All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  She introduced Marcus as her assistant, and Lauren was equally warm and welcoming with him, too. From somewhere in the house, a dog barked and growled. For the next twenty minutes, she and Marcus unloaded the jeep and methodically set up the equipment in the huge dining room, where Lauren had directed them.

  Looking at the array of fine paintings, Kara was impressed and a little daunted. It was a magnificent collection, and left her and Marcus breathless in admiration. Kara was thankful for Marcus’s presence for other reasons. Several of the paintings were large and heavily framed. It would require a man’s strength to lift them individually from the walls in order to be photographed on the easel. Michael had not taken this into account, when he had first asked her to do the inventory alone. It was an oversight, luckily now rectified by the genius of his secretary: engaging Marcus to do the donkey work.

  Marcus cursed under his breath, gradually lifting the first painting from above the mantelpiece.

  Lauren largely left them to it. She was distant in manner, but dignified and helpful. Again, Kara was surprised by this, expecting this woman to be overbearing and ever watchful. Yet everything about Lauren was beginning to grate on her nerves. Kara could not help but notice just how beautiful and serene she was. She seemed to glide in and out of the room, silently, her skin china white and her long hair flowing magnificently behind her. Flame red. She was like a ghostly apparition. In artistic terms, Lauren resembled a Pre-Raphaelite beauty. Kara observed that this did not go unnoticed on Marcus. How shallow, Kara thought, concluding that Lauren was most definitely an irritating one hundred per cent supernova cow. She fixed a smile.

  ‘Phew,’ Marcus said, admiringly, as Lauren drifted effortlessly in and out of the room.

  ‘Down, boy,’ Kara told him.

  They worked steadily and diligently. It was a bigger task than she had first anticipated. Each painting had to be removed from its place, repositioned on the easel, tilted and then lit with the makeshift lighting that Kara had set up. It was vital that no “flashback” was evident for the reproduction of the brochure images. Each piece then had to be measured, catalogued with the correct title and any possible provenance and finally, numerically listed. On top of that, each painting then had to be put back and secured in its rightful place in the dining room. Transportation would come later. It was tiring and thirsty work.

  Lauren eventually brought refreshments. Earl Grey tea in china cups. Kara was appreciative, Marcus less so. She knew he preferred drinks in cans.

  ‘How are you progressing? ’ Lauren asked.

  ‘Perfectly well,’ Kara answered. ‘Beautiful collection, I must say. ’

  ‘Thank you. ’

  ‘It must be hard to part with them,’ Marcus chipped in, adjusting a lens on his camera.

  Lauren turned her attention to him for the first time. Her eyes were like diamonds, her lips wet and inviting. She ran her hand through her luxuriant red curls. Her antique braided white dress gaped at the front, revealing a hint of cleavage. This woman stretched like a cat, effortless and feline, her pert breasts just visible under the thin delicate fabric. Marcus was captivated, in an instant.

  ‘It will be hard, but not impossible,’ she replied. ‘Circumstances change. I must sell them. ’ Lauren took a long moment to look him up and down, from head to toe. She was brazen; flaunting her sexuality which she knew was having an intoxicating effect on the poor boy.

  Kara was furious. Cunning bitch, she screamed, silently.

  ‘Did you say your name was Marcus? ’ Lauren asked, enticing him still further.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Are you an artist, Marcus? You look like one, if I may say so. ’

  ‘Yeah, I’m kinda finding my feet. ’

  ‘And what style do you paint in? ’

  ‘Mainly abstract, with a figurative twist. ’

  Kara interrupted, feeling left out. ‘He’s very, very good, actually.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lauren mused, raising an eyebrow. ‘It seems you have an ardent fan, Marcus. You’re a very lucky boy. ’

  Marcus hovered, caught awkwardly between the two women, acting self-consciously and feeling stupid. He dropped the lens cover. ‘Well, Kara and I need to press on,’ he muttered.

  But Lauren stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Come with me, I’d like to show you something. ’

  Kara protested. ‘We really need to finish. ’

  Lauren turned on her. ‘Can’t you manage on your own, just for a little while? ’

  Kara hesitated, flashing her gaze back and forth between Marcus and Lauren. ‘Well, I suppose…’

  ‘Good, then that’s settled. ’ Lauren instantly took Marcus by the arm, and led him from the room.

  Kara was gobsmacked. Anger boiled within her. ‘You dumb, docile drip,’ she said, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

  Standing alone, isolated and feeling a touch vulnerable, she couldn’t decide if the words were directed at herself, Marcus, or Lauren.

  ***

  Michael drove insanely fast, taking the car and his concentration to the limits of endurance. Every second counted. On the Guildford bypass, he reached 120 mph. It was on this very road in 1959 – he was suddenly reminded – that Mike Hawthorn, the racing driver, had been killed in his Jaguar. What he was doing was madness. But still he raced on, red lining over Box Hill, down past Old Compton, relentlessly gathering speed whenever he could, his mind working overtime. He just had to get to Kara.

  His phone bleeped. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see it was the photo text from Ronald. No matter now. Each second that passed was like a time bomb ticking, each minute a lifetime wait. Overtaking a slow moving car, he shouted, ‘Get out of the fucking way! ’

  Jesus fucking hell! The road was blocked. Michael reacted with lightning speed, slamming on the brakes, his car veering violently before coming to a rapid standstill, leaving a strong smell of burning rubber in the air. Directly in front of him, a farmer was demonstrating his anger by waving his stick at him as he also attempted to manoeuvre his flock of sheep across the road. The screeching from Michael’s tyres unnerved the sheep and they began to scatter. ‘Arsehole! ’ the farmer was shouting furiously in his direction.

  Michael was trapped. He tried to reverse, but was now boxed in by the traffic pulling up behind. Jesus fucking hell!

  Another farmer approached, tapping on his window. ‘Are you trying to get us all killed, mate? What’s your problem? ’

  ‘It’s an emergency, I need to get moving! ’

  ‘Yeah, yeah…’

  Michael ignored him, and tried to keep calm. He estimated that the clearance of the sheep from the road would take several more minutes; vital seconds that he could not afford to lose. This was all of his making.

  He retrieved his phone, which had flung forward into the foot well. To begin with, he checked the photo text. It was poor quality, but it was his first sighting of Patrick Porter. His heart jumped. Looking closely, the portrait had more than a passing resemblance to images he had seen of Julius Gray: only much younger, of course. If Michael was pushed for an explanation, at this stage he would have to guess that Julius was “made up” in disguise for this image. What other explanation could there possibly be? He was by now totally convinced that they were one and the same. Although their individual style of painting was worlds apart, Julius was versatile and clever enough…what was going on? His mind raced.

  He dialled Kara. Jesus fucking hell, just answer the bloody thing!

  ***

  Kara endeavoured to carry on as best she could minus Marcus. Distracted, she struggled to concentrate. Without him, she elected to photograph the smaller paintings, those she could lift from the wall herself. In a huff, she began doubting her ability to do the job. Stretching precariously on a small stepladder, she slipped and almost dropped a painti
ng, recovering her balance just in time. Christ, concentrate girl! Her mind was in complete turmoil. Where the hell was Marcus? She checked her watch: he had been gone for over thirty minutes. Intense jealously exploded in her head. This woman was a manipulative cow, flaunting her body. . . making eye contact with Marcus. . . taking him away as if she owned him…bitch! Bloody, bloody bitch. She needed air.

  Outside, she inhaled the freshness from the surrounding fields that had eluded her in the stifling heat and stale air of the enclosed dining room. It was becoming too damn claustrophobic. She opened the jeep door and searched for a water bottle in the side pocket. Unscrewing the cap, she emptied the cool welcoming contents down her throat in huge gulps. On the seat, she found her mobile phone, which had obviously fallen out of her pocket earlier. She scanned the missed calls. Michael had called, several times. Thank God, she prayed, with great relief. She decided to ring him right then.

  Her thoughts were rudely interrupted.

  ‘Kara. ’ It was Lauren, calling from the main entrance. By her side, a huge dog pulled aggressively on a lead, snarling in her direction. ‘Are you…all right? ’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. ’ It was hardly the case, but Kara humoured her. In truth, the sight of the dog terrified her. Keep calm. ‘Just getting some fresh air,’ she said.

  ‘Have you finished your task? ’

  Kara hid the phone in her trouser pocket and discarded the empty bottle on the vehicle seat. She decided to ring Michael later, in private. She answered, ‘No. ’ She felt dejected by her inability to contact Michael. Then she returned to earth, and faced Lauren full on. ‘Three more paintings to do, but they are too heavy for me to handle. I need Marcus. ’

  ‘Then come inside. ’

  Kara trudged back with a reluctant step. Inside, Lauren held the baying dog close to her side, and slammed the door tight behind them. Then she bolted it. Kara instantly froze. Something was hideously wrong. Marcus was nowhere to be seen.

  ***

  Marcus screamed with the pain, and felt blood trickling from his swollen knees and bruised left cheek. The last thing he remembered was that awful helpless feeling of falling into space, and then landing with a sickening hard thump against a concrete floor. He could taste blood in his mouth. Scrambling in the pitch dark, he reached out with his clawing hands to somehow fathom out where he was, discovering fuck all except dirt on the floor, and a sound of dripping water above him. In the dank and eerie darkness, shapes slowly began to emerge. He sat and rested against a wall, desperately trying to clear his head. From a corner – somewhere – his ears pricked up to the scurrying of tiny feet. Rats, his worst nightmare! The very thought of them – how many? – made him instantly coil his legs to his chest and heighten his sense of panic. Think. Think. Think. Clearing his head, he guessed he was in some kind of underground basement, perhaps a cellar. He recalled asking Lauren for the bathroom. On opening the door, she pushed him fiercely from behind, his whole weight careering down the steps, tumbling helplessly, unable to find a safe footing. Now he was alone and trapped. More worryingly, he had left his mobile phone in the dining room, beside his car keys. He had been ensnared by Lauren, and foolishly fell for her trick. He was terrified of two things in life: rats and the dark. It simply couldn’t get much worse. A far greater fear suddenly crept up upon him though. Kara. She too was alone and isolated, in the company of a mad woman. Without his phone, Marcus could not see any possible way to help her. Damn, it was he who needed rescuing.

  ***

  ‘Where is Marcus? ’ Kara asked nervously, her eyes fixed permanently on the menacing dog.

  ‘In the barn,’ Lauren said.

  ‘I need to see him. ’

  ‘All in good time. ’

  ‘Now would be a good time. ’

  ‘Bruno! ’ Lauren shouted, as the dog, fangs bared, yanked on the short lead, pulling her forward. Kara retreated further into the hallway, realising how futile this action was if she thought it took her out of harm’s way. She was trapped.

  Her voice quivered. ‘What do you want, Lauren? ’

  ‘Everything that Michael can’t give me. ’

  ‘Michael? Michael? ’

  ‘I saw you with him. ’ Lauren’s eyes blazed with an intensity of hate. Her face contorted with an inner fury. Her voice was changing, deeper and vitriolic, almost as if a character transformation was taking place…

  Who on earth is this woman? Kara thought, petrified. What the hell am I to do? Do I try to reason with her or make a dash for it?

  Instinctively, she turned on her heels and ran for her life, clattering furniture and ornaments as she wildly tried to put distance between them. Behind her, she heard the shrill laughter of Lauren echoing in every direction. Kara became dizzy with fright, not knowing where to run –everywhere appeared to be a maze of rooms and corridors, darkened recesses and false exits. Twisting to confront her worst fears, she nearly leapt out of her skin at the terrible sight of Bruno fast on her heels.

  ***

  ‘Come on, come on! For chrissakes, answer the phone, Kara. ’

  The sheep were gathered at last and penned in the opposite field. Michael saw his opportunity, floored the accelerator and sped past. In his rear view mirror, he caught sight of the irate farmer screaming at the top of his voice. Michael guessed the likely words of the man’s frustration: Bloody city hooligan! Or worse. This would be close to the mark though.

  Michael estimated he was less than fifteen minutes to his destination.

  ***

  Kara frantically dodged through an open door, finding herself back in the dining room. Breathless, she slammed the door shut, wedging a chair against it to fix it in place. This gave her a few seconds respite. Oh, God, where are you, Marcus?

  Her phoned bleeped, startling her. She fumbled, dropping it. Keeping her nerve, she managed to retrieve it from under the table with the sweating palm of one hand. Breathe, girl. This was her last chance of rescue. She clicked on and blurted, ‘Will someone help me…please! ’

  ***

  Christ, she finally answered!

  Hearing the desperation in her plea, Michael shouted, ‘Kara, I’ve been trying to reach you. ’

  ‘Michael! Michael! Thank God you can hear me. ’

  ‘Where are you? What’s happening? ’

  ‘I’m at the farm, Michael. Lauren’s got Marcus, and now she is after me…I’m really scared Michael. Where are you? ’

  ‘Very close, Kara. Now listen, stay focused. Don’t do anything silly. I’ll be with you in a matter of minutes. ’

  Kara wasn’t listening any more. Suddenly, fierce kicking from the other side of the door forced it to jerk and heave, dislodging the chair and propelling it in her direction. Kara ducked, kept her wits and pushed her entire weight against the broken door, as the sound of splintering wood reached her ears. The pit of her stomach twisted.

  Above the din, Michael yelled in her ear, ‘What’s that noise, Kara? Tell me! ’

  Kara’s strength gave way. She could no longer hold on. From afar, as her phone slipped to the floor again, she could hear Michael’s distant screaming: ‘Kara, get out of there. Get the fucking hell out of there! ’

  But her inner resolve failed dismally. Instead, dread gripped her. With such fear looming, paralysis took hold, closing down all resistance in her body. As the door smashed open and broke from the hinges, she sat huddled, childlike, in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth, eyes clamped shut. Tears rolled uncontrollably down her cheeks. Barely able to look up, she forced one corner of her eye open and glimpsed Bruno lurch into the room, teeth exposed and foaming at the mouth. Behind him came a sight of sheer terror. She could hardly whimper, let alone scream. No sound would come.

  Not one – but two women – stood over her, brandishing an array of long-bladed knives and a machete. Lauren gripped Kar
a’s hair, yanking her head back, whilst the other, not known to her, pressed cold sharp steel to her throat.

  Bizarrely, she remained calm, and accepted the bleak realisation of death. She was too weak to resist, even when she felt the pressure of the blade increase on her skin, and sensed a trickle of blood descend her neck. From somewhere deep within, she experienced a last power surge of defiance. ‘Marcus. Marcus,’ she could hear herself repeat over and over. Then she succumbed to the inevitable, as the blade began to penetrate beneath her soft flesh.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Michael drove at breakneck speed, approaching the last bend in the road with reckless intent. He swerved violently, dislodging the red pillar box at the entrance to Laburnum Farm, scattering the pieces across the road. The car spun, hitting the gatepost with a resounding thud; indenting the rear side panel and wiping out the lights. The boot lid sprung open. He didn’t care; such was his fear as to what was happening to Kara. In front of the house, he found an unoccupied jeep parked up, with the driver’s door flung wide open.

  He braked sharply, spewing gravel and choking dust in all directions. Switching off the ignition, he scanned the immediate vicinity for signs of life. No one was visible. He climbed out from behind the steering wheel. It was as silent as a church cemetery, weirdly so. Where was everybody? The house was in darkness. To his right, the barn stood still and quiet.

  ‘Kara! ’ he shouted.

  His first instinct was to rattle the front door to the house. It was locked. Moving rapidly to the rear, he suddenly realised he was defenceless. Searching around, he picked up a piece of discarded lead piping. The door to the kitchen was ajar. He had little time to be frightened and entered fearlessly. Again, he found no evidence of anyone. He expected to see signs of a struggle. He listened intently. Silence. From a worktop drawer, he further armed himself with a pair of scissors.