by Sam Anthony
Ava had already programmed the address book with every phone number she knew, including the Chinese takeaway, the window cleaner, and two strangers whose numbers she gleaned from random business cards on the pin board in the kitchen.
She began to type.
Ava: Jem, this is Ava. Guess who got a new phone for her birthday?! x
Two minutes later she received a reply.
Jemima: Is my coursework finished?
Ava: Yes
Jemima: Is it good?
Ava: I think so
Jemima: It better be!
Ava: Jem, have I done something to upset you?
Jemima: Hugh Carmichael told Skakira Vinson that he thinks you’re prettier than me
Ava beamed. Hugh Carmichael knew her name. Of course, he was no Drew Daniels, and he was allegedly gay, but even so.
Ava: That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows you’re the prettiest girl in school x
Jemima: Don’t patronise me!!!
Ava: I’m not. You’re so beautiful x
Jemima: I think you should cut your hair short
Ava: What! Why?
Jemima: I’m fed up with you copying me. Your hair. Your clothes. Everything. Get your own style!!!
Ava: But I like my hair
Jemima: Well I don’t. Cut it short or find another friend
Ava: Why are being so mean?
Jemima: Why are you being such a baby? Just grow up!
Ava: I’m sorry x
Jemima: Bring my coursework to the girls’ loos at morning break
Ava: Ok. Goodnight x
There was no reply.
Ava crept out of her room and tiptoed downstairs to find some scissors.
Chapter 50
Thursday 13 November, 2003
The Manor House,11:45 p.m.
Sir Robert Featherstonehaugh III (pronounced Bobby Fanshaw) was fast asleep in the master bedroom of the manor house when it began. He was dreaming that his old nanny was tickling him under the chin, something she had never done in real life, but dreams are funny like that. As he entered consciousness, Bobby (72) became aware that there was indeed something tickling his neck, although it wasn’t the gnarly old fingers of his beloved nanny.
“Don’t make a sound,” a voice hissed in his ear. “I don’t want to have to kill you. Or do I?”
Bobby didn’t make a sound. His eyes were wide open, searching for clues, but he couldn’t see anything because of the heavy curtains obscuring the drafty old windows.
The intruder giggled. “What a racket. Your wife could snore for England.”
She has a deviated septum, Bobby thought, but he was too afraid to say it out loud.
“Can you feel this?”
“Mmm.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“A knife?” Bobby whispered.
“Oh, no. Much better than a knife. Guess again.”
Bobby wanted to shake his head but thought better of it. “A sword?”
“A sword! Who goes around with swords when they’re breaking and entering? I’ve never even met anyone who owns a fucking sword. Have you got one?”
“Two.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs above the fireplace in the main hall.”
“Sweet! I might take them with me afterwards. No, this isn’t a sword, it’s a machete. A fucking sharp machete. So it’s very important you keep still and don’t make a sound. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Lady Elizabeth Featherstonehaugh (pronounced Lizzie Fanshaw) snorted. A loud, gasping, choking snort.
“Jesus! Is she okay?”
“Sleep apnoea.”
“Huh?”
“Deviated septum.”
“Oh. How do you sleep at night with all that noise?”
“Badly.”
A few years earlier, Bobby had tentatively suggested that he and Lizzie (59) should repose in separate rooms – thereby allowing him to sleep soundly through the night – but his wife was having none of it, arguing – ironically as it turned out – that she needed him to protect her from intruders. After some discussion they reached a compromise: separate beds within the same room; no more than four feet and no less than two feet apart. Two of the gardener’s weekly duties were to edge the heavy beds slightly closer together (at the secret behest of Lizzie), and slightly further apart (at the secret behest of Bobby). The upshot of which was that the burly, green-fingered chap merely pretended to move the furniture in exchange for an extra twenty quid a week.
“It’s deafening. How come she doesn’t wake herself up?”
“Ear plugs.”
“I see. What’s your name, old man?”
“Bobby.”
“Do you know what a machete is, Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“Machetes are very useful items when it comes to mathematics.”
In the darkness, Bobby frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I used to have this old maths teacher … we gave him such a hard time. Whenever he began a new topic – trigonometry, simultaneous equations, proofs of the circle theorems, whatever – we used to say, ‘Sir, when am I ever going to need this knowledge when I grow up?’ and he would always reply, ‘Who knows? One day you might find yourself in a supermarket when a man with a machete comes up to you and says, “Solve these simultaneous equations for me or I’ll hack your leg off with my machete.”’ And then he’d laugh as if he’d said something hilarious. And we’d all laugh at him. It was great fun.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“My point is, when someone with a machete asks you to do something, you’d bloody well better do it if you don’t want to get maimed.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I thought you’d never ask. Here.” The intruder placed something on Bobby’s forehead. “Secure yourself to the bedposts with these cable ties.”
◆◆◆
Five minutes later, once Sir Robert Featherstonehaugh III was good and immobile, the balaclava-wearing burglar flicked the wall switch by the door. One hundred miles away a power station increased its output by a negligible amount, electrons jiggled within copper wires, and the overhead light sprang into life.
Lady Elizabeth Featherstonehaugh slept on.
“She wears a face mask, too,” said her husband. “She may even have taken sleeping pills.”
“I must say, I’m very disappointed. This isn’t the reaction I was hoping for at all.” With a casual flick of his wrist, the intruder sliced through the elastic at the side of the face mask and Lizzie stirred.
“What is it?” She blinked. “Bobby, why have you switched the light on? I was fast asleep.”
“It wasn’t me, my dear,” said Bobby, putting on a brave voice for his wife’s benefit. “It seems we are the victims of a home invasion. Look to your right.”
She looked. She saw. She screamed. Well, who wouldn’t scream on waking to discover a machete-wielding, balaclava-wearing intruder standing by their bedside?
“Do something, Bobby.”
“I can’t. I’m rather tied up at the moment.”
Lizzie’s head swung to the left and there – the other side of the three-foot gap – she spied her husband, securely attached to his bed.
“What’s going on? What does he want?”
“I suspect this is the miscreant who’s been going about the village making a nuisance of himself robbing old ladies. Presumably his intention is to relieve us of some of our valuables.”
“Didn’t he stab his last victim? That poor woman who was watching the sunset up at the quarry.”
“I believe so.”
“What kind of evil bastard stabs a defenceless woman?”
“That kind.” Bobby gestured with his chin. “It’s going to be all right, though, Lizzie. We’ll get through this. It’ll make an entertaining anecdote we can regale our friends at the golf club with, once this piece of shit is rotting in prison.”
“I’m right here,
guys. I can hear everything you say. Might I suggest you both start being nice to me before I decide to do something you might regret with this very sharp machete.”
“What do you want?” said Lizzie. “Money? There’s cash in a jar in the pantry. Jewellery? Mine is in that drawer over there. It’s not worth much, but you’re welcome to it if you’ll just fuck off out of our lives.”
The intruder tutted. “Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie. Such foul language coming from such a classy lady. It really doesn’t suit you.”
“Take anything you want and go,” said Bobby.
“Anything?”
“Yes.” Bobby sighed. “We can’t exactly stop you, can we?”
“Good point.” The intruder turned back to Lizzie. “Take off your nightie.”
“What?”
“I said, take off your nightie.”
“No. How dare you come into our house and …?”
“Take off your nightie, right now, or I’ll hack your husband’s leg off with my machete.”
She still hesitated.
“Tell her, Bobby.”
“You’d better do it, Lizzie. I’m worried this chap might be insane.”
“Insane? Fuck you!”
The intruder began to rant, angrily waving the machete in the air as he did so, during which time Lizzie reluctantly sat up and stripped off her nightwear.
The sight of a hefty pair of breasts halted the tirade of abuse mid-expletive.
“Hey, nice tits! How old are you, love?”
“Sixty.” That was the first and only time Lizzie ever lied about her age upwards.
“I reckon you could pass for forty from a distance on a foggy night.”
“I don’t care what you reckon. I just want you to leave our house.”
The intruder moved closer to Lizzie, placed the tip of the machete beneath one heavy breast and used the flat of the blade to weigh it. “Are they real?”
Lizzie kept very still.
“If you hurt her, I’ll …,” Bobby began before running out of steam.
“You’ll what?”
“Just leave my wife alone.”
“Interesting fact, Bobby: I’ve never had sex with an old woman before.”
“Don’t you dare touch her!”
The intruder chuckled. “I’m rather enjoying this. I feel … omnipotent. Can you see okay, Bobby? Would you like another pillow?”
“See what?”
“I’m about to make love with Lizzy, and I don’t want you to miss anything.”
“Please don’t. I’m begging you …”
“Shut up!” the intruder bellowed. “I’m talking now. You need to keep your mouth shut and watch carefully. You might learn a thing or two about how to satisfy a woman.”
Bobby swallowed.
The intruder drew back the duvet and dropped it on the floor. “Knickers off, Lizzy. Do you have a preference about which position we begin with?”
“What? I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Don’t make me tell you twice,” said the intruder, pointing at her underwear. “Your husband looks rather attached to his legs.”
Lizzy looked at her helpless husband’s face, then at his legs, then she shuffled out of her knickers.
“Now, let me explain what’s going to happen in very simple terms. You and I are going to make sweet love, then I’m going to take your cash and jewellery and anything else I fancy, then I’m going to leave. Does that make sense?”
“You’re going to rape me?”
“Don’t put it like that, you make it sound unpleasant. This is going to be fun. So, what position would you like to try first?”
Lizzy looked at Bobby. “Tell me what to do.”
“Whatever it takes to get through this, my darling. Don’t worry about me.”
“Should I fight him? Try to make it to the window and scream for help? Try to call 999 on the phone?”
“Still right here, guys.”
“No. You’re strong, my love, but he’s got a weapon. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt. Just do what he says, and this will soon be over.”
“Well said, Bobby. Now, what position, Lizzy?”
Lady Elizabeth Featherstonehaugh reluctantly got onto her hands and knees and spread her legs apart. “Let’s get this over with.”
◆◆◆
Afterwards, and mercifully it didn’t last long, Bobby said, “Are you all right, my love?”
“No,” Lizzie sobbed and curled into a ball.
“You bastard! You cruel, evil bastard! Your parents must be so fucking proud of you.”
A switch flipped inside the intruder. In an instant his mood changed from post-coital languor, with just a hint of shame, to fiery wrath.
“Don’t you dare mention my parents!”
The rapist, anger etched into his face, dashed to the foot of Bobby’s bed and raised the machete high over his head.
Chapter 51
Friday 14 November, 2003
The Manor House, 7:20 a.m.
The following day the sun rose eagerly into an unblemished azure sky. Thick frost lay on the lawns on either side of the driveway, and the shrubbery twinkled with magic.
A solo robin (Erithacus rubecula) perched on the most photogenic branch of the old holly tree (Ilex aquifolium) as if to say Look at me, everyone. I’m going to hold this pose until somebody paints me or takes my photo for a Christmas card.
Outside the manor house, all was pristine and virginal. Inside, however, it was a different story.
“Jesus, Sarge! Look at all the blood. How could anyone lose so much blood and survive?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure I’d want to survive if someone hacked off my cock and balls with a machete. What kind of life is he going to live now? The poor guy was emasculated by having to watch his wife being raped, and then castrated for good measure. How do you come back from that?”
PC Rosie Patel didn’t answer. She was trying not to visualise the events of the early hours of that morning, but her brain was having none of it. The large mahogany red stain on one bed; the smears of blood and faecal matter on the other; the severed cable ties hanging loosely from the bedposts; the abandoned machete lying guiltily on the carpet. They told their own story.
The interview with Lady Elizabeth Featherstonehaugh, carried out at the hospital before daybreak, had been harrowing to say the least. Upon recounting the night’s events, Lizzie had grown so distraught that the visit was terminated prematurely and sedatives administered.
“What worries me most is the increasing violence and recklessness. There’s no doubt he’s escalating. He hasn’t even bothered to take the weapon with him this time. His DNA and fingerprints are all over the place, but they’re useless to us because he’s not on our database. We still know hardly anything about the man except that he’s of average height and build, he goes to the gym occasionally, and his hands smell of lavender soap. We’re no nearer catching him now than we were after the first mugging. Have you got any brilliant ideas, Petal?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Sarge.”
“But it’s funny. It’s a play on words. You see, your name is …”
“Yes, I understand. I just don’t like it.”
“Well, you need a nickname. No copper is properly accepted by the rest of the lads until they’ve got a decent nickname.”
“To be honest, I’d prefer something racist to ‘Petal’. It just sounds so … girly. How is anyone going to take me seriously?”
“If you catch the fucker who’s been attacking and robbing these villagers, everyone will take you seriously.”
“I’m doing my best, sir.”
“I know you are, love. We all are. But our best isn’t good enough. This poor couple have had their lives devastated. Neither of them will ever get over this, but at least they’re still alive. I suspect the next victim won’t be so lucky.”
Chapter 52
Sunday 16 November, 2003
McD
ougal living room, 8:50 a.m.
On the morning of the semi-final, Eric, Ollie and Steve invoked a three-line whip. Disappointingly, this is not something Steve might have kept in his basement for use on Fiona’s plump rear end, but rather a quaint British tradition in which party leaders direct their MPs to vote in a particular way, whatever their own preferences may be. On this occasion, the ‘leaders’ of each household were ‘insisting’ that their spouse, children and pets supported England in their quest to win the Rugby Union World Cup, despite Serena being three-quarters Scottish, Mia being half Welsh, and Stumpy being entirely Australian.
All three men were mightily relieved when their wives agreed to play along with this charade, realising of course that there would be a price to pay at some later date: possibly a day trip to IKEA or a Sunday wasted to antiquing.
They were gathered, as before, in the McDougal living room, encircling the giant TV.
“I thought everything has to be exactly the same as last week or our luck will change,” Serena said to Eric as she surveyed the six adults, three children and two dogs overwhelming her furniture.
“It does for us. We four regulars have to do everything as we did before. But this is the semi-final of the World Cup. We’re going to need extra luck to win this one.”
“Do Fiona and Mia have to wear dirty knickers too?”
“Not this week. But they’ll have to next week if we make it to the final. We all will.”
“Speak for yourself, mate,” said Steve. “I’m not wearing dirty knickers for anyone, not even for England. That’s a step too far.”
“Worried you’ll get a liking for it?” Eric teased.
“Yes,” Steve admitted.
Jemima slumped onto a beanbag in the corner of the room. “Mum, do I have to be here?”
“I’m afraid so, dear. This is important to your father.”
“Not just me; everyone in England. The whole nation is watching this.”
“I doubt that. It’s Sunday morning. Most of the nation is probably still tucked up in bed.”