Ceremonies of Innocence

by Annie Bullen

  ‘You little tart’ thud. ‘Unlock the sodding’ thud ‘door before’ thud ‘I break it down.’

  ‘Fergus!’ screamed Dorelia. ‘Fergus – please help!’

  Not even Fergus could sleep through that amount of noise, and he was already on his way to find out what was going on before he heard Dorelia’s panic-stricken cry for help. ‘Cut that out Tom,’ he said, standing stockily in the doorway. ‘Stop that sodding noise. What’s up, then?’

  ‘That stupid tart, she’s gone and locked herself in. I told her not to. I told her.’ Tom’s toothless mumble came fast and high. Dorelia leant her hot face against the inside of the bathroom door.

  ‘All right. Leave her to me. Go on mate. Out the way. Dorelia. You in there?’

  ‘Oh Fergus.’ Dorelia unlocked the door and, bursting out, flung her arms round his neck. Fergus sniffed and patted her awkwardly on the back. But then he stiffened and cocked his head on one side.

  ‘Shut up Dorelia. Belt up will you!’ The quiet vibration of a car engine could be heard and, on an exposed piece of glass that the carpet blocking up the front door had failed to cover, a beam of light shone for a second or two. Then there were footsteps, two sets, and suddenly a smart double knock on the door. They all jumped. Fergus put his hand up to Dorelia’s mouth to stifle any exclamation. She choked on the sweet nicotine-tinged smell of his moist fingers. He felt her recoil and put out his left hand in warning. It cupped her breast. She kept quite still.

  The knock came again, harder this time and a voice called out.

  ‘Police here. Fergus Slack, we’d like a word with you. We have some questions for you Fergus.’

  Tommy tiptoed across to Fergus and Dorelia.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Ssshhh. They’ve got to go to get a warrant if I don’t answer. They can’t just break in,’ whispered Fergus.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Thought you said she was a hostage?’ Fergus took his hands away from Dorelia, who immediately clutched at his arm. Tommy, mistakenly thinking she was attacking, clenched his fist and hit her, softly, in the corner of her mouth. She screamed and clung to Fergus.

  ‘Open up at once.’ The police hammering redoubled.

  ‘You stupid tart,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – he hit me,’ sobbed Dorelia. Tommy, passions inflamed beyond endurance by the drama, moved over to the front door.

  ‘Go away. We have a hostage. If you try to come in, she’s dead,’ he said succinctly.

  There was a scuffling and muttering on the doorstep. A moment later the footsteps receded, an engine started up and sounds of a car driving down the lane announced the police retreat.

  ‘You … stupid … cunt.’ Fergus, switching on the hall light, pushed his face up against Tommy’s. The lad backed into the corner.

  ‘Whaddya mean?’ he whined. ‘You said she was the hostage. I thought this was for real.’

  ‘It fucking is now!’

  ‘I’m sorry Fergus.’ Dorelia tried to think rationally. She sensed that Fergus was looking for a way out. ‘I didn’t mean to scream but your horrible friend hit me,’ she glared at the diminished Tommy.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Fergus spoke wearily. He turned to Tommy. ‘Did you get rid of all the stuff, like I said?’ Tommy nodded. ‘We’re clean, right?’ He nodded again.

  Dorelia looked from one to the other. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about – but I can guess. So really they’ve got nothing on you except for me?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Well, that’s easy.’ Dorelia smiled with relief. ‘I’ll just ring them up or ring up my parents and say it’s all been a mistake and I was frightened when they banged on the door like that. I’ll say I just popped in with you to have a look at your place on my way to London. Why were you in such a hurry, though?’

  ‘Never mind. Look, there’s no phone. You’d better just go. Go on, scarper!’ Fergus pulled the car keys from his pocket with some effort and hustled her out of the kitchen, unlocking doors and undoing bolts on the way.

  ‘But Fergus,’ wailed Dorelia as she opened the car door. ‘I don’t know the way.’

  If Dorelia had followed the rather muddled directions delivered by Fergus, she would no doubt have been stopped at the bottom of the lane by the two men in the panda car which, having retreated to radio for help, was now waiting for those reinforcements. Instead, turning the wrong way out of the bungalow, she felt a surge of excitement and exhilaration as she steered the battered car down narrowing lanes whose fringe of grasses and late summer flowers tickled at the wheels as she went along. Dawn and a hazy sun was bringing the world back into daytime focus. Although she had passed a sleepless night she felt wide awake, ready to breathe in everything she saw, from the soft mist of grey sunlight on the hillside to the painterly outline of the stands of trees in the well-mannered fields.

  Her euphoria did not diminish when the old Morris, whose petrol gauge had not moved above the ‘empty’ mark for years regardless of what was in the tank, sighed to a halt. She got out and tried to push it onto the verge, but the car itself was almost as wide as the lane. Dorelia hoped that the weedy state of the road was some indication of lack of general use. She had seen a signpost about a mile back pointing in the direction of a village whose name she recognized and which she knew to be only six miles or so from Puttnam. The walk shouldn’t take her more than a couple of hours, and perhaps by the time she arrived the fuss would have died down.

  But Dorelia had not imagined the unrelenting force of the machinery which was now swinging into action. A local paper reporter attending the concert had already picked up poor Billy’s hit-and-run end. The caterers, hastily packed away after they had done the minimum clearing up, could not fail to hear the whisper that the daughter of the house had been ‘kidnapped’. The lad from the local paper ‘doorstepped’ the police station until a weary chief inspector, anxious to quash exaggerated rumours, admitted that, yes, there was a suspected abduction and yes, the suspect was also wanted in connection with the death of Mr Cruickshank.

  By seven o’clock that morning, the news that a young woman was being held hostage in a remote farm bungalow by a man wanted for questioning in connection with a death was the last item on the national radio news. Fergus heard it as he staggered from the smelly rug where he had been grabbing another couple of hours’ sleep before the Old Bill came back to get him. He was surprised that they had not turned up by now. After all it was at least three hours since Dorelia had left, and they should know that she was safe and well.

  Then he heard the news item as he boiled water for tea and he knew he was in for the whole bloody lot. A plan of action was being formulated at the nick – possibly at police headquarters. He giggled bitterly to himself. There would be dogs, loud-hailers, marksmen, the lot. Helicopters even.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he said under his breath, awed by what he had set in motion.

  Kattie and Clem luckily did not hear the news. Hugh, pottering around Marjorie’s neat kitchen, did. A long sleep on her settee had left him agreeably hungry and he had got up quietly to raid the fridge. A practised snapper-up of small trifles of food, he was dismayed, when he opened the door, to see that she was precise in her buying. One slice of ham, a small piece of cheese so neatly portioned that even a sliver missing would be noticed, four tomatoes on a plate, three eggs, a lettuce, two pints of milk and a carton of orange juice. He took a hearty swig from the carton and turned to other cupboards in search of biscuits. He had just decided that she would not notice the disappearance of two ginger nuts and one chocolate digestive when the radio chattered into life. After the initial shock – he jumped with ready guilt at the sound of a voice – he carried on cramming biscuit in his mouth. Then came the news of the ‘siege’. Absorbed in his happy munching, Hugh took no notice until slowly he began to recognize names, places, situations.

  ‘Oh, I say!
’ he gulped. ‘Marjorie!’ he yelled.

  ‘Good – you’ve helped yourself to breakfast.’ Marjorie, fully dressed in jumper and skirt, was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Yes. I mean no. I say, Marjorie, this is terrible. It sounds as if Fergus has gone mad and is holding Dorelia hostage. This is simply terrible. What on earth can we do?’

  But there was nothing anyone could do at this point. The police machine, as Fergus guessed, had been set into action.

  Armed men were brought in to augment the local force, most of whom were not trained to carry weapons. Dogs and their handlers were called. Messages flowed back and forth from County headquarters. The narrow lane leading up to Meadow Farm was a scene of intense activity. Uniformed men with caps and white gloves waved the odd Saturday morning motorist away and dealt cheerfully with small boys on push-bikes. Police vans drew up while the superintendent of the local station strode around with a clipboard and pen, issuing orders. Tim Tyson, wearing his Arran sweater over his trousers, had just arrived. He was tired and hot, having spent the last half hour at Puttnam with Kattie and Clem trying to reassure them. Kattie, who after a rest had changed out of the extraordinary garment of the night before, seemed far saner and more rational.

  ‘I’d like to come to talk to Fergus, Inspector. I honestly think he might listen to me. After all he lived here for some time, you know,’ she ended lamely. Clem looked at her with some compassion.

  ‘What do you think, Inspector?’

  ‘These events normally follow a pattern,’ said Tim, slowly. He had not told them of the short scream heard by the two constables during the night. ‘We’ve called in experts and they’ll tell us exactly what to do. They want me to go up there now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They feel it would be best for you to stay away for the time being, but don’t worry about keeping in touch with what is going on. I’m putting a constable on duty here and we’ll keep in contact with him over his radio.’

  But police manpower being what it was, and what with a dock strike at a nearby port, requiring men on duty to check on the pickets, the essential line of communication never turned up. What did turn up was Hugh, who galloped in through the back door dishevelled and distressed.

  Clem was not in the room when he arrived. He had gone to telephone his assistant to remind her of the arrival at the gallery that morning of the dealer who was to look at Angela’s work.

  Kattie had begun, in a hopeless sort of way, to clear away some of the mess. She was shifting piles of plates from one surface to another and trying to marshal the dirty glasses when Hugh made his appearance. His outfit of the night before had seemed inappropriate, so he had compromised by keeping on the plum-coloured trousers and topping them with a rust sailing smock, hastily borrowed from Marjorie. The effect was to emphasize the length of Hugh’s arms and the boniness of his wrists, which protruded noticeably.

  ‘Kattie dear, this is just too awful,’ Hugh stammered, managing as he advanced to pick up a piece of hardening cheese from a dish that should have been put in the fridge the night before. He ate it with grace as Kattie tried to explain what was happening.

  ‘But at the moment we are waiting for a policeman to keep us in touch with what is going on. He should have been here by now,’ she said doubtfully. She looked at Hugh, whose eyes were straying to a congealing pile of profiteroles.

  ‘Do you know that Anna’s still here – at least I suppose she is,’ she said.

  ‘My God! Of course. Do you know I had completely forgotten. She told me last night that she has a return flight booked for her and the child today. I suppose I must have assumed sort of unconsciously that she left after everything quietened down last night.’

  ‘Well, she seems to have taken charge of Angela, which is a blessing as far as I’m concerned. Look, Hugh, if you want something to eat, why don’t you just get a plate and help yourself? There’s plenty left over. I’ll make some tea.’

  As Hugh piled a plate high with a mixture of small savoury things and Kattie was trying to angle the kettle under the tap in a sink so overflowing with dishes that the task was almost impossible, a joyful chorus of voices could be heard in the hallway.

  ‘Dorelia!’ screamed Kattie, and dropped the kettle, cracking a beautiful hand-painted Portuguese plate and smashing a delicate old Worcester cup.

  ‘No!’ breathed Hugh, swallowing hard. ‘I say!’

  Clem’s booming tones played bass to Dorelia’s exclamations. Kattie and Hugh stood side by side in the kitchen, waiting as the voices drew nearer.

  ‘She’s safe!’ Clem had swept his tall daughter off her feet and bore her aloft into the kitchen, where she wriggled from his grasp.

  ‘My poor feet,’ she complained. ‘They hurt like anything. Food! I’m starving. I say Hugh, you old piggy, are you really going to eat all that?’

  ‘Dorelia!’ Kattie’s voice, sharpened by relief, pulled her back to attention. ‘Did the police free you? Where’s Fergus? Have they arrested him? Will someone please tell me what is happening?’

  ‘Good Heavens,’ shouted Clem, when Dorelia’s version of her release had been told. ‘They think she’s still there. Do you mean to tell us that you went of your own free will and there never was any danger?’

  ‘I’m not sure really. I didn’t want to go in the first place though. There is an awful boy there with a knife and he pointed it at me when Fergus was asleep and he hit me once –oh, can I cut off some of that ham please? – but Fergus never threatened me. I think he was playing some kind of weird game when he thought the police were chasing him.’ Dorelia pranced around the kitchen, choosing her breakfast.

  ‘We’ll have to let the police know.’ Clem disappeared to telephone the local station. ‘There appears to be some confusion,’ he announced when he came back a moment later. ‘The woman I spoke to didn’t seem to know what was going on. She said everyone had been called out. Perhaps she was the cleaner. It all seems very odd,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I’ll go. I’d like to go!’ Hugh, baulked a second time of his breakfast, swung easily into the role of knight errant. ‘I’ll go out to the farm and tell that police inspector. That’s the chappie who came to our concert last night, isn’t it? He must be fond of music. Extraordinary!’

  Clem eventually agreed, and gave Hugh the keys to his car. He was doubtful about the errand but he felt that both he and Kattie should sit and talk with Dorelia. He felt a helpless surge of love for her well up in him as it had done when she was a tiny baby. He looked over at her, totally absorbed in satisfying her hunger, poking doubtfully at a piece of cheese with a long white finger.

  Inside the farm the scene was dark and grim. All the curtains were drawn across so that, although it was broad daylight outside, every move indoors was accompanied by a shadow cast by the unshaded lights in each room. Fergus was refusing to take any action. Why the police did not realize that Dorelia was safely away was beyond him, but he suspected some sort of conspiracy.

  The odds had always been stacked against him.

  Tommy, on the other hand, was beginning to enjoy him-self. He had found a shotgun, used in the old days for potting the odd pheasant or keeping the pigeon population at a reasonable level. There was a box of cartridges kept at the back of the airing cupboard. He rummaged for these and found them, carrying them away secretly, with the gun, to the bedroom where he had held Dorelia captive. He pulled a chair up under the door handle. He thought he heard Fergus call once, but he ignored him, excited by the sounds of activity outside.

  He had drawn the curtains across the metal-framed window. Now he pulled the bed across the room so that he could kneel on it to peer through a gap to the scene outside. The bedroom faced the yard, which widened into a turning circle by the front of the bungalow. There were lawns and shrubs around the yard, and it was behind one of those clumps of shrubs that police activity was most intense.

  ‘Christ Almighty! There must be at least twenty of the bastards out there!’ He watched, sweating, as three police Alsati
ans with their handlers appeared in the distance at the bottom of the driveway. They disappeared, hidden by the bushes as they made their way up to the house. He couldn’t see too clearly, so he twitched a minute part of the curtain back for a better view. There was a crack right across the pane of glass in the lower left-hand corner of the window. Tommy prodded at the glass below the crack and felt it wobble. He worked at it, pushing it out of the frame, swore as he nicked his finger, then laid the glass carefully under the bed and carried on watching.

  In the garden, to his left, was an area once dug out as a family swimming pool. The company called in to do the job had been less than reputable, and any water that the pool contained had drained away years before, leaving a rather slimy algae-laden concrete dugout. This seemed to be where the police were establishing their field headquarters. Tommy whistled cold air in over his gums as he watched six men line up to receive weapons, handed out solemnly by a sergeant. They retreated to positions in the bushes. Three of them circled widely, presumably to be in sight of the back of the house.

  ‘We’re ringed,’ thought Tommy. He left his gun leaning up against the bed as he moved over to the corner to relieve himself into an empty paint tin.

  Fergus was lying dreamily on his back, his plump legs raised and crossed at the knee, smoking his last piece of Lebanese black. What was to happen next he did not know and, right now, did not care. He was thinking about the last time he had been caught by Tim and his men. They had turned up one Sunday morning. The old lady had just been carted off to hospital and Fergus was living at the bungalow. He had had a dog, an Alsatian called Michael, who lived there with them. He belonged to a girl called Cindy who was sleeping with him. Fergus sniffed. Nice tart she was, he thought.

  He had got wind of the impending visit and, all the dope in the house tucked under his arm in a sealed biscuit tin, had gone into the woods, taking a spade with him. Michael, his feathery tail wagging, trotted alongside him. About a mile from the bungalow, in a carefully noted spot, Fergus dug a deep hole and buried the tin with its precious contents. He had several other such caches.