The Idol

The Idol

Copyright 2006 Laurence Buxton (edited in 2017).

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

PROLOGUE.

On a boiling Saturday afternoon in June, a lone, slim figure stood on the metal railway bridge, apparently unperturbed by the heat, looking out over the village of Radlington. They weren’t a local, and had only been stationed there for a matter of three weeks. Yet after some extensive investigations and research, the outsider had turned up that the rumours and suspicions about the place were true, after all.

From what could be seen from up here, this quaint village in the heart of Worcestershire was peaceful right now, with barely a soul around either in the main street or on the other side of the bridge. Probably mostly at the cricket match, or farming, or off doing a bit of shopping. Nothing unusual there at all – surely Radlington was just like any other village in the West Midlands. Except for one thing…

The slim, androgynous stranger, clad in black t-shirt, jeans and shoes, had looked about carefully once more – there was still no-one around – and now carefully pulled a tiny portable tape recorder from their trouser pocket, pressed Record, and began speaking into it. It was time to report on proceedings.

Everything we suspected about Radlington and its people has been confirmed. All we now need to catch them in the act is to get them stirred up again. But for that we’ll need the usual – someone to threaten them in some way. An outsider. A threat. A victim. None here right now, but I will report as soon as one arrives. Then we can proceed with the project…

CHAPTER ONE.

The old, pale blue minibus sputtered around yet another right-hander, and at its wheel young Dani Thomas winced again. Once more she was torn between pleading and threatening the damn thing not to conk out on her.

It had been a long, hot day, even for late June. And though the sun was finally beginning to show signs of sinking, Cassie was feeling the strain. Her tour of England had been comprehensive, and after a week of searching out campsites, and pottering around twisty rural roads, the ten-year old Volkswagen’s oil system was on the point of collapse. If she made it back to Bangor, thought her owner, it would be a miracle. And for the first time ever in her short life, Dani felt homesick.

Danielle Thomas was 18 years old, and at a crossroads in her existence, for frankly an existence was all it had felt like. She had grown up in the popular, tourist-route part of North-West Wales, experiencing each year, whether at school or working, the surge of outside interest each summer, and the pressure to find somewhere with more opportunity and options for herself each winter. As difficult as it was to imagine it right now, the nights would grow long, cold and despite – or because of – the fact that she was still living with her parents, lonely. And while it had been a not-exactly terrible childhood, she had never fitted in too comfortably to her home town of Bangor. There were a number of reasons for that, all of which she was only too well aware of.

The spiky-haired, diminutive brunette tomboy looked at the frayed, plastic-strapped watch on her left wrist as she approached a turning, the clock on her dashboard having packed in long ago. It was past seven-thirty. She needed to find a campsite, and soon. The tent, stored behind the back seat, had seen better days, not unlike Cassie herself. But Dani prided herself on one quality if nothing else – loyalty. The minibus, and the tent for that matter, had seen her through many a peril. And while the latter was in just as bad a state as the former - the pegs were rusted, the groundsheet was torn, and the zip had long since given up closing the main flap properly – Dani felt she couldn’t replace them. Literally. With her lack of spare cash, she really couldn’t replace them…

*

Dani Thomas had had an interesting week, finally living her dream of touring Britain. In her faithful old van, which may have been rusted in body but not in spirit, she’d basically gone in an anti-clockwise direction, in a big loop. She’d started from Bangor, gone right down into the Wye Valley, then over the Severn and across the border, through Somerset and Devon, before eventually heading back up to Oxford. Only now was she heading into the last leg of her journey, when she would head North West, toward Liverpool, and then – finally - the drive back home.

And she’d had a tiring but relatively satisfying time. She’d wanted to see some of the more attractive towns and places in Britain, or at least as many as she could realistically do in a struggling van in a week-and-a-half. And with a love of poetry in her heart, she had wanted to see places with a real heritage, a real legacy of the arts. Some she’d seen – Hay-On-Wye, Oxford and Cheltenham among others. Some – like Stratford-Upon-Avon – would have to wait until next time.

Two years of dead-end jobs, and the fact that there was no loved one waiting for her back home, had made this trip both good and bad for Dani’s state of mind. Good because in the short term she had finally got out of Gwynedd for more than a weekend, and on her own rather than with her parents, but bad too because – in the longer term – she had come to realise things were even more boring for her back there than she’d thought. Now most of her money was gone, her route almost run, and she’d have to start endless overtime all over again, just to get enough for another brief holiday next year. Even her escapes would become routine, she thought morbidly.

And cash was definitely becoming an issue, she thought, as she pulled up at the T-junction, knowing she probably only had enough money for one more night away from home. The waif-like girl looked at the road sign opposite. Well, she could either turn left, and head out towards Bredon and Tewkesbury. But to the right there was a pub with accommodation only a mile and a half away, called, The Radlington Arms. She had to admit that she’d never heard of Radlington, though – probably just some village or hamlet.

But then she was running a bit late to pitch up at a campsite now – and she hadn’t couldn’t remember seeing a sign for one around here. Furthermore the thought of spending yet another uncomfortable night on hard ground and yellowing grassland – it had been a pretty hot month – made her wonder if she might treat herself to a hotel, or B&B. For starters she needed the facilities, as Cassie would need her radiator topped up in the morning, or she’d be going nowhere. The poor old girl had rarely been north of the Menai Straits, or South of Snowdon. And judging by her behaviour over the past days, Cassie knew she was in unfamiliar lands.

Her owner looked up ahead, to the West. The Malvern hills – dark, peaked and menacing – glowered down on her with a ferocity even Snowdon couldn’t match, as the sun began to sink behind them. So Dani decided. Bugger camping! And in any case, even if there were a campsite around here, there probably wouldn’t be any room at this time of evening. Not in June. There had to be a chance, if this Radlington was a small village, that there’d be a spare room in the pub. And even if there wasn’t, she’d just go to the next town – Pershore. Yeah, money was an issue, but it’d be nice to sleep on a proper bed for the first time in a week. She’d earned it…

*

Dani slowed down as she approached the Radlington road sign, with its 30 and Welcomes Careful Drivers. And even now, after a week touring England, she still couldn’t stop looking on the signs for the translation back into Welsh. Back home, of course, you couldn’t be told to "araf without being told to slow" as well. Nonetheless, she was too tired at the moment to think too much about anything that didn’t involve getting some digs. And she stifled a yawn as she entered the village, slowing to almost a standstill as there was no traffic around.

To her right was a small street, lined by mostly white houses, and as she looked down it she caught a glimpse of a building, with a sign hanging outside it, on the left-hand side. Possibly a pub. For more important than that right now was that, standing opposite the village shop on her right-hand side –and on the other side of a road leading off up to a bridge on her left-hand side – was what was most definitely a pub. It was the Radlington Arms.

Like the other pub, she noticed, it was painted mostly white, albeit slightly darkened from traffic. It had an overhanging upper floor ( painted black ) and some hanging baskets, which had seen better days. Just a typical village boozer, she thought idly. But the board out front said A C C O M M O D A T I O N roughly along the bottom in chalk, and her heart lifted. It took a lot to get Dani thinking half-full instead of half-empty, but this succeeded. Maybe there was room in there after all.

She turned left into the car park, which though tiny still had just enough space for her, between a small black Peugeot and an ancient red Nissan, to squeeze Cassie into, and turned off the engine. She sighed, and suddenly felt very hot, sweaty and in need of getting out of the damn driving seat for once. With an effort, Dani undid the seatbelt, and stepped out into the street, looking up and down, and enjoying the shade that the building offered at this time of evening.

The teenager stretched, ignoring as best she could the considerable numbness in her small limbs. But after she’d fought off the pins and needles, and got her circulation back to normal, she felt a little, well, unnerved at her surroundings. She’d had been on the road for most of the day, and the windiest, most uncomfortable bits of road at that. But as she gazed left and right, up and down the length of the main road through this village, she felt – isolated. As well as there being very little traffic, there wasn’t a single soul walking around, not one. And there was no sound, not even a bird singing, or even the faded metal sign for the Radlington Arms squeaking, such was the evening stillness.

There was a small, disused petrol station halfway down the right-hand side of the road, and even from here she could sense the peeling paint and darkening rust, along with the broken window at the kiosk. Then just past that there was a church, its spire rising up behind a high, fairly ugly-looking metal gate. Finally, in the distance where the black tarmac raised slightly, she could see what seemed to be a memorial of some kind in the centre of the road, causing a fork where a side route went off to the left. Standing by this deserted excuse for a main road, she shrugged to herself. Not the best place in the world for a Saturday night…

Then she almost jumped. Without any warning, the church bells had suddenly starting ringing. First, an atonal ‘clong’ of the lead bell by itself, which reminded her of the tiny clock tower back home, and as the rhythm was taken up and the melody began, she at least had the feeling that there were people living here. That it wasn’t just some ghost town. She looked up at the tall fir trees that surrounded the small place of worship, and they moved almost imperceptibly in the slight breeze, with a strange rustle that constantly changed in pitch. This was probably what they thought was a wild night round these parts. But again, she was too exhausted to change the world, and so she elected to find out if she could stay the night at this place. She would probably not remember this place the moment she left it in the morning, though, apart from the strangely mechanical and joyless sound of those bells.

Dani entered the front door of the pub, and she turned left into the bar area. It looked more old-fashioned on the inside than the out, though what period of history it dated from she really couldn’t tell. Tudor? Mediaeval? She was hardly an expert in the history of pubs, she admitted, though she knew a lot about current ones. Despite her quiet nature – or probably as a way of fighting it, the young Ms. Thomas enjoyed having a pint or two when she could get served, for looking as young and boy-like as she did, some pubs still refused to serve her – even when she had her I.D. on her. Also, it had to be said, it was difficult for her to enjoy both travelling and drinking, being alone. Though being alone was something she’d had a lot of practice at…

She turned to the right, and faced the old bar. It was wooden and old-fashioned looking, and had had a bit of wear and tear over time. Above her was an overhanging beam, which had dangling off it a fake stags head and some old tankards, while behind the bar were cheap, framed pictures of various, rather forced-looking scenes of fun with the locals. The owner – for it had to be the owner – was a grizzled, grey bearded slight man, probably in his sixties, and he was leaning on the bar with his left arm, looking at her with a patient and curious expression. Meanwhile, on her side of the bar, there was a rough-looking bloke in a red, check-pattern shirt ( like a lumberjack’s ), swarthy, with round cheeks and a red complexion. He had narrowed eyes, thinning brown mousy hair – and a less friendly look on his face than the landlord. Obviously not used to newcomers, thought Dani…

After Dani had cast her eye over the rest of the pub, with its stocky, rough-hewn looking locals in what looked like farmer’s wear, more slightly rusted steel tankards hanging down not far above their heads, and a pockmarked dartboard, with a long-disused scoring board, round the corner on the left. Old, faded paintings of fat cattle abounded, but she couldn’t pick out too much detail in the strangely dingy establishment. A fly buzzed about with slow laziness, finally settling on a table near a thin, wiry-looking old man in a tatty, dark green t-shirt at the far end of the counter. He didn’t even flicker.

She approached the man behind the counter who was still looking at her, and spoke with an exaggerated confidence that she rarely felt. Apart from the man in the red-checked shirt who stood on her left, and the old guy who didn’t seem to care if the flies went in his beer, there was a tall, dark-haired youth – sixteen, if that – in the background, near the dartboard. And another one was loitering, looking anxiously at her. She seemed to be the centre of attention. So she drew all her courage, faced the publican, and spoke.

Evenin’. Er… ‘ave you got a room for the night?

Danielle wondered if she’d been slightly abrupt the moment she’d spoken, her words rising well above the now faint sound of the bells outside. Her voice had made the others, who had just started to return to their business – the old man in the corner to a copy of The Sun, the stocky man next to her to his local sports pages – look up at her again. She was feeling self-conscious – not a rare thing for Dani.

A single room? asked the landlord, and he grinned in a lopsided but cheerful way. She nodded silently – with her love life it would never be a double. Not a problem, love, as it happens. He produced an old, leather-bound red book. Just the one night?

Dani looked around the bar involuntarily. Y… yeah, just the one. Again, she wondered too late if she had been too blunt. Story of her life! But the man’s expression didn’t change, so she felt she couldn’t have badly offended him.

No problem. he said reassuringly. Just sign the book. And the landlord opened the book to a page near the end. They had obviously had a few visitors after all, but you would hardly have known it, looking at the few stragglers around the place now.

The landlord continued, cutting through her observation. It’ll be £35.00. Is that okay?

She knew straight away that though this felt expensive, it was probably due to her being used to the prices of campsites rather than accommodation with a roof. When you actually thought about it, that wasn’t too bad for one night, and it wasn’t trying to make the most of some dubious local area of interest to push the bloody price up. She knew about that game. That’s fine she replied finally.

The owner smiled warmly. Good. Have you got stuff outside you…

Despite his friendliness, Dani felt strangely defensive. No it’s, er, it’s alright. I’ll get it.

But the landlord didn’t seem fazed. O.K. Well you go and get your belongin’s, and I’ll show you to the Elgar suite. I think you’ll like it…

CHAPTER TWO.

The ‘Elgar Suite’ turned out to be fine, if hardly huge. As the young tourist looked round, she wondered if the composer – she did know who he was, she thought proudly – had actually stayed in this room herself. Wasn’t he from round here somewhere? Perhaps she’d learnt something at school after all.

The ‘suite’ really was no bigger than her bedroom back home, though. The brown and white décor contrasted starkly with the faded brightness of the bedclothes. On the bedside table was a hardback about the English Civil War. Dani remembered that that was the one with the Cavaliers and the Roundheads she’d learnt a bit about in her school days, and she knew that, back home, Anglesey had had its own stories to tell about those times - particularly Beaumaris. A series of brown, slightly dusty thrillers – again hard backed – lined a shelf at reading-level by the bed, and they sat uneasily next to several comics and a bumper edition, with a blue spine, marked Rupert the Bear Annual 1972. Again, she thought, hardly hell-raising country. Nevertheless, the room – though small – would be fine.

She walked down the landing as if in a trance. She needed to freshen up, desperately. She found the bathroom on the right-hand side – there was only one washroom and bathroom, but she hadn’t expected anything else – and splashed the cold water on her face. She looked in the mirror, and saw her face look back at her – the same tired, dark eyes, the same spiky, dark hair, still at a slightly rakish angle from wearing a baseball cap at the wheel, and the comb through it this morning had not totally removed the effects of another night in a tent. Who’d go for you, she thought once again…

*

Dani’s young life in Bangor had hardly been dominated by loving encounters. She was the only child of Owen and Janine. Owen