Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  TWENTY-NINE

  LYDIA WOKE FROM a deep sleep to the sound of someone hammering on her door, making enough noise to wake the dead. She did feel half dead, too, as she prised herself out of bed, glancing bleary eyed at the clock. Was it really half past four?

  Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang. Insistent. Urgent. And a voice – no, two voices: ‘Lydia! Lydia!’ If they carried on like that, they’d wake the Wetherbys, and then there’d be hell to pay.

  Pulling on her dressing gown, she hurried barefoot downstairs, unbolted the door.

  Gwen and the Stasi were on the doorstep wearing a motley collection of clothes as if they’d both got hurriedly dressed in the dark. Gwen’s hair was tousled. The Stasi looked pasty-faced without her make-up. Both had bags under their eyes. The nightly vigils were taking their toll.

  ‘Oh, Lydia, at last! Thank goodness. You must come at once—’

  ‘It’s the forces of darkness!’ The Stasi jumped in, her voice echoing to the sky in the dead quiet of the sleeping village. ‘They’ve broken in – they’re in there now. Heaven alone knows what they’re going to do.’

  ‘What?’ Lydia’s mind was still slumbering.

  ‘The forces of darkness!’ cried the Stasi. ‘Lady Darkley, Mrs Pole and the others. They’re in the village hall! I was asleep in bed. I heard a noise. I looked out, and there they were! I said to my husband, I said—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Gwen, interrupting in a most un-Gwen-like way. ‘We must get down there as quickly as we can!’

  It was an emergency, Lydia realized as her brain at last clicked into gear. She reached for the nearest footwear – a pair of flip-flops – and without further ado followed Gwen and the Stasi down Well Lane at full speed.

  There was a flickering light ahead and, as they rounded the bend in the road and the pub and the village hall came into view, Lydia saw that a bonfire had been lit on the grassy space between the two buildings. All the lights were ablaze in the village hall. The doors were wide open. Mrs Wetherby stood nearby with her camp chair, wringing her hands. Lady Darkley’s four-by-four was parked slap-bang in the middle of the road. Some people from the cottages opposite, most in night attire, had come out to see what all the noise was. The pub landlord, in a vest, pyjama trousers and wellington boots, was talking to Old George who was dressed as always in his cap, cardigan and old cords (did he go to bed in them?). Sandra, standing alone, was in floods of tears.

  ‘Sandra, my dear!’ Gwen hurried to put an arm around the distressed girl. ‘You were on guard, weren’t you? Did they hurt you? Oh you poor thing!’

  ‘I …’sobbed Sandra. ‘I …’

  ‘What are they burning?’ asked Lydia anxiously.

  ‘Your picture, missus,’ said Old George. ‘The one of the nudey man.’

  ‘But they can’t do that!’

  ‘Why didn’t you do something to stop them, you useless lump?’ The Stasi was lambasting her husband, punching and slapping. ‘Why didn’t you do something!’

  The landlord seemed immune to the violence – or else he was used to it. ‘Not me. I’m steering clear of that lot in there. You should have stayed here instead of running off, then you could have done something.’

  ‘But I had to fetch Gwen and Lydia, you stupid idiot!’ Smack, slap, thump. ‘And now they’re burning down our Exhibition! All our hard work, going up in flames!’

  ‘It’s only the one painting they’ve burned,’ said George placidly. ‘The rest of the bonfire’s some rubbish Lady Darkness had in her car, and one or two of them display boards from the hall. Most of your so-called Exhibition is over there on the grass.’

  George pointed. Lydia saw, strewn on the ground, a jumble of paintings, pottery, photographs, all the precious artwork and handicrafts tossed aside: Gwen’s pictures, Roscoe Mainwaring’s pots, the foil Diana glinting in the dancing firelight. Hours of work and dedication – people’s pride and joy – treated like rubbish, left to rot.

  Worst of all, though, was the thought of her painting, gone for good. She had never produced a work so quickly, so easily – and yet every moment had been filled with a fizzing sense of achievement. For once (and once only?), she had been able to seize the idea in her head and reproduce it exactly on the canvas. She had not really thought in terms of a subject or a composition; she had been consumed by the form, the colours, the energy. It had taken shape as if by magic, a figure stepping out of a golden mist like a summer’s dawn, a simple human figure in which was distilled (she had felt) all the grandeur and nobility of one of those colossal statues of Ramses III at Luxor. She had never dared believe that she was capable of such a creation.

  And now the picture had been burnt to cinders. She was back to square one, bereft. It felt as if a black pit had opened up inside her. It was like being catapulted back to the worst moments after Prize’s death.

  ‘Thought you’d make a fresh start, did you?’ Her mother’s ghost was at her elbow to rub it in. ‘Ha! You’ll never change now, not at your time of life. You’ve missed the bus, my girl. And you’re not fit to be around people. Look at the chaos you’ve caused! Just look!’

  Lydia did not want to look; did not want to see the fire burning, the people staring; did not want to hear the clattering and banging coming from inside the village hall, or the sound of Sandra sobbing as Gwen comforted her.

  ‘There, there. It’s not your fault, Sandra. We should never have left you on your own, a young girl like you.’

  ‘But it is my fault!’ cried Sandra. ‘It’s all my fault! I let them in—’

  ‘You did what?’ The Stasi rounded on her. ‘What are you saying, Sandra? Why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?’

  ‘She’s upset,’ said Gwen. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

  ‘I do know what I’m saying. It’s all true. I waited until you’d gone, Mrs Collier, then I phoned her: I phoned Lady Darkley. I told her to come at once. Mrs Wetherby tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t care.’

  ‘Oh Sandra …’ Gwen sighed.

  ‘It’s because of her!’

  Lydia found an accusing finger pointing at her. All eyes turned to look.

  ‘It’s because of her! She slept with Richard. He was my boyfriend. And now he won’t even talk to me. I wanted to make her pay. But … oh … oh….’

  ‘Well, well.’ The sardonic voice in Lydia’s ear was complacent, smug. ‘Didn’t I tell you this would happen? I knew you’d end up a laughing stock. You’ve been acting like a trollop these last few months. Now the chickens are coming home to roost.’

  Lydia closed her eyes for a moment, tried to pretend it was all a dream, but she could not block out the thumping and bumping from the village hall, the murmuring voices of the onlookers, or Sandra’s weeping.

  ‘I didn’t know they’d burn things,’ Sandra wailed. ‘I didn’t know they’d do that. They just ripped everything down, it was horrible. I wish I’d never … never….’

  ‘Hush, now. It’s all right, Sandra. We’ll get everything sorted out, don’t you worry.’

  Lydia opened her eyes. Sandra was being led aside by Gwen and a police car was nosing up the hill past the church, blue lights flashing, dazzling in the dim twilight.

  At that moment, Lady Darkley herself emerged from inside the village hall, followed by Mrs Pole and a couple of other stiff and starchy middle-aged women from the big houses on the Overbourne Road. They turned the lights off inside the hall and Lady Darkley locked the door.

  ‘At last,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘at last we have restored some order!’

  With the village hall lights off and the bonfire dying down, it became more obvious that dawn was at hand, the sky a murky grey, the air damp and chill. A new day was coming, but to Lydia it felt more like the end of things. She was like the ashes of the fire: burnt out, dried up, trampled in the mud. She wanted to go home, to run and hide, but one last little spark inside her told her to rescue her paintings first, to pick them off the grass
before the dew ruined them. Her masterpiece had gone, and the rest seemed worthless, but it was better to save what she could than to be left with nothing.

  As she sorted through the loot, she saw a policeman and a policewoman approach, steady and cautious, looking all round, taking it in.

  ‘Morning. What’s all this then?’ said the policeman.

  ‘We had reports of a disturbance,’ said the policewoman.

  ‘Not a disturbance,’ trumpeted Lady Darkley. ‘The restoration of law and order.’

  The Stasi, of course, could not bear to be ignored. ‘Excuse me, if I could just have a word—’

  ‘And you are, madam?’

  ‘I am a local businesswoman, a licencee, the organizer of this very popular and successful Exhibition. These people—these vandals—’

  But she was outnumbered by Lady Darkley and her coven, her voice drowned out by their shrill voices. ‘… disgusting … offensive … filth … nothing but pornography … one has to draw a line … common decency, Christian values….’

  ‘Now then, ladies, one at a time, please.’

  ‘Never mind one at a time,’ trumpeted Lady Darkley. ‘Do you know who I am? Let me tell you, young man—’

  ‘It’s PC Collins, if you please, madam.’

  ‘Let me tell you, my late husband was very good friends with your chief constable, very good friends indeed. I would watch my Ps and Qs if I were you!’

  Lydia had gathered all her paintings, found it was possible to slip quietly away now that all attention was focussed on the police officers and the group of women round them. But as she made her way up Well Lane, the voices pursued her, loud in the clammy air.

  ‘… when I’m elected to the parish council, I will …’

  ‘… as if a woman like you – a publican – will ever get on the parish council….’

  ‘… if I could just take a few details, madam….’

  ‘… we hear far too much about rights and not enough about responsibility: write that in your little black book….’

  And finally Lady Darkley’s foghorn voice trumping the lot, blasting through the morning mist: ‘Everyone can now see those people for what they are. They are finished, outcasts: nobody will want to know them! They won’t be getting on the parish council, I assure you. We will get this ridiculous election over and then it will become clear who really runs this village!’

  THIRTY

  DEAN HAD THOUGHT it best not to go in his car, wanting to be inconspicuous, to see how the land lay, but having taken the footpath towards Overbourne Hall he’d found his way barred by chained gates and notices about bulls. He’d had to go the long way round, wading through beds of nettles, pushing past clinging brambles, ducking under low leafy branches. After about a hundred years (he let the exaggeration pass, he was in no mood for accuracy), he’d finally reached the rutted track which led to the back of the hall. He was hot, sweaty, worn out; wished he was back at home; just wanted to lie down and rest. But having come all this way, he couldn’t turn back now. The possibility of seeing Cally spurred him on.

  Overbourne Hall loomed ahead. It was a big, square, sandy-coloured building with many windows and crumbling stonework. Here at the back there were some brick-built additions, sheds and stables and so on. Somewhere, dogs were barking. This made Dean nervous. He did not like dogs. Dogs were insidious. They acted like they were stupid, but really they were very smart, very sneaky. You only had to look at the way they’d inveigled humans into ‘domesticating’ them, so that now they lived in the lap of luxury, lying around all day, getting fed at regular intervals – getting fat, too, if that mangy mutt of the panther’s had been anything of an example. If dogs had been humans they’d have been labelled layabouts, dole scroungers, benefit cheats, but because dogs were dogs they got away with it. Dogs needed to be shown up for what they were. What people ought to do was—

  But there was no time for that – no time to say what people ought to do: because he was here, he’d arrived.

  Keeping close to the nearest wall, he edged his way into the stable yard, looking round warily. The barking dogs were still safely distant. The yard was empty apart from Lady Darkley’s four-by-four parked over by the house. It was also filthy, full of dried mud and piles of horses’ doings. Near at hand was a dark opening; old wooden doors, splintered and collapsing, hung off rusty hinges. There was a voice coming from inside: a woman’s voice – a girl’s voice – low and soothing. He couldn’t make out the words.

  He stepped inside. Slowly, his eyes got used to the shadows. It was a big barn-type place with compartments on the far side, and lots of corroded machinery and bales of hay stacked up. Daylight leaked in through holes in the roof. The voice was coming from inside one of the compartments. Cally’s voice?

  Yes, definitely Cally. Cally!

  Propelled forward by an overwhelming desire to see her, Dean stumbled across the uneven floor towards the compartments and looked over a sort of gate or half-door. There she was, in a pair of old jodhpurs and a knitted jumper, brushing a horse with a large brush, talking to it (hadn’t she said something about horses being her only friends?). Dean wasn’t interested in the horse, wanted to ignore it – except you couldn’t, it was so massive, so dangerous-looking, moving its lips most disconcertingly, and looking right at Dean with enormous, mocking eyes.

  He took a step back, glanced nervously round. Was there anywhere he could hide if the great brute came at him? It was monstrous and it stank (mind you, the whole place stank; it was an unhygienic hovel). Horses ought to be securely chained, thought Dean. There ought to be a law—

  Cally came out of the cubicle-thing. ‘Dean! What are you doing here?’

  She stood looking at him, waiting, guarded. The horse was also looking at him, stretching its neck over her shoulder. You got the impression that it hadn’t yet made up its mind whether to kick down the door and charge, or simply toss its mane and not deign to notice him. It came across as very superior; and why shouldn’t it, when it held all the cards? It was Cally’s best friend, and she’d been talking to it, brushing it, stroking it.

  Dean experienced a fierce spasm of jealousy which impelled him to speak. ‘I’ve come to—’ He stopped. His voice sounded ridiculous, all gravelly, but it was the only voice he had. He could either use it, or stand in silence like a moron. He began again. ‘I’ve come to … to see you.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Cally said. ‘I was grooming my horse,’ she added.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When I say my horse, he’s not actually mine, he’s Grandma’s.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Would you like to stroke him?’

  ‘No.’ I’d rather stroke you. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘What do you mean, where have I been?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you.’ It wasn’t strictly true: he’d seen her at that stupid Exhibition last week but he’d not been able to get near her, he’d been forced to watch from afar whilst all round people had been carrying on like raving lunatics – all over a few paintings or something. ‘You ignored me,’ he accused her. ‘At the village hall. You ignored me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. It was just, with everything going on and Grandma flipping her lid, I was so embarrassed. Anyway—’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I thought you might have phoned or something. I thought you might have got in touch, after Charley’s party.’

  ‘Me phone you?’

  ‘It’s what boys do. They phone, they text, they run after you – they run after girls.’

  ‘But I’m …’ I’m not like other boys, I am a freak. She knew that, didn’t she?

  A feeling of hopelessness swamped him. The real Dean Morley – somewhere deep inside – was screaming and shouting to be let out; but it was no good: he was trapped inside this useless body. Even speech was impossible right now, a simple thing like that. It hadn’t been such a problem at Charley’s party. It had been easy then. Well, not easy as such, but somehow, Dean remembered with a pang, he had got it right
, been a hit with her. How had it happened? How had he managed it?

  Maybe Cally would be better off with someone else, a proper boy, one who phoned and texted and ran after her – someone like Richard.

  ‘Richard!’ he muttered, grinding his teeth.

  ‘What about Richard?’

  He’s a bastard, a half-wit, a diseased, debauched Neanderthal. Except that nobody saw it, thought Dean with a sense of despair. ‘Everyone likes Richard,’ he said, unable to fight the injustice of it any more. ‘He’s everyone’s favourite.’

  Cally pulled a face. ‘He’s so full of himself. I prefer quiet boys. Shy boys.’ She smiled at him significantly, then said, ‘You’ve got bits in your hair, Dean. Twigs. Burrs.’

  She reached up, began picking things out of his hair (what were burrs?).

  ‘Your hair,’ she said.

  His hair, he thought unhappily: his unruly hair that never did as it was told, that had bits in it – burrs!

  ‘You hair looks good when it’s all mussed up.’ She was stroking it.

  She liked his hair! She preferred shy boys! She was smiling at him! Oh God, oh shit.

  ‘I like you, Dean. Do you like me?’

  He nodded vigorously. There was no point trying to find the right words. He was not sure that the right words had even been invented.

  ‘What shall we do now?’

  ‘I….’ He shook his head. Ideas were lacking.

  ‘We could play mummies and daddies like in the old days. You could smack my bottom the way you used to.’ Her eyes twinkled; he watched, enthralled. ‘Or …’ she added.

  ‘Yes?’ he gasped.

  ‘We could….’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We could kiss. Like in Charley’s shed. Remember?’

  Remember? He would never forget! But how had it happened, how had he contrived it?

  ‘We could kiss….’ She was doing it, he didn’t have to contrive anything. ‘And then you could do this …’

  ‘Oh….’

  ‘And I could do that …’