by Dawson, H A
‘I told you to stay away from her,’ Queenie said.
Her face contorted, her agony visible.
Queenie thrust her elbow into her stomach. Once. Twice. Teresa gasped for air. She did it again and her colour drained. Then Teresa started to fight, raising her knee and pushing out with her arm, so she grabbed her by her shoulders and thrust her backwards. Her head crunched against the wall. She sank to the ground.
‘Stay away from her!’ Queenie said.
Eliminating the groan from her mind, she carried on walking. Her focus was steady, her body anything but.
Teresa could hear Queenie’s gentle pad of footsteps fade, but she could not raise her head to look and remained squatted to the ground, clutching her stomach in the darkness and with her head ringing. Her breathing was heavy, her groans intermittent. She was shaking and cold.
The night was silent. There were no passing cars, no people wandering, and no music sounding from the nearby houses. She was alone and tormented by the pummelling and lost in a terrifying world.
She sank to the cold, hard floor and lifted her arm to her face, sweeping it across the scarred surface. She twitched, unable to restrain her dancing nerves, unable to gain lucidity. Her eyes were wide, yet she saw nothing. She was cold, oh so cold, but she could not move, frozen to the spot and captured by a traumatic past.
Flames had leapt towards her, vivid and haunting, surrounding her like demons, bending, weaving and teasing. A little distance away was her beautiful young daughter, innocent and undeserving, screaming and terrified. Her young feral eyes entrenched in panic, and her round face, framed by her lush chestnut-coloured hair, glowed in the heat. The child cried out. Her helplessness was crisp and clear. It was crushing, restricting Teresa of life.
The image faded and a new sense of panic took hold. She scanned the alley, searching left and right, looking for her daughter so cruelly taken. Unfathomably it had seemed only moments ago, yet in truth, decades had passed. She wanted her baby back and wanted to change paths, wishing she had not taken the track that had led to a lifetime of unhappiness. Although no excuse, irrepressible emotions had been her driving force.
If only she had not been in the barn on that fateful day.
Afterwards, Teresa’s suffering had been extreme driving her to the precipice of human survival. Geoff had helped her cling to life, pulled her away from what had appeared to be imminent self-destruction. He had protected her, nurtured her, and removed her guilt, telling her repeatedly that she was innocent. For many years, she had nestled into his body, focusing only on his confidence and security, and listened to his reassuring words that reminded her that she had already suffered enough.
The gunshots resonated in her head. She moaned, she rocked back and forth, she twitched, and she pulled at her fingers. The haunting visions would not depart. She was spinning in an abyss, out of control, tormented and terrified.
‘You okay?’
The words floated in the turmoil. A hand reached down.
‘Teresa?’
A man whom she recognised from village functions was leaning over her. She gawked. His face disappeared into imaginary flames.
‘Are you all right?’
She did not answer.
‘Has someone hurt you?’
Silence.
He was crouching, searching for something, scrutinising her. He seemed concerned. She could not understand why. Then, he reached into his pocket, retrieved a phone, and dialled a number. Teresa watched, guided by curiosity, but could not focus on what he said or with whom he was speaking to. After he had ended the call, he continued to ramble, this time to her. She wanted him to stop, irritated by his nasal-sounding voice and craving solitude.
Moments later, a figure darted from the street and into the alley. He was recognisable and Teresa lifted herself to her feet. ‘Steven . . .’
He gave her a concerned look. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Have you come to take me home?’
Steven exchanged a few words with the man and the stranger headed away.
‘What happened?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Who did this to you?’
Her eyes flitted, her head swirling. ‘I killed my girl! I killed her!’
‘What are you talking about?’
She stared wide-eyed and helpless.
Ignoring her desperation, he linked her arm and encouraged her out of the alley. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you home.’
She leaned into him, quaking and nauseous, searching for his warmth and stability. Together, they stepped into the artificial light and the open space. There, she jolted to a standstill.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She scanned the streets, searching for Queenie.
Steven followed her line of sight and then looked back at her, his eyes narrowed and questioning. She wanted to tell him what had happened, but it was out of the question. She carried too many secrets, things she could never share.
He didn’t respond and guided her to his car parked a few metres away.
‘Is Leanne with you?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re not seeing each other anymore.’
‘Perhaps that’s wise.’
Steven frowned and guided her into the car.
He was just about to shut the door when she forced it back and grabbed his arm. ‘She’s going to need you. Be ready.’
Steven had spent the entire evening questioning her. She pleaded with him to stop and asked him to leave, but he did neither, at least not for hours. It was exhausting and exasperating, and it resulted in her having a fitful sleep.
The past was private, her secret. She could not tell him what she knew. It wouldn’t be a wise decision. Nonetheless, she had to act and considered Queenie’s threat one more time. She was not going to back off from her friendship with Leanne, but neither was she going to tell her what she knew. Everyone involved in the incident decades previous had much to lose, and she was no exception.
Teresa’s hand slid across her bruised stomach and she pondered the attack. Rather than fearing Queenie, she should stand up to her, as they were on equal terms. In fact, the more she thought about it the more she realised she had more to lose than Queenie. It was only time before Queenie relented to her inner yearnings. Why she hadn’t done so already was baffling.
Teresa’s suffering would be relentless. She would have no life, no support and would have to pay for her crimes. Uneasy, and needing a solution to her dilemma, she wandered into the conservatory and relaxed on a reclining chair. Through the sparkling windows, she watched the birds at the feeders, both sparrows and blue tits, and on the table, a little further towards the hedge was a robin. It stood, glancing from side to side, keeping a careful watch on its territory.
Acting on automaton, she unlocked the patio door, stepped into the refreshing air, and headed to a shed by the side of the house. Once inside, she retrieved a tub of dried mealworms, poured some onto the bird table, and gazed around the garden, searching for the friendly bird. It was waiting high up on a branch at the rear of a wide border, its well-defined round eyes maintaining keen focus. As soon as she stepped away, the robin flew in, snatched its feed, and flew back to the large shrub. She returned to the shed.
At the rear, beyond the organised tools, plant pots, feeds, weed-killers and pesticides was a large box. Replacing the bird feed onto a shelf, she deliberated over the contents. Inside were gifts for her daughter. With her gut twisting in agony, she weaved across then stared at the inscription on the dusty lid.
She had bought a card and gift for each of her daughter’s birthdays for the first eighteen years of her life. Needing a reminder of the pain she had endured, she removed the lid and stared at the small packages and cards. ‘For you my darling girl,’ it said on a small card. She could not move, swamped with crushing memories, and pressed her arms to her stomach for comfort. The burning sensation persisted, the loss for
ever real.
All of it was Queenie’s fault.
Having grown ever more uncomfortable, she managed to return to the warmth of the conservatory where she perched on a chair, sitting stiffly and pulling at her fingers, craving each satisfying crack. Her facial muscles twitched, her skin itched, and she shuffled her feet. She didn’t think about her daughter but other elements of her dreadful past, and it culminated with images of Queenie’s face pressing against hers, her smoky breath crinkling her nose, and the warning intimidating.
Driven by a need to act, she grabbed her jacket, put on her flat shoes, and fled from the house and into the revitalizing air. Remaining on alert, she walked through the streets, headed past the village hall, and progressed to a stile leading to a field. By the wall, she paused and looked towards the new housing estate. Her heart beat ever faster, her nervousness increasing. She could see a hunched person with a dog, although not Queenie and not Steven. She continued on, following the path at the edge of the field, and trod the firm, dry ground.
A barn was ahead. She started to perspire and felt herself slow, remembering how the flames reached into the sky and the screams echoed across the landscape. A beautifully rounded face with lush brown hair appeared in the scene, and written in her young eyes were the horrifying consequences.
Haunted by the tormented visions, she held her hands to her face, moaned, and backed away. She was about to run home when she remembered Queenie’s threat. She had to act, and keeping her eyes and mind on her footfalls, she trotted past the barn to the rear of Leanne’s garden. Seconds later, she rapped on the door.
‘Hello,’ Leanne said, ‘Come in.’
She peered into the living room and up the stairs. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong?’
She shook her head and wiped her brow, removing the trickles of sweat.
‘You seem flustered.’
‘Have you spoken with Steven today?’
Sadness spread across her face. ‘No. Why?’
‘You two need to get back together.’
‘No . . . I don’t think so.’
‘You should. You have to.’
Leanne leaned into the kitchen unit and looked at the floor. ‘He’s made up his mind about us. He doesn’t think I trust him.’
‘Oh.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘You’re going to need him.’ She clenched her hands, hiding her tremors. ‘I know you’ve been to see Queenie. I saw her last night. You . . . you must avoid her.’
‘I’ve no intention of becoming friends with her.’
‘Good.’
‘What do you know about her?’
‘I . . . I’ve heard things about her. She’s trouble.’
‘How so?’
‘Always drinking, violent. She’s bad news Leanne. You must stay away from her.’
‘And I will, but she knows my mother. If she has any news-’
‘Please listen to me.’ She leaned forward. ‘She’s not who you think. You have to stay away from her.’
‘Who is she?’
She averted her gaze away from Leanne’s baffled expression and cracked her fingers.
‘Please tell me what you know,’ she reiterated.
She stood up and grabbed Leanne’s wrist. ‘If I would, I could. Do you understand?’
Her nod was imperceptible.
‘I am your friend. You can trust me.’
‘I know, but-’
‘So you will stay away from her?’
‘What’s going on?’
Teresa rushed through the hallway to the outer door. ‘Just avoid her, please.’
Then she was gone.
Chapter 29
Luke looked up, watched Imogen remove her jacket and place it on a peg, and tried to disguise an emerging smile. She was wearing a slinky brown skirt and a frilly, patchy-green top. A vision of a willow tree sprung into his mind. It was outrageous and peculiar, and definitely Imogen. There wasn’t just one layer of fabric, in places there were several, creating a three-dimensional effect. She was a walking advertisement for decoupage.
‘What’s tickling you?’ she asked.
He averted his eyes, looked down to the papers on his desk, and fought his chuckles.
‘Glad something is amusing,’ she said, flicking on the kettle.
He exploded into laughter. ‘Did you get lost in the forest?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Had a date with an elf?’
She turned away, removed the coffee and dried milk from the cupboard, and spooned some into a mug. ‘Ha ha.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve just never seen anything like it. It’s . . . unusual.’
‘I’m glad you’re amused.’
‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to.’
She walked to her desk and flicked on the computer.
‘Enough water for two?’
She nodded and reached for his mug. ‘You don’t drink out of this do you?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s revolting.’ She angled it towards him. ‘It’s meant to be white inside, not brown.’
‘It’s always been that colour.’
‘Really Luke, this is disgusting. You men are all the same. I bet you don’t change your underwear either.’
‘That’s rather personal.’
She puffed out. ‘You know what my Mark does? He sniffs his socks before he puts them on, just to check they’re okay.’
Luke was sheepish.
‘No! Not you too!’
‘I change my socks every day.’
‘Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes. You’re such a bad liar.’
‘You can’t tell me, you’ve never worn the same thing two days running.’
She spread her arms. ‘Do I look like I have?’
‘I doubt you’ll wear that outfit twice.’
‘And what’s wrong with it?’
He grinned. ‘Do I need to spell it out?’
She turned away, faced the steaming kettle and folded her arms. The vapours reached the ceiling; the bubbling water intensified. It clicked off.
‘My Mark mumbled about it too, although not for the reasons you’re stating.’
‘Do I sense a hint of trouble in the love nest?’ he asked.
She spun around. ‘I thought it would be fun, but it’s hard work. He . . . he’s hard work.’
‘How so?’
‘I suppose it’s just the usual. You lived with Sarah for a while, didn’t you?’
He stiffened. ‘Yes, although we still both had our own places.’
‘Did you get on each other’s nerves?’
‘I can’t say we did.’
He recalled the joviality, the discussions, and the mealtimes. He remembered returning from work and seeing her beautiful smiling face. She would lean into him as they watched television and often she would fall asleep.
Then, the darker side of their relationship formed in his mind, and his sorrow rose. She had carried his baby, his son or daughter, and soon he would have been a father. He would have held him or her, fed and played with him or her. He would have had a purpose in life, a responsibility. He would have been needed.
He returned his attention to Imogen. ‘Maybe our problems were minimal because we only lived together for a few days at a time. Are you having doubts?’
She looked at her desk.
‘Just be patient.’
‘Are you still seeing Susie?’
‘I haven’t for a few days.’
‘Maybe I should find you someone else. It’s not good for you being single.’
‘I’m happy as I am.’
She looked at him, forlorn, like a lost child. He sensed she was unhappier than she was admitting, and it triggered a need to hold her and comfort her and share in her anguish.
‘I’m sorry you’re struggling,’ he said. ‘If you ever need a shoulder . . .’
‘That’s so sweet. Thanks, Luke.’
He looked away, his hea
t rising. ‘I do like your outfit, by the way. It suits you.’
‘You’re blushing!’
He leapt to his feet and scurried away. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘You so are.’
Karen Jefferson. Her name rattled inside Luke’s head. Who was she, where was she, and what had happened years previously? He scanned the document that discussed Ted Moore’s account of Karen’s teenage years, and considered her rebellious behaviour and the obvious family tension it created. Her relationship with Fiona must have been strained; he could not imagine how two girls with opposing character traits could have been amicable for long.
Karen had been wild, undisciplined, and independently minded. Fiona, on the other hand, had been quiet, studious, and willing to please. Had they struggled to share even a civilised conversation?
He glanced up. ‘Do you think Fiona was ashamed of Karen?’
‘Not at all. Why would you think that?’
‘Because Karen was everything Fiona hated.’
‘We don’t know that for sure.’
‘Okay, but assuming she was. Fiona would have sided with Janet over Karen’s behaviour.’
‘I don’t agree. I think when you’re young, you feel closer to your brothers and sisters, even if they’re different to you. Your parents are the enemy. If anything, I think Fiona would have sided with Karen.’
He rotated his pen between his fingers. ‘But Karen did seem rebellious, and it caused a lot of friction.’
‘Fiona may not have liked all the upset Karen caused, but I can’t see that she would have blamed her. She would have wanted them both to stop. It would have been difficult being in the middle.’
‘Janet did seem to take a hard stance.’
‘And Fiona would have become wiser because of what she witnessed.’
‘Do you think that’s why she didn’t drink much or do drugs?’