1. I feel the blood, gushing out of her open wounds, seeping through my fingers. Warm, sticky and thick, I come alive at its touch. I hear her gurgle, stir. Blood is spluttering from her broken mouth; she is choking on her teeth. I take a firmer grip on her hair, raking my fingers through her gluey strands, intentionally rough. I smash her head over and over. I hear myself gasp, feel the sweat under my armpits, on my neck, streaking down, striping my skin. Her face is broken, one of her eyes has caved in, only a hole remains. Veins and muscles are dangling out of her socket, severed. Her nose is bent, deformed; the bones have cracked in thousands of pieces. Blood and mucus are flowing down, spluttering in the whizzing from her mouth. I step back, watching, feeling her pain, her last remaining minutes. I turn her face. I want her to see me, the last thing on her mind. I did this to you. The price for my grief. Repent, you fucking bitch! Repent and tell me that you need me! You whore!
I feel sore in my muscles, my leg twitches. My hand, in a fist, is pounding on my thigh. I blink noticing my fellow passengers. They are staring, wriggling in their seat, leaning and shifting. I wonder whether I said or did something that revealed my fantasy. Possibly not, or they would be in a panic. I turn away from them disgusted by their cowardice - whatchya looking at, you hypocrites?
I look out the window, at the pedestrians going about their business, the cars idle in the chok-a-block traffic, people in shops, people with friends, people alone, people with lovers. What fun it would be to wreck their lives! I am the bus driver now. I gather speed and ram it into the cars then back up and drive straight into the coffee shop on the corner where that lovely blond is pursing her lips to the rim of the cup. The bus crashes through the window, smashing the glass, throwing tables and chairs flying. The customers scream, scampering out of my way. It is too late, I zero in on them, like a set of pins, I knock them down. I sit savouring the destruction. I breathe it, absorb it. It is inside me.
I sit in my seat on the bus, slowly breaking free from the rules of society, still trying hard to control my visions.

2. The brook is flowing placidly across the manor; its waters, cold in the early winter morning, slide over stones and rocks, limpid and gleaming like a thin sheet of Clingfilm. The dense thickets to the right hide thrushes and blackbirds still in their nests, patiently waiting. The dogs whiz along in the natural grassland unfazed by the terrible weather that has enveloped the region for the past two mornings. Barron treads on, unable to see a thing beyond the beam of his flashlight, yet certain in his knowledge. He moves nearly as fast as any other day refusing to be slowed down, his steps heavy on the rock solid ground. Invisible tufts and stones under his wellies; he wobbles. Damn if he changes his routine to accommodate some thick creeping fog! That is not how he built his multi-million sterling business. His magnificent, imposing manor would belong to a lord and all the respect and admiration of his colleagues would go to another tycoon. Instead, all this is his. He did it with sweat and fortitude and hard work, self and environmental control, his control, and the strength of the right mate. He made it to the top and has remained there for over thirty years.
A stone trips him over and he cusses, kicking it away. The fog is getting into his eyes, he squints cracking on; the grass twirling around his legs. ‘Alice? Axle?’ He listens; nothing stirs. Nature is dormant in the foggy morning. He snorts with contempt; no one has ever achieved anything with consideration and fear. ‘Axle? Alice?’ The light beam sways on the moor then shadowy shape of dogs rise out of the fog, from nowhere. They jump in and out of the tall grass, dark, yellow and green, towards him. The gelid hand of the freezing air lands on his cheek. Alice barks bouncing around Axle, snapping at his muzzle. Barron snorts, envying his pets’ eyesight, barely able to make out the flashlight inches from his nose. The wellies tread on, on the cracks in the soil, on the frozen sward; he gasps in the freezing temperature and his breath, plump puffs of steam, mingle with the fog becoming one. The thick mist swallows his face, thrust out, bold; his skin damp; his unprotected hands steady in the early morning frost.
Axle runs through the grassland, sprinting from a resting position plunging in the pond ahead. Barron frowns at the sound of water splashing; for a second he wondered whether they were near home and Axle had dived in the manor’s pond. In an instant he remembers the little pond on the moor; a wild pool of rain water host to insects and birds. The splashes intensify; Axle is battling with a duck. Barron smiles, a thin stretch of his wrinkled lips. To date, Axle is the best retriever he has ever had. Barron is in awe at the dog’s prowess. His gorgeous German spaniel is a true fowl menace. Further splashes come to his ear. Barron guesses it is Alice joining in the battle. He pictures her plunging right in, headlong, without a second thought. He hears the dogs bark, growl and splash in the murky water then paws slap on the marsh kicking up mud. They come to him running, shaking water off their gorgeous mantels. If only the sky had been clearer... Barron looks up in the vain hope of spotting a bird. No, the little feathered things have not made their appearance yet - the cold keeps them in their nests. Later they will be peeking their little heads out looking to forage. He rubs his fingers with his thumb; he feels itchy. If the sky had been clearer, he would have taken his Winchester with him and stuffed a couple of geese with some slugs. Hunting always relaxes him, especially during take-overs.
Calling the dogs, they commence their walk back. On a clear day, they could see the house, a massive stone construction with a lifespan to be the envy of an oak tree. A kitchen that brings together over two centuries of English history, a scullery and stables and pines and silver firs, rosebushes and thickets. His gorgeous manor. His face darkens. Who knows how many years he has left? Barron will be seventy-eight next year and, despite his strength and youthful appearance, he is not immortal. As fate had the cheek to remind him only a few days past! Montgomery Mackthrowtery, a dear friend of his, has recently passed away; he was two years younger than him. They knew each other since the war and had so much friendly rivalry like one could not have today - with PC and all. They had an amazing time together, keeping one another’s competitive streak alive and honing each other skills, using the dirties tricks in the book. He shall sorely miss him. The daughter, Janette, called him last night to fill him in before the media got hold of it. She said they were already hovering around the hospital, paparazzi and journalists, the number increasing with the spreading of the smell of death.
The bark jerks his head up from the yellow and white turf. Alice’s tail wags in the foggy blanket, leaps and its off. Axle has his nose stuck on the ground sniffing a prey. He is so intent that does not even move when Barron walks into him. ‘What you got there, boy, a rabbit?’ he says stooping down trying to see, shifting this way and that. He straightens when his back tires and throws a glance around for Alice. She is been awfully quite for a while. ‘Alice. Come on, girl, we’re going home,’ he shouts. The fog seems to have thickened. He can barely see Axle still sniffing and digging at his feet. A bark and a thumping of running paws. Alice! Together, they walk home.

3. Reginald Attenwell-Smith is the only person in the world who manages to be quiet even when making a noise is not an option. Quietly flushing the toilet, he washes his hands and walks across the bedroom casting a loving glance at his wife then makes his way downstairs. The cold from the sandstones tingles his cheeks sending shivers down his heavy 6’5” frame. He rubs his hands together taking the steps slowly. It is five to seven of a weekday and Reginald is about to start a new day. From the hall, he makes his way to the kitchen, two centuries joined together to make up a twenty-first century room. Skirting around the breakfast counter, where flowers and knick-knacks are on display, he steps into the oldest part of the room. His big, heavy feet thumping on the pavoirs. Two strides and he reaches the kettle. He drops a teabag in the mug and flings the switch on. The noise of boiling water mingles with the distant barking of the dogs. Reginald focuses on the hissing of the kettle; his heart thumping faster despite himself. In less than five minutes, Barron will stomp in the house carrying with him everything that he stands for, success, power, control; enough to give Reginald a micro heart attack. The dogs too, two loving creatures for a start, have turned into a couple of Cerberus at his side.
The kettle switches off. He pours water on the teabag and takes it to his desk, across the hall into the studio. He crumples a couple of sheets from an old newspaper and lights it then piles some logs on top. Straightening, he glances out the French window, a picture of bare shadows behind a thick curtain of fog. He steps around the desk and takes a seat. With his elbows perched apart, he wipes his bald plate bringing his big hands down around the fleshy, sagging neck and sighs. The dogs are near, by the stables. He can hear dad talking. Martin is clearing up, the horses have been put out in the field. Reginald turns the computer on; dark circles take on half of his face. He feels tired; take-overs always put a strain on his system, robbing him of sleep. He sips on the tea as he types in the password; it could use some strengthening. Rising, he looks at the bottle of whiskey on top of the fireplace. Then there are noises. The dogs yelp and their paws scratch the stones in the hall, Barron’s overcoat swish off his shoulders, the thumping of the wellies dropping on the floor. Reginald looks at the bottle then at the mug; with a swift maneuver, he can make it. Quickly grabbing the mug, he scuttles to the fireplace, sloshes a dash of whiskey in the tea and runs back behind the desk. He takes a good swig then straightens in the chair. The computer is up and running and he feels better already, as if he actually enjoys his job. He heaves a sigh of hope - god of business make this day a bearable one.
Reginald is taking another slurp of his tea when the door opens and the phone rings. His face twitches, spilling the drink. Quick uncontrollable muscle contractions and short relaxations distort his right eye and ear, his skin drawn. Barron thumps in the studio, his shoes hitting the carpet in an attempt to leave his mark on the precious fabric. The dogs in tow swish the air with the wagging of their tail. Reginald mops up the spillage, the hand holding the mug shakes slightly. He rests it on the desk before his dad notices it. With his throat dry and tight, he picks up the phone and answer, his voice thin.
“A new bidder has jumped in the race. They’re offering a plan to split up the organization. SNT’s considering the offer which, by the way, is far above our walk-away one.”
‘David,’ Reginald says, the name choking in his throat. He glances at the bottle of whiskey on the fireplace feeling his heart beat quickening; his eye twitching. ‘The famous grouse’ seems to be calling him. ‘Give me all the details and I’ll call you back,’ he manages to say with a rasp.
‘We’ll match their offer and produce a new plan,’ the voice thunders, Barron is taking control. These days, he does not even bother to do it in private. Dave on the other line has probably heard. He sits in the armchair in front of the fire, spread out, his full head of hair straight, looking right ahead, his shoulders strong and square; the dogs one on each side of him.
Reginald’s lips are slightly apart, about to respond, then they close. His voice a whisper down the phone. ‘We’ll match their offer and produce a new plan.’

4. Consuela has a great love for her son. She likes watching him play in the park, run after pigeons, dive on the seesaw then burst into tears when crushing against it and run into her arms. At this moment though, Consuela finds it hard to find any of that love in her. The bed is bouncing under his leaps and his screams pierce her eardrums. They go right through her brain and shatter in hundreds of tiny slivers into her head splitting off in every direction fuelling her hangover. She frowns. ‘Stop that racket, Kyle’ she says. Her words muffled by the pillow she has pulled over her head to get out of the light and remained in the land of Orpheus fearful of the voices that are out there in the daylight. Jumping up in the air then belly flopping with a giggle, Kylie plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek. ‘Breakfast,’ he yells running off. She hears his tiny feet pad on the wooden floorboards and stand by the door. The round slippery handle always a struggle for his tiny hands, he moans and grunts and gasps. ‘Close the door,’ she says when she hears the door click open and tiny feet run off. Silence returns. Her breath is calm and even; the voices are quiet. Even the thrashers, usually chirping madly outside her window, are silent. Pulling the duvet over her head, she returns to sleep.

5. We got to the estate last night. At last. It took a while for mum and dad to stop shouting and hitting each other. Well, mum hit dad and he cowered away in a corner trying to stop her by grabbing her arms. When he let her go, she would start throwing things at him. It was a bit annoying coz I could not sleep or watch Nickelodeon and was waiting for someone to tell me whether we were going or staying. Only two days earlier, mum had said that we would be spending time in the country and that I would have to be a good boy and behave. I like the country. I run around all day, playing with Axle and Alice and Grandpa, sneaking in and out of the stables where Martin works and Minnie and Horace live. Martin is nice and so is George, the gardener. He puts me on his lap and lets me drive the lawn mower. Sometimes I chase the ducks around in it and he threatens to let me off. Once I nearly drove it in the pond. George said that he would not let me on it if I did not behave. I am good now. Most of the times.
This morning the house is bursting with people. Most of them I do not know. They run around carrying this and that, yelling things at each other. ‘Bring me this’ and ‘Take that down’. They smile too and when I came downstairs the cook made me breakfast. A bacon butty with chips on the side. Mum wrinkles her nose every time I ask for chips. I never get any for breakfast. She says that if I start the day with chips there is no stopping the amount of other junk I eat before it is over. Dad says that mum preaches louder than she practices but even he refused to cook chips for breakfast - him being health conscious and all. His exception is croissants and jam and two cups of coffee filtered through a sieve - a la Greek. Dad likes to remember his origins - not that grandma would let him forget. She makes a point of speaking Greek in the house even when mum and me are around. I know a bit, can speak a bit. Mum is not bad herself but ‘she could do better’ grandma says. I like her cakes and her pasta dishes with lots of cheese and cream. Mum and dad have only praise for grandma’s cuisine ‘you work so hard at the magazine. Where do you find the time to make this?’ ‘Cooking’s a therapy for me. Just give me a rolling pin and some dough ...it is like having a massage from head to toe.’ I like grandma. She feeds me sweets and gives me cookies and teaches me songs. The house is not as big as this place but I like it better - it is more fun and warmer.
The dogs go up to him, wagging their tail, sniffing his crotch and feet then nudge him from behind. Kylie giggles. Pretending to push their muzzle away, he tiptoes in the hall - his tiny white feet on the huge grey slates of stone.
‘Shouldn’t you put something on your feet, young man?’ The middle-age woman smiles, a tray balancing on the palm of her hand - bottle and glasses on it. ‘You’re gonna catch a cold.’
Kylie runs away - a little thing amongst dozens of legs.
I run a lot when I am at the estate - to keep warm. I like it. The place is so huge, I can run forever. I particularly like the hall upstairs - where I shall be sent not long from now as soon as grandma, the English one not the Greek, will see me. She will grab me by the scruff of the top and drag me to the bottom of the stairs. With a pointing finger, she will order me to go upstairs immediately ‘where you cannot either be heard or seen’. The hall is quiet, long and wide, all stone. Mum says it is ancient, part of the sixteenth century wing of the house. It has stone benches and vaults and silence and a mask. Spooky. Behind the mask there is a room. That is where mum and uncle Junior likes to hide and smoke and get high. From there one can see in the hall - behind the mask’s eyes. Once Junior told me that behind it, him and my mum have seen terrible things - dragons spitting fire, guys flying without wings, dogs without heads - then mum slapped him on the head and told him to shut up.
In the hall I can ride my tricycle - up and down, up and down, round corners, in and out of doors. Then I get fed up and start on my toys - dinosaurs and airplanes. My favourite is dinosaurs flying airplanes.
‘Out. Out. All three of you.’ The man shoos the boy and the two dogs out of the salon where the party preparations are in full swing. Kylie was just about to pick up a petal dropped off an orchid after he had stamped on it crushing it with his little foot and the dogs have sniffed and licked it. It seemed interesting enough to see what it tasted like. The salon is bright and full of colour but Kylie will never see it with the party in full swing. He is not invited. At two and a half years old, he does not care. He will get plenty of cake for dinner and breakfast and maybe even the afternoon snack - that is the way to go.

6. There is excitement in the air this morning. The waiting staff is scampering about carrying glasses and bottles and ice buckets. Young men are arranging bunches of flowers in enormous vases. Cecilia brings her mother-of-pearl cigarette holder to her lips and assesses the scene from her vintage point at the top of the staircase. Vroom Vroom Hiiiihtchtch Craaash Kylie is down in the hall. He is squatting, pushing those awful cars of his in everyone’s way, without a care in the world. Consuela obviously neglecting to keep an eye on him as her usual! She is probably still upstairs, sleeping in – the thought of her son well out of her mind. ‘You!’ Cecilia barks. ‘Kylie! Get up here immediately! How many times did I tell you not to get in people’s way? What do you think you’re doing squatting out there?’ The boy makes his way up the stairs, his short legs climbing slowly. Cecilia is watching him sternly, without the hint of a smile, waiting for him on the landing, ready to drag him back to her mother’s bedroom or shut him off in the nursery. Either way, he isn’t hanging around the house causing confusion and slowing the pace down. The hired staff needs to be working flat out without unnecessary interruptions. With calculated calm, she slips the mother-of-pearl holder between her lips, soft and plumpish painted with a Christian Dior’s lipstick. When she was looking after her children no one could have complained - they were not heard or seen much; Cecilia herself did not see much of them either. She was young then and London seemed nearer than it is now. At any rate no nonsense will be tolerated today. Not on her wedding anniversary! And most certainly not when she will be hostess to some seriously wealthy people! The thought puts a smile on her carefully made-up face. A shiver jolts her frame reminding her of her surroundings, cold, stone slates, high ceilings holding up bare walls...inappropriate to her character - glamour is what draws her out best. Grabbing the kid by the arm, she scolds him. ‘How many times did I tell you not to play downstairs? Now get upstairs and be quiet.’
Rubbing her arms, she pulls his skimpy designer cardigan tighter around her, descending the steps slowly like a 1950s movie star blessing the crowd with her mere presence.
‘A glass of champagne. Now!’ she orders a passing waitress.
The young woman hesitates, unaware of Cecilia‘s status. “We haven’t an opened bottle -”
The waitress is cut unceremoniously short. “You open the bottle when I tell you to!” Cecilia’s shrill, so high that nearly breaks in her throat, have the young woman frowning.
‘If you have a sore throat...’ she starts.
Paling, her face drawing in an instant, Cecilia grabs the young woman’s arm and drags her to the head of staff. ‘I want her out of my house immediately and make sure she’ll never set foot in this house ever again!’
The head staff bows her head. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
The audacity of some staff nowadays! Cecilia turns on her heels, placing the cigarette holder between her lips with an exaggerated gesture. ‘And get me a glass of champagne now if the lady of the house is still entitled to one,’ she says marching off, a whiff of Bulgari trailing behind her. A blemish on a day full of promises thanks to a stupid girl! Staff insubordination is unbelievable these days!
Nearly flinging herself in the armchair in an attempt to feign fainting, she takes a seat by the window. Rubbing her neck, a moan escapes her. Pampering and TLC is what she needs. Sure as the night follows day, she is not going to get that in here. God, how she hates this house! The lack of central heating, the obstinate absence of commodities and the negligible allowance to luxury - a knife in the heart of her nature! God how she wishes to be somewhere else! London! In her Kensington penthouse with her servants and her family and her people. Being waited upon and having every single one of her whims attended to, every object suitably attractive, every breath scented with precious perfume and each of her senses adequately satisfied. God, everyone knows she needs it!
The plains look bleak outside; dull colours indistinct from each other; acres and acres of tall wild grass and nothing else. Cecilia leans back in the armchair; the pallid sunrays flecking her skin do nothing to warm her thin bones. At least, the party will warm this cold house to a more humane habitat for a few hours. And talking of warmth... Cecilia turns looking around for a maid uniform. ‘Get the fires started. Every fireplace on the ground floor has to be lit,’ she orders. That’ll get her own back on her father-in-law! Barron will not object to the guests being kept warm; reputation is important to him too. As for herself, anything less than the best and she would no longer be able to show herself in public. ‘And get me the telephone,’ she shouts.
Her leg swings from its perched position on the other knee, marking the seconds at each swipe. Resting the telephone on her knees, she dials a London’s number.
‘Charles! How are you?’ her voice chirpy as she kicks a leg in the air; a smile brightens her face and colour reddens her cheeks. ‘Oh you know, the same old country routine.’ She listens with trepidation. ‘Yes. Yes.’ Then she tests the ground plunging into it with the thirst of the parched. ‘I’d welcome a break.’ And drinks at the fountain of life. ‘I’d love to come. Yes. Absolutely.’

7. Charles has already made arrangements. He remembered the anniversary party, her longing to get away, the ease she can sneak out of the house. Darling Charles has always a thought for her little dear self. Everything is just perfect! Cecilia throws her head back and smiles. She cannot be any happier. Ah, if only everyone spared a thought for her, life would be blissful! Shooting up from the armchair, she pirouettes in the living room; her eyes closed in delight; her arms spread out. She hums away to let everyone know.
The couple throwing the party are both prominent lawyers in the city; their house a statement to their success; their parties, the best in the country. Fountains of champagne with a choice of floating condoms - scented, musical, edible, inflatable and vibrating. Swinging has never been more enjoyable!
Cecilia plans to leave at 1100pm - that is usually the time when most of the guests leave. She will reach the Grangers by 1230. The traffic at that time will be minimal. The only thing left to do is to tell Reginald, find a reason to justify her escapade.
Ah, yes! Everything is shaping up to be a wonderful evening! Cecilia continues to pirouette, her feet tapping the carpet as they go around in circle.
Lorraine is walking through the living room carrying sunflowers, yellow, stout, firm, in a vase filled with water. She is keeping her eyes fixedly on the floor, the stone slates seem a little uneven and she does not want to trip. Who knows what that dreadful woman would do to her if something happened to her vase! This is her first assignment with the agency and she wants to make a good impression, work steady up to Christmas, make up for the unemployed period.
Cecilia is ecstatic, smiling and humming, her arms stretching out as if being carried by a cloud. Her hand slaps the vase, Lorraine gasps and her foot trips over her other. The sunflowers tip forward weighting down the vase. Cecilia screams, frozen on the spot, the yellow petals prickling her face then she is standing there, wet from head to toe, her mouth opened in a perfect O. Lorraine has brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes opened wide, her brown irises like tiny islands in a sea of white. Then a scream pervades the room, spreading through the hall and the rest of the ground floor, diffusing in the height of the stairs. Lorraine cringes then rushes to Cecilia, removing a sunflower hooked in her hair, dangling in her face. ‘Oh ma’am. I’m ever so sorry,’ she says fussing. A crowd has formed around them. Cecilia screws her face, her hands turn into claws then she is on the girl, screams marking every scratch and blow, words gasped in a rage. ‘My marvellous Chleo cardigan! Ruined!’ Cecilia is pulling at the girl’s hair, raining blows down her body. Lorraine fights her off, giving as good as she gets, her reputation with the agency already in tatters. Hands are pulling the women off each other. Cecilia screams more, a hysterical sound as if she is being knifed to death. ‘You’ll never work again!’ she spits, bent in two, held back. ‘Never! You hear me?’ Bug-eyed, pointing a finger that is shaking like a twig in the wind, Cecilia drips water forming a pool at her feet, her skirt, a cute little number, is now a wet black cat, the cardigan, stuck to her bust, a second skin. The vase, ditched on the floor, an expensive block of glass amongst dozens of feet, is intact and empty.

8. Reginald has his eyes fixed on the computer screen even though he isn’t really seeing it. His tongue is flicking in and out of his mouth, wagging left and right and licking his lips whilst his fingers are rubbing together by the keyboard. He was inputting some data when the clamour started outside the office door stopping him dead in his tracks. With his ears pricked, he considers the situation. The stock market is stable, has been for a few days now and the take-over is at a standstill with a new bidder only joining a few hours ago. The stakeholders will have to consider the offer and weigh their options – they won’t be back in the game for a while. His eyes dart to Barron. He is sitting in the armchair looking for all the world as if nothing is happening outside that door. A flick of the tongue and Reginald is pushing the chair back out from underneath the desk. He places his hands on the armrests and heaves himself up, not all the way, just a little. He remains in that position for a few seconds, his stare fixed on Barron, then he pushes himself up completely and clears his throat. Readjusting his jacket, pulling it in closer on his crotch, he smoothes it down then stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles out from behind the desk. One last glance at Barron and then he dashes to the door, flings it open and he is out. Pushing through the onlookers, he smiles when he sees her, his face radiating a light that shines only for her. Stepping between the last couple of people separating him from his love and life, he parts them gently reaching out to take Cecilia into his arms.

9. The hubbub is only yards outside the study door; it fills the room, Barron breathes it in. He swallows it; it is on his tongue. It riddles through his eardrum, invading every cell of his being. He sits in the armchair in front of the fireplace; the flames flare and dance in the reflection of his dark irises. Cecilia’s screams have reached peaking point, bringing attention not only to herself but also to her ’beautiful laminated Chloe cardigan’. Barron slowly unfolds his legs and rises to pick a cigar from the box on the cabinet shelf. Setting the tip on fire, he puffs a couple of times to ignite the leaves. The dogs, one on each side, are silent, following the man with their eyes, alert for a sign at any moment. Barron inhales deeply then removes the cigar from between his lips and inspects it. On the other side of the door, Reginald is placating his wife with images of a better and more expensive garment, exclusive, like herself. Barron picks a metal rod from the holder and pokes the logs; the fire blazes, flaring specks flutter then die. On the other side of the door, the commotion is reaching its end. Barron can picture the scene having witnessed it more than once. Reginald has his protective arm around his wife and together they walk away from the crowd, a place more intimate where he will appease every her absurd wish and she will take advantage of his idiotically tender side. Is not that how she got a ‘romantic’ Christmas holiday in the Maldives two years ago?
The days are still shortening - soon night will prepare to fall about this time. The giant oak rises in front of the French window, shading the study even when bare; its trunk casting a glooming shadow. Underneath, the grass is green but not bright, the thickets in the distant are dense and dark, the silver firs imposing as always. Barron is standing at the window, one hand in his pocket. Outside the study door all is calm with only the steady busy activity of a party preparation, another time-consuming, chaotic activity favoured by the indolent. He turns assessing the tip of his cigar, down a sixth of its length. He rolls the ashes off it watching them against the glass of the ashtray, flattened, then picks a fragment of tobacco from the tip of his tongue and, slowly pulling the chair out, takes a seat at the desk. It is clear that his son is not coming back, preferring to bow to his wife’s outbursts of illogical emotions to foster her irrational drama sense, paroxysms conceived to attract attention.
A pop-up window flashes on the computer screen, Barron brings up the list of files and double-click on Action Plan - SNT (2001). His eyes harden, his jaw tense, his breath becomes a tad heavier. He presses Ctrl + Alt, the entire document is highlighted. With the click of a button, it disappears.

10. Cecilia nestles in his embrace, in pretence of sobbing; allowing him to save and protect her knowing how much he enjoys it. ‘The stupid bitch! Look what she’s done! Look! My beautiful laminated Chloe cardigan,’ she says. ‘You’ll pay for this. You will. Double the fucking price. You’ll be in debt for the rest of your stupid life,’ she shouts looking in the crowd for the girl. Lorraine is being comforted by another member of the temporary staff gathered together to whisper disparagements about their provisional employer. Holding Cecilia protectively around the shoulders, Reginald is guiding her to the settee by the window, a quiet corner to get away from the crowd. The spot is bathed in the tepid sunlight of winter. Steering her down on the settee with him, Reginald strokes her body, never letting her go. ‘We’ll get a new one, sweetheart. A better one. The latest model.’ Disguising her amusement at the absurdity of the statement, she says sweetly, ‘This was the latest model, darling. It’s a Chloe!’
Reginald squeezes her shoulders. ‘I’ve seen one with real gold in it and you, my dear, deserves only the best.’
Purring, she pulls closer, stroking his chest, toying with the opening in his shirt, tickling his considerable stomach with the tip of her finger.
‘It‘s nice, isn’t it, darling? Spending time together.’
‘We don’t do it often enough.’
‘It’s this place. Cold and inhospitable. Puts me right off.’ She raises her head to face her husband. ‘Some time away would do wonders.’
A shadow appears on his face, sussing out what is coming.
‘Some time in London would set me right again,’ Cecilia says quickly adding, ‘A night will do.’
Uncomfortable in the silence, she continues, pumping up her alleged discomfort. ‘The accident earlier got me all in a state. God knows I don’t need this.’ Her cheeks are turning flustered, her voice shrills, her face crumbles. Reluctantly, but knowing that a row would settle nothing, Reginald gives in. ‘I completely agree,’ he says shaking his head right and left. ‘A night in London’s a pick me up for most troubles.’
High-spirited, Cecilia jumps at her husband’s neck like a schoolgirl who has been granted her latest wish. ‘Oh, thank you, darling. I shall make the most of it and return a new woman. Just for you,’ she teases ignoring the painfully stretched lips on her husband’s face.

11. Turning under the covers, Consuela stretches and moans. The sunlight is hitting on her eyelids forcing her to awake. Fumbling the bare floorboards for a lighter and a packet of cigarettes, she cusses vomiting invectives at nothing and everything. In a torrent of profanities, the white stick waves up and down between her lips. She sits up pulling the duvet around her to keep the chill out taking in her temporary new abode – the attic bedroom in the family country estate. The absence of the drape on the windows jumps right at her. As it is customary on her first night back, she forgot to check before turning in. She and Kylie drove down from London. It wasn’t particularly late when they arrived but she was exhausted – the fight with Tito, her husband, had drained her of most of her energy, the drugs too. Even Kylie went straight to bed, snuggled up under the duvet, and was out in five. She rocked herself for hours concentrating on the faint whizzing coming from her son’s opened mouth, his button of a nose half squashed against the pillow. At quarter to four exasperated, she gulped down a couple of Mirtazapine that knocked her out in two. Peace at last!
The fireplace is glaring at her with its gaping, sooty hearth. It has always been a challenge for her to get out of bed in the freezing cold of an unheated bedroom and light the fucking fire. She glares back at it inhaling deeply on the cigarette searching inside her for the nerves to accept the challenge. Snorting, she tosses the stump to one side, picking it up from the floor and killing it in the overflowing ashtray after she swung her legs out and sat perched on the bed. The freezing cold from the wooden floorboards congeals her bare feet and skinny calves. Her silky, short and scanty nightie utterly inadequate to the basic heating system. Consuela sits taking in the cold, feeling it run through her, guiding it up the length of her every limb in the midst of images and garbled words unfolding in her head. The bedroom door bursts open and she jumps, her thoughts breaking off. Kylie runs in giggling holding a couple of articulated trucks. Dumping them on the floor, he proceeds to slump by them and play producing a series of unnatural sounds.
‘Why aren’t you downstairs, sweetheart?’ Consuela asks a freshly lit cigarette between her fingers.
‘Nan’s sent me back up.’
‘Yeah, well, no surprises there,’ she says with a tone of resignation. ‘Anybody else down there, apart from the staff getting the house ready for the party?’
‘The dogs. They’re all right.’

12. A family of five was found dead last night in their home. Three children, 9,6 and 4 and mother and father were found in the early hours of the morning by a neighbour woken by what she describes as ‘loud fireworks’. Police are looking into a murder pact. The newsreader stares into the camera shuffling pages around already moving on to the next news fact. The following footage, he says, contains scenes that can be disturbing to some people.
The images flash by one after another, the voiceover recounts the tragic events. I turn on the video recorder. The news goes that the husband has recently lost his job in construction and his wife, whom the neighbours describe as ‘eccentric’, has pushed him into committing suicide with her ‘religious and culpable’ talk. Having discovered her husband’s body, the woman turns the firearm on her three children before killing herself.
The newsreader is back on the screen. His mouth opens and closes, his words lost in the images superimposing in my mind. I rewind the tape and play it again. A family of five was found dead last night... I watch the images roll - the suicide scene where first the husband and then the wife kill themselves, the bedroom where two of the children lie when the gun explodes in their face. I rewind it and watch it again. I rewind it and watch. I cannot stop. An idea is forming in my mind. It is so scary that I don’t wish to ponder it.

13. Her hands are cold despite having slipped in a thick cotton jumper. Stuffing them in the front pockets of her jeans, she ventures out of the bedroom dawdling on the stairs down.
‘And how’s my princess?’ Reginald says. He was entering through the back door with a armful of logs when he saw her coming downstairs; resting the logs aside, he waited at the bottom of the staircase with a smile on his round and podgy face. His open arms welcome her in the cold of life.
‘Dad,’ she says stepping into his embrace. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m all right, sweetest bonbon. What about you?’ he says looking her over at his long arm length.
Consuela nods. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s been so long since your last visit.’
‘Well, you know...’
‘Not so keen about this place,’ he says not for the first time, a new phase that her dad is going through, chipping in to finish off every sentence that involves any sort of consideration about the family. Afraid to hear the truth or simply not wanting to?
‘You’re always welcome to come to mine whenever you’re in London,’ she says.
‘Work engagements aren’t easy to get round.’
‘No and neither is granddad, is he?’
Reginald tries to laugh but he isn’t fooling anyone. Granddad is a living nightmare to every member of his family.
‘Life treating you all right?’
She doesn’t reply, stretching her lips into an improbable smile, rubbing her hand along his arm, warm and woolly.
‘How ‘bout a quick nod to your mum, huh? She’s in the living room, recovering from a little accident we had earlier.’ His hand rests in the small of her back, pushing her forward. Like an obstinate horse that refuses to budge, Consuela stays put. ‘Come on, just a little greeting. To be polite.’
Scoffing, she lets herself be guided inside shaking her head. ‘This party’s a big thing for your mum. She’s a bit edgy.’
‘That’s her excuse or yours,’ Consuela mumbles walking through the first of the two arches that lead into the living room.
‘There you are!’ Cecilia says unusually exuberant. ‘I was beginning to think you had gone chopping wood yourself. That’s what happens when you take over the staff’s duties.’
‘I’m not that eager but, who knows, under the right circumstances I might even turn into a lumberjack,’ Reginald jokes taking a seat next to his wife.
‘Let’s spare us that fall,’ Cecilia says before finally acknowledging her daughter. ‘And here you are! You took your time getting ready,’ she says giving Consuela a once-over. With clenched teeth, she continues, ‘And perhaps you should have taken longer.’
‘Cheerful over the party, mum. Perhaps you should have more.’
‘Yes, dear. I’m sure you can spare some from your busy engagement list. Not one week goes by without one of your exploits making front page in Hello.’
Reginald leans over, dragging himself on the settee. ‘It’s gonna be a wonderful gathering. We’ll have the Veuve Clicquot Vintage Brut 2002, boxes of it,’ he says sweeping his arm in the air. ‘You like it so, sweetest bonbon.’
‘Not as much as mum but, yes, I like it,’ Consuela says still standing before her parents, hands in pockets. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ she says taking her leave.
‘Not too forward, my dear,’ Cecilia says meeting her daughter’s glance. ‘We don’t want any embarrassing scenes now, do we? Hello publicises us for our good taste and sophistication not for our mortifying conduct.’

14. An embarrassment. That sums you up all right. Something to keep out of sight and taken out only when strictly necessary. Reflexively, Consuela ambles across the hall, skirted by waiters and maids, opens the back door and steps outside. The bluster from the open plains shakes her like a leaf, ruffling her hair blowing straight across her face. Consuela stuffs her hands in her pockets rounding her shoulders and starts walking. Every time she and mum are together, she ends up crying. Mum just enjoys pricking her ego – a voodoo doll to stab and torture at her pleasure. She feels the start of an anxiety attack, a tightening of the chest, a missed breath. Looking out at the horizon, the spent green of the winter plains saddens her even more. The pines in the garden are swinging madly under a white sky and the water pond ripples, splashing left and right – the habitual ducks sheltering the best they can under bushes and thickets or the bravest in the workshop near the stables sitting in a ball to keep warm, waiting out. A new bluster hits her full front shoving her back a step blowing her hair away from her face this time sending it fluttering straight back past her shoulders. She stands like that for a minute grimacing at the wind whipping her face not minding it, appreciating it even, thinking that that is her just desert then she turns on her heels feeling relief to be out of the wind when she enters the house appreciating the warmth that the enclosed place provides, even if moderate. Taking the steps one at the time, looking at nothing but her walking boots, she reaches the first floor. On the landing, she raises her head, her eyes falling on her parents’ bedroom door, on the left. The door is standing out like a sore thumb painted white at the beginning of the lengthy, disused rest of the corridor that fades into obscurity. Instinctively, she turns her head to look at the mask carved in the wall. It is four feet and six inches from the ground and overlooks the hall with its gaping mouth and blind eyes. Like an automaton, she falls into a well-rehearsed routine. Taking the steps up to her room, she stocks up with liquor, cigarettes and two blister packs of antidepressants before holing up for a while, then tonight, she will show mum the meaning of the word embarrassment.

15. Reaching inside the god’s mouth, Consuela pulls the lever. With a squeak, a door opens at the top of a flight of stone stairs in the wall at the end of the hall illuminated by the three arched windows. Guzzling some brandy, she steps inside. It is musty and rank with a stone floor and an old couch, gnawed at the corners and stained. Inhaling on the cigarette, she drops in the seat watching the stone door close as she plunges into darkness.
It is quiet and much warmer in the secret room, always has been. The sun beats down on the outside wall warming it, the lack of windows and subsequent absence of draughts keeps it at an agreeable temperature. Well, that is one explanation. Reaching to her left, she flicks the light on. A small lamp sits by the couch on the floor. It casts a dim light producing some sort of atmospheric setting. Lazily, she casts her eyes around. Some dirt around the edges, empty bottles and crumpled packets of cigarettes, overflowing ashtrays – one, two, three, four – the writing on the wall – a freakish scrawl that she wrote way back. How long? Ten years? Christ! She was messed up then!
‘Thoughts of revenge, strong enough to kill.’ They were the opening verses of the refrain of a song she wrote, she was just starting writing then. Madness it was! Fuck, with adolescence going on, her emotional stress and confusion were amplified ten times over. It was awful. She felt shit. The emotions tearing up her insides! Booze and drugs only temporarily sedating her demons. And of course she couldn’t understand what the fuck was happening to her. Flicking the stump in the air, she scoffs. She doesn’t now either! Dropping her head back against the cold wall, she listens. Silence. Not a sound penetrate this place. Closing her eyes, she savours the peaceful setting – as quiet as a tomb. Her fingers crawl to the blister packs of antidepressants on the couch next to her along with the cigarettes and the liquor.

‘I wish to God you kept your rock’n’roll lifestyle out of our lives.’
Her arm is jerked up then dropped. She feels her body being pulled up and her left arm draped around someone’s neck – they are holding her wrist. Somebody else is talking. They are walking along with her and the person helping her up. They are talking aloud, blustering, losing their temper. ‘For Christ’s sake, Consuela, just make an effort! Walk!’
With a moan, she squints, blinking – the light hurts her eyes. Her legs crumple. ‘Not yet sweetheart. Come on. One step... and another...’ Consuela recognizes her dad’s voice – he is talking sweetly to her, lulling her with his smooth rhythm. The other voice is her mum’s. It shrills jarring with her eardrums. ‘We are trying to help you! God knows whether you deserve it!’
‘That’s enough,’ Reginald says helping his daughter along. They have made it to her bedroom – Consuela can smell the familiar odours, weed, FCUK deodorant, cigarette smoke.
‘And here we are, sweetheart,’ her dad says. Consuela stretches a hand out getting hold of the edge of the bed. She perches on it; dad is stooping propping her up looking concerned.
‘Why don’t you go get a glass of water?’ Cecilia says to Reginald shuffling in to take a seat, restraining herself from shoving the big man out of the way. She roughly props her daughter up with her shoulder. Not a keen action, just coincidental. ‘I’ll take it from here. I can manage.’ She watches her husband hurry across the bedroom and down the short flight of stairs before unleashing her fury. ‘This will not do! You’re stoned!’ Cecilia barks disgust distorting her face.
Consuela sways, her eyes half closed, her mind hazed – her mother’s words bouncing against the wall in her brain, echoing, aching.
‘Whatever you do with your life is your business. As long as you do it out of our sight!’ More swaying, Consuela feels sick, her mother pushes her back. ‘This drug bullshit has to stop for the time being. Tonight’s party time and, by no means, I’ll accept any odd behaviour or scene of any kind. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
There is no reply. Consuela’s hands are placed loosely between her knees, her eyes closed.
‘Christ knows I wish you weren’t here. The last thing I need is the extra worry. To worry about you, your behaviour, what you’ll say...’ Cecilia shakes her head, sad. ‘But you are family and people would start wondering where you were if you didn’t show, after all you’ve been a constant presence for years, and what they might think if they didn’t see you might be worse that having you there.’ Suddenly, Cecilia turns towards her daughter, holding her up at arm length. ‘I will not tolerate any scene. I hope that’s clear.’ With a last look, she scans her daughter; there is no love in the act just a simple reassurance that she understood. Then she gets up and leaves letting her daughter sink inertly on the bed. Only seconds pass before Consuela’s head is being propped up and something placed to her lips.
‘Cons?’ Her dad is calling. She can’t quite hear what he is saying. Where is he? ‘Cons?’
She half opens her eyes. ‘Dad,’ she says, squinting – she can’t quite make out the image before her. Everything is fucking blurry.
‘Here you are, sweetheart. Some of this will do you good.’ He is helping her up, holding her head whilst circling around using his shoulder to support her then sitting down next to her. He wipes his hand on her forehead and she gulps – her mouth is awfully dry. She feels herself being lifted and carried then lay down again. Dad fumbling with the duvet and covering her. Sitting at her side, his big face is hovering over hers.
‘What you been doing?’ he says – his polite way to ask what the fucking have you done to yourself this time.
‘Oh, you know.’ She snorts ending in a bout of cough.
Reginald takes the glass from the bedside table and places it to her lips. ‘Here. Have some of this.’
She does. ‘It’s water!’ she says splattering, her eyes opening wide.
‘Yeah, well. At least it perked you up.’

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