Nemesis (2 page)

3

It was raining outside. Natalie did not notice. She left without taking her coat, or even closing the kitchen door behind her.

Almost hidden by the woodland that surrounded it, the Lodge had tiny casement windows, spindly chimneys and a woolly thatched roof, giving it a quaint, almost fairy-tale appearance. The encroaching trees meant the cottage was sheltered from the worst of the weather, although rain dripped steadily from the canopy of leaves overhead.

The garden behind the cottage was a strip of lawn with a few nondescript shrubs marking the boundaries. The only ornaments were her mother’s washing line and an upturned wheelbarrow slowly turning to rust as the weeds curled around it. At the far end of the garden was a row of ancient fruit trees, where bluebells grew in the spring and the fruit fell to rot amongst the grass in the autumn. Her father might be a renowned expert on gardens, but you’d never think it to look at this one.

Natalie followed the garden path around to the front of the cottage and out onto the castle drive. Beside the Lodge was the massive stone gateway it had built to guard. A 17
^th
century triumph of opulence over taste, the wood had long since rotted away, leaving only an arch with the Vyne crest at its peak. Natalie ran beneath it, feeling, as she always did, as though she had passed through a portal into another world.

It was only as she stepped onto the village road that she caught the full force of the gale, which drove the cold, stinging rain directly into her face. It was too late to return home; she simply had to get on with it. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes and crossed to the pavement on the opposite side.

There was a squeal of brakes and a flash of white entered the peripheral of her vision. She jumped back but her heel slipped on the grass verge and she ended up lying at the edge of the road, where all detritus and debris had been washed by the rain.

Directly beside her was a white car. She did not know enough about them to recognise the type but it was small and old. From this position she had an excellent view of the sills and wheel arches, which were both crumbling with rust. She could hear the engine running and wipers screeching across the windscreen. From the other side of the car, the driver’s door opened. There was the brief blast of a familiar pop song, but before she could identify which one, it faded as the door slammed shut. Two legs appeared round the side of the car and headed in her direction.

“Are you all right?”

A man’s face loomed towards her. She blinked away the rain, attempting to focus. He had pale skin and conker-coloured hair, which flopped over his forehead. His expression was a blend of concern and relief that she was not dead. He was not wearing a coat and his navy sweater and dark trousers were becoming slowly soaked. She began to apologise and tell him she was OK but the words came out back to front. She tried to sit up, feeling slightly foolish. A large hand gripped hold of her own and hauled her to her feet.

After her dramatic lunge across the asphalt, the sleeve of her school sweatshirt had been pushed upwards, exposing the white shirt beneath. Except it was no longer white, but rapidly staining crimson.

“I’m bleeding.” She looked at her hands. The palms had been rubbed raw. There were even tiny stones embedded in the flesh. She hooked them out with her fingernail. Her skin felt as though it was on fire.

“Sit in my car,” he said. “I’ve got a first aid kit. You’ll be quite safe.” He pointed to the logo of the old-fashioned sailing ship on her sweatshirt. “I’m Simon Waters - Mr Waters - I teach at Calahurst Comprehensive. You’re in my drama class.”

He must think she was Sarah. Distractedly she rolled up her shirt sleeve and watched the blood drip down her arm instead. Her shirt was wrecked. Her mother was going to be furious. Perhaps if she soaked it in cold water and salt before Magda had chance to see it?

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she said, “but I’ve got to be going or I’ll be too late.”

He blocked her way. “Sarah, you can’t go to school. You’re hurt and probably in shock.”

She tapped her chest. “I’m
Natalie
, not Sarah.” She ought to have it tattooed on her forehead. “And you’re in my way.”

He didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he was staring up at the huge stone gateway in disbelief. “You live
here
?”

“My father’s the head gardener but we live at the Lodge, not the castle.”

“Are your parents at home now?”

She could imagine her father’s face if she turned up on the doorstep, covered in blood and with a strange man at her side.

“No,” she lied, “they’re at work. I’ll see the nurse when I get to school.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you will.”

He’d obviously been a teacher for too long.

“If you give me a lift, you can escort me there yourself,” she said blithely.

The fairground was close to the school. Once there, she’d lose him and double back.
Adults?
They meant well but they could be incredibly stupid.

To
effect
a result, she went over to his car and tugged at the handle on the passenger door. It wouldn’t open.

“Allow me,” he said sardonically. To her surprise, he unlocked the door and held it open for her. Fat drops of rain splattered the upholstery. She got in quickly, before he changed his mind, and he slammed the door after her.

The radio was playing Pulp. Jarvis Cocker sang about common people. The heating was going full blast; she could almost feel her clothes start to steam. Through the rain hammering onto the windscreen she saw a blue blur walk round the front of the car. The driver’s door opened and he got in beside her, reaching past to undo the glove compartment. He found the first aid kit - a green plastic box - and unceremoniously dumped it in her lap. She opened it, used an anti-bacterial wipe to clean the wound and then pressed a square piece of gauze against it.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about, Sarah?”

Apparently he was not as easy to fob off as she had thought. But where should she start?
Perhaps with the obvious.

“I’m not Sarah,” she told him. “I’m her sister, Natalie.”

He regarded her owlishly. “Sorry, you look so similar
- ”

Like she’d never heard
that
before.

“Please, could you take me to the fairground? That’s where Sarah is. I need to persuade her to come to school.”

“Nice try,” he smiled. “The 6
^th
Form
are
on work experience this week.”

What was he, a human lie detector?

“No, she’s at the fairground.”

“Is it even open at this time of the morning?”

“What does it matter if the fair is
open
? That’s where Sarah is and that’s where I want to go!” She risked a quick glance through the side window. Thankfully there was still no sign of her father.

He followed her gaze. “Perhaps I should discuss this with your parents?”

“I told you, my parents are at work.”

“But your father works here.”

Why
had she told him that? “It’s an enormous estate, Dad could be anywhere.”

“Does he have a mobile telephone or a pager?”

“Of course not, he’s only a gardener.” She rested one hand on the seatbelt anchor, as though threatening to unlock it. “Are you going to help me or not?”

He appeared to consider the question. The rain was so heavy now, it sounded like someone was machine-gunning the roof. Outside had faded to a grey blur.

“I suppose if I take you to school you could discuss it with the headmaster.”

“The fairground is on the way,” she said. “There’d be no harm in checking it out first.”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

It was hard to tell whether he was joking or serious. “We could be there in a couple of minutes,” she said. “You wouldn’t even miss assembly.”

He was silent for a moment, then, “All right, you win. But as soon as we’ve collected Sarah, I’m taking you both to school and the headmaster can sort you out.”

She couldn’t help a grin of triumph as he scowled, slid the car into gear and released the handbrake. Pulp finished and, without a pause, Oasis came on. Noel Gallagher warned against looking back in anger.

He reached out and switched the radio off. “If I get fired over this, I fully intend to blame you,” he said.

Soon they were driving through the forest towards Calahurst village. As their clothes were saturated, the windows began steaming up. He flicked a switch on the dashboard to divert the heating but Natalie hadn’t the patience to wait for it to work and used her sleeve to wipe the passenger window. She didn’t trust him not to drive straight past the place.

The funfair had been set up in one of the fields on the main road leading out of the village. Part of a large commercial farm, it usually contained livestock but was hired out for the village fête and occasional music festival. It would take ten minutes to walk the distance from Hurst Castle. In a car it took seconds. Despite the rain bouncing off the road like bullets, she recognised the gap in the hedge and the ditch that bordered it.

“We’re here,” she said politely - but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Thinking he was reneging on his promise and taking her straight to school, she grabbed his thigh and dug in her fingernails.
“Stop!”

It worked. He applied the brakes and the car slithered in a zigzag fashion across the wet road before coming to a halt, partially up on the verge, several yards past the entrance.

He cursed, wrenched off his seat belt and swung round to face her. “Don’t you ever
- ”

She paid him no attention, using both hands to force open the door, which had caught against the grass verge. Eventually it jammed in the mud, but left enough of a gap for her to wriggle through.

She sprinted down the road towards the break in the hedge. The path was muddy from the rain so she slowed her pace. She had no desire to skid into the ditch, particularly as it was now partially filled with disgustingly dirty water. At the end of the path the five-bar gate was shut. The poster advertising the fair had been ripped off; four tiny triangles of coloured paper, still attached to shiny drawing pins, were the only sign it had been there. Natalie undid the latch, gave the gate a hefty shove and entered the field.

The ground sloped gently downhill in the direction of Calahurst village, so the rain was driving straight towards her with nothing to break it. She put her hand up to shield her eyes. It took a moment for her to understand the field was empty. There was nothing here at all, only an acre of trampled grass with the occasional patch of churned mud to show where the stalls and rides had been.

4

Everything was as she remembered. The gap in the hawthorn hedge, the narrow path, the ditch … She was certainly in the right place.

So where was the fair?

He came to stand beside her. He’d pulled a cheap-looking, navy-blue raincoat over his sweater. A few strands of dark-auburn hair had escaped from his hood and become plastered against his forehead. For the first time she noticed he wore glasses, the fashionable type, now heavily dotted with raindrops.

He took them off and squinted around the field. “I can’t see a funfair,” he said dourly.

“It
was
here,” she said. Did he think she was making it up? “Now it isn’t.”

“They must have packed up and left.”

“It was booked for three days.”

“Perhaps the three days are up?”

Natalie remembered the poster pinned to the gate. There had been three dates written on it.
The day before yesterday, yesterday and today.

“It left early.” She spoke to herself more than to him. But why would an entire funfair, booked in advance, pack everything up and ship out in the middle of the night?

He said nothing. Perhaps he was wishing himself anywhere other than here. She couldn’t blame him. Her earlier panic now seemed pointless. She’d rushed to save Sarah when she hadn’t needed saving at all.

“I’m going back to the car,” he said, turning on his heel, apparently not caring whether she followed him or not.

As this sounded more productive than hanging around a rain-soaked field, Natalie followed him.

Once they were back inside the car, he pushed his back the hood of his coat, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to clean his glasses. “Well?” he said.

“I think Sarah has run away with the fair,” she said.

Should she have told him that?

“I didn’t think people did that anymore.” He held his glasses to the light, presumably checking for smears. “Your sister certainly has a flair for the dramatic.” He slid the glasses back on. She could see little squares of light reflected in each corner. Beneath the glass his hazel eyes were watching her. “What next?”

It was nice to be asked, but as far as Natalie was concerned her plan hadn’t got a ‘next’ part to it. She shrugged.

He sighed. “I can take you to school, I can take you home. I can take you to the local police station and you can pour out your tale of woe to them. Right now, I really couldn’t give a toss.”

So much for her Good Samaritan.

“Where do you think the fair has gone?” she asked him.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, I care even less.” He flicked back the cuff of his anorak and checked his watch. Whatever the time was, he didn’t tell her.

“Is there some place we could find out? There must be a timetable showing where the funfair has been booked to go next?”

He stuck his key back in the ignition. “You think they’re that organised?”

For a teacher he wasn’t that bright. “OK, so drop me off at the library and I’ll check it out myself. Please?”

“You want me to take you to the central library?
In Norchester?
I don’t think so. You’re supposed to be in school and that’s where I’m going to take you.” He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He cursed and tried again, slapping his hand against the steering column and pumping the accelerator. The engine finally caught and he sat back in his seat, reaching over his shoulder for his seatbelt.

“I’ve got to find the fair.” Why couldn’t he understand, or at least sympathise? “I’ve got to find Sarah.”
Before their father did.

“I don’t think that’s your job.”

“What if she’s been taken against her will?”

“Unlikely.” He checked his rear view mirror. “You know, it’s a pity that amazing imagination is not put to better use in my drama class.”

I’ve never taken your bloody drama class!

She knew better than to say it out loud. She reached out for the door handle, intending to make a swift exit - but he had been paying her more attention than she thought. He leaned across and slapped her hand away from the door. Before she realised what was happening, the car was moving - far too quickly for her to consider jumping.

She sat back helplessly, feeling the car pick up speed as it headed down the hill, past the new houses and then the council estate. Finally they shot past the gates of Calahurst Comprehensive itself. The playground was empty and the gates had been pulled shut and fastened with a chain and padlock. That meant Assembly had already started and the school day was underway.

So where was he taking her?

“I’m taking you home,” he said, as though reading her mind. “Your parents can sort you out. I’ve had enough.”

“You’re going the wrong way,” she felt obliged to tell him.

He did not take his eyes from the road. “I can hardly do a U turn on a narrow country lane.”

The roads leading from the forest into the village of Calahurst were certainly narrow, in some places only wide enough for one vehicle. Perhaps he was telling the truth. It didn’t stop her from feeling uneasy.

She tried to keep calm. He’d have to slow down sometime. She could make her break for freedom then.

At the top end of Calahurst High Street was a stone cross - a memorial to those who had been killed in the war. Originally located beside the parish church of St Peter’s, after a road-widening scheme the memorial was now isolated on a mini roundabout. As the car approached the memorial it reduced speed, but before Natalie could psyche herself up to jump out, he’d driven right around it and was headed back the way they had come.

“Told you,” he said, with a sly glance in her direction.

Maybe he had an odd sense of humour, but Natalie did not allow herself to relax until she glimpsed the great stone wall that surrounded the Hurst Castle estate and felt the car begin to slow down. She thought he’d unceremoniously dump her on the side of the road but instead he flicked his indicators and turned right.

They drove through the ornate stone gateway.

“Impressive,” he said.

There was a police patrol car parked directly outside the Lodge. He parked behind it. Neither of them moved.

“That’s not good,” she said.

“I’m sure everything is fine,” he said, in the kind of voice that adults use when everything wasn’t.

“Dad must have told them about Sarah.” To an outsider this might seem obvious, but her father and the local police had ‘history’. The kind of history where the police would be the last people you’d call.

“Why don’t I go in first and explain where you’ve been?”

“That’s fine by me,” said Natalie. She had no intention of returning home, or going to school either. She wished she’d had the foresight to bring some money. She could have caught the bus and run off to Norchester. And never come back.

He reached onto the back seat and handed her a large tartan rug. “Here, wrap this around yourself. You don’t want to catch cold.”

It was a kind thought. She dragged the rug around her shoulders. It felt scratchy but perhaps it would absorb the worst of the moisture from her clothes.

He opened the door and got out, slamming it behind him. The car rocked slightly. She watched him walk down the path and knock on the door to the Lodge. A uniformed police officer opened it. The police officer did not appear pleased to see him. They exchanged a few words. He pointed back to Natalie waiting in the car. The police officer hesitated, then stood back to let him inside. The door closed.

There was nothing else to do but wait.

Her clothes felt unpleasantly cold and wet and were sticking to her, but she could hardly strip off in the car. With the engine no longer running the heating had cut out. The windows were steaming up again and she could hardly see out. Her ponytail was wet and dripping cold water down the back of her neck. She squeezed out the excess, then rubbed at it with the rug, but it was not a towel and so therefore not effective.

The front door of the Lodge remained shut and she couldn’t see anyone at the windows. They must be talking in the kitchen. Had Sarah really run away with the fair? And why had her father gone against the habit of a lifetime and enlisted the help of the police?

Through the steamy windows she saw the rain had finally stopped and the sun was breaking through the clouds. Possibly it was warmer outside the car than in. She opened the door and got out, trailing the tartan rug. She turned her face to the sun. It felt warm. She pulled off her sweatshirt and dropped it onto the bonnet of the car, along with the rug. The rug promptly slid into a puddle but she did not notice. The white blouse she wore beneath her sweatshirt was only damp in patches. She pulled it from her waistband and puffed it up, letting the air get between the fabric and her cold, clammy skin.

What should she do now? She could go indoors, change her clothes and risk an inquisition about where she’d been and why she wasn’t at school? Or she could take a walk through the castle garden and find a sheltered, sunny spot? She could take off her skirt and hang it over a branch - it’d dry in no time. Then she wouldn’t have to go home until tea.

Now
there
was a plan.

The drive that led past the Lodge towards the castle was edged on both sides with rhododendrons. About a hundred yards along was the first of several woodland paths, used by local dog-walkers with the blessing of Sir Henry Vyne, the owner of the castle. This particular path followed the boundary between the woods that surrounded the estate and the more formal garden. About halfway was a flower garden surrounded by an ancient brick
wall.
It was a perfect suntrap, completely sheltered from the wind. No one ever went there. It was an ideal place for her to hide out.
Her own secret garden.

The woods were quiet. It was almost eerie the way there was no sound, not even birdsong. The road, on the other side of the estate wall, was also silent. Patches of sunlight percolated the canopy of leaves above, illuminating her way.

After a long, wet summer the path had become overgrown and hard to follow. The trees grew thickly overhead, blocking out the light, their falling leaves creating a pungently rotting carpet beneath her feet. Occasionally she caught glimpses of an old brick path and followed it through a copse of yew trees, to where a tall gate had been set into an ancient wall.

Natalie undid the latch. The gate squealed as it swung open but she didn’t care. There was no one to hear it. The garden was set to lawn, with specimen trees breaking up the view and borders of flowers bringing colour. These had been cut back ready for autumn, leaving only purple swathes of Michaelmas daisies amidst the last of the summer’s roses. She headed across the wet grass to where a terrace had been laid in the shelter of the wall and a summer house overlooked three large ornamental ponds.

One of the gardeners had left his sweater beside the central pool and it had become soaked after the recent rain. Disdainfully she prodded it with her foot. The sunlight caught on a thread of silver Lurex. Was it a woman’s sweater?

She glanced towards the centre pond. The dark water was smooth and unrippled. The pink and white petals of the lilies appeared so perfect they could have been carved from wax. But something protruded through the round glossy leaves. Something shaped like a foot.

She moved closer, her eyes travelling the length of the pool. Through the murky green water she could discern a knee, a thigh -

Floating a few inches below the surface was a naked girl, her weight partially supported by the mass of flowers. Her skin was paler than the petals that surrounded her, her eyes wide open but clouded, her hair such a pale blonde it could have been spun silver.

A water nymph, Natalie thought, her ethereal beauty was utterly flawless.

Flawless but for the savage wound at her throat.