Pompomberry House by Rosen Trevithick Read Free Book Online Page B

stood
up again.
    Suddenly, she raised her elbow, and pushed her forearm
against my neck, in the manner that you might use if you planned to shove
somebody up against a wall. However, she used no force whatsoever and so we
just stood, face-to-face, in a rather peculiar position. I noticed that her
perfume was synthetic and disgustingly sweet.
    “Back off!” she cried.
    “Off where? I’m not on . You can have him.”
    Her big, brown eyes narrowed. “Aw!” she cooed, stepping back
and putting her arms back by her side. She looked at me from beneath arched
eyebrows, adopting an expression usually reserved for cats and babies. “You
really mean that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! See, I told the others you
were okay really.”
    “Can I go now?”
    “You’re still going to go?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t want you to!” she asserted, blocking the door with
an arm.
    “Please Annabel, I need to get away for a couple of hours.
Come on ... to thank me for letting you have Rafe?”
    She smiled, and removed her smooth, depilated arm. “All
right then, it’ll be our little secret.”
    Yes, ours and everyone’s who was there at dinner.
    * * *
    It was dark and I stumbled over boulders as my feet searched
for sand. Where was the stone causeway? I cursed myself for not having the
foresight to bring a torch. Still, at least the light from the dining room
provided some assistance.
    Was this really a good idea? I mean, yes, I needed a whisky
and coke, but was I actually going to be any happier when I found a pub? I’d
just kicked my husband out. I wasn’t going to feel dandy wherever I was.
    No, I’d said I was going for a drink, so go for a drink I
would do. I couldn’t have these people thinking they could push me around.
Goodness only knows what they’d do to my anthology entry if they thought they
could get away with it.
    I had a few ideas for my entry. My favourite involved three
horrendous, hypocritical charity representatives competing with murderous
intent. Written carefully, it could be subtle, thoughtful and hilariously
observant. In the wrong hands, it would be a disaster. My writing career
depended on standing up to these people — at least, that’s what I told myself
as I stepped in a rock pool. Damn, now both of my pairs of footwear are wet.
    Unexpectedly, I saw somebody disappearing up the steps. At
least, I thought I did. In the darkness, it was hard to be sure.
    “Hello?” I called, wondering if one of the others had
decided to come with me. If I were lucky, it would just be a mad axe murderer
instead. The menacing prediction sprang into my mind and I felt a tingle run
down my spine. I reprimanded myself for being so stupid, and continued walking.
    Suddenly, the faint covering of light evaporated. I looked
back toward Pompomberry House. Somebody had closed the curtains. Goddammit.
    Oh well, I’d have to feel my way. I knew the general
direction toward the steps. My bike lights should be in the glove compartment. Once
I got to my car, I could grab them for finding my way back. The front one would
probably be of some use.
    Using my phone to light the ground, I navigated my way to
the steps, thinking that the hard part was over. Alas, the stones seemed to get
more slippery the further I walked. When I was almost across, I stumbled. I
found myself grasping at the bank, to steady myself. A handful of grass came
away in my hand. I toppled backwards.
    By this stage I was closer to my car, and the bike lights
inside it, than I was to the house, so there was no sense in turning back.
Carefully, I ascended the rest of the steps.
    Again, I thought I saw somebody, orsome thing ,
in the shadows. This time, I was afraid to call out. What if whatever it was
meant me harm? Announcing my presence would do me no favours.
    I stood, paralysed for some moments, willing my eyes to see
in the dark. Was there really somebody there? It was almost pitch dark. I
wouldn’t see a person standing six inches in