by Andy Monk
Whatever else, she didn’t feel bored anymore.
Once the porridge was done she shouted to Emily, “Breakfast!” Followed a moment later by “…then chores!”
Kate felt a moment’s anxiety about facing her daughter, afraid Emily might confront her errant mother about her nocturnal comings and goings. She’d felt much the same after the first few times John had stolen in through the backyard, almost certain her husband and daughters would see exactly what she’d been up to, the shame and guilt so visible upon her flushed cheeks. Instead, they’d asked her when dinner would be ready and if their clothes had been ironed and had she had a chance to pick up some fresh bread from Mr Calhoun.
Just the same as every other bloody day.
It wasn’t a bad life, she was lucky, she should be grateful. She had a decent (albeit dull) husband, she’d been blessed with two beautiful daughters when so many other women had been blighted by childlessness and misfortune, she had a comfortable home, food, money, safety. She was grateful. She just wanted something more, something that made her heart beat faster now and again; hanging the rugs on the clothes line and beating the dust out of them once a week just didn’t cut it anymore.
“Emily – your porridge is getting cold!” She shouted from the kitchen doorway. That girl was getting downright slovenly.
Kate sat at the table and slowly spooned down her porridge. What would she do when the girls had grown up? Still a few years yet for Ruthie, but Emily was practically a woman, the local boys had certainly noticed that, even if Ash hadn’t. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be married off; Ruthie was just as pretty as her older sister and could be gone in what? Five or six years. Kate’s spoon hovered over the porridge, how old would she been then? 38? 39?
Just her and Ash rattling around the house forever. Of course, they’d be visits, son-in-laws, extended families, maybe grandchildren in time.
Grandchildren?
Kate let her spoon slip into her half-finished breakfast. She’d lost her appetite.
She stared at the uneaten bowl of porridge opposite. “Emily!!”
When there was still no answer, Kate stomped up the stairs, her good mood evaporating as it probably would until she saw John again or she ended up shouting at Ash and the girls about something utterly trivial and unimportant. Like her life, for example.
“Come on Miss – up now!” Kate chided, storming into her daughter’s room and crossing to pull back the curtains without pausing.
The only response from the bed was a small wet moan.
Kate sighed as she turned back to the bed, “You’re not sick are you?”
The bright morning sunlight fell directly upon Emily, the sheets had been pushed aside and she was quite naked, blood had run down her face and caked to dried-up crimson streams. Her eyes were swollen and bruised, her lids twitched slightly and a bubble of dark drool popped upon her lips. Her body was bruised too, the kind of bruises left by a fearsome beating and as Kate’s eyes took in her daughter’s body she noticed the stained sheets and the blood that had dried between her legs.
“Emily!” Kate managed to call.
Then she screamed.
The Lawyer
By all measures, the funeral had gone exceedingly well; there had been an excellent turnout, the day had been pleasantly warm, everybody had sincerely expressed their sympathy and absolutely nobody appeared to think he had murdered his wife.
Molly had looked very fetching too.
He had made every effort not to stare at her, or single her out for particular attention. That would have been unseemly and, possibly, suspicious too; still, it hadn’t been easy.
She’d flitted around the back of the crowd at the funeral service, looking somewhat awkward and out of place until she’d returned to his house for the wake, where she’d looked absolutely awkward and out of place.
Few people talked to her, he noticed, she wasn’t approved of he supposed. The rumour that the Mayor had been angry with her husband before his death, which had kept people away from Tom’s funeral, had only been compounded by her outburst of profanities on the Mayor’s doorstep; the good folk of Hawker’s Drift kept their distance from Molly, perhaps fearing her a little mad or a lot godless.
That, of course, would all stop once they were married.
Furnedge tried not to linger on that thought. He didn’t want to smile too broadly or display an inappropriate bulge in his trousers; neither were seemly at a wake.
Instead, he moved from room to room of his house, shaking hands, giving thin, brave little smiles and small attentive nods of the head. Everybody told him how sorry they were, how much of a loss to the town Lorna’s death was, how much they would miss her.
In other words, everybody lied through their teeth.
Lorna had been a bitter, drunken, harridan, with a vicious temper and a spiteful tongue, but today everybody loved her.
Molly didn’t stay long, which was understandable. He didn’t say anything about her predicament, not with so many ears around to overhear. He’d simply smiled when she came to say goodbye, thanked her, squeezed her hand and hoped his heart would not explode with the excitement of her touch.
He heard the nasty little whispers about her when she’d gone. That she was for the whorehouse and it was the best place for her. She was a drunk, she was a foul-mouthed good for nothing, she was a slut and a brazen fornicator.
It had riled him, naturally, though he saw the irony too as they waxed on about the sainted Lorna in almost the next breath. The people of Hawker’s Drift, he decided, were lousy judges of character.
He caught the Mayor watching him, his eye at rest for once as he sipped tea with two of Lorna’s withered cronies who would have to find some other dark lair to curl up and avoid the sun in now Lorna’s Throne Room had been aired, fumigated and was, after today, out of bounds to gossiping old prunes.
The Mayor was seeing how he behaved of course. Seeing if he could be trusted, ensuring he was being appropriate, especially around Molly. Furnedge was not worried. He had waited a long time for this; he wasn’t going to risk it all by fawning over Molly now. Matters would soon be settled and he would have his reward.
He would have his due.
*
The house was empty; silent, still and at rest. It was wonderful.
It had taken an age for the last of the mourners to leave, whilst there was free booze and food on the table the hangers on, none of whom had known Lorna particularly well as far as he knew, had attached themselves like limpets to his furniture and had remained until the table had been cleared.
He’d wanted to tell them it was high time they staggered off home, but that wouldn’t have done. Appearances mattered and so he had remained the gracious and stoic host, displaying his grief for all to see.
After the last of the freeloaders had finally swayed unsteadily out into the night, he had helped Amy and the other girls he’d hired for the wake tidy up. Not because he felt obliged, such mundane chores were far beneath a man of his station of course, but because he wanted to be close to them, to feel them brush past him as they hurried back and forth to the kitchen.
This would be his life now, surrounded by women. For now, he had to content himself on imagining what he would do to them, but soon Lorna’s money would be his, all legal and tickety, and then he could do whatever he wished.
Molly would marry him of course, that was what he wanted, what he deserved, but their marriage would be markedly different to the one he had endured with Lorna. This time he would hold the upper hand. He would save Molly and she would be grateful, he would give her a better life, comfortable and secure, and in return he would have his dalliances. He would have his just desserts. Hadn’t he deserved that at least?
Amy had asked him, after the tidying up was finished, if he still needed her to come and look after the house now that he was alone. He’d said that he did and she’d looked relieved. No doubt she needed the money and Furnedge was happy to keep her on. Obviously t
he exact terms of her employment would need to be renegotiated, but so long as she was willing to take on one or two new responsibilities (he couldn’t seriously think of what he had in mind as chores) then she would find him to be an even more generous employer.
He’d wanted to suggest it to her there and then, he wanted to reach out and squeeze her pert little titties, to make her do all the things he’d dreamed of. He wanted to see what she kept hidden under those shapeless smocks of hers. It was so close he could almost taste her in his mouth, all young and fresh and eager to please him.
However, he’d simply bid her good night and pushed a little extra money into her hand as a thank you for all her help and support. She’d beamed at his kindness and he’d bit down on the urge to explain to her just how much more generous he could be.
Once he was alone a grin had spread across his face, at first it had been flickering and uncertain, but it had soon bloomed into a big goofy ain’t-the-world-just-great kind of smile, the one he’d felt twitching under his skin all day, but had been unable to let out.
It was late, but it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t be going to work tomorrow. Everything was still too raw; he grinned, and poured himself a small whiskey. He’d never been much of a drinker, and seeing what the stuff had done to Lorna had further reduced his appetite for booze, but, once in a while, a small whiskey or two was acceptable.
When he had something to celebrate.
*
His sleep was fitful and teasing, every time he felt himself nodding off it danced away like a flirty maid and left him frustratingly awake.
Perhaps he’d had one whiskey too many.
He sighed and rolled onto his side. Instead of sleep he thought of women and money. Carson would arrive from Fellowes Ford in a few days and, once matters were resolved, his new life could begin. Or rather he could start to actually have a life.
There was nothing for Carson to be suspicious about; Lorna had been a sick woman who’d passed away in her sleep. It was a formality, she’d died of natural causes and once the will had been read and executed every last cent that Lorna had would be his.
He didn’t exactly know how much his late wife was worth, but she’d been receiving money from her father’s estate every year, as Mr Allenby had stated when he’d agreed to marry his wayward daughter. They’d used the money to build a respectable house and live in comfortable style, but Furnedge was sure there was plenty left for him to inherit. That had been the understanding, look after my daughter and I will look after you. Allenby might be dead too, but a deal was a deal.
It was time for him to be rewarded.
Hawker’s Drift wasn’t a big town, but it was more than a wide place on the road as well, and between his own business, Lorna’s money and the Mayor’s patronage he’d soon be the second richest and most powerful man in town, in just a few short years he would have climbed higher than any of the local landowners, ranchers and merchants whose families had been toiling out here for generations.
He would have money, power and influence, which was only right and proper, but with those gifts would come women, which was what he wanted more than anything. He could not remember the last time he’d been with a woman. He hadn’t dared whilst Lorna was alive, one whiff of infidelity and her money would be snatched from his grasp. He should have killed her years ago, but he didn’t know how to do it, he didn’t want to raise suspicions and he didn’t want her to suffer. In the end, he’d thought she’d drink herself to death soon enough anyway; however bourbon had proved to be a disappointingly slow poison.
Then the Mayor had suggested something else…
He didn’t know how the Mayor had done it and he didn’t want to know. It had been quick at least, he supposed, though he still felt perturbed by that expression on Lorna’s corpse.
He had taken her a morning coffee, just like he always did. Even though he knew she was dead, he took it anyway, best to stick to the routine. He’d planned to leave the cup on the bedside table, a little piece of evidence to support his story when Dr Rudi came; instead he’d dropped it in shock when he’d seen her face, her mouth stretched and eyes wide, as if she had been frozen halfway through some ghastly scream.
The smashed cup on the floor was a much better touch.
He’d initially been concerned by the expression, would it make Dr Rudi think she’d been murdered? He’d asked him, as innocently as he could think how, about it, but the Doctor has reassured him it wasn’t unusual. Lorna may have awoken during her heart attack, confused and frightened she may have tried to call out, but death had preserved her cry. He assured him that it would have been quick. Lorna wouldn’t have suffered.
Furnedge was glad of that, even if he couldn’t help but think he’d been suffering for years…
He turned over and let out a frustrated sigh; if Molly or Amy were here he wouldn’t be so eager to fall asleep. He smiled at that. Maybe he could have them both together, the Mayor did with his little companions after all; it would be an appropriate reward for a man of his stature and importance. He smiled even more and gently squeezed his rapidly swelling cock. Molly and Amy, and then as many of the other women in town as he could.
He knew he couldn’t have them all, he wasn’t a fool, but money and power could get you a lot and the Mayor had intimated where that wasn’t enough there were other ways. He was eager to learn.
As he stroked himself, he thought of the Godbold girl. Pretty little thing, how old was she now, fifteen, sixteen? Obviously someone had considered her old enough. A shame she’d been beaten so badly, there was no need for that, and who’d ever done it would deservedly swing from the town gallows if she ever regained consciousness and named the monster who’d had the audacity to climb into her bedroom and rape her whilst her mother slept in the next room.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel excited by the idea of sneaking into her bedroom and helping himself to her young sweet little body, though personally he would have liked the mother as well. He sniggered in the darkness
He was pumping hard on his cock now, his mind imagining young Emily under him; although he wouldn’t need to hit her because she would be loving it far too much to struggle.
Clink.
He stopped, he was sure he had heard something. Like a bottle tinkling on the side of a glass.
The room was empty of course, the whole house was empty. He half sat up in bed, the curtains were heavy and let in little light, but nothing, from what he could see, looked out of place, the door was shut, he was alone.
He sank back into the pillows and found his cock as he tried to visualise young Emily again, but the moment was lost, even when he got her mother Kate to join them.
He turned onto his side and thought all kinds of things, but the day seemed to have caught up with him and he began to drift off again.
You always were a sick little fucker, Guy…
“Lorna!” Furnedge cried, sitting up in bed. The room was silent, the shadows unmoving.
He fumbled with a match and lit the oil lamp by his bed, its yellow light spilling out across the room once the wick caught. The room was empty, the door was closed and his dead wife was in her grave. He shook his head and let his heart beat slowly return to normal.
It had just been a dream, of course, one of those vivid little dreams you can have as you pass from consciousness to sleep. Perhaps it was guilt, whispering to him from his soul. He’d never killed anyone before after all, so he didn’t actually know about these things.
Just a dream, he thought, and lay back down to stare at the ceiling. Still, he left the light on and told himself the faint acrid odour he could smell was just the lamp burning rather than the whiff of tobacco that had tended to hang around Lorna…
The Barber
He was pacing, constantly. He was sure it was irritating, it was irritating him to be honest, but he needed to do something, he couldn’t just sit there. So he paced, back and forth. He felt their eyes following him; Kate, Ruthie, Preacher Stone and the S
heriff as if mesmerised by some frantic human metronome.
He stopped as he heard the door close upstairs and a moment later Dr Rudi’s footsteps on the stairs.
Funny that he could hear the Doctor close a door and walk down the stairs, yet his wife hadn’t heard a damn thing whilst their daughter was being raped and beaten. He looked at Kate; she was colourless save for the vivid red rings around her eyes. She hadn’t slept since she’d found Emily, bleeding and unconscious, in her bedroom. She had been crying almost continuously since.
Ash felt ashamed and looked away. It wasn’t fair to blame Kate; she’d always been a deep sleeper after all, easier to raise the dead he’d used to joke back when there had been things to laugh at in the world. There was only one person to blame, but until (he preferred until to unless) his daughter regained consciousness and told them what bastard had done this then he didn’t have anyone other than Kate to blame.
“Well?” He demanded of Dr Rudi as soon as he’d entered the room.
The doctor offered a faint smile that was all but lost beneath the abundant moustache that flowed into his formidable sideburns, “There is no change. It is difficult to say when there will be, the superficial wounds appear to be healing as well as one might hope, but…”
He left the word “but” hanging in the air and Ash fought down the urge to scream at the man.
“But…. what Doctor?” Kate jumped in and asked, somewhat more politely than he was going to.
Dr Rudi held his little black bag before him, both hands clutching the handles. Ash wondered what he kept in the bag; he suspected it was no more than a sandwich and a bottle of whiskey.
“There is nothing life threatening about her physical injuries, as distressing as they are, she will recover from them, but inside…” He let his words drift off; the Doctor had a habit of not finishing his sentences Ash had noticed.
“When will she come round?” Ash asked, his tone half way between demanding and pleading. His pacing had taken him to the window; people were out on the street gossiping. Blaming this on him and Kate no doubt; not directly of course, but in muted little tuts and head shakes and knowing silences.