All the Rage (29 page)

 

***

 

‘Come on, come on! For chrissakes, answer the phone, Kara. '

The sheep were gathered at last and penned in the opposite field. Michael saw his opportunity, floored the accelerator and sped past. In his rear view mirror, he caught sight of the irate farmer screaming at the top of his voice. Michael guessed the likely words of the man's frustration: Bloody city hooligan! Or worse. This would be close to the mark though.

Michael estimated he was less than fifteen minutes to his destination.

 

***

 

Kara frantically dodged through an open door, finding herself back in the dining room. Breathless, she slammed the door shut, wedging a chair against it to fix it in place. This gave her a few seconds respite. Oh, God, where are you, Marcus?

Her phoned bleeped, startling her. She fumbled, dropping it. Keeping her nerve, she managed to retrieve it from under the table with the sweating palm of one hand.
Breathe
, girl. This was her last chance of rescue. She clicked on and blurted, ‘Will someone help me…please! '

 

***

 

Christ, she finally answered!

Hearing
the desperation in her plea, Michael shouted, ‘Kara, I've been trying to reach you. '

‘Michael! Michael! Thank God you can hear me. '

‘Where are you? What's happening? '

‘I'm at the farm, Michael. Lauren's got Marcus, and now she is after me…I'm really scared Michael. Where are you? '

‘Very close, Kara. Now listen, stay focused. Don't do anything silly. I'll be with you in a matter of minutes. '

Kara wasn't listening any more. Suddenly, fierce kicking from the other side of the door forced it to jerk and heave, dislodging the chair and propelling it in her direction. Kara ducked, kept her wits and pushed her entire weight against the broken door, as the sound of splintering wood reached her ears. The pit of her stomach twisted.

Above the din, Michael yelled in her ear, ‘What's that noise, Kara? Tell me! '

Kara's strength gave way. She could no longer hold on. From afar, as her phone slipped to the floor again, she could hear Michael's distant screaming: ‘Kara, get out of there. Get the fucking hell out of there! '

But her inner resolve failed dismally. Instead, dread gripped her. With such fear looming, paralysis took hold, closing down all resistance in her body. As the door smashed open and broke from the hinges, she sat huddled, childlike, in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth, eyes clamped shut. Tears rolled uncontrollably down her cheeks. Barely able to look up, she forced one corner of her eye open and glimpsed Bruno lurch into the room, teeth exposed and foaming at the mouth. Behind him came a sight of sheer terror. She could hardly whimper, let alone scream. No sound would come.

Not one – but
two
women – stood over her, brandishing an array of long-bladed knives and a machete. Lauren gripped Kara's hair, yanking her head back, whilst the other, not known to her, pressed cold sharp steel to her throat.

Bizarrely, she remained calm, and accepted the bleak realisation of death. She was too weak to resist, even when she felt the pressure of the blade increase on her skin, and sensed a trickle of blood descend her neck. From somewhere deep within, she experienced a last power surge of defiance. ‘Marcus. Marcus,' she could hear herself repeat over and over. Then she succumbed to the inevitable, as the blade began to penetrate beneath her soft flesh.

Chapter Eighteen

 

Michael drove at breakneck speed, approaching the last bend in the road with reckless intent. He swerved violently, dislodging the red pillar box at the entrance to Laburnum Farm, scattering the pieces across the road. The car spun, hitting the gatepost with a resounding thud; indenting the rear side panel and wiping out the lights. The boot lid sprung open. He didn't care; such was his fear as to what was happening to Kara. In front of the house, he found an unoccupied jeep parked up, with the driver's door flung wide open.

He braked sharply, spewing gravel and choking dust in all directions. Switching off the ignition, he scanned the immediate vicinity for signs of life. No one was visible. He climbed out from behind the steering wheel. It was as silent as a church cemetery, weirdly so. Where was everybody? The house was in darkness. To his right, the barn stood still and quiet.

‘Kara! ' he shouted.

His first instinct was to rattle the front door to the house. It was locked. Moving rapidly to the rear, he suddenly realised he was defenceless. Searching around, he picked up a piece of discarded lead piping. The door to the kitchen was ajar. He had little time to be frightened and entered fearlessly. Again, he found no evidence of
anyone.
He expected to see signs of a struggle. He listened intently. Silence. From a worktop drawer, he further armed himself with a pair of scissors.

Stealthily moving into the hallway, he knew the approximate layout of the ground floor area. The lounge was clear, so too was the second sitting room. Beyond that was Julius's studio. It was clear. Retracing his footsteps, he glanced over the breakfast room, checked the small glass conservatory, and the secondary hall. His heart pounded. Broken crockery was strewn across the carpet. He then came to the dining room, which also displayed evidence of a huge disturbance of some kind.

The door was open, hanging unsteadily on its hinges. Michael crept in and held a tight grip on the metal bar. A chair had been tipped over. In the darkening gloom of the impending evening, he could make out the easel and lighting equipment that he assumed Kara had taken from the gallery. A painting had fallen, face down. Paperwork, with Kara's handwriting on it, was scattered across the table and floor. Something else caught his eye. Under the window bay, Kara's mobile phone lay discarded. Everything was in disarray. Clearly, this was where he had last spoken to Kara. The situation alarmed him. What had Lauren done to her? What was she really capable of? The text he received was vile and threatening in the extreme. Was Lauren really a cold-hearted killer?

Beside the upturned chair, a crimson stain glistened on the carpet, still wet. Someone had been hurt at this spot, and badly.

 

***

 

Marcus took stock of his precarious situation.
Think, man.
He reached into his pocket and found his cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, and in the gloom he discovered he was in a disused wine cellar. Climbing back up the narrow concrete steps, he found his exit barred by a heavy door, locked from the outside. He shouted and banged, but knew it was a futile gesture. On returning to the basement, he searched for some kind of strong lever, in order to prise open the door. There was none to be found, just a stack of redundant heavy wine racks and empty broken bottles. This room had not been employed for many, many years. Like him, it had been left to rot.

He was very much alone, with no way out. Given the circumstances, he was in deep shit. His left shoulder ached. His hands bled from the fall. And he had rats for company.
Just great.

Grimly pondering his predicament, he watched, by the only source of light he had, a line of rodents come and go in the far corner, almost in regimental fashion. Where had they come from? Marcus moved across, mindful of the scurrying, and peered through the latticework of the furthest wine rack. He could feel a draught on his face. With all his strength, he pulled at the wooden construction until it rocked back and forth and finally, came crashing down at his feet. Dust and glass showered the area. He coughed and hastily protected his nose and mouth with a handkerchief.

When the thick dust settled, Marcus almost wept with joy. Concealed behind the wine rack was a tunnel. It was low and narrow, but on closer inspection, appeared to be
just
passable. If this means of escape was good enough for his four-legged friends…

…Bollocks. This was his only possible route to freedom. He had no idea where it would lead, or how long the passageway would be. His worst nightmare had come true. The sweat poured from him. All that remained was his aversion to the rats
.

Reluctantly, he lay face down on his stomach in readiness. With a flickering light as his only companion, Marcus drew breath, cursed aloud, gritted his teeth, and began to crawl into the abyss. Almost at once, the tiny scratching of feet reached his ears. In the gloom, he saw them coming.

 

***

 

Michael searched the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms. He found no further signs of struggle. In one bedroom, he discovered two large suitcases, containing women's clothing. He had a horrible feeling about this. Inside a holdall, there was a huge wad of cash and two passports. On examining them, his heart sank. One belonged to Maggie. Now he had two unstable women to contend with, as if one wasn't enough.

The house was empty, he concluded, or Kara and Marcus were prisoners elsewhere. He had to cling on to the notion that Kara was still alive, and was by now forcibly removed to a new location. And where was Marcus? He was a strong lad, more than capable of defending himself. He had simply vanished. Everyone had simply vanished.

Descending the creaking stairs, he chanced upon a partially hidden door, located in a secondary hallway. It was heavily padlocked. ‘Kara, Marcus! ' he yelled, banging on the door. He waited. Only to be met with more silence.

Michael closed his eyes. His breathing was laboured and erratic, the palms of his hands moist with sweat. He could hardly grip the iron bar he carried. Maggie and Lauren: what a combination. The vision this implanted into his brain was too dreadful, too ghastly, to contemplate. But he had to face it. He needed to gather his last remaining dregs of courage. For Kara's sake.

With or without Marcus, his battle against the sisters would now begin. Striding purposefully from the house, Michael headed straight for the barn.

 

***

 

Marcus could feel the rush of cold air on his face, and discerned a glimmer of light ahead of him. It was just a pinprick, but his spirits soared. He had been tunnelling on his belly for about forty to fifty feet. The shaft was ancient, but well-constructed, and remained relatively dry. He moved faster now, his optimism gaining the same momentum as the light expanded. It was still a tight squeeze, and three times he had to halt progress and remain motionless as the rats crawled over him, nibbling and sniffing as they went about their journey. Twice, he puked violently. The stench was unbearable, but somehow he pressed on. With each mighty push, he covered the remaining ground until he reached an opening, of sorts. Clawing with his fingers, he encountered a makeshift tarpaulin in his way, ripped and partially eaten by the rodents. Beyond this, a heavy wooden chest barred his exit.
Dear God…
using his uninjured right shoulder, he levered himself forward and, with one almighty effort, asserted his last remaining ounce of strength. Mercifully, the furniture inched forward, allowing him just enough space to drag himself through. The utter relief of perceived freedom was palpable. The sheer strain of squeezing into a black hole to nothingness had been unbearable. He could so easily have wept; instead, he involuntarily urinated in his pants. But he didn't care. He was alive.

 

***

 

Michael manoeuvred himself to the rear of the barn, taking shelter behind one of the gigantic buttresses, which hid him sufficiently until he planned his next move. In truth, he felt woefully exposed: inadequately armed, and outnumbered, especially so if Bruno was still on the scene. He fumbled for his phone. Shit, it was in the car! He swore aloud this time. Hopelessly unprepared, he had no firm plan on which to rescue Kara. He was a sitting duck. They – Maggie and Lauren – had the upper hand.

 

***

 

Marcus blinked once, then twice. His eyes cleared and very slowly, he lifted himself to his feet. His trousers were sodden and uncomfortable, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. In the half-light, he adjusted his vision and surveyed his new location. He stood in a narrow chamber, the walls of which were heavy stone. High above him, the exposed thick-timbered ceiling gave a clue to his whereabouts. He was in the gable end of the tithe barn, but the wall to his left was, on closer inspection, fake. It was obvious, even to a layman, that a later interior construction made of a studded wooden façade had been added and extended along the entire width of the building. There were no windows, except for two small glass roof lights. Marcus searched for a means to illuminate the room, marking his territory with his outstretched hands, feeling for a wall switch, or socket. He was aware of shapes and clutter, and endeavoured to keep his clumsy movements to a minimum, for fear of attracting attention and inadvertently hurting himself. It was a difficult terrain to manoeuvre around. Just then, he made physical contact with an object he was familiar with. It was a standing lamp. Tracing the lead, he reached the wall and found the switch.

In an instant, the room burst alive with fierce light, stinging his eyes with the stark brightness. It was one of those big arc lights, used on movie sets, and was positioned in the middle of the floor. Looking around, Marcus gasped, and immediately became aware of the significance of what he had stumbled upon.

‘Wow,' he said, under his breath. He was standing in the middle of a secret room: An artist's studio. Next to the lamp, a huge unfinished canvas dominated the space, affixed to a beautiful ornate easel. Marcus recognised the style of the work. Looking further, he unearthed several other paintings, some propped against furniture, others framed and positioned on the walls, some hidden behind dust sheets. ‘Wow,' he repeated, shaking his head in wonderment, almost afraid of allowing himself the satisfaction of what he had discovered. There could be no mistake though. All the paintings were the work of Patrick Porter. This was his workplace, his hidden studio
.
Marcus stared in astonishment. If Patrick was dead, as reported, then here was a shrine, untouched and unseen, a forgotten time capsule. It had at last been uncovered.

At first, he was too nervous to examine anything. He just stood in awe for a full minute. Eventually, his breathing settled.

What really shook him to the core, though, was his discovery during a secondary search of numerous drawers and cabinets. He found detailed accounts of ‘sales' going back over a twenty year period. The financial rewards were highly lucrative. The figures ran into thousands of pounds. Big, big business, Marcus thought admiringly, trying to get his head around the money mountain recorded in the ledgers. It blew him away.

But nothing prepared him for the series of photographs he found, portraying the artist at work, and standing at the very easel Marcus had first encountered. The pictures recorded each stage of a painting, from the preliminary charcoal drawing, to the initial oil washes and through to the final glazed masterstrokes. Without doubt, this was the work of a real genius. Bizarrely, he also discovered it was –
good God
– the work of a woman, dressed in male attire.
What the…

Here was the indisputable proof as to the identity of Patrick Porter.

Marcus could hardly believe his eyes. In each image, the person identified applying the paint was unmistakable: the artist's name was Lauren O'Neill.

Shocked, Marcus tried to make sense of the sheer magnitude and grand scale of this deception. It was something he found almost impossible to take in. What the hell was he to do now?

His answer came soon enough. From afar, his concentration was jolted by an array of voices: pleading voices, desperate voices. Voices raised in anger. My God, Kara's voice! Placing his ear to the makeshift wall, Marcus instantly recognised the seriousness of Kara's predicament, just yards away from where he stood. She was being threatened. He knew exactly what he had to do. And fast
.

 

***

 

Michael had never imagined that his judgement, like his abrupt lack of courage, would become questionable as well. By crucially delaying his next move, he quickly realised he had allowed Maggie to gain the initiative. Whilst he hesitated, she declared her intent and, without warning, was on to him with alarming speed. She sprang from nowhere, leaving him defenceless. Looming menacingly over him, she brandished a gleaming black double-barrelled shotgun aimed directly into his face.

‘I gave you fair warning not to meddle into our affairs, Mr Strange. It appears that you are as stubborn as you are stupid. '

He found little to argue with.

‘Now get up, and no funny business,' she warned, adding, ‘I know how to use this thing, and I never miss from one yard. '