Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I didn’t think your boyfriend was going to let you do this.’

  ‘Oh, he’s just embarrassed about needing a standin – he musn’t like heights. And he’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Sorry, your fiancé.’

  ‘He’s not my fiancé either.’

  ‘So they’re wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’

  He glanced upward. ‘The cast of thousands. They’re all convinced you’re going to marry him. They read the papers too, you know.’

  ‘Oh well, if the papers say it, then it must be true.’

  He laughed. ‘Are you telling me you’ve said no to Harry Emerson? To a life of total luxury and international stardom?’

  She bristled. ‘So everyone thinks I’m a gold-digger, do they?’

  ‘Have you turned him down or not?’ But she didn’t answer, just gave a dry laugh. He flicked his stub away. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘What’s so funny is I’m dangling two hundred feet above the ground, but I’m still not safe from total strangers poking their noses into my private life. What is this? Are you trying to pump me for a story you can sell to the newspapers?’

  Suddenly, the steel cable jerked and she instinctively grabbed hold of him, but then they began to rise. Flustered, she released him. She glanced upward. Emerson and two of the charge hands were peering down. Proctor waved; Emerson withdrew.

  ‘I’m not a snitch, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He smiled. ‘Quite the opposite – I’m very good at keeping secrets. But I was pumping you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to give you a message.’

  ‘What? Who from?’

  ‘Can’t say, but the message is that marrying Harry Emerson would be the biggest mistake of your life.’

  She was flabbergasted. ‘Who… who the hell do you think you are?’

  ‘Hey – it’s traditional not to shoot me.’

  ‘Did Tress tell you to say that?’ But Proctor put a finger to his lips. ‘Emerson!’ she guessed. ‘Harry sent you to… test me!’

  ‘My, you are paranoid.’ The cable stopped – they were level with the crew again.

  ‘Holly Spader!’ she guessed again.

  ‘Who?’

  But before she could interrogate him further, powerful hands grabbed her and pulled her onto the rampart. Emerson immediately wrapped her in a blanket that he’d acquired from somewhere.

  ‘You okay, honey?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Harry – I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re paler than Caspar the friendly fuckin’ ghost.’

  The crowd parted. She had insisted on doing the stunt precisely because she wanted everyone to see that she was her own woman, yet here she was, being led away like a wee wifey. She looked over her shoulder. Proctor stood with his fellow stuntmen, laughing and chatting. He winked at her.

  ‘So what was that all about, huh?’ Emerson steered her towards his trailer. His bodyguards converged around them.

  ‘Hmm?’ She lurched, feeling off-balance.

  ‘Arguin’ with me in fronta all those people?’

  ‘I need to lie down.’ She shrugged off the blanket, broke free of his grip and stumbled towards her own trailer.

  ‘Annalise! We need to talk!’

  She opened her door. A perfumed wall hit her and she knew without looking that yet again, someone had filled her trailer with white roses. But for some reason her legs didn’t seem to be working very well. She grabbed the handrail and heard Emerson shout, ‘Holy shit!’, so she turned around to see his bodyguards run towards her, pulling guns from their jackets. The world went black even before she hit the grass.

  ‘Do you think she’s down there? Sounds like she’s watching TV.’

  ‘I’d say she’s asleep in front of it, smashed off her tits.’

  Annalise and Froggy crept from the library to forage for food, but the babble of her mother’s television set echoed through the lower hallway from the little reception room where she spent most of her waking hours. They peered down the stone staircase, weighing up their chances of getting past unseen.

  ‘Let’s have a bet,’ Froggy said. ‘I bet you fifty million pounds that she’s comatose on cheap vodka and you bet me fifty million that she’s stone cold sober, watching a nice bit of afternoon telly before cooking us a lovely dinner, like a proper mother would.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make fun of her problems.’

  ‘It’s after midday; take my word for it – Mother’s wrecked.’

  Annalise tiptoed down the great sandstone steps, past the altar on the return, the one with the spooky frog-headed statue on it. She slipped quickly across the hallway, down a corridor and into the kitchen. The big iron range, she was certain, had not been lit since Mrs Crombie had died. Empty cans, bottles and instant pasta packets littered the filthy work surfaces; the sink was hopelessly stacked with encrusted dishes, steeping in cold, particle-filled water. She shook her head at the awesome mess.

  ‘I really should clean up.’

  ‘Not clever,’ Froggy advised. ‘If you do, she’ll remember you’re here and come after us again.’

  ‘Hmm. Good point.’ She began opening and closing cupboards.

  ‘Errr… I hate to be a party-pooper, but what makes you think that mother has bought any food since we checked yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m just famished!’

  ‘You’re wasting our time. You know what you have to do.’

  ‘But I’m sick of Brussels bloody sprouts!’

  ‘Tough cheese, ’cos that’s all there is.’

  ‘Please, don’t mention cheese. If we could find some loose change, maybe we could walk to the village shop.’

  ‘There is no loose change – we’ve found it all. Now hurry, before she wakes up, or then we’ll have nothing.’

  ‘It’s not you that has to eat the bloody sprouts.’

  ‘So get yourself stuffed with synthetic foam, just like me.’

  Sulkily, she let herself out the back door and trudged across the courtyard, around the side of the house towards the walled garden. She still wore her Doc Marten boots, tattered jeans and Oxfam overcoat, although her hair was a nightmare and she’d lost a lot of weight. Too much weight, she knew, because she hadn’t eaten properly in weeks.

  Her mother had boarded most of the outhouses up with plywood, to deter youths from the village from prowling late at night. From the library window, Annalise had spent hours watching the bare woods at the bottom of the drive, but it was as if Whin Abbey was too depressing for even the most brazen yob to approach, by day at least. Or perhaps they were wary of her mother, which was understandable. As ever, the only sign of life was the smattering of little yellow buds across the ubiquitous whins.

  She opened the door to the walled garden carefully; sopping black branches surrounded her and layers of mulch obliterated the path, but mother had been busy in other ways. Her temple at the fountain had become much more elaborate – it had acquired a roof, which tilted precariously on wooden poles. The fountain itself had been decorated with bits of broken mirrors, bottles and seashells, and a grotesque frog-headed statue now squatted on top – like everything else, it looked home-made. Strings and ropes hung from the fountain to distant points in the garden – suspended from these were pots, pans and copper pipes; indeed, anything that would make a noise when disturbed by the wind, or by someone, as Annalise had recently seen her mother do, running in circles and wailing incantations while striking the objects with a stick.

  However, her mother did not seem to be at worship, so cowering beneath the insane geometry, Annalise made her way to the northernmost wall, the one that caught the weak December sunshine. For here was further evidence of maternal industry – potato drills; stakes for runner beans; untidy, alien-looking fennel plants; crooked rows of Brussels sprouts and, incredibly, a few hardy lettuces. With a sigh, she tucked Froggy in her coat, pulled a plastic bag and a fork from her pocket and hunk
ered down to excavate her daily meal.

  ‘GOTCHA!’

  A howling figure erupted from one of the compost bins – Annalise screamed and fell backwards on her bum.

  ‘DON’T FUCKIN’ MOVE OR I’LL SHOOT YA CLEAN DEAD!’

  ‘M…m…mother?’

  The hollering nightmare was indeed her mother, twigs clinging to her hair, her stained nightdress plainly visible beneath her purple robe and – although she struggled with its weight – Darling Sweetheart’s old shotgun clenched in her hands.

  ‘Annalise? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes!’ she squeaked. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Her mother lowered the gun and rummaged in her folds, coming up with a pair of men’s reading glasses. From their thick, black frames, Annalise could tell that they had also belonged to her father.

  ‘Why, so it is! You look different – when did you get here?’ Annalise opened her mouth to answer, but her mother ploughed on. ‘Someone’s been stealing my vegetables,’ her tone turned angry, ‘those little thugs from the village, I expect.’ She patted the gun. ‘So I thought I’d surprise ’em! When did you say you got here? I thought you were in London!’

  ‘Mum, I’ve been home for nearly a month.’

  ‘Really?’ Her mother squinted, then grunting and using the gun for support, stepped out of the bin, compost falling all around her. Annalise, dreading to think what would happen if the gun went off, picked herself up. ‘You know,’ her mother continued, ‘you musn’t think of Whin Abbey as your home any longer, because it isn’t. Your father didn’t leave us a home… I take it you heard what happened? He’s dead, you know.’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I came… home.’

  ‘That silly little aeroplane of his! I never set foot in it and I was right not to!’ She shook the shotgun in the air like a foxhunting witch. ‘He left us nothing,’ now she aimed it at the house, ‘not even that bloody ruin of a place. I rang the solicitors and everything’s tied up, a right bloody mess they say it is. That’s how much he cared for us! A miserable bastard alive and a miserable bastard dead!’

  ‘Mum…’

  ‘I had a dream about you a few weeks ago, Annalise. It wasn’t a very pleasant dream, but it is a central tenet of my faith that we should heed our dreams.’ Her mother grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her towards the temple, using the shotgun as a staff. ‘You appeared to me as a vision in your bedroom, but as an evil vision… you were cheeky! You answered your mother back! You refused to pay me rent!’

  ‘Mum, if that gun were to–’

  ‘Silence! Don’t you know that you are in a holy place? But now that you’re here, we must pray for your father’s soul; pray for his black, black soul. Then we’ll discuss your terms and conditions.’ She reached up with the gun and whacked a dangling skillet pan. ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know! If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to pay! How much money did he leave you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Balls! You were his favourite! He wouldn’t have died without giving you something!’

  ‘Mum, it was my seventeenth birthday last week – I spent it in the library, starving hungry, wrapped in a sleeping bag.’

  ‘You know, you’re just like him – always thinking of yourself; me, me, me, me, ME!’

  ‘Mum…’

  ‘No! You listen to me! Your father was a rotten bastard! As soon as he grew bored of anything, he threw it away! He always liked you, but he discarded me!’ And now she addressed the fountain, with its sharp glued shiny bits. ‘Discarded me! Discarded me! Repeat after me: discarded me! Repeat after me: DISCARDED ME!’

  ‘Mum, he was horrid to me too…’

  But her mother smacked her on the back of the head. ‘Repeat after me: DISCARDED ME!’

  Annalise broke free and sprinted for the arched door, whipped as she went by demon branches.

  ‘Hey!’ Her mother waved the gun. ‘Come back! Come back here or I’ll shoot you dead!’ But Annalise burst from the garden and ran for the house, so there was no way she could have heard her mother murmur as she lowered the weapon, ‘Silly girl. It isn’t loaded – do you think I have money to burn?’

  Gulping down sobs, Annalise crashed through the kitchen and up the servants’ stairs, the ones she normally didn’t dare use because they creaked so awfully. She pelted around the gallery and along the top corridor, past doors, doors, doors. She ripped the last one open, dived inside and slammed it shut. The room had no furniture, otherwise she’d have wedged it shut with a chair. Most of the shelves were empty; all the valuable books had been sold. Some of the rest – paperbacks, stuff the auctioneers didn’t want – these had been stacked in the far corner, to form a waist-height wall. There was just enough room behind this paper edifice to spread a sleeping bag. Her few possessions were stashed on an empty shelf – a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of toilet paper and a box of candles. She dived into the sleeping bag without taking her boots off and curled up, hugging Froggy tight.

  ‘Jesus!’ he snarled. ‘Now Mother has a gun!’

  ‘Shhh!’ Annalise admonished. ‘Please!’

  ‘No! What do I keep telling you? We need to talk about Mother! Firstly, there’s the risk of serious physical harm to our persons.’

  ‘Froggy, don’t!’

  ‘… then, there’s the genetic factor. If mother is batshit crazy – and I think on today’s evidence alone, we can safely say that mother is batshit crazy – then her condition could be hereditary, which means that you could be batshit crazy too!’

  ‘Shhhh!’ she hissed. ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘Don’t you shush me! The truth hurts! I mean, talking to a soft toy – do you think that’s normal?’

  ‘I meant shush, there’s someone coming!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen!’

  Froggy fell silent. Sure enough, a woman’s voice could be heard, far along the corridor. Doors opened then closed again.

  ‘I told you! Mother’s got a gun!’

  ‘Froggy, I’m frightened!’

  ‘We’re gonna die! We tipped her over the edge by stealing her fecking Brussels sprouts and now she’s gonna find us and blow us both to Kingdom Come with that dmmwwmhh…’

  ‘Annalise clapped a hand over Froggy’s mouth as the library door opened. There was a short silence then the floor creaked. Annalise shut her eyes and screamed, thrashing violently. The wall of books collapsed, revealing her and Froggy wriggling around in the sleeping bag like an oversized, two-headed worm.

  Annalise? Is that you?’

  She opened her eyes. Sylvia Jardyce stood in the stripped-out library of Whin Abbey, her tiny feet buried beneath a heap of crumpled paperbacks. A man stood beside her, a much taller man, wearing a long, black raincoat.

  ‘Holy Christ!’ Froggy exclaimed. ‘It’s Batman and Robin!’

  10

  She opened her eyes. Two figures stood over her, one dressed in black. She tried to back away from them but couldn’t. She looked around. She wasn’t in the library at Whin Abbey; instead, she was lying on a white leather sofa.

  ‘Boss! She’s awake!’ Levine spoke over his shoulder. Frost also looked down at her, arms folded. Emerson appeared in her field of view, pushing between his employees.

  ‘Honey!’ He knelt. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Where…?’

  ‘Relax, you’re in my trailer – the doctor’s on his way.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘You fainted!’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You gave me a helluva scare – my guys thought you’d been shot! Ain’t that right, Levine?’

  ‘Sure thing, H.E.’

  ‘Peter!’ Emerson growled over his shoulder in a much less soothing tone, ‘Where’s that fuckin’ quack? We bin waitin’ five whole minutes here!’

  ‘Five minutes? Is that how long I’ve been out?’

  But her question went ignored as Frost and Levine moved farther apart to reveal Tress at the far side of the room, leanin
g against one of the highly polished cabinets with a deeply peeved expression. He snarled into his walkie-talkie, ‘David, I am in Emerson’s trailer. Where is the doctor? Hello, David? Come in David!’ There was no answer, only static. He banged the radio off the gleaming wood.

  Annalise sat upright. ‘I don’t need a doctor, I’m… urgh…’ The room wobbled and she lay down again.

  ‘D’ya see?’ Emerson leapt up. ‘Goddamn! Our leadin’ lady could be dyin’ here! She could have a… a… brain tumour or somethin’! I knew she shouldn’a done that crazy stunt!’

  ‘Harry, I’m just dizzy,’ she mumbled, ‘you know, that thing you sometimes get when you stand up too quickly?’

  ‘Happens to me all the time,’ Levine agreed. The others looked at him. He shrugged. ‘Ah’m jus’ sayin’…’

  ‘Roses,’ she remembered, ‘my trailer’s full of roses.’

  ‘Is that why you fainted?’ Emerson frowned. ‘You allergic or somethin’?’ He turned on Tress. ‘Did you put flowers in Miss Palatine’s trailer?’

  ‘No.’

  He addressed Frost. ‘Did we?’

  ‘Negative, H.E.’

  ‘Goddamn!’ He turned to Annalise. ‘It’s that ex-boyfriend of yours! He’s tryin’ to crawl back up your ass! He wants to be your darlin’ sweetheart again!’

  She jolted upright. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You were talkin’ in your sleep, somethin’ about a darlin’ sweetheart.’ Everyone stared at her. ‘Fact, you made some damn weird noises; a voice, kinda like in the Exorcist.’

  She felt like she’d been thrown off the castle ramparts.

  ‘What…what did I say?’

  ‘Oh, we couldn’t make it out, just the bit about a darlin’ sweetheart.’

  ‘Uh… I’m… uh… terribly sorry. I must be very tired.’

  ‘See!’ Emerson turned on Tress again. ‘Told ya!’ Tress did not respond, but his face darkened further. ‘I knew it! All this goofin’ around on horses and hangin’ off cliffs; shootin’ outdoors in the heat, day in, day out – kid, you need a break!’

  ‘But we have a film to make.’

  ‘Exactly! Which is why we’re off to London!’

  ‘What?’