Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  Bathsheba and the Campion sisters were tutting loudly that they'd always suspected as much. Bronwyn and Bernie helped themselves to another sherry. Several of the guests were searching for their hats and gloves.

  'It's awfully exciting, isn't it?' Petunia nudged Jemima. 'Do you think there's any chance of us getting free copies?'

  'I shouldn't think so. Anyway, I couldn't agree to that. It would ruin my profit margins – bloody hell!'

  Everyone in the room was silent. The screaming from upstairs would have outdone the finale of Fatal Attraction. Holy shit, Jemima thought, he's stabbed her with a crucifix.

  The sitting-room door flew open. A very un-stabbed Gillian belted in, followed by an equally distraught Glen.

  It's the boys! My little boys! My babies! They've gone to the fucking Nuke!'

  Chapter Thirty-six

  'They do drugs, you know.' Bronwyn spoke up from Floss's back seat. 'Everyone knows that.'

  'What, the twins?' Jemima nearly veered off the road. 'They're only children!'

  'Not the twins, silly girl! No – these rave places – they do drugs. Vitamin E. I've seen it on the News.'

  How, Jemima wondered, she'd managed to get Bronwyn, Petunia and Bathsheba in the back of her car, she really wasn't sure. Bernie Pugh, well strapped in, was sitting rigidly beside her. Ted Cox had been left open-mouthed on the drive. There was some scant hope that the Campion sisters may have picked him up in their Morris Minor.

  Glen and Gillian had torn off in the elderly Triumph, leaving everyone else, teeth chattering in the subzero temperatures, staring blankly after it on the frosted gravel. Jemima had yanked open Floss's door. The scramble for the seats had been like the first day of the sales. Those not lucky enough to find accommodation in the leading cars, had tumbled into whatever transport was available. The resulting convoy was just like the chase scene in Clockwise.

  She turned up the heater as she rounded the Peapods bend far too fast and winced. They'd all end up in the stream if she wasn't careful. To hell with the fact that she'd probably had too many sherries – every policeman in the Thames Valley would be patrolling the Nuke. They wouldn't, surely, be breathalysing anyone on the back roads of Milton St John. She'd just have to park Floss a decent distance from the marquee.

  'You can hear the music from here!' Petunia piped from somewhere beneath Bronwyn and Bathsheba. 'Doesn't it sound lovely?'

  It did, actually. It sounded bassy and sexy and primal and altogether exciting.

  Jemima, trying to suppress total glee that she was actually going to the Nuke, attempted to remind herself of the potential severity of the circumstances. She kept failing miserably. She only wished she'd had time to change out of the wool dress and slip into something by Dolce & Gabbana.

  'I always knew Gillian was up to no good.' Bathsheba leaned across from the back seat as they hurtled along the single-track road in the darkness. The only signs of life were the Triumph's tail-lights streaking occasionally ahead of them and the Nuke's blue strobes dancing across the sky. 'Her being a porn writer comes as no surprise. No surprise at all. Devious so-and-so. Marching with us – pretending to be on our side! You and her were in cahoots, no doubt, young lady?'

  Jemima smiled serenely. 'We were. And I'm very proud of her. And if you say anything detrimental about me or Gillian or Bella-Donna Stockings or Fishnets, then I'll stop the car and turf you out. Okay?'

  After a moment's stunned silence, Bathsheba muttered mutinously, 'That's as maybe, but you tell me why her kiddies have run away tonight. Disturbed, that's what they are. No proper mothering at home. Why else would they want to be going to this – this – Nuclear thing?'

  'Probably for the same reason as your daughter.' Jemima risked a glance in the driving mirror. 'Only, of course, Lucinda will be safely and chastely escorted by Charlie, won't she?'

  'Attagirl!' Bronwyn trumpeted. 'And shut up about them damn Fishnets tonight, Bathsheba, do. There's more important things to bother about than Gillian writing a bit of slap and tickle.'

  Bathsheba huffed a bit but said nothing. Jemima's smile edged up a few hundred watts in the darkness. Bernie Pugh patted her knee. 'I reckon she'll have enough trouble with the Vicar, my love. If she can win him round, then she shouldn't worry about a few mardy old women.'

  There was a squawking explosion from the back seat.

  'Here we are.' Jemima squealed Floss to a halt on the outskirts of the field. 'Holy shit!'

  The whole world must have been there. Not only was the music loud enough to jar her bones, but if the crowds outside the marquee were anything to go by, then inside must be total bedlam.

  'Goodness! It's like the war years!' Petunia was first out of the back of the car. 'Look at all those bivouacs!'

  Half a dozen additional tents had sprung up round the marquee. Each pulsed with a life and colour of its own. Locking the doors, and deciding to leave the Parish Biddies to their own devices, Jemima hurtled towards the entrance. If they hadn't slaughtered each other on the journey, Glen and Gillian must be somewhere inside. She was pretty sure she'd never find them. There must be thousands and thousands of people.

  'Ticket!' A bald man in a tuxedo barked. 'Or arm-pass!'

  Jemima stared at him. This was no time for niceties. She glanced over her shoulder. A stream of weirdly clad children were queuing behind her. She shrugged towards the nearest boy who was probably about twelve. 'Martin's got my ticket. 'Bye.'

  She ducked beneath the momentarily distracted tuxedoed arm and belted inside. It was like nothing on earth.

  The lasers pulsed to the bass line, and the bass line pierced her emotions. Jesus! An entire generation of children looking very grown up in heavy make-up and pantomime costumes were gyrating wildly. Tribal wasn't in it.

  How would they ever find Levi and Zeke in this lot? Trying to get accustomed to the perpetual noise, lights, and motion, Jemima could see no one she recognised. There were probably hundreds of parents across the country tonight in the same state of despair as Glen and Gillian. But where the hell should she start?

  Irritatingly, she wanted to dance. It was wildly infectious, although she'd probably never regain her normal hearing again. And she needn't have worried about the long woollen dress. People wore absolutely anything. And in some cases apparently nothing but body paint.

  'Jemima! Hi!' The voice was at Concorde level. 'You are real, aren't you?'

  She turned round. Lucinda, clutching two bottles of mineral water, was jigging on the spot beside her. Overwhelmed with relief at a familiar face, she tried to say hello and explain why she was there, but the music swirled her voice away.

  Lucinda laughed, shrugged, and continued jigging. Jemima grabbed at her ski-tanned arm like a lifeline. God – she looked gorgeous. Jemima felt the recent bubble of optimism deflate inside her. Charlie, with the dual delights of Lucinda and Tina to entertain him, would never, ever, give her a second glance. Suddenly the conker-coloured dress and her glasses seemed to label her frump of the decade.

  Lucinda, who was wearing what appeared to be a purple petticoat and nothing else, with purple and pink sequins attached to her eyelids, and fresh flowers entwined in the plait, looked like a dream. Her golden body gleamed beneath the lights. Jemima felt old and jaded and wanted to go home.

  In a brief moment of relative hush, Jemima put her mouth to Lucinda's ear. 'Of course I'm bloody real! You haven't taken something, have you?'

  'I reckon they've spiked the water,' Lucinda yelled back. 'I'm hallucinating! I thought I saw my ma just now! Spooky!'

  The music changed and Lucinda slipped her arm away. Mouthing, 'Cool! Grooverider! I love this one! See ya!' she disappeared into the stomping sea — no doubt to be reconciled with Charlie.

  Jemima closed her eyes. This was a completely pointless exercise. The Nuke was due to run until seven in the morning. It would have been far more sensible to arrive at kicking-out time and collect the twins then. But they were only eight – almost nine. Surely they couldn't have got pa
st the doorman?

  She forced her way back towards the entrance of the marquee. It had been so different the last time she'd been here. Then she'd laughed and danced with Charlie and wanted the night to last for ever. She'd hoped, really hoped, that he wouldn't go home with Tina. But of course he had.

  'Arm-stamp if you're going into another tent!' a gruff voice barked in her ringing ear. 'Pull yer sleeve up.'

  Jemima did. At least that was one problem solved. She wouldn't have to purloin another prepubescent for the purpose.

  She shivered in the icy semi-darkness outside. It was still crowded with people cooling off, chilling out, smoking, dancing as they laughed and talked. The noise, although eardrum shattering was, by comparison to inside, almost bearable.

  The field was awash with police. Several giggling children, still executing pretty neat dance steps, and obviously chock-a-block full of Bronwyn's Vitamin E, were being led away between officers.

  'Thank God,' a familiar voice drawled in her ear. 'Someone of my own age to play with.'

  She'd wanted to kiss Charlie many times – but never quite as much as at that moment. Wearing grubby white jeans and a navy polo shirt, he looked more sexy than any man ever had a right to.

  'Lucinda said you were here.' He pushed his damp hair away from his forehead. 'But as she said she'd also seen her ma, I didn't believe her. Your mate Trev Perkiss is dealing in there like there's no tomorrow. I wondered if she'd taken something dubious.'

  Trev Perkiss? Oh, Reynard. 'Is he a dope dealer as well?'

  'He's just a dope. Tonight he's apparently calling himself Morpheus – the dream-giver. I'd like to give the bastard nightmares.'

  'Didn't he stay in custody after the hunt, then?'

  Charlie shook his head. 'Slippery sod. His mum cleans at the police station. She's probably got the Chief Commissioner's ear – or some other part of his anatomy. Cautioned and released pending social reports. Christ –' He looked along the row of slumped but still-dancing young boys in baggy combats and vests arrayed on the other side of Jemima. 'Are you with them?'

  'God, no – I came with Bernie Pugh and the Parish Biddies.'

  'I do love a woman with a sense of humour.' He squinted at her through the layers of multicoloured darkness. 'You haven't done anything, have you?'

  Her? No, never! Her life had been orderly, decent, and practically blameless. Oh, right – he meant drugs. She smiled. 'Only OD'd on Harvey's Bristol Cream. Listen –'

  She told him about Levi and Zeke's disappearance. 'Still I think they should be easy to spot – even in this crowd – after all, they're so tiny.'

  He grinned at her. 'Jemima – this is Milton St John. Every bloody tent is awash with flat jockeys on holiday. Anyone over three foot nothing will stand out like a virgin at a white wedding.'

  Of course, he was right. She shivered as the December temperature penetrated the blood-boiling heat from the marquee.

  'Come on then, we'll give it a go.' He moved away in the direction of the satellite tents. 'Only another four to search.'

  'What about Lucinda?'

  'Lucinda's with a lot of her St Hilda's chums. It was very exciting for a while. A whole pack of eighteen-year-olds wearing ballet skirts.' He shrugged. 'Eighteen is probably their age and their waist size – but they all seemed as old as Methuselah to me. It's a very dedicated sport, this – all they wanted to do was bloody dance. What about you? Matt hasn't returned from Devon for tonight, has he? He's not waiting for you to join him for mayhem on the dance floor?'

  They were halfway between the marquee and the first tent.

  'Matt didn't go to Devon.'

  'He did. Recuperation for his shoulder. He told me.'

  'Not unless they've introduced passport control between Teignmouth and Newton Abbot, he didn't.'

  Charlie raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He indicated towards a tent surrounded by an ethereal orange glow and a thumping life of its own. 'We'll start here. It's Ragga.'

  The rhythm reverberated. The guttural lyrics were so dirty that they made Spanky Panky seem like Rupert Bear. Jemima loved it. The girls were dressed in jungle prints and jewels and skin. Charlie, who seemed to know a lot about the club scene, raved about Beenie Man and Bounty Killer. She assumed they were horses.

  There was no sign of Levi and Zeke.

  They drew a blank in the other tents, too. Mind you, it had increased her education no end. Speed Garage was very flash with everyone looking like they should be at a Commem Ball and swigging champagne from the bottle, while Big Beat had an almost male clientele – it was hip hop and techno, Charlie screamed in her ear. Very laddish. Sort of seventies stuff with sex.

  Handbag House was really bizarre. If she'd thought the marquee dressers were outrageous, then this lot beat them hands down. It looked like an explosion in a Julian Clarey clone factory.

  'Ministry of Sound?' Charlie looked a bit shocked at her non-comprehension. 'Ibiza?'

  She continued to shake her head. She thought she recognised some of the music from Radio One but she couldn't be sure. Whatever it all meant, it was a million times better than swigging sherry in the Vicarage.

  'Back to the marquee, then,' Charlie said, shivering. 'God, it's cold out here. I wish we could get a proper bloody drink. I'm completely pissed off with water – and anything half decent has been tucked away behind the bar for the grown-ups to plunder later. I might have to bribe the barmen.'

  Jemima stopped. The scything wind sliced through her woollen dress. Two minutes ago she had thought she'd never feel cold again. Now, with black clouds piling across the luminous black sky, it looked and felt like it would snow. Should she go home now? Did she want a re-enactment of dancing with Charlie in the marquee? Something else to add to the increasing pile of Charlie Somerset interludes which had developed an irritating habit of invading her sleep?

  Charlie smiled at her. 'You might as well have a bit of a bop while you're here. There isn't much else we can do about the kids. No doubt Gillian and Glen will have told the police and they'll be able to keep an eye open for them.'

  'Gillian and Glen aren't exactly on the best of terms at the moment.'

  'Nah?' Charlie shouldered his way through a pack of kick boxers. 'Well, it must be a bit stressful for them.' 'She's told him about owning Bonne Nuit.'

  Charlie stopped walking. She almost cannoned into him. She had to veer off to one side to avoid touching him.

  'She also told him where the money had come from.'

  'Bugger! And I missed it! Drew and I have been speculating for months!' He gave her a glimpse of the gloriously sexy crooked grin. 'So, go on? Where? Is she blackmailing the Mothers' Union?'

  'She's Bella-Donna Stockings.'

  'Fucking hell!'

  'That's exactly what Glen said, actually.'

  Charlie's eyes gleamed. 'Really? Truly? It's not a wind-up?'

  'No wind-up. I've known for ages. She was trying to lose some of her income by buying the horse. She hadn't expected you to do so well on it.'

  Charlie still shook his head. 'God, I can't believe it. And I always fancied her in a sort of Madonna-ish way. Oh, not conical bras and stuff – I mean the real one. More kind of pure and untouchable. And she writes hard-core porn!' He sighed. 'I could have helped with the research. I wonder who did?'

  'No one, apparently. She's got a very vivid imagination. And she doesn't write porn, she writes erotica,' Jemima corrected, wanting to giggle at his expression. 'And I'm very proud of her. She's very clever.'

  'And devious. And so are you. How the hell did you manage to keep it quiet?'

  'I always keep secrets.' She walked towards the marquee and flashed her invisible purple star under the scanner. 'Remember?'

  Inside, it was once again wall-to-wall noise and movement. The dancers looked as though they'd be going until it got light. Reynard, or Morpheus, or whatever his bloody name was tonight, had obviously had a bumper selling spree.

  She wondered if Charlie was going to try to find L
ucinda, and tf he was, whether she should go back to the Vicarage. There wasn't much point in her staying – she hadn't even glimpsed the rest of the search party – and as far as she knew, Levi and Zeke could he snugly tucked up in bed.

  'Fancy a drink?' Charlie's mouth was close to her ear.

  She swallowed. 'Please – even if it's mineral water.'

  'I thought we could raid Gareth and Diana's more grown-up supplies. While the barmen are otherwise engaged.'

  The barmen had balloons on their heads and were all dancing with each other. Three hundred people were climbing over the bar and raiding the bottles. Charlie elbowed his way through the throng. 'Whisky? Vodka? Gin? Or do you want to stick to sherry?'

  'Anything but sherry.'

  She watched him as he poured two generous measures of gin into half-pint plastic tumblers and added a threat of tonic water. She'd definitely have to walk home.

  'Do you and Tina go clubbing?'

  'Yeah. A bit. It's not my scene, really. But she needs to be noticed.' He downed a quarter of the glass. 'She's a bit scared of going off, you know. I mean half the catwalk models on the big agency's books are under seventeen. She's getting past her sell-by date.'

  'Will she retire on her fortune and raise children then?' Jemima sipped the practically neat gin, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  'God knows. I think she wants to go into advertising. We don't talk about it much. We don't talk about anything much.' Charlie stopped and looked towards the music end of the marquee where a massive crowd had gathered round the DJ. 'What's going on?'

  The drum 'n' bass died away. The after-effects still rang in her ears. It was like being underwater. The echoes of a clock chime thundered through the marquee. Everyone started counting down.

  Big Ben. Almost midnight. Seven-and-six-and-five-and.... '

  Charlie put his glass on the bar and took hers from her hand.

  ... three-and-two-and....

  The marquee erupted. Everyone was screaming and kissing and hugging. Balloons cascaded from the ceiling.

  'Happy New Year.' Charlie pulled her towards him. 'I'm so glad I'm a traditionalist ...'