Chapter Five

Lilith

My car was my extravagance, costing a small fortune to keep in storage: a Series 2 Jaguar E-Type the colour of buttermilk, with cream leather upholstery and an engine that could outgun just about anything else on the road.  That was, if anything on the road was actually moving in the first place.

The traffic came to a standstill barely five miles from Heathrow.  Rain pounded against the windscreen, wipers struggling to clear the deluge, and the Jaguar’s immaculate paintwork was soon hidden beneath a layer of grit and liquid mud.  I sat and watched the dashboard thermometer creep insidiously towards the red, and contemplated the most efficient method of murdering my father.

After two hours of staring at the tail-lights of a Volvo, and resolutely ignoring the unchecked gurning and obscene gestures from the three children in its back seat, I reached my exit. I slammed into first gear and roared up the slip road in a spray of filthy water.  I stuck my right hand out of my window and flicked a highly satisfying finger at the rabid little brats who had been tormenting me.  In my rear view mirror I saw the driver’s mouth drop open in disgust. 

*****

Eight numbing hours’ journey followed, including a stop at a motorway service station to get changed into warmer clothes.  As an extra precaution against recognition I also took a pair of hazel-tinted contact lenses from my washbag and slipped them in before I stepped back out into a foyer that smelled of stale cooking fat and overflowing urinals. 

By then, it was safe to say that the beauty of my native countryside, even in its early summer splendour, was entirely lost on me.

For the last two hours I meandered through the rolling borders of northern England and my route took me down every potholed B-road in the green and unpleasant land.  As the sun began its leisurely dip below the horizon, I could see the distant Scottish mountains and I knew I was getting close.

My satnav gave up about half an hour from the village of Albermarle, bewildered by a series of meandering tracks that it refused to believe existed, and Mozart’s Requiem played out so loud that I could feel the bass notes vibrating through the seat.  I may not have believed in the words, but the harmonies filled my head until there was no room for anything else; God-botherers always got the best tunes.

Finally, after scattering yet another flock of startled sheep, I pulled up at a solid, stone-built eighteenth century gate lodge.  Gold-painted wrought iron gates flared bright in the last rays of the evening and a pristine hand-painted sign announced Albermarle Estate – PRIVATE LAND – Strictly Guests Only.  Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. 

As I killed the engine an artificially bulked-up young man in a white shirt and scarlet and gold striped tie – the colours of the crest on the brochure – stepped from the front door of the gate lodge and stooped down to speak to me.  His massive shoulders and bull’s neck filled the space at my window.  ‘Evenin’,’ he said in a smooth brogue.  ‘Delighted to see you, Ms Bresson.  My name’s Coyle O’Halloran, Estate Manager.  Lady Albermarle asked me to make sure you were given a personal welcome.’  He gave a broad smile that showed a set of small, even, white teeth and ran a hand through close-cropped dark hair.  ‘You’ll be pleased to know you’re almost there.  I’ll pop back inside and get these gates open in a minute, then you just need to drive about a mile down this road, straight past the holiday lodges and the village itself and you’ll come to the lakeside.  Park your car in the secure garage and there’ll be someone from the Hall waiting to make sure you’re taken good care of.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.  I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around over the next few days.  You have yourself a relaxing evening, now.’  Coyle disappeared into the lodge and moments later the gates swung smoothly open. 

*****

I drove along the track that Coyle had indicated, and counted no less than eight CCTV cameras, their winking red lights proof that they were the genuine article.  There was another sign in that same  calligraphy: Your Registration Details Are Being Recorded For Security Purposes.  I had no doubt that they were.

Inoffensive Scandinavian-style wooden chalets were scattered throughout the woods, with enough distance between them to give their occupiers the illusion of splendid isolation, but dense enough to reap a decent profit for the owner.  Two well-scrubbed, wholesome looking children played badminton on the grass outside the closest cabin, using this year’s Range Rover as a net.  Their Germanic pastel co-ordinating outfits suggested that little Olivia and Xavier wouldn’t be getting their hands on the latest polyester football strip anytime soon and I just knew that somewhere there would be at least one Labrador to match daddy’s shiny black motor.

The skin in the crook of my arms began to itch, and I hoped like hell it was psychological.   The last thing I needed now was a flare up of the eczema that had dogged my childhood.

Begrudgingly, I had to admit that Albermarle itself was a revelation.  I had expected some utilitarian tourist centre with a shop that sold everything and perhaps a reluctantly added bar.  What I found was an Anglophile’s wank-fantasy, complete with a compact high street of perhaps twenty immaculate late Tudor buildings that included a beauty salon, delicatessen, several expensive boutiques and a pub.

I turned the final corner that would take me to my parking place by the jetty and there, like an enchanted castle that the Grimm brothers might have conjured up after a night on the absinthe, Albermarle Hall stood regal and aloof on its own emerald velvet island. 

Even in the evening’s damp gloom, I could see that the Hall was magnificent.  It had been built in the same era as the village, to house whichever lord had held sway over the tiny settlement.  The fortified walls and slit windows told of a time when this was a place to be defended to the death, so at least if an invading army of paparazzi made it across the lake to the island, I could engulf them in boiling oil.

I parked my car in its designated garage and hauled my luggage from the boot.  I looked around for a CCTV camera to protect her, but this seemed to be the only corner of the village not to have one.  I supposed – hoped –  that it would take a pretty skilled car thief to breach the defences I had seen so far.

‘Ms Bresson?’ A sweet, soft voice called, and an immaculate little man with close-clipped grey hair stepped out of the shadows and proffered his hand.  ‘Ms Bresson, I’m Henry Masterson, Blaine Albermarle’s PA, and I must say that I’m absolutely overjoyed to meet you at last.  Here, let’s get your things onto the boat, then we can get you inside and fed.  You must have had an incredibly tiring day.’  He led me to a small launch that rocked gently against the jetty, and gestured for me to step aboard. 

Once Henry had carefully stowed my cases with a strength that belied his slight frame, he started the motor and I began the final stage of my reluctant journey.  My left shoulder smouldered like a dying bonfire, and I needed the arthritic’s holy trinity: painkillers, a hot shower, and sleep.

I rubbed at my eyes.  My contact lenses felt as though they had welded themselves to my eyeballs, and I couldn’t wait to remove that part of my disguise. 

‘If you have the energy, Lady Albermarle would like you to join her for a late formal dinner tonight.  A welcome to the Hall, if you like.’  I must have looked particularly miserable, because Henry gave me an encouraging smile.  ‘It’s not all that bad, you know.  A couple of glasses of wine and a decent meal inside you, you’ll feel better in no time.’

A lifestyle I thought long-buried resurfaced like a bloated corpse on the surface of the oil-black water.  ‘Whatever.’

*****

‘I know it seems terribly odd to begin with, but you’ll get used to the ‘candles and no leccy’ thing in no time, I promise you,’ Henry cheerily informed me as he escorted me to my room. He held an oil lamp aloft and shadows danced and flickered on the margins of my sight. 

Albermarle Hall catered for guests who liked their heritage obvious.  After a long walk down endless panelled, tapestried corridors I had a depressing feeling that I knew what my room would be like: great swags of chintz, and every square inch covered in pewter tankards and even more stuffed dead things. 

Henry opened the door to my room and I stepped inside, already wincing.  I tentatively opened one eye to see a Tudor facsimile of my Santa Marita bedroom in all its minimalist glory. 

French windows hung with sweeps of ivory voile looked out onto the lake, ready to flood the vast chamber with morning sun from first light, and ancient waxed floorboards emanated subtle aromas of beeswax and lemon oil and led my eye to a bed that made my own look like some sorry workhouse truckle:  the vast white sheets seemed to glow in the lamplight and more than anything I wanted to dive onto the bank of perfectly arranged cushions and pillows and sleep for a month.  The only thing I would need to remove was a ridiculous teddy bear wearing a sweater in Albermarle colours, perched on top of the centre cushion.

‘It’s to your liking, then?’

I was too exhausted to bitch.  ‘It’s beautiful. Someone’s gone to a great deal of effort.  Was this you?’

The man flushed with a pleasure that suggested praise was a rare thing.  He was already on my side.  ‘Well, I did have a little help.’

‘And those roses are incredible.’ I walked across the room to touch one delicate, milky petal.  A dozen stems, some still in tight bud and others already blooming into softly fragranced splendour, stood in a crystal vase on the mahogany dresser.

‘Ah, can’t take the credit for them, I’m afraid.  They were grown here on the island, though.  We have a very talented young gardener.  Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll bring the rest of your luggage to your room, shall I?  Then you can grab yourself a nice hot bath and relax before dinner.’  He paused in the doorway, suddenly embarrassed.   ‘Um, I know this is rather awkward Ms Bresson, but Lady Albermarle likes me to have a quick peep in our guests’ cases, just in case they’ve accidentally brought anything with them that might be against the ethos of the island.  Would you mind awfully if I checked through your things before you unpack?’

I was harshly reminded that this was no holiday. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Well, some people prefer Coyle to…’

‘No.  I’d rather you did.’

‘Very good.’ Henry gave a deferential nod.  ‘Dinner in an hour?’ 

‘Fine.’  I waited until he had left, then dropped onto the bed and swore in English, French and Spanish until I ran out of words.

*****

To my disappointment the cavernous bathroom didn’t have a shower, but it did have a magnificent Victorian roll-top bath that could have doubled as a swimming pool.  I filled it almost to the brim and submerged myself in near-boiling water until I felt the warmth begin to return to my aching, chilled body. 

I exhaled and let myself sink to the bottom until my head hit cast iron with a muffled thud.  I counted to a hundred and eighty before my lungs began to complain and I had to resurface: this had been one of the exercises that had weaned me off two inhalers and a hefty dose of steroids for asthma so severe that I had been hospitalised more times than I could count, and now it calmed and focused me beyond measure.

Control.  The one thing that shaped my life, and the one thing I felt that I was about to lose.