Pompomberry House

by Trevithick, Rosen

  Pompomberry House

  By Rosen Trevithick

  Edition 1.0.5

  Copyright © Rosen Trevithick 2012

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this book may be copied or sold.

  http://www.rosentrevithick.co.uk

  Prologue

  You, too, might struggle to throw a six-foot charity worker over Waterloo Bridge. But it probably wouldn’t be because of your Prada heels.

  The chase began just after Delilah had slurped the remains of her mojito through a straw, savouring the last hint of mint amongst the melting ice, and had stepped out onto the street. The January chill kept others indoors and provided a cloak of anonymity for her killer. Coupled with the dark, rainy night, Delilah didn’t stand a chance.

  She looked at the Rolex on her smooth, slender, porcelain wrist, and noted, with expletives like “Bother!” and “Blooming Nora!” that the tube had stopped for the night. London buses didn’t even cross her mind, as she readily recalled the number of her preferred taxi company.

  Suddenly, she was aware of a figure in the darkness, and her heart lurched. She told herself that it was probably just a harmless drunk. Nevertheless, she didn’t feel like staying put. She began walking away, towards Waterloo Bridge. Her fingers combed the interior of her designer handbag. Where was her phone?

  She was dressed in a maroon Christian Dior dress, which had come in a box almost as pretty as she was.

  ‘Click click’ went the heels of her open-toe, silver Prada shoes. In the darkness, her petal pink nail varnish blended in with her toes. “What a waste!” she thought, and resolved to wear a darker shade tomorrow. Thank goodness she always left an extra half-hour before work for such emergencies. Poor Delilah had no idea that by tomorrow she would be lying at the bottom of the Thames, being nibbled by fish that couldn’t tell the difference between petal and turquoise.

  ‘Click click’ came the echo. It sounded like two pairs of shoes, but at twenty-four Delilah understood about echoes in the night. She wasn’t the spokesperson for Save the Elderly for nothing. It was a role that required diligence, wit and knowledge.

  A shadow stretched before her; there were two pairs of shoes. Somebody was following her. Delilah quickened her pace, ‘Click-click, click-click’.

  She didn’t care much for the elderly. Her nanna was all right, but generally old people seemed to smell and talk too slowly for her liking. In fact, they were too slow in general. She believed that the less time you had left, the faster you should live. She was baffled by the number of elderly folks sitting in their chairs, day after day, whilst their ages and life expectancies converged. Couldn’t they get a life and go ... skydiving or something?

  Why was Waterloo so quiet? If only somebody was around — anybody! She would run to them and start a conversation until the shadow had passed.

  Despite her distaste for the elderly, her belief that Save the Elderly deserved to win the grant was unwavering. She was determined that her charity would triumph in the competition over clearly lesser causes such as End World Hunger and Stop Sex Trafficking.

  She pictured the award scene. In her mind’s eye, she stood on a podium wearing her green Gucci dress. The runners-up stood on either side, wearing their green Gucci expressions, as she was handed a giant cheque. Millions of people were cheering her on, thanking her for securing a better deal for the elderly. She was a national hero. It would be the one occasion when Delilah wouldn’t mind being surrounded by old people. Their gratitude would emphasise her empathetic nature and their ripened faces would make her look even more youthful and pretty.

  Delilah wished that her follower would leave her alone. Stalking was so 2009. She needed to be calling a cab, not hurrying across Waterloo Bridge. Where was her phone? Perhaps it had slipped down between the pages of Vogue. Should a black cab present itself, would it be worth hopping in? She was reluctant, after last time. She felt sure the driver had had only one arm and that his decision to drive despite this was irresponsibly dangerous.

  Yes, it was easy to see why somebody might want to kill a woman like Delilah. However, in actual fact, her killer was not irked by her prejudices, her hypocrisy or her vanity; the killer had a different motive altogether.

  Delilah found herself getting out of breath. Her quickened pace had now taken her to the centre of Waterloo Bridge, giving her only one realistic escape route — straight ahead.

  Her pursuer broke into a run and Delilah suddenly realised what two pairs of clicks meant — her follower was a woman. The knowledge that her stalker was probably less than eighty kilos would have provided most people with some comfort, but not Delilah. Delilah knew the effect she had on other women — the exact opposite of the effect she had on men — women hated her.

  Suddenly, she felt arms grab her from behind. They were slender and youthful like her own. She recognised a bracelet on her assailant’s arm, familiar only because it was Chanel.

  Delilah could feel that the other lady was very tall, as she was, and certainly stronger. She lifted Delilah clean off the ground. Delilah kicked and struggled, and, for a moment, thought she was winning the fight. But then, with another burst of energy, her assailant lifted her again. Delilah’s centre of gravity rose above the top of the railings. If she wasn’t careful, she might ...

  Her attacker shoved her with great force. Delilah pivoted around the topmost bar, lingering for a moment before she began to drop. Instinctively, she reached out and managed to grab onto the railings. But it was a precarious grip. She knew then that she was going to fall into the Thames!

  As she dangled by one arm, the metal rasped the palm of her hand and she felt herself slipping.

  She looked up desperately, and for the first time she faced her killer. “You?” she gasped. She couldn’t believe it.

  The killer’s blue eyes peered down at Delilah, through Armani glasses. Delilah recognised the spokeswoman for End World Hunger — the competition! The killer’s pink lips formed a gentle smile, the kind she might use when accepting the charity grant. She replied, using the same dulcet, airy tone that Delilah had heard her use on television. “It’s nothing personal. I’m doing this for Africa.”

  Chapter 1

  “If you can’t be of good character, write a good character,” exhorted the witticism beneath the directions. I heard brambles scrape my bonnet as I veered into the rightmost hedge. Better pull in.

  Blistering barnacles! There was a thud. My yellow Nissan Micra hit something hard and then everything went dark, or perhaps everything went dark and then my car hit something. It happened so fast that it’s hard to retell without an element of guesswork.

  At first, I thought I’d hit something large, like a cow or, worse still, a person. Bravely, I forced open my eyes. There was something on my windscreen — something big. Oh heck! I’ve killed something big.

  When I looked closely, I realised that it was a bird — the biggest feathered creature I’d ever seen, but a bird none the less. It was nearly completely white, but with some rather frightful patches of scarlet where blood drenched its feathers. Its wings spanned my windscreen, almost completely shutting out the light. It looked a lot like a seagull, but far too large.

  Guilt crept in. I hated killing animals on the road. It was bad enough when it happened by accident, but this was even worse. If only I hadn’t been reading the directions ...

  Yet as I was agonising over this, I saw something move. Surely, the blood-soaked bird wasn’t alive?

  I watched, in disbelief, as a wing peeled itself off the windscreen. The bird hopped around for a few moments, on a wobbly yellow leg, before peeling off its other wing, which it closely inspected.

  Delighted, I willed it to fly away. However, just as
I was mentally repeating ‘Fly my pretty, fly!’, something happened that chilled me to the core — the bird gave me an evil glare!

  Those orange-rimmed grey eyeballs drove into my soul. I never knew that a creature without eyebrows could convey so much hatred.

  When finally it turned, flexed its wings and flew off, I found that I’d been holding my breath. I looked down at my crumpled printout. My hands were shaking so much that I could barely read it. Pull yourself together, Dee!

  Ordinarily I would have been amused by the idea that a grown woman could be frightened by a look from a bird. However, that malevolent birdy look of death had spooked me.

  Part of me wanted to turn around and go straight back home to London, and perhaps if this hadn’t been a single-track road, I might have attempted it. However, after everything I’d been through lately, I needed this trip. I couldn’t let a bird with hostility issues stand in my way.

  ‘You won’t find Pompomberry House with any satnav,’ explained paragraph one, before launching into a description of the island. It actually sounded charming, like the perfect place for a writers’ weekend. A tidal isle thrown off the north coast of Cornwall, just large enough to accommodate one house and tiny cove.

  It was well known that Cornish seagulls (if that thing could be described as a seagull) had an attitude problem, but I’d never heard of them actually hurting anybody. I had to put this fowl encounter behind me. After all, what was it going to do? Steal my pasty?

  ‘Find Strawberry Meadow’ said paragraph two. There were fields everywhere and none of them marked. How was I supposed to know which were used for growing strawberries? It was February!

  One Cornish hedge looks much like another when you’re sitting behind the wheel of a car, wondering whether you’re going around in circles. I had to be somewhere near the sea, I could smell the salty air, like a newly opened jar of olives.

  Eventually, I caught sight of a small cluster of houses. Perhaps a kind native would help me find my way. However, as I approached, I realised that this tiny housing estate was Strawberry Meadow. How ludicrous that the only patch of land not used for farming was known as the Meadow.

  Still, now that I’d found a key landmark, I could move on to paragraph three: untying the boat. Wait — boat?

  Despite the garbled nature of the instructions, I finally found myself rolling my car into the grit area otherwise known as the car park for Pompomberry House. Here I was to abandon my vehicle, because the remainder of the journey could only be completed on foot, or by boat, depending on the mood of the tide.

  A wave of excitement spread over me, like the tingling feeling of discovering a new sweet shop, but with fresher, healthier overtones.

  I grabbed my turquoise polka-dot case and laptop rucksack then promptly stepped backwards into a puddle. I cursed as I felt the icy water seeping through my leather boot.

  Still, it wasn’t a day for sulking. It was a day for moving forward. Today, I was a free woman, doing free-woman things. Having not been single for over ten years, I wasn’t quite sure what free-woman things were, but I was pretty sure that thirty-two was not too old to find out. I felt a pang as I thought of him, but immediately forced him out of my mind. This weekend was the first weekend of the rest of my life.

  I took one last look at the boot, full of tools and bicycle paraphernalia. I liked mountain biking, but that was something we did together. This weekend was about me — me and my dreams.

  I could see a small flight of steps leading down from the car park, out of the area boxed in by tall hedges. Excitedly, I trundled toward them.

  A vast, richly coloured seascape painted itself before my eyes. The navy ocean stretched between headlands, like a satin scarf littered with silver sequins. The clear, winter’s day allowed me to see for miles. And miles of sea I saw.

  Eventually, my eyes settled on the little island down below. It was smaller than I had expected, with its one house taking up most of the island. It was surrounded by water.

  Even from here, I could tell that Pompomberry House had seen better days. Its walls were made from indestructible granite, but its window frames and roof were weathered. At least two of the windows were boarded up. I shuddered as I imagined the sash windows rattling in the wind as in a Gothic tale — yes, perfect for a writers’ weekend.

  Delighted, I climbed down the stone steps. They were narrow and steep, not ideal for cases with wheels, but there was no other way.

  I wondered if I was going to be the last to arrive. Who was here already? Had I signed up for the trip sooner, I might have had a chance to find out a bit about my fellow writers. However, somebody called Jan Harper had cancelled at the last minute and I had impulsively offered to take her place. I had no idea who else was on the guest list. They would be people from the forum of course, but the forum has four hundred members.

  No doubt they would all be indie writers like me. Perhaps even some who’d sold more than a few hundred copies. I’d read some truly stonking self-published books in my time — the others were bound to be talented, inspiring individuals. I wondered if that bloke who wrote genealogy mysteries would be here. I was longing to find out whom the red case on his new cover belonged to.

  Finally, I reached the bottom step. A few rickety planks poked out above the water. Could this be the pontoon described in the email?

  The gully between the mainland and the island was only about fifteen metres wide, but shelved far too steeply to safely wade, especially during a high spring tide. From beside the pontoon, I could make out the remains of a bridge. I wondered how long ago the sea had claimed that.

  Today the waves were small. They playfully splashed a white rowing boat, which was tied to the pontoon and attached to two wires which spanned the crossing. I knew from the email that these wires were a pulley system so that the boat could be sent back for the next guest.

  I wondered who had sent it back for me. Who else might have just arrived? Could it be that guy who writes about a relationship assassin? Was he here? I really wanted to ask him when the sequel would be out.

  As I bundled my case into the boat, I thought of all the interesting writers that I’d chatted to on the forum since getting my Kindle — so many brilliant artists, so many imaginative minds — I was bound to learn great things from the other guests, and come away from the weekend a better writer, possibly even a better person.

  It was a long time since I’d rowed a boat. I hadn’t been on water since that trip to Ally Pally three years ago. Still, it came back to me readily, like riding a bicycle or milking a sheep.

  I looked at the craggy granite cliffs, with the little stone steps eating away into the cliff face. I felt like one of the Famous Five. Might Enid Blyton have been inspired by Pompomberry House?

  A loud crack told me that my boating journey was over. The bow had smacked into the island. I cast around, checking if anybody had witnessed my humiliating moment, but I couldn’t see anybody on the island at all. Perhaps they were all inside. Where else would they be in February?

  I climbed out onto the sandy shore — another surface unkind to wheeled items. Still, stumbling around was all part of the fun — all part of invoking the isolated, Gothic ambience that would fuel our creativity. I sent the boat back for the next guest. Much harder to do than I’d expected. Could do with a good oiling.

  At last my case wheels found the winding path that led up to the front door. I adjusted my purple, crushed velvet trilby, making sure that the tips of my blonde, cropped hair protruded slightly from beneath the brim. I tipped my hat to one side, adding a stylish quality.

  Should I ring the doorbell? It wasn’t clear. I was a guest, but weren’t we all guests? We’d hired the whole house, after all.

  Eventually, I decided that ringing the doorbell could do no harm, since bursting in unannounced was fraught with potential problems. Being a writer, I could envisage immediately at least three potential problems: walking in on two people having sex; walking in on three people having sex;
and walking in on two people trying to cover up a murder. I smiled to myself; already the spooky, dramatic setting was encouraging my imagination to run wild. Of course nobody was going to be covering up a murder. Judging by how draughty it looked, I doubted anybody would be having sex either.

  Nobody came to the door. I rang the bell again, deciding to give them ten more seconds before barging in.

  Five presses later, I tried the door. That’s odd. It’s locked. I pushed a little harder and felt in my pocket for the directions. Was I in the wrong place? Was I at some other Gothic retreat? I didn’t know Cornwall well, but I was pretty sure that single-house islands connected by a boat on a pulley were rare, even in the West Country.

  I looked around me, taking in the surroundings. Broken garden ornaments lined the path, including three concrete gnomes, which had presumably once enjoyed a covering of glossy paint, and a squirrel without a tail. A pile of half-chopped wood was stacked next to the door. Ooh! I hope there’s a log fire!

  Intrigued, I ventured closer to the wood. I steadied myself when I saw what I saw — a jagged cliff, towering over the sea. I hadn’t realised that the zigzagging path had climbed so high. But looking downward, I was a good thirty feet above the waves. They swashed around sharp rocks like a teasing caress, hiding the jagged peaks and then revealing them again like an oceanic game of peek-a-boo.

  Suddenly, I heard a loud, piercing cry overhead. Instinctively, I ducked. I heard something clattering above my shoulder, like a pair of dustbin lids being taken by a gust of wind. I opened my eyes and slowly raised my head. A giant white bird, identical to the one in the lane, sat on the woodpile. I averted my gaze, avoiding having to see that disturbing, orange-rimmed glare again.

  I had another go at the front door. It was definitely locked. Simply to get away from the bird, I dropped my case and ran around to the back of the house.

  Oh wowsers!

  Drinking straight from the can, like a model plucked from a Diet Coke advert, was the handyman of dreams. He was shirtless, a little odd even in this mild February, but who was I to complain? His shaggy just-out-of-bed, blond hair hung around his face like golden stalactites. His cheekbones looked as though they’d been sculpted with a chisel. His chin was covered in fair prickles, giving him a rugged edge. He chopped back brambles with an axe.