Bound to Sarah

by Craig Brennan

  ‘Come and take a seat, Sarah. It has been a very long day… Would you care for a drink?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘No thank you, sir,’ she said politely, resting herself on the edge of the sofa looking quite tense and nervous. She could not help peeping out into the garden, which was bathed in evening sunlight – she had never seen anything quite so beautiful. She had been so busy and her mind so preoccupied, she had not taken the time to have a good look before. She was captivated by its beauty, as Flynn was by hers.

  ‘Go and take a good look, if you like,’ he said, noticing her interest.

  Rising from his chair, he walked straight over to the drinks cabinet, emptying the last of the contents of his glass down his throat. Opening the cabinet he took out a bottle of brandy and another glass. Sarah went over and stood at the French doors, gazing out into the garden and breathing in the beautiful evening scents. He poured the brandy into two glasses and walked over to her. She jumped and stepped away, unsettled by his close proximity. She had been on a ship for nine months with men who were only after one thing, so she knew all the tricks, no matter how well they were disguised with politeness and good manners. He stepped over to her, proffering the glass.

  ‘I insist, Sarah,’ he said soothingly. ‘You have proved yourself very capable of the duties I have given you. Besides which, I would like to get to know you a little better.’ He handed her the large brandy, then slouched back in his armchair and questioned her about her life and how she came to be in Van Dieman’s Land. She told him of her husband’s conviction, then of hers and the loss of her son through the fever during the passage. Sam had been dead for four months now and she was only just learning to cope. Flynn was very generous with his sympathy.

  But Gerard Flynn was no stranger to grief, he had been grieving since he was six years old and it was this aching that triggered the development of the bitter man he had become. He was a very loving child up to the age of six years old, when the sudden loss of his dear mother, through illness, changed the course of his life forever. No sooner had his mother been buried his father sent him off to boarding school and very rarely allowed him to come home. He felt completely rejected by his father and he grew bitter with life, finding his only comfort through drink.

  ‘So your husband is in Hobart, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know, sir.’

  ‘And what is his name?’

  ‘Patrick Roche, sir, but most people just call him Pat.’ Flynn was immediately confronted with the memory of the man he most despised, but was careful to betray nothing on his face and continued with his solicitous attitude. ‘Have you heard of him, sir?’ asked Sarah with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

  ‘I cannot say that I have … no, but I tell you what I shall do. I shall make some enquiries for you tomorrow.’

  Of course, Flynn knew exactly where to find Patrick Roche. He was in the gaol, which was on the corner of Murray Street and Macquarie Street. Macquarie Street ran horizontally with Davey Street, and Murray Street ran vertically down towards the harbour, crossing both streets. Sarah was probably no more than three hundred yards; as the crow flies, from her husband at that very moment, though neither was aware of it.

  A hopeful reunion of the two was something that Flynn would take great pleasure in sabotaging, and he quickly concocted a plan to do just that. The best way to achieve his ends was to have one of them removed from Hobart town – and it was definitely not going to be Sarah. There was a spark of excitement in Sarah’s heart and she was very grateful to Flynn for his supposed assistance. Flynn’s priority had now become Pat, and getting him out of the way, leaving him free to turn his attentions to Sarah; the luscious little plum he intended to pluck at the earliest opportunity. The more he watched her graceful movements and natural reserve, the more he lusted after her.

  The following day, Flynn gave Sarah strict instructions not to leave the house until he returned. She waited anxiously all day for him to return with any news of Pat’s whereabouts. Eventually, after a long day of waiting, Flynn returned in the early evening weighed down by an exaggerated heavy brow. Sarah noticed his distressed countenance as he slumped into a chair at the top of the dining table. She served him his evening meal and waited patiently for any news, not daring to broach the subject herself and praying that his pained look had nothing to do with her enquiries. She turned away from him and went to the sink to wash the dishes, and while her back was turned, Flynn allowed his features to relax into a smirk, revelling in the heartless game he was about to play with his maid. He knew that Sarah was anxious to hear any news he might have picked up, but he made her wait until he had finished his meal, revelling in her discomfiture.

  ‘Sarah, come and sit down,’ he said, in a melancholy tone. She did so quite slowly and reluctantly, because the doleful expression on his face suggested he was about to impart bad news. She braced herself as she took up her seat, her instincts about to serve her well.

  ‘I am afraid I have some bad news,’ he began, taking her hand in his and holding it gently on the table. ‘Now there is no easy way to put this, Sarah,’ he continued, the beast arousing himself as he stroked her hand. ‘It seems that your husband caught the fever on the way over here … and … and did not make the journey …’

  Sarah immediately snatched her hand away from his, the news hitting her like a dead weight. She had no reason to doubt Flynn, having experienced the fever at first hand, and she instantly relived that terrible moment when her darling son had been snatched away from her on board the Mary Jane.

  ‘I am so sorry, Sarah,’ said Flynn, disrupting her thoughts. Sarah’s heart plunged into the abyss. The only two people left in her life had been taken from her in the same cruel way. She had struggled through that terrible voyage and then Sam’s death, in the hope that Pat was still alive. Together they could slowly have tried to rebuild their world, but it crumbled that evening at the dinner table of her heartless master, who deliberately, like a hammer on glass, shattered her into a thousand fragments.

  Now that the first part of his wicked scheme was in place, Flynn’s next hurdle was to try and wheedle his way into Sarah’s trust. Once he had achieved that, she would be like clay in his hands and he would be able to mould her into anything he chose. He relished the opportunity to take her in his arms as she broke down; after all, he reasoned to himself, he had been without a woman ever since he had got rid of his last maid, two weeks earlier. Having had his use out of her, he had thrown her out, much to the poor girl’s shame and dismay, because she had fallen for him.

  He comforted Sarah for the whole of that evening, keeping her well topped up with rum – he didn’t want to waste his good brandy. She was soon feeling quite intoxicated, but she seemed not to care anymore. There was nothing left for her. That evening, Flynn managed to get close to her, holding her and stroking her hair. In her innocence, she had no idea that he was becoming very aroused by a situation he had purposely engineered. She had not taken to Flynn and was wary of his affections, but her grieving heart had left her so vulnerable, that the touch of another human being was deeply comforting.

  However, that night she chose to spend alone, locked in her room, rather than allow him to manipulate her further. His desire for Sarah was beginning to consume him, and he was rapidly losing patience. His false image began to crack, but he fought hard to keep it hidden a little while longer.

  Despite her grief, within the next few days Sarah noticed signs of Flynn’s attraction to her, even though his sympathetic ways were fading with his impatience. He wanted her and he was going to have her, but he wanted her to want him, though she seemed impervious to his charms. Growing increasingly frustrated, he began touching her at every opportunity, but Sarah obviously did not like it, and tried her best to divert his attention. She was not in the least bit attracted to him, but neither did she want to offend him. She just wanted to be left alone to grieve her losses.

  Flynn felt her rejections keenly and deliberately began to impose
more duties on her, in an effort to persuade her to submit to him. This game of cat and mouse slowly escalated into a battle of wills; a battle that Flynn was losing. Lust boiled over in his veins. Sarah could feel it too and began to cringe at the mere sight of him, fearful lest he should resort to using physical force against her.

  Then, one evening, while Sarah was washing the dishes, the inevitable happened. Staring out of the window into the garden, watching the fading light of day rob the flowers of their colour, she was startled from her reverie when Flynn came up behind her. She winced as he took her around the waist and thrust his hips into her buttocks, and then clumsily fondled her breasts. She was almost pinned to the sink by his power and weight, though she fought hard to push his hands from her chest.

  ‘Stop it, please,’ she begged, trying to wriggle free.

  Hardly able to move because of his vastly superior strength, she was humiliated as he ignored her request. Her dignity was all she had left and now she was in grave danger of having it snatched away from her by Flynn’s selfish lust. He smothered her neck with kisses, and when she shuddered, he reacted with anger and frustration, realising that his fantasies of her complete surrender would never be realised. He gave her a hard punch to the kidneys and she screamed in agony, falling to the floor and splashing dirty water on to Flynn’s uniform.

  ‘I will have my way with you, wench!’ he hissed through clenched teeth, ‘… with or without your consent … the choice is yours. Now clean up this filthy mess.’ Then looking down at himself he announced, ‘And you’d better get this uniform cleaned and dried ready for tomorrow. Do you hear? I want to wear this one, and I want it spotless.’

  He stormed upstairs to change his clothes, relieved that the pretence was over, but seething with thwarted lust.

  Wincing from the vicious punch, Sarah slowly straightened up to the sound of rapid footsteps coming back down the stairs. Flynn stormed into the kitchen half naked, with his clothes in a bundle, and flung them at her with as much force as he could muster. She calmly removed them from her head and shoulders before picking herself up off the floor. Then Flynn reappeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Why do you refuse to love me, Sarah? It will be a lot less painful, I can assure you,’ he said, calming himself down in a last effort to get her to succumb.

  Getting no response, he disappeared back up the stairs as Sarah slowly gathered up the rest of his uniform from the floor. Weeping at the helplessness of her situation, she tried to restore her wounded dignity by fixing and wiping her clothes. She dreaded the thought of being violated by Flynn and for the next few days she tried desperately to keep him at bay. She tried subterfuge, telling him that she liked him but was still grieving. She promised that she would willingly give herself to him when she felt ready; she just needed a little more time. Yet she also knew that escape was not possible. Where would she go? She was in a penal colony – there was nowhere to run.

  Another week went by and Flynn had grown tired of her perpetual excuses and ordered her to go and change his sheets. She was immediately suspicious, as they had only been changed the day before, but she dared not challenge him. Whilst she was stripping the bed, the evening sun shone through the window, flooding the room with a pinkish glow. Her body stiffened as she heard Flynn’s footsteps coming up the stairs, along the landing, and into the bedroom, expecting Flynn to make his loathsome advances at any minute. He shut the bedroom door and slid the bolt across whilst leering at Sarah, his face flushed, confirming her worst fears.

  ‘Take your clothes off and get on the bed,’ he said aggressively, as he started unfastening his trousers.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me? I told you, I need a bit more time,’ she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. There was no way she was going to let him take her, she would rather die – she had nothing to live for anyway.

  ‘No more excuses, Sarah. Now do as you are told.’

  Sarah backed off towards the wall, infuriating Flynn. He walked over to her and grabbed her dress at the shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ she shrieked, frantically trying to push his hands away.

  But Flynn overpowered her, flinging her on to the bed. Like a wild cat, she screamed and kicked and punched him.

  ‘Why, you little witch! Think you can fight me now, do you?’ he shouted, his hot breath coming in short bursts.

  ‘Get off me! Don’t come near me, you bastard!’

  A hard blow to the stomach sucked the wind out of her and she lay on the bed gasping for air as Flynn tore away at her dress like a madman. In one last attempt to stop him, she kicked him hard, but missed his groin, hitting his pelvis instead. Retaliation was swift. With a powerful backhand from her aggressor, she was knocked into unconsciousness.

  A few hours later – Sarah had no idea how long – she slowly began to come round in the cold darkness of her own room, with her torn dress draped over her naked body. It was the dress that Pat had bought her for Christmas two years earlier. Wearing it had always made her feel closer to him, but now it had been defiled by Flynn’s stain and would forever remind her of the rape. Realising that she had been brutalised, she slowly began to examine herself. Even in the dark she knew she had suffered injury. She was battered and bruised in various parts of her body and had a throbbing ache between the legs. She could barely move, her tensed muscles having seized up with the trauma.

  Dazed, humiliated and disappointed that she was still alive, she staggered from the bed to go and clean herself down, but no matter how vigorously she scrubbed, the sickening feeling of violation would not wash away. It was under her skin, it ran through her veins, and had invaded her soul. She then set to work trying to salvage her spoilt dress, vowing never to wear it in Flynn’s company ever again. Not that it had assisted in arousing him, but purely because she did not want it damaged further; it was too precious. Luckily, most of the damage was in torn seams, which were quite easily repaired. She only had two dresses with her and they were fast wearing out, so she decided to wear the uncomfortable convict clothing instead.

  Flynn deliberately avoided her the following day, and when they finally came face to face, Sarah was very subdued and refused to make eye contact. She obeyed his every command, drained of all will to fight. Having once been forced to succumb, she now freely gave herself to him without a struggle – indeed more like a rag doll, or a corpse. But he did not like that either, he wanted some response from her, though he knew he would never get it.

  Sarah’s health began to deteriorate. She refused to eat and would not rest, seeking solace in perpetual occupation, to prevent the sadistic events from haunting her mind. She craved the release that death would bring but did not have the courage to kill herself. She had been led to believe that suicide would mean never being reunited with Pat and Sam in the afterlife and so she was compelled to wait for death to come naturally.

  Flynn had noticed Sarah’s fading health and reluctantly ordered her to rest for two days in order to ‘pull herself together’, threatening to send her to the Female Factory, if she failed to improve, yet even that brought no response. Since she no longer cared whether she lived or died, Sarah now dared to leave the house, ignoring his strict instructions not to do so. She wandered around the town desperate to come across a familiar face, on this her first trip out since arriving in Hobart town. She did not venture too far, for fear of getting lost, and she could not stay out too long, for fear that Flynn might be waiting for her, but she had wandered far enough and long enough to feel a lot better in herself and to escape the four walls that imprisoned her.

  She had walked through a large square, passing the busy market place into Campbell Street, then crossing Macquarie and Collins Streets. She watched people going about their daily lives, all oblivious to her torment. Men staggered out of bars so drunk they could not keep their hats on. Well-to-do women - free settlers wives - in large bonnets carried baskets of shopping, seemingly without a care in the world. While others just loitered about th
e street corners with nothing to do, and children chased about everywhere. Sarah noticed that the majority were men, who leered at her like they had never seen a woman before, passing comments as she went by such as, ‘You’re a flash one sure as that.’

  Liverpool Street then caught her eye, an instant reminder of happier times back in England, though there was no resemblance to home. Still, she felt comforted by the association. Then she turned into Elizabeth Street, which headed down to the harbour and was thronged with people and Sarah guessed that it must be the main shopping area. She carried on, again crossing Collins and Macquarie Streets and headed back on to Davey Street. She was about to cross the road when she heard a voice calling out her name. Instantly recognising it, she looked frantically about. It seemed to come from a cart that had just passed her by. Then there he was – Pat, her husband – being taken away.

  ‘Sarah!’ he shouted frantically, in amazement, ‘What’re ye doin’ ‘ere?’ His face was shocked and surprised as he struggled with the chains that restrained him.

  ‘I followed you!’ she shouted, running behind, trying to keep up with the cart.

  ‘They’re takin’ me away, Sarah! But I’ll come an’ find ye. I promise!’ shouted Pat as the distance between them widened. ‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked, suddenly concerned, but she ignored the question.

  ‘They told me you were dead!’ she screamed, desperate to touch him.

  ‘Well, I’m not, so don’t give up on me yet!’ he shouted, in despair.

  The cart then took a sharp right turn and disappeared from Sarah’s view as the realisation suddenly hit her – she had been deceived. Flynn had lied to her in order make her forget about Pat and allow him to seduce her. She cursed herself for having trusted him. How could she have been so naive? Such a fool? Well, she was not going to let him get away with it. She was overcome with emotion. Pat was alive. She had seen him with her own eyes. Simultaneously elated, yet traumatised, she made her way back to the house, her face awash with tears.