Pompomberry House (35 page)

I saw one last thing before blacking out — my assailant was
wearing something white tucked into his collar — a paper napkin.

Chapter 20

When I awoke, my head was throbbing. It felt as though
somebody had put an irate, hyperactive frog in there, one which was leaping
around, bashing against my skull. My hands were bound together and I couldn’t
see a thing because I was blindfolded, but I could smell a change in the air.
Something was different. Something had changed.

It took me a few moments to recognise the smell, but when I
did, I was stunned. It was salt. We were near the sea. How long had I been out
cold? Then I heard the unmistakable squawk of gulls overhead.

Where were we? Were we at Durdle Door, where the pig
incident happened? Or Bournemouth, where the police found the foot? Or Bognor
Regis, near the gnome wedding? None of those options sounded great. I wasn’t
sure what would be the ideal place to be taken to by a kidnapper, yet I was
pretty sure that it wasn’t the coast.

Then I remembered Rafe’s story. The cannibalism took place
on the coast. Is that why they were taking me there? I recalled a napkin stuffed
into my kidnapper’s collar. Was the killer really planning to eat me?

I was distraught to say the least; it’s bad enough knowing
you’re going to die, but knowing that your body will be eaten really twists the
knife. Presumably they’d have to cook me before eating me.
Yuck!
It didn’t
bear thinking about. I’d always imagined I’d be cremated, not digested.

Somebody strong dragged me from the car and tried tugging me
towards him. I resisted, kicking and screaming, but I fell to the ground. My
hand landed in a puddle and I noted that the ground was gritty and coarse. The
man picked me up again and began leading me away from the vehicle. I wanted to
resist but how could I? Blindfolded, I had no idea in which direction to run.

Then the man guided me down some steps. They were irregular
and slippery. The urge to run away was replaced by the desire to comply.
Perhaps pleasing my kidnapper might lead him to treat me more kindly.

He stopped. I had a moment to take in my surroundings. The
smell of salt was stronger still and I could hear the sounds of the sea — waves
and squawking. The man lifted me up over his shoulder. I felt giddy. What did
he plan to do with me?

Then he put me down again and I realised I was resting on
something unstable, something that rocked under my weight. I was in a boat!
Suddenly, I knew exactly where we were — Pompomberry Island.

Even in my state of terror, I could appreciate the poetic symmetry
of it. This whole ordeal started with a trip to Pompomberry House and it would
end with a trip to Pompomberry House. Suddenly twenty-first century
plot-devices didn’t seem so naff after all. If only this had all been in my
imagination ... If only I had a killer alter ego ... Alas,
it was just a plain old-fashioned plot, with real people and external villains.

A few minutes later, I found myself dragged out of the boat.
The strong kidnapper picked me up once again, and dropped me down onto my feet.
The blindfold was removed.

The sun was beginning to set and it took a few moments for my
eyes to focus. However, even with my vision blurred like a devil’s fog, I could
make out the shapes of two people in front of me — one of them like a giant
balloon animal and the other like a walking sideboard — Dawn Mann and
Montgomery Lowe.

It was no surprise. Of all the writers, Dawn and Montgomery
were the two that I trusted the least. They stood on the steps leading up to
the house wearing grins that said, ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

And that’s not all they were wearing. Dawn wore a pink
gingham cooking apron. Over his moth-eaten suit, Montgomery wore what could
only be described as a giant bib. They were ready for dinner!

I wanted to turn and run. Why didn’t I? I’d waded across the
causeway before. Granted, the tide had been lower back then than it was now,
but I could swim. My wrists wrestled with their bindings.

Pompomberry House towered before me — the large, imposing
granite building looking creepier than ever. Seagulls raced around the
airspace, swooping with menace. The island was just as we had left it, right
down to the gnome and the woodpile in the garden. I saw the axe, resting on the
wood and once again felt the urge to start swimming. I fought hard to free my
hands. Was it my imagination, or were the shackles loosening?

Then I saw the monstrous figure of an oversized seagull poised
impatiently on the rock before me. It looked at me out of one of its beady
yellow eyes and cawed rapidly. I could swear it was laughing. I remembered Rafe
saying,
‘
Nonsense.
They’re just birds.’ That
thing
was not
just a bird; it was an incarnation of the devil.

A figure behind me pushed me forward and I remembered my
kidnapper. Neither Dawn nor Montgomery could have stolen me from that London
street, because they were right in front of me, and I hadn’t heard anyone walk
around from behind me. Who was their abduction accomplice?

I spun around.

Before my eyes I saw a tall, upright man with shaggy brown
hair. He grinned at me, looking pleased with himself. I could see Pompomberry
House reflected in his green eyes. Rafe Maddocks.

Even though the facts had suggested that Rafe must be one of
the killers, a part of me had always hoped that he wasn’t. Rafe and I had
bonded once. We’d been kindred spirits for a few moments one lunchtime.
Granted, it hadn’t been a long friendship, but I’d rather hoped that his few
minutes of charm had been the real Rafe. Watching him now, with his shirt
sleeves rolled up and elbows slightly bent, as if ready to bash my brains out
with his bare fists, I realised that I had been very mistaken.

Two more figures emerged from the dusky shadows. I knew that
one of them was Danger, even before his ratty little face came into view. He
too, had a napkin tucked into his collar.

My brain told me that the other figure was Annabel, but my
heart hoped that I was wrong. Surely,
one
of the writers was honest. But
who else could it be? Not Emily, not Enid. What about Peter Pearson from ‘Red
Herring Publications’, or even the ghost of the spooky old woman from Gulls
Reach?

As they came closer, dark sequin stockings paired with a
plaid office dress confirmed that the other figure was indeed Annabel. I felt
betrayed. I mean, sure, I hadn’t liked her, but we’d shared friendly time
together. I’d supported her through Rafe’s commitment phobia and indulged her
with the silly Macarena game (how had she done that?). Here she was, just like
all the others, and a napkin was tucked into her belt.

The five of them crept forward, sandwiching me between the devils
and the deep blue sea.

I tugged at my restraints again. This time they loosened
enough for me to free a hand.
Yes!
I decided not to show those with
murderous intent that my hands were free, and kept them held behind my back.

Should I swim? I mean, certainly, I
can
swim. I
could
make it across the causeway. But could I do it faster than all of them? Surely,
among five people, there would be one person who was a stronger swimmer than me?

As the air cooled and the darkness crept in, a mist rose
from the sea behind Pompomberry House, like the haze of a bonfire. Then, my
nose detected the smell of ... smoke. It
was
a bonfire. Or
perhaps a barbecue ...? I turned and leapt towards the sea. I managed to
get up to my knees in water before strong arms caught me from behind, and
dragged me back onto the sand.

“You’re not leaving,” said Rafe.

“What have I ever done to you? Any of you?” I cried.

“Nothing,” replied Rafe. “But that’s neither here nor
there.”

“Actually,” began Annabel, “you did disagree with my opinion
on which short story idea Rafe should develop.”

“She’s got a point,” agreed Montgomery, nodding his
rectangular head. “If you had just let him work on the idea about the private
detective, we wouldn’t have needed to kill you.”

“And you squandered an apostrophe,” said Dawn. “Everybody
knows that you only put an apostrophe in ‘its’ when it’s ‘it is’.”

“I did not squander an apostrophe!” I exclaimed.

“And you put that horrible prediction in your hat!” accused
Annabel.

“Actually, I put that there,” admitted Dawn.

So there it was — Gareth was right. All
five
of the
writers were in on the plot, and they planned to enact Rafe’s story by killing
me. Why hadn’t I stayed inside my house?

My busy nostrils detected something else — something sweet
and familiar. Somebody was smoking weed. I automatically looked at Rafe. It
wasn’t him. A few guesses later, my eyes rested on Dawn, who was holding a
spliff between her pudgy fingers.

“What?” she demanded. “You think organising this was easy?”

Montgomery, clearly feeling threatened by Dawn professing
her role as organiser, grabbed it off her, plopped it between his slug-like
lips and inhaled sharply. A second later, he doubled over, coughing and
spluttering. Dawn’s yellow eyes shot him a look that said, ‘Owned’. She took
the spliff and continued smoking casually.

Finally, Montgomery managed to return to an upright state.
He adjusted his blazer, releasing a dust cloud, and then asked me. “So, what do
you think? Are we good publicists or what?”

“‘Are we good publicists or
not
?’” suggested Dawn. “Trying
to be young does not suit you.”

“Good publicists?” I asked him. “You’re not even good
people.”

“If you can’t be of good character, write a good character!”
laughed Dawn.

“Half a million copies!” cried Montgomery.

“Really, half a million?” I asked, surprised and reluctantly
impressed.

Montgomery nodded, smugly.

I took a few moments to revel in how many homes must have a
copy of my story now, and then cried, “But you’re serial killers!”

“We only killed one person,” said Dawn, most indignant. “Biff
wasn’t really dead. I’m surprised that you didn’t know that, Dee, after all the
prying you’ve been doing.”

“Um, I did know that!” I pointed out. “And, I know that it
was a test!”

“Oh, she
has
done her homework!” said Annabel, with a
sly smile.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” I told her. “All of
you!” Then I looked at Annabel, Rafe and Danger. “Out of four possible
accomplices, you three all passed the test. I had no idea that such a high
percentage of writers would literally kill to get a bestseller!”

“Oh Dee,” said Dawn, tilting her head to the side and
smiling sweetly. “You don’t think we took any chances, do you?”

Montgomery cut in. “We’ve been carefully assessing forum
members for months, narrowing down the choices, working out which members were
most likely to go for our idea, and inviting only the most aggressive and
merciless self-promoters to the retreat.”

“Then why did you pick me?”

“We didn’t. We picked Jan Harper! You should see the death
scenes that come out of her mind ... It was most annoying when her
mother died and you took her place.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”

“We gave you a chance. We let you stick around for Biff’s
murder, just in case you were suitable.”

“You didn’t
let
me stick around; you deflated my car
tyres.”

“That was me, I’m afraid,” said Monty extending his mouth horizontally
like a letterbox. “Then I pumped them up again to undermine your story.”

Dawn took over the narration. “After you’d gone, Monty and I
discussed Biff’s murder and quickly established that you were the only one not
up to our great task.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Well, we’ve got a bestselling book, so ...” she did a
big, girlie grin.

“I’m in that book too!” I pointed out.

“True,” admitted Dawn. “Ideally we wanted to publish without
yours, but the word count was a little low.”

“But including my story meant murdering an innocent woman! Amanda
Kenwood died because your word count was ‘a little low’?”

“I’m not saying it was an easy decision,” Dawn replied,
looking indignant.

“It wasn’t ideal, but if you can’t be of good character, you
can always write a good character,” added Montgomery, with a belly chuckle,
mistaking the parroting of catch phrases for humour.

“You haven’t done either!” I cried.

“What do you mean?” he asked, sounding genuinely hurt.

“Your protagonist is unlikeable and dull. An ageing tax
lawyer,
really
? I prefer your villains, even though they’re one
dimensional and flat.”

“
Your
characters are all flat!” he bellowed, shaking
his hairy fist. Clearly, his insults were as derivative as his plots.

“Then why did you steal my memory card?” I shouted.

“Actually,
I
took it from your wallet,” confessed
Dawn. “I had a feeling you would leave.”

“Did you take my credit card too?”

“Yes, and Annabel slipped it back into your bag when you met
for a drink.”

So
that
was why she had been so keen to meet up with
me. I knew that she didn’t really want to be my ‘BFF’. Mind you, her interest
had continued long after we met for drinks ...

“I really did appreciate your friendship,” squeaked Annabel.
Her big brown eyes looked at me with a pleading sincerity. “You know, the ... advice.”

“Save it for somebody you’re not planning to kill,” I
snapped. “Tell me, how
did
you get the barman to dance?”

“Easy,” she said, with a self-tanned, self-satisfied face.

“Well?”

“When you went to the bathroom, I bribed the barman.”

“But we hadn’t written the prediction at that point.”

“I know!” she crooned, testing the power of her thick
layering of lipstick as her smirk stretched. “But I knew that we would. I told
him to wait until we left, then open the envelope and do whatever the paper
inside told him to do.”