Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (30 page)

‘Shouldn't have done that,' said Cutie. ‘I'd start running for shelter if I were you. Try the potting shed over there.'

Skinner hissed. Another sting, this time on the chin and bloody painful. Then another. And another. A dawning horror gripped him when four came in quick succession, like machine gun bullets. Suddenly, a boiling cloud erupted from the hive nestling behind the honeysuckle. Compelled by pheromones leaking from the broken stingers, the bees smothered Skinner in an instant. He waved his arms frantically, but that had never really worked as a defence at any time in the past and so it proved on this occasion as well. The insects attacked with mindless determination, sacrificing themselves without hesitation. Skinner caught an excruciating sting on the eyeball and almost puked at the pain. A desperate need to find sanctuary replaced all thought of attacking the women. He sprinted for the brick potting shed with admirable vigour, the swarm trailing in his wake like smoke from a steam locomotive, launched himself through the heavy plank door and kicked it shut.

Cutie scampered after him and turned the key in the lock. ‘And that's how we do it around here,' she crowed triumphantly. Bees swarmed all over the shed, buzzing angrily. Some crawled under the door to continue their attack. Sounds of frantic stamping and whacking emanated from within. ‘Seems he'll be busy for some time,' said Martha. ‘Shall we get back to the others?'

Celeste knew Miller would be the most dangerous combatant of them all. He was the ringmaster, the lynchpin between the troops on the ground and their distant and as yet unidentified commanders. This needed to be handled delicately. Difficult, seeing as he appeared particularly intent on doing her some damage, but she remained hopeful she might be able to extract some information from him if at all possible.

He had a knife. Men who carried knives were readily disposed to using them. The knife worried her, but she was armed herself and had complete confidence in her own skills. Martha had chosen well – the whip was a little beauty. Braided rawhide with a short stock, ideal for close quarter encounters, and she'd added some extra zing by knotting the last four inches. She wanted him to suffer for his treatment of Milly. Cruelty to any animal was unjustified. Then there was the emotive subject of her husband's damaged danglies …

She picked her spot carefully. In the corridor leading to the library. Doreen had shown her how to set the trap and it was now behind her, unlocked and primed. The other women were gathered safely in the kitchen, the door bolted. Celeste did not want any of them around to distract her while she dealt with this exceptionally unpleasant man. Besides, she had all the help she needed waiting nearby. A back-up. Reserves. The cavalry.

‘Won't keep you a moment, Mr Johnstone,' she said evenly when he finally appeared. His angry calling for his comrades had been getting louder, signifying both his approach and increasing exasperation at their absence. She needed to show him she was not afraid and peered at her reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall, checking her make-up and tousling her hair unnecessarily in that way women have perfected specifically to annoy men who are in a hurry. ‘I think you'll find you're on your own. Your associates are now all, shall we say, indisposed. Forgive me for sounding harsh, but I won't be losing any sleep over their predicament.'

Miller padded towards her, knife in hand, his face contorted with rage. ‘What do you mean?'

Celeste dabbed on some lippy. ‘Are you thick or something? Does the employment of words with more than one syllable cause you difficulty?'

Miller paused, frowning. Well that was unexpected. Of all things, he hadn't bargained for an English lesson from the stuck-up bitch.

After one final check in the mirror to ensure all was perfect, Celeste turned to give him her full attention. ‘Let me explain more simply. The girls have brought your men down. All of them are now neutralised, two very painfully indeed. Looks like it's just you and me, Humph. I'd like to ask you some questions about the brains behind your brawn, but somehow, from the expression on your face, I don't think you'll be offering any information, and I'm certainly not going to tell you anything about our plans, so shall we crack on?' she said in a businesslike tone, uncoiling the whip casually, the chain wrapped around her other fist and dangling almost to the floor. Miller felt a wash of uncertainty. He recognised a creditable adversary when he saw one. Still, he had the knife, a generous physical advantage, full knowledge of martial arts, a complete absence of conscience and a ready predisposition to sadistic violence. A winning hand.

‘Sod plucking the parrot,' he said coldly. This was now personal. ‘I'm going to hurt you in an entirely different way.' Things had fallen apart badly. He needed to deal with this ginger cow, extract his men and execute a strategic withdrawal. Netheridge would have to come up with a different plan to deal with her perverted prick of a husband. ‘I'm going to enjoy this.'

‘So am I,' she replied with a sunny smile.

Miller advanced again, crouching low with arms spread wide, a carefully cultured murderous expression on his face. To his slight concern, she did not retreat. Usually, people retreated. Actually, they almost always retreated, often with commendable alacrity. More like fleeing in terror than retreating, but not this time. He knew he cut an intimidating figure, ex-special services guys always did, but the woman stood her ground.

‘Time to be afraid,' he said very softly, pointing at her with the knife.

Celeste sighed wearily. ‘Save your clichés. I've met – and bettered – far worse than you. You're a bully and a coward, Humph, and compared to Martin Shufflebottom, you're little more than a petulant, pusillanimous pussycat.'

‘A what?' Miller had been called many things in his life, but never that. A blush of righteous indignation coloured his face. ‘And who the hell is he?'

Celeste spotted the flush. Yes, you've still got it, girl. Tease him some more. Undermine his confidence, make him think defeat is a possibility, then force him into a mistake. It had worked at school, no reason to think it wouldn't work now.

‘Martin is a rage-filled psycho. You know, a proper man. He'd never hide behind a knife. Fists, teeth and boots are his weapons. Balls of steel, that one. Entirely out of your league, Humph. I mean, come on, even I can see you've got hands of beer-softened veal.'

Miller went hot. Goaded by her mocking, he pounced. Cut first to incapacitate, then enjoy.

His lunge was anticipated. Celeste twisted to one side, spinning away before lashing at him with explosive strength, the whip hissing like an enraged cobra. Carried by his momentum, Miller fell into the stroking leather. Pain, indescribable in its intensity, erupted in his neck and shoulder. The knotted tip of the whip curled around his face and excoriated his left cheek and eye. Miller yelped, which in itself was unusual. He hadn't yelped since inflicting an unfortunate zippering injury on his Old Man during a hasty exit from a Benghazi brothel while moonlighting for Gaddafi in '98. Rawhide slid across his face, trailing wetness. He touched his cheek and looked at his fingers. Not tears – blood.

Celeste knew she could not underestimate this man and got in a return stroke with the chain while he stared at his blood-soaked fingertips in shock. Her target was the knife. Heavy steel links crunched around his hand, breaking all manner of delicate bones, but Miller, too, was full of surprises, and instantly switched the blade to his left hand. His arm swung, back and forth, slashing at her, a diabolical grin on his bloodied face, but she held him at bay with the whip and chain.

‘You're good,' he rasped, ‘but you're still mine. Never had me a ginger clacker before.'

‘Don't get your hopes up, Humph.'

They circled each other warily, the library now directly behind Celeste, the Turkish carpet perilously close to the backs of her heels. Miller leapt in, feinted to the right and the blade drew a vivid scarlet line across Celeste's forearm. He expected her to cry out in pain, or at the very least flinch at the wound, but she merely chuckled, face flushed, eyes bright, her lips parted and wet as she casually licked up the trail of blood.

Miller was astonished. She displayed all the signs of a woman bordering on profound sexual excitement.

‘Venha cá!' she called suddenly.

‘What?'

‘I'm so sorry, I tend to sneeze when I'm aroused.'

‘You're a bloody nutter,' hissed Miller. He'd had enough. Time to end this farce. ‘The world won't miss you one little bit.' He advanced, blood in one eye, murder in the other. ‘First you, then your parrot.'

‘Duck,' she said.

‘I thought he was a macaw.'

‘No, duck!' repeated Celeste.

Realization swept over Miller and he spun around – just in time to get a faceful of claws.

Bertie's impact was tremendous. He'd heard his mum's summons in their secret language – known to the rest of the world as Portuguese – and swept up in a blue blur to crash into Miller, his sheer inertia staggering the man. Claws sank deep into flesh, puncturing, tearing horribly at his cheeks and mouth. This man had hurt Milly, his mate. This man was attacking his mum. Cold, primal fury consumed him. The beast took over, replacing his normally unruffled amiability. He buffeted with his wings, body draped over Miller's crown, shrieking a fighting call.

Bertie knew from previous experience exactly how fragile human ears could be and homed in on his favourite target, stabbing Miller with lightning speed. His dagger bill parted skin like a scalpel, its tip grating along the mastoid bone and separating a large part of Miller's ear from his head. He screamed. Yelping no longer cut the mustard.

Celeste stepped to one side as Miller lurched past and, balancing on one heel, lashed out with a brutal stamp, dislocating his kneecap. The kick helped him on his way. He stumbled onto the Turkish carpet, one leg collapsed and useless, arms flailing for balance. Blood spurted from the side of his head, his catastrophically damaged ear hanging down and flopping against his neck. The trap tipped instantly and he began to slide down. Bertie released his grip and, in one fluid movement, swooped on into the library through its open door. Terror consumed Miller. His one remaining workable leg pumped frantically, but the carpet offered no purchase. Down he tumbled into the gaping darkness below, eyes bulging, his face a twisted mask, but at the last moment his arm went back and the knife arced through the air, embedding itself into Celeste's thigh.

‘Norton Village Hall, Protect Yourself Combat Course for Women! Shove that up your frock, Humph!' she yelled into the black pit as the trap swung back up to close with a thump. Cheeks still blushing with excitement from the fight, she calmed herself with a few deep breaths before looking down, her attention now drawn by the lancing pain in her thigh. The knife protruded dramatically. Abstractly, she noted it was in an almost identical place to the stabbing James had received from the gold-nibbed Prime Ministerial pen. His and hers wounds – now there's true love for you!

Gripping the haft, she pulled the knife from her thigh, blood bubbling under her trousers. The wound was clean and sharp-edged. At least Miller had done her the courtesy of keeping his blade keen. It stung viciously, but was not deep – his last desperate throw had been wild and without any real force. ‘Bloody amateur,' she snorted. ‘Couldn't even throw a knife properly.'

She had a quick look around to make sure she was alone, then gave her thigh a good hard poke, just for fun. The prod could not in any way be described as a diagnostic method recommended by the medical profession, but it did produce a disturbingly dreamy look in her eyes.

She'd always had an ambivalent relationship with pain, always walked the fine line between it and pleasure.

Heat blossomed inside, ignited by the excitement of the fight and then stoked by the throbbing wound, but personal gratification would have to wait. Reluctantly, she turned her mind to more immediate matters. Her thigh required dressing and she badly needed a cup of tea. She hugged one wall to bypass the deadly carpet and hobbled into the library. Bertie was perched on the back of a sofa cleaning his bloodstained claws.

‘I love you, Mummy,' he said happily.

Celeste threw the bolt to lock the trap. ‘I love you, too, my brave little soldier. Come on, let's find you something nice to eat.' She limped away towards the kitchen and some sticking plaster, Bertie waddling along at her side.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘We really should call an ambulance,' said Doreen. She stared in dismay at the red stain on Celeste's thigh.

‘For this? Don't bother. I've hurt myself more plucking my eyebrows.' Celeste flexed her leg experimentally. ‘I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's just a flesh wound. Jeez, I sound like Randolph Scott.'

‘But –'

‘Don't sweat it, Doreen. The skin's hardly broken. It looks a lot worse than it is. There was no force in the throw. There, I can walk already.' They stood in the kitchen. Cutie and Martha had divested themselves of their trendy apiarist protection, Jenny was filling the kettle, Celeste hobbled around the table as if to demonstrate her mobility and Sandra nervously turned her diamond-shaped piece of wood over and over in her hands.

‘So they're all accounted for, all five? Good. Jen, where's yours?'

‘Blinded by pepper-filled tomatoes, then rendered unconscious by frying pan and handcuffed to the conservatory.'

‘A little over the top, but I like your style. Cutie?'

‘Hopefully suffering major anaphylaxis locked in the potting shed.'

‘And the remaining three in the oubliette. Excellent,' smiled Doreen. ‘Well done, girls.'

‘Any chance we can question Humph?' asked Celeste. ‘He might be more talkative now I've softened him up a bit. I need to know who sent them. A day or so in the dark with his ear hanging off should make him more amenable.'