Saturday Sample: Mysterious Ways by Jeff Laurents, oak aged wine

 

Mysterious Ways

Mimsie Fotheringey was a nasty piece of work.

She had few friends, mostly male hangers-on, interested in her because of her money and glamorous looks, and prepared to indulge her errant personality, and unpredictable behaviour. Mimsie was in her early forties, and lived alone, except for her serving staff, in a small, but lavish country estate near Canterbury in Kent. The estate had been left to Mimsie by her late father, Sir Mark Fotheringey.

Sir Mark made his money in the property boom of the 1980s, and allegedly received his knighthood for services to the construction industry. But there were rumours that he’d donated large sums of money to his favourite political party, and that the knighthood was a favour in return.

Mimsie’s mother had divorced Sir Mark, and the girl was spoiled by a father with little idea how to raise a daughter, or the time to spend with her. He took the easy way out, and indulged her fondness for expensive playthings, which she discarded when they ceased to amuse her. Mimsie grew up to expect her own way, her face creasing into an ugly pout if she were crossed. Her treatment of men was partly derived from the coldness of her father’s behaviour to her, but also from a strong libido. Mimsie loved sex, and especially relished the chase. In this respect, she behaved more like a man than was customary.

She’d started internet dating, because it offered adventures, besides it was fashionable among her girly set. Bored with the usual club and party scene, they preferred the immediacy offered by the recent influx of dating sites on the web. As long as one had a good sense of judgement, there were some dishy men out there, though there were plenty of duds too.

“You know, internet dating, it’s really easy to do it from home,” she informed Vanessa, one of the friends to whom she would boast of her conquests.

“Why hang around the clubs, and end up alone at the end of the evening, or with some feeble, pain-in-the-arse wimp? This way is relatively painless.”

Mimsie was so attractive, that even the most eligible men might hesitate to approach her, for fear of rejection. But she also had a reputation for having a scathing mouth on her and a castrating stare. If she took an instant dislike to you, forget it.

“You can’t afford me, after all, Peter,” said Mimsie, as she delicately swung her expensive-looking legs-to-die for from her seat, and rose from the table at Posillipo’s, a fashionable Italian restaurant in Canterbury. They had dined there, one Friday evening in early May. It happened to be soon after parts of Kent were rocked by an earthquake, which had originated in the English Channel.

Some called it an act of God, claiming that the moral fibre of the nation had gone to the dogs, and that the quake was a warning from on high.

Mimsie rubbished this view. She declared herself an atheist, though she’d never really thought through her attitudes to God and religion. Atheism was more a fad with her, and something she used as a means of attracting controversy, which she loved to do. But she’d met a well-known atheist professor at a party, had a brief but passionate fling, and from that time, under his influence, poured scorn on religion. One thing in particular stuck in her throat. She could not understand how any god worth her time, would allow the deaths of the young and innocent. Some David Attenborough story about the diseased kids he’d seen in India, with worms coming from their eyes. That finally put paid to the god thing for Mimsie.

“So Peterkins, I don’t plan to meet you again. I really see no point. You look the part alright, and your car just about passes muster, but the reality is that after a couple of months dating you, our suppers together, and regular trysts in bed, I can see more clearly now that you’ve been stretching yourself just to be in my company. I saw your reaction when the bill for dinner arrived. You looked a most unhappy bunny. And scrutinising the bill like that, as if you half expected me to chip in, I’ve no doubt that you find it difficult coping with my high maintenance needs. And to tell the truth, your performance in the sack leaves a lot to be desired.”

She saw Peter turn pale at her hostility, and her utter disregard for propriety, for her words were spoken contemptuously, and in front of the waiter who’d arrived and stood at their table, making ready to process Peter’s visa card. He obviously heard what she was saying, for he could be seen to suppress a supercilious look. Mimsie, typical of her, had humiliated Peter, who regularly ate his supper at Posillipo’s.  Mimsie was sure he wouldn’t feel like dining there again. She also knew that he hated her calling him Peterkins, precisely why she called him so.

I don’t think Peterkins likes me much. Poor Peterkins.

Nevertheless, he kept his cool, collected his raincoat, and escorted Mimsie to her silver Mercedes. He was on the point of turning away, when she grabbed him and subjected him to a most appalling assault. At first it was a smoochy farewell kiss, for Mimsie needed to know that Peter still fancied her.

“So, Peterkins,” she cooed, “one final goodbye kiss.”

She was like that, unpredictable. One moment humiliating him in the restaurant, the next, erotically charged, as she leaned into him and flicked out her tongue to open his lips.

Suddenly she bit hard into his tongue, drawing blood. He screamed in pain and prised himself away.

“My god!” he shouted, blood dripping down his chin. “What is it with you?” What a piece of work you are!”

“God doesn’t come into it,” she replied. “You know I don’t believe in God. You annoyed me back there. You take me for a meal, then look as if you resent paying the bill. Even if you can’t really afford it, you should just be dignified about it and pay up without question. That’s what a gentleman would do.”

  She watched him as he turned away, striding off towards his dark blue Fiat Coupe. She wouldn’t see him again. She could barely contain a smirk as she watched him, his white mackintosh flapping in the wind.

How flashy he could look.

 

The day before the Italian restaurant, they’d both received cards notifying them of the tragic demise of a mutual friend, the MP for Hampstead, Algernon Cliff, who’d perished in a pile-up on the M4.

“I shan’t attend, I wouldn’t be seen dead inside a church!” Mimsie told Peter at Posillipo’s, as she drank from her second glass of Chateauneuf du Pape ’67.

“You know I think all this religious guff is just fairy stories. I am an atheist and that’s all there is to it. Anyway, I have an appointment with the architect, David Watt, in Canterbury,” she continued. “Our meeting happens to be on the same day as poor Algie’s funeral, so you won’t see me there. I recently bought a plot of land near Wickhambreaux and have arranged to meet David, to discuss his proposals for the house I’m planning to build. Even more exciting, I’ve fixed up to meet a scrummy-looking man I chat to on the internet. We’ve met already, and this will be the third time. He’s booked a room for us at the Marquis Hotel in Alkham!”

 

Mimsie had met Peter through an internet dating site, and recounting this new assignation, was a further attempt to humiliate him, culminating in the tongue-biting incident. Mimsie never dumped one lover, before she’d lined up another. The sadistic behaviour towards Peter, was typical of her treatment of men. Like the toys of her girlhood, men were disposable. “Use them, then lose them” was her motto.

 

Her meeting with the architect put her in a good mood. The plans for Mimsie’s new house were exciting. It would be a modern space, open-planned and full of light, with interesting contrasts between curved and straight lines, in the design of the interior. There would be imaginative use of local stone, metal, glass, and expensive timber in the construction. She’d have fun selecting the fittings and furniture and would pick the brains of some of her fashionable acquaintances.

She left David Watt’s office, full of anticipation. The day was going well, and she felt a tingle as she imagined the promise of the night at the Marquis.

Mimsie slipped into the Mercedes and started the engine. She’d only recently bought the vehicle, and still wasn’t sure how some things worked. The satnav instruction book was in the glove compartment, but she’d never bothered to read it. She simply followed the procedure shown her when she test drove the car, and pressed a few buttons to programme the directions to Alkham Valley Road, the location of Marquis Hotel.

 

A gentle rain had started as she swung round from outside the architect’s office, and set off towards the A2, going south in the direction of Dover and Folkestone. It was already dusk, and she was conscious of needing to drive quickly, to ensure arriving early at the hotel, so she could have a hot bath and pamper herself for the erotic evening in her fantasy.

The rain soon became a downpour and Mimsie increased the speed of her windscreen wipers. A warm blast from the car heater blew into her face, disturbing her elegantly-quoiffured hairstyle. The heater system hadn’t worked since soon after the car had been delivered. Something was sticking, and she couldn’t switch it off, nor move the dial round to blow air onto the windscreen.

How did the damned thing work? Why didn’t she report the fault and make sure the car dealer booked it in for repair?

She poked around a bit, but as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the heater to blow towards the windscreen. The windscreen misted over. Mimsie had to put up with it and occasionally leaned forward and used her gloved hand to clear her vision. It would have to do. She tried to concentrate on following the satnav directions as the rain intensified.

Something familiar caught her attention. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if a navy-blue car was some distance behind her. Her rear window was clouded over worse than at the front.

Was it Peter’s Fiat Coupe?

 She didn’t think so. She drove on at speed, towards the turn off from the A2 to the A260.

Mimsie was not good with technology. She liked to own the latest gadgets; satnav, a top-of-the-range mobile phone, her laptop computer, and a recently acquired iPad, but with the exception of the latter, which she constantly used for email and browsing the net, she’d barely familiarised herself with the most basic of their functions. She hoped that the satnav wouldn’t steer her in the wrong direction.

“Take the next turning on your right.”

Sure enough Suzy was directing her onto the A260. Mimsie liked to humanise her gadgets, giving them girl’s names. Her mobile was Marcia, her laptop affectionately dubbed Lucy, and her new iPad, had recently been christened Ivy. Mimsie could be such a child.

 

There was a sudden sharp wind and Mimsie was aware that conditions outside the Mercedes were becoming more hazardous. She slowed down, concerned she might skid on the wet road. She struggled to see in the darkness and had to wipe over the windscreen more frequently. She was perspiring, but couldn’t switch off the heater. Her headlights revealed dense woods and slopes to the right of the road. She felt the dampness on her delicate skin. This was not fun. She wished she were safe inside the hotel and hoped Michael would make it all worthwhile. Despite her concern to concentrate on the road, a fantasy about a passionate night with Michael played through her mind like a movie.

The road seemed empty, though she couldn’t be sure, as her vision was severely limited. The wind had increased and trees were swaying on either side. Heavy rain splattered into the windscreen. Small branches, twigs and other debris blew across the road and occasionally smashed onto the car. A storm now raged around her and Mimsie knew she was in the wrong place.

It shouldn’t be like this.

 She hit out at the damned heater. Its blast was unbearable and the sweat poured down her, rivulets of perspiration destroying her make-up, her gloved hands soaking. The steering wheel, like jelly in her hands.

Had she missed the correct turn? Perhaps Suzy’s misdirecting her. She really should have read the instructions. Maybe she’d set up the satnav incorrectly.

More dense woods reared up before her as she took a bend. Something darted across the road, and in a moment of fright she slammed on the brakes. Skidding, the car shot across the road, and crashed into a large tree which reared up towards her from the side of a ditch. The vehicle hit the tree trunk, shuddering to rest partly in the ditch. The airbags exploded, inflating instantaneously, and squashing Mimsie’s features. She lay there, gasping for air, almost suffocating. She struggled to push away her air bag, and managed to prise herself away from its grasp. Fortunately she was able to raise herself and check her appearance in the vanity mirror. At least her face had been cushioned from serious injury.

Thank God for technology, No, she mustn’t invoke God. It’s good luck, and modern science that had saved her.

 She lay in the car, sprawled across both front seats, feeling sharp pain in her legs and lower back.

 

A while later she attempted to move, and was able to hoist her body into a position where she extracted herself from the seatbelt, and finally cut herself from the air bags. She prised open the door handle.

Making sure she’d taken her shoulder bag, Mimsie struggled from the car and clambered out of the ditch. She felt exhausted and must have looked a wreck. At least she had survived relatively undamaged. She would use her mobile to phone Michael. He would drive out and rescue her. She limped over in the dark to try to find some stable ground where she could compose herself and make the phone call.

This was not to be. Mimsie’s luck had run out. Without warning she experienced a falling sensation in the darkness of the wood. She plunged down into some kind of deep hole in the ground. It wasn’t a smooth fall. Mimsie was bounced against the sides of a cavern that lay opened up before her, scraping her shoulder and legs against rocky protrusions as she descended.

She crashed onto the cavern floor, screaming in agony. Mimsie Fotheringey, the once smooth, svelte, fashion plate lady, lay there, a broken doll.

 

Time passed. Mimsie recovered. She felt around for her bag. She could still phone Michael, anyone, to rescue her. There was no way she could climb out of this pit. She managed to open the bag and feel inside for her mobile. There it was. She touched the button to bring up her contacts and pressed in Michael’s name and then his number.

 Nothing’s happening. It isn’t dialling.

 She looked at the illuminated face of the mobile.

No signal!

She groaned in frustration and fear. She screamed out in rage. No use. No one to hear her. What was this hell into which she had fallen?

Then it struck her. The recent earthquake. She had read that it had caused serious destruction to property in the Folkestone area. She calculated that she must be a few miles from Folkestone. The Marquis Hotel in Alkham was near the resort, and she’d nearly made it there. Nearly, just wasn’t good enough. The earthquake had opened up the land. She’d fallen into a fissure. She recalled hearing that it had been just over four on the Richter scale.

Mimsie lost herself a second time and fell into despair. No signal on her phone. She would die, out there in this hell pit. Again she collapsed into inertia, laying there, cold, soaked and in pain from her injuries, her once beautiful porcelain face bloody, scratched appallingly, cut in places almost to the bone.

She thought she heard a noise. Yes, she was able to make out something, a faint sound. Electronic, a signal? From inside her bag.

Furiously Mimsie gripped her bag and opened the clip for a second time. She’d returned her mobile to a pocket in her bag, and there it was emitting a glow and a signal. She held it up to her sight. She read out the text message.

 

Hello, Mimsie. Please be so good as to read your last email message. I can assure you, it will be your last!

She scrabbled around in the bag for her iPad, and trembling, she switched it on. The illuminated screen cast an eerie glow, which lit her face from below, distorting her normally-refined features into an ugly parody. Frantically she tapped the mail icon on the display, held the device in landscape position, feverishly scanned her messages, touched the most recent, and there to her horror and disbelief, she read a sentence which chilled her to the core. The words, in deepest black capital letters, shrieked out to her from Ivy’s illuminated screen.

     

“I AM THE LORD YOUR GOD AND I WORK IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS!”

 

A short distance along the road from her pit grave, a man in a white trench coat, switched off his torch, opened the door of his dark blue Coupe, positioned himself calmly in the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and drove slowly into the dark.