A young woman sat in the downstairs room of one house; she had not been upstairs since her husband had gone some three months before. She was staring into the now dwindling flames of the fire, lost in melancholy thought. The fire was her main source of light and she had nothing more to keep the shadows at bay. Like a simulation of her world, darkness was closing in on her. The four corners of the room had disappeared in shadow they had lost their defining edge to an abyss of black. So she sat there motionless, waiting to be consumed by the gloom.
Her home was dank and bare. The single room had a cold stone slab floor, with a smoky little fireplace on which to cook. The window provided most of the light during the daytime, the fire and a few candles at night. A nearby gas lantern out in the street gave off some light through the window, though barely enough to penetrate the old tattered net curtains. The only ornaments were the two candlestick holders on either side of the mantelpiece; the candle stumps they held casting shadows on to the once white- washed walls, which were now soot grey. She ran her fingers through her young child’s hair, as he lay in a restful sleep, wrapped in a warm blanket on her lap. He looked so peaceful as the soft glow flickered on his angelic face. He was oblivious to everything around him now that he slipped into the blissful world of dreams.
Yet his mother’s face was wracked with emotional turmoil. Free to cry now that her child slept, her pain rolled down her cheeks, falling at her chin and soaking into the blanket that protected him from the impending chill. Sarah gently lifted him and settled him into the dilapidated pallet bed that she had brought downstairs, and which her husband had made up some time ago. Pushed in the corner, by the window, she laid the child in the space where his father had once slept alongside her. The last three months had been hard to bear, with the trial and conviction of her husband. Her neighbours, once quite friendly, now shunned her, feeling it was not right to associate with villains, especially when the victim was a well respected man in the community, like George Higgins. A friendly man, with a questionably dangerous job, most people liked George and that gave him the confidence to walk the streets on dark evenings. But it was only a matter of time before somebody would take their chance. He was the overseer of the poor, collecting poor rate taxes from the wealthy and then handing out small quantities of money to the needy.
Maybe Sarah had not made it any easier for herself. She had stood by her husband against all the odds, refusing to believe he was capable of cold-blooded murder. She could never have disowned him or accept the evidence against him and the public’s view of it all. She saw it for what it was; a witch hunt. The authorities needed to convict somebody in order to avoid a public outcry, but there was an outcry anyway, as Patrick Roche had somehow escaped the noose, sentenced instead to be banished to the new colonies ‘for the term of his natural life’.
After his conviction, Sarah had tried desperately to visit Pat in prison, making the mile round trek up Scotland Road to Kirkdale Prison with her two-year-old child every day. But every day she was turned away. ‘The prisoner is not allowed visitors,’ she was repeatedly told. The prison guards would not even tell her the day on which he was due to be transported. In her confusion and despair, she would turn up at the public executions, just to be sure that they had not changed their mind and hang him after all. After two weeks she gave up trying. Her little boy was growing tired of the walking and the promise that he was going to see his daddy. But she still could not bring herself to tell him that daddy wasn’t ever coming back; she didn’t want to accept it herself. And when he would point to the door and cry for his father, all she could do was cradle him in her arms and cry with him.
Those first weeks were very hard and it took an enormous effort to regain some form of normality. Sam’s memory of his father was rapidly fading away; no longer was he asking where he was, or when he was coming home. The once prominent figure had become a ghost, soon to be forgotten in the graveyard of his mind, with no headstone to mark a place in his memory. Her emotional turmoil slowly choked her will to go on. She had no one left to turn to. She had never had many friends, preferring to keep her own company. Both her parents had died within a month of one another the year before, and by now her husband was on board a ship being transported to a place so far away, it was impossible to imagine.
She had fallen behind on her rent and was close to being put out on the streets. The thought of going to live in the workhouse filled her with dread, and she was determined that she and Sam would not end up there, so she had resorted to knocking on doors in the high class areas of Upper Parliament Street, along with Sam, looking for cleaning work. She eventually managed to secure a part- time position cleaning in the daytime. She then found a tavern on the dock road where the landlady took pity on her, won over by the jaded look in her little boy’s eyes. It meant keeping Sam out of sight while she worked the bar, but she was still able to keep her eye on him. Blessed to have a child so patient and placid, she would pour out her appreciation with showering affection as they walked home through the darkness after another long hard day. She was exhausted but they were managing to scrape by. Her ambition was to find a way to leave the area, but at the moment she could not afford to, so she had no choice but to stay with it for a while longer. She had to take little Sam with her everywhere, as there was no one she could ask to look after him, nor trust, for that matter. So he went to work with her, but he did not complain, too young to understand the dangers and precariousness of their marginal existence.
Sarah settled herself in front of the fire to collect her thoughts. The world seemed to be against her, but she was strong willed and knew she had to get through these turbulent times, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of little Sam. She was suddenly distracted from her thoughts when out of the corner of her eye a dark shadow appeared at the window. Someone was trying to peer in then slowly passed by. Almost immediately there was a knock at the door that set her heart pounding. Nobody had knocked on her door for months and certainly not at this hour. Unable to identify the caller from the window, she warily went out of the living room into the blackness of the tiny hallway and put her ear to the door and listened.
‘Who is it?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Open the door, Mrs Roche,’ replied a deep hoarse voice, though quietly, as if he did not want anyone else to hear.
‘Who are you? And what d’ye want?’ she asked suspiciously.
The voice drew closer to the door, so close that Sarah could almost smell his stinking breath.
‘Mr Pugh sent me to see ye, seems ye still owes ‘im some rent.’
‘Go away. I’ve got no money to give you.’
‘Well, if ye open the door, Mrs Roche, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’
‘Come back next week, before dark, and I’ll have some money for Mr Pugh.’
Sarah stood there in silence for a few moments in the hope that the stranger would go away. The deathly silence gave her a cold chill as she waited and waited slowly releasing her weight from off the door. Just when she thought he had gone, the loose tarnished brass handle slowly turned, rattling the bolted locks. Sarah watched in horror, as the stranger attempted to force his way in.
‘Go away, before I scream for the watchmen, or the parish constable!’ she cried, throwing all her weight back against the door.
‘I’ll be back, sure enough, Mrs Roche, an’ if ye don’t pay up …’ there was a short pause as he drew his lips right up to the door, ‘… I’m gonna ‘ave ye!’
The threat reverberated through the hardwood door into the darkness of the hall, sending a sickening chill down Sarah’s spine. The seconds of silence felt like minutes, her shoulder aching with the pressure of her weight against the door. Finally she sensed that he was gone, though she could not hear any footsteps drawing away. She flew back into the room and straight over to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the menacing stranger. She saw a dark figure disappearing into the shadows further down the street on the opposite side. Was it hi
m, or someone else? She wondered. He might still be at the door, she thought.
She went back and listened in silence. Only the beat of her heart could be heard as it pumped adrenaline round her body. She felt so vulnerable; with nobody to help her, how could she fend for herself? There was no escape, because there was only one exit, unless of course you counted the window, but by the time she had picked up Sam and tried to scramble out, she would be taken. She could not settle. Was he going to come back in the night and try again? And what did he mean when he said, ‘I’m gonna ‘ave ye’?
She eventually climbed into bed and cuddled up to Sam, grasping some comfort from the warmth of his body. She had never felt so lonely and isolated from the world as she did that night. Her fear and loneliness brought forth tears, which drained her conscious mind, slowly lulling her to sleep.
The next morning she woke with a renewed energy and strength, the events of the previous night just a horrible dream. As she slowly came round, the reality hit her once again, but she felt different now, almost defiant in the light of day. It was time to be her own protector. If there was nobody else around, she would have to find it within herself to be the defender of her own castle. ‘I’ve shed more tears in the past few months than in my whole life, and I’ll shed no more,’ she told herself, and made a mental promise to be strong from that point on, ready to fight anyone and refusing to go any lower than she already was. A virtual outcast in the community, she vowed to put up with the jibes and sneers, the verbal persecution. She would hide away no more.
She got Sam ready and went out. With a few hours to spare before starting her cleaning job, she set about trying to get some help from the local charities, but they could offer her very little, only a few blankets and some old clothes for Sam. They also offered her a place at the workhouse, but that was the last place Sarah was going to go. The conditions there were awful and Sam would be taken away from her while she was made to work long days. It would be her very last resort. Her pride would not let her go down that route. They were scraping through with her meagre earnings and she was optimistic that they may lead to other things. With the little money she had, she bought some bread, butter, a few potatoes and some salt pork. Later, on her way back from work, she would look for things to burn on the fire.
The days slipped by from one to the next, with Sarah working hard and taking on extra hours wherever she could. Sam was the only thing in this harsh world keeping her going and she would watch him playing in his own little world, oblivious to her troubles. He was such a happy child and as yet the circumstances surrounding him were not affecting him. In fact, he enjoyed going to work with his mother.
It had been a long day and Sam lay fast asleep in bed. His mother brushed her hair as she sat by the fireside, trying her best to regain some dignity and make herself feel better, dragging her late mother’s old brush through her long brown curls. Then came another knock at the door. She bit her lip as she went hesitantly into the hall.
‘Yes, who is it?’ she asked, her ear pressed to the door.
‘It’s Parish Constable Evans, ma’am. We ‘ave some news about George Higgins’ murder,’ replied the voice.
‘So what d’ye want from me?’
‘Just to ask a few questions about Mr Roche. So if you could open the door, ma’am.’
The voice seemed genuine enough. Sarah had, in the past, had the odd call from parish constables, enquiring about her husband and the murder, but it had been a while since the last one. She felt a flicker of optimism. Maybe it could be genuine … maybe even good news, but she decided to enquire a little further before opening the door.
‘The trial’s finished now, so what d’ye need to speak to me about?’
‘It’s come to our attention that there may well be another suspect, but I can’t really talk to ye out ‘ere, ma'am.’
Another suspect … so Pat could be free to come home. It was the only encouraging sign in a desperate situation and she was prepared to grasp at any straw. She unlocked the bolts at the top and bottom of the door and turned the key to open it, eager to glean more information about this other suspect. The door suddenly flew open, forcing her into the wall, the weight of the villain jamming her behind the door, knocking the wind out of her. Temporarily stunned, because her head had smashed into the wall, it took a moment for her to realise that she had been fooled and she was now about to face the consequences of her ill-judged trust. The door slammed to with a nudge from the stranger’s foot. She was frozen, terrified, trying to move, but finding she could not.
In the deathly silence this dark threatening figure placed his rough hand around Sarah’s neck. She flinched with the force of the grip. She had only just regained her breath and now it was being squeezed out of her again. The hallway was barely wide enough for the two of them, and the brute’s stale breath was right in Sarah’s face. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart thundered in her ears. The grasp of the hand too powerful and she felt her life ebbing away. Then in one last frantic effort to escape, her frozen state melted for an instant in a desperate eruption of punches and kicks, but again she felt herself slipping away, a slow chill flowing through her body.
At last, he loosened his grip and Sarah greedily took great gulps of air, her lungs as dry as a desert. This horrible menace was in complete control, like the spider with a fly, he had Sarah in his web.
‘Fooled ye, didn’ I, missus? Ye fink ye clever, don’t ye? Well ye not,’ sneered her tormentor. Too late, Sarah recognised his voice as the one that had haunted her the week before. ‘I come around ‘ere twice before. Where were ye? Thought ye could get away with it, didn’t ye?’
She could just make out his features in the murky hallway and his face was just as haunting as his voice. She could not avoid looking at him, because he had her trapped and was staring right in her face. His square unshaven jowls spilled over a greasy neckerchief, and his tatty top hat hung over heavy eyebrows joined in the centre, shading his dark eyes. Was his the last face she would ever see on this earth? With no fight left in her, she saw it was no use. He was too overbearing and her feeble efforts were futile against his massive bulk.
‘Now ye owes Mr Pugh sum dough, so ‘ow d’ye specs to pay when ye’ve got nothin’?’ he snarled, his sinister eyes peering at her from under the black-rimmed crumpled top hat.
In her weakened state, she had lost all power of speech. He gave her a seedy grin, revealing a row of rotted, tobacco- stained teeth. Then she felt his rough hand lifting up her dress and touching her thighs. A single tear ran down her cheek, as she forced her voice box to work at last.
‘No, please don’t,’ was all she could manage.
‘Don’t cry, pritty one, I won’ ‘urt ye, if ye don’ struggle wit’ me,’ he panted with a leer.
Then he ran his thick tongue up her cheek, his animal breath filling her nostrils. His hand groped higher up her thighs until it was at her groin. Sarah tried to pull it away, but his grip around her throat just got tighter, as he forced her back against the wall in a stranglehold.
‘Didn’ I tell ye not to struggle wit’ me?’ he hissed angrily in her ear. His stubble scratched the side of her face, and again she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness. Then she heard a little murmur from Sam. There is no more powerful trigger for a mother than her child’s cry and the thought of him being left alone to fend for himself, spurred her into action. In a last desperate bid to resist her attacker, she rammed her thumb into his eye, as her four fingers clawed the side of his face. The sound of his eyeball popping sent an agonising scream bouncing off the walls in that confined space. Sarah was immediately released from his deadly grip and dropped to the floor, gasping for air. The villain clutched his eye in agony. She knew she had caused serious damage, because the fluid from the burst eyeball had wet her fingers. Now a mixture of blood and an inky liquid ran between the villain’s fingers, as he tried to cover the wound. Sam was woken from his peaceful sleep by the brute’s screams and sat up in bed crying w
ith terror in the dark empty room.
‘I’m gonna ‘ave ye for this, ye little witch!’ he cried, as he clambered out the door, shouting for a constable or a watchmen and alerting the rest of the street. Sarah bolted the door then rushed over to Sam to calm him down. She sat with her arms around him, reassuring him that everything was fine and that the bad man had gone away, and slowly her breath became regular again. Sam soon settled into the safety of his mother’s arms, quietly resting his head on her bosom. But Sarah could not rest, fearing that the night watchman would be knocking on the door at any moment to take her away. It was unlikely that he would listen to her story, as she was already regarded as a bad apple in the neighbourhood. She even half wondered if it was all part of a conspiracy to get rid of her, since nobody wanted to associate with a murderer’s wife.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, cuddling Sam in her arms, stroking his hair and rocking gently as she awaited her fate. Within half an hour the night watchman had arrived, along with a local parish constable, who was not a happy man, having been disturbed from a peaceful evening at home with his family. They banged loudly on the door.
‘Open up, Mrs Roche. You’re under arrest!’
Sarah opened the door and the constable barged his way in, followed by the calmer night watchman. The constable’s aggressive attitude was making the atmosphere even worse. Sam started to cry again, as he was almost dragged from Sarah’s arms. The watchman tried to keep things calm and treated Sarah with a modicum of respect. But she was fired up, ready for trouble, and had taken an instant dislike to the constable, shocked by such an attitude from someone who was supposed to be upholding the law.
Bound to Sarah Page 3