by KC Acton
He crawled into bed beside her, his sour breath hot against her neck. His rough hand cupped her breast, and she flinched at his touch. His hands moved under her nightdress and he pressed himself hard against her bare skin. She could feel how aroused he was.
He pulled her close, searching for her mouth. Forcefully, his lips met hers. He kissed her urgently. Then he pushed her legs apart, making her cry out. He watched her as she pretended to want him too. Then with one last thrust he released and let go before collapsing on top of her. He groaned and rolled over onto his side of the bed, quickly falling into a deep sleep.
She closed her eyes, praying for sleep to rescue her. Her mind was full of plans to escape, to get away from him, as it had been for years, but somehow she could never bring herself to leave. Instead, he had left her. It didn’t matter now; she had nowhere else to go. She didn’t have any friends; he’d made sure to ostracise her from everyone. At first, she’d been flattered by his attention, but eventually she’d seen it for what it was: controlling obsession. She tossed and turned for hours before succumbing to her troubled dreams.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Bright light streamed through the window, and for a moment, everything was perfect. The fear, the loneliness, and the disappointment had melted away, but the sound of his snores beside her brought her back to reality. She drew back the duvet and tiptoed into the bathroom, desperate for a few minutes of peace before he woke up, and she had to worry about his mood.
The sight of her reflection in the mirror stopped her in her tracks. Her skin was smudged with blood. Panic set in as her thoughts raced: Had he hit her? Had she passed out? She sat on the edge of the bath and tried to steady her nerves. Life had been so out of control recently that she often confused the past and the present.
Then she saw it. She started to shake. The bath was full. Trembling, she stood up and pulled back the shower curtain. His clothes were in the water, stained red. Terror gripped her. She ran from the sanctuary of the bathroom and stared at him as he lay peacefully sleeping in their bed. Blood matted his hair; she had smelt it on him the previous night.
“What have you done?” she whispered. “What have you done?” Her voice grew louder each time she repeated her question. He stirred. “What have you done?” She screamed at him, too horrified to care about his reaction.
He struggled to sit up in bed before squinting at her. “I killed her, just like we planned.”
“WE? That was stupid drunken talk. I never meant a word of it! I was jealous. I never thought you’d kill her.”
“It’s too late now.” He shrugged. “It’s done. There’s no going back.” He leaned against the pillows and studied her. “Come back to bed.” He smirked.
The thought of him made her skin crawl. “I don’t want you anywhere near me. Get out! Get out of here now before I call Faith Whyte!”
He was out of the bed in two quick leaps, his hands tight around her neck as he pressed her against the wall. “Shut your mouth,” he hissed, “you won’t call anyone, especially not that stupid bitch. You’re as guilty as me. We’re in this together.”
“Please.” She tried to pry his fingers away. “Please.”
He released her and she fell to the floor, gasping for breath.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Because I could. Because you wanted me to.”
“I don’t want any part of this.”
“It’s too late for that now, love.” He grabbed her wrist. “I got you a little something — a memento.” He dangled a silver charm bracelet in front of her face.
“Where did you get it?” she whispered.
“From her.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Put it on.”
She tried to pull away from him, but he yanked her closer. “Put it on.”
“No.”
“I’ll help you.” His voice softened as he fastened the bracelet on her wrist. “It suits you.” He smiled and let her go. She moved away from him, retreating to the far side of the room.
“Why did you do it?” she whimpered.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you!” he roared, his face contorting in anger.
He moved towards her. Instinctively, she curled into a ball, but he walked away without touching her.
***
Later, he forced her to go to the scene of his crime, as if nothing had happened. A small crowd had gathered at the bottom of the road that led to Isabelle’s cottage. The police were already there.
“Get out,” he ordered when he stopped the car.
He chatted to a few neighbours, his face full of the concern that he was so good at faking. She stood beside him, knowing that her life was over.
“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,” he had said to her many times over the years, but this wasn’t bad, this was evil.
Tears rolled down her face. Isabelle English had done her no wrong. She wanted to join her in death. A sharp elbow from her husband jolted her from her remorse. “Pull yourself together,” he hissed under his breath. She quickly wiped away her tears.
Her head spun. He’d never get away with it, and he’d drag her down with him. She was already involved, whether she liked it or not. What would be his next move? Surely, DNA evidence was everywhere. Isabelle’s blood was all over their bathroom. How could they get rid of it? Never mind the guilt and the soul beyond the constraints of the visible.
She didn’t know what to do. All their time together, living on the edge, he had had the ideas. Maybe there was a way forward. She would listen to his suggestions and agree as she had always done. She had no choice, no alternative; that had been the path of her life with him.
Was it for this that she had stood by him, waiting, and watching, transfixed with trepidation for a sign that he had changed? She was always searching for something, calculating, studying his expressions and his moods. However, the chances of him changing were as good as being born again, or her rising from the grave given her by the dead hand of fate. She’d have to stick by him; he had bound her destiny with his. Now, there was no tomorrow, only certain ruin.
39
“Isabelle English was someone’s daughter, someone’s friend, someone’s lover,” said Faith, studying the photos of the happy, smiling woman with the long dark hair and bright blue eyes. Her death spoke to Faith on a deep level. “Who would have wanted to kill her?”
“Who wants to kill anyone?” Angela sighed. “Some madman took a fancy to her. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know, better than anyone, how random these things usually are.”
“Usually,” muttered Faith.
“Do you think her death is connected with the Gleeson murders?”
“Same MO: gunshot to the head, execution-style, no evidence at the scene, or on the body. It certainly looks that way.”
“Except she was raped,” said Angela.
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Do you think she knew her killer?”
“Isn’t that what you lot are printing?” said Faith, finding it difficult to hide her irritation. “I’ve heard so much rumour and innuendo about Isabelle English that it’s almost impossible to differentiate fact from fiction.”
“Some of ‘my lot’ have no qualms about printing crap, but I’m not one of them,” snapped Angela.
“Sorry. I think someone’s leaking information to the press, and I know they’d write anything just to have a sensational headline. The Super’s livid about it. I’m livid. The front-page in this morning’s paper claimed that Isabelle had been having an affair with a local married man, so she knew her killer, which was ‘substantiated’ by the two wine glasses found in her kitchen.”
“Is that true?” asked Angela, wide-eyed.
“Two wine glasses were found in the kitchen, yes, but that doesn’t mean she had company the night she died. The killer could have staged the scene, or the glass could have been left there from the previous night. Anythin
g’s possible.”
“Including the possibility that she knew her killer, and she was having an affair,” interrupted Angela. “Maybe Isabelle was in Killarney because she was considering leaving her boyfriend and wanted space to think it through. Why else would she be here alone? He’s a writer; he could have travelled with her and written here.”
“According to her parents, Isabelle and Rory’s relationship was volatile. They broke up for a few months last year. Her parents didn’t know the details, but I got the impression that they didn’t want her marrying him,” said Faith. “And that’s strictly off the record.”
“Of course.” Angela held up her hands. “Do you think Rory’s involved?”
“Not directly; his phone records show that he spoke to her on the phone from New York just hours before she died.”
“Indirectly?”
Faith shrugged.
“Maybe Rory had taken out a life insurance policy on Isabelle. Maybe he hired a hitman to kill her in the same way that the Gleesons had been murdered, so that you’d think it was the same killer.” Angela’s mind raced with all the possibilities.
“I feel so sorry for her family,” said Faith. “Not only do they have to cope with her murder, they have to put up with all the lies and innuendo. What parent wants to read headlines like: Beautiful but Troubled?”
Angela had the good grace to look ashamed. “Her family is refusing to speak to the press.”
“No wonder, but that hasn’t stopped the press camping outside Isabelle’s holiday cottage. Her parents are staying there for a few weeks until after the funeral. Isabelle wanted to be buried there.”
40
Faith parked her Jeep at the bottom of the lane and walked the short distance to the holiday cottage. In the few days they had been staying there, Isabelle’s parents had erected an electronic gate around the house to keep intruders and prying eyes at bay.
The whitewashed cottage with the thatched roof was perched near the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. A converted farmhouse, it sat naturally in its rural surroundings, unlike many of the other holiday homes dotted along the peninsula.
The gate swung open as she approached. Peter English stood on the porch waiting for her. He looked older than his sixty-five years; Faith knew it would take a man of great fortitude to overcome the cruel hand that fate had dealt him.
He was a prominent broadcaster, and she often watched reruns of his late-night chat show. She admired his quick wit and ironic observations. On television, he’d always seemed like a powerhouse of a man, but now he was a shell of his former self. She followed him into the living room where his wife sat staring blankly out the window.
“Hello, Mrs English.” Faith hovered in the doorway.
Molly English jumped at the sound of Faith’s voice behind her. “Hello,” she said, standing up. “Please, come in. Has there been any news?”
“No news yet,” said Faith. “This isn’t a formal visit. I wanted to see how you were both doing.”
“That’s kind,” said Peter.
“Isabelle’s murder is all over the newspapers,” said Molly. “I can’t switch on the radio without hearing something about it.”
“Her death has had a lot of publicity because of her background and connections,” said Faith.
“I feel sorry for the locals,” said Molly. “Reporters are hounding them for a story. I suppose it’s understandable that they’re hanging around, what with everyone saying that the killer’s from the area.”
“We don’t know that,” said Faith.
“It’s ironic that Isabelle loved Ireland, and yet it was in her adopted country that fate dealt her such a terrible hand,” said Peter.
“None of this is Ireland’s fault,” insisted Molly. “This cottage and the Killarney people brought her so much peace and happiness. She fell in love with the place the moment she saw it.” She smiled wistfully. “It was her sanctuary away from the public eye. Nobody knew her here. She could take a break from Isabelle the actress, and just be herself.”
“Being here is our way of honouring her memory.” Peter sighed.
“Was she trying to escape something in her life?” asked Faith tentatively.
“No way!” Peter was adamant. “Isabelle never ran away from anything or anyone. She was a fighter. She came here to rest, never to run away.”
Faith glanced at the mantelpiece that had several framed photos of Isabelle. A candle glowed in the centre. Peter followed her gaze. Faith sensed their desperate need to remember their daughter as she had been. The photographs were a touching record of Isabelle’s journey through the different stages of her life, accompanied by the family she loved.
A photograph, tinted gold by the evening sun captured Molly as a young woman, on holiday with her daughter. She and Isabelle were sitting on a promenade wall with the blue sea stretching towards a headland in the background. Four-year-old Isabelle’s smile was angelic. It was a perfect moment; although it was frozen in time, its impact was even more poignant now.
Faith imagined how it would feel to look at the photographs of her own daughter. The thought of anything so horrific happening to her baby made her ache for the child she had never known. The hot sword of revenge burned in her heart.
“Isabelle talks to me at night in my dreams,” whispered Molly as she gazed at her daughter’s photo.
“She didn’t deserve to die like that,” said Faith. “No one does.”
“As much as we want to be here, it hurts because this is where Isabelle’s life ended,” said Peter.
“Maybe your presence in the town will encourage someone to come forward with information,” said Faith.
“Hopefully. I want you to know that we’re grateful for everything you’re doing,” said Molly, squeezing Faith’s hand.
“I wish I could do more.” Being with Isabelle’s parents made her determined to treat their daughter as more than just a victim. “What brought Isabelle to Killarney this time?”
“She was exhausted,” said Molly. “She was the lead actress in a play on Broadway all summer, and she wanted a break away. I think she invited a few friends to come to Killarney with her, but it was a last minute decision, and everyone had plans. We would have come, but we had booked a cruise. I wish she’d given us some notice. I feel so guilty. She’d still be alive if we’d been with her.” Angrily, she wiped her tears away. “When she needed us most, we weren’t there.”
Faith knew how cruel hindsight could be. “None of this is your fault.”
“I think she knew she was going to die,” said Molly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Peter, rolling his eyes.
“What makes you think she knew?” asked Faith.
“There was something in her voice when she last spoke to me. I could sense it.”
“You must excuse my wife, she’s always been superstitious.”
“Don’t talk over me, Peter! Just because you don’t believe in certain things, doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”
“What sort of things?” asked Faith.
“I know she hated getting older, she always said it felt like her life was on fast-forward.”
“She was hardly getting older,” said Peter. “She wasn’t even thirty-five. If that God you pray to had taken care of our daughter the night she died, she’d still be here today.”
“It’s not God’s fault.”
“Who else is to blame? I suppose you think Isabelle is up there in heaven now too, do you?”
“I believe that, yes.” She looked away.
“After everything that’s happened?”
“It’s better than believing in nothing, like you.” She got up and left the room, tears streaming down her face.
Faith didn’t know where to look. Eventually, her gaze alighted on the crucifix and religious statues in the corner. The devil that had preyed on their daughter had reduced them to nothing.
“I’m sorry.” Peter put his head in his hands. “We’re goi
ng around in circles blaming each other. Neither one of us knows what to do with our grief.”
Faith nodded, knowing what he meant. “Was it unusual for Isabelle to invite people to stay here?”
“It was out of character; she preferred being alone here. She spent most of her life surrounded by people, so she treasured any time on her own. Looking back, I wonder if she was worried about something.
“I’ve never liked this bloody house. I had an ominous feeling the first time I saw it. It’s too isolated up here on its own at the edge of the world, but Isabelle loved it here, and there was no changing her mind once she had her heart set on something.” He held her gaze for a moment. “You remind me of her,” he said.
“Would you mind if I look around her bedroom?” asked Faith, feeling unnerved.
“Of course. I’m sure you remember the way.”
Faith took the short stairs two at a time and turned into Isabelle’s bedroom. The last time she’d been there, the room was packed with forensics investigating the crime scene. Now, with order restored, it was difficult to believe that something so heinous had happened there. It looked like Isabelle would be back at any minute. A fresh duvet lay on the bed. Lilies sat in the vase by the window next to several white candles. A silk bathrobe hung on the hook behind the door. The bedside locker was stacked high with the latest bestsellers.
The simplicity of the house surprised her; she’d expected a hotshot actress to live in ostentatious luxury, but Isabelle had stayed true to the traditional design. The soul of the house’s former existence was still very much alive. She could understand the appeal of such a remote spot for someone who wanted to escape.
As Faith gazed out the window at the rough waves pounding the shore far below, she felt overwhelmed by Isabelle’s presence. The light scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. She shivered as she thought about Isabelle’s last night in that room.
Faith headed back downstairs, and through the rear door that led outside to the rugged, untamed countryside — the ideal killing ground. She imagined the killer chasing Isabelle into the back garden which was wild and overgrown. She retraced Isabelle’s footsteps across the rocky, uneven earth, through the nettles and barbed wire. Too many obstacles would have hampered her escape. She didn’t have a chance.