Daddy's Here(25)

She could hear her father on the phone and she found him in the kitchen,  barking loudly into the receiver. "Right, fine, I'm on my way."

He hung up. "Ah, there you are sweetie. Something's come up and I need  to pop back. The removal men are coming this evening, just get them to  put stuff where you like and I'll sort it when I get back."

"How long are you going to be?" Abbey asked, looking around at the  cavernous interior of the house. "Are you going to leave me alone here?"

"You'll be fine, you're a big girl. I shouldn't be too long, a week at most."

"A week? You expect me to spend a week here without being able to drive anywhere? What am I supposed to do with myself?"         

     



 

"Read a book? Unpack a bit? Get to know the locals? I'll be as quick as I can, I promise."

"You've done this on purpose, haven't you? Can't wait to get away from  me. I bet the removal men murder me and it'll serve you right if they  do."

"Sweetie, I know you're angry right now but I'll make it up to you when I  get back. How about I hire a helicopter next week? Take you up to  Scotland again? Go to that spa you like?"

"Fine," she said, pouting as he kissed her cheek. "But you better be back soon."

"Just knock on a few doors, say hello to a few people. The time'll fly  by, I promise. You could even invite your friends down if you want?"

"I can't show them an empty house, they'll laugh at me. Are you an imbecile?"

He looked at his watch. "I've got to go. I love you, Abigail, I'll see you soon."





Chapter Four





Abbey woke up the next morning to the sound of someone hammering on the  front door. "All right," she muttered, climbing out of bed and wrapping  her dressing gown around her. The morning air was cold, she had yet to  work out the heating controls for the place, having spent most of the  previous evening dealing with the utterly incompetent removals men.

No matter how much she'd snapped at them, they didn't listen, just  dumping boxes everywhere. It had taken a fifty to get them to set her  bed up and they'd done that begrudgingly. You'd think they'd be grateful  for the extra money.

She'd been up late, unable to sleep as the sounds of the settling house  unnerved her. When she had finally drifted off it was into dreams that  disturbed her, a time before the death of her mother, back when she was  little. The hammering on the door woke her up in the middle of a deep  sleep and she was still groggy by the time she reached the hallway, the  cold floorboards under her feet making her wince. "All right," she  shouted again as she reached the door, the hammering echoing around her  skull. Roll on getting a new set of staff sorted out so she didn't have  to answer the door herself.

"Hello, yes? What?" she asked, pulling open the door and finding a smiling old man looking back in at her. "Can I help you?"

"Hi there," the man said. "You've just moved into the village, haven't you?"

"So what?"

"Well, I'm the head of the village council and I wanted to be the first to welcome you."

Abbey noticed him glancing down at her chest, typical old pervert. She  pulled her dressing gown tighter around her. "Right, thanks. Anything  else?"

"Well, yes there is one thing. We're having a council meeting this morning and we'd love for you to attend."

"Right, I see. Thanks but I'm not really dressed for it. Maybe next time?"

She went to close the door but his hand slammed into the wood. "You don't understand, Miss Moncrieff. It wasn't a request."

"What are you doing? Let go of my door." She tried to push his hand away  but as she did so, two more men appeared next to him, neither of them  smiling. "What is this?"

"The welcome committee," the first man said, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her out of the house.

"Hey, stop that. Let go of me, what are you doing? Help!" She screamed  at the top of her voice but nobody seemed to care. Her feet dragged  through the wet grass as they pulled her struggling figure out of the  garden and onto the path beyond. "Where are you taking me? My Father  will hear of this! Let me go!"

"Oh, hush," the first man said, hoisting her over his shoulder, ignoring  her kicks to his back, her fists hammering on his chest as she was  carried over the road and through a gate towards a Victorian village  hall. The door was open, ready for her it seemed, and she was taken into  a room filled with people.

No wonder no one came to my screams, she thought, they're all here. The  entire village seemed to have crammed into the hall, every silent  unsmiling face looking at her as she was carried down the aisle and  deposited on the stage next to an ancient figure seated behind a dark  wood table.

The three men surrounded her, arms folded as she scowled out at the  unnervingly quiet crowd. "What is this?" she asked, trying to push past  the men but finding them as solid as brick walls. "What's happening  here?"

"Abigail Moncrieff," the ancient man at his table boomed out, his voice  echoing round the room. "You have been brought before the village court  to face trial before a jury of upstanding citizens. How do you plead?"         

     



 

"How do I plead to what? What the hell is going on?"

"You are charged with ruining the peace of the village, stealing an  article of clothing, criminal damage, theft of an apple and theft of a  bicycle. How do you plead?"

"Don't you know who I am?"

The ancient figure nodded to the men holding her. One reached behind her  and slapped her bottom, making her shriek in pain and anger. "Ow! What  the hell are you doing? Did you see that? He just struck me? I'll have  you arrested for that. You can't just hit someone, you all saw it. He  hit me!"

"Silence!" the ancient man roared. "All I want to hear from you is guilty or not guilty. How do you plead?"

"I'm not putting up with this. I'm going home, get out of my way."

She was spanked again, hard enough to make her feel very scared. The  silent faces watching her did not move to help her. Nobody she knew was  anywhere nearby. Her phone was at home, her father away for days. Her  bottom stung from the first spanks she'd received since she was little. A  thought of her mother came into her mind, the way she'd treated her  when she was tiny, thoughts she'd long blocked out. Looking about her,  she saw her mother's face in her guards. She felt as if she were  shrinking as she stood there, becoming smaller, more at risk of pain she  did not deserve.

"Well?" the man asked her. "Guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," she snapped, trying to hide her fear by speaking louder,  folding her arms, her feet pointing inwards. "I haven't done anything  wrong."

"We shall see. Call the first witness."

An elderly woman stood up from the crowd, shuffling up the aisle to  stand on the stage as the ancient figure addressed her. "You are Valerie  Robinson of The Crescent Cottage, are you not?"

"I am, Mr Watson."

"Tell the village what you saw?"

"I was having a breath of air by my back door just yesterday when I saw a  little girl snatch my favourite blouse from the washing line."

"And what did she do with your blouse?"

"She used it to wipe some mud off her shoe."

"And what did she do with it after that?"

"She threw it back into my garden."

"And do you see the little girl responsible for that heinous act in this hall today?"

"I do."

"Where is she?"

"There, Mr Watson, right there." She pointed at Abbey who shrank back before her furious glare.

"Thank you Mrs Robinson. You may sit. Next witness."

A middle aged man in a checked shirt stood up, passing Mrs Robinson in  the aisle as she returned to her seat. He climbed the steps to the  stage, standing facing the crowd.

"Your name, Sir?"

"Anthony Carmichael."

"And what did you observe yesterday afternoon?"

"I saw that woman there walking into my orchard without my permission."

"And did anything occur whilst she was in the orchard?"

"She stole one of my pippins."

"Did she indeed? You may be seated. Final witness, if you please."

Another man stood, this one in shirt and tie. He strode onto the stage,  shaking his fist at Abbey. "You deserve everything you're going to get,"  he snapped at her.

"I didn't do anything," Abbey said, a tremor appearing in her voice. "Let me go home, please."

"Silence!" Mr Watson said. "Now, what is your name?"

"Richard Smith, Mr Watson."

"Thank you for coming in, Mr Smith, I know yesterday was particularly traumatic for you."

"It's okay, Mr Watson. With your support, I'll get through this."

"If it's not too hard, please tell us in your own words, what you observed yesterday afternoon."