Pressure

by Betsy Reavley

  ‘I’ve no real experience on feature films.’ My throat felt dry and my voice was lost in the vast glass space.

  ‘Not to worry. Mr Holden knows all about your experience. He has been impressed by what he has heard.’

  I felt myself blushing. I’d never been comfortable with compliments, especially from strangers.

  ‘Mr Holden needs a producer for his next movie. And he thinks you would be right for the job.’ Her eyes fixed me through her fashionable glasses.

  ‘I’m truly honoured.’ I pulled the sleeves of my jumper down over my hands and fumbled with the fabric, feeling more like a little girl than a woman.

  ‘Shooting will begin in four months.’ Monica straightened some papers in front of her. ‘Do you have any problem with water, hon?’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank leant forward and looked at me for the first time. ‘You know, that wet stuff. The thing the sea is made out of. Water.’

  ‘Oh, erm,’ I stuttered, ‘no, I like water.’

  Frank sat back and roared with laughter and I felt my cheeks turn red.

  ‘Good, because we are going to be immersed in it during filming.’

  I looked at Monica, hoping she would shed some light on this bizarre conversation, but she had no intention of interfering with how Frank did things.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said finding my voice and some courage, ‘but I don’t quite understand.’ The career woman in me decided enough was enough. I’d had too many years in my life when I’d been made to feel stupid. I wasn’t about to return to those days.

  ‘It’s in a submarine, doll. That’s where part of the film is set. You’ll be on board for a few weeks, a couple of months at most. Think you can handle it?’

  I took a moment to let it sink in. It was the strangest meeting I’d ever attended.

  ‘I think I am up to it,’ I lied, feeling extremely unsure.

  ‘Don’t look so frightened.’ Frank smiled, showing all of his perfect Hollywood teeth. ‘I don’t bite.’

  Monica suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable and adjusted her glasses. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

  ‘Look, doll, you don’t need to worry. You’re not my type. I like my girls curvy. Ironing boards just don’t do it for me.’

  I was speechless and Monica, who was clearly used to this kind of thing, did a brilliant job of deflecting the conversation.

  ‘We are so thrilled to have you on board, Ms Sparrow. Someone will be in touch shortly with the schedule.’ Monica got up out of her seat and came around the table. ‘It has been a real pleasure meeting you, hon.’ She put out her hand and I noticed her perfectly applied dark brown nail varnish. I also noticed that she wasn’t ‘curvy’ and thought to myself she must be grateful for that.

  Taken aback by the lack of information I’d been given and the bizarre discussion that had just taken place, I stood and shook her hand. For a second our eyes met and we shared a look. It was the type of moment that only two women can share. An unspoken understanding passed between us.

  ‘Four months, doll, that’s all you have.’ Frank got up out of the chair, the leather squeaking as he did so. ‘Think you can do it?’

  ‘As soon as I have the information I need I will start work on the project.’ I trembled slightly on my legs as I collected my bag from the floor beside me and allowed myself to be shown out by Monica who, despite her name, is nothing like a cherry.

  34

  Child

  After Nick left Mummy stopped talking to me all together. When I came back from school or went downstairs in the morning she pretended I wasn’t there. She stopped getting much food from the shops and instead ordered takeaways, or ready meals that were just for her. This went on for months.

  One day, while I sat daydreaming in the lunch hall, I remembered Percy once muttering about the number of poisonous plants that we came into contact with on a daily basis and decided to investigate the matter myself.

  It is amazing what you can learn from reading. Held within the pages of one book, that I found in the local library, was all the information about just how many dangerous plants grew wild in the English countryside. I took the book home and studied the contents, while a plan started to take form in my mind.

  I learnt that hemlock, which is often found in riverbanks and ditches, can cause sickness if eaten and can kill by paralysing the lungs.

  Foxgloves are also toxic. Despite the fact they grow in many gardens, they can cause diarrhoea, vomiting and even heart attacks if any part of the plant is eaten. But the most deadly plant in Britain is belladonna, often referred to as deadly nightshade. Although the roots are the most toxic, the whole plant can be fatal if an adult eats only a very small amount. The symptoms can be blurred vision, confusion, dilated pupils and convulsions. Finally, it attacks the nervous system and the ability to regulate breathing and heart rate. But the fact that amazed me most was that although it is extremely poisonous to humans and other domestic animals, rabbits and cattle seem to be able to eat the plant without suffering any harmful effects. Reading about animals made me think about Robin. I closed the book and soon the tears came. As was often the case, I cried myself to sleep.

  The next morning I woke unusually early. Sitting up in bed I listened to the chorus of the birds outside. It was a lovely sound and I felt my spirits lift until I was reminded that Robin was dead. Then I spotted the discarded book lying on the floor and realised what I needed to do.

  I needed to poison Mummy.

  After studying a lot more about the plant deadly nightshade, I learnt my best chance of finding it would be during the summer months in the woods.

  The winter and spring went slowly and I became more and more withdrawn. School was awful and home felt like a prison.

  By July, as the academic year came to an end, I could see a light at the end of a very black tunnel.

  Mummy had removed anything of comfort from my bedroom in the winter and my bed no longer had a mattress. She said it had been soiled by my disgusting acts with Nick. She dragged it outside and set fire to it. The ground was scorched and the smell that lingered for some weeks after was rank.

  When the long summer holidays arrived, I spent time in the woods searching for the special plant that I hoped would free me from my miserable life. It wasn’t as easy to find as I’d hoped. I spent many hours scouring the woodland floor looking for the tall plant with its small flowers and dark berries. By August I was beginning to give up hope of ever finding it. Then, one day as I wandered through the woods a few miles from our house, I spotted it. A ray of light was filtering through the branches and leaves above, making the dark berries glisten.

  I had read enough about the poisonous plant by then to know I needed to be careful, so I removed a pair of gloves from my pocket, put them on and held the plant carefully in my hand. It was as if it was talking to me, telling me to use it. The little berries looked a bit like blackcurrants. They were pretty. I picked a large handful and wrapped them in a tissue, which I put in my pocket, before skipping back through the woods in the direction of home.

  That night, while Mummy slept, I crept downstairs and opened a kitchen cupboard. As I squashed the berries into a jar of jam I realised how fitting it was that nature would have its revenge on Mummy. Robin was still with me, willing me to do this and get justice.

  It was ironic that one of the few things Mummy couldn’t bring herself to stop buying was jam. She had it every morning on her toast. It was the one of the few things I had to eat. She always did have a sweet tooth.

  Creeping back upstairs to bed I felt an excitement I’d never felt before. That night I didn’t sleep. The anticipation was too much. Although I’d read a lot I didn’t know what to expect. I had read that some people survived belladonna poisoning and hoped that it wouldn’t be the case this time.

  When I heard Mummy wake up and go downstairs I went and sat on the top step, listening intently for the sound of the toaster popping. When I heard the noise I almost s
quealed. I’d wished I could have sat opposite her and watched her stuff her face with her jam toast.

  Fifteen minutes later she left for work. I spent all day patiently waiting for her to come home early suffering from illness but it didn’t happen. When she strolled in at the normal time she appeared fine and my heart sank. But I knew it might be too soon to expect any reaction.

  For the next three days that was my routine. I barely slept, and in the mornings sat on the stairs listening to her making her breakfast. Soon I began to wonder if the poison was working at all, but just as I was about to consider a different option, Mummy appeared home early one afternoon.

  She came into the house and dropped her bag on the floor. I’d been sitting on an armchair in the living room reading when she returned.

  ‘What are you looking at, worm?’ Her voice sounded dry and sore.

  I knew better than to answer back so I grabbed my book and legged it up the stairs to my bedroom. A few minutes later I heard her bedroom door close. Perhaps this was it.

  Over the next few days she deteriorated slowly, complaining of blurred vision and feeling sick. Gradually her speech became slurred and she grew disorientated. As the end grew closer she was too weak to get out of bed.

  I would stand in the doorway of her bedroom, looking at her with the same revulsion she had bestowed on me and it felt so good.

  She was confused and hallucinating. Her pupils were dilated and occasionally she managed to beg me to bring her water, which I did. I wanted to prolong her pain.

  Just over a week after she’d first ingested the berries she started to have fits.

  Watching her die, I knew what I was supposed to feel. I was aware of how others would have reacted. They would have felt guilt and pity but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I felt relief and happiness.

  I watched Mummy fade away with fascination. Her soft skin was stretched tight over her protruding collarbones and skinny shoulders. She hadn’t eaten in days and had become fragile. At last she knew what it was like to be me.

  I watched her as I would a mosquito under a microscope. The tiny hairs on her powerless body stood up, static as if with the excitement of being watched.

  She became no more to me than a slab of meat and her dying gave off a sickly sweet smell of sweat and vomit.

  Do you know what I’m talking about? Have you ever smelt it?

  It’s the odour that lingered beneath the scent of her cheap perfume and booze and cigarettes. It’s a perfume like no other that speaks to the senses and draws you in. That alone is intoxicating. That alone would be excuse enough.

  But I see more than that.

  Below the smooth skin and bones I saw an entire network of life. The throbbing, bloody passages were a map. Beneath them the organs tried to pump and work to keep her body going but it was pointless. She was dying.

  I would fantasise about seeing what was under her skin. To see it split, raw and bleeding just as it had been with Robin. I’d imagine a tool cutting through her flesh, just like when you split open a peach – the softness beneath my fingertips and the moisture beneath the velvet skin. Yes, I was right. Women are like peaches and I had waited until Mummy was ripe.

  You think I’m stupid with my idioms. You’d prefer it if I came up with something entirely original. At least that is what you tell yourself. If I said I wanted to bury my face into the gashing wound of a dying woman, if that was the only thing that made me feel human, you’d turn away.

  When I looked at her I saw an experiment, an opportunity to explore and learn something new. I saw more than just revenge.

  Sadly, though, it stopped and she fell into a coma. My disappointment was bitter – I wanted her to suffer until the very end.

  Rather than leave her like that I decided to have mercy. I wanted to show her that I was better than she was.

  I took a knife from the kitchen, went upstairs to her bedroom and sliced open her throat.

  I will never know if she felt a thing – but at last she was gone.

  35

  The Pica Explorer

  Day five. Hour 22:00.

  ‘Anya’s dead?’ I gasp. ‘How? Who did it?’

  ‘Let’s just say it doesn’t look like natural causes.’ Sam’s face is pale.

  ‘Where is she?’ Susie asks.

  ‘She’—he gulps—‘her head has been caved in.’

  From the other side of the room Frank begins to chuckle. The laughter starts in his large belly and rises slowly until it settles in his throat by which time it sounds more like an animal is choking.

  We do our best to continue our conversation, trying to ignore the violent and wild sound that is erupting from Frank.

  ‘I can’t stomach this smell and it’s only going to get worse. Who is doing this to us? Why won’t they stop?’ My mouth fills with saliva and I have to swallow it down.

  ‘I’m going to deal with it.’ Sam smiles confidently ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘How?’ Susie asks.

  ‘I’m going to move them all into one room at the far end of the sub and try to seal the door.’

  Imagining him having to carry those rotting, broken bodies made me feel even more queasy.

  ‘You can’t do it alone,’ Susie says without offering to help.

  ‘I can. What choice do I have?’ The young selfish guy who first stepped onto The Pica Explorer has turned into a man right before my eyes. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’ Sam turns his attention to Frank who remains cackling, still.

  ‘How will you move them?’ I ask, not really wanting to know the details but fascinated nonetheless.

  ‘I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ll work it out.’ Sam shrugs. ‘Will you both be okay if I leave you with him again?’

  Susie and I look over at Frank, both being careful not to make eye contact with him.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s happened. Why is he behaving so strangely? Why is everyone acting crazy?’

  ‘It’s the lack of oxygen,’ Susie says. ‘It makes people act oddly.’

  ‘How do you know this stuff?’ Sam asks.

  ‘I used to read a lot as a child,’ she admits. ‘Look, we’ll be fine. Just go.’ Susie straightens up and nods decisively.

  ‘You still have the knife?’

  ‘Yes. Right here.’ Susie pats her side.

  Before leaving us again, Sam takes a moment to regain his composure before setting off to undertake his grim task.

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’ I reach out and grab his hand. It is ice cold.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He smiles briefly before disappearing again.

  Susie and I remain standing by the doorway listening to his footsteps as they fade into the distance.

  ‘He’s very brave,’ I say, trying to get the image of Anya’s body out of my head. ‘But what if it’s actually him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Susie sounds distant and I wonder what she is thinking. ‘Let’s eat something. I fancy a jam sandwich. What about you?’

  ‘The thought of food makes me feel quite sick if I’m honest.’ I put my hand on my churning stomach. ‘And I don’t really like jam sandwiches. I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘You should have something, even if it’s small.’ Susie sets about getting the bread and jam while I remain glued to the same spot, still cloaked in the blanket for warmth, looking down the corridor. I don’t understand how she can eat at a time like this. Isn’t she worried that a madman is on the loose?

  I accept a slice of bread that is beginning to turn stale and tear off the crust, which I take small bites from.

  Susie sits down at the table and starts tucking into her jam sandwich like a starving animal while I pick at my food, forcing myself to eat it.

  From the other side of the room I see movement and swing my head to see that Frank is now standing up. He stretches and yawns like a big bear waking from hibernation. He scratches his stomach and then fixes me with a stare. I feel Susie tense and reach for the knife.

  Frank shuffles over, movi
ng awkwardly, and I wonder why. He stops just a foot away from where I am seated. He is a big man and his frame towers over me.

  ‘Frank?’ Susie shifts in her chair. His silence is troubling her too. He remains standing over me, looking down at me as if I am prey. ‘Frank?’ she asks again looking over at us.

  It is at that point that he grabs me by the throat and pulls me up to face him. Drawing my face closer to his, he sticks out his fat tongue and proceeds to drag it down my cheek. As if I am watching this happen from a distance I hear Susie gasp.

  His grip on my neck is tight enough to allow me to still breathe but too tight for me to cry out.

  Then, with his other hand, he starts to fumble with the flies on his trousers. I try to turn to Susie to ask for help but I am frozen with fear. Seconds later she runs screaming out of the room leaving me alone with this monster.

  ‘Pretty little thing, aren’t you?’ Frank runs his tongue over my mouth and I taste his foul breath as he slams me down onto the floor, lying down on top of me and pinning me to the ground with all his weight.

  I close my eyes, unable to witness anymore, but cannot escape the noises of his grunting and the feel of his hands around the waistband of my trousers, trying to find a way in.

  This is it, I think to myself. This is the moment that I die.

  ‘If I’m going to die in this stinking place, I’m going to die fucking.’ His words run through me like a shockwave. But then everything stops.

  I can no longer hear the sound of his breathing or feel his heartbeat pressed against my chest. Suddenly everything is very still but he feels heavier than before. Something has changed.

  When I open my eyes I see Susie and Sam standing over us. There is blood on Sam’s hands and Frank’s body has collapsed on top of mine making it difficult to breathe. A large knife is sticking out of his back.

  Then the screaming begins, and it takes a moment before I realise that the sound is coming from me.