by G M Seed
The
figure hung, perilously, fingers scrabbling on the wet guttering for purchase,
before dropping to the ground. Fortunately the landing was soft. Unfortunately,
that was because it was The Stables' muck heap. Undaunted,
the figure in black crouched low and scanned the yard. Time to get breath
back following the scramble over fields and through hedges. The yard was
enveloped in silence, broken only by the occasional soft whicker of the
dozing horses. Which one would be best to take?
The figure
crept towards a grey mare in the corner box. She looked built for speed
- important to put distance between the fugitive and the pursuers who
would be so quickly on the trail. The mare was obliging about being bridled.
The figure was careful to drop the note, painstakingly forged, into the
straw of the horse's bed: "I dare you to hide one of Mummy's horses."
It was a passable imitation of Daniel's worryingly infantile writing.
They avoided
the cobblestones which provided such convincing sound effects, and instead
picked their way across the over-manicured lawn. The gouged crescents
of the mare's hoofs in the previously flawless square of emerald would
give Shula something to moan about, but as the rider reflected, that was
when she was happiest.
Once onto
the Green, the rider gave the mare her head. Off they streamed, past the
darkened cottages of Olde Ambridge.
They were
careful to give Glebelands a wide berth. Notwithstanding the fact that
it was 2.00am, that part of Ambridge was a hotbed of activity and excitement
and they were bound to be spotted by some lightweight leaving Fletcher's
nightclub early. (The fugitive had previously queried why so few residents
from outside Glebelands made use of the area's state-of-the-art gym, with
its spinning and power-yoga classes; the fully-equipped spa which replicated
an Icelandic hot spring; the sympathetically-rendered shopping zone with
stores such as Moulton Brown, The Pier, Miss Sixty and Jo Malone; and
of course the legendary Fletcher's, which had recently got a write-up
in Time Out and was famous - if not notorious - for developing the lethal
"Carter Killer" cocktail. "We don't talk about it"
was the reply.)
For most
of the route, it was possible to cut across the fields but there was one
stretch when it became necessary to follow the road to avoid being revealed
in the glare of the flashing Santa Claus, dancing snowmen and flying reindeer
affixed to the roof and outer walls of one house. Cautiously, the rider
slowed the mare to a collected canter and steered her along the roadside
verge.
Suddenly
the road was illuminated in a splash of white light. Heart pounding, the
rider pulled the mare into the shadow of a half-finished lean-to and halted.
Was this them? Was the game up? The feeling of relief was overwhelming
as a gleaming 4x4 with a pair of bootees swinging from the rearview mirror
swept past without slowing. The rider caught a glimpse of an older man
wrestling with the wheel while speaking on a mobile phone.
There were
no more scares. The gallant mare galloped on, Ambridge receding ever-further
in the distance. Soon they would have to stop and seek refreshments and
a place to hole up during daylight hours. The rider judged they were far
enough away to be safe.
* * *
It was morning
in Ambridge. Ruth lay in bed, idly flicking through a copy of "Which
Hereford?" and listening to Chaba swearing at the cows in Hungarian.
Soon it would be time to get up, but she had a few more moments to rehearse
her lies. Okay. She would tell David that she was at a Milk Board conference,
she hadn't used that one for a while. And if she inadvertently let her
lover's name slip afterwards-well, it wouldn't be unrealistic for them
both to have been there.
She shivered
with anticipation at the thought of her imminent liaison. Who would have
thought she could find so much pleasure, so much passion? Poor deluded
David didn't have an inkling. What made it even more thrilling, and gave
Ruth an extra frisson , was the knowledge (although David hadn't guessed
she knew) that he fancied Debbie himself. He would be devastated on all
fronts to discover that his apparently devoted wife had got there first.
Of course,
this whole affair would never be possible if Ruth weren't able to palm
her kids, and especially Ben, off onto her mother. It had been a stroke
of genius getting David to bring Heather down to Ambridge. They'd all
fallen for her devoted-daughter act and she now had a permanent babysitter-cum-housekeeper
to leave her free to pursue her illicit lesbian affair.
It dawned
on Ruth that she hadn't heard Heather shuffling about and cooing over
Ben yet. She hoped her mother wasn't starting to follow her own slothful
ways. She sprang up and marched through the house to Heather's bedroom.
At the door she paused, rearranged her expression into "Number 3
- concerned daughter" and tapped gently on the door, pushing it open
in the same movement.
"Mum,
are you okay?" she said softly. There was silence. "Mum?"
The room
was empty. Heather's discarded nightdress lay on the stripped bed. The
curtains flapped gently in the breeze of the open window and tangled with
the rope of knotted bedsheets which snaked over the windowsill and down
into the yard.
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