A tear ran down her face and threatened to drop onto the cover of Matilda’s book. Not wanting it to be marked, she wiped the tear away with a tissue grabbed from under the sleeve of her cardigan. Intending to carry on with the unpacking that morning she had picked out a pair of jeans and teamed them with a matching jumper and cardigan for warmth, for the house was chilly. They’d realised the boiler needed servicing as it just wasn’t coping with the number of radiators in the house as some were red hot and others lukewarm and they were still waiting for a heating engineer to call.
Replacing her mobile on the table she picked up her cup and saucer and went to the kitchen to get another coffee. As she walked over to the percolator, she saw the pile of ironing waiting to be tackled. As she opened the fridge she saw the food she needed to cook off before it went bad. A smile played across her lips. Sod the chores, the sweeping and cleaning, she decided. Sod the remainder of the unpacking. For once she would do what she wanted to do. Just as Peter always did what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it.
She might not have her husband with her to keep her company, but she had her friend Matilda. A woman who was as eager to continue telling her story, as Louise was to read it...
Seven
I arrived back at the house, a handkerchief pressed up against my cheek. The once white linen now stained red. As I stumbled in, I said something to my husband about being mugged and being sent sprawling to the floor amongst some broken bottles. I tried to look suitably shocked and upset, which I was, at least as far as my injury went. But I had to be careful to hide the shine of victory in my eyes. The satisfaction I felt about what I had done to the vicar, more than made up for any outward disfigurement I might be left with. At least had I thought that at the time, not knowing that later I would change my mind.
I was immediately taken to the hospital, my husband driving while I sat in the passenger seat. By now I was holding a tea towel to my face, for there was too much blood still seeping through the cuts than a handkerchief could cope with. The doctors looked horrified when they first laid eyes on my previously unblemished face. But then their professionalism kicked in and they hid their initial reaction behind whatever door in their mind they kept locked and bolted. The one that held images of the worst wounds they had seen.
I became cross when they wouldn’t let me have a mirror, when they wouldn’t let me see my own injuries. Everyone else could look, but not I. I began to feel like an exhibit in a zoo as nurses and doctors paraded in, looking at my cheek, peering this way and that and then leaving without a word, or without actually doing anything to help my injury. The rumour must have gone out - go and see that poor woman’s face - and they’d all complied, following each other into my room like lemmings over a cliff.
The plastic surgeon operated on me the next day. For it was best I should be asleep while they pulled out the glass that had become embedded in my flesh, they said. Some of the pieces went so deep they were lodged in my cheekbone apparently. The plastic surgeon said he would do his best invisible stitching, but asked me not to hold out too much hope that I wouldn’t be scarred.
It was some weeks before they let me view the damage. They said I needed to be strong enough to cope with the sight of it, both mentally and physically. I had already had a terrible shock from the attack and they seemed concerned that another one might make me lose my mind.
But during that time of waiting and healing I had my secret to keep me company. I began to hear snippets of gossip about the aftermath of my action. Apparently the housekeeper had found the vicar’s body the next morning, stumbling over the lifeless form that had lain in the hall since the previous night. She’d screamed bloody murder before fainting and had had to be revived with smelling salts. The local newspaper made much of his passing, writing about how he had spent his life in God’s service, working tirelessly for his parishioners and that he would be sadly missed by the faithful.
I alone knew that he would not be sadly missed by a great number of young girls. They might cry when they read the newspaper reports. But they would shed tears of gladness, not sadness. Father Chumley might not have been brought to justice, been made to answer for his crime, but instead he had died for them. Some might think that his death was a better option than him being locked up in prison for years. Capital punishment was no longer on the statute books, having been abolished in 1965, so the state would have had to look after him until he died. I supposed that one way of looking at it was that I had saved them the expense.
The police investigation didn’t seem to be going anywhere. They had no witnesses, no finger prints, just an approximate time of death, sometime late evening to early morning. I was thrilled by their inability to find any clues. It looked as though I was going to get away with it.
When the doctors eventually let me look in the mirror, I saw my cheek was a mass of scar tissue. It was as though I had a road map printed on the side of my face, complete with bumps and lumps signifying hills and holes and depressions for valleys. The roads went here and there, everywhere and nowhere. Everyone was very kind. But I could see the pity in their eyes.
Perhaps this was to be my punishment for killing someone, for taking another’s life. For committing cold blooded murder. The police couldn’t find me, but I knew what I’d done. I’d weighed up if taking his life was just punishment for ruining mine and many, many others and I’d found him guilty as charged.
It seemed my face was healed. But my mind was not. I became a recluse for a while. The hospital offered me an appointment with a psychiatrist, but I decided that no amount of talking could change the way I now looked. Anyway I didn’t want anyone delving into my mind for who knew what I might inadvertently let slip and so I thanked the doctor politely and turned his offer down.
The only thing that helped me heal was the house. It settled quietly around me, holding me in its heart, bolstering me until I was strong enough to stand on my own again. Strong enough to continue my labours. Strong enough to face whatever lay ahead.
Eight
Louise put her hand up to her cheek, relieved to feel the soft unblemished skin under her touch. She had become so involved in Matilda’s world, that she had physically felt Matilda’s pain. Matilda was fast becoming the friend Louise hadn’t had in a long time. In over 20 years, Louise realised. With her head leaning against the armchair and her hands caressing the book, she let her mind drift back in time.
Louise’s father had been in the armed forces. More specifically the British Army. He’d believed in the system, was brought up in the system and naturally assumed she was happy within the system. Being in the system in those days meant being sent away to boarding school as she grew up, as her parents travelled around the world. The British Army in their infinite wisdom recognised that it was not always a good thing for children to be dragged around the world after their parents, or more specifically, after their fathers. They therefore paid for much of the cost of boarding school. There were opportunities for weekly boarding as well as full time boarders, but her father being one of those men who thought children should be seen and not heard, felt that termly boarding would be best, meaning that Louise was neither seen, nor heard.
As a result she had always been a rather solitary child. Other children in the schools she went to came from rich parents. Hers were not so much rich, as self-important. The other kids tolerated her, which was all she could say about them really. They weren’t unkind, just uncaring. She wasn’t bullied or picked on. The other children just didn’t seem to see her most of the time. It was as if she were a waif, or a ghost. There, yet unseen. There, merely tolerated. There, but mostly ignored.
And then one day life at boarding school changed. For Trudy arrived. Trudy was from the same military background as Louise and as a result they found they knew the same places, had lived on the same garrisons, understood the system and each other’s way of life. They were both lost souls trailing along in the wake of their parents. For Louise it meant that suddenly life wa
s better, the sun hotter, colours brighter, food tastier. Louise began to realise that she’d been living a shadow of a life before Trudy came along.
They had two happy years together, but then returning one September after the long summer holidays, for what was to be her last year at school, Louise hadn’t been able to find her friend. Trudy wasn’t in their dorm room when Louise went to unpack. Rushing off to find her, Louise pushed though groups of squealing girls, their voices becoming higher pitched with each friend found. She tripped over trunks and sports equipment, watched as parents said goodbye to their offspring, the mothers often being more upset than their child at the parting. Uniform green sweaters and tartan skirts were everywhere, but none of them were worn by Trudy. Louise staggered back to the dorm room, her excitement draining, as her fear rose. Trudy’s bed in the dorm room was still empty. Unable to look at the symbol of her disappointment, Louise curled up in a ball on her own bed and scrunched her eyes shut. She tried not to cry, but couldn’t help herself. She was plain scared. Where was Trudy? Why wasn’t she here? Louise stayed curled up on top of her bed, until someone shook her on the shoulder.
‘You, Louise?’ the girl said and without waiting for an answer continued, ‘The Headmistress wants to see you.’
Louise climbed off the bed and stumbled her way through the maze of corridors and stairs, until she reached the Headmistress’ office, where she was ushered in at once and told to sit on the hard backed chair in front of the desk. Louise did as she was told. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she sat on them, pinning them down, trying to get some semblance of control over her body, which was squirming with fear.
‘I understand you’ve been asking about Trudy,’ the Headmistress said, looking at Louise closely but not unkindly.
‘Yes, Headmistress.’ Louise screwed up her courage and asked, ‘Why isn’t she here? Has she been delayed?’
‘Louise, I’m afraid there’s been some bad news. Trudy won’t be coming back to school.’
‘Oh, has she gone somewhere else? It’s strange that she never told me. Where has she gone? Perhaps I can write to her.’
‘No, Louise, Trudy isn’t going anywhere else. I’m so sorry, Trudy died in a boating accident whilst on holiday with her parents.’
The Headmistress kept on talking, but Louise no longer heard the words. Instead she looked out of the leaded glass window, saw the clouds obscure the sun, watched the grass wither and fade to grey and felt the metallic taste of loneliness once more fill her mouth.
Nine
Later, as the evening stretched emptily before her, Louise decided to go shopping at Morrisons, up near the police station in the heart of the new shopping and leisure complex that Aldershot seemed very proud of. There were huge hoardings everywhere in the surrounding areas, extoling the virtues of the centre, encouraging people to go there for shopping, food and entertainment. One benefit of the ever relaxed shop opening hours was that at any time, day or night, you could go to your local supermarket and buy groceries.
When Louise arrived, clad in wool trousers over sensible flat shoes, wool jumper and camel coat, the square was thronged with people and she stood and watched awhile. She saw everyone else enjoying themselves in groups or couples. No one else seemed to be alone, just her. She knew that it was a trick of her mind and that there were probably loads of single people milling around. But the sight of so many human beings crowded into one place made her feel isolated, made her feel that she was the one person there who had no one. Or at least no one who actually wanted to spend any time with her.
She caught sight of herself in a shop window. Her hair was neat and tidy, her green eyes beautifully made-up although a little dull looking and her clothes sensible. Well, nondescript if she was honest. Good cut, well made, but without any ‘life’ in them. It was easier to say what they weren’t rather than what they were. She turned this way and that. They weren’t flamboyant. They weren’t sexy. But then again, they weren’t trashy. But nor were they particularly fashionable. She caught someone looking at her strangely and moved away from the glass window. She heard Peter in her head, saying that she mustn’t make a spectacle of herself and so headed for the Morrisons supermarket to do her shopping.
After collecting a trolley, she mechanically walked the aisles of the supermarket, putting foodstuff in her trolley whilst on automatic pilot. Buying what she always bought for the weekly shopping. What she would buy again next week and the week after that, ad infinitum. That evening she fancied none of the usual tasty treats that normally tempted her. She was indifferent to the donuts, fruit or custard, which were normally a firm favourite. The smell of the cooked chickens from the roasting spit for once made her feel nauseous instead of hungry.
Time spent in the queue to pay seemed endless, her depression deepening with every couple she saw kissing, or mother laughing at her baby’s antics. Then at last she was free of the supermarket and pushing the unwieldy trolley in front of her, she trudged back to the car. She filled the boot with overflowing carrier bags and once the trolley was returned and her pound coin safe in her pocket, she climbed into her car and drove out of the car park.
Shivering in the cold as she waited patiently for a gap in the traffic, she looked down at the controls of her small black Mercedes A7. She found the correct lever and turned the heating up high. As she raised her eyes to the road again, she saw her husband drive past in his Lexus. The sight of him made her feel as though she had been drenched with cold water, the shock of it leaving her unable to breathe. What was he doing? He should be in the Mess enjoying dinner or a few drinks with his cronies. He hadn’t actually said what the occasion was, but he had definitely told her he would be in the Mess and not to wait up.
Recklessly pulling out into the stream of traffic, ignoring the angry car horns and narrowly missing an Audi, she began to follow him.
Ten
Peter eased the Lexus around the corner into the industrial estate. Yesterday he’d heard some of the lads boasting about their exploits with certain ladies of the night. He’d pretended not to hear their barrack-room raucous stories, but was, in fact, paying close attention. He’d learned where the best girls could be found, how much they charged and the increased sexual excitement that came from the fear of being found out.
‘The wife would have my guts for garters if I did anything like that,’ one said.
‘Ah well then, the trick would be not to get found out wouldn’t it?’
‘Don’t think I need anything like that,’ one particularly barrel-chested soldier replied. ‘My wife’s too hot to handle as it is. I don’t have any spare energy left!’
Much was made of the man’s bragging and Peter found himself blushing at their banter, even though he wasn’t part of the conversation, even though he was hidden behind a vehicle. How easily they talked of their sexual exploits, described the girls they’d bedded and recounted tales of those who had turned them down. He envied them their freedom of actions and freedom of speech. He often wished he wasn’t quite so straight laced, quite such an officer, quite ‘the old man’, the Colonel who they all looked up to.
And so, for once in his boring predictable life, he’d decided to do something about it. He would go and see for himself. He wanted to find out if the lads were exaggerating, to see if the girls were even remotely attractive. He wasn’t going to do anything. Oh no. He just wanted to watch. He’d told Louise he was busy at the Mess, which gave him plenty of time to reconnoitre. He told himself he was doing this so he could understand the men under his command better, to try and get a handle on what made them tick. So that he’d be able to picture in his mind the girls and the area they were talking about when they had a good natured go at each other.
The industrial estate roads were dark and unfriendly as his car purred along. He was cocooned in the luxury, surrounded by leather seats and walnut dashboard, with classical music playing softly in the background. He was startled out of his reverie by the sudden lamp-lit road he came across.
Panicking he pulled over on the opposite side of the road, the engine still running, his hands damp on the steering wheel. Stood under the lights he could see a line of women. Back-lit from the street lights, their features were fuzzy, until a car drove along the line, illuminating them one by one, until the customer made his choice and pulled up to allow a girl to get into the car.
Peter pressed gently on the accelerator, crossing the road and easing the car over to them. He allowed his gaze to rove over the women as he drove alone the line. They were short, tall, blond, brunette, big chested, small chested, long legged, big bottomed, young and old women and girls. The sight literally took his breath away. There was something here for everyone. Every taste was catered for.
When he reached the end of the line and the road was once more plunged into darkness, he stopped his car. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and his breathing was irregular. He’d had no idea it was that easy to find a girl. To find a girl who would do most anything, for the right price. The price didn’t bother him, he had plenty of money. What drew him to them and excited him, were the sexual possibilities. There would be no thrill of the chase, but he had never been any good at that sort of thing. As his men had said, instead there would be the thrill of getting caught. The danger of being seen by someone from the garrison, recognised by another soldier, or even by his wife. Although the red light area was the last place he expected to find Louise.
Peter squirmed in the leather driver’s seat and clenched and unclenched his grip on the steering wheel. He couldn’t do it. He should go home. Leave well alone. Go back to Louise. But the thought of his wife hardened his resolve. Maybe he could give it a go. He wondered what it would be like to have someone do what he wanted them to do, with no questions asked. He could be given a blow job. Bury his face in large breasts. Fondle a willing bottom. The possibilities were endless.
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 3