by Ashe Barker
And the bottom drops out of my world.
It’s him. The man from the riverside in Bristol. The man Kenny and his dickhead mates mugged, the very same man whose state-of-the-art camera is now sitting on my table. It couldn’t be more prominent and incriminating if it were illuminated in green neon. Exhibit A, m’lud.
I feel the blood drain from my face as I wait for him to recognize me. Without a shadow of a doubt I know that matters will not take long to be resolved from there. I’m dead. Simple as that.
If I’d been able to lay claim to even the remotest shred of composure I might have slammed the door in his face, made some sort of excuse and made a run for it. It wouldn’t have taken me more than a few minutes to sling everything I own back in my car and be out of here. But in that moment, unfortunately, presence of mind eludes me entirely. Instead, I stand in the open doorway gaping at him.
“Is this a bad time? I can come back later if you’d prefer…?” He makes no move to enter the cottage, just stands there, on my doorstep, a puzzled expression on his face. His very pretty face, I now idly note. It was dark when I last saw him and he was covered in mud. And his eye was swollen and pretty much closed, none of which enhanced his appearance. But now he looks fine, better than fine, he’s stunning. He’s absolutely beautiful in that male way that some men can manage and seem to find so effortless. Men who are perfect.
Tall, solid, golden—Tom Shore is without any doubt at all the most gorgeous specimen of masculinity I have ever come across. Not that I’m a connoisseur exactly, but still, even I notice these things. He’s also big. Huge, in fact, towering over me despite standing on the step below me. And the last time he saw me he promised faithfully to wring my neck if he ever got his hands on me. Well, now’s his chance. This won’t take long.
“Are you okay, Miss McAllister? You don’t look well…”
Still I stare, desperately searching for something, anything, to say. Anything to get rid of him.
He’s obviously baffled by my bizarre behavior, but valiantly hanging onto his good manners. All very commendable really, which is more than could be said for me as I make no attempt to either ask him to come back later, or invite him in. I’m just rooted to the spot, and speechless with fear.
Clearly at something of a loss, he tries once more. “Look, I can tell it’s not a great time. I’ve got some papers for you, and I need to take a quick reading from the electricity meter if that’s okay. Then I’ll get off and leave you to it. Okay?”
Still I stand in the doorway. Still I make no response. And now he’s beginning to lose his patience—there’s a distinct edge to his voice, of what I’m not sure, but it unnerves me even more.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Miss McAllister? Look, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I do need to just come in for a moment…?” He’s looking at me, and makes to step forward.
That’s all it takes, and I lose it. “Get out! Get back and leave me alone!” I try to slam the door in his face, but it’s already much too late.
The door bounces off his shoulder and I scramble frantically back into my little sitting room, clutching my terry robe to my chest as I try to run for the stairs. I trip over the hem of my bathrobe and find myself on my knees behind my fireside chair. I hear his footsteps, heavy on the solid wooden floor, as he quickly skirts the cluttered furniture to reach me. I’m desperately scuttling across the floor as he looms over me, his shadow blocking out the light from my small window. He crouches in front of me, trapping me between the chair and the wall.
“Whoa, Miss McAllister. I only want to drop off your lease contract and read your meter. I’m a farmer, not a bloody ax murderer. Here, let me help you up.” He holds out his hand, and I cower away from him, covering my head with my arms. Perplexed, and no doubt by now convinced he’s got a total nutcase for a tenant, he drops his outstretched hand, stands, backs away.
“I’ve upset you, obviously. I don’t know how, but I’m sorry. I’ll leave the contract on the table. And I’ll just check the meter then I’m gone, okay?” He strides away from me into my tiny kitchenette, crouches in front of the cupboard under my little sink, then he’s back, passing me on his way out.
“There, done.” He turns, and I peep up at him in time to catch him looking longingly at the door, still swinging open. Seems he can’t wait to get out of here and away from his crazy new tenant. But he stops. He keeps his distance but still he’s here, dominating my tiny home.
“You sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He’s making no move toward me, but looking at me very carefully now.
Still totally unable to function normally, I shiver and try to curl myself into a tinier ball. And that’s my undoing. Maybe if I’d been able to keep my nerve, act more naturally, brazen it out, he’d never have made the connection. But no, I’ve got to draw attention to myself by groveling on the floor, at his feet. Now, that’s me looking familiar. It was only a matter of time before he started to put it together.
“Have we met before, Miss McAllister?”
Oh God! Oh Christ!
“You look like… You remind me of someone. I’m not sure, though…” There are a few more seconds of silence as he rifles through the recesses of his memory looking for me, for where he’s seen me before. Then, inevitably, he has it.
“Fucking hell! It’s you.” He doesn’t raise his voice. His tone is icy, withering. And all the more terrifying for that. But he does now come over to me, and I can see his boots a few inches from my hip as he stops alongside me, glaring down no doubt at this heap of rubbish shivering on his nice, polished wood floor.
“You thieving little bitch. I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”
In that instant, in that clash of recognition, my old life comes hurtling back at me in all its undimmed ugliness, the violence and the fear still intact and ready to engulf me once more. I’m choking on toxic, soul-shredding terror. I experience a moment of bewildered, horrified disbelief. How did this happen? What’s this ghost from my past doing parading up and down in his steel toe-capped work boots in my wonderful, shiny new present as though he’s every right to be here? And poisoning my future.
I remember him vividly from our one previous encounter on that dark, damp riverside in Bristol as being a large man, muscular, solid. But now he just seems huge, monstrous, my small cottage dwarfed by him. I know how this is going to end. Kenny was handy with his fists, I’ve been beaten up by a man before. Many times. But I suspect this will be the last time. I probably won’t survive this. Not only is Tom Shore three times my size, he also hates me. With good reason. He has a score to settle.
Tom Shore, my landlord in Yorkshire, the owner of my beautiful new home, whose goodwill is so fundamental to my well-being now, is the same man whose pockets and briefcase I rifled through eighteen months ago in Bristol as he lay battered and bleeding in the mud. And now, it’s his turn.
He’s standing over me. I don’t raise my head but I can see his work boots, dusty and well worn. I stupidly wonder why he’s not wearing wellingtons. He’s a farmer, he said. I thought they all wore wellingtons. His jeans are blue denim, also well worn, soft. He’s not shouting at me, but his voice is low, controlled, ominous. More dangerous somehow.
“What the fuck are you doing here? And where’re the rest of your thieving crew? Have you followed me here? So help me, if you robbing bastards have started your bloody antics here I’ll strangle you, and let the police have what’s left when I’m done.”
I don’t answer. I just huddle on the floor, trying to shrivel even smaller than usual. I’m not even crying—terror has pushed me far beyond that, robbed me of any voice at all.
“Get up.”
Not happening. I don’t move. I’m frozen, curled in a white toweling ball at his feet. And, in any case, I’m sure he’ll only knock me flying the moment I stand.
“I said get up—Shaz, isn’t it?” That voice, sharp, cruel. Like gravel—the faint Scottish burr vaguely familiar from the few words he
said to me that night by the river. And commanding. And that hated name I thought I’d left behind forever, planned so carefully, worked so hard to leave behind.
I know I should obey, that would be the sensible thing to do. Humor him—hope that he calms down, that I can reason with him, explain possibly. Apologize even. But whatever shreds of defiance I have managed to cling on to insist I’m not answering to that name anymore. I stay down.
With a curse he bends, grabs me by the front of my robe and hauls me to my feet. I feel the belt loosen, but modesty seems the least of my problems right now. I flinch, my hands instinctively coming up to protect my head, knowing this is it.
It isn’t, though. This time I find myself deposited in a chair. Never amounting to much, I could be weightless now. He’s tossing me around like a rag doll. I try to curl up again, try to hide from the anger coming off his huge body in waves. But he looms over me, his hands on my wrists, pinning me in place. I feel the front of my robe gape open and for once in my life I thank the Lord I’m not blessed with anything resembling curves. My modesty might not be entirely intact but my body is sufficiently unremarkable that he may well not even notice. I’m rigid with fear, my eyes tightly closed. Long seconds tick by. Again, I wait for the blows to fall.
“Open your eyes.”
His tone is still hard, implacable. But I manage, at last, to find my own voice, a shaky, fractured whisper.
“I’m sorry.” Not much in the circumstances, but the best I can come up with just now.
“Not interested. Open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you. Yet.”
I don’t dare disobey. I open my eyes. His dark green gaze is fierce, penetrating, drilling into my terrified eyes. I blink back tears, but can’t look away. My first impression was right—he’s a handsome man, very attractive in a rugged, outdoor sort of way. Powerful, his muscles sharp and well defined—through use and hard work, I suspect, rather than wasting his energy in the gym. And his strength was made very clear when he picked me up from the floor and put me in this chair. Probably not a violent man usually, but as far as I’m concerned, Tom Shore is very dangerous indeed.
“Where are the rest of your dickhead mates?” He glances around the room, as though expecting Kenny to be hiding behind the kitchen door, or under the table. Released momentarily from his cold gaze I turn my head, try to gather my wits. Taking both my wrists in one of his hands he now pins them above my head. He uses the other hand to grab my chin and force my gaze back to his. “I said where are they?”
“I don’t know…”
“Bad answer. I said where are they?”
I know it’s futile, but still I start to struggle. I’m vulnerable, it’s just me and him, and I know what’s coming next. I’ve been raped before. Twice—both times by Kenny. Both times when he was drunk. No excuse, I know that, but it offered some sort of explanation. I survived it, physically, but the psychological impact has never left me. The helplessness, the humiliation, the violation. It floods back, as though it’s happening to me all over again, and I hear myself start to plead.
“Please don’t. Please don’t do this. He’s not here. Kenny, he’s in prison. I don’t know where the others are. Please believe me…”
My eyes are closed, but the tears are falling freely, running down my cheeks and into my hair. I’m shaking, my teeth chattering. If it was possible to die of sheer terror, I’d do it now, here in this chair. Let him explain that to the police.
Then, suddenly, it’s all over. He releases me, steps back. I hear the scrape of a chair being moved, and I realize he’s pulled my other fireside chair up close to me. I hear the slight creak as he sits down. His voice is cold, controlled.
“Pull yourself together, Shaz. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I’m no rapist, and I’m not even intending to beat the shit out of you, although I’m inclined to think you do deserve it. But I want some answers and I’m not leaving here until I get them. So, we’ll start with your delightful boyfriend. What’s Kenny’s name? His full name?”
“Potts. Kenny Potts.” Overwhelmed by relief I whisper my response, still shuddering though at that hateful name, resurrected from a past I so desperately wanted to leave behind and believed was gone for good.
“And the others. What were they called?”
“I don’t know. They were just friends of Kenny.”
“Another bad answer. You need to do better than that, Shaz. I want names. Now.”
“I don’t know. I’d tell you if I knew. I told you about Kenny.”
Long moments pass as he debates whether or not to accept what I’ve said, what I’ve offered so far. Then, “You were pregnant. Back then. Where’s your baby now?”
I hadn’t expected that. David’s not a secret, not really, but this is private. Personal. My grief is still too raw. I won’t share my aching loss with this cold, angry man who has no reason to be sympathetic. And I couldn’t bear it if he blamed me. It’s bad enough that I blame myself. I say the first thing I think of.
“He’s—with my mother. In Gloucester.”
“Dumped him on someone else, did you? Poor kid. Still, you probably did him a favor. Not exactly the maternal type, are you?”
Bastard! What does he know about what type I am? I knew I was right not to tell him. I screw my eyes up tight as the crushing weight of my loss rolls over me again—the empty, aching loneliness rekindled by his careless, ignorant words. I wait, shaking, screwed up in my tight little ball, and the pain recedes. Eventually. And I know with absolute certainty that there are worse things that can happen to me than being raped or beaten. There’s nothing this man can do to me that will hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.
Strangely empowered, I turn to face him. I’m still huddling in my chair, still sobbing softly, my hair, loose and damp from my shower earlier, falling around my face and shoulders. I hide in it, behind it, using it as a dark shield to protect me from his gaze. And from his scornful contempt. I’ve heard enough. I know what I am, what I’ve done. And most importantly, I know what I’m striving to become.
The only sound in the room is my own sobbing, eventually subsiding to just ragged breathing as I calm down, as it finally sinks in that I am safe…sort of. Physically safe at least. If he intended to harm me, really harm me, he’d have done it by now. Kenny would have. Kenny wouldn’t be sitting calmly in a chair waiting for me to compose myself. Maybe Mr Shore’s telling me the truth—that he won’t lay a finger on me despite what I did to him.
At last collecting something of my shattered wits, regrouping, my instinctive resilience slowly reasserting itself, I manage to look at him. Properly look at him. The immediate physical threat might have passed for now, but Tom Shore’s still here in my cottage. Still threatening my fragile future, still ready to destroy my carefully constructed new life.
He’s in no hurry to leave. He sits opposite me, at ease in his waxed jacket and denim shirt, his blue work jeans, faded and scuffed at the knees. He leans back, that piercing gaze, his strangely beautiful eyes, watching me. Patiently, he waits for me to stop crying, before starting in on me again. “Kenny’s in prison, you said?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Good, sounds about right. You soon will be too.”
Been there, done that, got the bloody T-shirt. But I don’t say anything.
He continues. “Because your precious boyfriend’s not in jail for attacking me, is he? I’d have known if anyone was convicted for that. The police would have contacted me. So that little matter’s still outstanding. What did he go down for then?”
I don’t reply, still cowering behind my shield of dark hair. Suddenly he leans forward, grabbing a hank of my hair in his hand and pushing it off my face, leaning in close again to once more spear me with his cold, dark gaze. Feeling his hands on me again is enough to reignite the spark of blind terror. Beyond speech, mute with fear, I can only mouth the word—“No”. Something seems to shift in his eyes, soften perhaps. His hand is sti
ll in my hair, but not pulling or twisting, not hurting me. His voice is gentler now. “I told you, I don’t beat women up. Or rape them. And I won’t be starting with you so you can relax. But the sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner we can move on. It’s up to you. Are you going to cooperate?”
No alternative, I nod. His curt nod back is the only indication we have a deal of sorts. He releases my hair, sits back down in his chair. Watching me.
“So now we talk. What are you doing here, Shaz? How did you find me? And why?”
Chapter Five
I look at him, puzzled at first, but slowly understanding starts to dawn. And with it amazement. He thinks I’ve somehow been stalking him, that I’m here in Yorkshire because of him. No wonder then, I suppose, that he’s so bloody angry. He feels threatened. By me. I’d laugh if it wasn’t actually, really, so bloody tragic. I settle for taking several deep breaths. I shift in my chair, not yet ready to relinquish my death-grip on my bathrobe, but at least able to look at him. My previous victim, our situations now totally reversed. I try to speak, but my mouth is so dry my words come out as a croak.
His eyes never leaving me, Mr Shore stands and goes to my little kitchenette. He comes back with a small cup of tap water, which he hands to me. I slop it around as I try to drink it—my hands are still shaking so much. He crouches in front of me, his larger hands folding around mine, stilling the flutter and holding the cup steady. He helps me raise it to my lips and I take a few sips.