by Dan Scottow
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
He looks away. A wave of guilt floods over Lucy. She’s sure he must know what they’ve been discussing.
‘Shall we head?’ he says without looking at her.
‘Yeah, maybe. Shouldn’t we wait for the others?’
‘They’ll be fine. Probably be drinking champagne in there for hours now.’
They stand and stroll down the gangway towards the boat.
She doesn’t know if she should mention Rose. What would she say? She feels she needs to acknowledge it, but it’s awkward. She decides to wait and see if he brings it up.
She climbs on board, and he jumps on behind her.
27
Diana
The smell of varnish fills the house, causing Diana to feel nauseous, so she sits in the garden. Her leg has been throbbing today. She’s popped so many pills, but the pain is still making its way through the fug. She’s onto her fourth bottle of wine. She hasn’t felt right for a few days now, so she figures she may as well drink. Why the hell not?
She rubs at a small bruise on her arm. Three little red dots next to it, itch like hell. Something has feasted on her overnight.
Richard is in his chair beside her. The workman instructed her to keep off the floor until the evening. She checks her watch. It’s not long after three. She glances at her husband, remembering that she hasn’t given him lunch. Lucy told her she had made some soup up, and it’s in the fridge, so she stands, swaying, heading into the kitchen. It’s not until she is out of her seat that she realises quite how drunk she is.
The smell is stronger indoors. She pulls her sweater up over her nose, rooting around in the refrigerator. Frowning, she pushes polythene bags filled with leaves and berries aside, rummaging in a shelf. She finds the brown slop in a Tupperware container. As she removes the lid, the stink hits her. She holds her hand to her mouth, swallowing down bile, and pours the soup into a saucepan. It drips, lumpy and cold, slapping onto the metal, making Diana want to vomit again.
Slamming the pan onto the stove, she lights the gas, and turns the burner up to full. As it begins to warm through, she takes a bottle of vodka from a cupboard. Pouring herself two fingers into a tumbler, she knocks it back, repeating the process. She wobbles over to the door out to the hall, staring at the floorboards. The stain is gone. Not a trace left. She can’t see the floor too clearly right now anyway, her vision is a mess. The booze has seen to that.
Wet varnish glistens in the light that streams through from the kitchen. She smiles, returning to the soup. It is bubbling ferociously already. She takes a wooden spoon from a drawer, giving the food a quick stir, before transferring it into a bowl. She carries it in her good hand, out to her husband. As she reaches him, she realises she has forgotten cutlery. She looks over her shoulder towards the house with weary eyes. She can’t face the journey again. Every time she moves, it’s as if she’s floating on water. Bobbing up and down on turbulent waves. Now and then she feels like she is spinning round, as an anchored boat on a chain does, swinging to the direction of the wind. It’s a very disconcerting feeling when standing on dry land. Then there is the headache. And the pain in her limbs, her leg in particular. And the constant nauseated state.
She decides to pour it from the bowl. It’s not worth struggling back for a spoon. He probably won’t even eat it anyway. She blows on the soup, trying to cool it, dipping her fingertip into the middle. It’s hot, so she waits a while for the temperature to drop. When she’s satisfied that it won’t scald him, she raises it up to his mouth. Sticking a finger between his lips, she forces them open. He groans.
She’s not sure if she’s imagined it at first.
‘Open wide, Richard, it’s time for lunch. Late today. Your girl is out gallivanting with Mylo. Didn’t take her long! Not long at all. No.’
His teeth are clamped tight together like a vice. She wriggles her finger against them, trying to worm her way through. She latches on to a small gap, prizing them apart, and tips the bowl. The gloop trickles into his mouth and over his chin. A gurgling noise comes from his throat. Diana frowns, but continues to pour the soup in.
Suddenly his hand flies up, grabbing her wrist.
She tumbles backwards, dropping the food. The contents splash down his front. She lands in a heap at his feet. Dazed, she rolls clumsily over onto her knees, pushing herself up, resting her elbows on his lap.
She stays there for a moment, trying to regain her composure. She takes a few deep breaths. Her heart pounds. She stares up into her husband’s face. His eyes are fixed directly ahead, out over the loch. She raises a hand up in front of him, waving it.
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
‘Richard?’ she whispers.
Silence. Only the sound of his laboured breathing. She glances around. Her stick has rolled away a metre or so. She crawls to retrieve it, pulling herself up on a garden chair. She sits for a while, panting, calming herself. In all the years since the accident, Richard has never moved. Never this much anyway. There’s been the odd twitch of a finger, or a toe. But nothing as dramatic as this.
A spasm? A reflex? Perhaps the soup was too hot and triggered a reaction? Who knows?
But she didn’t like it.
She looks him up and down. The brown gloop is seeping into his clean white shirt.
‘Damn,’ she hisses.
Standing, she limps back towards the house, making her way through the kitchen, and into Richard’s room. She opens his wardrobe. A row of empty hangers dangle on the rail. Everything swirls around her as the vodka takes effect. She can’t focus on anything. Her head bobs, her body sways. She flutters her eyelids, trying to see straight.
Cursing, she stumbles out into the hall, edging her way along the perimeter. The floor is tacky, but not too bad. She enters her room. It is hot, sticky. The air is heavy. Flies buzz around the window. She swats them away; can’t remember the last time she opened it.
Rummaging in her wardrobe, she pushes her dresses aside. A few of Richard’s crumpled shirts still hang at one end. She grabs a pink-and-white candy stripe with a granddad collar, smiling as she thinks of when she last saw him in it. She tends to dress him in white now. It doesn’t show the creases so much. She takes the garment and drapes it over her shoulder. Clicking the wardrobe door shut, she turns to go. Something in the corner of her eye makes her stop. She spins towards her bed.
There’s an object on her pillow. Small and rectangular. She crosses the room as quickly as possible in her current state. As she reaches the bed, she lets herself collapse into a sitting position before she ends up on the floor. She swivels herself around, picking up the driver’s licence that is lying there. Her eyes swim in and out of focus. She can barely read it, but it’s definitely Rose’s. Her vision remains clear long enough to be certain of that.
The very same item that she saw Lucy toss into the waste bin last night.
She lets out a gasp. Rose’s piercing blue eyes stare mockingly back at her. Her smile, broad as ever. Fake. Like her. Everything about her.
‘Fuck you, Rose! What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?’ Diana shrieks. She drops her face into her hands and begins to sob uncontrollably.
‘Leave me alone. Please! Haven’t you done enough? I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want? I am sorry,’ she whispers, rocking back and forth.
She stands, wiping her hand across her eyes. Sliding the licence into her pocket, she heads out to her husband in the garden.
28
Lucy
The boat is skipping across the rippling surface of the loch, quickly, purposefully. Mylo stands at the helm. Now and then, he glances towards Lucy and grins. She smiles back.
She grabs the fleece she wore earlier, draping it over her shoulders.
‘Come here,’ Mylo beckons. She sidles up to him, and he places an arm around her. She cuddles into the warmth of his body. He smells like aftershave. Manly, fresh, and clean. She inhales deeply through her nostrils with he
r eyes closed. His scent is fantastic. She slides her arm round his waist, opening her eyes and looking up towards him. His head is fixed forwards, scanning the water.
She tries to imagine what is going through his mind. Is he thinking about Rose? Everything here must remind him of her. Especially coming to Willow Cottage, the place where he ultimately lost her.
He looks down at her briefly. Thick white clouds are forming around them. It seems to have rolled in from nowhere.
‘This fog is so weird!’ Lucy says.
‘It can come and go very quickly here with the changing temperatures. It’s quite a thing to behold if you’ve never seen it before.’
A cool breeze blows across them, making Lucy shiver. He pulls her in tighter to him.
‘Won’t be long,’ he says. And she can’t remember the last time she felt this at ease.
29
Diana
Richard is right where she left him. She’s not sure what else she expected. She’s disappointed. Part of her wants him to return. Be with her again. Talk to her. She misses their discussions.
But then she remembers and thinks perhaps it’s better this way.
She pulls the shirt from over her shoulder, draping it on the rear of his wheelchair. She unbuttons the one he is wearing, untucking it from the waistband of his chinos, pulling him forwards slightly to slide it from his body. She pushes him back in the chair, exhausted. As she looks down at him, she sees a collection of purple bruises; small, finger-shaped, over his upper arms. Larger welts cover his chest and abdomen. Dark and brooding.
‘Richard… what the hell… how has this happened?’
She stares at the marks, and her eyes sting. Moisture trickles down her cheek from her good eye.
She grasps the sides of his head in her hands.
‘My darling, I am so sorry!’ she slurs.
Pulling him towards her, she sobs into his shoulder. She dresses him, smoothing down the front of his fresh shirt.
‘There. All better.’
She wipes the tears from her eyes. Glancing back to the house she swears she sees a figure standing in the kitchen window. Blinking a few times, she screws her lids shut tightly. When she opens them again, she realises it’s just a reflection of a tree in the glass. She laughs to herself but decides to remain in the garden for a while longer. As she looks out over the loch, a thick fog is beginning to creep in across the surface of the water.
She’s so drunk, the world is a blur by now.
‘I think there’s a storm coming, Richard,’ she says, as they both stare out over the landscape.
30
Lucy
She stands at her window gazing out, but all she can see is white. Returning to her bed, she lays back, with her arms above her head, staring at the ceiling. She can’t remember the last time she was drunk. As the pleasant sensation from the wine washes over her, she feels… happy. Dare she even think it? She’d seen a different side of Mylo today. More human. His odd behaviour around Diana now makes more sense, after Cassie’s revelations about his suspicions over Rose’s death.
She even understands his coolness when Diana introduced him to her the other day. It must have been a shock. A new girl, in his fiancée’s home.
Having changed into a pair of baggy jogging bottoms and a rugby jersey, she is about to settle with a book, when Diana calls her name from downstairs. She leaves her room, heading down to see her.
As she reaches the bottom, she sees that Diana has replaced the runner in the hall. Her gaze drifts to where the stain used to be, the boards now clean.
Diana is in the kitchen, staring out into the fog, swaying at the window.
‘This weather is mad, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Lucy says cheerfully as she enters.
Diana turns towards her, does not respond. Simply stares at her.
‘I’m going to… ask… you something. I… don’t… want any lies.’
Her speech is odd. Slurring, she pauses between words, as if she is struggling to form a sentence. She’s drunk.
Extremely drunk.
The corners of her mouth are turned down, eyes stern and piercing, yet they fail to settle on Lucy’s face. The lids droop, fluttering from time to time.
Lucy frowns, tilting her head to one side, glancing at the six empty wine bottles standing beside a bin bag.
‘I’d like to know how… my… husband has come to be… covered in bruises… whilst in your care.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Bruises! Everywhere. He looks like he’s been… beaten.’ Her voice wobbles towards the end.
‘I’m sorry, Diana, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘My husband, whom you have been looking after… apparently, is badly bruised. And you know nothing about it? You haven’t noticed when you have been changing him?’
Lucy folds her arms across her chest.
‘When I dressed him this morning he was fine, I can assure you. Let’s have a look…’ She turns to head to Richard’s room. Diana laughs humourlessly.
‘Don’t bother. I’m telling you, he is bruised. And these aren’t new. Some of them look days old. They’re yellowing. You’re telling me they just appeared through the course of today?’
Lucy takes a few steps towards Diana.
‘Are you accusing me of something, Mrs Davenport?’
Diana backs away, wobbling.
‘We can call the police if you think I’m… guilty of a crime. Abuse? Or neglect? You can explain to them that you have found bruises on your husband’s body, while he has been in your care. While you have been drinking… a hell of a lot, from the looks of it. Just how many bottles of wine have you polished off today? I haven’t been here all day. And I will tell them what I have told you. The last time I dressed him he was totally fine.’
Lucy takes another step forward. Diana stumbles as she shrinks away, catching herself on the edge of the worktop. Lucy pulls her mobile from her pocket. As she leans closer, she can smell the alcohol permeating through every pore of the woman.
‘Here, you can even use my phone… if you can get any reception.’
She thrusts the device towards Diana’s face.
‘Well?’
Diana looks away.
‘No. Didn’t think so.’
Lucy turns to leave, sliding the mobile back into her tracksuit pants. As she walks away, she hears Diana’s stick clattering across the tiles behind her. Something hits the back of her head, landing by her feet. She stares at it.
‘What’s this?’ she says wearily.
‘You tell me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Diana limps towards her.
‘Did you leave this?’
Lucy bends, picking up the photo card.
‘What do you mean? Did I leave it where?’
‘On my bed!’
‘No. I threw it in the bin. Like you told me to. You saw me.’
‘I know. But after that. Did you take it out and put it on my pillow?’
Lucy actually laughs. She can’t help herself.
‘Of course I didn’t. Why would I do that? You’re not making any sense.’
‘Somebody did.’
‘You’re drunk and delusional. Accusing me of things you’ve imagined. I don’t deserve to be treated like this. I’ve done nothing wrong. If there are bruises, you probably did it to him yourself!’
Lucy turns, striding down the hallway to the stairs, tears prickling at her eyes.
‘I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,’ she shouts as she heads up.
She hears Diana hobbling after her.
‘Don’t you dare walk away from me! We’re not done here!’ she bellows.
Lucy spins around to face her.
‘Yes. Yes we are.’
Diana places a foot on the bottom step.
‘Please remember, I choose not to go upstairs. It doesn’t mean that I can’t. Don’t think for one second that I won’t come up t
here after you if I have to.’
‘And what? Push me down them?’ she spits. She regrets the words as soon as she’s said them, but it’s too late.
The colour drains from Diana’s face. She sways back and forth.
‘Wh… what did you… say?’
For a moment Lucy considers walking away, leaving it. Diana is her employer after all. But the wine, and the tequila, fill her with a false sense of bravado, and she can’t let it drop.
‘Mylo’s friend filled me in on your history. I know everything. And I know who that belongs to.’
She tosses the licence at Diana. It hits her forehead and falls to the floor.
‘Just leave me alone. I’m going to bed.’
She turns and continues up, leaving Diana standing open-mouthed in the hall.
She slams the bedroom door behind her. Leaning her back against it, she grasps her head in both hands as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. Shaking her head, she crosses the room, cursing under her breath as remorse creeps through her like a forest fire taking hold.
But the damage is very much done, she fears, as she throws herself onto the mattress.
She’ll have to deal with the consequences in the morning. When she’s sober.
And before long, she passes out.
31
Lucy
The harsh morning light streams in through gaps in the curtains, and Lucy rolls over, fully clothed, on top of her duvet, burying her face deep into the down of the pillow. Her head pounds.
This is why I don’t drink, she thinks, cringing, as the previous evening’s argument floods into her thoughts. She sees flashes of the showdown. The driving licence. The empty wine bottles.
Diana’s glare.
‘Oh God,’ she whispers, and for a moment thinks she might be sick. If she still has a job this morning, it will be a miracle. She showers quickly, water hot, trying to wash away the dirty feeling she has.