by M J Hardy
I am trying to get into this, but I can’t. I want to laugh, not flirt, and that’s what’s worrying me the most. Do I still find Adrian sexy, I’m not sure I do, but I have to try at least?
As I follow my husband to our bedroom, I feel nervous because if this doesn’t work, then nothing will and it means no amount of marriage guidance will stop the inevitable from happening—a divorce
Lola
Mrs Evans brings me a hot meal, the first one I’ve had in three weeks. It smells so good and there’s even a plate of crusty bread and butter to go with it.
She sets it down on the table and says firmly, “Sit and eat and I’ll tell you a story.”
I do as she says because I’ve decided to follow the line, gain her trust and then the first chance I get, escape.
So, I nod meekly and start shovelling the food inside, which is probably the best thing I have ever tasted in my life.
She nods with approval and sits in front of me, casually lighting a cigarette, demonstrating just how much she couldn’t care less about me. Blowing the smoke in my direction, she says in a harsh voice, “Your dad’s a liar.”
I try not to react but feel my heart pounding mercilessly inside me.
“He told you he was keeping you safe when all the time he was using you to keep his own skin safe.”
Willing myself not to react, I carry on chewing even though I’ve lost my appetite.
“He borrowed money from Charlie—a lot of money, to move down here. He was going to carry out a job for us to repay the debt, but upped and left before we knew what was happening. You see, he played the wrong player because Charlie had a tail on him who led us straight to you.
“Yes, it all turned out rather well because when Charlie caught up with your dad while you were at school, he made it pretty plain what would happen to you if your good old dad double crossed him this time. He was given a second chance, but only if we held you as insurance. That tale your dad spun you was to stop you from seeing what a shitbag he really is, and now he’s proving it all over again.”
I lift my eyes and stare at her in disbelief, “He wouldn’t, not my dad, he loves me.”
“I’m sure he does, doll face but not more than his own arse it seems. Charlie arranged for him to be a drugs mule, you know, hide packets of drugs in his body and deliver them to Ireland. Turns out your father couldn’t hack it and one exploded inside him. He had a seizure on the ferry on the way over and was picked up by the authorities.”
I stare at her in horror, “Is he…?”
“Alive, unfortunately. Now we have a different problem because he’s in hospital under police protection and knowing that scumbag will sing like a canary. That’s where Charlie is now, Ireland. He’s attempting to silence your father for good this time, which is why you’ve now inherited his debt.”
“He’s going to kill him?”
I stand, feeling such an overwhelming rage I’m sure I could wrestle this bitch to a slow painful death, but she stops me in my tracks by pulling a gun from her jacket and holding it to my head. “Sit down, if you try anything, you die.”
My knees give way before my resolve and she nods towards the plate. “Finish it.”
I lift the fork but my appetite is lost and as I chew the cubes of meat, they fall to dust in my mouth.
She carries on regardless of my pain and laughs bitterly. “So, you see, Lola, you belong to us now. If he survives and tells his pitiful story, you die. If he dies, you live. You had better hope for the former because what we have planned for you is the slowest, most painful death there is. It sucks being the child of a rubbish parent, doesn’t it?”
Before I can even answer, I feel a blow on the back of my head and then, oblivion.
The fact my head hurts so much probably wakes me, and I stare up at the ceiling as the events that happened earlier come back to me. Immediately, I sit bolt upright and look around in fear but notice that thankfully I’m alone. It’s dark outside and the room is pitch black, but my eyes quickly adjust and I can tell I’m alone.
My legs shake as I swing them over the bed and feel my way to the door. I turn the handle but as usual it’s locked and I feel the frustration tearing me apart. My dad’s in hospital, he’s in danger and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I don’t believe Mrs Evans’ story. He wouldn’t use me to save himself. He just wouldn’t. I know my own father and he probably didn’t have a choice. I try to think on my feet because I must get out of here and alert the police. I must be brave because he may not have long.
For a moment I sit and think, and then an idea forms in my mind. If I’m lucky it will work out, if it doesn’t, I’m in a heap of trouble.
Chapter 22
Sandra
“Is the back door locked?”
“Yes, Sandra.”
“What about the side door?”
“All checked and double-checked.”
“Are you sure you’ve checked the patio doors, last time I looked they were unlocked, really Keith, you need to sharpen up.”
He comes across and pulls me close. “Relax, I’ve checked and triple-checked, nothing is getting in, or out, anytime soon.”
I nod and feel my panic subside a little. As Keith pulls back, I say quickly, “What about the CCTV, is it switched on and pointing in the right direction?”
“Yes, darling, everything’s as it should be.”
“Ok. Well, I should get to bed then. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, there’s the bridge club and the cricket wives meeting, not to mention we’re getting those trees delivered.”
“You do too much, you should slow down.”
I turn away before he sees the irritation on my face. “It’s fine, I like to be busy.”
As I walk away, I try to get my nerves under control—they’re getting worse, not better, I should up my medication.
“Sandra.”
“What?”
“Everything is ok, isn’t it?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just well, you know.”
I turn and measure my response because God knows Keith doesn’t deserve the diatribe, I feel like hitting him with.
“There’s nothing to know. Everything’s fine, I’m just busy. You know me, I like to keep myself firing on all cylinders and if I slow down for a second the rot sets in. Now, can I go please, there’s nothing to see here?”
As I turn my back on my husband, I feel bad. Keith tries so hard and it’s not his fault I’m so particular. I know this move was for a number of reasons and the main one being that we halved our workload. It was hard work running a house the size of ours, and even though we had staff; it was still a lot to think about. Keith is looking old and I’m worried about him. I know he hoped for a quieter life here, but surely it’s always like this when you move house, new beginnings and all that.
As I climb the stairs, I think about our old house and the panic bubbles up again. Meridian House. A large estate on the edge of Kingston. A vast property that took a lot of running and upkeep. We’ve always had money, that’s never been the problem, inheritance, hard work and solid investments, assured us of a life others can only dream about. Through it all Keith remained a loyal husband and I know he puts up with a lot. It’s why I took the plunge and move in with the masses. For him.
As I get ready for bed, I think about the neighbours. They don’t like us; I can see it in their eyes. We’re not like them, it’s painfully obvious. Older, less interesting and not about to drink a small off license dry in the name of pleasure. We have standards they don’t share, and they look at us as objects of ridicule. I know what they think and it hurts—a lot. I never knew it would be so difficult sharing space with a group of strangers and it is, difficult, I mean because I have standards that have been set across decades but the world is changing and I can’t keep up.
I head to my room and forget the last time I actually shared one with my husband. Before we moved here, in fact, it must be sev
eral years ago now. It was snoring that started it and soon his visits to the spare room became so frequent he actually stopped trying and moved in there permanently. I’m not sure when our physical relationship stopped. I’m not even sure why, probably after that operation I had when I recuperated for three months. We just never went back to it and now live as friends rather than husband and wife. At least we have that—friendship. Keith is, and always was, my best friend which is why I made the move—for him.
Sighing, I set about my bedtime routine as I always have done and a little more of me dies inside. I’m tired. Tired of trying. Tired of pretending and tired of living. When you’ve lived the sort of life we have, nothing measures up. These people aren’t interested in our tales of foreign holidays, celebrity friends and stories that would make an excellent film or three. They aren’t interested and if they only took the time to ask, we would make their lives look mundane in comparison. No, they look at us as has-beens, pompous old gits who love nothing more than moaning about things they don’t think important.
Well, I do. Everyone should have standards, and they should set them high.
* * *
The trouble with sleep is it has its own agenda and when your guard is down, you’re at your most vulnerable. I’m more vulnerable than most because sleep is the only thing I have no control of and that’s where the shadows claim my soul.
I can taste blood and my wrists hurt. It’s difficult to breathe with the soiled rag tied around my mouth, and I’m so afraid. Is Keith alright? He’s stopped moving and I lean back to nudge him, just desperate for a response. His groan settles my heart because it means he’s alive at least.
They’re still here, I can hear them moving around. Heavy footsteps moving from room to room, crashing through our treasured home like the worst kind of monsters. Raiding, ransacking, destroying. They want we have without the hard work involved in getting it. Bastards. How I wish I could defend us against people like these. Security alarms, what a joke. These men know ways around everything and here they are, taking what’s ours and humiliating us in the process.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life as I sit helplessly while thieves ransack our carefully crafted home and steal possessions that have taken years to acquire. Heirlooms, gifts and extravagant purchases, all gone in a violent night of terror. Keith is slumped behind me, tied to the chair and out of my eyeline. Desperately, I listen for signs he’s alive because the blow he took to the head could have ended his life. I’m worried for Keith, what if he’s unconscious and doesn’t get the help he needs? They manhandled me into this position, but other than my pride; I wasn’t hurt.
Briefly, I wonder why the security alarm didn’t go off. They serviced it last week. Surely it can’t have broken already.
I think I sit bound and gagged for the entire night because as soon as the thieves have what they want, they leave as quickly as they came.
At first, I don’t register they’ve gone. It’s a large house and they have spent a few hours here already. Then, as the dawn breaks and the sun filters through the crack in the curtains, I hear the gardener arriving outside and feel hopeful they’ve gone. In fact, it takes two more hours before we are found by the cleaner and her screams almost deafen me as she struggles to understand the sight she is witnessing.
What happened next was embarrassing, excruciating and worrying as they took Keith off in an ambulance leaving me to answer the questions from the local officers who came to assess the damage.
By the time the dust had settled, Keith was home and nursing his injured pride with nothing more than a mild concussion. Other wounds went deeper though and from that day on, any trust was gone and we lived in fear of a repeat performance.
They never caught the thieves and just told us to make a claim on the insurance because it was doubtful the thieves were from around here, anyway. ‘Probably a gang from the north,’ explained the police officer as if we don’t have thieves in Surrey. I felt let down and betrayed and doubted my husband’s ability to protect us. Maybe that’s why I decided to downsize and surround ourselves with friendly neighbours. There is safety in numbers, after all. The friendly part is something I need to work on because I know we’re at fault for alienating the neighbours. It’s all about our standards that we can’t appear to let slide.
The day passes as normal and I’m glad that Keith has something to occupy his time. What with the golf and the committee, he’s extremely busy and I make sure to do as much as I can to keep busy and establish a role for myself in this community? It’s hard though, I’m not going to lie about that, so when I see a new face I decide to try at least.
As I pass number 9 on my way back from the cricket wives meeting, I see a woman on her knees picking out the weeds from an extremely neglected garden.
As I stop, she looks up and smiles. “Good afternoon.”
“I don’t think we’ve met I’m Sandra Wickham, I live in the Wisteria on Sycamore Street and you are?” I stare at her keenly and she stands and nods.
“Donna Evans, I’ve just arrived, although my husband’s been here for some time.”
I look around, biting my tongue because this house lets the development down but she’s trying at least, so I say magnanimously, “If you need any advice, I’m a keen horticulturalist and happy to help.”
“That’s kind of you but I’m just tidying the place up. Thanks for the offer though.”
She bows her head and I look towards her front door and try to maintain the conversation. “That’s an interesting shade of pink you chose for the door, most people opted for green, what made you choose that colour?”
“We didn’t, it was our landlord.”
“So, you’re just renting.”
“Yes.”
“How long do you plan on staying, to be honest, I never knew they were renting out these properties?”
“I’m not sure, darling, my husband’s job dictates how long we’re in a place.”
“What does he do?”
“Security.”
Feeling a sudden interest, I say quickly, “Then I may be interested to meet your husband. We need security advice and by the sounds of it he’s the man for the job.”
Donna straightens up and I can see her mind working hard as she says quickly, “I doubt it. He’s not one for giving advice, he just does what he’s told most of the time.”
“Um, he still may be some help, I could probably send some work his way.”
I’m not sure why but Donna looks a little agitated and starts to back away.
“Listen, I’m sorry, darling but I’ve just remembered I’ve left something in the oven. If you leave it with me, I’ll mention it when he comes back but he’s away and I’m not sure when that will be.”
It appears she can’t get away quickly enough and I feel a little irritated. So much for being friendly and actually trying to help someone. Typical tenants, not prepared to engage with the community due to the fact they’re not likely to stick around for long.
As I head home my thoughts turn to Keith and my heart sinks. Poor Keith, I’m not sure he’s strong enough, which is why I need him to get involved with this community because he needs it more than he realises.
Chapter 23
Lola
Mrs Evans hasn’t come back. I’ve heard her moving around the house, but she hasn’t checked on me once. My head is killing me and I’m so hungry I feel as if I may pass out. I tried knocking on the door and calling for her, but she told me to shut up unless I wanted another blow to the head.
Mrs Evans scares me.
The only light to my day is watching the two little boys opposite as they play in the garden. Often, they look up at my window and I wonder what they can see. They are so young, though. Would they understand if I tried to signal them? I doubt it.
Their mother occasionally steps outside, either to collect the washing, or do a spot of gardening. Would she help? Again, I’m not so sure, but maybe I should try at least.
> I hear the front door bang shut and then silence. Mrs Evans has gone out. Maybe this is my chance.
Quickly, I head to the window and peer through the cracks in the shutters. Only the smallest boy sits there playing with his ball, and I wonder if I dare raise the alarm. This may be my only chance, but then again, what if I wait until Mrs Evans comes back and surprise her? I could deal her a blow to the head and make my escape. My heart sinks as I look around and see there’s nothing here that’s capable of doing any damage. Then again, that doesn’t surprise me. It may be a bedroom, but it was always intended as a prison, after all.
Thinking about my father in a strange hospital, in danger of losing his life, makes up my mind for me. I’ll do anything and everything I can to escape and raise the alarm.
Without stopping to think, I grab a t-shirt from the drawer and hold it firmly in my grasp.
Heading over to the window, I take a deep breath and do something they warned me not to; I open it as far as it will go and wave my t-shirt out of the window, hoping the little boy will look up and think it strange enough to report to his mother.
Frantically I wave the t-shirt, but he doesn’t look up. I dare not call out in case Mrs Evans hears me. She may be around here somewhere, and I don’t want to alert her to my call for help.
Despite my efforts, the little boy just carries on looking down at the ground before something distracts his attention and he looks behind him shouting, “Coming.”
I could almost weep with frustration as he heads inside and leaves me alone and afraid—again.
Suddenly, I hear the door slam and I almost drop my t-shirt as I hear footsteps pounding on the stairs. Quickly, I drag in the t-shirt and stuff it in the drawer, slamming it shut as the door opens and Mrs Evans stands there, her eyes blazing.