The Midden (15 page)

Sir Arnold Gonders hadn't had a pleasant day either. Or night. It had been nearly four by the
time he left the Land Rover by the byre and walked up to the house where he was alarmed to see a
light on in Auntie Bea's bedroom. "That bloody woman,' he muttered bitterly and wondered what on
earth, in addition to a massive dose of Valium in gin, was needed to keep her asleep at night.
Avoiding the front door, he sneaked round to the study windows to let himself in. Sir Arnold
crept upstairs and was presently fast asleep. He had done all that he could do. The rest was up
to fate.

In fact it was in large measure up to Genscher. The Rottweiler had spent a ghastly night in
the cellar desperately trying to deal with the insulating-tape muzzle. In his brutal attempt to
prevent the dog from exercising any right to bark or, more dangerously, to bite when he was
kicked in the scrotum, Sir Arnold, never a brave man, had made it almost impossible for Genscher
to breathe as well, and the dog had spent hours trying to scratch the beastly tape off before
evidently deciding that it was likely to lose its nose as well. Unable to whine or do anything at
all constructive backing away from its nose had done not the slightest good and had only resulted
in its banging its bruised backside against the wall it had dementedly climbed the steps to
appeal for help by head-butting the cellar door. By seven o'clock the house was reverberating to
the thud of one hundred and fifty pounds of maddened Rottweiler hurling itself against the door
every few seconds. Even Mrs Thouless, usually a sound sleeper and one whose deafness prevented
her from being included in the nastinesses of the household, was shaken to the conclusion that
something very like an air raid was taking place in the vicinity. Since she had been brought up
during the war in Little Kineburn under the very shadow of the great dam when it had been widely
supposed the Germans would bomb the dam and loose the waters of the reservoir onto the tiny
village, Mrs Thouless was particularly nervous about air raids. By 6.20 she was driven from her
bed and went into the kitchen in her dressing-gown with a view to possibly taking refuge in the
cellar. By then Genscher's efforts to attract attention had diminished slightly. All the same,
the cellar door shuddered every time the dbg launched itself at it. Mrs Thouless looked at the
door. She wasn't at all sure about it. Then very cautiously she unlocked it and lifted the
latch.

A moment later she knew with absolute certainty that there was no danger of being drowned or
bombed in her bed. A far worse horror had bowled her over in the shape of a huge and demented
Rottweiler with twenty metres of insulating tape wrapped in a grotesque black knot round its
head. Mrs Thouless, never fond of dogs at the best of times and particularly wary of large German
ones, found the experience and the apparition too much for her semi-deferential servility, and
screamed. If anything more was required to send Genscher into an even greater state of panic, it
was the sound of those screams. Nowhere indoors was safe. Only the outdoors would do. Without
hesitation it hit the back door and recoiled against Sir Arnold's golf clubs which clattered onto
the tiled floor. A further crash, mingled with Mrs Thouless' Scottish screams, followed as the
great beast, its head lolling under the weight of so much insulating tape, mistook the Welsh
dresser for an easier door and hurtled into it. But Genscher's course was run. In the midst of
cascading plates and saucers the Rottweiler, now notably short of oxygen and breathing
stentoriously through its bloodied nostrils, slithered across Mrs Thouless' recumbent body and
fell back into the darkness of the cellar.

Upstairs, the din in the kitchen had woken even the exhausted Chief Constable from a deep and
welcome sleep. He sat up in bed to find Lady Vy in her dressing-gown, clutching his .38 Scott
& Webley, marching towards the door with her black eyeshade pushed back menacingly on her
forehead.

'What the fuck's going on?' he asked hoarsely.

"Another of your dumb tricks, no doubt,' said his wife, and pushed open the door with her
foot. Downstairs Mrs Thouless' screams had redoubled and the crockery bouncing on the tiled floor
suggested that someone was breaking up the entire kitchen.

It was this, far more than the housekeeper's screams for help, that enraged Lady Vy. 'Oh my
pedestal plates,' she yelled and hurled herself down the stairs.

Behind her, hideous in a diaphanous nightie hastily tucked into a black leather skirt, Auntie
Bea lurched out of her room in the mistaken belief that her beloved Vy was being battered by the
revolting Sir Arnold. 'Let go of her,' she shouted as she entered the bedroom, girding her loins
with the skirt she had so hastily put on. 'Let go, you vile creature. Haven't you done enough
harm already with your foul ways?'

Sir Arnold, who was crouched over the side of the bed in the process of locating his slippers,
was unable to make any suitable reply before finding himself enveloped in black leather as she
hurled herself at him. For half a minute they wrestled on the bed before Auntie Bea pinned him
down and, realizing her error, was wondering what to do next. What she could see of Sir Arnold,
one eye squinting malevolently over the edge of the black skirt while the other was possibly
savouring the delights that lay below it, did not make her anxious to relinquish the hold she had
on him. To lend weight to this already weighty advantage there was the knowledge that she would
never again be in a position to make him taste some of his own medicine. With a hideous relish
she leered down at him and then with a swift hand thrust his entire head under, the skirt.

It was an unwise indulgence. Sir Arnold, weakened as he was by the incomprehensible horrors of
the weekend, was still sufficiently strong to resist the ghastly prospect of going down on his
wife's lesbian lover, which was, he supposed, what she intended. In the folds of the black
leather it was difficult to know, and the alternative that she intended to smother him was
possibly even worse. The alternatives left the Chief Constable no choice. With all the desperate
strength of a man embedded in a heavy woman's crotch, Sir Arnold Gonders took an awful breath and
thrust himself upwards. It was a hideous experience but for a moment he glimpsed daylight. His
bald head broke through the waistband of the skirt, only to be plunged down into darkness as
Auntie Bea, for the first time in her life experiencing the sort of pleasure a man, albeit a
terrified and frantic one, could give, forced him back. For a few more minutes the melee went on
as with each new surge by the panic-stricken Sir Arnold she felt the delights of dominance and
Sir Arnold experienced the horrors.

When at last he subsided beneath her and it became obvious that he was beaten, she unwisely
raised the skirt and smiled down at his flushed and sweating face. The Chief Constable, peering
beyond her pudenda, saw that smile and, in one final assertion of his own diminished ego and just
about everything else, jerked his head to one side and sank his teeth into her groin. That the
teeth were not his own and that what he had hoped would be her groin wasn't hardly mattered to
the Chief Constable. With a fearful yell Auntie Bea lifted from the bed, seemed to hover on a
cushion of pain and then crashed back towards Sir Arnold. This time there was no mistaking her
intent. She was going to murder the swine.

It was precisely at this moment that Lady Vy returned with the smoking revolver. She had come
back to tell Sir Arnold that the bloody fellow in the cellar had somehow managed to escape after
first winding yards of insulating tape around the family pet's head, and she was in no mood to
find her husband quite evidently making very peculiar love to her Auntie Bea. More to the point
her Auntie Bea, to judge from the look on her face, was finding the proceedings such a delicious
agony of passion that her tongue was protruding from her mouth while she uttered grunts and cries
of satisfaction. This sight was too much for Lady Vy following so closely on the discovery in the
kitchen of Mrs Thouless lying full length on the floor by the cellar door with her dress
strangely disarranged and moaning about some great beast. With a courage that came from years of
conviction that she was morally superior to any servant and must of course demonstrate this in a
crisis, particularly when she was armed with a loaded revolver, Lady Vy had stepped over Mrs
Thouless and unhesitatingly fired into the cellar. This time Genscher had no doubt why it had
been muzzled so horribly. While it hadn't actually read about the fate of the Tsar and his
family, it did recognize that the cellar made an ideal killing-ground and that, having failed to
hang him when they had the chance, the master and now the mistress were bent on shooting him. As
the bullet ricocheted round the walls, Genscher whimpered silently and took refuge in one of the
wine racks.

Lady Vy turned the light on and came slowly down the steps holding the revolver in front of
her.' Come out and face the music,' she shouted. 'I know you're down here. Come out or I'll
fire.'

But the Rottweiler knew better than to move. It cringed at the very back of the stone wine
rack and waited for death. Surprisingly it passed him by, and the next moment Lady Vy was
hurrying up the steps again.

Now as she entered the bedroom she was too startled by what was taking place there to utter
the message she had brought.

'Bea darling, how could you?' she asked piteously, and fanned her face with the muzzle of the
revolver.

Auntie Bea turned an awful face towards her friend. 'I haven't finished yet,' she snarled,
misinterpreting the past tense. 'But when I have '

'You mustn't,' screamed Lady Vy. 'I won't let you demean yourself in this horrible way. And
with him of all people.'

'What do you mean "with him"? I can't think of anyone else I want to '

'I can't bear it, Bea. Don't say it. I won't listen.'

Sir Arnold, taking advantage of this interchange, managed to get an intake of air and
squawked, 'Help, help me,' rather feebly.

Auntie Bea bore down on him. 'Die, you monster, die,' she shouted, and dragged the skirt
tightly over his mottled face.

Lady Vy sank onto the floor beside the bed. 'Oh Bea darling, me darling, not him,' she
sobbed.

Auntie Bea tried to understand this bizarre request. She knew Vy to be a submissive woman but
she had never been asked to kill a loving friend before. The request struck her as being
positively perverse and decidedly tasteless.

This was more than could be said for the Chief Constable. Fighting off death by suffocation in
the folds of black leather, he would willingly have swapped places with his wife or anyone else
who felt inclined to die in such a dreadful fashion. And as for being tasteless that was not what
he'd have called it either. If anything quite the reverse, but that was not of much concern to
him at the moment. Staring into the black hell that was Auntie Bea's idea of bas couture, he was
appalled at the thought of his imminent obituary. It would read like something in one of the
magazines God was always telling him not to borrow from the Porn Squad's store of confiscated
material. He couldn't for the life of him imagine how the Sun and the News of the World editorial
staff would find words sufficiently ambiguous to satisfy both the Press Complaints Commission and
the salacious appetites of most of their readers. Not that he had more than a passing interest in
his post-mortem reputation. He was dying a terrible death, if not at the hands at least at the
legs of a woman he had particular reason to loathe. As he began to pass out he was vaguely aware
of Vy's voice.

'But you swore to me you hated men, Bea,' she screamed in a fit of hysterical jealousy. 'You
promised me you would never ever, ever, touch a man and now look what you're doing.'

'I'm trying to,' Auntie Bea screamed back, grappling with the skirt, 'but he isn't dead
yet.'

'Isn't dead yet?' repeated Lady Vy in a voice so vacuous that even the Chief Constable wasn't
sure he had heard right. What did the fucking woman think he was doing? Having a whale of a
time?

Finally it dawned on Lady Vy that the situation was not as she supposed. 'Oh God, no, no, you
mustn't, Bea darling,' she bawled. 'Don't you see what this will do to us?'

'I don't care what it does to us,' Auntie Bea shouted back, 'all I care right now is what it
does to him. You should see what the monster's done to me.'

The invitation was too much for the distraught Lady Vy. 'Show me, oh show me, darling,' she
said, and hurled herself onto what the Chief Constable had come to regard as his deathbed. As she
scrabbled at Auntie Bea's curious skirt his face emerged, almost as black as the garment itself.
Sir Arnold gulped relatively fresh air and stared through bloodshot, bulging eyes up into the
face of his moronic wife. For the first time in twenty-two years it had some appeal for him. And
what she was doing had even more. Lady Vy was dragging the skirt off Bea's legs. For a moment it
seemed she was about to join him in the filthy thing but Aunt Bea's attention had switched. She
was less interested in killing her assailant than in finding out if she was likely to bleed to
death from his bite. She fell back onto the bed and the Chief Constable and Lady Vy were just
seeing what he had done, when there was a sound from the bedroom doorway.

'I've come to give my notice,' Mrs Thouless announced in a loud voice. 'I'm not staying in a
house where there are such strange goings-on. I mean, begging your pardon, ma'am, for
interrupting but that thing downstairs has come out of the cellar again and it isn't a fit sight
for a decent woman to see first thing in the morning.'

With an insouciance that came from years of dealing with embarrassing moments and awkward
servants, Lady Vy flounced off the bed and advanced on the poor housekeeper. 'How dare you come
in here without knocking?' she demanded.