xxv
VEDA stopped yelling. The blindfold itched, her ankles had been bound together and her wrists were securely tied to something that felt like a water-pipe. The side of her head ached dully, the water she had been given had left a metallic taste on her tongue and she was starting to get a cramp in her thigh.
"Hey!!" she shouted. "HEY!!"
But there was no answer.
When consciousness had returned, Veda had found herself in a car, blindfolded, wrists tied behind her back. The smell of petrol, the noise of the engine and the cornering mooooooootion, added to her pain, fear and sheer frustration had created a cocktail to make her feel sick. "I need fresh air," she had said.
Someone had leaned across (she had felt the weight as he/she rested an arm on her thigh) to open the window. The sudden gust of drizzle-driving wind had hit her in the face with some force and she had breathed deeply.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she had tentatively ventured.
No-one had answered her.
Several hours later the car had stopped. She had smelt the salty tang of the sea and begun to panic. They were trying to take her abroad. They had frog-marched her across the shingle and dumped her onto the planks of a wooden rowing boat. As Veda had flapped like a just-hooked fish, one of her captors had at last broken the silence. A man, a low harsh voice, breath scented with tobacco and aniseed, growled into her ear that if she didn't sit still, she'd overturn the boat and although they'd be annoyed by a soaking, at least they could swim 'cos their hands weren't tied. Veda stopped struggling.
When they had reached another shore, the boat grounded in pebble-strewn shingle with a slurr and a shirr and Veda, gripped fiercely above the elbow, was hauled to her feet and out of the boat. A hand had jabbed her sharply under the scapula, propelling her forward. She had felt the shifting sand under her feet gradually shored up by pebbles then turning into the firmer support of a tarmac road.
After an age, she had heard a door being unlocked and then she was inside, the fresh tangy blast of breeze off the sea changed into the stuffy, stifling, furniture polish smell of a house. Footsteps clicked on wooden floors. Another door opened, and the rust-laden, slightly rancid smell of a long-disused cellar swamped everything else. Veda was led in and pushed into a sitting position, felt fingers fumble as they fastened her ankles. Then the door had clanged closed.
Veda had lost all sense of time and place. Was it day? Was it night? How far had she travelled? Who had abducted her? And why?
The door creaked on its hinges, cutting through her self-pity.
"Hello?" she said, uncertainly. "Hello?"
The blindfold was removed, her bonds unfastened. She blinked and squinted, stretched her left leg, rubbed her thigh to relieve her aching muscles. A man in a heavy black donkey jacket, moleskin trousers and grey sea boots stood by the door.
"Fresh clothing," he said, throwing an assortment of items at her.
Veda looked at herself. Her white blouse was covered in damp patches of sand and water. Likewise her jeans. And her once white trainers were now a muddy grey. She turned the clothing over and sat up with a jolt. The baggy grey sweater, the clean blue jeans, the white socks with yellow buttercup motif, they were hers.
"Where did you get these things?" she demanded.
The man grunted a guttural laugh. "We brought them from your house."
"But..."
"Just get dressed."
Veda looked him up and down. He was thick-set, broad-shouldered, with a huge flat nose sprouting thick black wires of hair, he was filthy, and he was clearly not about to leave. Veda shrugged and peeled off her blouse. She avoided his eyes as she wriggled out of her jeans. The man hmmmed appreciatively and muttered something about her legs. She ignored him and got dressed.
As she zipped up the trousers and flicked her fingers through the hair that lay over her neck, noting that the strands felt like a collection of twigs, the man came towards her, took her wrist in a huge oily hand and dragged her from the cellar.
"Ow!" she cried out. "You're hurting me!" It made no difference.
They mounted a narrow flight of hard stone steps and emerged via a small iron door into a gloomy dark-panelled hall. Veda blinked, her eyes adjusting to take in a magnificent staircase, an antique suit of pitted armour, the moth-eaten head of a stag, an enormous stuffed swordfish suspended within a glass case. The stairs themselves were shrouded in a thick maroon carpet pinned down by brass rods, imprisoned by huge carved banisters, all rails and bars. A huge oval mirror in a gilt-edged frame hung to one side of the massive front door, which, Veda noted, was secured with three closed bolts resembling girders. A glance in that mirror was enough to confirm her impression that she did indeed look like a scarecrow, her hair did indeed look like a bundle of twigs, her face was covered in drying sand, but her clothes were clean. She buried her chin in the roll neck of the sweater as her guide yanked her away and thrust her into one of the rooms.
A Persian rug sprawled on the woodblock floor. A huge log fire burned in a huge marble fireplace. An armchair and sofa sat on either side of the hearth, green to match the thick curtains, which were eight or nine feet in length and closed over what must have been an enormous window. The bookshelf, crammed with leather-bound volumes, reached to the ceiling and was dominated by a huge carving of a figure sitting astride an eagle and casting lightning bolts. A vast canvas hung over the fireplace. It depicted a tiny ship tossed on gigantic rolling grey waves. Two young lads lounged by the fire. One was Jargo Jaconet, looking faintly awkward and fingering a candyfloss curl, whilst the other glared out of a pug-dog face. A hatchet-faced woman, or at least a vague approximation to a woman, with huge hips and a brick-red face pasted over the top of a starched white apron, was flicking a duster at an illuminated globe which stood by the window.
"Sit down," said the man, gesturing to the armchair.
Veda hesitated.
"It's all right," said Jargo, "You'll be all right."
"That's quite true, Veda," said a quiet voice behind her.
Veda turned. An enormously fat man with a fat, bald, turnip-shaped head was smling kindly at her from his wheelchair. His legs were wrapped in a tartan rug.
"How did you get my clothes?" she demanded. "You broke into my house?"
"Please." The man in the wheelchair held up his hand. "I prefer to say 'we gained access'. Or, more specifically," he smiled warmly, "Tom did."
Jargo grinned self-consciously. Veda recoiled. The youngster had been through her possessions, her clothes, her underwear drawer...
"Your file," said the man, holding up the binder of cuttings, pictures and notes, Makes interesting reading."
"I've seen you before," she blurted out.
He smiled again and pushed a button on the arm of his chair. The motor made a whirring noise as the man manoeuvred himself into a position facing the armchair. "Of course you have," he said. "Sit. Please. We'll get you something to eat." He gestured to the boys. The pug-faced one left the room. "You've seen me several times. And I've seen you. My dear. We have mutual friends."
Veda sat down. "You're the man from the Fortune Theatre."
"Very good." The man in the wheelchair showed very white teeth.
"And the Gallery! You were at the Jorum Gallery!" Veda almost shouted. "The maps. Jan Jansson. Java."
"Ah, Java," said the man. "Jequirity Jimp. Alas, poor Jequirity."
Veda went cold. "What's happened?" she whispered.
"Show her," said the man.
Pug-Face left the fireplace, scooped up a newspaper and dropped it into Veda's lap. She found herself staring at the front page of the
Herald and Bugle
Blazoning News since 1876
and the headline
NEW LEAD ON COLLEGE FIRE
There was a photograph of a burned-out building and details of a fire which had swept through the office of Jequirity Jimp, Jorum Professor of Cultural Studies. The fire had destroyed most of h
er Jack and Jill manuscripts, a Javanese version of Jabberwocky and priceless documents from the European Renaissance.
"Professor Jimp herself is out of the country," read the report, "Leading an expedition to recover jabberwock cave paintings from the Junagadh region of India."
"Tragic," murmured the man. "All those records, all those books, years of research, burned to ash. But carry on reading for something of great personal interest."
VANISHING JOURNALIST MYSTERY
The sudden and mysterious disappearance of this paper's Arts Correspondent has been linked by police to the fire at Jennyfield College's Department of Cultural Studies.
Oh my God. She skimmed
last seen on June 25 in St John's Churchyard .......
.......... met Jequirity Jimp a few weeks earlier
secretary says they argued furiously and Veda returned to the office alone ….
Argued bitterly with a cultural studies student in The Jester
Presumably about sex (Veda's love life empty)
.... seen with same student in Casualty ....... he had glass from a beer bottle embedded in his scalp, say doctors
.... row .... Veda ... fight
... gone missing with several books belonging to Professor Jimp
predilection for younger men … seen at swimming pool with boy, 14 ….
Visited King James' School looking for same boy
.... destroyed computer files with a virus
Boys File stolen ....
boy also missing
Her friend and colleague told this paper that Veda had been disturbed by mail received from Jequirity Jimp's office. "She went ever so pale," said Anthea Adams, "And told me she was going to give Jequirity Jimp a piece of her mind. The Editor rang through, just before she left, because the police wanted to question her about a fight at the Jacquard and the attack on Jachin outside the art gallery. She was ever so evasive."
Mrs Adams confirmed that Veda had left the swimming pool with a young boy. "She said it was business, but I wondered then what business a 25 year old woman could have with a 14 year old boy. I thought he was a bit young, even for Veda."
Even for Veda? What a cheek!
The boy, Iestyn Thomas, has also vanished. Police say they are treating the two cases as linked and believe Veda may have abducted the child.
"What have you done with him?" she whispered.
"Nothing," said Wheelchair. "He really has vanished."
"It wasn't me," was all she could say. "It wasn't."
The man wheeled himself across to the corner and took a CD from a bag. A streak of blood ran across Timmy Thomas' face.
"Oh dear me," he said mildly.
Jesus God Almighty.
"There is," said the man, removing the insert from the plastic casing, "A bloody thumbprint right across these faces." He held up the booklet. He was right. Joshing Josh and Jesting Iestyn were virtually obscured by whorls and ridges. "Something symbolic again? The blotting out of children? The prison psychiatrists will enjoy studying you, my dear." He tossed the case and booklet across to the woman. "You had better thank us that we saved you. Prison will be a long, arduous experience."
"Why did you bring me here?" asked Veda quietly.
"We want answers," Wheelchair replied. "We want your co-operation. Otherwise, we will hand you over to the police, along with this photograph."
He displayed a black and white photo of Veda straddling Iestyn Thomas. They were on her bed and they were both naked.