by Dan Scottow
Mylo shifts in his seat.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I mentioned about… you know… Rose and that. And what happened. I thought she should be aware. Didn’t seem to put her off though.’
Mylo pauses with his cup to his mouth, narrowing his eyes. He places the cup down on the coffee table.
‘Mrs Checkley, are you saying you told her about Rose?’
Her cheeks flush.
‘Well… yes. I’m sorry, Mylo. Once I get started, I find it hard to stop. You know what I’m like! And she seemed ever so interested.’
‘How much did you tell her exactly?’
She pauses, looking ashamed.
‘Everything.’
He stands. What he’s hearing doesn’t make any sense to him. Lucy claimed to know nothing about Rose before she met his friends at the marina. Cassie told him that she had seemed shocked, and unaware when she filled her in on what had happened.
‘I need to go,’ Mylo says abruptly.
Lynda Checkley hops up from her rocking chair as he hurries to the front door.
‘I’m sorry, Mylo! Have I upset you? Please don’t leave!’
‘It’s okay, Mrs Checkley. It’s not you. I’ve just remembered there’s something I have to do.’
He rushes towards his truck, climbing behind the wheel. He starts the engine, speeding away down the road without so much as a glance back. Lynda Checkley frowns, standing in the doorway.
‘People around here are very odd,’ she says to nobody in particular, as she closes the door.
90
Lucy
Richard slumps forward, naked in his wheelchair. A string of saliva drips from his chin, landing on the flabby flesh below it. There’s a little blood mixed in with it, but not much. She doesn’t bother to straighten him up.
‘Are you missing Diana yet?’ Lucy asks. ‘I am. She’s bat-shit crazy, but it was quite entertaining at times.’
She crosses the lounge. Stopping by the fire, she gazes out through the window.
‘The nights are drawing in. Looks cold out there.’
She turns, jostling the poker as it rests with its end in the embers. The tip is glowing orange. She smiles.
The stench from the other side of the room is horrendous. She hasn’t washed him for days or changed his stoma. She allows him to wallow in his own stinking filth.
Blood has crusted over some cuts on his body. The burns she inflicted look red and festering. She hopes they hurt as much as they look like they do.
‘Are you enjoying this time we’re having together, Richard?’
She stares into his eyes, sure that he’s taking it all in.
Suffering.
She fingers the handle of the poker playfully, before swiping it up. She strides towards him and without warning presses the poker against his belly.
It sizzles, and a burning smell fills the air, briefly masking the stench of piss and shit.
He wobbles, eyes flicker; she pulls it away. Doesn’t want to push too far.
Not yet.
She hears a sound from the kitchen, and grins.
‘Oh, good, kettle has boiled,’ she says, smiling at him.
She rushes behind his chair, pushing him through the door into the next room. Glancing at the red welt where the poker had rested, she sucks in air though her teeth.
‘That’s got to hurt,’ she taunts.
Positioning him against one wall, she pours herself a coffee. Placing a teaspoon into it, she stirs for a few moments. She sips, leaving the metal spoon in the mug, staring at him the entire time.
‘I really wish this were a two-way thing, Richard. I wish we could have a conversation.’ She shrugs. ‘But I suppose I’ll have to make do.’
She watches the man in front of her, searching for any sign of comprehension. His eyes are fixed on her, staring, anguished.
They sit like that for a few minutes. Lucy knows that the build-up will be terrifying for him. Wondering what is coming next.
She lifts the spoon out, crouching in front of the chair, and presses the metal into his cheek, holding it there for a few seconds.
A tear trickles down his face, and Lucy smiles.
Dropping the spoon back into the mug, she gives it another stir, then pushes it onto the soft fleshy part of his throat. She notices the little finger of his left hand spasm.
‘I hope you feel this. You can, can’t you?’
She tosses the cutlery into the sink and flicks the kettle on again. It doesn’t take long.
Grabbing the mug from the counter, she fills it with boiling water, kneeling at Richard’s side. She holds it on the arm rest of his wheelchair, lifting his right hand. His wrist is floppy. Flabby hands droop, almost lifelessly. She lowers it towards the brim of the cup. When the tips of his fingers are dangling just shy of the surface of the water, she leans her face directly in front of his.
‘I wish you could scream for me, Richard,’ she whispers.
She lowers his arm further. Three of his fingers fall into the liquid.
His eyes wobble. Legs tremble. His mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Saliva bubbles at the corners. She moves the cup away.
His hand is red, angry-looking.
Scalded.
‘That looks sore!’ she says gleefully.
Standing, she grabs a handful of his hair, pulling his head back as far as it will go, staring down into his eyes. He seems to look straight through her, almost defiantly.
For a moment she doubts herself; wonders if Diana is right, and he is unaware of anything. But she sees the tears streaming down his face, and it reassures her. His mouth gapes, tongue lolling sickeningly inside. She raises the mug, and in a swift movement pours the contents into his lap, watching as he begins to convulse once more.
She stands, moving behind him, grasping the handles of his wheelchair. She leans down so her lips are next to his ear.
‘Let’s go for a walk, shall we? The loch is beautiful in this light. Wouldn’t you like a closer look?’
She smiles, pushing the chair to the door, bumping it down into the garden, heading for the jetty.
91
Mylo
He drives quickly, cursing the length of the journey. By road it’s at least an hour to Willow Cottage, and that’s assuming he doesn’t get held up by sheep along the way.
The entire time, his mind races.
Why would Lucy claim to not know anything about Rose, when she knew right from the start?
It didn’t make any sense. Something feels wrong.
He doesn’t know what… can’t comprehend. His brain can’t make sense of it.
But he has a feeling.
His gut tells him there is something going on. He traverses the winding single-track roads, taking the bends carefully.
Rounding a corner, he sees a herd of cattle being ushered across the road between two fields. There are hundreds of them. The farmer raises his hand apologetically, as Mylo switches off the ignition. He’ll be here some time.
As he sits waiting, he runs through every conversation he ever had with Lucy.
She claims to only have learned of Rose when Cassie had told her the story at the marina. But this simply wasn’t correct. If what Lynda Checkley had told him was true, it means Lucy has been aware of the situation from not long after she arrived.
Why lie about it?
He can’t piece it together, but it troubles him.
If she lied about that, he wonders, what else was she lying about?
92
Lucy
She stares out over the water, watching the tiny ripples on the surface of the loch. The bright colours of summer are long gone. But the place still feels wonderful.
It’s a shame she can’t stay.
She could have seen herself settling here. Under different circumstances, maybe with Mylo. He’s a good man. So damaged, but then who is she to judge? He really deserves better. If she has any guilt over her behaviour, it is for Mylo. But in the grand sch
eme of things, he is… collateral damage. She didn’t want to hurt him, and hopefully he’ll forgive her someday. But she doubts it. He’ll never understand. Because he’ll never be aware of why she had to do this.
Diana doesn’t even know. If the woman had been a little nicer, she might feel some remorse over her as well. But she wasn’t. So Lucy has no qualms about the part she had to play in the plan. She shakes her head.
‘I really hope you’re aware, Richard,’ she says bitterly. ‘All this would be… such a waste if you weren’t.’
She stifles a laugh, suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of it all.
‘Imagine… if I’d done all of this, and you were completely oblivious to it. That would be… disappointing.’
Turning to one side, she stares at his profile. A tear trickles down his right cheek. He’s crying a lot at the moment. She smiles.
‘But you’re not. Are you, Dicky?’ She stands.
‘You know.’
She saunters away from his chair, down to the end of the jetty, stepping onto the grass. Crossing to the lean-to at the side of the cottage, where the generator is housed. She pulls the door, stepping inside. She wanders to the workbench at the back, dreamily, as if she has all the time in the world. She supposes she does really. Nobody is coming.
She trails her fingers across dusty tools. They play at the blade of a chisel. She chews the corner of her mouth, but shakes her head, moving her hand along. She traces circles, and her hand comes to rest on some rusty pliers. She shrugs, sliding them into her jeans pocket. She walks to the end of the bench, surveying the items resting there. Her eyes linger on an old bradawl. She reaches down, pressing her index finger against the tip. It’s still sharp. Smiling, she picks it up, returning to the garden.
As she descends the pier, she stares at Richard, slumped in his chair. For a moment, she panics, wonders if she’s pushed too far. But as his chest heaves, she relaxes.
She stands by his side, looking out over the water. Turning to him, she thinks how comical this seems. A disabled man in a wheelchair, naked, and covered in wounds, at the end of a jetty with his nursemaid. She shakes her head.
Crouching, she traces the tip of the bradawl across his throat, pressing harder in places, pricking his skin. Tiny spots of blood appear seconds later. She draws it down towards his chest, applying more pressure, leaving deep scratches on his flesh. She circles one nipple, pressing the tip against it. Chewing her lip, she pulls it away, moving it across to the other side, repeating the process.
Playing with him.
Taunting.
‘How does it feel, Richard? Does this get you off at all? I bet it does.’
She runs the points down towards his belly button, teasing, pushing, probing. Breaking the skin from time to time. Drawing it across his crotch, she rests her hand on his thigh, the bradawl dangling between her fingers.
‘I’m not going to lie, Richard. This is going to hurt. And I’m really going to enjoy it.’
93
Mylo pulls his mobile phone from his pocket. He’s not sure why he bothers, there will be no reception. Never is round here.
What would he even say to her anyway?
Sighing impatiently, he glares at the farmer, who now leans nonchalantly on a gatepost while his cows wander aimlessly on the road ahead.
Winding down the window, he leans out.
‘Mate, I’m not being funny, but how long is this going to take?’
The farmer chuckles.
‘You think you can do it quicker, lad, then go ahead.’
Mylo shakes his head, slamming his hands on the steering wheel.
94
Lucy
The pliers have left angry-looking, ridged bruises across his flesh, tearing the skin away in places.
Assessing the damage she has inflicted over the past seven days, she almost feels sorry for him.
Almost.
Two gannets swoop down to the water, circling for fish. A gentle breeze blows wisps of her hair in front of her face. She steps behind the chair, placing her hands gently on Richard’s shoulders.
Marvelling at the beauty of her surroundings, a pang of sorrow hits her. She takes it all in, knowing that after today she’ll have to leave. She’ll never be able to return.
She feels she is ready.
It’s time.
She remembers reading once that drowning is supposed to be a peaceful way to die. She thinks it’s nonsense. She can imagine few things more frightening. And of course, it will be quite different for someone who is paralysed, she’s sure. Watching helplessly as they sink into the icy depths. Unable to move as they come to rest at the bottom.
She hopes it isn’t pleasant. She hopes it’s horrific.
Moving her palms onto the handles of the chair, she leans close to his ear.
‘Goodbye, Richard,’ she whispers, and, kicking the brake off the wheel, she pushes the chair from the edge of the pier.
95
Mylo
The cattle have finally cleared. Mylo slams his foot on the accelerator, sticking two fingers up at the farmer as he speeds away. He feels immediately guilty. The man is simply doing his job. It’s times like this that Mylo misses the bright lights of London.
Glancing at his watch, he curses under his breath. It will be getting dark soon.
As he drives, he thinks of Lucy. He sees her watching him. He often wondered what she was thinking about as she stared at him, not saying a word.
Now he’s desperate to know what secrets she holds, but for entirely different reasons.
Rose’s face flashes into his mind and he sighs sadly.
Willow Cottage must be cursed, he thinks. It brings nothing but trouble.
He remembers the first day he delivered shopping to Diana. He didn’t recognise her immediately… he didn’t know about her accident.
He curses that day now, and as he drives towards the cottage for what will hopefully be the last time, a sickening sinking feeling washes over him.
96
Lucy
She was unable to move away from the edge of the jetty for a while. The chair had hit the surface with a satisfying splash, and a rush of bubbles had risen to the top as it sank below.
She stands staring now, as the bubbles turn to ripples, half expecting him to bob back up to the surface.
She didn’t know how she expected to feel, but it wasn’t this. She thought maybe there would be euphoria, maybe satisfaction. But in reality, she feels nothing.
She turns, heading back towards the house. She knows she must act quickly now.
She rushes to the outbuilding, grabbing a canister of lighter fluid, and a box of matches. Heading to the wood store, she picks up a bag of logs, carrying them to the centre of the garden. She empties the bag into a heap, spraying the lighter fluid on top. Striking a match, she tosses it onto the pile, and the pyre goes up with a whoosh. Heat flashes over her face, and she turns, sprinting into the cottage. She bounds up the stairs, falling to her knees in her bedroom. She pushes a floorboard with her fingers, and it tips, lifting at the opposite end. She pulls at it, revealing a space below. She removes other loose boards around the hole, making a larger opening. Reaching her hand in, she presses her body close to the floor, feeling about. She grabs a small rucksack, pulling it out.
Hurrying back down to the garden, she unzips the bag and begins to remove its contents.
A half-smoked pack of cigarettes, with a blue plastic lighter tucked inside.
A stained nightie rolled up around a matted blonde wig.
She’d been impressed with how quickly her internet purchases had arrived, allowing her to execute her plan much sooner than she had expected.
Other items she had brought with her in her luggage, but she has no use for any longer. Glass vials filled with various coloured and clear liquids, and a selection of syringes.
She picks one of the vials up, reading the label.
Ketamine hydrochloride injection USP. She smiles, tossing
the items one by one into the flames.
She pulls other glass vials from the bag, holding them to the light. A bright green-liquid half fills one of the bottles. Unscrewing the silver cap, she sniffs. A pungent aroma assaults her nostrils as the salvia tincture wafts up her nose. Grimacing, she thinks it’s no wonder Diana thought her cooking was terrible. She pulls lids from small Tupperware containers containing leaves and berries, and dried flowers, emptying them onto the fire, tossing the boxes aside onto the lawn.
Her fingers come to rest on a small notebook. Tiny pink roses decorate the pale-blue cover.
Smiling, she strokes her index finger across two words, handwritten in a neat cursive on the front. When she’d stumbled across it on her first day while unpacking, she couldn’t believe her luck. She’d trodden on the loose floorboard purely by chance. It tipped beneath the weight of her foot. When she’d investigated further she’d found the book stashed away in the space below. This had also served as a great hiding place for her own things she didn’t want Diana to discover.
Opening it, she begins to flick through the pages, eyes skimming over words. Phrases jump out at her, the same way they had when she first found it under the floorboards. The smile fades from her face.
I told Mylo today that it’s like I’m living inside a rainbow. He seemed to like that.
She skims some more.
His view is wondrous… he’s got his own personal work of art, that’s constantly changing with the light. I need to tell Mylo how lucky he is with that view. Perhaps one day it will be mine too.
She closes Rose’s diary, dropping it, and watches as the flames swallow it. The corners curl, as the paper turns black. She thinks of Mylo, and a pang of regret hits her. Involving him was never part of the plan. She had hoped to execute the entire thing without him getting hurt. She was racked with guilt from having to drug him the night she went to his place for dinner. She had stolen his dinghy to slip away unnoticed while he slept, to terrorise Diana in the forest of ferns. When she returned she simply had to lay her head on his shoulder and wait for him to wake up, feigning sleepiness so he would think they had both dozed off. It had been necessary for her plan, but it didn’t mean she had liked doing it.