Bloody Mary

by Ricki Thomas

  But completely engrossed in my rudimentary ritual, I failed to notice the sheets of paper that had fallen from one of the stacks of junk onto a burning candle, and it wasn’t until the sideboard was thoroughly alight that I noticed the fetid smell of my possessions as they were perishing to cinders. If only I had read the final sentence in the chapter, I would have been aware that the spell could backfire and unsettle the karma if it was unjustified, and I might have reconsidered casting it.

  But I hadn’t, and, swamped with fear, I had only one thought: the money from Harry was in the drawer of the burning cupboard. I had to get it.

  The fire engine and ambulance arrived within seconds of each other. Having retrieved the charred wad of twenty pound notes from the drawer and zipped it into my duffle coat, the raging fire singeing painful burns on my face, arms and chest as I did so, I just managed to call the emergency services before succumbing to the odious smoke. As my eyes drooped, aware the fiery smoke was stifling my lungs, I accepted that this was it: this was where my life ended and I finally got to see if spirits really did remain in the human world. I was completely unaware of the brave fireman rescuing me, carrying my limp body from the inferno, and of the paramedics taking over in the cool air of the balcony. I had no recollection of the emergency ride to hospital, while the fire department hosed the flames, soaking the flat and what was left of my treasured possessions.

  Harry had been anxiously waiting for a call from me to tell him that his investment in Darren’s blackmail had gained Sophie’s contact details, and, at such a late stage decided to call on me to ask what was happening. He got to the block of flats at the same time as Alan, alerted unwittingly of the emergency call from a comment a colleague in the control room mentioned. Harold ran up the stairs behind his son, two at a time, fuelled with desperation by Alan’s urgent shouting: “It’s Mary’s flat! I just heard about it at work.”

  Reaching the balcony was an anti-climax, the adrenaline in their veins still pumping with excitement, which was now falling flat. The turquoise door was propped wide open, water spilling over the step from inside, and two firemen stood, doing nothing more than guiding the hose. “The lady who lives here, is she in there.”

  “No, mate. Went to hospital about twenty minutes ago. We’ve nearly finished here ourselves, controlled the blaze, just dampening everything down now.”

  Alan didn’t have the slightest idea how he felt about the situation. If he’d have had a choice about whom his birth mother was going to be, he certainly wouldn’t have chosen the oddball he’d ended up with. But that was irrational, I was his mother, it was my body that had given him life, and he owed everything to me. There was no love yet, but there was compassion and protectiveness. Thinking speedily, he grabbed Harold’s arm, leading him along the balcony back towards the concrete stairs. “Come on, let’s get to the hospital.” He shouted back at the man who’d informed him. “Is it Derby City General?”

  The fireman was nonchalant, he shrugged. “I guess so, mate!”

  Darren, annoyed that he hadn’t been able to scam any cash at all from Sophie’s family, albeit reasoning that there was still time yet, put the suitcases into the taxi, and climbed into the front. Sophie was already seated on the back seat, sorry to see her much-loved house for what would probably be the final time, yet intensely excited about the new life ahead, away from all the confusing drama her parents, Alan Taylor, and that awful Mary Miller had bestowed upon her.

  After stopping at the estate agent’s to drop off the keys for Iris Cottage, they began the lengthy journey to the Radisson SAS Hotel at Manchester Airport. There weren’t any words shared as they travelled, everything had already been said in the past few days, and the couple, each with their minds lost in conflicting thoughts of their new future, watched the scenery through the windows, the sky turning from dull grey, to charcoal, to black.

  The room was comfortable, although nothing extraordinary. White emulsion walls, plain blue carpet, chequered bedspread, and furniture created from pale oak. Dumping the cases, Darren headed straight for the mini bar, a kid in a sweet shop, and helped himself to a few of the bottles, lining them up on the bedside cabinet, pouring the first one swiftly, downing it, and proceeding with the next two.

  “Go easy, Darren, we’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Sophie was unpacking her cosmetics into the en-suite bathroom, eager for a shower to wash the day’s hard work away.

  Lounging back comfortably on the pillow, remote control in his hand, flicking through the channels of the television, Darren was unperturbed. “I know! I know! I’ll be fine. Shall we go and suss out the bar? We can have a couple of drinks, then have something to eat in the restaurant when Mam and Dad get here.” They’d managed to book the same flight as Maureen and Bob, which would be convenient for the journey to Puerto de Pollenca once they got to Palma Airport.

  “What time did they say they’d be arriving?”

  “Didn’t say, Mam just said she’d call me.” Darren had found the Comedy Central channel and was loosely watching South Park, an episode he’d seen many times before, and he chuckled every now and then.

  Sophie closed the door and turned the shower on, undressing. “Just having a shower, won’t be long.”

  Moments later Sophie’s mobile began to ring, and Darren reached for it across the bed, checking for the name on the display, but only the number came up which aroused his curiosity. “Hello.”

  “Is Sophie there?” It was Harold, and that irked Darren.

  “Are you aware that Sophie deleted your number from her phone? That means she doesn’t want any contact with you!”

  Briefly taken aback, Harold regained his composure. “I don’t care, I need to speak to her?”

  “Well, tough, you can’t because she’s in the shower. What do you want?”

  Harold’s voice was strained. “I’d like you to pass a message to her.” Darren didn’t bother to respond, and, after a few moments, Harold continued. “It’s Mary Miller. There’s been a fire in her flat and she’s been badly burned. She’s in Derby General.”

  Darren was completely disinterested, with no sentiment felt or expressed. “So why are you telling me?”

  Harold was vexed at the cold arrogance. “I’m not. I’m passing a message to Sophie through you, Mary’s her birth mother and she needs to know.”

  Dismissive and bored, Darren had no intention of passing any message regarding her parents or the crazy old bag. “If you wanted me to be your go between, Harold Waller, oh, sorry, Dad, then you should have given me the money I asked for.”

  Harold was astounded, and his voice reflected it. “But I did!”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me! If I had the dosh you’d have the forwarding address, wouldn’t you!”

  There was an element of panic creeping into Harold’s voice. “But I gave it to…” His words tailed off as it dawned on him what must have happened.

  Through the silence, Darren had his final words on the matter. “Face it, Harold. You’ve lost her.” Darren ended the call and switched off Sophie’s phone, burying it deep in his hand luggage.

  I was comfortable in the white-sheeted bed, woozy from the morphine I’d been given to alleviate the pain, but awake now I wasn’t breathing the odorous fumes, and reasonably coherent. The burns I had received weren’t as serious as at first thought, they’d been cleaned, smeared with a thick layer of antibiotic cream, and covered with a Telfa dressing. Although I would probably only be in hospital overnight, two nights at the most, the staff had rigged up an intravenous drip to replace the body fluids I’d lost. I was to be given ibuprofen four hourly to keep the pain at bay.

  Uncomfortable at my bedside because he barely knew me, but determined to stay due to my relationship to him, Alan sat in the chair beside me. Since the nursing staff had agreed to Alan and Harold being able to sit with me, Alan had been trying to coax what had happened from me, but I ignored his questions, guilt twisting my insides at the ridiculous situation I’d managed to get
myself into. After Harold had left the room to phone Sophie, Alan had given up bothering.

  Harold stepped into the ward, fresh faced from the chilly air outside, and marched purposefully over to the bed. “Mary! What did you do with the money I gave you?”

  I shifted awkwardly, desperately trying to concoct a feasible explanation that would cover my shame. “I gave it to Darren, but then he said he’d need another two thousand before giving me any details.” It was the first thing that sprung to mind.

  “You’re lying. I’ve just spoken to him, and he told me he hasn’t had the money.” I could tell that Harry deeply wished he’d passed the payment directly to Darren, this was a mess, and it was his daughter’s welfare that was at stake. But he also realised that he was up against a brick wall talking to either of them, one of them was lying, but it was all irrelevant: he was two thousand pounds down in his savings account, and he still had no address for his daughter.

  Alan was confused with the conversation. “Money? Details? What’s going on?”

  I jumped in, eager to tell my story first, the more I related the lies, the more they would become fact in my head. “Harry brought me two thousand pounds the other day so I could give it to Darren in return for the address in Mallorca. But he wouldn’t give it to me, he just laughed and said he wanted more.”

  Alan dragged the folded note from his pocket, angry that his birth parents had buckled to the blackmail of an idiotic bully. He roughly opened it up and thrust it at Harry. “You stupid, stupid man! Why on earth get involved in his evil games, I’ve already got her address, I got it from the removals firm!”

  Chapter 13

  Countdown

  In the end I stayed at the hospital for two nights, and I was very grateful when Harry told me he’d been speaking with Beryl, and that, as I had nowhere to live until my flat was stripped and re-decorated, they were willing to put me up in the meantime. A month later I was still staying with them, a situation I knew, understandably, grated daily on poor Beryl. She had never been the cleverest of women, the appeal to Harry which had led to his to proposal forty one years before had been her homely skills: she was an excellent cook, kept a clean and tidy house, and kept herself well dressed, well presented, and dignified. However, she could now see why Harry had fallen for my charms, because underneath the crazy persona I displayed on the outside was a massively intelligent and inquisitive mind, and the regular debates and discussions I had with Harry obviously pleased him. Beryl had no concerns about Harry straying again, I had completely let myself go over the years. I was overweight, verging on obese, my clothes disgustingly scruffy, skin harsh and hair I crazy, wiry grey. On top of that, she had told Harry about the tarot readings, and I knew he didn’t approve of such things. But Beryl felt as if she were sitting on the sidelines, unwanted, unneeded, now, a spectator to our playful mind games and serious conversations.

  A phone call to the council told me they wouldn’t finish my flat for at least another month, they had no urgency as long as I had somewhere else to stay. So Beryl had no choice, really, but to put up with my hefty presence, and my inherent untidiness.

  To oust Beryl even further into the coldness of being a spectator in the family, to rub her nose in her husband’s affair from all those years before, making the grief she’d experienced resurface so deeply, Alan had become a regular visitor, a fourth person in our united concern for Sophie and her unborn child. She’d balked with dismay when Harry, unaware of her distress at their lodger and recurrent guest, had suggested they all spend Christmas together, but, being a lady, she was too polite to say.

  At first it had seemed brilliant, having a forwarding address for Sophie, as if all our problems were solved, but now, as the weather grew colder and the naked trees waved in the strong winds, we realised it didn’t make the slightest difference: we were still estranged from her. We still had no idea of how her life was progressing, how her baby was progressing. Harry and Beryl had both hoped the Christmas card they sent her might provoke a response, but after the last postal delivery on Christmas Eve, they realised their expectations had been futile.

  He’d been marching aimlessly around the house for the best part of the day when Beryl finally had enough. “Harold! For heaven’s sake will you just sit down, you’re driving me batty.” In the living room, hearing the frustration, I thought I might eavesdrop. Why on earth not listen when there’s true drama emerging?

  Harry was stunned, he’d rarely heard Beryl raise her voice in their forty year marriage, and he slipped onto a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, darling.”

  She breathed deeply, soothing herself, mentally calming herself, and ensured her voice lowered to a reasonable level before she continued. “Since our daughter married that man things have been getting progressively worse, and the past few months have been a nightmare. I’m not sure I can cope with any of it any more.”

  “I know it’s been hard, darling, but Sophie…”

  Her voice raised again, her coolness lost. “Sophie this! Sophie that! It’s all about Sophie. Does it ever occur to you that you have a life with me as well as her?” He was astounded at the outburst, unable to think clearly. “Does it ever occur to you how selfish she’s being. If she had any sense she would have left Darren the first time he hit her, but no, she uses us as a shoulder to cry on, then toddles off back to him to get beaten again. When I try to call her up on it, she dumps us and tramps off to another country. She’s a selfish, spoiled brat, Harold, and it’s your mollycoddling that’s made her that way.”

  I was as astounded as Harry, I could understand her turning on me, but not Sophie. They had their backs to the kitchen door, so were unaware that I’d stepped in to their argument. I couldn’t help myself. “I don’t think you should talk about our daughter that way.”

  Beryl spun round, furious. “You’re just as bad, Mary Miller! First you steal my husband and spit him back at me when he’s given you what you want, and now you’re in my house, claiming the daughter I raised and loved for you because you were just a silly child. You never give us any money towards your food and board, and you won’t lift a finger to try and make the council hurry up with your flat. You’re just sponging off Harold’s good nature, and taking advantage of my placidity.”

  Watching his wife rip her apron off, slamming it on the side before storming angrily from the room, Harry was dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen her like that.”

  I stepped softly towards him and rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. He may have been over thirty years older than when I’d fallen for him, but touching him was electric, and that surprised me. I knew I still loved him, I knew I always would, but really, all I’d wanted from him was revenge for the years I’d lost.

  But now, feelings I hadn’t felt for as long were awakening. I realised I wanted him, not revenge.

  And being acutely aware of Beryl’s distaste for me, as a person, as a house guest, and the bitterness that came from years of poverty, I realised now was the time to get some of what Beryl had. As my hand caressed his shoulder, his innocence unaware that I was going to make sure he became mine again, I savoured the delicious warmth that flooded through my body.

  For the first month, living in Mallorca had been wonderful, an extended, exotic holiday. Neither Sophie, nor Darren, had a job to go to, so they spent their days ambling through the quaint streets, stopping at the sidewalk cafés for coffee, the bars for a fresh, cold beer, sometimes sampling the delicious selections of tapas. They took lazy strolls by the marina, soaking in the comparative warmth of the Mallorcan winter, having left the bitterness of the English weather, and marvelling at the splendid scenery, the palm trees, the mountains, the local people. Each moment was a new and precious experience.

  A few days after the flight had brought them to their new life, having left enough time to settle themselves into the underbuild of Maureen and Bob’s new villa, unpacking some of the boxes they’d had shipped over and creating a temporary, comfortable, albeit small, home, t
hey had gone into the town centre to look for a place of their own. The sale of Iris Cottage was due to complete in a week’s time, and Sophie was keen to invest the proceeds into a new property as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be as big as the cottage had been, property prices being on a par with England’s: after paying off the credit cards and loans, even with Darren’s hidden savings from the sale of his house and a hefty gift from Maureen and Bob, they would only be able to afford a small place, but at least they’d have no mortgage, which was the goal.

  Sophie wasn’t surprised to find that they differed on the style of the property they wanted, she loved houses that were unique, whereas he wanted modern and minimalist, however, she was disgruntled at their different stances regarding the area they would be buying in. Sophie didn’t want to live in a tourist area, the summers would be full of rude and raucous holidaymakers, the winters barren with all the hotspots closed. Her ideal would be inland, a peaceful village, surrounded by the natives, learning the language, and totally living the Spanish life. But Darren and his parents overruled her, constantly berating her choices, insistent they buy a place as near as possible to Maureen and Bob. For the baby’s sake, they told her, although she couldn’t see why it would make any difference to her child. She buckled to their wishes in the end, the battling just wasn’t worth it.

  Four weeks after they’d flown across, just two weeks before Christmas, they picked up the keys and excitedly walked into their new apartment. Sophie couldn’t believe how quick the process had been, but not having to arrange a mortgage had speeded the procedure up even further. Bob brought their belongings over, taking several trips in his new four wheel drive, and Sophie was in her element unpacking all the ornaments and crockery, personal effects, things they hadn’t seen since they were boxed two months before. She was relishing her new home.