With the bus gone, Winnie took in her surroundings. There were wooden cabins around the perimeter of the open field, about ten feet away from each other and set in a large circle.
The largest cabin looked to have an information desk, presumably where she would be checking in. Taking in a deep breath of fresh, unpolluted air, she made her way over. The air almost had a sweet scent to it, so unlike the claggy, harsh undertones of city pollution that lay thick but invisible over skin and clothes. She already felt lighter, as she always did when in a rural setting. Memories of the woodlands being her friend and confidante as a child when she had no one else made her appreciate it that much more.
Approaching the larger cabin, bleached a duller light brown from the sun, she noticed the small refreshment stand erected in the shade of the building. It was haphazard, and looked like the oldest thing there, but it was a reminder of how thirsty she was. Sitting in the stifling bus had left her throat uncomfortably dry.
On the wax floral tablecloth, was a large jug of orange liquid, brighter than it should have been. Perhaps a cheap concentrated version of orange juice. In a fold out chair just as old as the person sitting in it, was a woman. With deep lines etched into her wrinkled face, and greying curled hair that just brushed her shoulders, she looked to be asleep. That is, until she smiled broadly with her eyes still closed as Winnie reached the table.
"Are you selling this?" Winnie asked, getting ready to sling her backpack off her shoulders to dig her purse out.
The old woman just placed her hands delicately on the chair armrests and pushed herself to standing, grunting slightly as she did so. She had a hunched back, that was particularly prominent when she started to pour the drink into a glass, the ice cubes clinking as they hit the bottom.
"Hello, Winona Falconer. The drink is free." The old woman's voice was sweet and lilting, so at odds with her weathered face. Winnie couldn't shake the eternal unease that had settled in her veins ever since she'd stepped foot on the bus, half excitement, half anxiety at this being not what it seemed at all.
"Thank you," she murmured as she accepted the glass and made her way to a nearby picnic bench. The orange juice was exactly what she needed, and quenched her thirst so wonderfully that it was gone in seconds. As she crunched on the ice cubes, an odd, empty sensation overcame her, starting at the tips of her fingers and working its way inwards, until the power resting underneath her skin had gone utterly quiet.
A woman with short jet black hair, not too dissimilar to Winnie's own a-line bob sat next to her. She sat with her legs crossed and hands resting on her knee, exuding an aura of cruelty and pride, and just an arms width away. Before either could speak, Larry Greybo walked out of the entrance of the largest building. He strode towards the small group that had amassed around the benches, the papers he was gripping in one fist flapping in the wind.
"Attention please! I will now call out your name and the cabin you will be staying in. Listen carefully, as I will not be repeating myself." He directed this last part at a group whispering vicariously at one another and giggling, sat on the bench, rather than around it. They immediately quietened when they noticed all eyes on them.
"Once your name is called, you can collect your key directly from me."
By the time half of the group had been called, and the woman sitting next to her who she know knew as Madam Raven had taken their key, Winnie was starting to feel sleepy in the warm midday sun. It beat down relentlessly, and she could feel the sweat starting to saturate her back where her bag was pressed against it. She wasn't used to such heat, and preferred the rain.
"Winona Falconer!" She started, having dozed off, and quickly took the key off Larry with a nod of thanks. It took only a minute to get to the cabin with the signage Devington House, and all the curtains were drawn. Instinct, perhaps, made her knock loudly on the door instead of attempting to put the key in.
Rap, rap, rap went her knuckles on the sanded dark wood.
When she heard a loud thud from inside, she knew her instinct had been correct.
There was still someone inside.
The door swung open with such brutality that it hit the wall and bounced back towards her, ready to shut again with the force of opening. A meaty fist grabbed around the frame, stilling it.
Slower, this time, the door opened. The mass of a man peered at Winnie standing just off the doorstep, having taken a few tiny steps back in fright. It was the sleeping man from the bus, the one she had been warned about. He glared at her, eyes slanted half shut to protect from the brightness of the sun.
"Hello," he grunted, "what do you want?"
She held up the key, wholly embarrassed.
"This was meant to be my cabin, but there must be some mistake, I'm sorry..." she mumbled, eyes cast towards the floor littered with pine needles.
He took a lumbering step over the threshold and peered at the key.
"No mistake," he grunted. "This is the key for this cabin."
"Oh...well, can you leave?" Winnie asked, not really knowing what to do. Should she just go back to Larry Greybo? Or would it be best to try to sort this out on her own first?
Mr.Dev frowned, as if the thought of leaving hadn't occurred to him.
"I don't want to leave..." He paused, and looked behind him to the darkness of the interior.
"Tell you what, you make me laugh using these, I'll go." He reached behind the door, and pulled out a dusty plastic tub of what looked like cheap, tacky props.
It landed heavily at her feet.
"What happens if I don't manage to make you laugh?" she whispered, eyeing the cut out cardboard mask of a penguin that lay on top. It had been badly coloured in, the black and white overlapping the lines.
Mr.Dev just grinned unpleasantly, the action pinching tightly at the corners of his eyes as if it were a rare sight. It looked almost painful.
"Okay," Winnie muttered to herself as she knelt onto the ground and began to dig through the box. It smelt musty and old, and bizarrely, exactly how the bus had smelt. She wondered if the awful aroma had actually come from Mr.Dev after all, and not the bus.
As she pulled out the contents of the box and lay them on the ground, she realised it wasn't a box of props after all, but an eclectic mix of, well, unwanted crap. Underneath the penguin mask was an expired, dented tin of cat food from an unrecognisable brand. There was an old pair of underpants, faded grey, but presumably once white. A stuffed ferret toy near the bottom sent an extra stale waft of dead air towards her as she pulled it out, and she tried to hide her retching.
Mr.Dev cracked a smile.
Right at the bottom, was a folded piece of cardboard, which, when unfolded, revealed David Cameron in a blue suit. It was a large cardboard cut-out of the man. She propped him upright, so he was staring straight at Mr. Dev.
The only thing she remembered about the failed prime minister, was the awful photo of him trying to show the public he was 'like them,' by eating a hot dog with a knife and fork. Obviously, it had done the polar opposite, with people everywhere wondering if he was really that posh or just trying to avoid a bacon sandwich spectacle the likes of which Ed Miliband had infamously caused.
An idea was starting to stir in the back of her mind. She had never been a comedian, but if she couldn't make Mr.Dev laugh with a bit of nationwide political hatred, she couldn't do it all. She donned the penguin mask, slipped the underwear over Cameron's head like a hat, and wrapped the ferret toy around his shoulders.
That terrifying grin reappeared on Mr.Dev's face, spurring her on. She cracked open the rusty tin of cat food, and was pleased to see the chunks were in gravy, the age of it turning it into a soupy mess. She just prayed he kept up with meaningless media updates as she threw the meaty chunks directly onto the smug cardboard face of Cameron and screamed: "Where's your knife and fork now, huh, posh boy?!"
The cat food dripping onto the floor was the only sound for a moment, and she turned to Mr.Dev while taking off the horrible penguin mask. It had been slightly damp, she was horrified to note.
His shoulders were shaking, rattling the doorframe, and just as a particularly large chunk of meat hit the floor with a wet sound, Mr.Dev burst into laughter.
