The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel

by Sam Anthony

  Now she was a widow – three children, seven grandchildren and a great grandchild on the way – but in her heart she was still that sweet sixteen-year-old girl, sitting in the car, waiting to be kissed.

  It was the third consecutive year she’d paid homage to her deceased husband on the date he passed away, and it was the day she made the decision that it was time to start courting again. Her eldest daughter already had a man lined up for her. Bald and fat, but kind by all accounts. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, she would bring him up here next year. Maybe they would have sex in the back seat, just like all those years ago with Henry.

  Betty giggled at the prospect and wiped a happy tear from her eye. She wasn’t too old to …

  The passenger door swung open. “Is this seat taken?”

  She gasped.

  A man dressed all in black, wearing a balaclava, had entered her vehicle uninvited and seated himself beside her.

  “What? … What are you doing? Get out of my car. Get out at once.”

  “Shut up.” He said it calmly.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said ‘shut up’. It’s a simple instruction.”

  “How dare you invade my car and tell me to shut up? I’m going to …”

  He punched her in the face. Not a huge punch, as it wasn’t possible to get much backswing in the confines of the vehicle, but hard enough to stun her into silence and bring more tears to her eyes, but no longer happy ones.

  “That’s better. Fuck me, look at that sunset! What a cracker. I can see why you came up here. I was starting to think no one was going to turn up, and I’d have to break in somewhere. Forcing my way into houses gets so boring after a while.”

  Betty took a tissue from up her sleeve and used it to dab her face.

  “What’s your name, love?”

  “B … B … Betty.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Betty. I’m … ooh, that was close. I nearly told you my name.” He chuckled. “That would have been bad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I would have had to kill you. And we don’t want that, do we, Betty?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s just say I’m your local mugger. Now, where’s your money?”

  Betty mumbled a response.

  “Speak up, love. Just tell me where your money is?”

  “I didn’t bring any money. I haven’t even got my handbag.”

  “Don’t lie to me, lady.”

  “Why would I need any money here? I just drove up from the village to watch the sun go down.”

  “Unbelievable! What is it with old biddies these days? You should always carry a bit of cash around with you in case you need it to pay off muggers.”

  “Sorry. I … I didn’t think.”

  “No, you didn’t. So, where’s your phone?”

  “I don’t have my phone with me either.”

  “You must be fucking kidding me!” He took a knife out of his jacket pocket. “What if someone stabs you in the leg with this rusty blade? How are you going to call for help without a fucking phone?”

  “Please don’t.” She whimpered.

  “Give me your money, then.”

  “I told you. I haven’t got …”

  “Well, what have you got? Any nice jewellery or anything?”

  “Only my engagement ring.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “It is to me. It has great sentimental value.”

  He held out his hand. “Give it here.”

  “No. It’s mine. I could never part … arghhh!”

  “What the matter? Is something wrong?”

  She whimpered. “You … you stabbed me in the leg.”

  He looked down. “I did, didn’t I? Fancy that.” He released the knife, leaving it buried to the hilt in Betty’s thigh.

  Together they watched a red stain expand outwards from the blade, turning her brown trousers black in the crepuscular gloom.

  “So, about that ring …”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you going to take it off now or would you like me to stab you in the other leg?”

  “I’ll take it off.”

  She pulled and rotated and tugged, but the ring was stuck fast. She hadn’t taken it off once since that happy day forty-nine years ago when Henry had got down on one knee, not many yards from that very spot, and slid it lovingly onto her finger.

  “I can cut it off if you’d prefer.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  With sorrow in her heart, Betty dipped her fingers into the growing pool of blood on her trousers, and used the hot, slippery slickness to lubricate the ring and slide it free.

  “Here.”

  He took it, cleaned it, and popped it into his pocket.

  “You know, you’re not bad looking for an old bird. If you were maybe … fifteen years younger and a couple of stone lighter, I might have raped you.”

  He paused, staring at her, clearly waiting for a response.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. Thank you?”

  “There you go. How hard was that? You should be grateful when a good-looking youngster like me pays you a compliment.”

  “Sorry. I think I might be in shock. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

  “Consider it an adventure. One of those interesting tales you can share with your children and grandchildren.”

  For several minutes they watched the sky slowly turn from lemon yellow to pumpkin orange to fiery red to amethyst purple.

  She was unaware, but beneath the balaclava he was smiling contentedly.

  He was unaware, but beneath the bravado she was shaking like a leaf.

  “That’s just beautiful,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “That bird halfway down the quarry.”

  “It’s a peregrine falcon (Falco peregrinus). The world’s fastest animal. They can dive at over 240 miles per hour.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Henry told me.”

  “Henry?”

  “My husband. He’s … gone now, but not forgotten.”

  The attacker yawned. “Listen, Betty, it’s been lovely chatting and everything, but I’d better be heading off. It’s getting dark now the sun’s gone down. Don’t worry about making a mess of my knife, I can rinse it clean when I get home.”

  With a brutal tug, he extricated the blade and held it in front of her face as blood dripped from the point.

  She tried to move her head backwards, but the restraint prevented motion in that direction.

  “Keep very still,” he said.

  She didn’t have much choice.

  Slowly and carefully, the attacker wiped the residual blood onto Betty’s wrinkled downy cheeks.

  She couldn’t help letting out a whimper.

  Without another word, he opened the car door and strode away; quickly disappearing into the shadows.

  Betty sat stunned in the car, unable to believe what had just happened to her. Tentatively she touched her wound and winced. The pain was worsening by the minute. She tried to raise her damaged leg, but the muscles were non-responsive. I’ve wet myself, she thought before realising she was sitting in a pool of her own blood. Opening the window, she cried out, “Help! Help me!” but her voice was feeble.

  Betty Reed was no fool. She knew if she remained where she was much longer she would bleed to death. She knew nobody would find her cold corpse until one of the dawn dog walkers made their way up to the old quarry. But she also knew she was physically incapable of walking to get help. There was only one thing for it. She would have to start her engine and drive down the hill to the village, as slowly and carefully as possible, and pray she didn’t pass out on the journey.

  And that’s what she did.

  She weaved out of the car park and down the hill, bumping from left verge to right verge and back again, intermittently pressing on the horn. Through the woods, past the McDougal residence and down the B5729 (known by the
locals as Pete’s Special Way Lane for reasons long lost in the mists of time). Past the church. Past the post office. Accelerating now. No longer weaving. As straight as an arrow fired at the trunk of the ancient willow tree (Salix babylonica), glancing off it, and finally coming to rest nose-down in the shallow village pond.

  Sleeping swans scattered as Betty slumped over the steering wheel, sounding an uninterrupted blast on the horn.

  She was unconscious as customers exited the Hare And Hounds to investigate the commotion.

  Chapter 42

  Thursday 30 October, 2003

  The village hall, 7:35 p.m.

  “But what the hell are you doing about it?” shouted Stan Shepherd, the misnamed dairy farmer, as his wife nodded aggressively beside him.

  PC Patel held up her hands and waited for the hubbub to subside.

  Mia Fairfax was already impressed. This young lady was wasted in the police force. She possessed the patience and personality required to control a year nine bottom set on a stormy Friday afternoon, and that was a rare talent indeed.

  The sergeant jerked his head for her to continue, but PC Patel held the silence for long enough to convince the villagers that she was the one in charge, and any more outbursts would not be tolerated.

  “The good news is,” she said, “Mrs Reed is expected to make a complete recovery. She lost a significant amount of blood, and bruised her forehead on the steering wheel when she crashed, but otherwise, I’m assured there will be no permanent damage other than a small scar on her thigh. When I spoke to Betty this morning, her biggest concern was how soon she could go out dating.

  “The bad news, of course, is that there remains a violent criminal at large in our community. I want to reassure you all that we are taking this matter extremely seriously. We believe that this is the fourth assault this person has carried out, and with each new crime the victims are getting younger and the level of violence is increasing. However, what we don’t want is gangs of vigilantes patrolling the streets and taking the law into their own hands. It’s no good looking behind you, Mr O’Connor. We both know I’m talking to you. Let the police handle this. Do you understand?”

  Steve had a brief flashback to primary school.

  “I said, do you understand, Mr O’Connor?”

  “Yes, miss. I mean: yes, officer.”

  “Good. Now, I believe the ladies of the Women’s Institute have made tea and cakes for everyone, so let’s have a ten-minute break for refreshments, and then resume.”

  ◆◆◆

  Serena took the opportunity to scan the room to see who was the most attractive female present. “Oh my God! What does she look like?”

  “Who?” said Eric, deep in thought.

  “That tart Mandy. If her top was one millimetre lower, you could see her nipples.”

  “Where?” Ollie swivelled his head and received a clout from Mia.

  “Face the front.”

  “I was only looking.”

  “Where’s Jemima?”

  “I just saw her sneaking out the back door with the bricklayer’s lad.”

  “Are we all right with that? He’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the box.”

  “Don’t worry. Jem knows how to look after herself.”

  “It’s not her I’m worried about.”

  “I think she’s staring at me,” said Fiona.

  “Jemima?”

  “No, Mandy.”

  “Just ignore her.”

  ◆◆◆

  “Well, this isn’t much fun. I thought we were going for a walk,” said Stumpy.

  “Me too, old chap. I feel cheated. What a waste of an evening. We should be chasing rabbits up on the hills, not lying here licking our balls.”

  ◆◆◆

  Cake was eaten, tea was drunk, and the meeting resumed.

  PC Patel, with the avuncular approval of her sergeant, explained to the villagers how best to keep themselves safe.

  “Doors and windows should be kept locked at all times. If you have to walk anywhere, go with a friend during the hours of daylight. For the time being, at least, it’s probably best if the more vulnerable members of our community employ a curfew.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” shouted Ron the landlord. “Half of my customers are vulnerable members of the community. Especially after they’ve had a few.”

  “I’m not saying don’t go to the pub. Just take sensible precautions. Walk there and back in the company of others. Lock your car doors while you’re driving. Leave the rest to us.”

  ◆◆◆

  The meeting broke up, and the villagers made their way home, or to the pub, or to check on their neighbours.

  PC Patel was not happy to discover four flat tyres on her police vehicle, but fortunately she kept a foot-pump in the trunk. Twenty minutes of vigorous stomping, under the encouraging eye of her sergeant, soon returned the car to a roadworthy condition.

  A young man matching the description of one Wayne Smith was seen sniggering in the bushes nearby.

  Chapter 43

  Saturday 1 November, 2003

  O’Connor kitchen, 6:44 p.m.

  “Welcome home, love. How did it go?”

  “Don’t ask.” Steve took off his coat and laid it on the back of a chair.

  “Okay. Cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Fiona fetched them both a drink. “I brought you some carrot cake, too. Thought it might cheer you up. Shall we watch a movie tonight?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how it went?”

  “I did. You said, ‘Don’t ask.’”

  “That’s just a figure of speech. Mmm, this is lovely cake. Did you make it?”

  “Ava.”

  “It’s delicious. She’s a much better baker than you, love.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say to your wife.”

  “It’s true, though.”

  “Just because something is true, it doesn’t mean you have to say it.”

  “How will you improve at anything if I don’t point out your flaws? I’m just being helpful.”

  “You …” Fiona bit her lip.

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Go on then. Tell me how you got on in your solo attempt to save the planet.”

  Steve put down his empty plate and sucked his sticky fingers. “Well, on the plus side … no, I’ve got nothing. The whole trip was a disaster. I followed the tracking device to the same processing centre as last time, and waited in my usual spot for hours and hours. This time I was better prepared, however.”

  “How so?”

  “More sandwiches and coffee, and a nice big bottle to … urinate into.”

  “That’s nice. Where is it?”

  “The bottle of piss? Still in the car. Don’t worry, I’ll empty it later.”

  “Don’t just empty it. Throw it away. I don’t want to re-use a bottle you’ve filled with urine.”

  “I didn’t fill it. There’s still room for more.”

  “You’re missing the point. Anyway, carry on with your story.”

  Steve sat back in his chair. “This time the plastic container I was pursuing left the processing centre on a lorry, which was much easier to follow than a train. Unfortunately, it stopped several times to pick up more stuff, so it was a long drive until the tracking device eventually arrived at its final destination: Edmonton EcoPark.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? Who doesn’t like a nice park? But it’s not nice. It’s not nice at all. It’s Britain’s biggest waste incinerator, although they don’t refer to it as that. They call it a ‘waste-to-energy plant’. Some sources say that every year since 1971 it’s converted half a million tonnes of household waste into a chemical cocktail of cancer causing carcinogens and pollution. As of today, deadly fumes from our melted-down plastic container are wafting about in the air for people to suck into their lungs.”

  “That’s not go
od. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I parked the car near the entrance, and lay awake all night watching the comings and goings. Twenty lorries full of household waste arrived during that time. Most of it probably recyclable plastic that just gets burned instead of being re-used.”

  “Didn’t you sleep at all?”

  “Not a wink. This morning I watched people leaving the site on foot until I spotted a guy wearing a suit.”

  “Why a suit?”

  “I wanted to talk to someone on the management team rather than just a guy who works in the canteen.”

  “I see. What did you say to him?”

  “I politely asked if he wouldn’t mind answering a few questions about the incinerator.”

  “Was he all right with that?”

  “No, he told me to – pardon my French – fuck off. So I waited another couple of hours and asked someone else.”

  “Did he tell you to eff off too?”

  “No. Once he’d established I wasn’t from the press or Greenpeace he was quite happy to give me some information.”

  “And …?”

  “I’ve been duped. All this time I’ve been duped.”

  Ava walked in. “Hi, Dad.” She sat at the table.

  “Hi, Pumpkin.”

  “Duped by who?” Fiona probed.

  “Plastic manufacturers, the Government, the local council. Everyone. It’s all a con.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Manufacturers have abnegated their responsibility for poisoning our planet, and governments have let them get away with it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The big companies make as many plastic items as they can in order to generate as much profit as possible. Then they put the onus on us to recycle it. We think that’s what we’re doing – and the Government happily announces that nearly fifty percent of household waste is being recycled – but less than five percent can be re-used in practice. Just because we’re putting it into a recycling bin doesn’t mean it’s actually being recycled. It’s a con to take the responsibility away from the greedy plastic companies and dump it on the public. They even put those little symbols on everything, with the green arrows in a triangle, to make us think it’s going to be used again in some way, but it’s bollocks.”