He pondered the doctor’s words now, delivered well out of earshot of the patient when he’d made the house call.
“It’s not just the fall I’m concerned about,” he’d said, as they returned downstairs. “That bluish colour, together with the numbness she says she’s feeling, would indicate the onset of PAD – Peripheral Arterial Disease.”
“Is that serious?”
“Yes, for a woman of advanced years like your mother the risk of heart attack and stroke is considerably higher, due to the likelihood of blood-clots. Not to mention the possibility of gangrene. I’m prescribing anti-clotting medication and digoxin to regulate the heart, but she needs to take extra care. You’ll have to get her to exercise more and drink less.”
Easier said than done, Bram thought, taking another sip of his Coffee Royale. His mother rarely listened to anyone. Had already dismissed the new locum as “far too young and inexperienced to speak with authority on medical matters. Ink barely dry on his degree no doubt.” Exercise of any kind was abhorrent to her. Walking to and from the car was the extent of her physical exertions in the course of any given day. As for relinquishing her “magic hour”, that was as likely as her scaling Mount Everest any time soon.
His thoughts turned again to 8 Willow Close as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he was having trouble for the second time with a tenant residing there. Was there a hex on the place? It had belonged to a Mr Henderson, a respectable elderly gentleman and former accountant, who’d gone to live with his son in Scotland. Not likely that Mr Henderson had encountered much trouble while there. He was a chipper fellow, who’d been very sad to have to sell it and move elsewhere.
Then: “Gad, George, maybe I’ll ask them to do eggs Benedict tomorrow,” he heard a woman exclaim in a throaty American accent. “That toast they serve is goddamn awful!”
He turned to see a couple entering the lounge – casually attired, proprietorial air.
“Honey, you’re on vacation,” the man replied. “We gotta go native. That’s the charm of this part of the ol’ country.”
Bram decided he’d make a move. He drained the last of his coffee and got up.
“Hope we ain’t scaring you off,” the woman said, sitting down at a table near him, waving a gold cigarette case. She was wearing a neon-pink trouser suit, matching ballerina pumps, and more glitter than a Christmas tree.
“Vulgar” was what Her Grace might have termed her.
“No, on the contrary, I was just going,” Bram said politely, trying to avoid the sight of her igniting a cigarette the length of a knitting needle and releasing puffs of vile smoke into the room. “Now you can have this beautiful view all to yourself.”
“The view, hah!” she said dismissively.
He took his leave.
“What a quaint little guy,” he heard her squawk to her husband.
“Lower the tone a bit, Verna,” the husband said – and Bram mused that the wife’s brashness in the modest hotel lounge had most certainly done that already.
He left them to it, focusing on the disagreeable task that lay ahead of him: confronting Rita Ruttle with the theft of Maud Gilhooley’s jewellery case.
It was certainly not going to be an easy encounter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Samaritan Centre, Killoran
Rita-Mae sat transfixed by the discovery of the folder.
Vivian-B.
Vivian-Bernadette!
With a name like that, it had to be the former tenant of 8 Willow Close.
Her story lay right there at her fingertips. Her truth. And now Rita-Mae was privy to that truth – to the innermost secrets of what had gone on in the house she now occupied. The facts the locals wanted to keep from her and which Bram Hilditch wished would remain hidden.
Could she afford to know them?
Curiosity killed the cat . . .
It was the second time in an hour that the saying had run through her head. Inquisitiveness can lead to dangerous situations. Isn’t that what it meant?
I’m being warned, she thought.
But satisfaction brought it back.
The latter part of the adage – being forewarned is forearmed – that’s what it meant too.
The satisfaction of knowing what happened to Vivian-Bernadette would arm her against further assault; would let her know who the real enemy was. Would let her know that, perhaps, returning to Larne was preferable to being . . . to being . . .
She shut the filing cabinet and, whether for good or ill, carried the folder into the phone cubicle.
She’d read it between calls. That way, if Blossom were to reappear – she lived only a few doors down, so it was always a possibility – she’d have time to conceal it.
DATE: 12/7/85
FIRST CALL: DURATION: FIVE MINUTES APPROX.
VIVIAN-B – SAYS THAT’S HER BIRTH NAME. THE B STANDS FOR BERNADETTE.
It was her.
20 YEARS OLD.
RECENTLY MOVED FROM SLIGO. IS RENTING SOMEWHERE IN THE AREA. FRIGHTENED OF LIVING ALONE, HENCE THE CALL TO US. WHEN I ASKED WHY SHE’D MOVED HERE, SHE SAID SOMETHING ABOUT BEING “BANISHED” (HER WORD) FROM THE FAMILY HOME BY HER FATHER. SHE WOULD NOT SAY WHY, ONLY THAT SHE HAD TO ATONE FOR HER SINS THROUGH FASTING AND PRAYER.
Rita-Mae thought back to Blossom’s words: Oh, she was a wonderful woman, Saint Catherine. She spent her life giving to the poor and fasting.
And the pages of lines Vivian-Bernadette had written.
I must follow in the footsteps of Catherine of Siena.
Had Blossom given Vivian-Bernadette a booklet too?
Perturbed, she went back to the notes.
SHE TRAVELLED HERE BY BUS WITH AN AUNT. SAYS THE AUNT GAVE HER MONEY TO LIVE ON BUT NOT MUCH. THE AUNT PAID THE LANDLORD AND WENT BACK TO SLIGO. SHE WAS UPSET BECAUSE WHEN THE LITTLE MONEY SHE WAS GIVEN RUNS OUT SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT SHE’LL DO.
I TOLD HER WE WOULD HELP AND ASKED HER TO CALL IN AT THE CENTRE FOR A CHAT. SHE HUNG UP.
SUICIDAL: NO – WHEN ASKED THE QUESTION SHE SAID THAT SUICIDE WAS A SIN AND SHE WOULD NEVER TAKE HER OWN LIFE NO MATTER HOW DESPERATE THINGS BECAME.
SIGNED: LINDA.
She eyed the phone. Hoped it wouldn’t ring. Turned to the next entry.
DATE: 23/7/85
DURATION: 1 MINUTE APPROX.
WHEN SHE HEARD MY VOICE SHE ASKED TO SPEAK WITH A WOMAN. I TOLD HER THERE WERE NO WOMEN ON DUTY. SHE BECAME AGITATED. I TOLD HER THE TIMES LINDA WAS ON DUTY. SHE AGREED SHE WOULD CALL BACK.
SIGNED, HENRY
DATE: 15/8/85
DURATION: 10 MINUTES APPROX.
VERY AGITATED. SAID SHE WAS BEING WATCHED. FEELS SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING HER. SHE MENTIONED A “RELIQUARY” (HER WORD), A BOX THAT SHE KEEPS HER ROSARY BEADS, MEDALS AND NOVENA TRACTS IN, HAD BEEN DISTURBED. FELT SOMEONE HAD BEEN GOING THROUGH IT WHEN SHE GOT BACK FROM THE SHOP.
Ryan Glacken came to mind. Had he been in, disturbing her stuff? She thought of the small top window in the toilet downstairs: so small, she sometimes left it open just a crack. But a little boy of his build could easily climb up and wriggle through it. She saw again the boy chortling, the face of his frightful mother twisted in scorn, and wondered how a woman such as she could be so heartless and cruel to complete strangers simply trying to live in peace.
I TRIED TO REASON WITH HER, THAT SHE MIGHT HAVE UPSET IT HERSELF WITHOUT THINKING . . . THAT WE ALL CAN BE FORGETFUL AT TIMES, BUT SHE WOULDN’T ACCEPT THAT. SHE SAYS SHE IS VERY ANXIOUS AND CAN’T SLEEP. THEN SAYS, IT IS “THE CROSS SHE HAS TO BEAR FOR HER GREAT SIN.”
WHEN PRESSED ABOUT THE NATURE OF THE SIN, SHE SAYS SHE CAN NEVER TELL ANYONE. ONLY THE PRIEST IN THE CONFESSIONAL KNOWS AND HER FATHER, HER AUNT AND GOD. SHE SAYS SHE IS PRAYING AND FASTING TO ATONE FOR IT AND WHEN THE TIME COMES, ONLY GOD WILL KNOW WHAT TO DO.
SHE SEEMS DELUSIONAL AND IN A FRAGILE STATE. I PRESSED HER TO TELL ME WHERE SHE LIVES, BUT SHE WOULD NOT SAY.
SHE ENDED THE CALL BY SAYING SHE WAS TOO TIRED TO TALK ANY MORE.
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SIGNED: LINDA
There was just one more entry.
DATE: 28/9/85
DURATION: 20 MINUTES.
SEEMED CALMER ON THIS OCCASION BUT VERY TIRED. SAID SHE’D MADE A DECISION THAT WOULD END ALL HER SUFFERING, BUT ASSURED ME IT WAS NOT SUICIDE. TOLD ME HE’D LEFT A DEAD BIRD ON THE DOORSTEP . . .
Dead bird! The words jumped out at her. Maud’s dead bird. Madden’s dead bird in the grating.
She forced herself back to the page.
. . . THIS PERSON SHE TALKED OF BEFORE, THE ONE WATCHING HER EVERY MOVE. ACCORDING TO HER, THE DEAD BIRD IS A BAD OMEN. A WARNING THAT THIS PERSON’S PLANNING TO KILL HER OR “INVADE” HER (HER WORD). WHEN I ASKED HER WHAT SHE MEANT, SHE WOULDN’T SAY. I TOLD HER SHE MUST RING THE POLICE, BUT SHE SAID HER RELIGION FORBIDS HER TO SPEAK TO STRANGE MEN AND ANYWAY, SHE DOESN’T TRUST THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE PROTESTANT.
SHE HAS LOCKED HERSELF IN AND DRAWN ALL THE BLINDS. SAYS SHE HAS SOME FOOD THAT WILL LAST AND THAT GOD WILL PROVIDE FOR ALL HER NEEDS. SHE QUOTES SCRIPTURE. SEEMS OBSESSED WITH A SAINT CALLED CATHERINE. SAYS THAT SHE’S THE PATRON SAINT AGAINST BODILY ILLS AND SEXUAL TEMPTATION AND SHE PRAYS CONSTANTLY TO BE GUIDED BY HER.
I FEAR FOR HER SAFETY AND ASKED FOR HER NUMBER, WHICH SHE GAVE AFTER SOME PERSUADING.
Rita-Mae stared at the phone number, which was now hers: 082 423586. She was about to shut the folder when she noticed PTO written in the bottom corner. She turned the page over.
FORGOT TO SAY, SHE TALKED ABOUT A LITTLE BOY WHO THROWS STONES INTO HER BACK GARDEN AND CALLS HER NAMES – “NUTTER”, “SCREWBALL”. I THOUGHT THIS WAS ANOTHER DELUSION OF HERS, BUT SHE WAS QUITE ADAMANT THAT HE LIVED ACROSS THE WAY WITH HIS MOTHER AND SHE’D TRIED TO TALK TO HIM ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. SAID HIS NAME WAS RYAN. WORTH LOOKING INTO I THINK. THERE CAN’T BE TOO MANY RYANS IN THE LOCAL SCHOOL.
Her hands shook.
She shut the folder, unable to breathe.
Stared down at the phone and willed it not to ring.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sleep would not come for Rita. The discovery of the notes concerning Vivian-Bernadette at the Samaritan Centre and the knowledge that she’d likewise been harassed by the Glacken boy were opening up another kind of pain. She dreaded what might lie ahead of her.
She felt powerless to extricate herself from the present danger, a danger that was unclear and unpredictable. Better, she thought, to go back to the past. She could fathom the past, the past that was as real as yesterday, the past where Harry reigned supreme and she knew the rules so well.
Although she turned over in her bed in Willow Close, in her thoughts she was coming-to in a hospital bed. To learn of the horror of her greatest loss . . .
Harry was holding her hand. A nurse was hovering somewhere out of sight.
She couldn’t remember a thing.
“You fell down the stairs and we lost it, Rita,” Harry said, tears in his eyes.
It?
“Aye, we lost the baby.”
She tried to form a word but her mouth wouldn’t work. There was something stretched around her head, something holding together the scaffolding of her face – a broken face that no longer felt like hers.
“Don’t try to talk, love. It’s best just to rest.”
He squeezed her hand more tightly. “Yeh need to stay in hospital a few days, that’s all. I brought yeh flowers. See?”
She moved her head carefully and saw red roses, like so many wounded hearts, crammed into a vase on the bedside table.
Blood.
She remembered blood . . . the bitter tang of it in her mouth. An image swift and brutal in her head: the pair of them at the top of the stairs, his boot in her back, her arm flung wide then crashing down, the floor coming up to meet her.
Oblivion.
The baby!
Her baby!
Memories surging back.
She tried to free her hand, but he gripped it tighter still. She tried to move away from him, but her bones locked, her whole body useless with pain. Tears were the only words she had and they slid freely down her cheeks. Tears for the baby that would never be, cast out so cruelly by the murderer beside her, his hand on hers, his breath in hers.
The nurse hove into view, whey-faced and smiling.
“Just wasn’t to be, Mrs Ruttle,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “It’s a terrible thing, a miscarriage. But sure you’re young. You can always try again.”
She wanted to howl, to rend the air with such screams she’d wake up the whole world and send him and the pale nurse and all the nurses and doctors and patients tumbling into the abyss. But she stayed quiet. Shut her eyes and prayed that death might take her.
After she lost the baby Harry changed.
Back home, he helped her heal, became a proper carer and wept so hard she felt sorry for him. He begged forgiveness for all the pain he’d caused her. Said it wasn’t right and from then on he’d be a better man.
He kept his word too. Took time off from work to be a house-husband while she recovered.
Pre-honeymoon Harry was back. Shattered Rita-Mae returned to herself. Found her smile and feet again, but her right knee hurt every time she walked, and the arm that broke her fall would ache every time she combed her hair. But they were a small price to pay for the peace that prevailed. The blessed peace she’d known so briefly in the past but which maybe, just maybe, might last.
That summer he took her on a long weekend to Donegal – to a little hotel on the west coast amongst the hills and the heather, where the ocean met the sky and oddlings waved at them as they strolled the foot-worn roads. He held her hand and bought her gifts, told her she looked nice. And she dared gaze into a better future. But, in time, that thought would come back to mock her, throwing up its hands and laughing like a harlequin.
She still laid out the receipts every day for him on his return from work, and he still inspected them, each and every one. He still kept a knife under the bed and told her what to wear and asked whom she’d spoken to at the shops, noting down their names so he could cross-check. And he still inspected the phone bill, looking for numbers she might have called.
But she could cope with that, so long as he didn’t hit her.
For a time, this new situation held.
But a niggling voice kept telling her that this new incarnation of Harry’s was covering something deeper. Something he didn’t wish her to know. The signs were there. The trace of perfume on his shirt. The stray long hair, fair and silken, on his lapel. Out late every Wednesday night and Friday night, and not forcing himself upon her as much.
“Who’s Patricia?” she asked one evening at the supper table, feeling brave. She’d found a telephone number in his pocket with the name.
He didn’t look up immediately from the plate.
“What?” he said into the food, fork poised.
“I found her phone number in your trouser-pocket when I was clearing them out for the wash.”
“New girl in the office.”
“You didn’t mention her before.”
“Why should I? None of yer damned business.”
Well, it was her damned business. He’d killed her baby. Now he was using her as his slave to cook and wash while he cheated on her with another woman. No, he would not do that to her.
He’d done enough.
She’d had enough.
“Well, it is my business if you’re having an affair.”
He threw the cutlery down. Stood up. Fists clenched for combat.
“Aye, and what’s it to you? What are yeh gonna do about it, eh?”
The air bristled.
She didn’t answer him. Stiffened herself against the assault, but didn’t move from the chair. Didn’t cower or run upstairs like she’d always done. After this beating she’d call the police, something she’d never dared do before, and they’d see the bruises and the blood, haul him in and charge him with assault and she’d be free.
But he didn’t attack her. She was convinced he c
ould read her mind. Could see her plan. Always one step ahead of her was Harry.
The moment passed.
He backed down.
“I’m outta here,” he spat, grabbing his coat. “Tricia’s more of a woman than you’ll ever be . . . whingeing, nagging bitch.”
In the aftermath, she sat staring out of the window as he got in the car and tore off. She was feeling jubilant and exhilarated. She’d challenged him. He’d admitted to the affair. One small victory in the war against him. Now it was time to fight back in earnest.
On the window-sill sat a model ship – RMS TITANIC OLYMPIC CLASS 1912 printed on the plinth. Every sill in the house had a replica of an oceangoing vessel he’d constructed over many painstaking hours.
Harry’s favourite pastime, carried through from boyhood.
He’d amassed quite a collection throughout the years.
She studied the workmanship of the miniature Titanic, marvelling at how gentle-fingered he was for a man who used so much brute force against her. The intricate details of the funnels and decks, the mastheads and lifeboats demanded the most delicate touch.
Upstairs, the small back-room was given over to his workshop. She wasn’t allowed to touch anything, and when she cleaned in there, had to be very, very careful. Lifting and replacing hundreds of tiny pieces to clean underneath them took a good hour, week in, week out.
She knew what she had to do.
She went to the garden shed and found a hammer.
His prized Titanic, sitting there so proudly, was the first to go, falling to pieces exquisitely under the first blow. Afterwards she progressed from room to room, pulverizing his many specimens of craftsmanship that crowded the window-sills: BRITISH NAVY Q-SHIP HUNTER, gone. DUTCH GOLDEN YACHT, gone. MAYFLOWER ENGLISH GALLEON, gone. CHINESE PIRATE JUNK, gone.
On and on and on she went, taking revenge the only way she knew. Making up for all the suffering – a tidal wave of hatred gushing through the hammer-head, pulping the very essence of the traitorous, brutal, uncompromising, inflexible, evil, lying, cheating, impossible-to-live-with man she thought she once loved.
The Spinster Wife Page 19