Pattern of Shadows

by Judith Barrow

Through the light drizzle of rain, Mary saw the flushing of anger in Frank’s upturned face, the bloodshot eyes. Oh God, no. She stopped, watching him warily. The iron handrail, fastened to the wall, was cold and wet under her fingers. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He raised one leg, placed his foot alongside hers on the step and pushed his face towards hers. ‘I’m waiting for you.’ He prodded his finger at her chest. ‘I hear you’re in love?’ He emphasised his words with five more pokes of his forefinger.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mary stepped off the last step and tried to push past him, suppressing the rising panic in her throat. ‘Get out of the way.’ Shifting closer, he grabbed hold of the end of the rail, trapping her against the wall. She glared up at him smelling the beer fumes on his breath. She turned to go back up the steps but he put his other arm past her, his hand flat on the stones. ‘Get out of the way, Frank.’ She kept her voice low, strong; determined not to let her fear show. ‘If you don’t let me past I’ll tell Patrick.’

  ‘I don’t care about your fucking brother. He’ll get his soon enough, just you wait and see.’

  ‘Let me pass.’ Mary forced herself to sound angry.

  ‘How about I go and see the Camp Commandant? You’ll be in big trouble then. That bastard’ll be transported to Canada.’ He rocked forward. ‘I can do that … no trouble, don’t think I won’t. And you … everybody will know about you … Mary Howarth … the fraternizer … the collaborator.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so stupid.’

  Mary shoved his arm and he stumbled against her. Her head jerked backwards and struck the rough surface of the slimy stone. She felt the burst of sharp pain and when she opened her eyes she was dizzy, the pale sunlight, breaking through the clouds and glistening on the wet leaves above, blurred, cleared and blurred again.

  Frank regained his balance and grabbed her wrist. She dug her nails into his flesh, trying to prise away his fingers, but he was too strong and he pulled her under the bridge. Using one arm to shield her body, she pressed herself against the wall and twisted away from him. His whiskers scratched as he sucked at her neck. Forcing his chin against her jaw, he searched for her lips and thrust his tongue down into her throat until she gagged. He drew back to stare at her, his breathing rapid, flecks of spittle in the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re my girl,’ he said, teeth gritted and forcing his arm behind her, crushed her against him. ‘It’s about time you learned that.’

  ‘Let me go.’ Her arm was still trapped between them. She tried to dig her elbow into his stomach but he was too close, so she thrust the heel of her hand upwards into his jaw, pushing his head backwards. He moved to free himself and brought his forehead down on to the bridge of her nose.

  Mary heard the crack inside her head and the sudden pain brought tears. Without a sound she slumped against him, blood streamed over her mouth and chin and she swallowed, choked, as he tightened his grip on her waist, almost lifting her off her feet. Her head flopped back, her blood spraying over Frank’s chest. ‘Get off me.’ The words were spat out along with the metallic salty taste of her blood that made her retch.

  He didn’t speak. The canal lapped against the banking. One of the bottles disappeared with a plop. In the distance a dog barked and a car passed on the road above them. The sounds were barely distinguishable through the rushing sound in Mary’s ears.

  He pressed his hips hard against hers and pushed her cape aside, ripping the buttons off the bodice of her uniform and pulling it down over her shoulders. Her arms were trapped. Pushing his thumbs under the straps of her brassiere and petticoat, he pulled them out of the way and grabbed her breasts.

  Mary gasped in pain. ‘No.’ She brought her knee up and, for a moment, his leg gave way and he cursed, viciously pinching one nipple. She squeezed her eyes shut and twisted her head from side to side; she didn’t want to look at his face so close to hers. The pins that fastened her cap to her hair snapped on the stones. The skin on the side of her face scraped across the stones on the wall.

  Mary thought she heard the crunch of footsteps on the bridge and lifting her head yelled, ‘Help! Please, help me.’ The scream echoed along the water and was choked off as he held his forearm against her throat. Seizing her between the legs, he moved his hand over her stomach and grabbed the waistband of her camiknickers. The material split along the seam and they slid down to Mary’s ankles. ‘No!’ She fought to free her arms, as the bodice of her uniform cut into her skin.

  Using his head and shoulders to hold her, he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, covering her body with his. Mary struggled, her face squashed against him and fresh blood gushed from her nose again. She cried out, ‘Get off me,’ light-headed with pain, but Frank ignored her and, balancing himself, he stood on his stronger leg and used his other knee to force her legs apart. He plunged first one, then all his fingers deep inside her.

  ‘Come on, Mary, enjoy it,’ he panted. His sweat mingled with her blood, her tears.

  ‘Get off! Stop it … Frank, please … no!’ The sickening rush of sound, the flashes of bright light and blackness consumed her: she was going to faint. Her feet slid sideways and with one heave Frank grasped her buttocks, lifted her so he could enter her and thrust upwards. She cried out, the pain bringing a fleeting bitter recollection of Peter’s gentleness. Seconds later, Frank groaned and shuddered.

  Then he was gone. Mary was barely aware that someone was gently laying her on the path, cradling her head and brushing aside the rain-drenched strands of hair from her face. Eyes still closed, she rolled on to her side and drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them. As though from a distance she heard the crunch of footsteps, the sound of blows, and then Frank’s shout, ‘You! You f–’

  Somewhere behind her Mary sensed more movement and then someone spat; a great gathering and explosion of phlegm that reminded her of her father. There was a loud thud, a wheezing expulsion of breath followed by smaller duller sounds, each followed by gasps until finally there was a loud splash. Mary tried to open her eyes but it was too much effort. She lay still and listened to the thrashing of water, the choking and spluttering. Someone was struggling in the canal but the tiniest movement, the smallest shift, caused a spasm of pain that took her own breath so she lay still and waited and heard Frank’s voice again.

  ‘Bastard.’

  So it was Frank in the water. His voice was high and thin, Mary could tell he was frightened. Nearby the short quick breaths of the man, Mary was sure it was a man, gradually evened out.

  Frank again, gulping for air. ‘I can’t …’ There was almost a rhythm to the splashing now as though he was treading water but then there was silence.

  Mary’s eyelids flickered. She tilted her head back and saw a pair of black boots before the light caused a spasm of pain behind her eyes. Whoever was by her moved quickly away from the shelter of the bridge. She heard the squelch of mud, a snap of a branch, the return of footsteps and then, all at once, more thrashing in the canal. The man, yes it was definitely a man, knelt by her and there was a swish of leaves. Mary was splattered with drops of rain.

  Frank was screaming now, ‘I can’t swim, I can’t swim,’ over and over again, each cry cut off by watery choking. And then, ‘Bastard.’ The angry outburst must have left his lungs empty because he sank each time he spat out the word, ‘Bastard.’ Mary imagined the blackness waiting each time for him, each time lasting a fraction of a second longer than before. She heard him the last time he broke the surface. ‘Bastard,’ he coughed. And then he was quiet.

  Mary lay motionless, the pain hitting her simultaneously across her cheekbones and between her legs. Sounds came and went in waves; shouts, boots scrabbling on loose stones, the splash of water, voices. Someone knelt by the side of her, tried to hold her. ‘No.’ She flailed her arms, squeezed her eyelids tight and waited until the darkness took her to an unreachable place.

  Chapter 51

  May 1945

  The rich smell of leather mixed
with lavender polish. The Coroner sat behind the long mahogany table. A large man with thinning grey hair and spectacles, he filled the upholstered chair which he gently swivelled from side to side as he read the notes in his hand. Every now and then he glanced over the top of glasses at the dozen people scattered about the six rows of chairs in front of him.

  Sitting between Jean and Patrick, Mary closed her eyes, although most of the swelling around her nose and eyes had gone, the bruising, now mottled purple and yellow, still hurt and the heat in the large room was oppressive.

  The Coroner – Mary had been told he was the same man, a solicitor from a large firm on Bradlow, who’d had a role in the inquest when Peter was shot – now leaned forward, his arms resting on the desk. ‘To sum up,’ he said, ‘this inquest was convened to look into the death of Frank Shuttleworth on,’ he glanced at the papers, ‘on the 27th April 1945 at Ashford and to seek and ascertain the cause of his death.’

  There was a moan from the other side of the room. Mary looked behind Jean along the row to where Nelly Shuttleworth was clutching a wicker-shopping basket to her chest and resting her forehead on the handle. Frank’s brother, George, was sitting next to her, one arm around her ample shoulders, and he was glaring at Mary. She felt a frisson of fear; his eyes were flint grey, darker than Frank’s, but it was the same baleful stare.

  She turned away, forcing herself to concentrate on the Coroner’s words. He appeared to be as uncomfortable as her in the stifling heat. He was wearing a shirt and tie under a thick tweed suit and now he was sweating. He removed his spectacles and wiped a large white handkerchief over his red face as he spoke.

  ‘I would like to thank the three witnesses, Mr Baxter and Mr Stokes, for their accounts of what they saw from the bridge above the canal after the incident and Miss Howarth for her clear account of the sequence of events leading up to the deceased’s death.’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘So far as she can remember them. I have noted that at the actual point of his death she was only partially conscious and has therefore only limited recollection. I wish her a speedy recovery from the injuries she incurred.’ He looked at Mary, his lips twitching into a small smile.

  ‘The pathologist established the cause of death as drowning. However witness statements and the injuries sustained by Mr Shuttleworth immediately before death indicate without doubt that he suffered a violent and unnatural end.’ His gravelly voice deepened. ‘A death instigated by a third party or third parties and it is my view that there is a strong possibility that he was first beaten and then thrown or pushed into the canal.

  ‘Therefore my verdict must be unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.’

  ‘Huh! I think we all know who the bloody third party was.’

  The Coroner removed his glasses and looked at George. ‘And you are?’

  ‘The brother of the poor bugger what’s been murdered.’ Nelly tugged at his jacket as George stood. ‘Murdered by one of her bloody family.’ He pointed at Mary. Mary heard the stifled exclamation from Patrick.

  ‘You have some evidence that you wish to present?’

  ‘Ah, what’s the sodding use?’ George Shuttleworth jerked his coat from his mother’s grasp and flung himself out of the room, leaving the door open and letting in a cool waft of air. Mary breathed deeply, noticing that her brother was doing the same.

  The Coroner nodded to a policeman at the back of the room who closed the door. Then he coughed and replaced his spectacles. ‘To continue, I am satisfied that I am now able to instruct the Registrar to register the death of Mr Shuttleworth and to issue a Burial Order. However I have been informed that thus far the police authorities have been unable to discover the identity of the third party or parties and investigations will continue.’

  The words echoed in Mary’s mind as she stood on the steps of the Town Hall.

  ‘Come on, let’s go to Lyons’ for tea.’ Jean held Mary’s arm. ‘It’s all over, no more worrying. The Registrar will issue the death certificate, they can get the funeral over and done with and then you can forget all about it.’

  ‘I’m off back to work.’ Patrick circled his cap in his hand. ‘OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Jean nodded.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me, Patrick,’ Mary said.

  He looked down at his boots and then up and down Manchester Road. ‘Right.’ He clumped down the steps and, without looking back, jumped on the platform of a passing bus.

  ‘Jean, now he’s gone, there’s something I need to ask you. Peter –’

  ‘Shush,’ Jean hissed.

  ‘What?’ Mary glanced around. ‘Nobody knows who I’m talking about. I just want to know if he’s all right, if he’s said anything about me?’ She put a hand to her throat. ‘Does he know Frank raped me? And if he did, how did it make him feel?’

  ‘I’m not doing this, Mary.’

  ‘Jean –’

  Her friend sighed. ‘He’s fine as far as I can see. He’s back on the ward full time and no.’ She held up her hand as Mary started to speak. ‘No, he’s not mentioned you to me lately. I told you before, after the … attack he asked how you were and I told him. Twice. And then I had to tell him not to ask again. I’ve said it before, Mary, don’t involve me, Patrick would go mad.’ Jean put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘The whole hospital knows what happened, Mary, so Doc –’ She stopped. ‘So Peter must too. No one blames you for anything. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Except for Frank’s cronies,’ Mary said bitterly.

  There were footsteps behind them. ‘Mary?’ Nelly Shuttleworth stood on the next step.

  ‘Oh God, what next?’ Jean tugged her arm. ‘Come on.’

  Mary let herself be led away. Looking back at the woman she said, ‘I can’t … not yet.’

  She knew she would have to talk to Frank’s mother sometime; to explain how it had ended up like this. But not yet.

  Chapter 52

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. I was on this side of town and I wanted to see if Mary was all right.’

  Winifred looked the woman up and down. Dressed in black the large figure filled the doorway. ‘She’s not up to visitors.’

  ‘I know.’ The woman fingered the clasp of her handbag and looked past Winifred. ‘I just wondered if …’

  ‘Who is it, Mam?’ Mary stood in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Well, it’s not the police again, thank God.’ Winifred moved to one side.

  ‘Mrs Shuttleworth,’ Mary couldn’t prevent the shock in her voice.

  ‘I was just saying …’

  ‘Mam this is …’

  ‘I heard.’ Winifred started to close the door. ‘I don’t want you in this house.’

  Nelly’s face crumpled. ‘I know how you must feel, Mrs Howarth.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault, Mam.’

  ‘She brought him up.’

  ‘And I’m ashamed for what he did,’ Nelly said. ‘He always had a temper, just like his father.’ She fumbled in her handbag and brought out a handkerchief. ‘He was worse since he came back home. He said it was Dunkirk. I always thought something would happen.’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘But not that, never that.’ She put out her hand towards Mary. ‘I am so sorry. I haven’t known what to do.’

  ‘It was his funeral today, wasn’t it?’ Mary said quietly. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

  Nelly looked down at the step. ‘We had him buried at St John’s. He wasn’t religious, he didn’t believe in it, but he was christened C of E so I thought it only right.’

  Winifred snorted. ‘There was nothing right about that bugger.’

  ‘There was nobody there, just George and me.’ Nelly’s shoulders shook.

  ‘Come in.’ Mary moved back. ‘Let her in, Mam, she shouldn’t have to stand on the doorstep.’

  ‘I don’t want her in the house.’ Winifred stood firm.

  ‘Well, I do,’ Mary said. ‘Let her in.’

  There was disgust on Winifred’s face as she stamped down the hall. She was jus
t closing the sideboard door when they walked into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll be in my room.’ Wrapping her shawl around her arms she pushed through the stair curtain. Mary sighed, looking from Winifred to the sideboard. ‘All right?’ her mother challenged.

  Mary shrugged and, crossing the kitchen, sat on her father’s chair.

  ‘How are you?’ Nelly stood near the table, twisting the handkerchief. ‘I tried to ask last week.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, it was difficult,’ Mary said.

  ‘I know, lass.’

  ‘But I’ll be fine,’ she faltered. She saw Nelly flinch. ‘I’m OK. If it wasn’t for the nightmares.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have come.’ She was close to tears.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve been wondering how you were.’

  Nelly glanced at her, surprised. ‘I thought you’d hate me.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Mary said. ‘I should have gone to the police when he started following me all the time.’

  ‘Following you?’

  Mary kept her voice low, ‘And threatening me.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Nelly sat down hard on one of the kitchen chairs, her hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t know. I could have done something.’

  ‘There was nothing you could do. I’ve thought about it a lot lately.’ Mary smiled at her. ‘Frank was ill; we both know that, don’t we?’ She hesitated, wondering whether to say the next thing. ‘Have the police spoken to you since the inquest? Have they any idea who it was?’

  ‘No.’ Nelly sighed. ‘And you didn’t see?’

  ‘No,’ Mary said, ‘it’s like I told the Coroner, I just heard the fight.’ She shifted in her chair. ‘And then lots of shouting.’

  Nelly stared down at her hands. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just now your mother said something about the police. Was it about Frank’s murder?’

  ‘No,’ Mary said, ‘they were here about Tom, my elder brother. He’s in prison: Wormwood Scrubs. He’s a Conscientious Objector.’