She's Out Read Free

to encroach with brambles and twisted
trees.
    A motorway had been built close to the edge of the lane leading to the manor, cutting off the house from the main road. Now the only access was down a small slip road that had been left, like
the house, to rot, with deep pot-holes that made any journey hazardous. The rusted, wrought-iron gates were hanging off their hinges, and the chain threaded through them with the big padlock hung
limply as if no one would want to enter.
    The Range Rover bumped and banged along the lane, dipping into one deep rut after another as it made its slow journey towards the house. The grass verges were spreading on to the lane, the
hedges either side hiding the fields and grazing cows.
    Ester Freeman swore as the Range Rover dipped badly; it was even worse than the last time she’d been there. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, but the dark hair scraped back
from her chiselled features made her look hard, and as she drove she clenched her teeth with fury. She was five feet six, slender and always looked good in clothes. A smart dresser, who wore good
designer labels, there was an elegance to her that belied and covered a toughness that even her well-modulated voice sometimes couldn’t disguise. She continued to swear as the Range Rover
splashed through yet another water-filled pothole. The muddy puddles splashed water over the wheels and sides of the vehicle as it lurched down the lane.
    Sitting beside Ester, Julia Lawson stared non-committally, at the lane. She was much younger than Ester and taller, almost six feet, with a strong, rangy body accentuated by her jeans and
leather jacket. She wore beat-up old cowboy boots and a mannish denim shirt, and there was an arrogance to her face that was at times attractive, at other times plain. Unlike Ester, Julia had a
deep, melodic, cultured voice. She, too, swore as they bounced along. ‘Jesus Christ, Ester, slow down. You’re chucking everything over the back of the car!’
    Ester paid no attention as she heaved on the handbrake. Julia watched as she slammed out and crossed to the old wrought iron gates. She didn’t even need a key to open the padlock –
she just wrenched it loose and pushed back the old gates.
    As they drove up the Manor House driveway, Julia laughed. ‘My God, I think it needs a demolition crew.’
    ‘Oh, shut up,’ Ester snapped, as they veered round a hole.
    ‘You know, I don’t think they’ll find it.’
    ‘They’ll find it, I gave them each a map. Don’t be so negative. She’s out today, Julia. Come on, move it!’
    Julia followed Ester slowly out of the car and looked around, shaking her head. She stepped back as a front doorstep crumbled beneath her boot. ‘You know, it looks unsafe.’
    ‘It’s been standing for over a hundred years so it’s not likely to fall down now. Get the bags out.’
    Julia looked back to the piles of suitcases and bulging black bin liners in the back of the Range Rover and ignored her request, following Ester into the manor.
    The hallway was dark and forbidding: the William Morris wallpaper hung in damp speckled flaps from the carved cornices and there were stacks of old newspapers and broken bottles everywhere. The
old wooden reception desk was dusty, the key-rack behind it devoid of keys and hanging almost off the wall. Even the chandelier above their heads looked as if it was ready to crash down.
    Their feet echoed in the marble hall as Ester opened one door after another. The smell of must and mildew hung in the air, chilling them immediately.
    ‘You’ll never get it ready in time, Ester.’
    Ester marched into the drawing room, shouting over her shoulder, ‘Yes, I will, and there’s enough of us to help me out.’
    Julia picked up the dust-covered telephone. She looked surprised. The phone’s connected,’ she called to Ester.
    Ester stood looking around the drawing room: old-fashioned sofas and wing-backed chairs, threadbare carpet and china cabinets.