Wicked! (33 page)

Jade, bored of building her control tower, was putting the boot in.

‘You stupid cow,’ she cried as Aysha, trying to join their balloon’s two emerald and royal blue sides together with trembling hands, also tore the paper.

‘Don’t talk to her like that,’ yelled Xav.

Jade turned on him. ‘I can talk to anyone however I like. You know who my boyfriend is.’

‘I don’t care,’ lied Xav defiantly.

‘You’ll regret this,’ hissed Jade.

‘Kill each other later,’ said Anatole, who was now immersed in the
Sunday Times
business section. ‘Ve have balloon to build.’

‘You’re not being much help.’

A full dress row was quelled by the descent of Mags Gablecross, who chided them for wasting their human resources.

‘You’ve completed the puzzles. Anatole and Jade, go off orienteering; Paris, get on with the balloon and Xav and Aysha, help him after you’ve finished the control tower.’

Janna and Jason stood at the trestle table handing out tissue paper and cardboard, checking maps to see if each box had been punched correctly.

‘You’re cheating again, Lubemir, go back and get two to eight punched properly and you too, Rocky, these have all been punched with the same staple. You need fifteen different ones.’

Feral and Amber raced hand in hand through Middle Field, their footsteps muffled by the thick yellow and orange leaf patchwork. They had punched nearly all their map references and collapsed on the roots of a big sycamore to catch their breath.

Amber’s tousled mane was falling over eyes the rich ochre of winter willows. Her breasts heaved beneath her sand-coloured T-shirt.

‘Lovely tan,’ said Feral.

Amber stroked his cheek. ‘Not as lovely as yours.’

Feral laughed, clapping her hand to his face.

‘You been away,’ teased Amber.

‘Inside,’ said Feral.

‘Poor you, was it hell?’

‘Hell, being banged up.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Mugged a stuck-up bitch; only took her bag and her mobile.’

‘My father was always in gaol for hellraising on the showjumping circuit in the old days. You should compare notes. You’re so sexy, Master Feral.’

Feral stretched out a hand and touched a nipple sticking through her bra and T-shirt and very gently ran his finger round and round it, until Amber was trembling with longing to be kissed. He had such white even teeth, such a wonderful smile, such curly black eyelashes.

‘It’s so important to overcome traditional barriers,’ murmured Amber.

Feral found her colouring so exquisite against the yellow hazel, and faded tawny oak, he said, ‘You suit autumn.’ Putting a hand on her tracksuit trousers, he repeatedly tapped a finger against her clitoris. ‘Like that?’

‘Amazing.’

Unable to bear the tension, Amber leapt to her feet and stumbled deliberately in a rabbit hole, allowing Feral to catch her. For a second they gazed at each other, burst out laughing, then he kissed her. He smelled so lovely and tasted faintly of peppermint, his tongue flickering as delicately as his fingers had, then growing more and more insistent until her legs would have given way if his arms hadn’t held her like steel bands.

‘Oh Feral,’ gasped Amber, ‘talk about lift-off,’ then, as his snake hips writhed against hers and his cock seemed about to burst through his trousers: ‘I don’t think you’re entirely in control of your tower.’

‘Stop taking the piss, man.’

‘Oh, wow,’ moaned Amber. As Feral’s hand crept inside her T-shirt, her hand in turn slid down his flat belly and thighs and encountered hard steel.

‘Ah,’ she whispered. ‘I see you also dress on the left.’

‘I don’t take chances.’

Letting her go, Feral whipped out his knife, running his finger down the blade, smiling at her. Amber stood her ground, determined to show no fear. Neither jumped much as they heard Boffin Brooks’s strangulated whine.

‘Number eight ought to be around here somewhere.’

Reaching up Feral cut through the string which tied stapler and flag to an overhead branch and chucked them into a wild rose bush. Then, putting away his knife, he pulled Amber behind a big oak tree, hand over her mouth to stop her laughing.

‘We don’t want Boffin catching up wiv us.’

‘I’ve never snogged anyone black before,’ murmured Amber, prising off his hand and pulling his head down. ‘What have I been missing?’

30

Earlier, in London, Randal Stancombe and Rufus Anderson’s wayward wife Sheena lunched on smoked salmon and champagne in one of his many apartments.

‘It’ll be an excellent photo opportunity,’ Sheena reassured him, ‘and brilliant for your profile both locally and nationally to help a school that serves an estate with such a high level of deprivation. People will recognize your sincerity about cleaning up the area. If the rest of the press are expected at Bagley at three-thirty I suppose we ought to go,’ she added regretfully.

‘We could have another drink,’ said Stancombe, unbuttoning her dress. Sheena was very tasty and it was one way of finding out if she’d hidden a tape recorder anywhere.

Back at Bagley, the Lower Fourth were studying Tennyson. Poor Miss Wormley, whom the class referred to as Worm Woman, had made the mistake of asking Dora Belvedon for her views on the Lady of Shalott.

‘Well, Sir Lancelot with his flowing black curls and his broad brow was pretty cool,’ began Dora, ‘like a young Mr Brett-Taylor. But next minute he’s described as flashing into the crystal mirror. We had a flasher in Limesbridge when we lived there. Our gardener, actually. He was always waving his willy at people, so it must have been a shock for the Lady of Shalott, she’d led such a sheltered life. No wonder she suddenly got her period.’

‘Don’t be silly, Dora.’ Miss Wormley had gone very pink.

‘She did too. “The mirror cracked from side to side; ‘The curse has come upon me,’ cried The Lady of Shalott.” They called a period “the curse” in medieval times when my mother was young, so she wasn’t going to be much good to Sir Lancelot that day. No wonder he kicked on.’

Apart from Dora’s brother Dicky, who had his burning face in his hands, the rest of the Lower Fourth were in ecstasy. They loved it when Dora got into her stride. Dora, however, was frantic to escape.

‘I simply must go to the loo, Miss Wormley, I’ve got a frightful tummy upset. I’ll burst all over the floor if I don’t.’

And Wormley let her go. Anything to be spared more literary interpretation.

By the time the Lower Fourths had moved on to the next poem, about a snob called Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Dora was falling out of the lavatory window, binoculars trained on Middle Field as the teams shrieked, yelled and raced about.

There was Xavier Campbell-Black actually laughing – that must be a first – with a girl in Eastern clothes. Kylie Rose and the Hon. Jack were having a very heavy snog behind a holly bush. Jack was so dopey, Dora hoped he’d remember to use a condom. Lord Waterlane would go ballistic if he got Kylie pregnant. If only she had a camera, the
Mail
would love that story – talk about Posh and Complications. That dickhead Boffin was grumbling to Mr Davies about something. Dora could just make out Graffi and Milly Walton building a tower together. Janna was looking bleak, probably missing Hengist. And Amber, Dora’s heroine, was sauntering out of Middle Field, doing up her bra, straightening her clothes, followed by – yuk! – Feral Jackson. How could Amber fancy him? She wouldn’t if she knew he’d kicked a football through Loofah’s legs. Dora got out her mobile to ring the press.

Great cheers rent the air as Junior Lloyd-Foxe got a text to say Shining Sixpence had won by five lengths.

‘I’m terribly sorry I only got him at ten to one. That’s a hundred and thirty quid I owe you,’ he told Graffi. ‘Thanks for the tip. Bloody good.’

Graffi’s balloon would clearly be the most beautiful but not the first completed.

‘Come on, Graffi, we must beat that twat Boffin,’ pleaded Pearl.

‘Rocky and Kylie’ll hold him back,’ muttered Graffi, gluing on extra strips of violet.

‘We must beat that horrible Cosmo.’

‘Feral and Lando will hold him back even more.’

‘Feral makes up for it by running quick.’

Cosmo, in fact, was white with rage. He’d always fancied Amber, and she’d pushed off with that snake Feral, leaving him with Lando (who was immersed in week-old racing pages) and only Kitten Meadows to bully, who kept rolling her eyes, clapping her hands over her mouth and giggling.

‘Why do you laugh when it’s not funny?’ he asked evilly.

‘Dunno.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

Kitten flushed, looking round for Johnnie to protect her, but Johnnie, part of Primrose Duddon’s team, was gazing longingly at Pitch One. To hit a six on it would be really something.

Having cut out a doughnut-shaped piece of cardboard to reinforce the bottom disk of violet tissue paper, Graffi shoved his fist through the paper.

‘This is where the hot air goes in, Milly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You ever come into town?’

‘It could be arranged. Here’s my mobile number.’ Milly wrote it on a fragment of daffodil-yellow tissue paper, shoving it into Graffi’s jeans pocket, fingers splaying over his thigh.

‘Stop wasting time,’ said an envious Spotty Wilkins.

‘Your balloon’s the prettiest,’ said Milly.

Graffi’s smile was unwavering. ‘No, you’re the prettiest.’

To reinforce his team’s balloon, Rocky had also been instructed to cut a piece of cardboard shaped like a doughnut and now pretended to eat it. Everyone laughed so Rocky started really to eat it.

‘Stop that, you stupid idiot,’ screamed Boffin.

‘Leave Rocky alone, you great bully,’ shouted Kylie. Then, as Rocky went on chewing the cardboard: ‘Stop that, you stupid asshole.’

‘Now who’s being both bullying and offensive,’ said a shocked Boffin.

‘Rocky’s my friend, I’m allowed,’ snapped Kylie, adding as an afterthought: ‘You’re the asshole.’

‘Very well said, Kylie,’ brayed the Hon. Jack.

Jade Stancombe wasn’t happy. Cosmo had ignored her all afternoon. Amber had pulled the divinely wayward Feral. Graffi was so busy gazing at Milly he’d put a fist through his balloon and was frantically patching. The enigmatic Paris, whose beauty was undeniable, was ignoring her. Paris was in fact watching Janna and Emlyn, wondering how that great ape could train his binoculars on a distant rugby game when the loveliest woman in the world stood beside him.

My poor father has spent a fortune on a bus to enable Larks and Bagley to indulge in an orgy, thought Jade furiously, and no one’s asked me to join in.

‘Why are you staring at me?’ she rudely asked Paris, who shrugged and turned back to the balloon to which Lando and Anatole, delighted at their winnings, were proving surprisingly good at adding finishing touches.

Aysha and Xavier were also working well, Aysha deftly gluing the paper Xavier had cut out as they built a beautiful control tower, nearly three feet high with crenellated turrets.

The hour and a half was nearly up. Shrieks of rage, frustration and triumph rent the air.

‘I feel like the end of a jumble sale,’ said Mags, looking at the empty trestle table from which every scrap of tissue paper had been whipped.

‘Finished,’ yelled Primrose Duddon, whose team, even with Johnnie on board, had indulged in no dalliance or illicit boozing and had completed their orange and Prussian-blue balloon to loud cheers. As there was no sign of Stancombe, Emlyn presented Primrose with a red rosette.

‘Well done,’ he told her, then, turning to Janna: ‘Should we release the balloons as they come in?’

‘More impact if they all go off together,’ said Janna, and was nearly sent flying by a furious Boffin.

‘Sir, sir, someone’s been cheating, cutting free the staplers in the wood so I’ve been unable to complete our map. Objection! Objection!’

‘It’s only a game,’ said Emlyn, mindful of the gathering press. ‘No one’s getting any prizes.’

Graffi’s round balloon, in diamonds of primrose yellow, shocking pink and violet, was judged to be the most beautiful; Xav and Aysha’s control tower the finest; Cosmo’s tower the biggest and tallest, which, everyone agreed, figured. Nearly all the participants were chatting and laughing now.

As the balloons were lined up on the edge of the cricket pitch, the chapel weathercock, which had been watching proceedings, swung away as the warm south wind, which would have swept the balloons over the golf course, changed to north-east. Now, with luck, it would carry them over the Mansion.

‘Stick ’em up.’

Feral reached instinctively for his knife as Gloria ran out brandishing two hot-air paint-strippers, followed by Cambola, Jason and Janna bearing hairdriers. Emlyn then handed out cardboard tubes to plug into the cardboard hole in the bottom of each balloon.

‘Too phallic for words,’ muttered Cosmo as the nozzles of hairdrier and paint-strippers were applied to the lower end of the cardboard tubes.