‘No I don’t.’ Jean stepped forward to meet him. His breath stank and his eyes were half-closed. ‘You spend the money, Richard. Have you seen last month’s bill from the off-licence? Do you realize how much whisky you are drinking?’ God, there was real malevolence here, evil peering out beneath oily flaps of skin that hung like broken blinds over his irises. ‘I am leaving,’ she whispered. ‘Have your castle, Richard. Bring in the slut from Woodside Cottage, let her cook your meals, because Sally is coming with me.’
‘Jean,’ called Sally. ‘Please come away.’
His mouth opened and a huge roar emerged, a sound that did not match his weakened appearance. From the core of his being, he dredged up every ounce of remaining energy and screamed it out into the hall. At the same time, his hands rose as if of their own accord, great, fat fingers grasping at his wife’s throat. He squeezed, heard her choking, almost smiled when her hands clawed at him. She could not reach him, had never been able to reach him.
Sally Foster leapt forward and threw herself at him, her hands gouging at his eyes. He released his hold, allowing Jean to fold onto the floor like a rag doll. With blood pouring down his face, the drunken master of Chandlers Grange balled his fist and drove it into the Foster woman’s gut, smiling as he watched her collapse. This was his house and he was master.
He staggered back and looked at the results of his labour. He had given them the hiding they needed and they could both go to hell.
FIVE
Peter swung the Austin between the gateposts. It had been a decent evening at the pub, just a couple of pints each and a game of darts in which the twins had been routed by locals, men who had trained themselves to a level that was almost professional. ‘Amazing how they can calculate so quickly,’ said Jeremy.
‘And how well they play when drunk. There they were, almost unfit to stand, but they could hit a double top with no trouble at all. Amazing.’
They had discussed the situation at the grange, had agreed that Father, who was plainly drinking himself to death at a rate of knots, had been lulled into a false sense of security. He probably believed that the twins’ threat to leave had been an empty one; that Mother, too, had abandoned her plans. That was if he thought at all, of course, because his consumption of whisky had reached a spectacular level.
They left the car at the front of the house and began to climb the stone steps up to the closed door. But they needed no key, because the door flew open and Henry Chandler, dressed only in nightshirt and slippers, stood in the doorway. With an alacrity that defied his age, the old man pushed his way past his startled grandsons and headed towards the woods, thin cotton flapping crazily about his spare frame as he headed for a taste of freedom.
Jeremy and Peter were immediately in several minds. The old man must be captured quickly, yet they needed help, because the fury borne of Henry’s particular instability lent him the ability to overcome the youth and strength of these two slender young men. ‘I’ll go in and find help. He needs to be brought in as soon as possible, because autumn is not the season for a man of his age to be outside with hardly any clothes,’ said Peter. ‘You try to locate him. Don’t corner him, though, because he may have his dentures in.’
But Jeremy had progressed by no more than half a dozen strides when he was called back. A thought drifted through his mind as he ground to a halt – Peter was making decisions, was appearing to grow in many ways. ‘What?’ Jeremy asked. ‘Am I coming or going?’
‘Coming … and hurry,’ yelled Peter before dashing into the house.
Inside, they found chaos beyond the understanding of poets. ‘Paradise Lost?’ muttered Jeremy. John Milton had described nothing as nasty as this in his lengthy, tedious meanderings. Mother and Nanny Foster were both on the floor. Father sat at the central table, his face streaming with blood drawn by Sally Foster’s fingernails. Eddie Barford and Stan Clarke, two very sturdy lads from the village, were staring open-mouthed at the scene.
‘He got out,’ managed one of the youths. ‘We were upstairs looking after the old man, see. There was a noise, a loud scream, like, so we ran downstairs and old Mr Chandler followed us. We weren’t quick enough to catch a grip of him.’
Peter took charge once again. ‘Go after him,’ he advised the boys. ‘Get help if you need it.’ He continued to survey the dreadful scene, suddenly aware that his twin had deserted him. Mother was breathing, but her eyes were closed; Sally Foster had managed to achieve a sitting position and had propped herself against the bottom step of the staircase. ‘Who did this?’ he asked as soon as the village boys had left to pursue Henry Chandler.
‘Your father.’ The housekeeper’s voice was weak. ‘He did it.’
‘Did he hit you?’
She nodded mutely.
‘And Mother?’
‘Tried to strangle her,’ whispered Sally.
Peter knelt on the marble floor and touched his mother’s face. The marks of strangulation encircled her neck; she continued to breathe steadily, but her face was pale, as if the blood had been stopped at her throat. Slowly, he rose and faced his father. ‘One step too far this time, Richard,’ he said grimly, his lips unwilling to frame the word that would announce this awful man’s relationship to him. ‘I shall get the police now. If you have damaged my mother in the slightest way, my brother and I will have you prosecuted.’
‘No police.’ The plea was forced between the bluish lips of Jean Chandler. ‘Peter, no police.’
Peter returned to the kneeling position; she was going to be all right, it seemed. ‘Thank goodness,’ whispered her son.
An unmistakable sound reached his ears; it was the noise of a shotgun being clicked into the ready position. ‘Jeremy!’ he yelled. ‘No, for God’s sake, no!’
‘Not for God’s sake,’ came the grim reply, ‘but for my mother’s sake. Someone has to rid the world of pests and vermin – would you rather I sent for the rat-catcher?’
‘Don’t shoot him,’ begged Peter.
‘Why not? Look what he has done.’ He glanced at Sally Foster. ‘Do you need an ambulance?’
She shook her head.
‘And Mother?’ he asked Peter.
‘No,’ replied Jean, pulling herself up onto her knees. ‘And put down that gun at once.’
But Jeremy was beyond the point where reason could be employed as counsel. ‘Take Mother and Nan into the drawing room.’ There was ice in his tone. ‘Do it, Peter. Now. Do it, or I shall blow his head off.’ He waited. ‘I mean it, Peter, so help me, I shall kill him.’ The finger on the trigger tingled, as if it had intentions of its own. Terrified by his mounting anger, Jeremy tried to relax the disobedient digit – if he were to shoot Richard Chandler, he would do it deliberately, coldly and not by accident.
Peter gathered up his mother and carried her into the drawing room. Sally Foster managed to stand, then she, too, left the scene.
Richard looked into the twin barrels of his own shotgun. This was suddenly funny, extraordinarily amusing. The laughter gave birth to itself, seemed to have a life that was separate from the rest of him; it burst forth just as his earlier scream had emerged, with himself not so much a creator as a mere attachment. His son was standing over him with both barrels loaded, the gun cocked, finger on the trigger. Henry had disappeared via the front door, his behaviour as mad as could possibly be imagined. The wife was indisposed, as was her familiar, she of the grim face. Oh, it was hilarious. ‘It’s a bit like Jane Eyre,’ he commented, ‘mad person upstairs … oh, God.’ He wiped his streaming eyes. ‘When does the house go up in flames?’
‘But this is not fiction, you see. And I am no timid little governess from an orphanage. Why did you hit my mother? Why did you try to strangle her?’
‘I … er … I’m not sure.’
‘She annoyed you?’
The older man frowned. He could not remember. Then his mind snagged on something, stumbled over a vital piece of information. ‘She’s leaving. I thought she wasn’t. I thought—’
<
br /> ‘Amazing that you can think, because your brain must be shrivelled to the size of a walnut. You are using more whisky in a week than gets drunk in the Chandlers in a month. In fact, killing you might well prove to be a kindness, because sick animals need to be put down.’
Richard blinked. Some of the haze was lifting, though it was still a fair imitation of a 1950s London smog. She was going. She had stopped rattling on about it, as had the twins, but she was leaving. His eyes felt as if they were burning in their sockets, while blood from just beneath those red-streaked orbs was still dripping down his face. ‘She has defied me,’ he concluded.
Peter returned. ‘Mother and Nan are all right,’ he offered by way of reassurance. ‘Jeremy – don’t pull that trigger.’
Jeremy turned to look at his brother. ‘Why? Would you like to do it? I am damned sure Meredith would be glad of the chance.’
‘She wouldn’t. No right-minded person wants to finish up on trial at the Old Bailey. He is not worth it. You know that – we all know it.’
Jeremy lowered the gun slightly, then picked up a rope from a side table. ‘I thought this might be useful – take it. Tie him to the chair,’ he ordered. ‘Just as we used to tie Meredith when we were cowboys and Injuns. If we fasten him down, we can go and look for Grandfather. Are you sure that Mother is all right?’
Peter nodded, picked up the rope, saw sense in the suggestion. Tied to a very substantial chair, Richard would not be able to hurt either of the women. As he secured his father, Peter breathed in the stench of whisky and saw what a mess the man was. ‘Mother is as well as can be expected, no thanks to you. Keep still!’ he shouted as his father struggled. ‘You will be fastened to this chair until we decide what is to be done with you.’
‘You couldn’t decide to breathe without prompting,’ replied Richard. ‘Your brother is the only one with a grain of sense – and he is going to shoot me.’ He was suddenly sober and in need of further sustenance. ‘Whisky,’ he snapped.
Jeremy grinned, though there was no humour contained within his expression. ‘I shall get your whisky for you.’ He waited until the last knot was tied, then he left the hall, returning very quickly without the gun, but bearing a bin that rattled as he progressed towards the table. He pulled out a bottle, removed the cap, then poured the contents into the large metal container.
‘Jeremy?’ called Jean from a doorway.
But the slightly older twin had his eyes fixed on his father. He continued until all the bottles were empty, his hands slick with Scotch towards the end of the business. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘rather a large glass, but sufficient to get you through the rest of the night.’
Richard roared again, struggled, found himself to be completely trapped. The fragrant one looked worried, as well she might, because she had raised these boys from hell, creatures who knew nothing of respect and obedience. ‘How dare you?’ he screamed.
Peter answered for his brother. ‘He dares because you are trussed up like a chicken and can do no harm.’
‘Peter, please,’ Jean pleaded.
Jeremy pondered. ‘Mother, are you sure that you are all right?’
‘Yes, yes. Sally is recovering, too. Don’t anger him any more.’
Peter shook his head in near dismay – the atmosphere at home was never happy, but this was beyond all his experience. ‘The two lads are out looking for Grandfather, so one of us should stay here. You go.’ He wanted Jeremy out of the way, needed the chance to unload the gun and to hide it. ‘Go on – Grandfather can move at a pace when he wants to.’
Jeremy stared at the scene for a moment, lowered his head and shook it in an expression of disbelief. It was plain that Mother should leave here immediately … though why should she? Richard Chandler was the one who ought to be removed. The decision made itself there and then – the rotten apple had to be taken away. Why should everyone be driven out while the perpetrator of madness kept his seat? He smiled wryly. Just now, Father had no choice but to keep his seat. ‘I am not going for Grandfather,’ he replied, ‘because Stan and Eddie will find him. There is a moon and his nightshirt is white – he will be visible even in the woods. I am going for Dr Beddows – someone should see what has happened here. Anyway, Mother and Nan should be examined.’
‘But—’ The expression on Jeremy’s face curtailed Peter’s answer. Argument would be fruitless. ‘All right,’ he agreed with reluctance. Jeremy must get out and away from the gun. ‘Whatever you think is best, then.’
Jean crossed the hall and sank into the chair that was furthest away from her imprisoned husband. ‘Go, Jeremy.’ Her voice remained weak, her throat and neck still sore from Richard’s attack. She didn’t care any more. For the sake of her children, the police must be kept out of all this. But Richard had to be dealt with.
Henry was cold, but enraptured by the fairyland in which he found himself. He had been trapped in that upstairs room for as long as he could remember. Remembering was becoming difficult, but that lot indoors hadn’t a clue about his real condition. He refused to suffer in silence and remained as difficult as he could possibly manage. They believed him to be insane; there were, indeed, times when he became confused. Yet he was not a lunatic, not by a very long chalk.
But oh, look at those trees, thinned by autumn falls, stroked by the moon, their thinnest traceries plain against a sky of navy blue. They thought he was mad, didn’t they? He wasn’t. An owl hooted, then rose in a rush of power that rattled the tree in which it had sat. It was a silver-blue world and it was wonderful – except for the temperature.
He sat down for a moment on a stump. His son was a great deal dafter than he was. Henry, who had not been allowed alcohol for many months, was sober at last; he could, if allowed sufficient time, work out most situations and he remained wise enough to know that his containment was unfair. So, he had given them hell. But they would find him soon; he gathered up his remaining energy and ploughed deeper into the trees. The woods were his, the grange was his, several farms were his – oh, yes, he knew his rights, knew also that they had been removed from him, that Richard had taken the reins because of Henry’s infirmity. This time, he would give the buggers a real marathon for their money, by God, he would …
Polly Fishwick settled herself with the evening newspaper. She had taken enough of the big fellow and his mind-changes; her pride had surfaced – she would find work and Chandler could shove his bank book where the sun would never shine. It needed to be live-in, of course, because she would surely lose Woodside Cottage once Chandler realized that she was finished here. What a dance he had led her – move to the big house, torment his wife and the housekeeper, befriend some unknown woman who was moving to Claughton Cottage. Then, with no warning, all had changed. For now, she had to wait until Chandler came to his senses and he never would, because he was drinking like a whale.
She scanned the jobs pages, saw a couple of possibilities, didn’t fancy the cooking and cleaning that went with these residential positions. A move back to town would not be palatable, yet the bullet must be bitten. Bar work might be all right, if she could find a landlord who would give her a room at his pub. She rather fancied herself as a server of drinks, would prefer that to housework.
Her head rose. What was that noise? Oh, it was probably a fox. The creatures were getting cheeky these days, had even started rooting about in the rubbish, but she could not manage to stir herself. The fire crackled, her eyes closed and she nodded towards sleep.
Suddenly, she was fully conscious; a draught of cold air whipped at her ankles, causing her to jump to the edge of her armchair. Picking up a very substantial poker, she made her way to the kitchen. A pale ghost stood in the centre of this small area, white from head to foot, its status made completely animate by the unmistakable sound of chattering teeth. She hesitated for a second or two. ‘Mr Chandler?’
‘That’s me.’ He moved towards her. ‘Don’t worry, now. My reputation for grabbing women is exaggerated. I may be senile, but I have my w
its about me most of the time. Attacking people was fighting back. Please, please, don’t be afraid of me.’
‘Erm … come in.’ She led him through to her sitting room and he made straight for the fire, his intention clearly being to thaw out bones made frail by age and wear.
‘That’s better,’ he declared.
Taken all round, old Henry had been surprisingly sensible so far, thought Polly as she watched him warming himself. Yet she continued to hold the poker, because this old chap had a name for tremendous ferocity.
‘Very cold out there,’ he announced.
Polly felt invaded; this chap’s family owned her house, but it was her home, her private place. ‘They say you are mad,’ she stated boldly.
‘I am. I’m as mad as two frogs in a bucket, but not all the time.’ He glanced round the untidy area. ‘I shall stay here.’
She swallowed. ‘Here?’ The word emerged high-pitched. ‘They’ll find you.’ How the hell could he stay here? She must remain calm at all costs; if he fell asleep, she could make her escape and find some help. ‘You can’t stop here. Who’ll look after you?’
‘You will.’ He sat down. ‘Where’s that husband of yours?’
‘Gone. He left me.’
‘Ah.’ He stared into the fire, seemed mesmerized by the flames. ‘I had a wife. She died. Best thing she ever did for me. Any chance of a drink?’
Like everyone else in the area, Polly knew full well that Henry Chandler was a notorious alcoholic, that his confinement to the upper storey of the grange had been implemented so that he would be away from all possible sources of booze. And here he sat, demanding a drink.
‘Cocoa will do nicely.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Dried out, you see. After a few months, it gets easier.’
‘Tell your son that,’ she advised, ‘because he carries drink very badly. Just lately, he has started going overboard – not sober very often.’ The old chap seemed to have a full set of chairs at home, she thought. Bearing in mind her own long-dead grandad, Polly understood senility, was even possessed of insight, because she had adored her mother’s father. ‘Richard’s a mess,’ she added.
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