Giles didn't like this new assertive woman his sister had become.
Judy Finch appeared by her side. "Isn't he gone yet?"
"You watch your mouth!" Giles snarled.
"Or what?" she said, sweetly.
Stacia glanced sideways at her partner and wagged a finger, mock seriously. "That is called kicking a man when he's down and is generally bad form, darling, but under the circumstances I think we'll allow it."
"You're so good to me!" Judy bounced in place and kissed Anastacia on the cheek.
Giles looked furiously from one to the other. From his sister standing with her arms folded, to the upstart housekeeper with her arm round Stacia's waist.
"You wait-" he started.
"We've all been waiting, Giles," said Stacia patiently, "what do you think we've been doing? Either for you to grow up or go away. You've signed the agreement so it's time for you to bugger off and for us to get on with our lives. Use the phone in the snug to get a taxi. Or give me ten grand for the Jag."
He fulminated impotently for several moments and then emptied the boot of the car on to the gravel before storming into the snug.
It turned out that he owned very little in his own right. Even his clothes had been paid for by the estate and only the fact that they wouldn't fit anyone else meant that he could take them with him. An unpleasant voice in his head observed that anything of his would be disdained by anyone else.
Then after the taxi arrived, Anastacia had refused to hand over the cheque until he gave her his house keys. Red faced with fury and embarrassment; he'd emerged at the front of the house to discover the staff lined up to watch his departure.
Catching sight of his half-sister Naomi at an upstairs window he paused. He used to charm and terrorise her for his own enjoyment. She still looked apprehensive but now there was a more determined set to her features. Naomi wasn't going to shed any tears at his removal.
There were more faces at other windows. Some of them weren't even staff or family. All making sure that he was gone, the bastards. His lip quivered, and clamping down on his feelings, he instructed the driver to get going.
***
Giles booked into the small family run hotel in the village. Up in his room, he flopped on to the bed and wondered what to do next. Some ancient habit from his days at boarding school prompted him to empty out his cases.
Minutes later he stared at the shredded fabrics. Someone had taken the time to find his luggage and destroy the contents. Like a scene from Murder on the Orient Express, quickly and silently wielding their knives. The only intact garments he owned were the ones he was wearing. Giles sat on the bed and looked at the pile of unusable clothes. He started to gain an inkling of how much bad currency he had accumulated
.
In the bar, he nursed a large Scotch and alternated between molten rage and a black depression. One moment he wanted to storm Dearborn with a shotgun, and the next...
other
thoughts pushed themselves roughly into his head. Giles shied away from them.
He'd taken the hundred grand, there was no way he was going to be bossed around by
Stacia
. He downed the scotch, relishing the burn on the back of his throat. Time to get lawyered up and overturn the whole ridiculous scheme.
He'd show them.
***
A couple of days later he realised the legal route was out. Only a couple of firms had even remotely thought of taking the matter up on his behalf and once he'd heard their rates he'd reconsidered. Yes, he could afford it but if he lost, he'd literally have nothing. He didn't like the size of the bet.
An ambulance chaser had initially shown some interest but on discovering Rosemary's involvement had quickly backed off. It seemed that the Bitch had quite a reputation and a very dangerous relative.
"You suppose I'm going anywhere near that woman in court or out of it then you've got another think coming," she'd said as she put her papers back in her briefcase. "Don't you know who she is? She has dirt on any number of people and her cousin would break your legs just for looking at him the wrong way."
Giles also found that on discovering that he'd been disinherited, some acquaintances had simply stopped taking his calls. Other friends that he thought he could tap for a favour were too busy to make time for him 'right now'. Even his mother had been beyond cool on the one call she'd taken. Giles flushed at the memory of her snapped order to
'stop whining'
.
***
It was less than a fortnight since his departure from his home and Giles had discovered that out of his normal setting, he had no idea what to do with himself. Everything seemed to loop back to Dearborn which sat like a rock in his thoughts. Bizarrely, one of the things he missed the most, was the grand piano in the drawing room which had filled a void in him that he hadn't been aware of till now.
One day, depressed by the bland uniformity of the hotel, he decided on a walk. It was mid-evening, and the sun was still above the horizon. The air was still warm, and distantly the sounds of a cricket match came to him, the occasional crack of bat on ball and a smattering of applause. His lip curled; games were a waste of time and energy.
The road came to the bridge over the river that divided the village. Cross it, or turn off on to the towpath? The river was a chalk stream, attractive, wide and clear, shallow too at this point, the easy ford being one of the principal reasons for the village being here. Giles remembered paddling this far up with Charles when they were boys and, perhaps prompted by the nostalgia, he set off down the towpath.
The air under the trees was still and heavy, redolent of the thick greenery that grew in profusion beside the path. Despite that, the path was obviously well maintained as his way was clear. After a few minutes the only sound was the occasional splash from a fish catching flies.
Giles' thoughts tended to fall between resentment at his eviction and a nagging worry about the future, the money wasn't going to last forever. The news of his circumstances had quickly spread throughout the neighbourhood. Villagers smirked at him. Estate people, whether Dearborn or otherwise, simply ignored him. A black mood was his constant companion.
Thus, it wasn't entirely unexpected that he failed to notice the two men blocking his path until he was nearly upon them. He opened his mouth to ask them to let him pass when something in their manner told him that they did not wish him well. He stopped abruptly and started to back away, only to find a hand upon his shoulder. Twisting he discovered that two others had come up behind him.
"What do you want?" he muttered, fear clamping his insides.
In reply, one of them men in front stepped forward and punched him hard in the gut.
His breath was driven out of him in an agonised grunt, and he bent double. The second put his hands on top of Giles' head and drove his knee up into Giles' face. He managed to turn enough to avoid having his nose broken but the blow made his head spin. He reeled and then they were all at him, punching and kicking until he simply curled into a ball and wondered if they were going to kill him.
At long last the blows stopped, and dazed, he was dragged to his feet. His hands were bound behind him, and a sack placed over his head. Numbly he wondered if he was being kidnapped and started to try and say that he didn't think his family would pay out much if anything for him, only to receive a hard shove in the back. He stumbled and fell to his knees, only just avoiding face planting the ground. They hauled him roughly upright and shoved him hard again. Now he realised that his feet weren't on the compacted earth of the towpath but on grass which meant that he was either being pushed into the undergrowth or towards the river.
Desperately he shrieked, "Why are you doing this?"
A hand gripped his shoulder and a voice rumbled, "This is for my daughter."
Another hissed, "This is for my sister!"
There was another hard shove and the next moment, horribly, there was nothing under his foot. His cry was curtailed by the impact of the icy water. The fabric of the sack quickly saturated, and he gulped desperately for air. His legs kicked, trying to find the bottom but without the use of his hands he couldn't keep his face out of the water. Dimly he remembered that panic was what drowned many, but he couldn't seem to tell his body.
Then, thankfully, it was gravel rather than sucking mud underfoot. Gracelessly, he got himself upright, and dazed and terrified, tried to shake the wet sacking off his mouth. The water was nearly to his waist and part of him gibbered at how close he had been to dying.
There was a distant shout and the laughter of his assailants petered out.
"Fuck," muttered someone.
"Come on, lads. There'll be other chances," said another with grim assurance. "This ain't over."
The new voice shouted, "Wait!"
Giles could hear his attackers walking away to the evident bafflement of the new arrival. Moments later there was a splash, and a hand seized his arm and led him into the shallows. His saviour helped him up onto the bank and pulled the sack from his head. He gulped at the air.
Tony Johnson from Dearborn's neighbouring estate stared at him. "That explains a lot."
"Th - th - th," Giles forced out, unable to complete the word as he started to tremble violently.
