The Manor

by Keane Jessie

  ‘Hiya, Belle,’ said Harlan. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  104

  In the hours that followed, Belle learned the true meaning of terror. It brought cold sour sweat to your whole body and hot burning bile to your throat, bile you had to choke back because you couldn’t, you didn’t dare, show how frightened you were. Because he’d love that. He would feed on that. He’d taken her down to the reptile house. Now that they were in here, he was watching her, that mocking half-smile on his face. She wanted to lunge at him, to damage him, to make him pay, but she couldn’t. Nipper and one of Harlan’s other men were holding her still. They were Harlan Stone’s boys, and they would do exactly what he said. She had no power here. None at all.

  ‘I bet you’re thinking, round about now, that you wish you’d been nicer to me,’ said Harlan.

  Belle stared at him with hatred in her eyes. Sweat trickled into them, making them sting. Outside, thunder rolled. Rain battered the roof. Inside, it was a jungle, wet ferns brushing her legs, humidifiers roaring, the heat crushing and damp, the trickle of small waterfalls a constant noise. And in the centre there was a large pond, black, brackish. Things moved in there, but she wasn’t going to think about that.

  Water torture.

  Yes, that was what this was. Belle’s legs were trembling. Her brain was in a panic, like a rat caught in a trap. There had to be a way out of this.

  But there was no way.

  I’m going to die.

  The thought popped into her brain like gas rising out of a bog, bringing a fresh surge of terror with it. She was perched on the edge of the pond, standing on big ornamental rocks, the men holding her there. Water from the domed roof dripped, ran down her face. So wet and hot in here. Hot as hell. Stifling. She thought of her parents then, and pain roared up through her stomach, up into her throat. She was going to be sick.

  ‘Pretty little Belle,’ said Harlan, shaking his head. ‘Bet you wish you’d played ball now, eh? Been nice?’

  Belle glared at him, standing there so elegant; so handsome and calm and in control. While she was barefoot, wearing a tattered rag of a dress, soaked in sweat, her blonde hair plastered to her head. She was scratched and bloody from where they’d dragged her in here. If the men hadn’t been holding her, she would have collapsed to her knees.

  ‘So go on,’ he said.

  Belle gulped and stared at him.

  ‘Beg me for your life.’ He was smiling, but his pale eyes remained emotionless as ever.

  Belle looked down at the water. There were things moving in there. Something long slipping in from the opposite side. Eyes, she could see eyes, reptilian and cold. The powerful swish of a tail. Her mother’s words came back to her then: ‘Keeping bloody snakes and lizards and caimans! Only weirdos do that.’

  Caimans.

  Charlie had fed them on live rats, whole chickens. But a caiman was like a crocodile, it would take a pig. They were plenty big enough to do that. They could also take a human being. No bother at all.

  Oh Christ help me . . .

  ‘Waiting,’ said Harlan. ‘What do you say, Belle?’

  ‘I know what you did,’ said Belle.

  ‘Did?’ He frowned. ‘About what?’

  ‘Beezer. Jake. And the business. The manor. I know what it is.’

  The smile dropped from his face, leaving it cold and blank.

  ‘Throw her in,’ he said.

  105

  They grabbed hold of her and obeyed Harlan’s command.

  The black waters closed over her head. Belle went down deep, unable to breathe, unable to believe that anyone could do this to another human being. Gasping, trying to tread water, she came back to the surface and gulped down a wheezing breath. The water was warm, warm enough for the caimans . . .

  The caimans! Her heart hammering, she blinked and saw Harlan standing there, with Nipper and the other one. They were watching her flailing around in the water. Enjoying the spectacle.

  Bastards.

  Her head whipped around. There were three big caimans in here, she knew that. Two of them she could see right now, out on the far bank. One of those was beginning to edge toward the water, ready to slip in and snap up this new and unexpected meal – her.

  Panic overwhelming her, she looked around for the third one, the big one. Even Charlie and his helpers were scared of the damned thing, and she was in the fucking pond and she couldn’t see it. Now one of the other two was sliding into the water, its soulless eyes fixed on her. In terror she started to splash to the edge of the pond, away from it.

  Suddenly something gripped her left leg and she was yanked underneath the surface. She didn’t have time to draw in air. Screaming, swallowing mouthfuls of foul water, she struggled, eyes opening, stinging, hurting, but she could see it. It was the big one. It had hold of her leg. She kicked out hard, catching it a solid blow to the head, but it held on. She couldn’t breathe. Scrambling for the surface, she managed to get her mouth out of the water and gulped in air. Instantly she was dragged under again.

  The bastard thing had her and now it was shaking her, turning, going into what Charlie Stone had always told her and his kids was the ‘death roll’. It was horrible, like being churned in a washing machine. Belle felt herself spinning helplessly under the water, trying to fight for the surface but unable to get there.

  Disorientated, her leg in agony, she felt blackness wash over her and thought, This is it then. This is death.

  Then she thought of Mum and Dad. Maybe it was best to just let go. To let this happen. She was spinning, spinning, running out of air, and then something grabbed her head. Bright sparks lit her vision as her lungs were being starved of oxygen. She was suffocating, feeling hard hurtful nubs that were teeth digging into her scalp and her face with such force that she didn’t know how she was bearing it. She would have shrieked if she had any air. Instead, she was trapped and one of these monsters had her leg, the other her head.

  She kicked feebly, trying to get away and then suddenly – amazingly – she was free, or her leg was anyway. The water was boiling around her. Her chest was a wall of air-deprived agony, her head still crushed in the merciless grip of massive jaws. Then suddenly the big caiman let her head go and she was knocked sideways by thrashing tails and rolling bodies. Terrified, injured, she floated up and drew in a breath. As her head broke the surface and she gulped down the fetid wonderful air, she looked up.

  Harlan and his cronies were gone.

  In the pond beside her, the caimans were fighting. Over her, their unexpected meal. A movement drew her eyes over to the other side of the pond and she saw a third one slide into the water. Her heart seized up in her chest.

  Got to get out of here.

  Belle didn’t so much swim as scramble to the edge of the pond. Panicking, gasping, she grabbed one of the rocks at the side and her hands slipped on algae. Crying with terror, she reached up further, certain one of the caimans was going to grab her in its jaws and finish her off with another death roll. Her shaking hands found a purchase at last and she dragged herself, hauled herself out and onto the stones.

  Soaking, shuddering, she was unable to believe that she was still alive. Sucking in breath after breath, she looked down her body. There was blood everywhere. Her leg was bleeding heavily. Her face hurt. There was more blood on her dress, all down it, fresh blood coming from somewhere. But she was alive, and for now that would have to do. Shuddering, shaking, she levered herself to her feet. She was terrified that her leg was going to give out on her. That the bone might be broken. There were bleeding puncture wounds running all up her calf, as neat as if they had been stitched there. But she stood upright. Took a few staggering steps and thought He’ll be waiting outside. He’ll catch me.

  She went out through the heavy polythene door, then – bracing herself – through the outer door. But there was nobody out here, not a soul. The buggy was gone. They were gone. She stood there breathing in the indescribable sweetness of fresh country air.

/>   Harlan thought she was dead.

  She ought to be dead.

  Her head felt sore and strange. There was a warm trickle of blood coursing down over her neck. Her mouth felt weird, different; her ears buzzed like she was about to pass out; but she was alive. She would have to stay that way.

  Mum, she thought in anguish. Dad . . .

  Unsteadily, she started forward. If she could just reach the lane, she might have a chance. Someone would pass by, someone would help her.

  They had to.

  106

  Nipper had dropped Harlan back at the house and, as instructed, gone back to the zoo to make sure the job was done. He was freaked out by the caimans, truth to tell. And the fucking snakes, he hated them. But orders were orders, so he took the buggy back down beyond the orchard, passing the lake where Charlie and Nula had carked it, and pulled up at the front of the zoo.

  Bracing himself, he went in, passing through the heavy main door and through the thick plastic one. Christ, he hated it in here. So clammy. Everywhere was dripping wet and hot as a furnace. Sweat broke out on his skin the instant he was inside. Quickly, he flicked on the lights. You didn’t know when one of those damned things could be lying up on this side of the pond and then you’d be toast before you could even look round. They could move fast.

  He thought of Belle in there, thrashing around, getting eaten bit by bit. Poor cow. But then, she’d been bloody stupid, facing up to Harlan like that. Fucking suicide, that was. Gingerly, he stepped forward. The big one – George – was lying out on the far side bank, reptilian eyes blankly staring. Fucking thing. The other two were out of sight somewhere. In the water, probably hoovering up what was left of her.

  Shit, what a way to go.

  And all because she wouldn’t play ball with Harlan fucking Stone? Because of what she knew about the drugs business, the dead baby and all that shit? Stupid cow. Fuck that. Nipper thought that he would have done the deed with Harlan himself, bent over and taken it straight up the arse if he had to, rather than risk being put in there with the caimans.

  He heaved a sigh. Whatever. She was gone.

  He turned away, thinking job done.

  And then he stopped, staring down at bloody footprints.

  Woman-sized.

  Leading out, away from the pond.

  Leading to the door.

  ‘You what?’ said Harlan.

  He was in the sitting room of what had once been Charlie Stone’s house and was now his. He was thinking, actually, that there would be a lot of changes made now that he was finally in charge. All this crappy decor would be going soon. And things would be run differently. Along smarter lines. Harder lines. There would be no room for sentiment, not any more. He was beginning to feel quite excited about it all – and Nipper’s interruption was annoying. Nipper was standing there and telling him . . .

  ‘You what?’ he said, louder this time.

  Nipper swallowed, feeling nervous. Harlan didn’t like things being fucked up, and this was fucked up big style.

  ‘She got out, boss. There were footprints, leading out. I looked around, took the buggy around the lake and everything, all around the grounds. Can’t see her anywhere. But it’s no problem. She’s bleeding. Wounded. She won’t get far.’

  ‘You fucking moron.’

  ‘Boss—’ he protested. How was this his fault?

  ‘Get the fucking car out. Check the lanes. Go find her. And this time finish the job, yeah? Do it right.’

  107

  Milly was bored. Belle wasn’t about. She’d been down to the gatehouse and gone to the back door just like she always did and usually it was unlocked: this time it wasn’t. She knocked but got no answer. The place was in total darkness. They were out. So, feeling restless, Milly went into town and back to the club and there was the black-haired girl again, in the bogs. She seemed to live in the bogs.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ said Milly.

  ‘That’s ’cos I didn’t tell you, bitch,’ said the girl sharply.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Other girls were shuffling in and out, using the loos, chatting, styling their hair, applying lipstick.

  ‘You liked the stuff then?’ asked the girl.

  Milly nodded. Anything she said seemed to offend the girl, and she didn’t want to do that.

  ‘Come over to my place, get some more,’ she said, and turned away, going out of the door and back into the main body of the club. The heat and noise out here were overwhelming. Ahead of her, the girl led the way. They went up the stairs, and out, past Sammy – who ignored her – and his mate Gazzer, then onto the pavement. Then, not saying a word, the girl crossed the road. She ignored the traffic, Milly flinching in her wake as brakes shrieked and drivers cursed. They reached the other side alive, and the girl went to a shabby peeling door beside a newsagent’s and unlocked it. She went inside, impatiently ushered Milly in after her, and relocked the door.

  You never touch that crap. You got that?

  It was Charlie’s voice, ringing in her ears over and over as she was growing up. Drugs were for mugs.

  But . . .

  Truth was, she’d never felt that good, not ever. When she’d taken the drugs she’d felt invincible. Confident. Happy. All the things she never did, as a general rule.

  ‘I’m Marsha,’ the girl threw back over her shoulder as she took Milly up a steep flight of stairs.

  ‘Milly,’ said Milly, and the girl didn’t even acknowledge that she’d heard.

  Marsha pushed open a door at the top of the stairs and switched on a light. They stepped into a dank, depressing little room, full of all sorts of rubbish; unwashed plates and cups on every filthy surface, an unmade bed, a dirty dark grey carpet.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Marsha, and Milly looked around. There was nowhere to sit, except the bed, so she sat on that, trying not to notice that it stank. The sheets were filthy.

  ‘Right,’ said Marsha, throwing her black biker jacket onto the floor. She slumped down on the bed beside Milly and reached into her bag and pulled out a water bottle with no screw cap on it; instead there was masking tape and tinfoil, and a glass pipe poking out of a hole in the side, the gap around it sealed with Blu-tack.

  Milly started to feel apprehensive. She didn’t know this girl. She had no clue what she was doing. Marsha pulled out a plastic-wrapped batch of several small cream-coloured rocks from her skirt pocket. She placed one of the rocks on the square of tinfoil and heated it underneath with the flame from a Bic lighter. After a moment the inside of the bottle started to fill with pale smoke. Marsha inhaled it through the pipe and started to smile.

  ‘Now you,’ she said, pushing it toward Milly.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Milly.

  ‘Crack. Go on. It’s good.’

  Milly pulled the bottle toward her, put the pipe in her mouth, and inhaled.

  108

  Belle was in the lane, walking through the pouring rain. Lightning crashed overhead. She walked even though she could barely feel her legs. She was shuddering, and when she put her hand out in front of her in the strobing blue-white half-dark she could see it shaking, she could feel it, tremors zipping not only through her arms but throughout her whole body. She was going to pass out. She knew she was. She would fall down flat and someone would come hurtling through here in a car and then she really would be dead.

  There were no streetlights out here. The rain was drenching. Thunder rolled in the distance, then more lightning split the sky, neon-bright. She had no idea what direction she was heading in or what she was going to do. She could hear owls hooting in the woods and far away in the distance a fox barked. Trembling, soaked through and shivery from the water and feeling more wetness, frightening wetness, drenching her, dripping down from her head and streaming from the punctures on her leg, she stepped up onto the grass verge, moaning with pain as she moved.

  Then . . . Christ, a car! She half-turned, seeing the full beam of headlights, and thought oh thank God.
>
  Then she felt a fresh bolt of terror.

  What if it was them?

  What if they somehow knew she’d got out of there and were coming to find her? Stumbling, groaning, Belle staggered over to the far side of the broad verge and there was a ditch. She sat down on her arse and let herself drop into it. It was deeper than she expected, and she felt her feet sink into muddy water up to a foot deep. Agony erupted in her leg and as she slipped down sideways her head was suddenly afire with pain. Trying not to shriek, she ducked down as the car rounded the lane. It was moving slowly, as if . . .

  As if whoever was in there was looking for something.

  The car glided slowly by, its headlights sweeping mere inches above her head. Then it was gone, up the lane. Teeth chattering, she crouched there and wondered if they’d come back. If she ought to just stay down here until daylight. But . . . she didn’t think she’d make it through the night. Not here. It was cold, wet, and she was hurt. Hurt badly. She could feel blood still running down from her head, over her face. Her body was wet and her leg was in filthy muddy water; she’d die if she stopped here.

  Sobbing with pain, Belle hauled herself hand over hand out of the ditch. For minutes she lay there on the grass verge, too weak to move. Thunder crashed overhead. She was losing blood. She had a horrible picture in her mind, of being found here in the morning, face down on the verge, dead.

  No!

  She was not going to die. Harlan was not going to win. No way could he have this final victory over her.

  Belle pushed herself up, onto her hands and knees and from there to her feet. She staggered on. Somewhere there would be help. There had to be. And then she heard a car coming from the other direction. She wanted to walk out into the road, flag it down, beg for help – but it could be them, coming back.

  Not the ditch. Not again.

  But there was nothing else. No trees to hide behind. Only big hedges, either side of the lane. No safe shelter anywhere. The lightning would show her up. She’d be caught. Whimpering, she went back to the ditch and slipped down into it once again, feeling the horrible squelch and suck of the mud, shuddering at the icy chill of it.