dad for the day, and when I got back from Tesco’s this evening, there was no one home. When I phoned Brad’s dad, he said he’d dropped Brad off an hour ago and Ashton had insisted on minding Brad until I got back.’

‘There was no note?’

‘Nothing. Oh Mags, I’m so worried Ashton has kidnapped him.’

‘I’ll get on to Tim at once,’ said Mags.

Over at Bagley, Paris was equally demented. Dora hadn’t returned to supper and she wasn’t answering her mobile. There was no sign of her at Boudicca when he dropped in and when he raced down to Foxglove Cottage, the place was in darkness.

‘Randal’s always had the hots for her. I know the bastard’s going to serve her up at Ashton’s birthday party and dispose of her afterwards. I can’t handle it, Cosmo. I love her so much.’

‘Randal’s safe with Ruth,’ said Cosmo soothingly, ‘she asked him over to supper.’

‘Well, fucking ring and check if he’s there.’

‘Bit early. I don’t want to rouse his suspicions. Oh, OK then.’

Mrs Walton answered immediately: ‘Randal? Oh, it’s you, Cosmo darling, any chance of you popping over later? I seem to have been stood up by Randal. Cosmo! Cosmo!’

But Cosmo had hung up.

137

Stancombe must have been looking out because the moment the car drew up, the heavy studded oak front door creaked open and he pulled Dora in out of the bitter cold. Inside it was tropical, which had given him the excuse to wear nothing but a very white, mostly unbuttoned shirt, black velvet trousers and a great deal of Lynx – hardly horse-buying kit, reflected Dora. The sort of soppy music her mother liked was belching out of speakers.

There was no furniture in the high vaulted hall, but Stancombe led her into a large drawing room with flames leaping in a big fireplace, walls lined with mirrors and leather sofas, fur cushions and a floor covered in thick, dark shagpile. In one corner, four-legged and big as a Welsh cob, stood a vast television. In another was a table covered in glasses and a trolley groaning with every kind of drink. In the centre of the room stood a strange padded leather table about three feet off the ground. Twigs and rose thorns clawed and scrabbled at the windows, like the buried-alive trying to escape from their coffins. At least the windows had handles in case she wanted to make a quick getaway.

Cadbury’s hackles had gone straight up, his pink lip curled, his normally genial yellow eyes were hard and reptilian. He had no use for Stancombe, who in turn was furious Dora had brought a chaperon, but decided not to make a fuss. She looked so adorable in her school tie with her chubby little legs sticking out from underneath her beige pleated skirt and flesh visible in the gaps between the buttons of her white shirt.

Anthea was too mean to buy Dora new uniform until she was absolutely bursting out of it, and would have been appalled if she’d realized how additionally seductive this made her daughter look. Stancombe, who’d just taken the brake off any inhibitions with a vast line of coke, felt himself boiling over with lust.

As Dora plonked herself down on a brown leather sofa, Cadbury wandered off to explore, which suited Stancombe. It would enable him to shut the bloody dog away in another room.

‘What would you like to drink?’

‘A crème de menthe frappé,’ said Dora airily, ‘but shouldn’t we see Kerfuffle? Another buyer might get there first.’

‘He’s in the stables, only five minutes from here.’ Stancombe waved vaguely in the direction of the window behind her.

‘I want to try him out.’

‘Of course. They’ve got an indoor school.’ Hell, he’d forgotten how to frappé ice. He was so on fire, he’d melt anything he touched.

‘Wasn’t the Queen lovely?’ said Dora brightly. ‘I thought it went so well.’

Stancombe picked up a steel hammer. ‘It was a cock-up from start to finish. Whatever one’s reservations about Hengist B-T, he’d have known how to run a show like that. Alex couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery.’ Bash, bash, bash! The ice was going everywhere.

‘It’s awfully hot,’ said Dora, ‘can we open the window?’

‘Take off your cardi, then I can admire your sexy figure. You get tastier every time I see you. Said I ought to put you down like a fine wine but I think you’re grown-up enough for love now.’ As he handed her her drink, his fingers caressed hers.

‘I am too,’ beamed Dora as he sat beside her. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend. I’ve wanted him to be my boyfriend for nearly three years, since he played Romeo.’ She took a gulp of crème de menthe. ‘That’s lovely, rather like mouthwash, but I don’t want to be drunk in charge of an event horse. I’ve always fancied older men,’ she went on dreamily. Stancombe preened, then scowled as she added, ‘Paris is two years older than me.’

If I bang on about Paris, it’ll put him off, thought Dora hopefully. He won’t dare try anything if he’s Mummy’s boyfriend.

‘Would you like a tour of the house?’ murmured Stancombe.

Suddenly aware of his burning thigh pressed against hers, Dora jumped to her feet. ‘I’d rather see Kerfuffle – and where’s Cadbury? I bet he’s found the kitchen.’

She ran out into the hall and, turning left, discovered herself in a room with a vast double bed and walls lined with more mirrors. On the bedside table was a pair of handcuffs, some manacles and an evil-looking black whip with a long lash, which was certainly not intended to be used on Kerfuffle.

Dora froze, increasingly aware she was in the presence of evil.

‘“The Good Life”,’ sang Sacha Distel sforzando. No one would hear screams over that.

Next moment, Stancombe had grabbed her, hands going everywhere, like the sinewy tentacles of a mad, starved octopus. ‘Little Dora,’ he whispered, crashing his horrible, hot, full lips down on hers, ramming his great, hard, fat tongue between her teeth.

‘Don’t,’ squealed Dora, ‘let me go, you disgusting old man, or I’ll bite your tongue off. I’ll guillotine your willy. I trusted you because you’re Mummy’s boyfriend. She’s a JP and I’m under age. She’ll bang you up for this. Stop it. STOP it!’ She tried to knee him in the groin as shirt buttons under siege were pinging everywhere.

‘You know you want me,’ taunted Stancombe, as wildly excited by her antagonism as by her plump, young flesh.

‘I bloody don’t, I’ve got a boyfriend.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Stancombe was tearing off her shirt, scrabbling for the hook of her pink gingham bra, about to rip it off in his frustration. ‘You need a real man, not that little wimp.’

‘I don’t, he isn’t, I love Paris.’ Dora aimed a kick at Stancombe’s shins.

‘Stop it, you snotty little bitch.’ As he pinned her against a mirrored wall, she was impaled by an erection big as a rounder’s bat. ‘Can’t you get it into your fucking head, Paris is gay.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ panted Dora. ‘He wasn’t gay with my friend Bianca, or Amber, or your stuck-up daughter. You’re just as green with jealousy as that crème de menthe.’

‘Paris is a little tart,’ hissed Stancombe. ‘Look at the way he flashed his ass at Theo and Hengist and Artie and Biffo, all eating out of his hand.’

He was foaming at the mouth, veins like snakes writhing on his forehead. Dora had never seen anyone so angry and would have been scared witless if she hadn’t been so furious.

‘Come and look at this.’ Grabbing her hand, Stancombe dragged her back into the living room where he pushed her down on the leather sofa. Then he took a video from the shelf and rammed it into the television.

Dora took a gulp of crème de menthe. She must get out and where the hell was Cadbury? Next moment, ridiculous, jiggy music flooded the room and despite everything, she burst out laughing at the sight of a lot of fat, naked old men dancing round, whooping and drinking out of champagne bottles. It was like the Elephants in ‘Carnival of the Animals’, except they had waggling willies instead of trunks.

‘Oh yuk, yuk, yuk cubed,’ cried Dora as they started groping each other, fondling and slapping each other’s bottoms. Then she gave a gasp.

‘My God, that fat one’s Russell someone, Mummy knows him, he’s the planning officer. And there’s revolting Ashton Douglas who Dame Hermione sang happy birthday to. He’s got his socks on too; expect he’s frightened of getting verrucas. God, how gross – and there’s Col Peters, vile pig and Rod Hyde’ – Dora couldn’t help giggling – ‘with a wincy little willy.’

But when Stancombe fast-forwarded the tape, Dora shrieked in real anguish to see that Russell Someone was humping away – ‘Oh God, no!’ – on top of a thin, very young girl, lying on her front on the same leather table that was in the centre of the room, with her face concealed by flopping white-blonde hair. Although her hands were tightly tied together in front and Rod Hyde and Col Peters were laughing and holding her down, she was putting up a hell of a struggle.

‘My God, poor little girl,’ screamed Dora, ‘he’s raping her. How can you allow something so terrible? Turn it off, I can’t look.’

‘Yes, you can,’ hissed Stancombe, yanking her head back towards the screen as the camera zoomed in. ‘Look at the Eiffel Tower on his shoulder. That’s your little rent boy.’

‘My turn, my turn,’ Ashton was now yelling, prising off Russell and taking over, to whoops of excitement from the others, and shafting away with unparalleled viciousness.

‘Just watch,’ gloated Stancombe as, in close-up again, the camera captured below the blindfold a long nose, lips curled back in agony, and teeth plunged into the black leather. The exquisite bone structure could only belong to Paris.

‘You revolting pervert,’ screamed Dora, hammering her fists against Stancombe’s chest, ‘you were raping him, that’s what the Upper Sixth threatened to do to my brother Dicky. How dare you hurt Paris when he was a little boy in a children’s home with no parents to protect him? That is the most disgusting, horrible thing I’ve ever seen.’

Rushing towards the television, Dora pressed the eject button, grabbed the video and, yanking open a window, hurled it out into the bushes.

‘You stupid bitch,’ howled Stancombe, ‘you’ll pay for it.’

‘How could you film something so sick?’ howled back Dora. ‘So you could blackmail Ashton and Rod Hyde if they stepped out of line?’

‘That’s enough, it’s your turn now, no one knows you’re here.’

But as Stancombe lunged at her, they were both distracted by excited squeaking. Shoving Stancombe off balance with all her might, Dora ran to yet another room, a sort of study with a big desk. Here she found Cadbury, his pink nose deep in a wardrobe, his tail going like a windscreen wiper on speed.

‘Drop!’ yelled Stancombe, hurtling forward and kicking Cadbury viciously in the ribs.

‘Don’t hurt him,’ screamed Dora, grabbing a steel lamp.