by J. A. Baker
Lissy
‘You!’ I shriek, unsure what else it is I should say.
I yank at the door handle but it’s locked. I move swiftly around the car, pulling at each door, knowing that if one is locked they all will be. Such a coward. I stare in at her and am incensed to see that she is smiling; a devious sneer that creases her face at the corners, giving her the look of somebody twice her age. In a moment of fury, I step back, lift my foot and kick her stupid vehicle with as much force as I can. I shock myself with how much strength I am able to muster up and am not surprised as I watch her wrestle with the door handle and jump out. As soon as she does, I realise my mistake. She is furious. This woman before me still believes I killed her brother and no amount of talking or trying to reason with her is going to persuade her otherwise. She steps on to the pavement, her chest sticking out slightly as she takes a few deep breaths and strides towards me.
‘You have no right to smash my window,’ I say, as calmly as I can, despite feeling so scared I fear I may pass out right here on the street.
She stops just inches away from me and I watch with a creeping sense of unease as she glares at me, her eyes wide, full of fire and hatred.
‘And you,’ she hisses, moving so close to me I can smell toothpaste on her breath, ‘have no right living somewhere like this after what you did.’
‘It’s criminal damage,’ I mutter feebly, blood rushing through my ears, hot and viscous as it swills around my head, making me dizzy.
I watch with unabated horror as she takes a step back and begins to laugh. ‘You think I did that?’ she croons, pointing up to the gaping hole where my window used to be, and letting out another shriek of laughter.
I nod mutely, watching as a trickle of frothy saliva gathers at the corner of her mouth.
‘Listen, lady, if I was going to do anything to scare you, it would be far worse than a smashed window.’ She juts her chin out in the direction of next door’s driveway and flicks her gaze back to me, ‘Looks like I’m not the only one bearing a grudge.’
I feel my heart dash about in my chest and place my hand up to my throat to stem the disquieting sensation that has settled there.
‘Seems like one of your neighbours has got it in for you, as well,’ she says breathlessly. ‘I saw somebody dash up there after they hurled the stone at your door. So, if you want to pin the blame on anybody, and bring charges for criminal damage, I think you should look closer to home.’
Rupert? I try to stop my weakness from showing in front of her and bring my hands down by my sides, my legs slightly apart for balance. She is taller than I remember and her glamorous looks have been replaced by a mask of bitterness. Deep lines curve around the edges of her mouth and a mesh of fine wrinkles sit under each eye. Her shoulder-length hair is lighter than it used to be presumably to cover the grey and her clothes are expensive looking. I stare down at my baggy, grey jogging bottoms and old walking boots, caked with mud from a brief amble in the nearby woods, and wonder if she is assessing me as I am her. She will want me to look grubby, and for my face to portray years and years of angst. She wants me to show her that I have had a miserable existence and for my eyes to have a haunted aspect to them a look that tells her I am a tortured soul, that my hellish existence has no end to it.
I stay rooted to the spot. I desperately want to look up at Rupert’s house, to let him know that I know what he is up to, but I refuse to let her win. She is watching my every move; every flicker, every shift, every little twitch I make is under scrutiny. I know full well what her game is.
‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ I reply frostily. I refuse to be drawn into her little game, this cat and mouse tactic of hers. ‘And you need to leave here right now, before I call the police.’ I feel my face flush as the words leave my mouth and hope she doesn’t notice the tic that has taken hold in my jaw. I press my teeth together to try and stop it.
Her eyes bore into mine as she speaks, ‘Go on then, do it. Here,’ she says in a low drawl, ‘why don’t you borrow my phone? Tell them who you are and then see how long it takes them to turn up.’
The burn continues to spread over my face. I bite down harder to control the pulse in my jawbone.
‘Do you not think they have better things to do than come running to your rescue? Little ole’ you. I mean, Christ almighty, how important do you think you actually are?’
She moves a step closer to me and I blink hard, thinking of who would rescue me if I were to shout out for help. The farmhouse over the road is set in the middle of a field so large it would probably take me a good half hour to get to it. A car hasn’t passed on the road all the time we’ve been standing here. And as for the other neighbours … I think most of them are elderly. I’ve certainly not seen anybody except Rupert while I have lived here. My stomach plummets when I think of him … the man who is very possibly behind the breaking of my window. Disappointment engulfs me. I hoped he was better than that. And yet, why would she lie?
An almost imperceptible movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention; a swift turn as Beverley moves closer to me, and before I am able to do anything her hand is twisting my arm up my back.
‘Don’t say a word, OK? Because if you do, your darling daughter will never see you again. Do you get what I’m saying, Lissy SMYTH?’ She spits the last word out, accentuating its sound, dragging it out to let me know that she knows. ‘Or should I say McLeod?’
We start to walk up the drive, the pain in my arm excruciating as she twists it further up my back.
‘Did you really think that only changing your surname would work? Did you honestly think it would stop me finding you?’ She stops and leans forward to stare into my eyes. ‘Or is it that you just don’t give a shit? Because if I was you, I would have left the country. Packed up and left, taking my tainted offspring with me, rather than hang around here where nobody wants me.’
I stop and try to pull away from her but the pain shoots up into my shoulder taking my breath away.
‘Oh, what?’ She laughs. ‘You don’t like me referring to your daughter as tainted? But she is, isn’t she? She’s part of you, and you, my dear, are very much tainted. I mean,’ she says in a shrill, tuneless voice, ‘she stole all that money, didn’t she? And what about the bullying incident? All those awful names. And that poor child …’
Pain whistles through my arm and up into my neck as I grind to a halt.
‘What?’ She laughs again, and before I can stop myself, I bring my leg up and knee her in the back of her leg. Her hold over me lessens, but not for long.
Gripping my arm tighter, she also grabs a handful of my hair and hauls me up towards the door, pain howling through my scalp and over my shoulder.
We reach the spread of glass at our feet and stop. She pulls my face towards hers and a fleck of her spit lands on my lip as whispers into my ear, ‘And in case you’re wondering, I thoroughly enjoyed it, seeing your filthy child being blamed for it all. So much like you, isn’t she, eh? Like mother, like daughter. All the same, your type. Wonder how she would get on in prison if I decide to alter my plans, twist stuff a bit; point the finger of blame at her for something I did? The press would have a bloody field day, wouldn’t they? They’d take one look at who her mother is and their minds would pretty much be made up, wouldn’t they?’
My eyes swing around wildly at her words. I need to get away from her, make a break for it. Somehow, I need to get inside and grab Rosie and get the fuck out of here, just get in the car and leave. I don’t care if I have to mow this madwoman down to escape. We just need to get away from this place.
I wince as she pulls me tighter. Years of painting have left me with a weakened upper arm that no number of steroids can alleviate. I swallow down vomit as she pulls me inside, our feet crunching over the shards of broken glass.
‘This is the fun part,’ she hisses at me, her breath now turning rancid. I gag and try to turn away but she grabs my chin and whips it round so our faces are almost t
ouching. ‘This is the bit where our sweet little Rosie finds out what sort of woman her mother is; the bit where I tell her that her mummy dearest is a cold-blooded murderer.’
‘She already knows,’ I say quietly, the air suddenly still and heavy, loaded with a simmering anger.
‘What?’ Her voice has a slight quiver to it, before she regains her composure, pulling my head to one side as her fist tightens around my hair. ‘You’re lying,’ she murmurs as she leans in so close to me, I feel sure she could crawl inside my skin. ‘Once a liar, always a liar. Let’s see, shall we?’ And before I can say or do anything she drags me into the living room, my scalp burning and throbbing, my arm feeling as if it’s about to pop out of its socket.
‘Oh, Rosie! Come and see who your mother has invited round for tea!’ Her eyes meet mine and for one awful minute I want to laugh. Saliva is running down her chin, a great glob of it sticking to her grey skin. Her eyes are wild and her hair has come loose and is falling over her face. She looks every inch the lunatic that she is.
I close my eyes and pray that Rosie has her earphones in and is listening to music, or has her TV turned up so loud she can’t hear us.
‘ROSIE!’ Beverley’s voice is a roar, so loud it makes me want to curl up and disappear from everything.
My stomach turns to water as I listen to Rosie moving above us. There is the thump of a book being dropped on the floor beside her bed, a sound I recognise only too well, then a squeak followed by the soft shuffle of feet as she climbs off her mattress. My flesh crawls and sweat coats my back as I listen to the heavy thud of my darling daughter’s footfall as she pounds her way down the stairs. By the time she enters the living room I am shaking uncontrollably, my eyes wild with fear.
I am unable to look at her, too terrified at what my daughter’s reaction will be.
‘Mum?’ Her voice is a thin warble as she stands staring at us both. Then, after a few seconds her voice again, ‘You? What are you doing here?’ she yelps incredulously as she fixes her gaze on Beverley.
Very slowly I turn to look at Rosie hoping she will pick up on it; see my signal for her to watch me. Our eyes lock, and while Beverley is busy watching my daughter, I mouth the word to her: RUN!
It takes a few seconds for my words to register, for the importance of them to slice through Rosie’s terror. Her eyes flicker and in a second she turns and races out of the room, into the hallway and out of the door. I listen with a thumping heart as she crunches her way over the hideously sharp fragments of glass and out into the front garden.
Time slows as I wait for Beverley’s reaction. For a second, she loosens her grip on my hair then, before I can brace myself for the rush of pain, she pulls me out of the room, her voice booming in my ears, ‘Stop her! Tell her to stop or I swear to God I will slit your fucking throat!’
‘Too late,’ I cry meekly, ‘she’s already gone. And we both know you’re not going to hurt me.’ I keep my tone neutral, soothing even. I don’t want to upset her or tip her completely over the edge. If I can remain calm, talk to her, perhaps I can bring her round, make her see reason. I can see that it’s pointless telling her about my plight. She will never believe me, and it’ll only aggravate her all the more. I need to be careful here. She is volatile and I have absolutely no idea just how far she will go with her threats. We used to be friends; I thought I knew her quite well, but we are, and always will be, perfect strangers.
‘Don’t pretend to know what I’m capable of, Lissy. You can’t possibly know that when I’m not even certain of it myself.’ She lets out a deep, throaty giggle that bounces around us. ‘Anyway, she’s not going to get far, is she? There’s nothing round here for miles.’
‘We have neighbours!’ I bark, hoping Rosie has gone to one of the other houses and knocked for help. Not Rupert. Please don’t let her have gone to see Rupert.
She goes silent and I can tell she is thinking about it, ruminating over the possibilities of what could happen in the event of a stranger stepping through the door with a police officer following closely behind.
I try the softly, softly approach, hoping she doesn’t see through it, praying to God it doesn’t rile her even more. ‘The one thing I remember about you is how kind you were to me back then. You let me hang around with you when nobody else cared.’
I can hear her breath next to me, hot and ragged, and hope I’m getting through to her.
‘You were the only one I had back then, Bev. Nobody bothered about me except you. Even my pa—’
‘SHUT UP!’ Her voice rings in my ears. ‘Just shut up, will you? I’m trying to think!’
I feel her fingers pull harder on my hair and my arm gets hoisted even further up my back. I howl and blink back tears as she drags me over to the sofa and pushes me down, still keeping her fingers tightly wound around my hair. I begin to sob. It’s been so long since I’ve cried, I’m not sure that I will ever manage to stop. Forty-odd years of unshed tears spilling out of me. I cry for the situation I find myself in and I cry for Beverley and what the passing years have done to her mind. I cry for Rosie, out there trying to get help and for the two children who, all those decades ago, were robbed of their chance to live happy and fulfilled lives. But most of all I cry because none of it was caused by me. I am not to blame. I know it now for certain. I am not to blame …
My neck clicks painfully as my head is yanked back and Beverley’s face looms in next to mine. My nose is running and I can barely see through the stream of tears that I can’t seem to control. She lets go of my hair and fumbles in her pocket. Noticing I’m watching her she yanks my arm even further up my back. An arrow of excruciating pain rips me in two. My face twists as I let out an involuntary shriek. I feel a wall of heat as she places her face next to mine and holds something up in front of us, her hand displaying a small object. For one horrible moment, I fear she is going to hit me with it, bring it smashing down on to my face. I think of the rock that was hurled through the window and try to still my battering heart that is fit to burst as it pulsates against my ribs. I try to squirm away and move my free arm but she grips me tighter. Snot and tears merge into a sticky mess all over my face as she holds the object aloft. I hear her screeching voice and a throaty cackle as she waves the object about.
‘Smile!’
My pulse dances an irregular beat as I try to work out what is going on. She brings the object closer and I hear her voice once more as she nudges up even closer to me, her hot face pressed against mine. ‘Come on, misery guts! SMILE!’
My mouth quivers and my teeth chatter together violently as I try to do as she asks.
‘There. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she growls, presses a few keys and slots it back into her pocket. ‘Right,’ she says in a voice that sounds as if we are old friends, ‘where were we? Oh, that’s right. How could I forget?’ And she tugs at my hair once again, pulling it tight.
My scalp aches and throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the agonising, howling pain that is ripping through my spine and shoulder and spreading up into my neck. It feels like a flamethrower has been pushed under my skin.
‘OK, you’re going to do exactly as I say without a fight. Do we understand each other?’ she shrieks as I am unceremoniously hauled to my feet.
I want to tell her that I couldn’t fight her at this moment in time even if my life depended on it. The pain in my arm is like nothing I have ever felt before. I feel sure it must be broken and think of how I will ever manage to paint again after this. I nod, more tears and snot falling as I do so.
We stagger to the kitchen, my mind full of images of Rosie and Rupert, her fighting him off as he turns on her with a manic expression plastered on his face and a rock in his hand. I let out a whimper and without warning my head is slammed on to the kitchen surface, the side of my face meeting with the marble worktop. The room spins and a bellyful of vomit rises up my throat, hot and acidic. I swallow it down and try to stay upright, my legs buckling under me, an explosion of pain filling every
inch of my skull.
‘Stop crying and moaning! STOP IT!’ Her screams silence me.
This is it. All those years of being terrified of venturing outside, of being recognised, finally culminate in this. I gulp back the tears and try to concentrate. I can’t let this happen. Rosie needs me. I have to protect her from all of this. If anything happens to me she won’t be able to survive all the media attention that will ensue. They will eat her alive.
I feel myself being pushed into a sitting position and stem another howl of agony as my arm catches on the high back of the kitchen chair.
‘Right, this is what is going to happen.’ Beverley’s voice is clipped and official. It sends a wave of sickness through me as I try to figure out what she is planning on doing. ‘I am going to contact every newspaper I can think of and let the entire world know where you are, so if you’re thinking that this is just a minor occurrence, me finding you, if you’re thinking that I’m the only one who knows you’re here, then think again. By this time tomorrow the world and his wife will be after your blood. And Rosie’s, obviously.’ She lets her words hang there, hoping they will unnerve me.
I remain as still as I can, my blood surging and pulsing through me. And all the time I am working out how I can escape from her clutches. I need to get to Rosie. She is my priority.