All the Rage (12 page)

 

***

 

Pushing back the entwined brambles, Michael forced himself over the wooden fence and dropped into an abandoned orchard, somewhere west of the main house. He was surrounded by high laurel, and through a gap he surveyed the scene. Earlier, he had parked the car on the outskirts of the village, quickened his step the quarter mile to the entrance of Laburnum Farm and then did a detour until he discovered a way in, without being detected. He now wore additional thick clothing but still it was sharp and cold, and he could see his breath panting in front of him. He then crept forward cautiously to get a better view.

The house lay dark and quiet. No sign of life. Beyond the orchard lay a disused tennis court, covered in moss. A dank pond was to his right, the water black and still. The grounds were largely walled and this had clearly, he had to admit, been an impressive garden in its prime, with raised lawns and ornamental magnolia trees. The laurel had not been trimmed for years, and encroached in every direction, outward and upward, cutting out light. Moving cautiously around the perimeter, Michael stopped and searched and took photographs, snapping at will, although unable to really justify his bizarre actions. He searched without meaning.

The confrontation he had earlier with Sheila spooked him. Clearly, he was no Inspector Morse. He made a big mistake and paid for it. It made the task in hand even more hazardous, and after retreating from the pub, he did consider giving up on this part of the plan. But he steeled himself sufficiently not to allow Sheila to intimidate further his already fragile state of mind. Fuck her. She was too clever by half.

And then he saw it. Shrouded in mist, the great tithe barn loomed large and tall like a black monolith, menacing with its great height and straddled girth. It appeared to lean and creak, weighed down by two hundred years of forgotten history. Past glories. The gigantic pitched roof was bowed and heavy, exposed in parts by missing clay tiles. The stone walls, ivy clad, crumbled in sections, held together by huge concrete buttresses. Michael advanced, excited by his discovery.

In the shadow of the gable end, he yanked at the rusty unlocked latch and felt the great oak door slowly yield to his efforts. A yellow light shafted down through the gaps in the roof, illuminating the cavernous interior. It was like the ribbed belly of a whale. Through the shadowy dense gloom, his eyes adjusted slowly, first depicting numerous farm tools and a sit-on lawnmower, old bikes and stored furniture. Further in, he was amused to find the grimy carcass of a racing green Lotus Excel, propped up on brick legs where the wheels had been removed. Clearly, this beautiful machine had seen better days. Like everything surrounding him, the neglect was all too apparent. At the far wall, a huge polythene sheet covered the interior stonework, whereupon a scaffold had been erected directly in front and to the entire height of the ceiling. He coughed and shook off the dust from his shoulders. Without warning, something swooped and skimmed his head. Ducking instinctively, he turned and saw a bat rise into the dark abyss. In a corner, a rat scuttled in the blackness. Strangely, amidst the smell of diesel and grass cuttings there was something else more familiar to him…oil paint and linseed oil. It was overpowering. Retreating to the doorway, heregained his breath. Outside, he readjusted his sight. Across from the barn were the sad remnants of a pond, covered with green algae. It stank. Nearer to the house, through a neglected rose garden, he discovered a well. Alarmingly, he found it had been capped fairly recently with cement. It was a crude attempt, certainly not done by a professional.

Turning back from where he started, his eyes refocused on the length of the barn. The last buttress, furthest from the entrance, was also new, again, not constructed nor accomplished by anyone with building skills. And something else wasn't quite right to his eye, either.

Michael made the ground up quickly, re-entering the barn. He began pacing the interior with his stride, measuring the distance to the far wall, where the polythene hung. Suddenly, from behind him the light source intensified. This made him stop abruptly in his tracks, drawing breath as if it were his last. He slowly turned, aware of another presence. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

There, framed in the brightly lit entrance was the silhouette of a woman. Beside her, the dangerous shape of Bruno, pulling on a lead, growled with intent. If this was meant to be intimidating, it did the trick.

The stranger spoke first, in a measured tone of menace.

‘I could call the police, but from where I come from, I take care of business myself. The dog can certainly take care of business, too. '

Michael remained silent and still, watching intently as she stepped forward and held the dog firm.

‘What business do you have here which entails snooping around private property, mister? '

Hesitant, he gauged the level of hostility toward him. After all, he was an intruder. It begged the question: who was she?

‘I'm a friend of Lauren's,' Michael explained, attempting to keep calm. ‘She asked me to keep an eye on the place. And you are? '

‘A friend of Lauren, you say? ' Her Irish lilt made him uneasy.

Who was she, for heaven's sake? Had Sheila tipped off a neighbour? Was it the police? Where had she suddenly sprung from?

He took the initiative. ‘My name is Michael Strange. I own an art gallery in London. I'm helping her with a valuation of paintings. She's currently away, visiting her sister in Limerick. '

‘That will be Maggie. '

‘Yes. Lauren is over there for a few days. Are you a friend of hers?'

The woman approached with aggressive intent, yanking hard on the lead. Bruno snarled, bearing his fangs.

‘Michael Strange, you say. Odd business this. . . I'd say you were trespassing. I don't have time for that kind of conduct. '

He protested as best he could. ‘As I explained…'

‘I know who you are, you've been mentioned. ' The woman circled him, drawing even closer, the dog sensing blood.

‘Now listen carefully,' she said. Their eyes locked. ‘Lauren may be in Limerick, but she is
certainly
not visiting Maggie, if that was the cock and bull story she gave you. How do I know that? ' Unexpectedly, and to his immense relief, the woman held out her hand to shake his. ‘Let me introduce myself. I'm Lauren's only sister. '

Chapter Six

 

The story that Maggie had told Michael was harrowing: she'd explained graphically how their family was torn apart by tragedy and deception. Brought up in poverty, Lauren, like her sister, had forfeited her innocence and, ultimately, her childhood. Maggie and Lauren grew up in an environment so harsh, so cruel, it was any wonder that they survived at all. It was no surprise they bore emotional scars.

Hours later, Michael felt a numbness which engulfed him. In truth, Maggie's confession made him want to cry. Now, in the comfort of his car, he began the unhurried journey to London, back to a world that at the very least he understood.
His
world…this was in spite of the upheavals that now beset him. The retreat from the farm was hard to handle. He got more than he bargained for. Driving back through the village, he had caught sight of Sheila walking towards him, laden with shopping bags. He slowed the car, in order to catch her attention. It did the trick.

Winding down the window, they exchanged guarded conversation.

She was the first to speak. ‘Find what you were looking for? '

‘Of sorts,' Michael sighed. ‘Sometimes you find the unexpected. It's been a day full of surprises. Want a lift with those bags? ' ‘No. I can do with the walk. It's been a long session in the bar. ' Reluctantly, she softened to him, and added, ‘Whoever you are, I had no right to be so harsh. People have their own lives to lead, jobs to do. To put the record straight, Lauren and Julius were headstrong, volatile, often drunk, but always fun. We had many a wild party at the pub after closing time. Sometimes they wouldn't leave us until after dawn. Looking back, they were a good match. Now though, when I look at her on her own, I see a mere shell of the woman she once was.'

‘When did you first witness the slow disintegration? '

‘When did it start going wrong? That would be easy: when
she
came on the scene. '

‘She? '

Sheila gathered her bags, began to step away, and then hesitated. ‘A real firebrand, that one, I can tell you. She oozed sex appeal and
real
Italian passion. When Antonia came to play, the whole village was talking about it. '

The connection Michael was looking for was finally made; proof that the love triangle of Lauren, Julius and Antonia was a distinct possibility, and not a figment of his imagination. The tiny hairs at the nape of his neck bristled. If Sheila spoke the truth, and he had no reason to disbelieve her, then a big question needed to be answered: how was it also possible for Antonia to have been painted by Patrick Porter? If his gut instinct was proved to be correct – that Antonia was the girl in ‘
A' on green silk
– then presumably she would have modelled for him at some point. How would she know him, too? And therein lay the problem. The artist was long ago dead. Michael pondered this, trying desperately to fathom the missing link which would bind them all together. It beat him. Voice wavering, he refocused on Sheila and asked, ‘What happened to her? '

‘So many questions! If you
are
a landscape gardener, you're in the wrong profession, love.
What happened to her
? Lust and longing are beautiful bedfellows, don't you think? You draw your own conclusions, Mr Button. Just remind yourself who lies alone with her pathetic memories. '

He watched silently in his rear view mirror as Sheila gathered pace, crossed the road behind him and disappeared in the direction of The Royal Oak. Then he thought of Lauren, alone, and Sheila's last words.

 

***

 

By Monday, he had heard nothing from her. Previously, they had arranged the appraisal of the twelve Patrick Porters. This was vital in two respects. One, it needed doing. Two, it got him away from the gallery premises. Adele was due in to conclude the VAT returns with Kara.

He couldn't stand the prospect of any encounter with his wife. His solicitor had warned him that Adele would indeed be spending more time in the business, a ploy to show her inflated worth in support of her claim for a substantial financial settlement. This repulsed him.

Fortunately, he received a text on his mobile: “Meet at 2, L”. It was that terse. Nonetheless, it dug him out of a hole.

He phoned Kara from his apartment, explaining his reason for being absent from the gallery. As a postscript, he wished her the very best for the day ahead – a day with Adele.

‘Shit,' was her response.

He knew how she felt, but somebody had to do the dirty work.

With that, he showered, dressed, ate. Looking at his watch, he had several hours to kill. This, then, was the opportunity to turn his attention to the earlier encounter at the Farm with Maggie. He thought about how the story unfolded.

According to her, the sisters had been brought up in a family ruled by fear. Their father was a Saturday night drunk and habitual wife beater, subjecting their mother, Delores, to years of sustained physical and mental torture. So much so, that even after he died in a car accident from drink driving, Delores was so damaged that she slipped further from the world she knew, withdrawing into a place of silence. For the past twenty years or more, confined to a wheelchair, she had not uttered one single word. Now she was dying. Alone, she was living her last days in a local care home. Over the intervening years, the two sisters corresponded by letter and telephone, with the occasional visit by Maggie to Laburnum Farm, but during all this time Lauren steadfastly refused to return to Dublin to visit their ailing parent. Surprisingly, that is, until now. Maggie had smiled wryly and explained further.

She had begged Lauren to come home and comfort their mother during these last lingering days. Exasperated by her sister's lack of commitment, Maggie decided to come to England and literally drag Lauren back to Ireland. It was, she felt in utter despair, the only option left open to her before it was too late. In their last conversation, Maggie had lost her temper and spoken in anger, slamming down the telephone in disgust at her sister's unwillingness to see reason. A farce of sorts then took hold. She went on to tell Michael, rather comically, that without further communication, the sisters, stubborn to the last, had crossed paths unwittingly. This meant Maggie was in England, and Lauren was in Ireland. It was a mess, and of their own doing. Even Bruno suffered. He was consigned to the local kennel, but Maggie was having none of it. She retrieved him as soon as she found the house empty. They were now best buddies.

It was an account that Michael found plausible. ‘Will she see her mother? ' he asked.

‘I believe so. A kind of closure,' Maggie reflected. ‘Although I doubt she will be recognised. Our mother barely acknowledges me when I visit. If the truth be known, our mother died many, many years ago. Her existence has been pitiful. What she encounters in her subconscious mind does not bear thinking about. '

Maggie went on to illuminate the way in which the family had endured hardship and bereavement, from the early years of poverty, the sudden death of their baby brother, to the brutality of their father, Frank, and then the indignity of the sisters being forcibly separated to different parts of the country. Maggie lived in Galway, with Delores's sister, and Lauren eventually settling in Cork at the farm of a cousin. It was a harsh time for Lauren. With little prospect of a formal education, she was expected to contribute to rural life. Rising at six in the morning, working a full day, she would then have to cook in the evening for a family of nine. More often that not, further chores would follow which would mean no rest until bedtime at midnight. She and Maggie were kept apart, both geographically and emotionally.

Later, Maggie learnt that Lauren had been forced into marriage with the son of a neighbouring farmer. His name was Timothy O'Neill. It proved to be a disaster. He was a bully and drunkard. The marriage, mercifully, was short-lived. He died accidentally under the wheels of a tractor. After that, because she was considered an outsider within their tight little community, Lauren was disowned by both families, and largely shunned by the locals around where she lived. Dispirited, she packed what little possessions and money she had and fled.

Maggie had fared better. She married a local schoolteacher, conceived two children and moved to Limerick. She took responsibility for her invalid mother and nursed her for several years before it became all too much. Delores eventually went into the care of the authorities. A type of normal life resumed for everyone. A certain kind of calmness, anyway, was how Maggie described it. During these difficult years, what became of Lauren was a mystery. Much later, she learnt that her younger sister had moved to England. What happened throughout those forgotten years had never been properly told to her. Maggie had posed the question, but Lauren had steadfastly refused to answer.

Maggie then posed Michael a question. It was direct and took him by surprise. All the details of their conversation came flooding back, and it made him flinch. Now as it did then.

‘Are you in love with my sister? ' Maggie had asked candidly, with a surprising gentleness in her voice.

Michael was shocked by this. In truth, he was miles away, gripped by her vivid descriptions of the past. It enabled him to conjure up many graphic images from a world so alien from his. He remembered shifting uneasily in his chair. He could recall them both in the kitchen at the farm, drinking tea from large mugs. Maggie was privy to where the house key was kept, hidden in the summerhouse, which gave her access to the property. Lauren insisted, after they had eventually spoken on the telephone, that she make use of the house. Their conversation had been strained. However, Maggie decided to stay the one night before returning home to sort their differences out. After speaking with Lauren, they agreed to meet on the Sunday to visit their mother as one final gesture of togetherness. It was only then, perhaps, they could begin to rediscover a kind of inner peace and tranquillity that each of them deserved.

Maggie repeated the question. ‘Are you in love with Lauren? '

Michael was reluctant to expose his true feelings. ‘We have become very close. '

‘Be careful, Mr Strange. '

‘That sounds like a warning. '

Maggie's eyes set firm on him. ‘It is, I'm afraid. Lauren is not the woman you think she is. It grieves me to tell you that she is a very complex and dangerous character. My sister has been diagnosed as having multiple-personality disorder. Are you familiar with this condition? Her alter ego – the dominant one – can explode with sheer rage at the least provocation. She can be unforgiving, as you are only too aware. Just look at her utter disdain for Julius, for instance. In her eyes, he is dead, consigned to the past. And yet, she must know that he is out there somewhere. But is he? What is the terrible truth that really exists within her calculating mind? The answer lies in her delusion with people and events, which ultimately shape Lauren's fragile existence. What you see is not what you get. '

‘You act as if you are an expert on the subject, Maggie. '

‘I know enough. '

Michael caught his breath. ‘This is difficult to come to terms with.'

‘Try to imagine living with someone with different conflicting personalities. Often a person with this disorder cannot recall what they did when taken over by another “alternative” character trait. It would become an impossible situation for you to handle. This I know for sure: do not cross her.
I
beg you. '

The force of these words had hit him like a blow to the heart.

 

***

 

At Churchill Fine Art, the daily routine for Kara came to a grinding halt with a terse phone call from Adele: she was otherwise engaged and wouldn't now be arriving at the gallery until the afternoon. Normally, Kara would brush this off but she was still reeling from the horrible episode in the Blue Bar, and every little problem since then felt magnified. She had somehow steeled herself to their working in tandem and was therefore prepared mentally for an early start. Now she was flummoxed. However, every cloud has a silver lining, she reminded herself assuredly. It meant less time together, less aggravation. Small mercies, then.

Lunchtime approached. Although still jittery, at least this presented her with an excuse to take a proper break in order to buy a gift for her mother's birthday. After checking with him, Ronald was more than happy to hold the fort.

Making her way down Albemarle Street, she jostled past the numerous office workers pouring onto the pavement, each seeking food and fresh impetus themselves. Outside Brown's Hotel, a long line of taxis clogged the road. Thankfully, it was a splendid day of thin sunshine and light breeze. From somewhere, an aroma of strong coffee filled the air. Kara imaginatively flash-framed an image of Marcus in her apartment earlier: naked and dishevelled, wandering the rooms in search of the kitchen for food. Any food! He was like a grizzly bear on heat. Wearing nothing but black socks, he had cut a magnificent and an equally comical sight. And she felt elated by this, in spite of knowing that a stalker was on the prowl, watching her every move. Sod that. Love was in the air.

At the junction with Piccadilly, she crossed over and decided to try Fortnum and Mason for something special for her mum. The store was a bit posh and expensive…but she tried not to think about that. But like all good intentions, reality brought frustration. After trailing several floors, cursing her aching feet, she, too, felt the need for sustenance. Checking the floor plan on the nearest pillar, she discovered that she was luckily on the same level as the restaurant. Heavy prices, she conceded, but what the hell! Indulgence she could accommodate, but hardly afford. Tomorrow, she would starve.