by Ali Carter
Jenny walked through the grand entrance to the Riverside Country Park with her DSLR camera in a shoulder case, and presented her press pass to an official.
The event was massive. There were tents and stalls of all shapes and sizes with a huge variety of items for sale from home-cooked baking to new age amulets. Electric chainsaw artists carved elaborate birds and animals out of giant tree trunks, medieval-styled potters threw bowls and chalices, and stands of beautiful handmade clothes and jewellery were around every corner. There were even trained owls and hawks being flown by experts and people were able to hold them with special gloves and supervision. From everywhere there came a sensuous mixture of wonderful smells that included rich barbequed meats, home-made spiced chutneys and saccharin sweet candyfloss. With the backdrop of the Pike, the sunshine, and the river’s watery music as it ran along one side of the park, it was a heavenly setting for the village’s annual country show. But cosy Kirkdale could not have foreseen what was to come.
Jenny wondered if she could cover everything adequately, her confidence had taken a nosedive since her national press days. She interviewed some stallholders, bought a few pieces of handmade jewellery, and made sure there were enough pictures and material to choose from to make up the final piece. She couldn’t afford to mess this job up – and not just for financial reasons.
Around the corner of one particularly large tent, she found the showjumping arena and decided to sit down for a while near the perimeter fencing. The horses and riders practised their jumps over the course prior to the start of the event and Jenny scanned the view with her camera to wait for the best shots. After a few frames she edged around the other side of the ménage nearer the course’s starting and finishing posts. The crowd was thicker there as excited children begged their parents for horses and wary parents placated them with candyfloss. Jenny carried on walking and snapping until she came close to the competitors’ preparation area.
Charlotte stood behind her horsebox with her back to the crowd. She’d completed the final grooming, applied fly repellent and checked Greta’s hooves for stones before her class was called. It wasn’t due to begin for another twenty minutes so she decided to ride her horse gently nearby to loosen the mare up.
As she rounded the tent’s extended awning, the sun suddenly appeared from behind a cloud and shone straight into her eyes. Charlotte instinctively lifted her arm to block the glare, when she removed it her hands involuntarily snatched at the reins, her leg muscles tightened and her world began to implode. Jenny Flood. The horse sensed the tension above and shifted uneasily. It couldn’t be thought Charlotte stunned. Surely she didn’t know wh… it must be a trick of the light – dear God not again!
Greta snorted, her massive frame precariously stepped forward and back in heated agitation, sweat glistened on her flanks as Charlotte’s head spun and her stomach clenched tight – locked down like a Rottweiler’s jaws on a cushion. The nausea rose from her guts, an eruption of bitter acid saturated her mouth as almost simultaneously Greta’s front legs reared skyward, her nostrils flared and eyes rolled into her head. It took all of Charlotte’s riding skills to bring the horse to a safe stand, and when she did, it was directly in front of Jenny Flood. The younger woman stood before her and barely flinched as she almost tasted horse hoof – snapped a photo of the rider astride the black mare, then immediately backed off.
Charlotte wasn’t even sure if Jenny had realised who she was. A black peaked riding hat and a shorter hairstyle in the last six years could’ve seen to that.
An anxious crowd had now gathered. People began to stare up at Charlotte and repeatedly asked Jenny if she was hurt. High above the ground astride Greta, the older woman felt acutely aware the crowd considered her responsible for the incident. Her cheeks flushed hotly. Embarrassed, she pulled the peak of her hat down a little further and mumbled an apology, then with a click of her heels turned Greta around and rode off towards the other side of the arena.
The throng gradually dispersed, and Jenny thanked the concerned onlookers that remained with one eye on the mare and its rider as Charlotte disappeared behind the large marquee. She hadn’t felt quite as calm as her behaviour may have implied. Jenny knew exactly who the rider was, and the whole encounter had left her stunned. Her stomach gnawed with hunger; no breakfast had passed her lips that morning nor dinner the night before, but she welcomed the discomfort and pain – it took the edge off the rest of it.
Jason Flood stepped down from the carriage onto the platform. His purple holdall matched the latest luminous stripe in his otherwise black floppy hair, and his left eyebrow sported a small gold ring. Despite the warmth of the day, a long black coat swirled Gothicly around his ankles and skimmed purple laced boots whilst baggy slouched jeans hung relaxed and low beneath his hips.
He sauntered lazily to the exit barrier, handed in his ticket and pulled a bar of chocolate from his pocket. As he ate, music from a fairground carousel met his steps and a boyish grin spread across his face. He’d intended to go straight to his sister’s new flat but decided she’d probably be at work, it was Friday. A bit of fun at the fair was just what he needed right now and it didn’t take long to find it. He followed the melodic strains and within minutes was standing in front of the huge gates to Riverside Park.
Once inside he meandered through the stalls and felt his spirits lift a little. His hands had been better today – hadn’t shaken so much. But then he had reduced his medication from his regular much higher dose – that always helped, with the twitching anyway. Sometimes though, sometimes… they came back. He would hear them in his head, they told him to do things, things he knew he shouldn’t; bad things; wicked things; and he would argue with them – but not today. Today he felt good. Today he would have some fun at this country show and then he would go to see his sister. Jason did not notice the girl turn across his path until it was too late.
Molly Fields had pleaded for the afternoon off. It had been a long queue but the extra large Mr Whippy with the double chocolate flake, strawberry sauce and toasted nuts had definitely been worth the wait! She’d reached up to take it, turned from the van and with her head tilted had begun to lick her way to an extra inch on her hips. Human anatomy being what it is, however, meant her eyes were unnaturally close to the ‘99’, and her view of Jason impaired as he walked across her field of vision. In seconds he was wearing half of the cone’s topping whilst Molly had the rest of it spread unflatteringly up her nose and across her chin.
“Oh God! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, face cold, wet and a complete mess. She frantically rummaged in her handbag for tissues whilst she tried to keep her head down and apologise at the same time.
“No – definitely my –” came half a reply from Jason – “please, let me –” he fished unsuccessfully into each overly deep pocket.
“I’ve a tissue somewhere… damn it!” Molly faltered – “here…” Having finally found some, she handed a few to him whilst she tried to clean herself up.
“Oh God your tee-shirt and coat, they’re covered!” She winced, quite mortified now.
“I should’ve looked where I was going,” he said, “my fault – really.” He accentuated the point. “I’m always being told I’m a daydreamer.” They finally looked at each other properly after a wipe down then burst into laughter. Molly looked away briefly, then back at him and smiled slowly. His last comment sounded familiar. She’d spent most of her life being told to concentrate on what she was doing – ‘get her head on straight’; but then people didn’t understand her, not really. Not about her dreams, her senses… and now the visions.
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I’m always being told I’m away with the fairies.”
“Well in that case,” he added with a grin as he slung the used tissues in a nearby bin, “we should get on great! Hi – I’m Jason.”
“Molly, Molly Fields,” she replied as she absorbed his colourful appearanc
e. The streak of purple on the left side of his zigzag parting, the eyebrow adornment, the long coat… she found him quite attractive in a creative sort of way. Not naturally gorgeous like Gina’s Andy but… well, kind of different. Nice different.
Molly dumped the remainder of her squashed cone into the bin and mentally praised herself for the saved calories. She wasn’t obsessional about dieting, not like that Jenny, but she did worry about her relationship with ice cream…
They walked away from the van together and into the main show area. Molly had arranged to meet Andrew and Gina next to the forestry demo at two o’clock – it was the one place everyone could find because of the noise from the chainsaws.
As they approached the noise got louder. Broad-shouldered men in lumberjack shirts and worn jeans carved an amazing array of animals and birds from gigantic logs as sweat glistened on their foreheads… and elsewhere in some cases Molly noticed, as shirts were cast off in the heat.
She couldn’t see either of them. Molly checked her watch; it was only twelve thirty so there was still an hour and a half to kill. She slipped a tentative arm through Jason’s leathered one and they smiled comfortably at each other. Molly nodded her head towards a coffee bar that stood opposite the forestry event and pulled him towards it. A snack and a long chat would be just perfect.
It was four o’clock. Miles Peterson sank back on to the mauve silk sheets and lit an extra long menthol cigarette. The pretty blonde sighed in contentment as her hair fell over the squashed pillows, one arm draped across his overly tanned well toned chest. Miles did actually spend a fair amount of time in the gym – it was just that he managed to fit in a few extra activities whenever he could get away with it.
“Miss Dern, that was more than extremely satisfying.” Rachel giggled and snuggled up even closer.
“Miles…” she trailed a finger in deep thought across his stomach… “when can I see you again?” The need to hear that commitment to a further meeting, to know he wanted it as much as she did, overpowered her common sense not to push it. “I get my car back from the garage in a couple of days,” she continued quickly, desperate for a positive response, “we could meet somewhere out of town, maybe have a nice –” She broke off suddenly as he moved her arm and sat up.
“Don’t get clingy now, there’s a good girl.” His tone had changed. It was clipped, patronizing – and absolutely stone cold. Rachel flinched. He was already out of the bed and had his jeans on before she could protest.
The half-burnt cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and ash fell to the floor with every jerky movement. He double bent the long stub in a bedside ashtray. Experienced fingers fastened trouser buttons at speed and his eyes avoided hers and swept the face of the radio alarm before he dragged his shirt over his head. When he was fully dressed, Miles reached for his designer blazer on the back of the dressing table chair.
“I’ll call you sweetness, okay? Just don’t bug me about the whole relationship thing. You know as well as I do – this… it’s just fun – for the both of us.”
“Please don’t –” it sounded lame as she leant up onto her elbow, but he’d already disappeared through the bedroom door. The rapid thud of his steps as he ran down the stairs left her lost as it always did when they went – lost and worthless.
In seconds she heard the roar of his Morgan Roadster start up as tears splashed onto the sheet. She watched the blurred spot darken and spread to purple against the lilac silk before she crossed over to the window, jaded and empty. Her lips tasted salty but she barely noticed as his car tore down the road until it was out of sight, the engine gradually tailed off in the distance to leave…nothing.
Her head remained against the alcove. Rachel stared long and hard at the space the burgundy and silver car had left behind, it was as if she could bring it back if she concentrated hard enough… as if she could bring him back.
Eventually she turned from the window and slumped down heavily onto the bed. Her worn heart was lost and alone that much was certain, but there was no way she could have predicted it would never shed lilac tears again.
FIVE
She clung to the white melamine cabinet. The room spun in white, huge whirlpools of it streaked liberally with red as she shook uncontrollably – hands, face, arms – all smeared with blood. Patchwork scarlet handprints decorated the door’s architrave, the walls, the vanity unit, the toilet seat. She’d aimed herself at the toilet to throw up, although considering everywhere else…
The bathroom mirror forced her to lift up her head, look into its glass – dragged her eyes open to make her view the reflection. It wasn’t one she recognised.
After the encounter with Jenny, Charlotte hadn’t just ridden to the other side of the arena to calm down, she’d trotted Greta over to the river that ran around the edge of the park and dismounted.
On a peeling iron bench beside the water, with Greta tethered to its arm, her hand had instinctively pulled a couple of pills from her pocket. She never went anywhere without them these days. Some anti-depressants in high doses had been known to cause nightmares, but what the hell – she was already in one! It hadn’t been easy swallowing on spit alone but she’d managed. As they’d tracked awkwardly down her dry throat her mind had flashed up long past images, haunted memories and stinging rows from six years before. Her rocked world had left her numb back then, and it did so again.
Greta had grazed quietly, looked every bit the champion, her champion for sure, but she’d known she wouldn’t be jumping that day. It had been Charlotte’s decision to go home early from the show that had transformed the rest of her afternoon… and the rest of her life.
By the time she’d returned to her horsebox, loaded Greta and arrived home, it was one o’clock. The house had been empty and Miles’ car was not in the courtyard, but then she hadn’t expected it to be given she’d just spotted its rear plate through a thin hedge in a side street on the way home. The dual shock of Jenny Flood’s arrival in Kirkdale, and spotting the Morgan so badly hidden, had finally destroyed something in Charlotte that nobody can safely live without – rationale. It would have taken no longer than ten minutes to lead Greta into the field, change her clothes, jump into her own V6 and roar out of the courtyard back to that sparse hedge. Back to what could have merely been his scuppered afternoon and simply another major showdown. But that wasn’t what had happened…
As she’d waited from a concealed vantage point for him to exit the property, Charlotte had trailed a finger across a blue nylon bag that sat on the passenger seat. The house had been unknown to her, but it was irrelevant whose house it was, what was relevant was that her husband was inside it. Inside it, almost certainly, with another woman – and there were no prizes for guessing what they’d been doing. Her nails had made that zippy sound over the top of the bag as she’d worked them backwards and forwards whilst she’d waited, whilst she’d concentrated her thoughts.
When he’d finally emerged, her stomach had lurched, her throat sandpapered and her eyes had remained glued to his Gucci jacket. The same jacket she’d bought him the previous Christmas. The jacket she’d queued over two hours for in the Harrods sale on a London weekend break.
As he’d leapt over the Morgan’s low silver door into the burgundy leather seat, her gaze had been drawn upwards to the movement of curtains. Lilac curtains. Lilac curtains that hung in a room above the ground floor bay window – bedroom curtains. Charlotte had seen the blonde lean against an alcove wall and gaze after Miles, her Miles, as he’d disappeared down the road back to their world, their life and their shitty, fake marriage.
What had happened after that, Charlotte could barely remember. She’d tried but she simply couldn’t. There was the clunk of her car door, the squeak of the garden gate, the front door that’d bounced off the snib – Ms. Blonde had obviously left it open for Miles – and that hideous stair carpet. She recalled all of that, but then……nothing.
The mirror held her gaze for a moment longer before Charlotte switched to auto pilot. Her movements were slow and deliberate at first as she began to wash herself, then the basin, the toilet, the floor, the architrave. After that she stepped up the momentum, moved more quickly as the need to be clean and get out of that house filtered through.
Panic began to surge then; it rose from the very depths of her stomach at an alarming rate, until it sat square and obtrusive in the back of her rasped throat.
As she stepped out of the en-suite back into the bedroom, a hand flew to her mouth in response to a scene that met her amnesic gaze. She heaved again and again but somehow managed to keep the threatened wave of bile in check. Her head swam for the umpteenth time as she eased herself slowly past the body, back pressed hard against the only clean wall until she reached the door to the landing.
Once out of the bedroom she staggered down the stairs, stumbled halfway and grabbed at the handrail to prevent a fall. At the bottom she suddenly stopped – eyes wild they darted uncontrollably, Charlotte gasped as her breath coursed in and out of her lungs, hyperventilated lungs fit to bust! Think – she ordered herself – think first! The front door had a little oblong viewing glass in its centre, through it she quickly checked the road at the front and from the hall’s aspect window the neighbour’s gardens to the right. Her heart thumped as blood pumped loudly in her ears; it was too fast, too fast! She leant heavily against a hall table, tried to stabilise her breathing then jumped away sharply as a lamp crashed to the floor. Her head swam, wave upon wave until she thought she would surely faint! She reached for the bronze Yale knob, paused for a moment to control the shakes, then cautiously opened the door. Charlotte reset the snib as she’d found it and checked the street both ways before she walked straight down the path to the waiting gate. She saw nobody, and prayed that nobody had seen her.