The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  Rita’s been suffering with DID all her adult life. She has no idea about the different alters. In Rita’s mind she has blackouts and is simply forgetful. Recovering from such a terrible affliction is a long, painstaking process I’m afraid. In order to heal, the patient must face up to the past trauma, and for many that is too much to bear. The risk of suicide is high among people with this condition. Many prefer death than to have to go through the process of reliving the horrors of the past. Retreating into the various alters and having them carry the awful memories is the only way they can survive. That she’s survived thus far without causing herself serious injury is a miracle of sorts.

  Bram spotted something.

  Out in the water, he spotted something. A frail white form, like a dove readying itself. Arms spread wide.

  He halted.

  “Rita!” he shouted.

  She didn’t move.

  He ran.

  She was less than twenty yards into the water. Still close enough to the shore to be rescued. Still near enough to be saved.

  “Rita! Rita!” he yelled, vying desperately to be heard above the wind. “Don’t do it, Rita!”

  But she didn’t hear him and continued on, her arms spread, the water rising up her legs, going deeper and deeper.

  “Rita, Rita, come back! Come back!”

  He stumbled and almost fell again, gritting his teeth against the returning agony in his shoulder. Cursed the pain and his impeding weight, but such things were secondary now.

  “Oh dear Lord, let me get to her! Let me get to her in time!”

  She was getting farther and farther out.

  But she was alive. There was still a chance.

  He reached the point of departure, where her discarded shoes and handbag lay.

  With difficulty, he pulled off his own shoes and coat, splashed into the tide. The shock of the cold water took his breath away, the merciless wind forcing him back.

  “Rita!” he cried again. “Rita, it’s all right! Come back, Rita. Come back!”

  But she was in another world, oblivious to his calls, drawn towards something only she could see.

  He stopped.

  Ruane’s words sudden in his head.

  When an alter’s out it’s out. Rita will be that personality and be it fully.

  “Dorrie!” Bram yelled. “Dorrie!”

  It worked.

  At the sound of the name she’d stopped, turned to look at him.

  “Come back, Dorrie! Come back.”

  She stood transfixed.

  He ploughed towards her, fighting against the powerful muscles of wind and tide.

  An arm’s length from her, he lunged forward, his good arm outstretched.

  “Dorrie! Take my hand, Dorrie!”

  She screamed. Made to turn.

  A wave caught her unprepared. She lost her footing – and plunged down.

  “Oh, Christ, Dorrie!”

  He reached down into the water, now turbulent with her struggles, questing desperately. His arm found a purchase about her waist. He floundered, nearly fell, but managed to keep his balance.

  He tugged. She struggled. Her head broke the surface. Eyes wild with fright. She screamed again, arms windmilling frantically.

  “Let go, Uncle Jack! Let go of me!”

  It took all his strength to hold her.

  “There’s no Uncle Jack, Dorrie. You’re safe now.”

  But she wasn’t hearing his voice, only the voice of her long-dead mother calling her back home. And the pull of that voice was stronger.

  “Let me go, Uncle Jack! Let me go!”

  She lashed out, her fist smashing into his injured shoulder.

  He yelled, his whole body stunned with pain, flopped down into the water, and the arm that held her loosened.

  She writhed and thrashed out of his weakening hold. Vanished from sight.

  “Oh God, Rita, noooo! N-o-o-o-o-o!”

  He took a deep breath, launched himself beneath the waves, with no thought that he himself might perish. But with only the power of one arm it was useless; she was already gone, the frail body that had withstood so much pain in life sinking like a doll. Hair fanning gracefully, as if waving him goodbye.

  It was over.

  As the current took her down, and with a desperate will to live, he propelled himself back up, gulping and spluttering into the light.

  He’d lost the fight to hold on to Rita.

  But Dorrie had won the right to be free.

  He crawled back to shore. Slumped down on the beach, lamenting all that was now lost to him.

  Her tormentors had won. By a grim irony the stalker, Lenny Glacken, had dealt the final blow that sealed her fate.

  Bram lay on the now-dark beach, crushed and desolate.

  How cruel, he thought. How cruel that she never knew of the tyrant husband’s death! How cruel that he, Bram, could not reach her in time to tell her that. She’d been on the brink of happiness; with the husband finally out of the way she had a chance at last.

  He sat there looking out over the gloomy beach, not caring that he was soaked to the skin. Just wanting to be close to where she’d breathed her last.

  Nearby lay her handbag.

  There wasn’t much inside: a purse, a booklet – The Life of Saint Catherine of Siena – and a small rectangular box.

  It held a tiny silver angel.

  “Bram?”

  A woman’s voice above him. He looked up, startled. Hadn’t heard her approach.

  Sister Magdalena hunkered down, put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I saw you from the window. The coastguard are on their way.”

  He followed her gaze as she studied the ocean.

  “I w-was . . . I was too late . . . too late to save her, Sister.” He was weeping like he’d never done before in all his adult life.

  “Don’t blame yourself. You did all you could.” She sighed. “Often things happen exactly as they were meant to. We may not like the outcome, but it’s all part of a bigger plan. Rita had suffered enough in this life.”

  “Oh, God, why had I to bring her here?”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Bram,” she said again. “How could you have known the tragedy that was Rita’s life? You were trying to help her. Dwell on that. That, at the very end, you were there for her. You cared.”

  The tiny silver angel glinted in his hand.

  “It was in her bag.”

  The nun studied it. Shook her head. “That’s so strange. Mother Clare told me she gave her a silver angel on this very beach when she was a little girl. Not long before . . . ” She stopped, tears in her eyes now. Looked away from him.

  “Not long . . . not long before the mother drowned.”

  She nodded. “She kept the angel all this time.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind, Sister.”

  She closed her hand over his. “Of course you must keep it, Bram . . . I’m sure Rita . . . Rita would’ve wanted you to have it.”

  She tried to smile. “Now, let’s get you up. You need to get out of those wet clothes.” She helped him to his feet.

  “Sister, I . . . I’d . . . I’d no idea. No idea of the suffering, the terrible things she’d come through. She seemed . . . she seemed so self-reliant, so in control of things.”

  “I know. We look at others and think we know them, but we rarely do. The struggles, the hardships, the trials they carry inside are heavily borne and rarely spoken of.”

  Sister Magdalena took his hands in hers. “But out of suffering there have emerged the most beautiful souls, released from the darkness by the loving kindness of others . . . people like you.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  They moved down to the water’s edge, the nun’s blue robes flapping in the wind. Took one final look out to sea.

  “God bless you, Rita,” the nun said, making the sign of the cross. “May His everlasting light shine upon you. Amen.”

  They linked arms and slowly walked ba
ck down the lonely, windswept beach. Bram was overcome with grief.

  “Do not grieve, Bram,” she soothed, a comforting arm in his. “Rita’s in a better place now. Have no doubt of that.”

  He nodded and in his sorrow hoped – really hoped – that Sister Magdalena spoke the truth. That there was indeed a loving deity and a better place for Rita.

  A spiritual realm, a resting place, for her ever-questing soul.

  EPILOGUE

  Bram Hilditch hadn’t reckoned on falling in love with Rita Ruttle. No, the landlord hadn’t reckoned on that at all. Unrequited love was a dangerous thing; he knew that now. A very dangerous thing.

  It would explain why he’d nearly lost his own life trying to save her. It would explain the uncharacteristic risk he’d taken going over to the Glacken house and sustaining an injury from a madman to protect her. Those tears he’d shed back there on the beach proved that he loved her. A woman with whom he’d shared no intimacy.

  It was late evening and the landlord was in his studio above J.P. Rooney’s pharmacy, pondering his great loss. The script he’d been crafting so carefully for himself – the future he’d envisioned with Rita by his side – had changed dramatically overnight.

  On his desk lay a series of photographs lit by a reading lamp. Candid shots of Vivian and Rita going about their daily routines, seemingly taken without the subject’s knowledge or consent. He liked that. How his telephoto lens could steal into their workaday lives, violate their privacy then withdraw like a phantom. He was not a peeping Tom. No, he was a photographer: the master behind the lens, catching beauty in the most immediate and creative way he knew.

  By sending them the photos he wasn’t trying to frighten them, only wanted them to appreciate how beautiful they were. What could be wrong with that? Surely it was a compliment to see oneself unposed and still looking pretty, whatever the angle. It was another kind of memorial photography, one he was infinitely more proud of.

  He picked up a shot of Rita washing the dishes. He’d taken it from inside the garden shed – the shed he always kept locked and to which only he had a key – aligning his tripod with the kitchen window as dusk fell. He’d taken quite a number of shots from that vantage point. It was the ideal hideout, the darkness of evening providing the perfect cover.

  And now poor, lovely Rita – whose delicate beauty and mysterious ways had entranced him from the beginning – was gone the way of her dear, departed mother, to the bottom of the deep, blue sea. He regretted now that he’d never got close to her. But Miss O’Meara’s reaction to his one clumsy advance had discouraged him. Taught him the value of biding one’s time.

  It had happened on the day he’d driven her home from Mass. He really thought she’d have the courtesy to invite him in for tea by way of a thank you. But she didn’t, and he found that disrespectful because it could only mean she didn’t really trust him.

  He saw himself exit the car as she turned the key in the front door.

  “Er, would you mind terribly if I used the bathroom, Miss O’Meara?”

  “Oh . . . well I . . . ”

  The wariness in those lovely green eyes again, the hesitancy.

  “I won’t be long . . . promise.”

  She had to let him in.

  But in her hurry to get away from him she stumbled, catching her foot on the rug in the hallway.

  He grabbed her about the waist to break her fall, and discovered he’d no wish to let her go. Wanted so much to hold on, drawing her to him in a tight embrace. Oh, the feel of that fragile body through the damp clothes, heart thudding like a captured bird, the scent of that sumptuous red hair – a body that had so much life coursing through it! So unlike the dead ones he’d caress in the morgue when his father was out of sight.

  Vivian struggled. But he held on, breathing her in, savouring the realness of her. So much vitality lit by so much fear.

  She screamed. Then, to his astonishment, slapped him hard across the face.

  He had to let go.

  “Get out!” she cried. “Or I’ll call the police. I never want to see you again.”

  He regretted that the advance had failed so spectacularly. It ruined everything between them. She wouldn’t let him into the house again. Wouldn’t answer the door or return his calls. So he just had to leave it at that. Until . . . until eventually he found himself having to force the door and make that terrible discovery.

  More recent events had revealed that Glacken senior had designs on her too. God knows how she ended up. Perhaps it was Lenny Glacken and not him she was running away from. That was some consolation he supposed.

  Vivian had left him to deal with her secret. Was that her revenge? But he’d done the decent thing by her. His conscience was clear on that score. Now that Father Moriarty had blessed the infant’s grave, those awful nightmares about her would hopefully, finally, cease.

  He sighed, gathered up all the shots of Miss O’Meara, tore them into pieces and tossed them in the bin.

  Rita’s he would keep.

  He stared at her pictures once more. Poor Rita! Life a beautiful lie. Death a painful truth: a fact that’s true for all of us, not just her.

  He thought back to Dr Ruane’s parting words.

  Most sufferers can’t live in the real world, Bram. Families and friends can’t cope, and abandon them. They end up in institutions or on the streets . . . lose themselves to alcohol and illegal drugs. But Rita is extraordinary. The core personality that is Rita is extraordinary. She’s been a Samaritan volunteer for several years now and never wavered in that most demanding of duties.

  It’s a common feature in the lives of women who’ve been abused. They blame themselves and try to atone for the sin by doing charitable work: volunteering, that sort of thing. Which is something of a miracle. Because by rights Rita shouldn’t even be here, given what she’s come through. Making the break from her abuser and fleeing to live in Killoran was a very courageous act. It shows she still has fight left. As long as she has someone looking out for her, takes her medication and avoids stressful situations – situations that might trigger a dissociative episode – then there’s hope. As for a cure? In time there might well be. At present, therapy and medication is all we have, and we’re succeeding to some small degree with those.

  They were two of a kind, he and Rita. Unloved from the beginning. Condemned to the life of a misfit thereafter. Their childhood horror stories replaying in their heads, like freak shows. But together they could have shared those burdens, perhaps succeeded in making all that pain go away.

  He’d pictured the two of them joined together in holy matrimony, living happily ever after under the roof of Lucerne House. Her Grace never part of that fancy. No, she didn’t feature in those future plans at all.

  Tears were threatening again and Bram, the responsible citizen and dutiful son, needed to be strong. Tears were anathema to him. He hadn’t wept since way back in boyhood, imprisoned in the darkness of the freezing morgue. Nights that terrified him so much he not only wept but wet himself too, yelling out to the mother who never listened and the father who took perverse pleasure in knowing he was down there in the shadows amongst the coffins and the dead.

  Oh, how he hated him! But he’d got his own back in the end. That quick injection of potassium chloride dispatched him in a heartbeat. He’d been preparing old Mrs Dobbins of Cedar Haven Mews at the time. A full vial into the jugular vein and Bram, at last, was free. How easy it was! So quick and painless. For when preparation and opportunity meet, you don’t hesitate. You move in for the kill, battering down the door that’s stood bolted against you for so long. Undertakers rarely come under scrutiny from the authorities. They deal with the dead, don’t cause death – generally speaking.

  He’d never have become a landlord or a serious photographer had he waited for nature to take its course. If Her Grace only knew the real story! But she’d never know now, would she? For we all carry our secrets sealed tightly inside. No one can glimpse the true essence of our s
ouls unless we’re careless. And Bram was never careless.

  He pulled out a drawer and put away the pictures of his darling Rita. Saw the jar of digoxin. Drew it out and studied it. The crushed powder from the humble foxglove could be used to commit the perfect crime – given the right circumstances of course.

  Her Grace’s heart pills already contained a little of the deadly digitalis substance. An interesting fact that he’d gleaned from J.P., the pharmacist. And in light of that fact, adding an extra smidgen to her nightly cocktail didn’t seem so wrong, the fatal dose being not so much greater than the medicinal one.

  Yes, certain kinds of women could make men do terrible things.

  He dried his tears.

  Checked his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.

  The “magic hour” was approaching.

  He threw the jar back into the drawer and turned the key. There’d be no need to doctor Her Grace’s cocktails tonight.

  Rita’s death meant his mother could live. Better the mother than no one at all – for now at least. She’d never know how close she’d come to breathing her last. That was the tragic, brutal beauty of it all.

  For we all want to live, do we not? Some of us more than others. We all go through this life dodging the bullets of happenstance, with our hopes and dreams, our obsessions and fears held tightly inside, until that is . . .

  Until . . .

  Bram Hilditch threw the light switch. Drew on his coat and let himself out into the crisp evening air.

  Tomorrow was another day. He’d place a classified in the property pages first thing.

  In his head he had the advertisement already written. Saw it on the printed page, a neat black border framing it to draw the eye.

  SMALL, COMFORTABLE HOUSE IN VERY SAFE NEIGHBOURHOOD.

  ONE BEDROOM, BOX ROOM, BATHROOM AND LOUNGE.

  RENTAL RATES NEGOTIABLE.

  SINGLE LADIES PREFERRED.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Events in the Samaritan setting are based on details provided by former volunteers working in Northern Ireland in the 1980s. The only deviation from normal procedure was having the main character do duty alone at the Centre. This was for narrative purposes only and would not happen in real life.