The Manor

by Keane Jessie

  Belle turned her head and looked at Milly.

  ‘We got to tell someone about this,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, but who? Dad would go mental if I said any of this to him. Mum was always on at him about Harlan. It upset him. He couldn’t take it, not after losing Jake like that. You know what boys are like. Well, men. He’d flip if I started doing the same as she did, saying these things. He’d think I was going crazy too.’

  ‘She’s not crazy. Is she? Just sort of depressed.’

  ‘Yeah. I shouldn’t say that. It’s rotten.’ Milly picked irritably at a hangnail. ‘But I keep hoping, you know?’ She gave Belle a desperate, trembling smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Sometimes she’s all right for months, then something hits her, some stress or worry or something – anything will do it, it seems to me – and then she goes into this nosedive, and then it’s off to the clinic to get treatment, and then she’s OK for a while. Until the next time. And every time I hope it’s the last, and . . .’ Milly bit her lip and stopped talking. There were tears in her eyes. She shook her head. ‘But it never is. And . . . in the end . . . I start to feel sort of depressed too. Like there is no hope. That it’s just wishful thinking that one day she’ll be well, be the person she used to be. They’re not even a couple any more, you know. I think it’s worn Dad out, all the worry of her being like she is. They sleep in separate rooms. They live separate lives.’

  Belle reached out and rubbed Milly’s soft rounded shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mills. I didn’t know it was so bad. You know – maybe that’s it.’

  ‘What?’ Milly swiped at her eyes.

  ‘Maybe the person we should be talking to about all this is your mother.’

  ‘We can’t talk to her. She’s too fragile.’

  ‘I think we have to.’

  Milly pondered this, frowning. ‘She’s coming home in time for Christmas,’ said Milly. ‘They say she’s a bit better now. That’s what they say.’

  ‘Then we’ll speak to her,’ said Belle, and they lay back down on the grass and soaked up the last of the sun. ‘Gently, mind. When you think she’s strong enough.’

  69

  It was a frosty December day when Nula came home in the Bentley. Terry was in the front passenger seat, and Peter – one of Charlie’s old boys who had advanced training in mobile protection work – was at the wheel. Charlie sat beside her in the back, chatting to her, making out everything was fine. Nula had felt like it was, back at the clinic. The doctors had said they were pleased with her progress.

  Now, doubts were creeping in again. What they were riding along in was a mobile fortress; the car was armour-plated. They had someone at the wheel who could thwart an attack if one happened. And Terry was armed. When he’d picked up her bag at the clinic, she’d seen the bulge of the gun in its shoulder holster under his suit jacket.

  ‘All right then, babes?’ Charlie was asking her, while she was thinking about all this security that Charlie had to have around him now. Because people wanted to kill him. He was a wealthy man with a dangerous secret life, and there were those who would want to take all that away from him and have it for themselves.

  ‘Yeah.’ She forced a shaky smile. ‘Fine.’ She looked at her husband. He was growing older, chunkier. His brown hair had receded until now his head looked like a monk’s, with a smooth bald section in the middle. Only his brown eyes were the same as always. He looked tanned. He looked rich. Every inch the successful owner of Stone Furnishings Ltd.

  The car swung sharply left as they turned into the driveway, passing the gatehouse. Then they were roaring up to the main house and Peter was parking up. The engine died and they all got out, Charlie moving ahead of her, leading the way indoors. Indoors, to the place where her baby had died. And where – she didn’t doubt this, not for a minute – their adopted child had tried to kill her.

  She hesitated inside the open doorway, looking in at the massive gold-decorated Christmas tree, the loops of ivy and bright baubles bedecking the big staircase in the hall. She could hear David Bowie and Bing Crosby dueting on ‘Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy’.

  ‘Like it?’ asked Charlie. ‘We had it all done special, just for you.’

  ‘Where’s Milly?’ she asked, not answering his question.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Charlie. ‘She’ll be down in a minute. Can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘And is he here . . . ?’

  She could see Charlie making an effort to be reasonable. To be patient. Neither of which were Charlie’s strong suit. ‘Who, babes?’

  ‘Harlan.’

  ‘Mum!’ It was him, coming across the hall, smiling. Harlan. He’d passed his seventeenth birthday and was growing into a smoothly handsome young man, one of those individuals who were always immaculate. He was wearing a white silk shirt, Harris tweed jacket, stylishly cut jeans and well-polished tan brogues. His honey-brown hair was brushed and gleaming, his face clean-shaven, his cool grey eyes alight with what seemed to be pleasure at seeing her. Or he’s faking it, she thought.

  Nula felt a moment’s total panic. She repeated the mantra the psychologist had taught her at the clinic. What happened to your baby upset you, made you see and hear things that weren’t there. But you’re better now, and everything’s OK. Of course Harlan isn’t a threat to you. Not at all.

  Somehow she got an answering smile plastered onto her face. ‘Harlan,’ she said, and didn’t shudder or shove him away when he came in close and hugged her. Then he hugged Charlie too.

  Nula watched the two of them together and thought: Charlie’s committed to Harlan now. He’s completely invested in the devious little shit; he’s blanked Jake, his real son, his dead son, from his mind and locked him away in a box marked too painful to think about.

  Terry put the bag down on the hall floor and said: ‘OK, Charlie, I’ll leave you to it,’ and he left, closing the front door behind him.

  Charlie turned to his wife. He thought that she’d aged, the poor bitch. Worry had etched deep lines in her face. Her eyes were anxious.

  ‘Come on babes, let’s get you upstairs, get your stuff unpacked,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll bring the bag,’ said Harlan, reaching down to snatch it up.

  ‘No,’ said Charlie a shade too sharply. ‘I’ll take it.’

  Despite her efforts, Charlie could see that Nula was rattled by the sight of her adopted son. Right then and there, he made a decision. Harlan was done with schooling now. He’d sort him out a place in town, get him started properly in the business, get him out of Nula’s way.

  Beezer could keep an eye on him.

  It would work out fine.

  70

  The days turned into months and things seemed just about normal for Nula. Well, as normal as they ever got, living with Charlie. As a treat, he took her out in the Bentley with Sammy, one of the new younger guys, at the wheel.

  ‘For a little surprise,’ he said.

  Nula felt nervous as soon as she stood out on the drive. Sammy was there, sliding a mirrored stick under the car, moving it back and forth.

  ‘What’s he looking for?’ she asked Charlie, who was standing beside her, chatting to Terry.

  ‘Explosives,’ said Charlie, and resumed his conversation as if this was a normal thing for a person’s driver to do.

  Then they all piled in the motor and Sammy set off down the driveway. Halfway down, he braked sharply. Nula jerked against her seat belt and looked at Charlie, who didn’t even seem to have noticed. He was thumbing through a magazine about light aeroplanes. Christ, he already had a big Sunseeker moored down at Crableck Quay on the Solent, a Maserati and a couple of top-of-the-range Ferraris parked up in the garages at home, a superyacht called Lady of the Manor down in Palma marina. He was particularly delighted about the superyacht because it was six feet longer than Javier Matias’s. Not a bloody plane now, surely?

  ‘What did Sammy stop like that for?’ she asked, feeling her nerves start to jangle.

  ‘Check
ing the brakes are sound, that’s all,’ he said.

  He means not tampered with, thought Nula. Oh Christ.

  ‘Where are we going then?’ she asked him. She hated surprises of any sort.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  They ended up at the heliport in London and Charlie started milling about the place, shaking hands with people, slapping them on the back, cracking jokes, doing his ‘everyone’s mate’ act with Terry right there, sober, sensible and watchful at his side. Charlie pulled Nula forward and introduced her to the guy who seemed to be in charge of operations.

  ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Nula.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ said the man, and turned back to Charlie. ‘I thought the Robinson R22 two-seater.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Charlie. He turned to Nula. ‘You wait here, babes, with Terry. You just wait and see, OK?’

  Charlie walked off toward the smaller of three helicopters.

  ‘He’s not . . . ?’ Nula asked Terry.

  Terry heaved a sigh. ‘He’s been up here six or seven times, having lessons.’

  ‘Christ, really?’ She couldn’t imagine Charlie as a pilot. He was nowhere near steady enough to be in charge of an aircraft.

  ‘I bet you any money you like,’ said Terry, watching his old mate bouncing off over the tarmac, ‘that he’ll want to get in the big one today, the blue one. He won’t go in the little one, that’s not showy enough for Charlie, not with you standing here watching.’

  ‘How about the middle one?’

  ‘The Bell 206 Jet Ranger? Nah. You watch.’

  Charlie and the instructor had paused near the smallest helicopter.

  ‘Shit, there he goes,’ said Nula with a bitter smile, because this was so typically Charlie. He was heading for the biggest aircraft and the instructor was following.

  ‘That’s a beast, that one, the bigger Jet Ranger. Twin engines,’ said Terry.

  Charlie got in the pilot’s seat and the instructor sat in the copilot’s position.

  ‘Christ, is he sure . . . ?’ Nula asked.

  ‘Well he’s been having the lessons.’ Terry, arms folded, was watching Charlie put on headphones. Then the engines began to roar and Terry ushered Nula back inside the building out of the downdraught.

  The helicopter’s rotors became a blur and then the thing started to lift up into the pale blue sky before skimming off over the buildings and away. She watched as the Jet Ranger became a darker blue dot in the hazy distance.

  ‘He’s ordered one just like it. One point one million,’ said Terry.

  Nula had to laugh. That was Charlie all right. The tosser.

  ‘Do you ever think . . . ?’ she started, then hesitated.

  ‘What?’ Terry looked at her.

  ‘That it’s all too much? That it’s gone too far and something’s got to stop it.’

  ‘What, the trade, you mean?’

  Nula nodded. ‘Yeah. The trade. The product. When we all started out, we never dreamed, did we? That it would turn out like this. That we’d have so much. Or be so . . . so fucking at risk. Armed guards. I’ve seen the gun you carry, Terry. I saw it. And Sammy looking under the car for explosives, and checking the brakes, and . . . I dunno. Sometimes it feels like we’re sitting on top of a volcano, and one day soon it’s gonna blow us all to fuck. Don’t you ever feel like that?’

  Terry looked at Nula’s face. She’d said exactly what he’d been thinking for a good few years. He’d said as much to Charlie. Warned him. Said maybe it was time to cut their losses and get out of the business once and for all. But Charlie? He’d laughed and slapped Terry on the back. Getting cold feet there, bud? Don’t fret yourself. Everything’s under control.

  ‘No,’ Terry lied to Nula. ‘I don’t feel like that.’

  ‘Must be just me then,’ said Nula with a sad little laugh. She could see the blue dot in the sky coming back into focus, could hear the twin-engine roar start to get louder as Charlie turned the craft back toward the landing point.

  Terry let out a sigh. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Charlie’s got things in hand. And as for him getting his pilot’s licence? It’s never gonna happen. There’s a lot of reading to be got through and six written exams to take before you can get a pilot’s licence. Charlie hates to read anything, even the back of a cereal packet. He’ll never stick it out.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re probably right,’ said Nula. This was the longest conversation she and Terry had had for years. Nula thought that while middle age had stolen Charlie’s youthful good looks, it had only enhanced Terry’s. Ah, she was a stupid old cow. She had her fair share of wrinkles herself, now. But she still had a soft spot for Terry Barton. Even now, after all this time.

  ‘Did you know that Harlan has a bit of a crush on Belle? I saw him talking to her earlier,’ said Nula.

  Terry turned his head toward her and Nula was shocked by the vicious expression in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was harsh.

  ‘You make sure Charlie keeps that little arsehole away from my girl. You got that?’ he spat out.

  ‘Well, I . . .’ Nula floundered.

  ‘I told him. I’m not mucking about. I catch him anywhere near her again and I’ll cut his fucking throat.’

  Nula nodded dumbly. Again?

  ‘I mean it,’ said Terry.

  ‘I can see you do,’ said Nula, wishing she’d said nothing. ‘Has something happened then? Something I ought to know about?’

  Terry shook his head in irritation. ‘Nah, it was a while ago. Caught him trying it on with her in the garage. Gave him a slap.’

  To their mutual surprise, Charlie did keep going with the lessons. Months later, Charlie got his licence and took delivery of his very own Jet Ranger. Meanwhile, Harlan was busy in town. He was starting to make a few alterations on the manor. And that slap Terry had given him over Belle? He’d never forgotten it. And he never would.

  71

  Harlan had spent months quietly simmering over being sent away from the family home. So his parents didn’t want him there with them. Fair enough. They weren’t his parents anyway. Actually, he didn’t remember ever having a father. He remembered his mother, just about. A pitiful junkie, always crying and heating up dope on little squares of tinfoil on a kitchen floor covered in dirt and burn marks from past hits. He couldn’t remember her ever feeding him properly or acting as a real mother should. He remembered blokes coming in and the noises of screwing from the next bedroom, then she’d have some money and peel off a couple of quid and send him down the fish and chip shop. By the time he got home – if you could call that filthy, rat-infested squat a home – she’d be spark out of it on the kitchen floor again.

  But maybe this banishment had compensations. Harlan liked the city. He got bored in the country, even though he could wind Nula up and eye up Belle, both of which activities he enjoyed to the max. But this was where the action was. He moved out of the flophouse Charlie sent him to in double-quick time and moved into Charlie’s favourite five-star hotel, the grand one near the BBC building, charging the room – well, the suite – to Charlie’s account, knowing that Charlie would rage about it but would cough up anyway.

  ‘Your dad won’t like this,’ said Beezer, one of Charlie’s old mates who had been, Harlan guessed, instructed to keep an eye on him while he was in the city.

  ‘So?’ said Harlan uncaringly. ‘What’s going down at the moment, Beezer?’

  Beezer shrugged. He didn’t like Harlan any more than Nula did. Cold-eyed little bastard. He didn’t like the blokes Harlan kept around him either. That Nipper, who looked like he would happily rip your guts out and laugh while he did it. And the other one who seemed to have paired up with Nipper these days, Ludo, the black one who was all polished and elegant, decked out in gold chains, always grinning like a shark.

  ‘Come on,’ persisted Harlan. ‘Dad wants me to learn the business and that’s what I intend to do, OK?’

  So they sat in the suite of the hotel and Beezer started explaining first the furniture
business and then – more importantly – the drugs trade to Harlan. After all, this was what Charlie had told him to do.

  ‘We cover a big area,’ said Beezer. ‘We cook the crack in the offices—’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Six. So far. Then the rocks go out to up to fifty dealers, kids and such, from each of the sites.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Schoolkids.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The junkies know to go to them to score. In a week, we can do up to four hundred transactions from each site. That’s . . .’

  Harlan squinted, working it out. ‘That’s two thousand four hundred hits,’ he said. ‘What, they don’t work weekends?’

  ‘Yeah they do.’ Beezer sat back in the couch and knocked back a half tumbler of whisky. ‘Seven days a week they work, in balaclavas so they don’t show their faces, and they wear bulletproof vests in case of attack from rival gangs. You do get a bit of that. Then we have to step in, sort it out.’

  ‘So what’s the take?’

  ‘About twenty grand a week per site. Over a cool million a year per office, anyway.’

  ‘Six mill per annum then. Not bad.’

  ‘Trouble is, some of the little scrotes think they can get away with doing a bit on the side for other gangs, and we don’t like that. We deter it, strongly. In fact,’ Beezer drained his glass and stood up, ‘I was about to pay one a visit.’

  ‘Lead on,’ said Harlan.

  ‘Nah, you don’t want to see this, do you,’ said Beezer.

  ‘I said lead on,’ said Harlan, putting steel in his voice.

  Beezer looked at him. Charlie was his boss, had been for the whole of his life, and Harlan was Charlie’s son. You couldn’t say no to the son of Charlie Stone, any more than you would say no to Charlie himself.

  ‘All right then,’ said Beezer. ‘On we go.’

  72

  Nula was beginning to relax. Charlie did seem to be taking a bit of a back seat these days; Harlan was busy on the manor, and that was good in Nula’s eyes because it meant Harlan was away from her. Charlie’d had him installed in one of his many London houses, until Beezer reported that Harlan had checked out of there and booked himself into the Langham instead – at Charlie’s expense.