Meanwhile Gardens

by Charles Caselton

  Despite her repeated questioning no one would tell her why she was being held prisoner. The fact that she was being looked after, or at least not overly mistreated, reassured her in some way. Perhaps they had got the wrong person, perhaps they thought she was the daughter of some incredibly rich, doting father who would pay a king’s ransom to see his daughter again.

  Perhaps.

  What worried her about this scenario was how they would react when they found out that her family had no money and couldn’t care less what happened to her.

  “Are you going to talk to me today?” she asked.

  In reply the young man handed a styrofoam cup of soup and a clingfilm wrapped sandwich through the bars to her. Hearing the ticking timer click on Rion again tried to peer through the gap in the door, but the young man blocked her view.

  What she saw next threw her more than slightly.

  Another young man, the spitting image of the one already in the room, stuck his head around the door.

  Rion suddenly had a dreadful thought – was the heater spewing poisonous fumes that were affecting her vision?

  “Please switch off the fire,” she said shakily. Rion held onto the bars to stop her legs buckling, “I think it’s leaking.”

  She took a breath to steady herself then realised that, if the fire was leaking gas, this might be the wrong thing to do. Unsure whether to hold her breath or not Rion sat down on the mattress and hoped that when she opened her eyes there would only be one of the young men, like there had been yesterday.

  It was not to be.

  The mirror image entered the room and whispered to his twin who repeatedly pointed to the other side of the fine mesh grille. Ignoring Rion who had slumped on the mattress they put their noses right up to the bars on the other side and peered through at Rion knew not what.

  Satisfied at what they saw they stepped back and turned their attention to Rion. Again the first twin hurriedly whispered to his brother.

  “Can’t you let me out just to over there?” Rion gestured to where the twins stood on the other side of the bars beside the elaborate chair. “You can close the door – it’s not like I’m going to run anywhere is it?”

  This question brought another bout of whispering during which the recently arrived twin, who it was clear was the senior, kept his eyes on her.

  “We’ll turn off the fire, and maybe let you come out here, if you do something for us,” Senior said.

  Rion immediately noticed he had a slight country burr to his voice. She got up from the mattress but stayed near the back wall. “Like what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “A favour for a favour,” he replied.

  Rion was surprised to find Senior didn’t have a creepy smirk like Gorby did, a mute, almost scared smile like Junior, or even a threatening grin like Ted & Mary, he had, rather, a natural, almost friendly sort of smile.

  “Such as?”

  Senior nodded to Junior who took a large key from a nail on the wall. After some fumbling he managed to open the latch allowing the bars to swing open.

  Rion felt momentarily confused without the barrier in front of her. Cautiously she stepped through into the other side of the cellar. She ran her fingers along the handrest of the once grand chair.

  “Whose is this?” she asked.

  “The Countess of Rosleagh’s,” Senior replied.

  Rion sat gingerly on the faded green cushion causing a small cloud of dust to flare up. She looked at the twins, “But what is it doing here?”

  Senior gestured in front of her to the part the twins had been so interested in, the part screened from her side by a fine mesh grill. “She wanted to be with her family,” he said.

  For the first time Rion looked through the bars to this hitherto concealed side. On the middle shelf directly at eye level, Rion saw what could only be a large coffin. It was covered in the same faded green velvet as the chair, the sides and corners lined with dulled silver studs.

  “The seventh Earl of Rosleagh,” Senior explained.

  Instead of revulsion or fear Rion felt a strong sense of fascination. On the shelf immediately above the Earl was a smaller coffin covered in the same faded velvet. Beside it was a bouquet of ceramic flowers, gleaming porcelain roses with intricate lead leaves, kept as if fresh under a dome of glass.

  “The Countess?” Rion asked the twins who nodded.

  “She died many years after the Earl and used to come here, almost every day Gorby said, to be with her husband and children.”

  “Children?” Rion asked.

  She followed the twins’ gaze to the top shelf. In a row were six small coffins ranging in size from, perhaps, a five-year-old’s to the tiny coffin of an infant.

  “Don’t worry they can’t get out,” Junior joked. “They’re thrice buried – wood within lead within wood.”

  Rion, her eyes welling up, simply stared at the sad row of six on the upper shelf.

  Senior switched off the fire. He opened the door a fraction, satisfied himself that the light in the corridor was switched off, then opened the door wider. Rion felt the deliciously cool draft clear away the stale, fumey air.

  “Now for your side of the agreement,” Senior said moving closer to Rion who instinctively shrank back. He smiled, “I’m not – ” he corrected himself, “ – we’re not going to touch you.”

  Rion kept her back to the bars.

  “For your increased freedom while we’re around all we ask is that you keep quiet.”

  This puzzled Rion. Had she been screaming in her sleep she wondered?

  “Do you see there?” Senior pointed to a small box at the feet end of the Earl’s coffin.

  Rion nodded.

  “We want that and intend to get it but you mustn’t let anyone else know,” he pulled closer.

  Rion shrank back. “What’s inside?” she asked.

  “The family jewels!” Junior crowed. He grabbed a metal staff from the door, poked it through the bars and wormed the thin end under the box. He levered it up and let the studded box fall, the gems inside rattling satisfactorily.

  “Beck!” his brother silenced him with a glare.

  “Doesn’t the same key fit? I mean can’t you just open the bars like you did on my side?” Rion asked.

  “They were sealed up after the Countess was laid to rest,” he pointed to the locks that had been soldered shut. “She wanted the family together for all time, never to be disturbed.”

  “And you intend to – ?”

  Senior slowly moved his head up and down. He took a metal file from his pocket and made sawing motions, “Very carefully. But if you tell – ” he scraped the file across his throat. The meaning was clear.

  The twins jumped at hearing a distant sound followed by the timer clicking on. “Quick!” Senior whispered urgently as he bundled Rion into her side. He closed the bars, looked around desperately for the key before realising his brother had it. Junior quickly threw it to him but before Senior had the time to lock Rion in the door groaned open.

  Gorby entered. In his hand he carried a newspaper. After some curt whispering to the twins they all left, locking the door behind them.

  Rion heard them vanish down the flagstone corridor. After a second she realised she hadn’t been locked in her side. She slowly opened the bars before hearing feet dash down the corridor. A key turned in the heavy vault door and Senior rushed in.

  “I have to do this,” Senior took the key from his pocket, locked Rion back behind her bars and replaced the key on its nail by the heavy oak door.

  “Wait!”

  Rion’s call stopped Senior at the door. He looked back.

  “Where is Rosleagh?” she asked.

  “Ireland.”

  “Is that where we are?”

  Senior simply hurried out, making sure to lock the vault behind him.

  Rion was left with the Earl and Countess of Rosleagh and their six children, wondering how on earth she had got into their family vault in Ireland and what had caused the tw
ins and Gorby to make such a speedy departure.

  Although it was scant consolation, Rion thought, she at least had all the time in the world to think about it.

  23

  SURPRISING NEWS

  Ollie had picked up Jake from hospital that morning. They had decided to set off to Bridlington in order to track down Rion’s parents and hopefully Rion.

  Jake had insisted on collecting something from his home before they set off. As he clambered back into the van Ollie saw what Jake had picked up – the battered tobacco tin no doubt filled with the cemetery’s finest.

  “What’s this one called?” Ollie asked with a smile.

  “Kensal Green,” Jake replied. “I’ve been dying for a draw for what seems like ages.”

  “You were only in St Mary’s for a week!”

  “Ah, but a week without weed is a long week indeed.”

  Ollie laughed. “I would have brought some in for you, baked a cake with it or something, if I hadn’t been so damn preoccupied.”

  Jake waved away his concern, “No matter.” He opened up the tin, took out the large silver Rizla and began rolling a joint on the Road Map of Great Britain. “My tolerance will be lower now anyway,” he grinned. “It’ll be a better buzz.”

  They were soon zooming up West End Lane onto the Finchley Road and Hendon Way. With Hum already asleep in the back they manoeuvred their way through the junctions of Brent Cross, merged with the correct lane and found themselves, with surprising ease, at the start of the Ml. The vast concrete motorway stretched northwards before them.

  “That wasn’t too bad was it?” Jake asked. He lit the joint he’d been waiting so long for and, out of respect to the driver, passed it to Ollie first.

  Before taking the proffered spliff Ollie had to find out something. “Where’s this on the scale between Mausoleum Madness and Headstone Homegrown?” he asked. “If it’s the former it’s best I don’t have any.”

  Jake smiled. “Kensal Green is probably the lightest, most scintillating of all the crops. It’s the mimosa of marijuanas.”

  Ollie took two quick puffs and handed it back to Jake, waving the joint away when it was offered back to him. “I could handle some tunes though. The adaptor thingy’s – ” Ollie reached over and opened the glove compartment, causing a stream of cassettes to spill over Jake’s feet. “ – here somewhere.”

  Jake looked at the van’s ancient radio/cassette player, “Does it work in these old machines?”

  “Not old mate, vintage,” Ollie grinned. “Works the same as any other.”

  Ollie popped the ipod adaptor into the car stereo, quickly glancing down at the battered cassettes between Jake’s worn Timberlands, “If you see anything embarrassing there it’s probably Nicky’s.”

  “Liar!” Jake plugged in the adapted cassette and scrolled through the selection. He grunted occasionally before finding one that met with his approval. “Is she seeing anyone?” he asked.

  “Who? Nicky?”

  Jake nodded.

  “She’s been off men for a bit.” As soon as Ollie said that he realised it might give the wrong impression. “I don’t mean she’s into women or anything – at least not that I know of – ” he added hastily. “Why?”

  Jake ignored the question, sat back in his seat and gave a satisfied sigh, “I love this.”

  Ollie listened as crashing guitars kicked into the start of Learn To Fly by the Foofighters. “Mmmmm. I love it too.” He was buzzing lightly now. Jake had been right. The Kensal Green batch had all the sparkle of a champagne cocktail. They were soon singing along to the song’s chorus before the heavily vibrating van got Ollie’s attention. He looked at the speedometer to find he was doing 85mph. “That song always gets me going. It’s great to run to,” Ollie smiled.

  “It’s great to wake up to.”

  Ollie eased off the volume, and the accelerator, until they were doing a quieter, more legal 70mph. It wouldn’t do to get stopped, not with a tin full of grass and the van smelling like a gathering of Rastafarians had taken up residence.

  “You know I saw them in concert years ago.”

  “Nicky and I saw them at the Astoria.”

  “Upstairs or downstairs?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Left or right side?”

  “If you were facing the stage it would be on the left. We were next to the speaker stack, although I think the fact that Matt Dillon was in the vicinity – ”

  “With Brad Pitt?”

  “Yeah,” Ollie laughed, “ – was the deciding factor in Nicky’s choice of location.”

  “I was in the same place! It was so great wasn’t it?”

  “It was so great I bought the T-shirt and the poster. I felt like I was twelve years old.”

  Jake chuckled at the image before asking, “Can I be dj?”

  “You’re in charge,” said Ollie. He looked at the fields speeding by. “You know if I won the lottery I’d have that song on permanent loop in my Jag. As soon as I opened the door – bam! there it would be.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said dreamily. “If I won the lottery I’d have the gasometers opposite me painted acid yellow and Trellick Tower painted turquoise.”

  “The day the world turned day-glo?”

  “You bet.”

  “There’s a gasometer on the way to Brighton that’s painted bright blue,” Ollie said, remembering with a pang of sadness the many journeys he had made to the south coast with James.

  “I’d vote for a council with such an enlightened policy wouldn’t you?”

  “Are you eligible to vote?”

  “Not at the cemetery where would they send the forms?”

  Ollie smiled, enjoying the grass, enjoying the drive, the music and Jake’s company.

  And so the miles went by, tunes were played and replayed, the friendship strengthened, joints rolled, crisps, chocolate and fruit pastilles eaten. It was only when they stopped at a petrol station outside Doncaster that the reason for their journey was rammed home to them.

  When Ollie finished walking Hum he returned to the van to find Jake, his arms filled with crisps and other goodies.

  “Despite the current mode of transport I didn’t really see you as ‘white van man’,” Ollie joked seeing a copy of the Sun under Jake’s arm.

  “I thought you should see this,” Jake unfurled the tabloid newspaper. On the front was Nicky’s black and white picture of Rion under the headline.

  “Top Supermodel Missing!”

  Rion woke to the sound of metal upon metal. With the heater switched off it was cold in the vault, but the chill was preferable to the stuffy, gas-fired fumes of before.

  She yawned, stretched and looked at her watch. Although she had only been asleep for little more than an hour it felt like days. Sleep had turned into something of a pastime here. With nothing to read, and precious few people to talk to, there was little else to do.

  Through the heavy door, open ajar, she could see shadows dancing in the gloom accompanied by the occasional grunt of exertion.

  “Gorby said it’ll make her more valuable.”

  From his voice Rion could tell it was the twin she had named Senior. So she was being held for ransom!

  “But won’t it make it more dangerous?” Beck, the junior of the twins, asked.

  The shadows came closer together. Another clash of metal brought a grunt before they danced apart. It seemed to Rion the twins were involved in a fencing match. She remembered the curious long swords she had seen in the barge. Rion looked over to the door where they were normally kept but the weapons weren’t in place. The twins must be fencing enthusiasts or something peculiar.

  In this Rion was not far wrong.

  “Why should it?” Senior asked.

  Rion could see the outlines of the Rosleagh boxes through the fine mesh. She felt comforted by their presence, and oddly grateful, it was like they were watching over her in a benign and loving way.

  Rion looked around the vaulted cell to see if anythi
ng had changed since she’d been asleep. The guttering candle had been replaced by a tall, cleaner burning one, the Countess’ chair still faced her family, a Sainsburys bag lay crumpled on the floor beside it. Rion didn’t know they had Sainsburys in Ireland but didn’t think too much about it. Her attention went back to the newspaper on the chair. She could see it was the Sun, if only she could see the date.

  Rion’s scream brought the twins rushing in. They found her one hand over her mouth, the other pointing at the newspaper on the other side of the bars.

  “Is the fire on?” she desperately wondered if the leaky heater was again affecting her vision, but Rion could see the gas bars were unlit.

  Her voice caught in her throat as she looked at the tabloid’s front page. There was no mistake – well there had to be some mistake she thought, what else would explain her face on the front of Britain’s biggest selling tabloid?

  “Didn’t know you were a supermodel,” Beck’s voice contained a hint of admiration and more than a hint of jealousy.

  Rion didn’t know either. “I – er – ,” she began. She had to play this cool she realised. This meant that speaking, at least at this stage, was inadvisable. Abandoning any attempt at putting her thoughts into words Rion simply gestured through the bars for the newssheet to be passed to her.

  The photographer used her sweetest of phone voices, “Justin it’s Nicky.” She thought about adding ‘again’, but decided that might sound facetious. She wanted to stay on his good side. At least at this stage.

  “She’s gone home,” Lady Peter’s personal assistant replied.

  “Did you give her my messages?”

  “Of course,” Justin didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

  “Give me her number Justin. It’s important.”

  The PA’s sigh was clearly audible down the phone.

  Nicky paused for a second. Although she felt ridiculous saying the next part Nicky thought she should give it a try, “Angie would want you to give it to me.” Isn’t that how you do it – plant a hypnotic suggestion in their mind, give it added emphasis and let them obey you?