Scars

by Dan Scottow

  She sees the blood on her hands from its wounded body, remembers wiping them down her wet hoody after the deed was done. Opening her eyes, she shakes her head, letting water cascade over her. She still sees the fox. Still sees the blood.

  There was nothing else I could do for it, she tells herself, over and over, but it doesn’t help.

  She turns off the shower, stepping out onto the cold tiles. Wrapping a towel around her wet body, she retreats to her bedroom. She stands in front of the dressing table, letting the towel fall to the floor. The sight of her body, as always, comes as a shock briefly, as her eyes skirt across the scars. After so long living with them, she’s still taken aback when she sees them. She fingers a large one on her thigh, stroking it gently. Sometimes, she thinks it still feels sore when she touches it. But she’s sure it’s just in her head.

  Turning away, she grabs the first clothes she lays her hands on, a thick jumper, and her black jeans. Sliding her feet into a pair of boots, she crosses to the window, pulling the curtains wide open. The day is grey. Wind batters the cottage, but nothing of the scale from the previous evening. White horses roll across the surface of the loch, crashing onto the beach at the foot of the garden. The little wooden boat still bobs at the end of the jetty. Gulls hover, eyeing the water below, battling against each gust. Now and then, they dive-bomb, emerging a few moments later with a fish in their bills.

  As she brushes her hair, she hears a knocking from downstairs. She pauses, waiting to see if Diana answers. She hears no movement from below, so she rushes down, throwing the door open. She is greeted by an empty doorstep. She leans outside, looking from side to side. Frowning, she turns to the kitchen. As she descends the hallway, she glimpses a blonde figure quickly pass by the window.

  She freezes, heart pounding.

  A dark shape appears outside the back door, silhouetted against the daylight behind it.

  Lucy darts to the counter, sliding a carving knife from the block, and crouches down behind the island unit. The latch clicks, and the door creaks slowly open. Holding her breath, she presses her back against the cupboard doors, weapon clasped to her chest. She hears footsteps and is suddenly aware of a shape in her peripheral vision.

  ‘Lucy… what are you doing?’

  Her head whips to the side. Cassie stands, staring down at her, looking bewildered. Eyes red and watery.

  Lucy springs up.

  ‘Cassie, thank God!’ She slides the knife back into the block. Cassie watches her every movement.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of the others. I had to see someone… It’s awful. I’m devastated.’

  Lucy moves towards her.

  ‘What is? What’s happened?’

  ‘A body washed up in the storm last night. I found out this morning. It’s Sadiya… she’s dead.’

  She bursts into fits of tears. Lucy steps forwards, embracing her. Her sweet perfume fills Lucy’s nostrils.

  ‘No!’ she says, incredulously. ‘That’s awful! How?’ She leads Cassie to a chair, lowering her down.

  ‘They think she’s been in the water for a while. I wondered why she hadn’t been answering the phone, but she can be flaky like that… so you know, I didn’t panic too much.’

  ‘My God,’ Lucy breathes, crossing to the counter. ‘Can I make you a coffee?’

  ‘Do you have anything stronger?’

  Lucy checks her watch.

  ‘Cassie, it’s not even nine yet.’

  ‘My friend has just died. I think that warrants a drink, don’t you?’ She fixes Lucy with a stare that seems to defy her to disagree. Lucy pulls the doors open. A bottle of vodka sits on a shelf. She grabs it and a tumbler, pouring two fingerfuls, handing it to Cassie. The girl knocks it back without a thought, handing the glass to Lucy for a refill.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Cassie says, staring into space. She blinks a few times.

  ‘What on earth were you doing on the floor with that knife?’

  Lucy shakes her head.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ She hands Cassie the refill. She sips it, screwing up her face, before downing it.

  ‘Go easy, Cassie.’

  She shoots Lucy a withering look.

  ‘How did you get here? I assume you drove?’

  Cassie nods.

  ‘Then you can’t get drunk, can you? Unless you want your friends to lose someone else today.’

  Her shoulders sag as she begins to sob once more.

  ‘It’s mad. Sadiya was such a beautiful person… she didn’t deserve that… I mean, nobody does, but she definitely didn’t.’

  Lucy drags a chair beside her friend, sliding into it, placing her arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Do they know what happened?’

  Cassie shakes her head.

  ‘I think she must have fallen. Apparently, she was fully clothed. She can’t swim anyway… terrified of water. That’s why I wasn’t overly surprised that she didn’t get back to me about the boat party the other week. But to think that the whole time… she was…’

  ‘Don’t,’ Lucy whispers.

  Cassie glances around the kitchen.

  ‘Can we go somewhere… I don’t like being here… where Rose… you know…’

  ‘Sure. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Anywhere. I don’t care. Anywhere but here.’

  Lucy looks towards the back door, aware that she left the fox in the outhouse last night.

  ‘Sure. Why don’t you go and freshen up? I need to quickly take care of something first. It’s the second on the right down the hall.’

  Cassie nods. Standing, she exits the kitchen heading to the bathroom, as Lucy darts outside.

  The day is cooler, air feels damp. She glances about, assessing the damage to the trees. A few slates have fallen from the roof and lie shattered around the perimeter of the cottage. Garden furniture has toppled, and the lawn is littered with general detritus. Lucy hurries across the grass to the lean-to, hugging her arms to her body. As she enters, the generator still chugs, which reminds her to check with Mylo how long she needs to leave it running for.

  She finds the fox where she left it, wrapped in a canvas sack. Flies already buzz round it. She swats them away, searching the room for a shovel. There’s an old metal spade leaning against a wall in the far corner. Grabbing it, she tucks the animal under her arm, heading for the woods. She doesn’t venture too far in. Just inside the treeline. Placing the body on the soil, she begins to dig. Once she’s sure she has dug deep enough that it won’t be disturbed, she lowers the jute package down to the bottom, filling it in on top with mud. As she shovels on the last few piles of dirt, a commotion draws her attention back to Willow Cottage.

  Screaming.

  Horrific, terrified wailing.

  She drops the shovel, running to the kitchen. As she nears, the noise grows louder. Two voices. Diana and Cassie. Shouting at each other.

  ‘Shit!’ Lucy curses under her breath as she darts inside.

  She can see from the doorway, Diana in the hall flailing her arms, clawing towards the bathroom.

  ‘Get out of my house, Rose! You’re dead… you shouldn’t be here anymore! Get out! What do you want?’

  ‘Get off me, you crazy fucking bitch!’ Cassie screams, voice filled with hatred, as she shoves Diana, who tumbles backwards, colliding with the bannisters opposite, before collapsing in a heap.

  Lucy stares at her, weeping on the floor, then to her friend, shaking in the doorway to the bathroom.

  ‘Cassie, are you okay?’

  She crouches beside the older woman.

  ‘No! She attacked me. Started calling me Rose!’

  Fresh scratches on Cassie’s face begin to spot with blood.

  ‘It’s Rose… she’s here! See! I told you!’ Diana bellows.

  ‘No, Diana,’ Lucy says calmly, ‘this isn’t Rose. This is my friend Cassie.’

  Diana’s eyes widen as they drift towards the bathroom. Her face is a pict
ure of confusion.

  ‘No… I saw her…’

  ‘It’s not Rose,’ Lucy says softly, gently stroking her shoulder. She looks at her friend, dripping with blood, shocked, afraid.

  ‘Cassie, there are bandages and disinfectant wipes in the cabinet behind you. Grab some and go and wait for me in the kitchen.’

  The girl shoots a death stare towards Diana but does as she’s told. Lucy helps Diana to her feet, handing her the cane from the floor, and helps her across the hallway to her bedroom.

  ‘I saw the blonde hair… I’m sorry. I… I was sure it was her.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. Let’s get you down on the bed.’ She lowers the woman onto the top of her duvet.

  ‘I thought she had come for me… I thought… I don’t know anymore… I’m so confused… she was in the bathroom, I opened the door, and she was standing there… she looked like Rose…’

  She’s rambling, eyes darting about. Lucy strokes her back.

  ‘I’m going to go and see to those scratches on Cassie, and then I’ll take her home. You try to rest, okay?’

  Diana nods. Lucy exits the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Cassie is standing, tapping her foot. She holds a wad of gauze to her cheek.

  ‘I should call the police! That lunatic attacked me!’

  Lucy holds her finger to her lips.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cassie… she’s not well. She’s… I don’t know… I think she’s having some sort of breakdown.’

  Cassie laughs.

  ‘You’re not kidding. And what was all that about Rose?’

  ‘Please, keep your voice down, I don’t want her going off on one again.’

  Lucy leans on the counter beside her friend, letting out a long sigh.

  ‘God, I don’t know where to start. In a nutshell, she thinks that Rose is haunting her. And she thought you were Rose.’

  Cassie’s mouth hangs open. She tilts her head.

  ‘She’s confused, Cassie… she’s not well.’

  Cassie bites her bottom lip, nodding slowly.

  ‘I really wanted to avoid getting you involved in any of this. It’s bad enough that poor Mylo had to hear it all…’

  ‘Mylo knows?’

  Lucy nods. Cassie straightens up.

  ‘I am going to go and have a word with that bitch! This is nuts.’

  Lucy grabs Cassie’s arm.

  ‘Don’t! Please. I’ll deal with it. I promise. Please don’t say anything to her. I can’t cope with another fight… not right now. I haven’t slept… we had… issues last night. I’m exhausted and I really need to forget about all this.’

  Her shoulders slump, her eyes glaze.

  Cassie pours herself another large vodka, knocking it back swiftly.

  ‘I don’t need this right now either. I came here for some support about my friend’s death. Can we get out of here?’

  ‘Yeah, come on.’

  Cassie tosses the bloody gauze into the sink. She points to her wounded face and neck.

  ‘If this scars, I’ll fucking have her!’ She heads out to the hall.

  ‘Cassie,’ Lucy calls after her as she follows behind.

  Cassie turns. Lucy holds out her hand.

  ‘Keys.’

  Her friend frowns.

  ‘I’m driving. You’ve drunk way too much.’

  Cassie reaches into her pocket, handing over her keys indignantly.

  ‘You bend it, you mend it!’ she says, smirking as she throws open the front door.

  As Lucy catches up, she sees Cassie’s car. An uber-expensive-looking lime-green sportscar sits outside the house. Cassie struts to the passenger side, climbing in. Lucy stops, staring at the vehicle.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Her eyes glide over the vehicle’s sleek lines.

  ‘It’s a McLaren Artura,’ Cassie replies, as if that explains everything. Lucy immediately regrets insisting she drive. Stepping forward, she opens the driver side door, sliding onto the plush leather seat.

  ‘Do I want to know how much this cost?’

  Cassie looks at her.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As she starts the ignition, the engine growls to life. She lets out a long breath through her mouth, gripping the wheel.

  ‘You can do this. It’s only a car,’ she whispers gently to herself, grasping the wheel with trembling hands.

  ‘Don’t let my dad hear you saying that!’

  She presses her foot down and pulls away smoothly. As she glances in the rear-view mirror, she sees Diana hobble out through the front door, staring after them.

  80

  Diana

  She steps inside the cottage, as the sound of the engine purrs away. As she starts to close the door, a glint in the distance draws her attention. She peers at the trees opposite. Something sparkles as it catches the light. She limps towards the forest, unable to look away from the object. On approach, she sees a delicate silver chain dangling from a branch. Tiny emeralds gleam, shooting a spectrum of colours into Diana’s eyes. Shuddering, she reaches out, grabbing the crucifix in her fist. She holds it close to her, glancing around.

  She edges back towards the front door, afraid to look away from the trees. When she nears the house, she turns, hurrying in as quickly as her leg will allow her, her old injury aching as she increases her speed. Closing the door, it occurs to her that she hates being outside these days. She can’t relax until she is inside, with the doors closed.

  She stares down at the chain in her palm, before sliding it into the pocket of her cardigan. Shaking her head, she runs her hand up her face, smoothing her hair. She fiddles with her fringe, splaying it across her forehead. Feeling foolish, she thinks of the blonde girl.

  She had felt so sure it was Rose. The voices in the storm had told her they were coming. And she thought they were delivering on their promise. Even now, she’s not sure if Lucy was lying. Was it Rose that climbed into a car with her and drove away?

  They’re all in on it, she thinks. But I’m cleverer than that. They have no idea what I’m capable of.

  She chuckles to herself, turning to the foot of the stairs. She glances up to the landing.

  Not today, she thinks. There was a time when she would have attempted it without a second thought.

  But these days she feels drained, shaky. Her legs aren’t her own. She relies on her stick more than she ever has. She crosses the hallway, entering the kitchen. A half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the worktop. She’ll have to remember to dock Lucy’s wages for that.

  Opening the cupboard, she assesses her options for wine. There’s not much left. Nothing open.

  She’ll need to order some with the next load of shopping. She shrugs, lifting the vodka. Removing the lid, she takes a swig straight from the bottle, wincing as it fills her mouth and burns her throat.

  Pushing through the door, she enters the lounge, crossing to the wood burner. Opening it, she places a firelighter and a few pieces of kindling inside, before striking a match, tossing it on top.

  The fire crackles to life as she closes the hatch, waiting for the flames to grow. After a few minutes, she takes a large log from a well-stocked pile beside the hearth, throwing it inside. She retreats to the sofa opposite. As she sits, she downs more of the liquor.

  A creak from out in the kitchen draws her attention. She stands, crossing the room, and pushes through. A cabinet door swings open in a draft. Had she left it open? She can’t even remember being in the kitchen. But glancing at the bottle in her hand, she surmises that she must have been. She pushes the door shut. A noise from the living room. A thud. She rushes back through. Creeping back towards the fire, she sees something lying on the seat where moments earlier she had been sitting. She draws closer, realising it’s a long-stemmed red rose. She narrows her eyes, but as she watches, the flower begins to wither. It shrivels, curling, dying, until it is brown and decaying. It turns to dust. She blinks, and it’s gone. The seat is empty.

 
Shaking her head, she sits. Holding the bottle firmly in one hand, clasping it to her chest, she stares at Richard’s painting, high on the wall. The colours swirl as she gulps more vodka. Squinting, she thinks the figure within the flames moves. She shakes it away.

  But the edges of the composition appear to be melting in the heat from the fire. The paint, thick and wet, bleeds out onto the mantel. As she watches, the molten mass grows until it engulfs the entire chimney breast, as if it is alive, crawling to escape the confines of the canvas.

  She cranes her head forwards, fascinated by the horrifying tableau that emerges before her. The liquid trickles down the walls and flows over the floor towards the settee. It bubbles, swallowing anything it comes into contact with. She knows she should attempt to escape, but her body refuses to move.

  As the liquid meets the base of the couch, it begins to climb up the furniture; jumps onto Diana’s ankles. She watches, petrified, as the paint swirl over her clothes, over her skin. Her entire world is now a mass of colours, bleeding together, muddying. She closes her eyes, shaking her head again.

  As she opens them, the room is as it should be. The hues, perhaps a little more vibrant. Raising her hand in front of her face, she notes there is an ethereal glow around the edges of her limbs.

  I’m an angel, she thinks.

  An angel of death, the painting screams at her in a demonic snarl.

  She smells smoke, glances at the fire. The log she had placed has burnt to ash. Orange embers are all that are left. Little heat remains.

  How long have I been here, she wonders?

  She blinks a few more times, and a new piece of wood burns in the fireplace. She frowns, looking at the pile of logs beside it.

  Only two remain.

  Her eyelids flutter, and she’s in the garden, sitting in the seat beneath the old willow tree. An empty vodka bottle lies on the grass by her feet.

  The wind rages around her, leaves rustle. Her hair is loose, trailing about her face, blowing behind her.

  What happened to my braid? she thinks.

  Shaking her head, she suddenly finds herself standing in the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of wine in her hand, the rich berry flavours of a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, wasted on her entirely in her current state, linger on her tongue.