Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  Her mother’s claim that her health problems were something to do with Primrose Cottage entered her mind. She had sounded convinced and not at all concerned that it was a ridiculous and illogical notion. Perhaps she should have questioned her further and learned more about Jim’s health, concerned by the similarities they shared.

  Regardless, her troubles could not be the house. There was no curse of any form. It was a coincidence.

  A plaintive and alluring meow sounded. Michaela’s neck was rigid and her movements restricted, yet amidst her pain, she turned her neck and looked towards the source of the sound. Bloomer was on the floor looking straight at her.

  She whispered his name.

  He jumped onto the bed and brushed her hand. His back arched, his tail was erect, and his rumbling purr, like the sound of a small engine, distracted her from the stabbing sensation that traversed her body. His fur was silky and soft and no longer like matted straw, yet he remained scrawny. Even though she could feel his bones beneath her fingertips, he had a small, rounded belly, and twisted and turned, oozing affection, rubbing himself into her flesh. Exhibiting pure delight, his purrs intensified.

  After a few more moments, he curled up next to her, pressing his back into her side, and the silence and stillness returned. With it, came her pain. She stretched her neck to release the tautness that crept along her arm and to her fingers, and she breathed deeply. Ineffective in her attempts to ease the pain, she closed her eyes.

  Bloomer rose to his feet and paced the bed. He stepped across her, he paused and licked his paw, and he scratched his back. She did not want him to leave; yet, at the same time, she could not offer him the attention she knew he so craved. Unconcerned, he edged closer to her head. His whiskers tickled her skin, his small breaths dropped vapours onto her cheek, and his sandpapery tongue caressed her neck, washing her in swift short movements. Then, as he became more certain of his task, his tongue pressed more firmly onto her skin. Even though it was rough, her pleasure was immeasurable and she didn’t want it to stop.

  She believed about fifteen minutes must have past when Bloomer walked away. The pain in her head and neck had eased and her heart swelled with delight. He was her pleasure and joy, now she wondered how she had ever coped with everyday trivialities without him. Oozing satisfaction, she drifted into a restful sleep.

  A couple of hours later her discomfort had subsided and she felt rested. Having waited a few minutes for her eyes to focus, she moved to the edge of the bed and stretched her arms and shoulders. She felt energised and relaxed and strolled to the bathroom for a cooling splash of water.

  Outside, the sun was intense, illuminating the landscape. Everything appeared brighter and cleaner; the grasses were greener, the concrete freed of dust and debris, and the shady areas were dry and inviting. Michaela’s gaze wandered in the direction of the well.

  It was just out of sight, yet it did not stop the distressing images from entering her thoughts and from feeling sympathy for Catherine and Arthur. Since Catherine died soon afterward, her suffering would have been short-lived. For Arthur, it would have continued for years.

  How had he coped? If Catherine had pushed Josephine down the well, then maybe he had been grateful for her passing. Alternatively, if Jack had been the person to push Josephine, it would have left him terrified.

  Unable to tolerate the flashing images relating to his death and the perceived aftermath, she scrunched her face and squeezed her arms tight to her body. Thinking about it was intolerable, but she couldn’t let it go. What if the same happened again, but what if this time she was the victim? Hers and Catherine’s lives had followed similar paths, and Sam had already started to turn against her. It was only a matter of time before something more detrimental happened.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked.

  She jerked. He was peering up the steps. She managed a brief nod.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day. You should be outside.’

  Unable to remove the thought of him pushing her into the well, she held him in a taut stare.

  ‘Michaela . . . what is it?’

  Too terrified to respond, she trotted to her bedroom, pressed shut the door and slumped onto the bed.

  Perplexed, Sam placed his foot on the bottom step, held the handrail, and looked upwards to the bedroom. Michaela’s mood was concerning; she was secretive, pensive, and almost perpetually anxious. He could sense she feared him, yet he could not understand why. To his knowledge, he had not done anything irregular or annoying. Craving an understanding, he climbed the steps.

  The sound of Michaela’s voice drew his attention. He was about to respond when he realised she was not talking to him. Curious, he remained in situ, at the other side of the bedroom door, and listened to the exchange.

  ‘That’s not true!’

  Silence.

  ‘No! Stop it! I won’t have it!’

  His hand hovered on the door handle. He should go inside, but something held him back. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the person she conversed with. She didn’t have her phone with her, as he had seen it downstairs, nor did she have the cordless telephone. Was she ranting at the television or radio? It seemed not; the only sound he could hear was that of his wife. Driven by deepening anxiety along with a strong instinct to stay out of the room, he opened the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Go away!’ she yelled.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  Not you, for sure!’ She encouraged him backward, out of the room. ‘I can’t trust anyone. You’re all the same.’

  He reached out his hand, pleading with her to take it, and willing her with his eyes to provide him an explanation.

  ‘They were talking about me,’ she said. ‘I won’t have it!’

  ‘Who was?’

  She looked to the radio.

  It was silent. Had she just switched it off, or God forbid, had she just hallucinated? He was about to comment when she pushed the door closed. He could have reacted, but his mind was a blur. What had happened? Perhaps her confusion was due to her headache; perhaps she still suffered. Deciding he would get no sense out of her whilst she was in her current state, he strode downstairs and passed outside.

  The light dazzled and the breeze wafted his caramel hair across his face. Squinting, he brushed the strands aside, strode to the concrete mixer and flicked on the switch. Rotating, it made a deafening clatter. Fearing Michaela’s rebuke, he glimpsed at the house. Since he could not see her, he continued with his task, reached to the buckets of pre-measured sand and cement, and flung them inside. The grit lifted then flopped, and once he had added spurts of water, it formed sludge. A few minutes later and believing the mix was the right consistency, he placed it into a bucket and carried it to the side of the house. Filling in the cracks and gaps was a mindless task, and soon his thoughts reverted to Michaela.

  Should he seek medical help? Her symptoms were stress-related, and her doctor should be able to offer her something to calm her down. But she would never agree and would shout and rant and tell him he didn’t understand. Whilst he could force her, it would be difficult to do. Instead, he searched for an alternative and wondered if she was still suffering from the loss of her baby. After all, Grace had said it could take a while.

  A thought sprung into her mind. Their neighbour may be able to suggest a nutritional remedy. He could slip it into Michaela’s meals and she would be none the wiser. However, as soon as the thought entered his mind, he decided against it, dreading the thought of her finding out. She would accuse him of going behind her back, and may even say he was poisoning her. Given the circumstances, it was a risk he may have to take.

  Sam smoothed out his newly rendered patch with his float and stood back. Satisfied with his efforts, he progressed towards to the next area and continued his work. Render dropped from his hawk and splattered onto the gravel path. He picked it up as best he could, returned it into the bucket, and continued with his task.

  Soon, the job was complete. Si
nce he hadn’t seen Michaela for a while, he decided he should check on her, and placed the bucket under the tap, added water, and went into the house. He tiptoed up the stairs, avoiding the familiar creaks, and peered into the room. Michaela was on her side facing the other direction, she did not move and her eyes were closed. Not wanting to disturb her, he crept back downstairs and strode to the outdoor tap. He was about to start his cleaning task when his gaze wandered to the border, and to Grace tending her garden. Deciding it was the perfect opportunity to seek assistance, he sauntered across. She caught sight of him and strode to the border.

  Hello Sam, how you doing?’

  ‘I’m okay. What are you doing over there?’

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I am cutting back the mint and lemon balm. Even though I submerged a vessel to stop it spreading, it has still found a way around. It gets everywhere.’

  ‘Do you make your own herbal teas?’

  ‘Oh yes. Peppermint is ever so good for the digestion. I drink it all the time.’

  ‘I have chamomile occasionally.’

  ‘Do you make it yourself?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There’s a lot around.’ She scanned his garden. ‘It grows freely in wild patches . . . there, see?’

  ‘I never knew what that was.’

  ‘You need to do one of my short courses in herbs.’

  ‘You do courses?’

  ‘I do many things, but I doubt that’s why you have come for a chat. Is it Michaela?’

  Sam looked sheepish. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘I couldn’t help but notice that she doesn’t look herself.’

  ‘She’s anxious.’ He glimpsed at his feet. ‘You said it could be the miscarriage.’

  ‘Yes, it could be. What are her symptoms?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . she worries a lot and might be depressed.’

  ‘Is she still hallucinating?’

  He shuffled, uncomfortable. ‘I could just be misinterpreting what I am seeing.’ He looked back to the house. ‘I feel guilty just talking to you. She thinks everyone has turned against her, me included.’

  ‘That was like Jim.’

  ‘Could it be something that runs in the family?’

  As soon as the words escaped, Sam searched for a reason to withdraw them. He had agreed with Michaela to keep her connection to Jim from Grace, and even though at the time their reasoning appeared sound, he could not remember what it was.

  ‘Jim was Michaela’s uncle,’ she said.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘What makes you think otherwise?’

  He shook his head and averted his eyes.

  ‘Mental illness does run in families,’ she said, ‘but you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. She may just be low on energy - your house is a lot to take on.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. What caused Jim’s stress?’

  She shuffled, uncomfortable, and mumbled her reply. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You must have cared for him a great deal.’

  She nodded. ‘Jack, Jim’s grandfather, had similar episodes. He had a good friend, Archie Sanders, who used to talk about it. He was quite a lot younger than he was, but he was his confidant. He knew everything there was to know about Jack.’

  ‘Jack as in Catherine’s husband?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Jack often heard voices and had difficulty focusing. At times, he would talk in riddles and was difficult to understand. He would start talking about something, but would switch topics midway through.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘After Catherine’s death, he was put in a mental institute. He was released after a short while.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy for him knowing his wife killed his children.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Do you think that she was mad too?’

  For certain. Why else would she have done it?’

  He shuddered. What a horrid thought. He had to help Michaela, before it was too late.

  ‘Did you get confirmation regarding Catherine’s antics?’ Grace asked.

  ‘We did . . . from the library.’

  ‘And is Michaela satisfied?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m more worried about her stress levels right now, especially since you say Catherine and Jack had mental problems. Are there any foods I could give her?’

  ‘I’ll give you a list.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Just give her a bit of time. She’ll be right soon enough.’

  He folded his arms. His wife’s unprecedented stress levels were not something he could disregard. He was about to comment when a car turned into Grace’s drive.

  ‘I’m sorry, I must go,’ she said. ‘We’ll speak later, okay?’

  ‘Before you go, tell me, is Archie Sanders still alive?’

  ‘He is.’

  Satisfied, he strode away, hoping it would be enough to pull Michaela out of her depression; otherwise, he wouldn’t know what to do. It was a worrying situation, and one he needed to resolve and fast.

  Chapter 27

  The engine died away. There was silence. Folks strolled between the local shops along the street. Some appeared to meander aimlessly; others had a strong gait with a sense of purpose. A group of slender teenage girls giggled in a huddle. They were all strikingly beautiful with long silky hair, proportioned figures, and flattering clothes. If only he was a bit younger.

  Sam opened the car door and the fresh air blasted towards him. A girl with lush golden hair, shapely legs, and a tight bottom turned her head towards him. Hastily, he averted his eyes and reprimanded himself for his lecherous behaviour.

  Michaela’s desire for sex had decreased in recent weeks, and he assumed it was due to the miscarriage. He had argued that making love would help reduce her stress, but she refused to relent. He tried luring her with a sensitive approach, caressing her with his fingertips and dropping soft kisses along her face and neck. She turned away. The next day he tried to be more dominant, but that failed too. It was frustrating.

  Sex should be a natural urge. She had always been willing in the past, at times more so than he had been, and he had never anticipated this type of reaction. He was baffled. How could her desire vanish? In his desperation, he had asked her what was wrong. She glared at him as though the answer was obvious. Pretending it was, he turned over and evacuated his mind.

  Removing his frustrations from his thoughts, he strolled towards the post office with a small packet and a letter addressed to Archie Sanders and opened the door. Bypassing information leaflets, packaging, and greeting cards, he approached the counter and joined the short queue for some stamps.

  The woman in front of him reminded Sam of Grace. She was willowy with a scraggy neck, and her hair was grey and wiry. He guessed she was much older than his neighbour was - in her sixties maybe - and she had a curious scent. It was perfume, but it smelled more like bitter lemons mixed with something sweet. It was not pleasant and his nose itched.

  Grace’s scent was never repulsive. In fact, it was quite the opposite - subtle and alluring. He imagined Jim caressing her neck and breathing in her delicate aroma, and wondered how long their affair had gone on. Had it caused the downfall of Jim’s marriage? It was possible and explained why she hadn’t wanted Michaela delving into the past. Even the most promiscuous must feel some shame.

  The counter was his. He weighed the packet and purchased the stamps, and then moved to a ledge to place one onto the letter. Once he had put the rest into his wallet, he stepped towards the exit. The door thrust open and the bell sounded. It was Mary. Having greeted each other, she asked after Michaela.

  ‘She’s good. I’m sure she would like to see you.’

  ‘You should come around. I’ve found those photographs of your house you said you wanted to look at.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about them.’

  ‘Could you come around this afternoon? T
hat’s if you are not doing anything.’

  ‘We’d like that. How about in an hour’s time?’

  She nodded and shuffled towards the counter.

  ‘Oh, there’s one more thing you could help me with,’ he continued, ‘before it eats me up. Was Grace Jim’s lover?’

  Mary smiled. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I just thought . . .’ he paused, reassessing his explanation. ‘You did say he was having an affair.’

  ‘I did.’ She chuckled. ‘I know who his lady friend was and it wasn’t Grace.’

  ‘So what was their relationship?’

  ‘Grace is Jim’s daughter.’

  Michaela flicked between the televisions channels but was unable to settle on a programme that was even vaguely interesting. Her choices were sport, reality shows, or dramas, and all lacked the sparkle to entice. Switching it off, she shifted positions, raised her feet to the coffee table, and felt the monotony invade her pores. She should find herself an occupation and finish the decorating in the next room, but her motivation was dwindling and she had little left to give.

  The renovations were never ending, and she was sick of the mess. Before her were bare walls, the ceiling was a dirty white, and beneath the old rug was a dusty stone floor. It was cold and uninviting, and she wanted it gone. Just one clean room would be a start. She would be able to shut the door and forget about the renovations. Then better things could occupy her mind.

  Her timescales had been ridiculously inaccurate and she feared it would take the two years that Sam had warned, perhaps even longer, to get close to completing the work. Already there was tension in their relationship and they had only just started the project. Would they survive the stress? During the winter months, it would be worse without any central heating. It reminded her of a conversation she’d had with a friend Harry Winterbourne.

  ‘How are you going to cope when it’s ten degrees or less inside your house?’ he had asked.

  ‘I’m tough,’ she replied, ‘I’ll dress like a Michelin man . . . layer upon layer.’