by Anton Palmer
If she only knew the truth…
“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mrs Howells?”
The middle-aged woman tucked her little blue savings book safely into to her handbag and smiled at Victoria. “No, that’s all for today, my love. Thank you.”
“Thank you. Have a good day…”
Victoria suddenly clamped a hand over her mouth and ran for the toilet. Mandy stared after her then turned towards Victoria’s customer, giving a shrug.
“Oh blimey…what’s up with her? Not pregnant is she?” The woman’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of a bit of gossip.
“Not as far as I know, “Mandy replied, her brow furrowing as she spoke, “but I am beginning to wonder…”
With her hot cheek pressed firmly against the cold white tiles of the cubicle wall, Victoria’s nausea began to subside a little. Sitting on the toilet seat, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply and slowly, attempting to force the clammy dizziness to recede completely. As she sat there she heard the ladies room door open and two people walk in. Their high heels clip-clopped across the floor tiles as they each made their way to a cubicle. Victoria pulled her feet up onto the edge of the toilet and wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself smaller, safer, wishing the two women would hurry up and finish. Hurry up and leave her in peace for a few minutes to gather her composure.
“Have you heard about Anna?” One of the women called to the other.
Despite feeling unwell, Victoria’s ears pricked up at the mention of her nemesis.
“No? What? Who’s she sleeping with now, the old slapper?”
“That posh bloke in Investments…Marcus.”
The blood drained from Victoria’s face in an instant.
They couldn’t be talking about her Marcus – could they?
“No! But he only got married recently didn’t he?”
“Yeah…but you know who he married, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“That religious nut-job on the counter…”
“Oh, I know the one. But she seems nice enough though, why’s he fucking around already?”
“Anna told me she’s frigid. Marriage never consummated.”
“Well… it didn’t take that old tart long to offer her services.”
“Between you and me, I think she’s got designs on being the next Mrs Shaw-Hamilton.”
“Designs on his money more like. Does his wife know?”
“I don’t think so…”
“Well…as they say - ignorance is bliss.”
As the women’s conversation switched to some other matter, Victoria tuned their voices out. As her thoughts tumbled over themselves in her brain, battling with each other to be dealt with first, she was only dimly aware of the sounds of running water and the whirr of the hand-dryers as the women washed their hands, and only vaguely registered the quiet squeak of the ladies-room door opening and closing as they left.
Alone again, she hugged herself tighter still in the cubicle. Her entire existence suddenly seemed to be imploding, her body physically attempting to occupy the smallest volume of space that it could and, in her mind, her thoughts compressing themselves into a dense, swirling storm of questions, disbelief and shock.
They were talking about Marcus.
Her Marcus.
Her husband of barely six months was cheating on her.
With Anna.
Part of her couldn’t bring herself to believe it, but a small voice, deep down, knew it was almost certainly the truth. Their marriage was on the rocks. Had been ever since their disastrous wedding night. Victoria had been too terrified to attempt sex again, tightening up, down below, just at the mere thought of it. Marcus had appeared to be understanding and considerate at first. He said he would give her space, not pressure her. That it was all his fault for treating her so badly the first time. But after just a few weeks he was pressing himself tight against her in bed, groping at her breasts, attempting to squeeze his hand between her clenched thighs.
When that approach failed to bear fruit – he started with the gifts. Flowers at first; big, beautiful bouquets of roses, lilies and carnations. Then jewellery; gorgeous gold necklaces and bracelets. And finally, the underwear; expensive silk, satin and lace - garments which Victoria shuddered to recall. Items she thought more suited to high-class prostitute than a wife. And when bribery also proved futile - the rows started.
Just general sniping at first. Little digs about her being frigid. Telling her what a ‘great body’ she had – and how it was completely wasted on her. But soon the extent of her husband’s frustration with her became all too apparent as the little digs turned into full blown verbal abuse at the slightest thing. Soon they were barely speaking to each other and Marcus was spending less and less time at home in the evenings, leaving Victoria alone in their bedroom, comforting herself with a bottle.
The nausea returned with a vengeance and Victoria was forced to quickly twist herself off the toilet seat and bend her head over the bowl to vomit. As her retching subsided and she gulped in air to get her breath back, she was startled by a light tapping on the cubicle door.
“Are you in there, Vic?” It was Mandy. “Are you okay? You’ve been gone ages.”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Why don’t you go home? Take the day off and rest up?”
Victoria blew her nose on a wad of tissue, plopped the snotty paper into the bowl and flushed. As she opened the cubicle door, Mandy gasped at the sight of her red, wet eyes and tear streaked cheeks, before hugging her colleague to her. “Oh, Vic…what’s wrong?”
“I’m OK…just not feeling well…” Victoria replied, the tears flowing thick and fast once more.
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Mandy looked into her friend’s eyes, searching for glimpse of confirmation that her suspicions of a pregnancy were correct.
“I’m sure. I’ll go home and rest like you said. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“OK. You wait here, I’ll go and square it with the supervisor and bring you your coat and bag. OK?”
Victoria nodded, sniffing back the tears.
“I’ll be five minutes.”
18
As she stepped out onto the gravel drive and closed the car door, Victoria was suddenly shocked to find herself at her old home. She struggled to recollect any part of the journey from work, her mind was so preoccupied that she had driven almost on auto-pilot and had certainly not started out intending to go to her father’s house.
She softly shut the front door on the outside world and closed her eyes for a second - the familiar smell of her ‘home’, despite its many dark associations, filling her with a degree of comfort. Marcus had been nagging her to put the house on the market for months but she refused. She said she didn’t feel ready to let it go just yet. Maybe she knew deep down that her marriage to Marcus was too good to be true and she would be needing her old home to flee to sometime soon.
As the familiar surroundings and memories began to overwhelm her senses, Victoria slumped back against the door. She sobbed loudly and unrestrained, secure in the knowledge there was no one around to hear her.
No one to have to explain to.
No one to have to admit her failures to.
And she was a failure. As a wife – she was a failure. She couldn’t do the one thing her husband needed. The one thing practically every other woman in the world managed to do. The one thing that even the animals could do…
She couldn’t blame Marcus for cheating on her. A man like him – good looking, wealthy, intelligent – she couldn’t expect a man like that to put up with a celibate life for very long.
It was her fault that he strayed.
It was all her fault…
Her eyes blurred and stinging with tears, she walked aimlessly around the house, running her fingers over various items and surfaces, as if seeking an answer, a solution to her problems. Anger and frustration grew with every step. She was breathing ha
rd and fast, eyes darting from side to side, seeking someone or something to take out her fury on, someone else to blame for her failures. As her gaze scoured the living room, her focus settled on the shelves of bibles beside the fireplace. She picked up a black, leather-bound volume in her hands, flicking through the pages, the biblical names and snatches of familiar passages fuelling the angry fire inside her. With a scream she threw the tome against the wall, a hand momentarily clasping her mouth in horror as the binding split under the force of the impact and paper leaves flew around the room.
For a split second, fiery visions of Hell burned in her mind. She had destroyed a bible – the word of God. That was an insult to the Lord himself…
But then the endorphins kicked in. And kicked in hard.
She had destroyed a bible – and it felt good…it felt fucking good!
Victoria grabbed a second volume and flung it across the room. She snatched another from the shelf, and another…laughing and shrieking like a lunatic. With every book destroyed her mental ‘high’ grew in intensity and soon she needed more. Her blazing eyes scanned around the room, at the hundreds of pages of religious text scattered over the floor, the shelves empty of the volumes that had filled them for as long as she could remember, the polished wooden urn on the mantelpiece…
The urn: her mother’s ashes.
Except they weren’t her mother’s ashes, were they? Her mother was buried in the dirt floor of the basement.
She grabbed the urn from the mantelpiece and ran her hands over the polished wood, feeling the grain beneath her fingertips.
How many times had she done this over the years?
How many times had she held the wooden vessel close to her chest and cried silent tears over the mother she never knew – the mother whose remains, she had been told, resided in this urn?
She lifted the lid and swirled an index finger around, stirring the grey powder inside, feeling her rage rise once again. She hurled the urn against the wall, her maniacal laughter interspersed with spluttering and coughing as the wood splintered on impact and a cloud of fine ash filled the air.
She stood in the centre of the room, her laughter gently subsiding, breathing slowing, heart rate - still pounding - but declining. Gradually coming down from her high. She stared at the mess: the detritus of the ruined bibles, the splinters of wood and the fine layer of ash that seemed to cover half the room.
The tears began to flow.
What have I done?
The laughter was barely audible to begin, faint, insidious, but steadily its intensity increased, growing louder and louder until Victoria was forced to clamp her hands firmly against her ears. But still the cacophony remained.
Her father’s mocking glee filled her head.
What have you done, my child?
Look at what you have done…
You are going to burn in Hell, Victoria…burn forever…
Her legs suddenly turned to jelly at the thought of her eternal damnation and she fell to her knees, panic catching her breath in her throat.
Unless you seek the Lord’s forgiveness…and you know what you must do for that to happen…
Her father’s derisory laughter still echoed in her brain as she crawled out of the living room on her hands and knees, heading for the basement.
***
Victoria lay naked, face down on the basement’s dirt floor. Her back stung and throbbed from the punishment she had inflicted upon herself and tears burned her eyes. She felt utterly beaten, utterly exhausted as she inhaled the musty dampness of the subterranean room’s cool air. With her last vestiges of strength she hauled herself across the dirt and sat back against cold brick, staring idly at the opposite wall. Her wet eyes scanned the dusty brickwork; the age-blackened cobwebs that clung to the coarse surface; the shelves of her father’s tools; racks of paint-pots; the wooden crucifix.
Her gaze settled on the final item, fresh tears flowing down her dirt-stained cheeks as she stared at the cross…
With every lash she had administered the question had nagged in her brain. Every stinging slap of the ‘discipline’ against her flesh had failed to silence the querying voice and, now as she allowed the image of the crucifix to burn into the back of her eyes, the voice grew louder and more urgent until it finally burst from her throat in a shrill scream, “Father! Will he ever be true?”
Which particular ‘Father’ the question was directed toward Victoria was unsure but the hollow laughter which preceded the response told her immediately which one was listening.
No, my child…not to you…
The answer hit her like a kick to the guts and all her hopes and dreams of motherhood crumbled under the impact. Adrenaline, rage, hate and grief surged through her veins, replenishing her strength as she sprinted up the basement steps, through the kitchen and living room and pounded up the stairs to her old bedroom. All she wanted to do was crash in the room she had grown up in. To bury her face in her own, cheap, pillows and inhale the scent of her life before Marcus. She burst through the bedroom door and froze.
The quilt was thrown back.
The bed-sheets and pillows were in disarray.
When she had last left, the bed had been neatly made, the quilt stroked flat and smooth. She stumbled slowly to the bed, her hand across her mouth in shocked disbelief. Deep inside she knew why the bed was a mess, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it…was unwilling to believe it. But as she stepped closer and saw the dried stains on the white sheets she knew.
She knew for sure. Marcus had slept with Anna.
In her bed!
She flew across the room and tore the sheets from the bed, lifting the heavy mattress with some supernatural strength, throwing it over the end of the bedstead where it lay, bent up against the flowery wallpaper.
“Father! What should I do?” She clapped her hands to her temples. Her brain was overloaded with emotions.
Hate.
Fury.
Loss.
Her religious sensibilities struggled to cope – it was wrong to hate, wrong to feel anger.
“Father, please! I’m begging you…please tell me what to do…” She broke down on the floor, her sobs racking her chest, her fingers clawing at the carpet in desperation. “Please…please tell me what to do…”
KILL!
“What?” Victoria thought she must have misheard.
KILL! Kill them both.
She stood up straight. The tears and sobs had stopped. The maelstrom in her mind had calmed.
“Yes, father.”
19
The sound of a Mercedes crunching over gravel drew Victoria to the bedroom window. She peered out and watched as her husband blipped his key-fob to lock the vehicle and walked towards the front door. He would be up in the bedroom in a minute or two, unless his mother called him into her room first.
Victoria took some deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves for what was to come. She lay on the bed, wrapped in her dressing gown, a book in her hands, attempting to look ‘normal’. She heard Marcus’s footsteps on the stairs, on the landing – he paused at his mother’s room for a second then continued towards his and Victoria’s bedroom. As he opened the door, Victoria placed the paperback novel on her bedside table then turned her gaze to her husband. As their eyes locked, the sub-zero atmosphere between them was palpable. Before he had chance to dismiss her and head to the shower, she jumped off the bed and stood in front of him, grabbing his hands in her own. She looked him in the eyes and dug deep within herself to summon up the strength to smile and kiss him on the lips.
Marcus stepped back, surprised but pleasantly so.
“Are you okay, babe?” he asked, a smile gracing his lips.
“Marcus. I need to tell you something…”
The smile dissolved from his lips. “What’s the matter, Vic? I heard you were sick at work today. Is everything okay?”
“I’ve been to a…therapist…” She looked at the floor in feigned embarrassment.
&n
bsp; “Therapist? What kind of therapist? Are you ill or something?”
“A...” She turned her face away from him as if ashamed.
Marcus pulled her closer. “It’s okay, baby. You can tell me. What kind of therapist?”
“It was a…sex therapist.” The words were barely audible as they left her lips. “He’s given me an exercise to try.”
“How do you mean – an exercise?”
“Well, Dr…” As she fumbled in her mind for a suitable name, her gaze fell on the Mercedes in the driveway, “…Carr says that my issues with…sex…could be due to my lack of experience and the fact that I might feel a little bit…intimidated…by you and your previous lovers.”
“Oh, Victoria...baby. There’s no need to feel like that. You’re the one I chose to marry…”
“Dr Carr thinks that if we try again in a situation where I feel more…at home…things might work a bit better.”
“Ok. So what do you suggest?”
“I want us to go back to my old house. My old bedroom. My old bed.”
Victoria struggled to hide her amusement as the colour visibly drained from Marcus’s face at the mention of her bed. “So, what do you think? Do you have any plans to go out this evening - because I want us to try tonight?”
“Well I had arranged to meet a few colleagues at the Golf Club – you know, business talk. What about tomorrow?”
“My confidence might have gone by tomorrow, Marcus. I want to try tonight. I want to get my problems sorted so I can be a good wife to you.”
“I know you do, Vic. And I appreciate it – I really do…but I’ve arranged this meeting…I can’t get out of it.”
“Marcus?” Victoria stepped away from him and slowly loosened her dressing gown. “I’ve been to the shops and bought something I think you might like…” She let the robe fall to the floor and stood before him.
Marcus’s jaw dropped, his eyes like saucers as he stared at the vision before him. Victoria – his wife – his cold, frigid wife was clad in a sheer, black corset and panties. With the bust pushing her ample breasts together until they were virtually spilling over the top and her dark nipples clearly visible through the semi-transparent mesh, Marcus’s penis was already rising to the occasion. As his gaze wandered downwards he sighed under his breath at the way the garment clung to her waist, emphasising the soft curves of her hips, and he let slip a moan of sheer delight at the sight of the panties – smooth and plump – full of her female charms.