Captives of Cheyner Close (2 page)

She had been dreaming about Daniela Hammond’s initiation into the Elite Society not three weeks ago. She could not have known then, but that had been the trigger of her downfall. But at first everything had gone so well …

Tara’s laptop displayed a montage of snatched pictures taken over some months and in different weathers. They showed a dozen different people, their names and personal details added as captions, together with a double row of houses and gardens seen from various angles. The houses were basically boxes with a bay stuck on the front to try to make them
seem
more interesting. Some were rendered with pebble dash. In the middle of the last century they had been desirable middle-class dwellings. Now Tara hated them. They were situated less than fifteen minutes’ walk from her own home in Fernleigh Rise, but as far as Tara was concerned it was another world.

The girls crowded round the screen, despite the fact that they had all seen the pictures many times before. Tonight the images took on a special significance.

‘These are the occupants of Cheyner Close,’ Tara told Daniela solemnly. ‘They’re everything we’re not. They get annoyed when you try to have innocent fun anywhere near them. They think they’re as good as we are. They need to be reminded that they’re not.’

Tara froze the last image. It was a map of Cheyner Close showing a keyhole-shaped array of nine houses opening off the Styenfold road, with back gardens radiating out into fields crossed by a few hedgerows. Tara enlarged the map to show more detail. Beside each house, except for Number 2, was listed the names of its occupants. Another click and an image of Number 3 filled the screen. Inset was a slightly blurred picture showing the profile of a thin-faced man in his late twenties wearing glasses.

‘His name is Tom Fanning and he moved into the Close about a month ago. He bought privately from the Elliots …’ she grinned ‘… apparently it was the only way they could get a sale. Anyway, I heard that Fanning works in electronics. I don’t mean he owns a company or anything, he just makes electronic devices of some sort. He lives alone but I don’t think he’s gay because …’ she called up a full length shot of Tom Fanning ‘… he actually wears patched corduroy trousers in public.’

The girls sniggered at the damning image.

‘So he’s a nerd and a loser and he hasn’t received a visit from us yet. That means he doesn’t know his place.’ Tara looked at Daniela. ‘Tonight you’re going to put that right.’

Daniela gulped and then nodded …

And Daniela had proved herself. Under cover of darkness she had made her way across the fields to the Close, scaled the back garden fence of Number 3 and put Fanning in his place. She recorded details of her raid for the rest of the Elite on a camera set up for flashless nighttime photography. There were views of number 3’s back door with
FANNING IS A SAD WANKER
spray-painted across it; a large
X
on the lawn formed out of cut flower heads; Daniela scattering the bag of slugs and snails that Tara had provided her with over the vegetable patch and, finally, close-ups of her squatting down and peeing over a row of lettuces.

The raid was acclaimed a great success and Daniela was accepted as a full member of the Elite Society. It inspired Tara to conceive of a daring plan that would elevate her campaign against the Close to new heights. It would take a lot of organising but it would be such a thrill to carry out.

And so, on Friday morning, Tara had waved goodbye to her parents as she steered a hired MPV, loaded with tents, backpacks and the rest of the Elite Society, away from Fernleigh Rise.

Tara’s proposal that she should take the others to visit Katy Mitchell, an old school friend who had moved to the West Country a couple of years ago, had been welcomed by all their families. Of course all the girls would be going on holidays variously to Tuscany, Venice, California, Monaco, Fiji and the Seychelles later in the summer, but it was still
reassuring
to know they were not above spending ten days on a simple camping holiday exploring the modest delights of Cornwall.

They had travelled less than two miles down the road, however, before Tara made a right turn into a small lane which led nowhere near Cornwall. A second turning off this became a meandering unpaved track into Manor Woods. They passed through a gate set in a tall hedge, beyond which was a small but neat cottage. Tara drove round the back, where its semi-wild garden merged with the woods, and parked under the trees.

As the girls piled out of the vehicle a young man in his late twenties emerged from the back door of the cottage.

He was Simon Pye, big, strong and rather simple, with shaggy dark hair that tended to fall over his eyes. He gardened and did odd jobs around Fernleigh Rise, and reminded Tara of a shy, not too bright, but obedient dog.

‘Is everything ready?’ Tara asked.

‘Yes, Miss Tara,’ Simon said. ‘A letter came for you this morning, Miss …’

She took the envelope from him. It bore Simon’s name and address but a small circled
T
had been written in one corner in red ink. ‘Get the tent up,’ Tara told him as she ripped it open.

‘Yes, Miss Tara,’ Simon said, hurrying off to obey.

‘It’s from Katy,’ Tara told the others as she read the letter. ‘She’s got the phones and credit cards we sent and promises not to spend more than we agreed or lose the pin numbers. She’ll send them all back in time for our “return”, with plenty of photos of beautiful Cornwall. She’ll send the texts you wrote spaced out over the next few days to seem natural. Any live calls we can make from here and they’ll go
through
her landline set back into our cells. Any problems contacting us we can blame on signal blackspots around her area. And she says remember that we promised to send her full pics and details of raiding the Close when we’re done.’

Tara beamed at them. ‘So as from tonight we’re all in Cornwall, and we’ll have the phone records and card receipts to prove it. If the residents try to blame us for anything that happens over the next few days, they’re going to look very stupid indeed.’

By evening the big tent had been set up under the trees, with smaller tents housing a portable shower and chemical toilet close by. An extension cable run out from the cottage powered lights, a portable television and CD radio. The girls lounged about, resting or talking idly.

Gail, who had been walking through the woods as dusk fell, now appeared out of the gathering gloom and sat down on a folding chair. ‘I like it here,’ she announced. ‘We should have come before now. It’s so peaceful.’

‘Only because my father had the woods properly fenced when he bought it from the old Manor estate,’ Tara said. ‘Plenty of barbed wire to keep out trespassers, so we won’t be disturbed. That’s what makes it such a good place for our base.’

‘Does that mean we have to go all the way round by the lanes to get to the Close?’ Sian asked.

‘No. I had Simon make a concealed opening in the fence so it opens onto the fields. We can cut across them by keeping to the hedges. You’ll see it all later.’

Cassie had been looking thoughtful. Now she said: ‘Is Simon … you know … all right?’

Tara was surprised. ‘You’ve seen him round the Rise often enough. He’s harmless.’

‘But we’re staying in his garden. Can we … trust him?’

‘Well, he’s not suddenly going to jump on you, if that’s what you mean.’

The other girls sniggered derisively at the idea. Sian grinned. ‘I dunno. He’s got a great butt on him.’

‘Don’t forget the six-pack abs,’ Hazel added with a giggle.

‘What matters is that he won’t tell anyone we’re here and does what I tell him,’ Tara said. ‘He built those special bits of equipment to my designs and never asked what they were for.’

‘Seems like you’ve got him well trained,’ Cassie smirked.

‘It’s because this cottage came with the woods,’ Tara explained. ‘It was easier to leave it standing and let Simon stay here as a sort of unpaid keeper. That makes him cooperative. Of course, when my father decides to develop the land it all goes.’

‘And Simple Simon gets the boot?’ Cassie said with a knowing chuckle.

‘Probably,’ Tara agreed.

‘That’s a bit … unfair,’ Gail said.

‘If anything goes wrong with the plan,’ Daniela pointed out, ‘he might get blamed as well –’

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Tara declared firmly.

‘Don’t worry about Stupid Simon,’ Sian said. ‘He’s no better than the people living in the Close.’

‘At least he knows his place,’ Tara corrected her. ‘The residents in the Close don’t. That’s what this week’s for: to remind them exactly where they belong.’

They had set off just after midnight.

Tara looked round the nervous but excited group as they stood ready to depart. All were gloved,
booted
and masked and their clothing was dark and loose. Each carried torches with shaded lenses, as the night was darker than when Daniela had made her raid on Fanning’s house.

‘Right,’ she said crisply. ‘You’ve studied the map and you know your targets. We enter exactly at one o’clock. Get in, do your stuff and get out fast. We meet back at the big oak where the three hedges join. Any questions? OK: let’s go.’

She led the way along a path that wound through the trees away from the cottage. In a few minutes they reached the edge of the wood where it was separated from the open fields by a high mesh fence topped by three strands of barbed wire. They made their way along this until they came to the section Simon had modified. The mesh appeared continuous but it was held in place by hooks and could be folded back. They squeezed through the gap and headed out over the fields, hugging the shadow of hedgerows towards the lonely fuzz of yellow streetlight that illuminated Cheyner Close …

By ten to one Tara was kneeling in the cover of tall oilseed stalks looking across the narrow strip of rough grass that edged the field at the back fence of Number 8. It was Major Warwick’s house and her target for the night. She felt an almost sexual excitement coursing through her. The challenge of successfully overcoming so many obstacles and then seeing the effects of her actions on the residents was more rewarding than any sport.

When she’d first started raiding anybody could slip through a couple of loose boards in the fence and come out in the gap between and the shed. However Warwick had soon nailed them back in place and capped his fence with spiked strips of hard plastic.
Other
residents had taken similar measures, but they had all been bypassed with the devices Simon had made for her. Alarm wires strung along the fence tops had been negated with lengths of fishing line used to set off numerous false alarms from a safe distance. Security lights linked to motion sensors had been put out with a borrowed high-power air rifle. It was too expensive for the residents to keep replacing them so eventually they were removed. For that Tara had allowed them a few weeks’ rest from raids, serving as both a reward and a reminder that they were not to try too hard to spoil her fun.

At one o’clock exactly the raid began.

Tara broke cover and crossed to the fence, extending a lightweight sliding ladder as she went; thrilling at the knowledge that at that moment the others were using similar devices to effect their entries.

Bracing legs unfolded from the end of the ladder, bridging over the fence and resting on the roof of the shed. Tara climbed the ladder, dropped onto the roof of the shed, then lowered herself down into the gap between it and the fence.

Hardly daring to breath Tara crouched against the side of the shed, straining her ears and eyes. But all was silent and dark. She edged out of its shelter and started forward. She heard the footsteps behind her just too late …

A sack was jammed over her head and pulled down to envelop her upper body, trapping her arms. Before she could cry out she was shoved forwards so that she sprawled face down onto the ground. Somebody knelt across her back, driving the wind from her lungs and pulling a drawstring round the neck of the sack tight, binding her arms to her sides. As she gasped for breath, the coarse material of the sack was forced
into
her mouth by a rope being tied about her head, forming a crude gag.

As she lay on the damp grass, wheezing and confused, Major Warwick’s voice spoke softly but triumphantly in her ear: ‘This is the end for you, Tara Ashwell!’

Tara jerked out of her restless sleep again. She ached all over. The heat of the day had drained out of the house and a pre-dawn chill had entered the room. Still desperately tired, she huddled down against the warm flesh on either side of her …

It had been the worst shock of her life.

Warwick hauled Tara to her feet and marched her forward. Hooded by her sack, numb with shock and half-choked by her gag, she was in no condition to resist.

Grass became flagstones under her feet, then a gate was unlatched and swung open and she was shoved through. The cloying orange glow of a streetlight filtered through the coarse weave of her sack. She was dragged forward again through another gate, stumbling over a curbstone, across asphalt and back onto grass once more, where she was forced down onto her knees. In her confusion Tara swayed unsteadily and would have toppled over but for Warwick’s steadying hand on her shoulder.

Dimly she was aware of hurrying footsteps. A crowd seemed to be growing, conversing in urgent whispers. Muffled whimpers and grunts beside her suggested she was not the only captive.

Then somebody proclaimed loudly: ‘This is the last one. We’ve got them all!’

As a tremendous cheer went up, Tara’s stomach knotted. How could all the Elite have been captured? It wasn’t possible. It was a nightmare …

‘No need to keep them quiet now,’ Major Warwick said, as the echoes died away. ‘We want everybody to see their faces for the record.’

The gag rope was released and a second drawstring about the top of Tara’s sack was loosened far enough for it to be pulled down over her shoulders, leaving her arms still confined. Spitting out hemp fibres, Tara looked fearfully about her.