The Sacrifice

by Donna Collins

  Bob stood in front of her, looking way too smug. He glanced towards the orderly. “It’s okay, I can take it from here.”

  “No, the orderly needs to push me. It’s hospital policy… right?” Eliza twisted in her seat.

  “Hey, you jus’ need to be transported in da chair. Makes no difference who by.”

  Bob disappeared behind her and the chair started to move towards the exit again, albeit at a much slower pace. “So, what happened to you last night?”

  “I don’t wish to talk about it.”

  “I heard you can’t, that you’ve got amnesia. Have you forgotten everything that happened last night?”

  Oh God, please don’t go there. “Such as?”

  Eliza heard the smile in his voice as he spoke. “We hooked up. A kind of...pre-birthday celebration.”

  Bob leaned down, and murmured, “Man, you were so hot. I could come over tonight. Finish what we started?”

  “I thought you finished yourself off?”

  His warm breath left her ear. “You do remember? So what the hell am I doing wasting my time?”

  The wheelchair quickened its pace, only to come to an abrupt halt at the main entrance and launch Eliza onto her feet. Darkness spotted her vision and for a moment the corridor blurred. She held her position and waited for her head to clear, then walked unsteadily to the exit.

  Outside, the fresh air seemed to agree with her. Her head cleared a little, and her senses sharpened enough to see the small gathering of local reporters and onlookers watching the unmistakable figure of her father on the far side of the car park. Eliza couldn’t hear what he said, nor did she care. All of her life she’d listened as he manipulated the press, and from where she stood now it looked as if his over-rehearsed performance was, as usual, delivered with perfection and pure conviction. She turned away and walked to the black limousine that blocked the ambulance entrance. The driver leaned against the bonnet, totally engrossed in the grotty tabloid he held, and didn’t hear her approach. She’d only met him once before, but it was obvious when he finally glanced up that he had no idea who she was.

  “Daddy said to take me home,” Eliza said, hoping that would clear things up. When it became apparent he was having some trouble digesting her request, she held out her hand. “I’m James Hamilton’s daughter, Eliza.”

  Flustered, the driver scrunched the paper under his arm and shook her hand. “Miss Hamilton. I wasn’t informed you’d be joining us today. Your father shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Haven’t you been updated? You’re just taking me home now.”

  The driver seemed a little unsure. He glanced at the podium.

  “Another car is coming for Daddy.”

  “Oh, of course.” And without any further hesitation, the driver immediately opened the rear door. Probably for the last time, as the poor soul would be sacked for sure when her father found out she’d duped him.

  “Miss Hamilton, what a pleasure,” a familiar voice called out.

  Eliza froze. It was Davis, her father’s long-time aide. She contemplated jumping into the car and getting the hell out of Dodge before he cottoned on to what she was doing. She had much affection for Davis. He had, after all, been around more than her own father had while she was growing up, and after the death of her mother, she didn’t know what she would have done without him. But his loyalty always fell at her father’s feet. If Davis caught the slightest whiff that Eliza planned to go home, her cunning scheme would be foiled before the limo had time to reach the car-park exit.

  Instead, she put on a brave face, turned, and took him into a gentle hug. “Hello, Davis. It’s good to see you.”

  His grey hair was thinning, and his back slightly hunched under the toll of age and waiting hand over foot on her father. Regardless, he seemed genuinely happy to see her.

  “How have you been, Miss? It’s been lonely at the house these past few months since you moved out.”

  “I’m only a few miles down the road.”

  Davis nodded, unconvinced. He faced the driver, who waited by the open door. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Home,” Eliza said.

  “Without your father?”

  “Daddy said I could take the limo.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Uh huh, as I wasn’t feeling too well.”

  An awkward silence fell between them and Eliza knew it was only a matter of time before Davis checked with his employer.

  “Well, I must go. Feeling awful an’ all.” She half-hugged the old man again, this time only briefly, and climbed into the back of the car. “Tell Daddy I’ll see him later.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roman didn’t like being questioned.

  Not by his mother, not by his brother, and especially not by somebody who, at this moment in time, held him over a barrel by his nuts. No. Roman needed a back-up plan.

  He sat back and tried to admire the view.

  The waitress placed the pint glass on a beer mat, and smiled a smile that probably earned her extra tips with the other punters. Roman declined to leave one. Music pounded from the speakers, each beat blasting vibrations to the ends of his fingers and toes. With music this loud, body language was the only way to communicate, and this waitress spoke volumes. She turned from him and walked her long legs back to her station. Twenty-first-century girls sure didn’t have any qualms about showing off their bodies, unlike the ones he’d grown up with.

  Roman picked up his glass. On the napkin, scrawled in black biro, was her phone number. The waitress leaned on the bar and flicked her hair. Here it comes, Roman thought. Sure enough, she glanced over her shoulder, her tight T-shirt stretching across her breasts, and her skirt struggling to cover her pert bum. As no other girls in the club caught his eye, Roman raised his glass. Although not really his taste, she was still more appealing than the one he’d left standing naked in his kitchen.

  Around him, girls smooched on the stage, their silky bodies gyrating to the dulcet tones that caressed the room, curling the metal poles like constrictors around their prey. A leopard-print bikini top fell by a dancer’s feet, and she gracefully wrapped her slender legs around a pole and arched her body backwards until her head touched the floor. In true implant style, her breasts didn’t move. A man reached forward and tucked some of the club’s dance dollars into the elastic of her G-string. She smiled, seductively licking her finger, and trailed it down the middle of her toned stomach. A little too eagerly, the man tucked in further cash.

  Sucker. Roman turned away. Fancy paying for it when they’d give it up for free. He gulped down a mouthful of beer, and checked his watch. The windowless club was dim, subtly conning customers into believing that time inside the place stood still. But outside, morning had arrived, and in another hour or so the club would close. Until then, Roman decided to drink while he thought of a plan to ensure his end of the deal with the old man came through.

  On the table in front of him lay Eliza’s bag. Scattered around it were her driving licence, a parking fine, some makeup, and a letter from a solicitor regarding her recent house inheritance. He looked at the letter again – more so at the address. She didn’t live too far from here. Roman turned back to the stage, but didn’t watch the dancing girl. His mind was on Eliza…Or what he assumed the old man thought she was.

  He drained the remains of his drink and whistled to the waitress to bring him another beer. She did, a tray balanced skillfully on her hand as she wiggled her backside between the tables, her shoulders pinned so far back Roman swore her breasts would rip right through her T-shirt. She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.

  Roman didn’t return it.

  She was so hot for him, she made this whole scenario way too easy. If Roman had a conscience, he may feel sorry for her. But he didn’t have a conscience, at least not where she or any other female was concerned. Easy or not, she was still a lay, something he could use to release all the damn tension tha
t old man had brought him. He needed to gain control. Something he knew wouldn’t happen without a fight, no matter what the old fucker threatened. Roman had been stupid handing over the two pieces of wood the daft old git was so obsessed with – though, knowing what that wood represented, Roman could understand the obsession. Shit. He really had to do something about his weakness for money. So now, the old man had most of the wood as well as the blood. And Roman had nothing other than a sour taste in his mouth.

  The waitress placed a second beer on his table. Roman studied her more carefully. Her face was quite thin as far as faces went, and she had a dimple in the middle of her chin. He turned away, his focus once again on what he stood to lose if his deal with the old man went south. Was Roman barking up the wrong tree with Eliza? Probably. But what if he wasn’t? What if Eliza was the answer? What if her blood was the key into Heaven? And Roman had let her slip right through his fingers.

  The tension in his neck worsened. He reached for the shot glass that remained on the waitress’s tray, and downed it in one. “You got five minutes?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.” Christ, did he really have to spell it out?

  “My break isn’t for another hour.”

  “Forget it then.” Roman scanned the room for his second choice, the girl in the corner by the cigarette machine. Damn, he’d need another beer if he was going to do her. He got up to leave. Standing, he towered over the tiny waitress. From this vantage point, he saw the black roots that separated her bleached hair from her scalp.

  The waitress grabbed his arm. “I could say I need the toilet. Get Charlene to cover?”

  “Whatever. Just do it quick. I’ll meet you out back.”

  The waitress put the tray down on a nearby table and sashayed over to the bar, where she spoke to another employee. The woman, much older and looking like she’d been around the block more than a few times, turned and studied him. If Roman had thought about it sooner, he could have mentioned having the girl by the cigarette machine join them. Maybe another time. A double act would definitely distract him long enough to get this building irritation out of his head. The waitress pointed out back and then disappeared through a door to the side of the bar. Her legs were nice, he’d definitely give her that.

  Roman pushed open the door and morning light flooded the dingy club, highlighting the cigarette-burned carpet and peeling wallpaper. He pulled his baseball cap down over his face to shield his eyes from the brightness, and stepped out onto the pavement. An OPEN sign hung above the club door, the pink glow emphasising the black painted brickwork stained with dried urine. The empty streets showed little sign of life, and his footsteps echoed along the side alley. His neck ached, and his back felt as stiff as a board. The sooner that waitress had her hands on him, the better he’d be.

  He found her waiting beside a stack of bottle crates in the very far corner. She spotted him and pounced, her tongue warm and wet as it slithered across his neck. Her mouth found his ear and she nibbled at his lobe. Roman closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation, but he couldn’t shake the fact that he was about to be shafted on this damn deal.

  The waitress unbuttoned his shirt, quick, like an expert. She trailed her hands over his skin and down to his belt, loosening the buckle. The buttons on his jeans popped: one, two, three, four, five. Roman didn’t move. His mind was elsewhere. He needed something, anything, to give him the power back. The wood he was collecting in Paris maybe?

  The waitress took his hands and placed them on her breasts. “Do you like?”

  They felt weighty, like two bags of water. At any other time Roman would have ripped off her top and had her nipples in his mouth. So why not now? He tried to focus, grabbed the waitress’s hair, and pulled her close. Her cheap perfume and the stench of cigarette smoke clung to her clothes and assaulted his nostrils. His lips found hers, and a disgusting taste of cherry lip balm invaded his mouth. Her hand moved down towards his waist and slid beneath the elastic of his boxers. Roman pulled it back out, and without uttering a word, he seized her by the thighs, slammed her against the brick wall, and forced himself between her legs. He ripped her panties to one side and fumbled inside his jeans. The waitress tried to kiss him, but he turned his head, entering her hard and fast, wondering if she’d be able to take it. Her delighted squeal confirmed she could.

  Roman pounded harder, and the waitresses’ squeal morphed into a much deeper, pleasurable groan. Her arms curled his neck.

  “Don’t,” Roman said.

  The waitress removed them. A smile cocked one side of her mouth, and she stretched the neckline of her T-shirt down over her left breast. She was bra-less. She licked her finger and teased her already erect nipple. The look in her eyes was one of a cat bringing a dead mouse to its owner.

  “Put it away. That ain’t what I came for.”

  The waitress pouted, obviously hurt by Roman’s comment. Roman didn’t care. His only mission was to get a load off, and then maybe he would be able to think more clearly.

  Any rejection the waitress felt quickly dissolved, and soon her groans filled his head once more. Roman tried to block her out, but the more he did, the more Eliza Hamilton dominated his thoughts.

  He stopped, and withdrew from the waitress.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Roman buttoned his trousers. “You’re what’s wrong.”

  “I can do it better.”

  Roman re-buckled his belt. “You’re not the girl I need.” He fastened his shirt and, without saying another word, he turned and left the alley. He had a plan.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Autumn had arrived in the Cornish village of Polperro, bringing with it freakishly warm weather.

  Normally, waves would be crashing against the cliff rocks, causing the ocean spray to soak anything within a fifteen-metre reach. Cafés and craft shops would be all but closed in preparation for the winter season, and the harbour would be desolate. However, as the limousine crawled around the cobbled streets, what Eliza saw was a hive of activity. Tourists trudged the rickety streets and quaint antique shops in a desperate bid to take home a reminder of their last-minute getaway. Children walked with ice cream cones while others played on the beach, their parents keeping a watchful eye as they soaked up the rays outside the local inn and enjoyed a much-needed beer. It reminded her of good times before Billy had been sent away. They’d been close then. Inseparable. Billy had looked out for her. Protected her when their parents argued. But he’d returned from boarding school a different person. Unhappy. Frustrated. And with a growing resentment towards their father.

  The limousine rounded the narrow lanes and finally pulled to a stop directly in front of Eliza’s house. The driver hurried to open her door and Eliza clasped his hand, accepting his offer to help her from the car. For a moment, she let the welcoming breeze caress her weary body. Her neighbour, a tall, thick-set man known only as Mr. McKenzie, swept imaginary dirt from his front path. As a child, after Billy had left, Eliza had spent many nights and the occasional school holiday with her gran. During those times, she’d watch Mr. McKenzie return home from work, sometimes with his black and yellow uniform still clean, and sometimes with it covered in smoke and soot. It was those days, after he’d been fighting fires, that he’d sweep his garden.

  Mrs. McKenzie appeared with a cup of coffee, her bright-pink lipstick dazzling in the sunlight. She patted her husband’s shoulder and he stopped sweeping, looking relieved at the opportunity to take a break. He took the mug from her and they exchanged a few words while Mrs. McKenzie straightened his collar. Then she disappeared back inside their house.

  Watching the two of them made Eliza feel eight years old again, and a small smile curled the corners of her lips, thankful that some things never changed. Mr. McKenzie looked up and waved, but before Eliza could return the gesture, he’d already returned to sweeping the brick-red path. Eliza’s hand remained poised mid-wave. Embarrassed, she patted her hair and faked straig
htening it.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Hamilton?” the driver said.

  “No, thank you. You can go.”

  Eliza watched the young lad get back into the car. She felt like the worst person in the world. Guilt that he’d probably be out of a job by tonight resurfaced, and she called after him to apologise, but the limo was halfway down the road and out of earshot. Eliza stared down at her shoes, scuffed and covered in dirt; her clothes, grimy and covered in blood. The limo driver drifted from her thoughts, and now all she wanted was a much-needed bath.

  “Eliza?” It was the sing-song voice of Mrs. McKenzie.

  Eliza sighed. She really didn’t feel up for a conversation.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” the lady cooed from across the narrow lane.

  Eliza waved even though she knew it would encourage a visit.

  Mrs. McKenzie was by her side in ten short, tottering strides. She motioned towards the disappearing limousine. “He seemed a nice strapping young man. A friend of yours?”

  Eliza made a mental note to call her father and beg he not sack the driver. “Not really, no.”

  “How are you feeling? I heard about last night. Are you okay?”

  How on earth did Mrs. McKenzie know about last night already?

  “And so soon after your grandmother’s passing. She was a lovely lady. We sure will miss her.”

  Eliza tried to answer but Mrs. McKenzie cut her off, something she frequently did. She patted her platinum-blonde Dolly Parton wig, seemingly to check the pink flower still held its place, and motioned towards the foil-covered bowl she clasped to her voluptuous bosom. “This ought to cheer you up.”

  She leaned in closer, the frilly, low-cut blouse purposefully accentuating her assets, and the sweet smell of her perfume bringing a tear to Eliza’s eye. “It’s Stargazy Pie.”

  “Oh. That’s nice of you.” Eliza had never heard of Stargazy Pie, but accepted the dish. She balanced it in one hand, reached under the front mat for the door key, and slipped it into the lock.