Come and Be Killed: A Chilling Psychological Thriller, page 13
Once Ellie was tucked up for the night in one of the attic rooms where the other carers had slept, she’d give Homely Helpers a ring. They were on call from 8 a.m. until 2 a.m. and her excuse would be that in order to give Miss Scott the dignity she deserved, she had to know as much about her client as possible.
*
‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Merle once she was seated at the far end of the dining room’s oval mahogany table.
‘What news?’ Frankie had had enough to last her into next year. She set Merle’s plate down in front of her and passed her the Pyrex dish where the yellow fish lay under a topping of melted cheese.
‘I heard it on my radio. A big protest in town at some new building site or other.’
‘Right.’ Frankie heaped some minted peas alongside Merle’s haddock, then helped herself, aware that any appetite she’d had, had vanished.
Frankie pulled a small bone from between her lips, thinking it had taken so little time for an adult human body to be devoured at Kilfargan. Those pike she’d researched beforehand must have been hovering much closer to shore than usual, waiting to pounce. It was a wonder her own ankles hadn’t been nibbled as she’d dragged a naked and barefoot Gary Cope across the short expanse of shingle as the rain thinned his blood until it vanished altogether. Then she’d flung the knife as far out into the water as possible.
*
‘A splendid meal, dear,’ Merle said afterwards, vanilla ice cream edging her lips. ‘Now, you must promise me, you’ll not abandon me like the dreadful Kylie Watts did.’
‘Course I won’t. Don’t be daft.’ Frankie helped her from her seat in expert fashion and led her to the chairlift. ‘This is the most brilliant place. Just think, you can step out of the back door and be up those hills in no time.’
But Merle seemed less than ecstatic. ‘Are those odd people still up there with their bonfires?’
‘Dunno. Why?’
Merle turned her floury face towards her. It reminded Frankie of those baps Beryl always made her buy whenever she did any shopping. Soft, lightly dusted, but prone to cracking when touched.
‘I feel so much safer having you around. That’s all.’
Frankie remembered what the fishmonger had said about the revellers. He’d not been unduly worried.
‘I’m sure they’re harmless. Like Morris dancers, that sort of thing.’
Merle shook her head and, having pressed the start button, trundled away up the stairs, her bare feet dangling with their long toenails and cheese-rind soles in the air.
*
Once Merle had been topped and tailed then tucked into bed with a battered copy of something called Mallory Towers, Frankie climbed the stairs to her attic room where Ellie was waiting. The air was even warmer than downstairs, reminding her of a school physics lesson on heat rising. Of warnings at tech on the dangers of the very young and the elderly succumbing to heart failure.
She released the small sash window’s catch, pushed down the lower portion and took in a deep gulp of air. Then she spotted the layer of dead flies trapped on its uppermost frame edge; caught the smell of bonfires from somewhere behind the house. In Openshaw they turned the sky orange every Guy Fawkes’ Night, but John Arthur had never allowed one in the garden. Couldn’t be bothered, was what he’d said. Merle had mentioned bonfires too, but she’d seemed edgy as if she knew more than she was letting on.
‘Come here, my little babe.’ She turned to Ellie and held her close, before showing her the dusky view from the window. ‘This is better, isn’t it? Just think, one day your mum’ll be able to get you a proper nursery with nice white cupboards and wallpaper with bunnies on.’
Ellie seemed to gurgle her appreciation and then, with the gentlest tipping of her body, let out a small cry.
‘Hey, I know. It’s tea time and you’re hungry. Got it all ready.’
She reached over for the five-ounce bottle on the dressing table, but for some reason, Ellie was slower than usual. Slower to burp too, so after two ounces had gone, Frankie peeled off the bottom portion of her all-in-one suit and changed her nappy. Just wet this time, which made life easier, and then she cradled her in her arms to brush her soft new hair until it shone.
As she hummed a nice lullaby Mrs Beavis had once sung to the group about wanting the moon to play with, she placed Ellie in her bed, making sure her head was slightly turned to the right. Cot death was every mum’s worst fear, and no way would Ellie ever be at risk.
Then, once she’d closed her eyes, Frankie dug out her mobile and Homely Helpers file from her rucksack and dialled their freephone number in Tonbridge.
‘We may not have made ourselves clear to you about Miss Scott,’ explained a mildly irritated Linda Toye, ‘but your client does rather live in her own world. She makes things up. What do her other carers’ notes say?’
The question caught Frankie by surprise, but she wasn’t stupid.
‘Nothing like that. Just that she’s forgetful with the cooker and water taps.’
A pause in which Frankie could pick out another office phone ringing. ‘But surely these records should be truthful, shouldn’t they? After all, they are confidential.’
‘Not always, that’s the trouble. We’ve had a spate of complaints from clients who’ve seen them, so it’s best to keep the more tricky assessments as strictly verbal. Entre nous as they say. Between ourselves.’
‘But this Mr Brownlow seems to know loads,’ Frankie challenged. ‘I mean, who is he?’
An impatient sigh which didn’t deter her.
‘He works for her sister. Very protective and very helpful, I have to say. I don’t know what they’d do without him.’
‘You mean Merle and Jenny?’
‘No. Merle and Evelyn.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Linda checked her computer. ‘She lives at the Gables, West Malvern Road. Surely that information’s in your notes? And her telephone number?’
‘Not a dicky bird.’
‘I’ll sort it straightaway. If we weren’t so understaffed, these omissions wouldn’t be occurring. At least it seems we can rely on you.’
‘Thanks. By the way, I know it’s late and this might seem a naff question, but did either sister ever have a kid at any time?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
A warning voice inside Frankie’s head made her pause before replying.
‘Curiosity, I suppose. Just trying to get the full picture. After all, I’m new here. I don’t want to be building up hopes of any son or daughter, or niece or nephew, coming to visit, if there aren’t any.’
‘I take your point, but there’s nothing on file here. Now I really must be getting on and don’t forget to keep that record book updated. And private.’
‘OK. I’ll do it now. Oh, just one more thing . . .’ The question she shouldn’t be asking. ‘Has anyone been quizzing you about where I’m working at the moment?’
‘Who exactly?’
Frankie bit her lip. The word police would be like poison to her plans. She thought of Mrs Beavis’s sound advice.
‘Doesn’t matter, OK? Another dumb question, sorry.’
With that, the line went dead and in the silence which followed, Frankie detected a small noise outside her attic bedroom door. One leap and a quick pull of the handle, told her all she needed to know. She was someone not to be trusted.
*
At twenty past eleven, with a large quarter moon bossing the whole sky about, Frankie slipped outside with both front and back door keys safe in her pocket. She wouldn’t be leaving Merle all on her own on just her second night at Teme House, but when she’d seen the back of her hobbling down the attic stairs, something inside her had snapped.
However hard she tried for people nothing was ever good enough, and so, if this was going to be the case here – pretty eyes or not – then she was going to start pleasing herself. And by this time next week her bank balance would be seven hundred quid better off.
The back garden smelt not just of damp foliage, but something which made her fish supper turn in her stomach. She sniffed. The earlier bonfire smell had changed. Something was cooking. But surely it was too wet for any kind of barbecue?
The whiff of singed flesh now mingled with those same voices she’d heard earlier. Her torch picked out the steps leading from the patio and then the soft uncut grass studded by what at first had resembled stones. Now she realized that these lumps of granite were in fact graves. Dog graves. One next to the other in rows. Like war cemeteries in northern France. She read the carved-out names and dates of death, Teme House Bridesmaid 1982, Teme House Best Man 1983, and so on, wondering why they weren’t known simply as Ben or even Donny, like the dog from Kilfargan.
Her torch beam roamed from one to the other, from the earliest memorial to the latest until suddenly she stopped at another already familiar name. Teme House Jenny.
Jenny?
She searched for the accompanying date, but lichen had embedded itself where the carving should have been, and it wasn’t until she’d scraped the worst of it away with her thumbnail that four numbers became clear. 1980. The year she was born.
*
The moon, now clear of a dark fleeting cloud, lit her way along a stony path which led upwards from the small wooden gate set in the garden’s boundary hedge. There was a different noise coming from the nearest hilltop. A kind of chanting in a language she didn’t recognize and when it abruptly stopped the silence felt like that by the loch. A deep deathly pool of the possible.
‘Shit . . .’
Her trainers slid on a muddy patch and if she’d not grabbed at a bunch of bracken she would have fallen flat on her face. The chanting had started up again, in English this time. Something about Rosea’s month being the door of the year and then these same raised voices asked Juno Moneta to turn her face away from dark Janus and bring them money and wealth . . .
Frankie switched off her torch so she wouldn’t be seen. Money and wealth. Exactly.
‘We’ve cut the hawthorn now the oak. And Duir comes blackened with her cloak . . .’
Frankie moved closer, picking her way forward until a plume of pungent smoke reached her nose. As well as the brittle sounds of burning wood, she detected flames more green and blue than yellow or red as they seemed to lick the quarter moon’s lower rim. Another bonfire had been lit on the Worcestershire Beacon, closer to the circle of cloaked figures swaying in anticlockwise motion as the fire threw up fierce little sparks. Then, as if synchronized, the participants bent down and lifted up their poles crowned with something she couldn’t quite make out, except that the earlier burnt-flesh smell intensified. She’d read Lord of the Rings as a kid, and to her just then this scene above her could have come straight from its pages. She was tempted to get the hell out, but once the words grew clearer, she stayed rooted to the spot.
‘Epona, come and join us here. To swell our luck in this new year. To gold and treasure evermore . . .’
Suddenly she sneezed and the chain of people now riding their poles broke up in surprise.
‘Who the fuck’s that?’ asked a male Irish voice.
‘I’ll go and see. Wait there,’ volunteered a woman in the same rustic accent as the fishmonger, and within seconds, before Frankie could backtrack to Teme House, her conical form obliterated any view of the hill.
‘Yes?’ she challenged, upon seeing her.
‘I was only looking. Sorry.’
‘Where you from, then?’
Frankie guessed she too was local, so it was best to play safe and tell the truth. She was aware of a crown of eyes on her. Waiting.
‘I work for Miss Scott at Teme House down there.’
A hostile murmur rose up from the spectators.
‘Then may I suggest you go back. This is a private event.’
‘Private? But I thought the top of North Hill was public land.’
‘I said our event was private. Anyhow, what’s your name?’
‘Frankie Holt. And you?’ Nothing to lose, she thought, aware of the woman’s companions growing more restless. She also realized what exactly lay at the end of their poles. Skulls, bigger and longer than human ones, some with antlers, others not. Closer inspection showed bone partly covered by black scorched skin, flapping in the night breeze.
‘Juno Moneta’s slave,’ replied the woman.
‘I’m a slave, an’ all.’ Frankie followed this with a dry laugh to hide her unease at what was going on. She shivered. June it might be, but the day’s wetness still clung to her clothes, reaching her bones.
‘I thought the actual solstice was at twenty-four minutes past one.’ She’d spotted a New-Age type poster at the local garage.
‘You’re absolutely right. But as most of us have day jobs, this is the best we can do. So you’re interested in our ancient traditions, are you?’
The question threw her. She’d not come prepared.
‘Yeah, suppose I am. Just read some Walter Scott ghost stories. Talk about weird.’
‘Nothing’s weird when you loosen the shackles of conventional thought, Miss Holt.’
‘Carol? You coming?’ called out that same man’s voice as before. ‘We need to finish this thing off.’
‘OK, Sean. OK.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘Why not bring yourself along to my next séance in a fortnight’s time? My place, 6 Quarry Terrace, Malvern. Eight o’clock.’
‘Séance?’ She’d seen those on TV as well and not been impressed.
‘I guarantee that afterwards you’ll see the world differently. For the better . . .’ The woman clambered back up the slope. ‘Be there.’
That sounded pretty damned chesty coming from a total stranger, yet all the same this might lead to her making the one friend she’d never had.
‘By the way, Frankie,’ Carol Piper’s voice reached her from on high, ‘I bet Juno Moneta’ll be smiling at you from now on.’
‘Why’s that, then?’ She had to get back to Merle, but at the same time, needed her to spell it out. She felt her pulse quicken.
‘Miss Scott and her sister. They’re the richest people in Malvern. Didn’t you know?’
‘I’d no idea.’
‘Scott’s Rifles, it is. Bang, bang. Not very nice, but I can’t complain.’
‘Can’t complain? I don’t get it.’ Wondering if the Sean that Carol had spoken to was Brownlow. She dare not ask. At least, not out here in the creepy moonlight.
‘Evelyn’s been a brilliant benefactor to our theatre here. Without her we’d have shut up shop years ago.’
‘I see.’ Evelyn again. The second person to confirm it.
*
Frankie emptied Merle’s commode of stale pee, disinfected it then filled the washing machine. She then attended to Ellie, prepared Merle’s breakfast and made a shopping list ending with her own necessities. A new phone card, cheese-topped baps, ciggies and the Gladiator video for when she was alone in her room. Then, still preoccupied by last night’s events, and the fact that Avril Pilkington was hell-bent on winding her up, she cleared away Merle’s breakfast mess and joined her in the lounge, where she was reading the local paper.
Its banner headline still referred to the Hill Springs protest and was accompanied by a further half-page photo of the fracas. Milking the event for all it was worth. ‘local racists rear their ugly heads!’ While underneath in a smaller font, ‘Local Businesswoman Lends Her Support’.
‘Why, that’s Jenny!’ exclaimed Merle, pointing a chipped orange-varnished nail at the black circle containing a diminutive wheelchaired woman and her tall companion. Frankie peered over her shoulder thinking, Target. Lately she’d dreamt of nothing but guns. The speed of them. Their silence. The damage they cause . . .
‘And look, Sean’s with her too.’ Merle brought the page closer to her nose, then looked up at Frankie, bewilderment in her eyes. ‘What on earth were they doing there?’
‘God knows.’
Damn.
She’d broken her new rule never to swear or blaspheme in front of a client. Just in case. All the same, she was puzzled at how Merle could recall Sean Brownlow’s name but not that of her own sister. How this mystery man who’d prattled on about Malvern’s history to her seemed to have his feet well and truly under the carpet of not one but two camps.
‘I mean, what’s the deal with him?’ she muttered to herself. ‘And anyway, who’s Jenny?’ Merle overheard. She was definitely not as dim or ga-ga as she liked people to think.
‘You ask too many questions, my girl. I may be seventy-three, but I do have all my faculties.’ And before she could elaborate further on this, the shadow of a vehicle outside glided across the room and she saw Sean Brownlow ease himself from his Jeep, green Wellington boots first, then one corduroyed leg after another, topped by a cable-knit sweater and a face darkened by stubble. He could have stepped from the pages of a Land’s End catalogue, she thought, although easily old enough to be her father. No wonder he was indispensable to these two old ducks. And now here he was, brown-leather briefcase in hand, checking up on things, his fox-coloured eyes missing nothing. Including her. Like the first time, not a very nice experience.
He kicked off his boots on the hall mat. A smear of white ash on each heel reminded her of last night. Was he into all that kind of stuff? It seemed unlikely. He kissed Merle on both cheeks and sat down on the settee to open his case. He must have been a handsome guy in days gone by, Frankie thought. Today, Merle was making a will, and she was to be one of the witnesses.
‘Everything’s ready,’ she heard Brownlow say. ‘Won’t take long. Easy as pie, in fact.’
The formalities took six minutes exactly, and most of that was taken up with Merle’s neighbour, old Mr Crowe, having trouble writing his name. Normally, she’d have been able to decipher who Merle had favoured, but Brownlow had been shielding the crucial ‘I bequeath . . .’ statement.
