The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [79]
Miss Chapman’s face froze. I was usurping her skill, laying flesh over bone.
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not finished. I’m not at all happy with it.’
‘Not how it looked to me this morning,’ he said. ‘You seemed pretty pleased with yourself, told me it was almost done. No need to be modest–’ and he lunged to snatch the sketchbook.
I grabbed the bag closed against my chest.
‘Donald,’ said Mr Keiller, ‘pin Miss Robinson’s arms to her sides, will you?’ He had a wicked smile on his face. Miss Chapman’s lips were so tight I thought they’d bleed.
‘Happily,’ said Mr Cromley, and I felt his long slender fingers on my arms, digging in hard, pulling me off balance, though I still held onto the bag. I wriggled against him as Mr Keiller came forward on hands and knees across the rug, a stalking tiger. As he seized the bag, his fingers slid under it and against my breast. His eyes met mine.
‘Alec,’ said Miss Chapman, from the other rug, ‘for God’s sake, leave the child alone.’
‘Oh, I don’t think she’s a child,’ said Mr Keiller. ‘She’s a very determined young woman.’ He took a firmer grip of the bag, his knuckles rubbing against my nipple, hard as a little cherry pip through the thin material of my blouse. ‘She doesn’t want to let her employer have what is rightfully his.’ His eyes were on fire, burning into me. ‘I might have to chastise her.’
I tightened my grasp on the bag. Mr Cromley’s breath was hot on my ear.
‘I think you should let go, Miss Robinson,’ he said, ‘or neither of us shall be answerable for the consequences. Shall we, Alec?’
‘Hold her firmly,’ said Mr Keiller, teeth parted, a glimpse of his tongue running against their edge, back and forth, like it always did when he was absorbed in something. ‘Very firmly. I’m going to have to…’ He moved his hand again, sending an electric thrill through me, and I could tell it was deliberate–he knew all right what it was doing to me.
‘I’m going to have to slowly…very slowly…prise her fingers away, one by one…’ He winked at me. ‘Maybe with my teeth’.
‘No,’ I said, giggling now, as Mr Cromley hauled me backwards until I was almost lying flat on my back on the ground. Mr Keiller straddled my legs, looming over me, blocking out the sun. The material of his trousers was stretched tight over his thighs, his crotch in shadow. ‘You wouldn’t dare. I can bite too…’
‘Oh, wouldn’t I just?’ His strong fingers were lacing with mine, pulling them away from my bag. ‘You’d be surprised what I’d dare do, Miss Robinson…’
‘Alec!’ Miss Chapman’s voice was ice splitting. ‘I said let the girl alone!
Mr Keiller wrested the bag from me and rocked back on his heels, breathing hard. ‘Success, Doris,’ he said. ‘The sketchbook is mine.’ Never taking his eyes from my face, he pulled it out of the bag with a flourish, and shook it so the drawing fell onto the tartan rug.
It was good: the best I’d yet done. I’d drawn the Barber Surgeon still alive under the massive stone, his leg pinned, pain streaked into the deep creases either side of his mouth, his eyes pleading through the long, straggly hair that fell across his face. He was stretching out one hand, and you’d almost swear that if you’d reached out to him, his fingers would have come up from the paper and seized yours.
Fingers tipped with paint-rimmed, bitten nails snatched up the drawing and crumpled it. Miss Chapman, standing over us, was white with anger. ‘How dare you?’ she hissed. ‘How dare you flaunt her in front of me?’ She gripped the balled picture with both hands and pulled, digging her fingers in so the paper tore, and my heart tore with it.
‘Doris,’ said Mr Keiller, in a surprisingly quiet, dangerous voice, ‘you are a first-class fucking bitch. Get out of here.’
‘I’m going,’ she said, throwing the destroyed drawing onto the wet grass. ‘For Christ’s sake, Alec. She’s young enough to be your daughter. Who do you think you are? The lord of the Manor, exercising his seigneurial