House of Straw

by Marc Scott

  More than three million souls travelled on the London Underground on that day, many of them tired and disillusioned with their pitiful existence. But on that warm evening, two of those passengers were blinded by the promise of a twisted fantasy in those half-empty carriages, both caught up in a moment of madness that would last more than a thousand days. One travelled northbound, feeling that there was a new meaning to her life. Krista felt as if a pulse of electricity had shot upwards through her body and woken a spirit that had been dormant within her. Those beautiful brown eyes were sparkling like diamonds as she smiled at her reflection in the glass. The other happy passenger had a southbound destination. Commuters in his carriage must have assumed that he was extremely drunk or high on something. His beaming grin had not left his face since he waved Krista off onto her train. He closed his eyes tightly as he inhaled her exotic perfume that lingered on his collar. Those other passengers in his carriage may have been right, Dean was high, he was extremely high, but it was not an abuse of any illegal substances that had taken him there.

  * * *

  The drowning man was still lost in the rapture of his fantasy at he peered out of the hospital window. The panes of glass had misted over, much like Dean’s recollections of his past. His eyes were still fixed on the streets below, but he was not paying attention to anything that was happening. That body beneath the bedclothes wasn’t being much help. Maybe if he could speak he could have asked the drowning man why he never told Krista about his daughter until she was nearly three months old. Surely if his favourite ‘monster’ had liked him as much as he thought she did, she would have understood. But Dean was no risk-taker when it came to his love life. He hid the truth from the two women in his life, never realising how much it would eventually affect the third.

  There had been no movement on the clock face, nor in the hospital bed, but it did not concern the drowning man anymore, he was gradually becoming more aware of the purpose of his surroundings. He frowned, as somewhere in his rambling mind he tried to justify some of the mistakes he had made. ‘She was always different from the other children,’ he said, his words still falling on deaf ears. ‘Poppy, she was always different. She bit some little kid once, in the creche, she can’t have been older than two. She sank her teeth into his arm, she wouldn’t let go, not for anything. I told Hannah, but she never believed me, she was too busy popping her bloody pills and getting drunk to notice it. But I did, I knew she needed help, proper help, even back then.’

  Dean closed his eyes. He didn’t want his thoughts to travel too far down that dark corridor of his life, he wanted the pleasant pictures to return, he wanted to remember the better times. His mind was full now, of hazy images, of a sunny day, a happy girl in a brightly coloured T-shirt. She was sitting opposite him in a small boat, laughing, shouting, not a care in the world. He knew deep inside his bruised and battered brain that he should have done something, he could have made things better, better for everyone. But he chose to bury the truth away, hiding his failure beneath a hundred thousand empty bottles of alcohol.

  ‘It frightened me!’ he said, so quietly that the figure in the bed would not have heard him, even if he had been remotely interested in his latest tale of woe. ‘I always thought that her bloody moods and temper tantrums were normal for young kids. But it frightened me, when I found the brick, covered in blood, behind the rabbit cage. It frightened me, because I didn’t know what to do!’

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy counted the money she had received in tips that night. She had done well, almost £40. She tucked it away in a safe pocket inside her bag, hoping that Cameron would not find her windfall. In her head she knew that she should be saving any extra money she earned. She had to find over £400 in rent arrears for Rahwaz, but she also needed some new work trousers too. Danny had been more than generous that evening, giving her Chantelle’s share of the rewards for the busy night in Chez Blanc. The immature young waitress had got drunk on four glasses of house wine and been sick on the new carpet. Not only did Poppy have to cover for the heavily intoxicated youngster, but she had also spent half an hour on her hands and knees, cleaning up the girl’s vomit.

  Matt had been his usual self that night, telling inappropriate jokes and flirting with her to the point where she was forced to throw a soup bowl in his direction in a bid to keep him quiet. Once Chantelle had been whisked off by an unsuspecting taxi driver, the poor man somewhat puzzled as to why Danny had tipped him £5 in advance, Poppy was left to serve the diners on her own. She did not complain. If anything, she had been pleased to see the back of the youngster, who was rapidly becoming an irritant on Poppy’s radar.

  During the evening, a table of twelve local businessmen were celebrating the award of a large overseas contract and had already spent over £700, before Danny invited them to stay for a drink after normal hours. He moved them to a table in the corner of the restaurant, firstly to keep them out of the view of nosy passers-by, but mainly to get them as far away as possible from the stench of Chantelle’s little ‘accident’.

  Danny’s gesture was well received. The group were pleased to continue their celebration and added another £200 to their bill. So not only did Poppy clock up a few extra hours that night, she also earned the bonus sitting pretty in her bag. But it was half past two now. She knew that Cameron would be furious if he was still awake. Looking up from her car she could see the lights dancing merrily on the curtains in their living room. The television could be heard blaring out loudly through an open window. She hoped that he would be, as he was most nights, fast asleep on the living room sofa.

  Poppy’s hopes, however, were dashed the minute she entered the flat. A raging bull approached her in the shape of her boyfriend. Cameron was stripped down to his waist, as if he was about to enter a cage-fighting ring. ‘Where the fucking hell have you been?’ he screamed, grabbing her neck as she tried to squeeze past him. ‘Working!’ she yelled back. ‘Where the hell do you think I have been?’ She freed herself from his grip and took off her jacket.

  He followed her as she made her way into the kitchen. It quickly became clear that he was in no mood for a civil conversation. ‘I asked you a fucking question!’ Cameron bawled. ‘Look at the clock, don’t tell me you have been working until this time!’ Poppy picked up the kettle and half-filled it with water. She really needed a cup of coffee, not her jealous boyfriend bawling in her ear. ‘Is it that fucking Geordie bloke?’ he yelled. ‘You are always talking about him.’ Poppy ignored his comment, changing her mind about the coffee and throwing a tea bag into a mug she had just cleaned. ‘I will ask you one more fucking time,’ her boyfriend yelled. ‘What the fuck have you been doing until this time?’

  Poppy knew it was best not to ignore him, he was clearly angered by her late arrival home. Maybe telling him the truth would suffice. ‘Danny asked a table of people to stay, they were spending big money, so someone had to serve the drinks. I made a few quid in tips. I will let you have some of it tomorrow.’ Poppy hoped that the enticement of some cash to fuel his nasty habits might be enough to pacify him.

  But she was wrong. As the kettle began to steam, she put her hand forward to fill her coffee mug but never reached it. Cameron grabbed her and forced her head down with a heavy thud onto the draining board. Twisting one of her arms behind her back and pinning the other to her side with his bulky frame, he began to vent his frustration. ‘You’re a lying slag!’ he screamed. ‘You have been with that northern cunt!’

  Poppy began to twist and turn in a bid to get free. ‘Let me go! Cam, I swear I will fuck you up if you don’t let me go right now!’

  Cameron grabbed her hair, pulling her head backwards before slamming it down onto the work surface next to the sink. He lowered his head and looked her fully in the face. She could see the rage in the pupils of his eyes and smell the stale tobacco on his breath. ‘Let me go!’ she screamed. She could feel the anger building up inside her, like a dormant volcano
ready to explode.

  ‘I should have fucking known,’ her boyfriend yelled, forcing her head down again, this time much firmer, scraping the side of her cheek against the worktop. But as her body came back up, Poppy’s hand slipped from his grasp and her clenched fist caught him directly between his eyes and hit the bridge of his nose. ‘Fucking bitch!’ he screamed, twisting her arm behind her back and regaining control.

  ‘I swear, Cam,’ Poppy bawled at the top of her voice, ‘I swear that when I get out of this I will go sick on you! Let me go now or you will be fucking sorry!’ Cameron grabbed her much tighter now, pushing her body over the draining board and landing a punch to the side of her ribs. He raised her head again and thumped it with force into the stainless steel surface, sending some undried cutlery crashing to the floor. She winced in pain. Her whole torso began to wriggle as she tried to get out of his grip. Suddenly, she felt his arm reach over her head and lift the handle of the boiled kettle. Small streams of steam were still escaping through its lid. Before she could say another word, Cameron had tipped the kettle forward, releasing several drops of scalding hot water onto the side of her head. Poppy hollered loudly, releasing a long cry of pain. It reverberated around the walls of the kitchen, sounding out like the echoes of agonising screams from a medieval torture chamber.

  But he wasn’t finished there, he raised the steaming kettle above her head and began to tip it forward. ‘Go fucking sick on me, will you? You dirty slag!’ he yelled, as the boiling water searched its target. Poppy pulled her head to one side, but not before she felt the burning liquid catch the back of her head and top of her neck. She screamed again, a howling cry of pain. Cameron finally freed her hands and looked on as her battered body fell to the floor. She rolled sideways, moaning in agony as she raised both hands to clasp the back of her head.

  Cameron bent down as she cowered on the floor. There was still a burning rage in his eyes, he felt she had not been punished enough. He stood up swiftly and swung back his right leg, aiming a fierce kick at her body. It found its target in the small of her back. His second kick was not so accurate, she was turning at the time, but it still caught the side of her shoulder. He leaned down to survey the damage, a gloating smile of victory cracked across his face. There was no mercy in his drug-fueled mind tonight. In Cameron’s head he thought that she had gone too far, he had to let her know she could not mess him around. ‘Go sick on me will you, bitch?’ he barked. Poppy turned her head away and raised her arms to protect herself, but he didn’t stop. Cameron grabbed her hair and turned her face towards him so that she could listen to what he had to say. ‘I am not a fucking mug. I am not like that fucking little weasel that you carved up on the Marfield!’ he said. ‘Don’t think you can treat me like a fucking mug and get away with it!’

  She badly felt the urge to retaliate, she desperately wanted to hurt him at that moment. But Poppy could feel her aching limbs and an intense pain in her neck. She knew she was beaten tonight. She closed her eyes and hoped he would leave her there. He did, but not before aiming one last kick into the side of her shoulder. She bit her lip hard as a sharp pain raced through her body. ‘Fucking slag!’ he yelled as he left the kitchen, turning off the light on his way out, as if he might somehow want to hide the results of his merciless attack. His last kick had really hurt her badly, she wanted to burst into tears, but she knew that she wouldn’t. It had been many years since Poppy gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing her cry. No matter how much pain she might be in, tonight would be no exception.

  As Poppy felt the remains of the scalding water trickle down her back, beneath her shirt, the sharp measure of pain began to sink in. Slowly moving her aching body sideways, she looked into the living room to see if Cameron had gone to bed. He hadn’t, he had found her bag and was riffling through the contents. She watched on as he discarded her makeup pieces and moisturiser, finally finding her secret pocket and what he was really looking for. Screwing the money up in his hand, he threw her bag across the room, turned off the television and headed for their bed, slamming the bedroom door en route, as if to confirm that she would not be welcome in there that night. Usually, she would have bounced back up, she would fight back, an argument would ensue. But there was no fight left in her at this time, her battered and bruised torso had received enough punishment for one night.

  Poppy clambered onto her knees and swung her legs around in a bid to reduce the pain she was suffering. She slid across the dirt-stained floor, to the corner of the kitchen, ending up in a fetal position. As she lay in the darkness, she touched her battered limbs, she was aching all over. Her neck was stinging as if it had been set on fire and she could feel her heartbeat throbbing through the back of her scalded neck, a thumping sound, like a slow-beating drum.

  As she looked out of the heavily grease-smeared windows, between the tatty lace curtains, she could see the flashing lights of an airplane, high up in the dark sky. Her vision was somewhat distorted, but she followed the lights at the rear of the plane until it was almost out of view. It made her have strange thoughts, it made her think of Mr Houghton and of piano wire. It had been a long time since these thoughts had come back to haunt her, but she knew that if she had some piano wire, here, right now, that she would finish him. She would not let Cameron get away with his brutal assault.

  * * *

  The plane’s lights were distant now, but those memories were never distant, they were always there, a constant reminder of the daily hell she had suffered at the hands of others. She was ten or maybe eleven years old. Birthdays came and went without anybody noticing them during those first years in care. She did remember that it was a few months after the incident at the Bluebridge children’s home. She had just been given a new caseworker, Laura, a pretty woman with short dark hair and a soft voice. She seemed nice when Poppy first met her.

  The Houghtons were the third or fourth foster family to take her in. She had not got on too well with the previous ones, they had not liked Poppy at all. Laura had bought a new suitcase for her. It was pink with a grey trim. Her new caseworker had felt sorry for Poppy, having seen her carting around an old tattered sports bag that looked like it had been found in a rubbish bin. Laura had not been too pleased with the last family’s treatment of Poppy. One of the foster carers had been heavy handed with her after she had refused to do chores around the house. Three days later, the poor girl still had traces of his hand marks at the top of her legs. As Poppy packed her new case, Laura told her that she would like the Houghtons, that they were a lovely elderly couple who had been waiting patiently to foster a child for a couple of years and that she would be happy with them.

  They seemed nice, the Houghtons, they seemed like very nice people when she first met them. He was a retired music teacher, she was a heavily built bubbly lady who wore very colourful flowery dresses. Mrs Houghton took to Poppy from the first moment they met. ‘I am going to call you Poppet,’ she said. ‘My little Poppet, I think it suits you better.’ Poppy found the name quite endearing. She had been given many nicknames at her previous foster homes but most of those had been quite vile and insulting.

  Mr Houghton seemed to like her too. He would often take her with him when he went to other people’s homes to fix their broken pianos. She found it fascinating, watching the precision and the patience in his old fingers as he fine-tuned the wiring.

  They could be very strict at times. Poppy had a set bedtime, nine o’clock, not a moment later. They warned her against using bad language in their home. Even the word ‘shit’ would not be tolerated. The old couple did not like her to put her elbows on the table during mealtimes and they would check her toothbrush every night to make sure she had brushed her teeth. The Houghtons also controlled the type of programmes that she would be allowed to watch on the large television in the lounge. Cartoons and children’s entertainment were OK, but nothing with nudity or bad language, that was a definite ‘no-no’.

  He taught her to play
some simple tunes on the piano in his ‘special’ music room. She liked that, but when he had tried to teach Poppy to play the recorder he became quite angry when she told him that she thought it was boring and was just for ‘little kids’.

  She guessed that the couple were in their late fifties or early sixties, but despite his wiry frame, Mr Houghton was very strong. He would often carry large boxes of music books around and once she had witnessed him lifting one side of the large piano all by himself, to retrieve a missing songbook. He wasn’t as friendly as Mrs Houghton, she always did her best to make Poppy feel special. During the first few weeks at their home, the larger-than-life lady took her to a big shopping centre a few miles away. It was massive. Poppy had never seen so many shops in one place. She bought her some new colourful dresses and skirts, telling her, ‘We can’t have such a beautiful young lady wearing those scruffy jeans all the time, can we, little Poppet?’ Poppy had only ever owned jeans and trousers before then. She did remember wearing dresses when she was very small. She found it strange to start wearing them again. Mrs Houghton also showed her a special trick, one she had learned when she had worked for a dry-cleaning company many years before. When her clothes had been washed and dried, she showed Poppy how to fold them away, neatly and carefully, so that there would be no creases when she took them out of her drawers. The clothes always smelled so fresh too. Mrs Houghton was forever washing them, even if they didn’t seem to need cleaning.