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Pompomberry House

Page 5

by Trevithick, Rosen

“Yes.”

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! See, I told the others you were okay really.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “You’re still going to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want you to!” she asserted, blocking the door with an arm.

  “Please Annabel, I need to get away for a couple of hours. Come on ... to thank me for letting you have Rafe?”

  She smiled, and removed her smooth, depilated arm. “All right then, it’ll be our little secret.”

  Yes, ours and everyone’s who was there at dinner.

  * * *

  It was dark and I stumbled over boulders as my feet searched for sand. Where was the stone causeway? I cursed myself for not having the foresight to bring a torch. Still, at least the light from the dining room provided some assistance.

  Was this really a good idea? I mean, yes, I needed a whisky and coke, but was I actually going to be any happier when I found a pub? I’d just kicked my husband out. I wasn’t going to feel dandy wherever I was.

  No, I’d said I was going for a drink, so go for a drink I would do. I couldn’t have these people thinking they could push me around. Goodness only knows what they’d do to my anthology entry if they thought they could get away with it.

  I had a few ideas for my entry. My favourite involved three horrendous, hypocritical charity representatives competing with murderous intent. Written carefully, it could be subtle, thoughtful and hilariously observant. In the wrong hands, it would be a disaster. My writing career depended on standing up to these people — at least, that’s what I told myself as I stepped in a rock pool. Damn, now both of my pairs of footwear are wet.

  Unexpectedly, I saw somebody disappearing up the steps. At least, I thought I did. In the darkness, it was hard to be sure.

  “Hello?” I called, wondering if one of the others had decided to come with me. If I were lucky, it would just be a mad axe murderer instead. The menacing prediction sprang into my mind and I felt a tingle run down my spine. I reprimanded myself for being so stupid, and continued walking.

  Suddenly, the faint covering of light evaporated. I looked back toward Pompomberry House. Somebody had closed the curtains. Goddammit.

  Oh well, I’d have to feel my way. I knew the general direction toward the steps. My bike lights should be in the glove compartment. Once I got to my car, I could grab them for finding my way back. The front one would probably be of some use.

  Using my phone to light the ground, I navigated my way to the steps, thinking that the hard part was over. Alas, the stones seemed to get more slippery the further I walked. When I was almost across, I stumbled. I found myself grasping at the bank, to steady myself. A handful of grass came away in my hand. I toppled backwards.

  By this stage I was closer to my car, and the bike lights inside it, than I was to the house, so there was no sense in turning back. Carefully, I ascended the rest of the steps.

  Again, I thought I saw somebody, or something, in the shadows. This time, I was afraid to call out. What if whatever it was meant me harm? Announcing my presence would do me no favours.

  I stood, paralysed for some moments, willing my eyes to see in the dark. Was there really somebody there? It was almost pitch dark. I wouldn’t see a person standing six inches in front of me. Argh! I wafted the air six inches in front of me, just to check.

  Go back, go back to the island! No. I’ve come this far. Go back. No, shut up inner voice, you cowardly custard. This is not a time for juvenile insults! Go back to the island. Oh, shut your big fat cake hole, will you?

  Stubbornly, I marched over to my car. Even in the darkness, the yellow paintwork helped it to stand out. I clicked the button on the key ring and jumped, even though I had expected the car to bleep. Pull yourself together.

  I opened the door and dived inside. Ah, safety. I took a few moments to laugh at myself. I wasn’t in a horror film, I was in the real world. People who want to kill people hang out in areas full of other people, not remote islands that are usually empty. Unless it’s a ghost. Oh shut up inner voice; I’ve had enough of you for one night.

  Turning the key in the ignition, I fantasised about the cool yet warming sense of whisky on my tongue. I prayed it wouldn’t be one of those days when Gertie’s engine failed to start. Fortunately, I heard the reassuring hum of the engine. However, as I began to reverse, I realised that something wasn’t right. Dammit. I had a flat tyre.

  Angrily, I grabbed a bike light from the glove compartment, stormed out of the car, and prodded the closest tyre. Yes, definitely flat. There was a spare in the boot but I’d never changed a wheel in my life. I prodded it again — yes, still flat. I took a deep breath and headed for the boot.

  However, as I angrily stomped towards the back of the car, I noticed that something else was amiss — the back tyre was flat too. Growling, I walked around to the other side of the car, already knowing what I would find. Sure enough, the tyres on the other side were flat too. Somebody must have tampered with them!

  I inspected the wheels carefully, there was no sign of damage to the tyres themselves, they didn’t appear to have been slashed or deliberately punctured. It seemed that somebody had let the air out.

  Who would do such a thing? I mentally skipped through the writers. I doubted any of them were fond of me, but surely I hadn’t offended anybody enough for them to vandalise my vehicle?

  In my mind, I retraced my steps. Apart from calling them a motley crew (in jest), expressing surprise that Danger was a bodyguard (who wouldn’t?) and giving Annabel the impression that I liked Rafe (I didn’t), I hadn’t done anything offensive whatsoever.

  Suddenly, I heard a loud beating, as if one hundred umbrellas were opening and closing. I wouldn’t mistake that sound again.

  “You!” I cried, shining my bike light at the creature before me — a giant seagull.

  * * *

  “I don’t think a seagull pecked your tyres flat,” said Montgomery, pacing around on his big, round, beetle-like feet. The furniture shook with his purposeful steps.

  “Well, something did!” I cried. “The seagulls around here are vicious.”

  “On the contrary, I think they’re rather cute!” Rafe objected.

  “You mustn’t feed them,” declared Dawn, the authority on food. “The owner was quite clear. The more you feed them, the more they want.”

  “Nonsense!” laughed Rafe. “They’re just birds.”

  “I’ll get you a cup of tea, shall I?” asked Dawn, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I was amazed by how comforting her arm actually was.

  I nodded.

  “And you said you saw somebody?” asked Annabel, passing me a packet of chocolate biscuits. She almost threw them into my hands, as if holding them might cause her to absorb calories through the skin.

  “I think so.”

  As the five of them rallied around me, with blankets, sweet treats and hot drinks, I wondered if I’d been wrong to judge them so quickly. I mean sure, they were largely vain, condescending, hypocritical and bitchy, but did that make them bad people?

  “Do you think we’ll be trapped for long?” asked Annabel.

  “We’re not trapped,” I pointed out, passing the biscuits back to her.

  “Maybe they’ll find us here in fifty years, all old and changed,” suggested Dawn, through a wrinkled mouth in a craggy head, beneath already greying hair.

  “We will have run out of food by then,” stated Danger, bluntly.

  “Unless!” cried Rafe, leaping into the centre of the room. “Unless we start eating one another!”

  Annabel shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Why would we eat one another?”

  “That’s what happens when groups get stranded. They have to pick the weakest one, and eat them!”

  “Him or her,” said Montgomery, clearing his throat. “They have to pick the weakest one and eat him or her. We are here to improve our writing.”

  “Of course,” agreed Rafe, winking at me, Da
wn, Annabel, Danger and the furniture.

  “How would we know who is the weakest?” asked Danger.

  “Tests!” cried Rafe, splaying his immense hands with excitement. “We conduct a series of tests.”

  “How would you define weak?” Danger asked, clutching his scrawny upper arm with his even scrawnier hand.

  “The weakest, in a cannibal situation, is the one who is of least help in aiding the survival of the group as a whole.”

  “Can we stop this?” I asked. Ordinarily, a little ‘what if?’ speculation would be right up my alley, but the day had been weird enough already, and Rafe’s hypothetical munch fest was making me increasingly uncomfortable.

  “What’s eating you?” he asked, and then roared with laughter.

  “I get it! ‘What’s eating you?’ That’s hilarious,” laughed Dawn, patting the back of Rafe’s thigh.

  He looked perturbed and stepped out of her reach.

  “It’s just been a weird day,” I said, “You know, with my tyres and everything.”

  “I bet it was Enid Kibbler,” offered Montgomery.

  “Oh, come on Monty!” sang Dawn. “Ignore him, Dee. He thinks all the world’s problems are caused by one woman.”

  Montgomery’s cheeks blew up like puffer fish.

  “I can’t place the name,” I said. “Is she a politician?”

  “No!” scoffed Montgomery. “Thank gumdrops!”

  “She’s a reviewer,” explained Annabel, throwing the biscuits at me once again.

  “She said that Monty’s debut, I Shot a Man, was the most puerile cesspit of hammed-up nonsense she’d ever seen,” explained Dawn.

  “And she said that Dawn’s debut novel made her want to rip out her own eyes, torch her ear drums and sand off the tips of her fingers, to make sure that neither of the sequels had a way into her mind.”

  Dawn, who was getting noticeably irked, chuckled and added, “She also said that she felt sorry for Monty’s characters, having never been given personalities.”

  “And,” laughed Montgomery, falsely, “she said that she hoped Dawn’s fingers would get badly mangled during an unfortunate typewriter accident, stopping her from polluting the world of literature ever again.”

  “Then ...” began Dawn. The two writers had become so enraged that they were each the colour of beetroot. Yet, they tried to make out that it was all good fun, with giant, toothy grins and wobbling heads.

  I decided to intervene. “Have you all heard of Enid ... what was it ... Kipper?”

  “Kibbler,” the five of them chorused.

  “I’m amazed that you haven’t,” remarked Rafe.

  “She can’t have read your book,” added Annabel.

  “She is the thing I fear most about finishing mine,” explained Danger.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Dawn. “If you get an Enid, I’ll happily write you a counter review.”

  “Is that not a bit immoral?” asked Danger. “I mean, since you know me.”

  “Oh, so Enid’s opinion is valid and mine isn’t?” she asked, sounding affronted.

  “Doesn’t she like any books?” I asked, trying to change the subject a little.

  “She doesn’t like indies,” explained Dawn. “She hates us.”

  “But why? Mark Twain self-published.”

  “A point I’ve raised many times,” said Dawn, grimly.

  “What, you reply to her reviews?”

  Dawn nodded.

  “Does that help?”

  “Her comments couldn’t get any worse.”

  “She’s never liked a single indie book,” explained Rafe.

  “She didn’t even like Falling for Flatley,” wailed Annabel, as if it were the most inexplicable thing ever.

  “Why does she keep reading them then?” I wondered.

  “One can only imagine that she enjoys destroying us,” offered Rafe.

  “Could she do any better? Is she a published author?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does she work for a newspaper or magazine?”

  “Nope.”

  “But she reviews all your books anyway?”

  “Yep.”

  “Charming woman.”

  “Quite.”

  “You’ll get ‘an Enid’ eventually. It happens to us all.”

  “At least she gives our books a try,” said Rafe. “Not like that dreadful Peter Pearson.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the managing director of one of the big publishing houses.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s always on the news complaining about indie writers.”

  “That’s when he’s not complaining about eReaders,” said Montgomery.

  “Or Amazon in general,” added Dawn.

  “And it doesn’t sound as though he’s ever actually read an indie book in his life,” said Annabel.

  “Not very dignified, is it? Belittling the competition.” I observed.

  “Not at all,” they all agreed.

  I saw a humble side to the writers that night. Beneath their arrogant, foolishly competitive and enormously off-putting postures, they were vulnerable, hopeful people, trying to make a living, just as I was.

  * * *

  The wind wailed, the surf smashed. I longed to fling open the French doors, throw caution to the wind and rush outside. I craved the feeling of rain beating against my arms. I loved a good midnight storm. However, I had to consider that there were ferocious, assassin seagulls, deathly prophecies stowed in hats, silent but frightful goblins moving through the night, and tyres still bleeding from open wounds.

  So instead, I stood alone in the living room, gazing out, wondering what it might be like to sail on the seas on such a night as this. I fingered my pencil case. If the writing career didn’t work out, becoming a pirate was my second choice. A pirate would take no nonsense from our feathered friends. (I suddenly had a new idea for a children’s book — Parrot versus Seagull.)

  Abruptly, a shadow was cast over me, but not before I’d caught a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with pure arrogance. “Rafe.”

  “You recognise me by scent alone!” he said with glee. He slid his way between the French doors and me. I stepped backwards, to be absolutely sure that there would be no inadvertent physical contact. I couldn’t chance accidentally swaying into him, allowing my nose, or worse still, a nipple (clothed, but still in danger), to brush across the lapel of his stupidly luxurious suit. Not for the first time in my life, I relished being a B cup.

  “I thought you were with the others, finishing off the wine,” I said, pointedly.

  “I was, but then I realised that I have something to tell you,” he smirked. He had that irksome Buzz Lightyear look about him; I’d noticed it happen to smug men before — their self-satisfied smiles climb so high up their faces that their chins looks artificially chunky. He lifted an eyebrow, completing the look. “Want to know what I have to tell you?”

  I grunted, deliberately failing to show the level of excitement that he was no doubt expecting to hear.

  “Dee, with your boyish looks and your bolshie charm, you have excited a curiosity within my soul,” he said, with forced Shakespearian tones, beating his heart with a closed fist.

  “What?” I clutched my pencil case, for comfort.

  “It’s your eyes. They are titillating, turquoise tunnels into a scintillating mind.”

  “Trying to woo me with alliteration, huh?” I scoffed, making a mental note to wear sunglasses from now on.

  “Oh, there’s that exhilarating obstinacy again!”

  “Is there something that you want, Rafe?”

  “Oh Dee, satisfy this deep yearning curiosity,” he cried, now beating both of his fists against his ribcage.

  I laughed, there was nothing else I could do.

  “What can I do to make you look at me with kinder eyes? Your turquoise tunnels torment me!” He fluttered his long eyelashes, in a rather disturbing fashion.


  “Well, you could stop talking like a pretentious buffoon for a start. You’re not writing now.”

  “I love it! Feisty! Grr!” He made claws with his fingers and mauled the air.

  “What is it that you want, Rafe?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m trying to tempt you to invite me into your garden of ... I’m trying to fuck you.”

  Oh God. What had I done to deserve this? Why had he picked the one person on this island who did not want to sleep with him? Then it dawned on me — he hadn’t. “I’m surprised that Annabel turned you down.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You did hit on her first?”

  “No!”

  “Oh come on, Rafe! I’m not going to sleep with you either way, so you may as well be honest.”

  “You’re not?” he asked, sounding truly shocked. Confused, he patted his chocolate-coloured tresses, knowing full well that he’d used too much putty for a single hair to be out of place. Then, he stroked his chin and nodded to himself. He was clearly satisfied that he looked his best, making my refusal incomprehensible to him. He looked at me with total bewilderment. “You’re not going to let me seduce you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I came straight here. You were my first choice!”

  “And will you go straight to bed now?”

  He paused, just for a fleeting second, but it was long enough. “Yes,” he said. But it was too late — that second was like a giant banner declaring his intentions toward Annabel.

  “Go get her, Rafe!”

  He looked at me for a few seconds and then I saw him give up. The flirtatious posture turned into a sloppy slump and I think I heard him let off a little wind. A few seconds later, he leaned a little closer. “Do you think she likes me?”

  “Oh get stuffed, Rafe, you know she does!” False modesty was wasted on me. “Probably best if you cut the poetry too ... Actually, scratch that, I think she’ll love it.”

  He squatted slightly, and gave me a warm peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Dee.” Then, he grabbed my pencil case, dug out a black felt-tip pen, and began scribbling.

  “Hey, what are you doing? That’s permanent!”

  “Good, because it’s my permanent phone number.”

  I watched him walk away, swaggering once again. I fumed about the mindless vandalism. I’d had that pencil case for five years — five! It helped me feel like a writer, in ways that having sold eight hundred Kindle books never could. Now it was tainted with Rafe Maddocks-ness.

 

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