Shilo's Secret

by Stephan, Judith

  “Doctor Johnson, I know what the rules say, but I don’t want this all over the papers. Not for the Delucci family nor for Shilo. She is still so young and impressionable … something like this can rise up and slap her down later in life. There must be no record of it here. You treated her – yes; but it was an accident. Say she fell off a wall or something. No reference to rape or paedophilia and definitely no reference to what she did to the man. The truth must not be revealed. Is that clear?”

  “But, Mr Delucci, it was attempted rape. The police must be notified.”

  “The police have been notified back in Harrogate and it is being dealt with discreetly. She killed her attacker! Do you understand what the media will do about that? No one will see that she was an innocent victim … they will see that another Delucci has been involved in some sort of scandal. It will haunt her for ever. It will be dredged up when she least expects it and will always loom on the horizon as a threat.”

  Shilo cringed inside. She had killed Bill Moffatt. She was a killer. She was still shaking uncontrollably, trying to stop her teeth chattering, wishing that someone would come in and just hold her and comfort her instead of discussing her outside as if she were a property for sale. Where was Mother? Why was she being left alone? Why wouldn’t they clean her up? Her curiosity made her look under the sheets. Her legs and dress were caked in blood, as were her little white pants. There was a throbbing pain in her groin. She tried to sit up to have a look, but she was too weak. Her arms were bruised and her wrists were tender where Bill Moffatt had clutched her and crushed her bones against the hard floor.

  Shilo?”

  She jerked herself away from her reverie. Stratt was looking at her in earnest.

  “What’s wrong? You look so worried. Your cheeks are flushed. Were you day dreaming?”

  “I don’t know … I feel so tired. Every bone in my body is aching and … I hate hospitals … their smell. It reminds me of …”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Maybe I’m just afraid of what those results might reveal.”

  He put a smooth hand on her forehead.

  “You’re starting to get a fever … just as I suspected.”

  *

  Corbett was called the minute that Bernice came around. Although she was groggy and a little disorientated at first, she was quite alert and seemed not to be suffering from temporary amnesia as trauma victims or those with head injuries are wont to do.

  She was a fairly attractive girl if you looked past the dyed black hair, the black nail polish and nose ring and multiple piercings in her ears. She was far more way out than the killer’s usual victims … they were usually nondescript, plain girls, with mousy hair, frumpy clothes and lousy social lives. Loners usually. Physically she was not worse for the wear. She had bruises on her head and face where he had hit her, her throat was red and bruised from his attempt at strangulation, and her wrists and ankles were raw from the restraints, but otherwise she was fine and in fairly good spirits. This told Corbett that she was possibly not unaccustomed to violence, and wondered if that was why she had run away from home… and perhaps why her step father had looked a little sheepish in Corbett’s presence.

  “Now we want to catch this bugger. You are our only chance, Bernice. I need to know absolutely everything about him,” Corbett said.

  “But where do I start?” she sighed.

  “Let’s start with what he looked like.”

  “Well, he was young … perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was not that tall – perhaps a little taller than me. He had brown hair, neatly cut and combed. I can’t remember his eye colour, but I think they were also brownish. Oh, yes, and he had a moustache. A little thin one,” she said, “How’s that?”

  “Perfect. Any identifying features, like a mole, a limp, a tattoo, a gold tooth?” Corbett inquired, never lifting his eyes from the notebook where he was jotting down valid points.

  “No, not that I can recall. He did have a really posh accent though … and you know I am almost sure he looked vaguely familiar, like I had seen him somewhere before. Not in person, I mean like in a picture … in a newspaper or magazine,” she said, “but I could be wrong there.”

  Bernice took a sip of water, and then ran her fingers through her punky hairstyle.

  “Tell me about his car. We are presuming that he gave you a lift, did he not?” Corbett continued.

  “Yes, I was hitchhiking ….Wow, it was wonderful. A really posh car. It was a BMW something or other. It was black or dark blue or charcoal grey, anyway a very dark colour. I couldn’t really tell as it was already dark. But it did have real leather seats. Beige leather.”

  “It was definitely a BMW?” Corbett queried.

  “Sure. I just don’t know the model,” she replied.

  “What exactly happened from the time he picked you up until the time he attacked you. I want to know everything he did and everything he said. You might think it trivial, but the smallest clues are sometimes the missing pieces of the puzzle that we need.”

  Then he leant back in his chair, pencil poised and waited for her reply.

  *

  The results came through just before sunset, and Shilo was devastated. She had the beginnings of that dreadful tropical disease – malaria. But Stratt had known it all along and had acquired all the medicine she needed from the pharmacy at the hospital. She started on the medication straight away, but for two days she shivered and shook in the clutches of the delirium and fever. The headaches and the body aches were severe, and Stratt stood vigil once again: He cooled her burning forehead, held her as she thrashed around, let her sip water through a straw … and just sat and watched as she got through the worst of it. He wouldn’t let Dorianne or Michaela help with anything. He carried her to the bathroom when she needed it, issued her with the medication and cooled her forehead with damp compresses until the fever broke, and then he allowed himself a few minutes of rest on the wicker chair next to her bed.

  On the third day, Shilo woke up from what seemed like a blur. She was disorientated but the headache had gone, and she lay on her side and stared straight ahead of her. There sat Stratt, asleep in the chair. He looked dreadfully tired with dark rings under his eyes, his tousled hair and three day’s growth on his chin. He was deep asleep and Shilo wondered how long he had been there. Why did he persist in being there when she was at all time lows? Her memory started coming back to her in dribs and drabs and she started getting flashes of him carrying her, bathing her brow, smoothing her hair, making her swallow some foul-tasting fluid … Had he been nursing her through this disease? Had he been there the whole time? A pang of humiliation at what he might have seen surged through her, tinged with a guilty admiration that someone could care so much.

  “Stratt?” she whispered hoarsely.

  His eyes shot open and he sat up with a start.

  He rushed to the bedside.

  “Are you awake? Thank God you’re awake.”

  “Stratt? How long have you been here?”

  “Three days. You have been out of it for three days.”

  “You’ve been here all this time? What about my aunt and sister?”

  “They’ve been in and out … but I wanted to look after you. I told them to let me do it. I haven’t left the room.”

  She smiled.

  “I can see that.”

  “Do I look awful?” he said, smoothing his hands over his bristly face.

  “No,” she breathed. “You look absolutely great. Just a little wilder than normal.”

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, helping her sit up in bed.

  “Fine. My mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, and I’m a little shaky … but wow! I feel great. How can I ever thank you?”

  “You’ll feel a little weak for a couple of days,” he said, “but it was mild and you should be as right as rain in no time.”

  “Thank you, Stratt,” she said. “Thank you so much for caring … for being here.”

 
He held her close and the unspoken dread of their inevitable separation overwhelmed them both.

  CHAPTER 9

  They parked in a clearing in the forest. Stratt built a roaring fire, which, he reassured her, would frighten off any wild animals. They sat down on a blanket facing the crackling, orange-blue flames. He poured her an Amarula liqueur on ice in a stainless steel camping cup.

  “So you’re leaving,” he mused. “I’m going to really miss you.”

  “You know I have to go, but I’m sure I’ll see you again before I leave for England. But, Stratt, maybe it’s for the best… you know,” she looked down, suddenly aware of what was bound to happen again.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this,” Stratt said softly. “People come to the Lodge and then they leave and are soon forgotten – but you’re different… there’s something about you… something you do to me, something that I don’t want to lose. Something I’ll never be able to forget. I didn’t want to get involved and now I am … and it is going to hurt when you go … God! It’s going to hurt … not knowing if I will ever see you again. Not knowing if I will ever feel this way again … about anyone.”

  He dipped his finger in his liqueur and gently traced the outline of her mouth. She opened her lips, and took his finger in her mouth and sucked off the creamy fluid. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the mouth, his tongue followed the line of her lips. His kisses became urgent and passionate and for an indiscernible period, time appeared to stand still. He fell backwards onto the blanket, bringing her down with him. He caressed her neck, her cheeks, and her shoulders until he again found her mouth. Their bodies were moulded together. She felt his hulking form beneath her, his muscular arms embracing her. She yielded to him. His hands were beneath her shirt and he stroked the silky skin of her back, her stomach. By invitation he undid her bra and kissed each breast sensually, until she groaned, and then he was unbuttoning her jeans and pulling them down, and then slipping his fingers under her black, lacy g-string and into her and expertly bringing her to a climax as an hors d’ouvre to the evening that lay ahead. She gasped as the ripples of pleasure jolted through her.

  “Oh, Stratt, I don’t want to go away,” she sighed, “I don’t want to leave you.”

  He silenced her with a kiss. And then she felt her hips begin to move instinctively to some internal drumbeat. She felt an uncomfortable hardness and she pressed herself against it.

  Just then, as if on cue, there was a low, guttural growl very nearby and they both sat bolt upright.

  “What was that?” she gasped, drawing her knees up to her naked chest.

  “I’m not sure,” Stratt said, and lifted the rifle that lay on the grass just off the blanket. “Sounds a little like a…”

  The noise recurred to their immediate right, and they both turned to face it. Stratt shone his flashlight in the general direction and they saw two red eyes staring back at them, floating ominously in the suffocating darkness outside the circle of light cast by their campfire. Shilo froze, her mouth suddenly felt dry. Was it a lion? Stratt carefully cocked his rifle and aimed it at the dark shape that could not have been more than eight metres away.

  “Don’t panic, it’s a warthog,” he lied. “They can be dangerous if they charge, but I’ll scare him off before he has the chance.”

  The eyes, reflecting the orange flames, seemed to bob about as if kept buoyant on an angry black sea, as the animal moved its head and let out another deep growl. Suddenly an explosion resounded in the night, and Shilo practically jumped out of her skin. The animal fled at the sound of Stratt’s warning shot, which reverberated off the trees and rocks and in the vast emptiness around them for several seconds.

  “Now where were we?” he said laying the gun down, and gathering Shilo in his arms once more. She was ice-cold and shivering uncontrollably.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, “the animal has gone.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so frightened,” she gasped. “I haven’t been so frightened since…”

  “Since what, Shilo?” he asked.

  “Never mind, just hold me, please.”

  He held her close and she could hear his reassuring heartbeat as her head rested on his chest. He stroked her hair softly, and rocked her gently back and forth.

  “It’s okay,” he crooned, “Everything is fine, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  She clung to him, and he knew it was time. She would open up to him now.

  “Shilo, what is the terrible thing that happened to you so long ago. Michaela said it was the cause of your nightmares, and you hinted at it again at the hospital and just now. Is it really such a dreadful, dark secret that you can’t tell me?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Nobody knows except the immediate family. Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I care. Because I’m falling in love with you. Because, even if you are leaving tomorrow, I want to know every single thing about you,” Stratt said. “I want to understand you completely.”

  “You’ll never look at me the same way again. You’ll think I’m dirty and cheap and tainted,” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, “how can something that happened so long ago affect the way I already feel about you?”

  She decided she would tell him, if nothing more than to stop him nagging … and prying. But she sensed it was the next logical step in their relationship, as short-lived as it was going to be.

  “I was raped, Stratt… when I was seven years old. There, I have told you. Now you see why I don’t want to talk about it?”

  “By whom?” Stratt asked, still holding her close. She wasn’t going to get off that easily.

  “By someone I really trusted. It was the gardener of our country estate up in Yorkshire, an old guy called Bill Moffatt. He used to play with me around the farm. I really liked him, trusted him… because he was the only adult I knew who would took the time to play with me … but then one day he played catches like always, and tickled me like always… and then I was pinned down on the floor of the barn… and then...”

  She withdrew from him, and sat facing him. She was going to tell him everything.

  “He was old and dirty… he stank. He had yellow teeth and hair growing out of his nose and ears … He was … utterly repulsive.” Her voice caught in her throat, the ache of unshed tears burning in her oesaphagus. “I couldn’t get away as he was too heavy and I was so small … I couldn’t scream as he kept on smothering me with that awful foul-smelling mouth…” she flinched, as the memory of the moment was vivid in her mind, “… those yellow teeth…”

  “Poor baby. Shilo, I’m so sorry,” Stratt breathed, and he grabbed her hands. He had not realized it was going to be this bad … this traumatic.

  “Let me finish,” she said, withdrawing her hands and wrapping her arms around herself. “Even if I’d been able to scream, no one would have heard me. The barn was too far from the house. And then he tried to shove his… his…his…”

  “Dick?” helped Stratt.

  “Dick…” she whispered, “… inside me… but I was only seven… He bruised me and … he ripped me open. It felt like someone was sticking a red-hot poker into my guts.”

  Tears were brimming in her eyes. Stratt wanted to hold her again, comfort her, but she needed to get this off her chest … and she was not finished yet.

  “I managed to wriggle one of my arms free, and I felt a hard object in the straw on the barn floor. I managed to get a grip on it and picked it up. I brought it down as hard as I could on the back of his head… the only place I could reach… He rolled off me and I ran. I ran one mile back to the house with blood pouring out of me, with my legs feeling like jelly. They buckled a few times, sending me sprawling… but I picked myself up and carried on running as I was convinced he was chasing me. I thought I could hear his footsteps on the path just behind me, and his groaning. I don’t know how, but I made it. My father and the butler went in search
of Bill Moffatt… and I was safe…”

  She paused, and wiped her eyes.

  “Did they find him?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And was he arrested?” Stratt asked.

  “There was no need, Stratt… He was dead. I had killed him. They found a hatchet in the back of his neck at the base of his skull. The groaning and the footsteps I had heard were probably my own. But they literally “caught” him with his pants down, as it were. He also had my skin under his nails and strands of my hair on his clothes … and of course… my blood. He was also apparently very drunk on whisky. So you see, Stratt, that’s my dark, secret. I think the worst thing was that the whole sordid episode was brushed under the carpet … kept out of the press to save the precious family name … so it was always a dark and dirty secret that no one ever wants to talk about. That’s why, they say, I am like I am. I felt so worthless because of what that bastard did to me and so, according to those that dealt with my case, I built up a resistance: I act like I’m not worthless, that I’m better, richer and more important than anyone else… to compensate … I went to psychologists and therapists until two years ago. I hated what that man did to me… but the fact that I actually killed him was also a difficult burden to carry. It’s like ‘Hello, my name is Shilo and I’m an axe murderer.’ It’s not easy to live with that.”