by Lucy Wild
There had to be an irony in the fact that just as I was wishing for an innocent little girl to appear in my life, I almost killed one. The first I knew of her was when I saw a pair of flailing arms in the middle of the road, about to be crushed under the front of my car.
I reacted just in time, slamming on the brakes and spinning the steering wheel, nearly losing control as I skidded round her, my car spinning to a halt in the middle of the road. I opened my door just to hurl abuse at her before continuing on my way but as soon as she answered, my mood changed. Her voice was so sweet, the way her hair was plastered to her forehead by the rain, the wind nearly knocking her off her feet, she was so slight, it made me want her. It made me want to stride the few feet it would take to reach her, snatch her off the road and shove her into the back of my car, take her back to the club, find out what she looked like underneath those soaking wet clothes.
I shook my head. That was why I didn’t speak to people like her. That was why my only trips out were to the club. I found it impossible to ignore the desires that prowled my mind. Temptation was a terrible thing but acting on it was worse. I couldn’t force her to the club, that was a one way ticket to trouble.
I was just dipping my head to climb back into my car when she said, “Please.” It was one single word, but it was a word laden with meaning. It sounded so weak, so needy, almost like she was begging me, begging Daddy to help his little girl. That was what she was like, a little girl who needed protecting, who needed looking after.
Against my better judgment, I looked after her. I changed her tyre despite every rational part of me screaming that I should leave before it was too late. Already my need was niggling away, drawing my eyes towards her. She stood watching me, trying to make conversation that I had to ignore. If I started talking to her, I’d draw her in, she’d fall for me like all the subs did. Then it would be impossible to just drive away. I’d end up tearing her clothes off her body in the rain, bending her over her car and ramming myself into her and fuck I had to stop thinking like that.
She almost destroyed me when she touched me. She tried to shake my hand but the feel of her cold fingers on mine sent lust raging through me and I had to leave, racing away and not looking back. She had no idea how close she’d come to danger. Because that’s what I was, what I am. A dangerous man.
It’s one thing to take control in the club, to dominate willing submissives. It’s another thing entirely to do it to a random woman in the middle of the night. When you have urges like mine, it’s vitally important to only indulge them in a controlled way, that was what the club was for.
I drove home, vowing to put her out of my mind. I shouldn’t have stopped to help. I should have driven on and ignored her pleas. Because seeing her, touching her, being near her, was too much. There was something about the way she looked, so trusting of me, not a hint of awareness of the risk she was in, that did things to me, that made me want to protect her, become her Daddy, make her my little girl, make her mine.
I got home and killed the engine. Maybe I should have bid on Tiffany. I should have picked at least one of them to be mine for the evening. It might not have been great but it would have been good. It would have given me a focus, let me vent some of the steam inside me. It would also have meant I’d have been home much later, I wouldn’t have come across her in the middle of the road, that beautifully innocent stranger who needed my help, who would have been stranded without me.
I was still trying to get her out of my mind when I climbed into bed an hour later. Her face kept coming back to me. I pictured that face walking into the club, the shock on it, the surprise at seeing what happened there. I hoped I never saw her again. Because if I did, I might not be able to resist anymore, I might have to make her my little girl, whether she wanted me to or not.
THREE
DONNA
I woke up on the floor. It took me a few seconds to remember where I was. Then it all came back in a rush of images. I’d finally arrived at my new house after midnight. The agent had posted me the front door key but I’d managed to bury it in one of my boxes so I’d had to spend twenty minutes rummaging through the things in the car before I was finally able to get inside.
All I took inside with me were some clothes and some blankets, enough to create a makeshift bed in the living room in the dark. I’d try and work out what was going on with the electricity in the morning. I changed out of my wet things and draped them over an icy cold radiator. Then I climbed into my little nest of blankets and laid there listening to the noises of the house as the wind outside continued to howl.
I wondered if I’d made the right decision. I was in a house with no furniture, no curtains, possibly no electricity. Should I have moved? Had I made a huge mistake, coming somewhere where I didn’t know anyone, where there might not be any work for me? What would I do if I couldn’t get a job? When I’d filled in the mortgage application, I’d been working of course, but that job was back there, back in the life I’d left behind.
I found myself thinking about the man who’d helped me. What if everyone here was like him? All of them hating strangers, hating conversation.
I realised with a gut-wrenching feeling that I’d been very lucky that he wasn’t a serial killer or something like that. I was by a broken down car with no signal on my phone and a tall, gruff, furious stranger rummaging in his boot before bringing out some spanner thing. What if he’d hit me over the head with it?
I went to sleep wondering if he lived in the town, thinking that even if he did, I’d probably struggle to recognise him. All I’d seen was his chin. It wasn’t much to go on.
I woke up the next morning a little after eight. The storm had passed overnight and through the windows I could see the sun was already up, the world looking a lot brighter in the daylight. It made me more optimistic about things. I sat up and yawned, climbing out of the blankets with a certainty that this was the right decision. The house was fine, it wasn’t collapsing, there would be plenty of space, and I’d find a job sooner or later.
I brought the boxes in from the car, piling them up in the living room. Then I went to try and find out what was wrong with the electricity. It turned out that the previous owner had switched it off. I felt quite proud of myself for finding the box that controlled it. A flick of a switch and it was back on. Next to the meter box was a note addressed to me.
Dear Miss Hayes,
I hope you enjoy this house as much as I did and that it becomes a lovely family home for you in the future. I recall you mentioned liking acting and the theatre and that you hoped to join my theatre group. I must suggest you do not join them, they have proved themselves a duplicitous bunch and I believe your interest would be better utilised in another direction with less bitter people.
Speaking of utilising, the details of the utilities are in the red file I left in the top drawer by the kitchen sink. I hope you don’t mind that I took the garden gnomes with me, I just couldn’t bear to leave them behind. Bin day is Tuesday round here. Watch the shed door, it has a tendency to stick.
All the best,
Nancy Miller, B.A (Hons)
As I finished reading the note, I heard the flap of the letterbox. Turning to head down the hall, I found a pile of post waiting for me on the doormat. It was mostly junk mail but in amongst the pizza shop menus and double glazing offers was a town newsletter. I flicked through it, my eyes drawn to the inside back page which covered the local community groups.
Halfway down the page was a paragraph covering the Scarton Amateur Dramatic Society with S.A.D.S printed next to it in brackets. It mentioned that they met up every Sunday and Wednesday at seven in the evening. The article discussed their last play, a performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. This was the group Nancy thought I should avoid?
Some little rebel in me had balked at being told not to join their group by her. I felt like I was back at school again. Whenever a teacher had told me not to do something, that was pretty much guaranteed to make me
want to do it. The only lesson I ever behaved in was drama, or theatre studies to give it its proper name. I fell in love with acting when I was in primary school and the interest had never left me. Everything about it excited me, from writing my own plays when I was little, doing my best to force my friends to appear in them, to the day of my examination where I had an entire audience applauding little me as I grinned back at them and took a bow at the end of my one person version of A Streetcar Named Desire, a challenge if ever there was one. I still had the vest somewhere.
I looked at the article again. If I didn’t go along, would that interest die away? I’d been a big part of the drama group at home. Not that it was home anymore, of course. I had to give it a shot. I enjoyed it too much not to. Seeing that they would be meeting that evening at seven decided things for me. I was going to go along and see just how unfriendly they were.
They might be grumpy like my mysterious helper from the previous night but then at least I’d know. I couldn’t just take Nancy’s word for it, what kind of person would? After all, she’d told me she’d be leaving me the curtains and there was absolutely no sign of them anywhere in the house.
FOUR
DONNA
I spent the day exploring the town before returning home in time to get changed to go out to the drama group. I’d found the theatre during my travels, a slightly dilapidated but romantic enough looking Victorian building in the middle of town, surrounded by shops and cafes, posters of recent performances on the wall outside. My eye was drawn to one titled About Last Night. Someone had scrawled “Cancelled,” across it in black marker pen, the letters jagged as if they were furious when writing it.
That evening, I headed out in time to get to the theatre for seven. I found the door unlocked. Pushing it open, I heard the sound of voices further inside. At the end of the corridor was another door and I went through it, finding myself at the back of an auditorium. There was a group of people sitting in a circle on the stage, looking like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, all of them on folding metal chairs.
“What I’m saying,” an elderly gent was shouting, “is that we should just give up on the idea and think of something else.”
“That’s a bit defeatist, isn’t it?” a middle aged woman replied, her head turning towards me as she did so. “Hello, dear, can we help?”
“Hi, is this the drama group?” I asked, walking down the aisle between the rows of seats.
“This is SADS,” the elderly gent replied. “Are you sad enough to join us?”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, stopping below the stage. “Do you have to be sad to act?”
“You do here, love.”
“Oh, stop it,” the woman said, pointing towards a set of steps at the side of the stage. “Come on up, dear and introduce yourself. We’re always glad of new members.”
As I walked up the steps, the woman fetched a chair from a pile at the edge of the stage. “Shuffle up, Henry,” she said, nudging a man in the arm. “Give her some room to sit down.”
I sat down on the chair the woman offered, looking round the group who all nodded back to me. “I’m Erica,” the middle aged woman said. That’s Henry the other side of you. Don’t ask him about his poodle, he’ll be on at you for hours. Then there’s Nigel there, the longest serving saddo. Next to him is Leanne and then Natalie and lastly this is Simon.”
“Hi,” I said, waving and doing my best to remember their names. “I’m Donna.”
A chorus of hellos went up as Nigel, the white haired old gent who’d been speaking when I first came in, coughed loudly. “If I can get back to what I was saying, I don’t see the point in asking him when he’s just going to say no.”
“We’ve been through this,” Erica replied. “We won’t know unless we try. The posters have all been printed after all.”
“And I didn’t appreciate having to write cancelled on every one. Can’t we sue Nancy? Get some of the cost back?”
“What’s this?” I asked. “Am I missing something?”
“Oh, where do I begin?” Erica said. “Well, we were hoping to put on a play because the playwright lives here.”
“About Last Night?”
“Right, you know it?”
“Not really. I saw the poster outside. Is it a good one?”
“It’s incredible. It was huge in its time but he hasn’t given anyone permission to perform it for years.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a bit near the end where one of the characters is tied up in rope. Unfortunately someone died performing it and ever since then he’s refused to give his consent. I think he blames himself for what happened but it was just an accident.”
“Were you thinking of asking him?”
“We thought Nancy had.”
“Sorry?”
“Nancy. She was in charge of the group until she moved. She promised us she’d gotten permission from him to perform it, swore it was all done and dusted. Of course, once we started rehearsing, we found out the truth that she made it up.”
“Wait, it wasn’t Nancy Miller, was it?”
“Oh, did you know her?” the teenage girl opposite me asked. “She wasn’t a relative of yours was she?”
“No, I just bought her house.”
“I see.”
“She left me a note telling me not to join this group.”
“I bet she did,” Henry said. “Lying cow.”
“Henry!” Erica snapped. “That’s not like you.”
“Well, serves her right. Getting all our hopes up like that then upping sticks and moving. I bet that’s why she went.”
“She went because she got a job in Edinburgh,”
“She went because she was a coward. I never liked her.”
“Anyway,” Erica said, putting on a polite smile. “The reason we were all so excited was that there’s been this big hoohaa over the years about persuading him to let the play be performed again. There’s a trust in London that have offered a big grant to whoever performs it first and it can’t have escaped your attention that we’re not in the most palatial of locations.”
“You can say that again,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the roof caves in while we sit here. Especially as Nigel said the name of the Scottish play last week.”
“I did apologise for that,” Nigel replied.
“Who wrote it?” I asked.
“Shakespeare of course.”
“No, About Last Night.”
“George Atherton. He lives at the old farm along Westcott Lane. Do you know it?”
“Of course she doesn’t know it,” Erica snapped. “She’s only just moved here, Nigel.”
“We’ve all asked him,” Nigel said. “Practically every theatrical company in the country has asked him at one time or another.”
“We should put something else on,” Henry said. “We’ll raise the money from ticket sales.”
“It’s twenty thousand,” Erica replied. “It would take us years to get that sort of cash together and by then the roof really might have caved in, that leak by the changing rooms is getting worse. The wall was soaked after last night’s storm.”
“What about the new girl?” Nigel asked, nodding towards me.
“What about her?”
“Why doesn’t she ask him?”
“Oh, Nigel, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“She’s young, she’s pretty, she’s as much chance as anyone else.”
“That’s a bit sexist, Nigel,” Henry said.
“Thank you.”
“No,” he sighed. “That’s not a good thing.”
“We’re wandering from the point,” Erica said.
“What happened when you asked him?” I asked. “Did he say why he wouldn’t give you permission?”
“He didn’t answer my letter,” Erica replied.
“You mean you didn’t go see him?”
“I didn’t dare.”
“You need to be more bold,” I said, g
etting to my feet. “I’ll go up there now and speak to him if you like?”
“Are you sure?” Erica asked. “I’m not sure that would be wise.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked. “He can only say no, right?”
FIVE
DONNA
I left the theatre ten minutes later with directions up to George Atherton’s house. I had no idea whether he’d let the group put the play on but my logic was that there was no harm in asking, especially asking in person. It was easy to ignore letters and phone calls, it was far harder to ignore someone standing on your doorstep and batting their eyelashes at you. That was exactly what I intended to do.
I went home first, rummaging through my boxes to find an outfit that was suitable. Something a bit low cut should work, show off a bit of cleavage, maybe that skirt I normally wore in the summer. It was red and clung to me, working to show off my hips in the best possible way. I paired it with a blouse, deliberately leaving the top button undone. I wore sheer tights. It might have been a warmer evening than last night but it was still September in the north of England.
The walk up to his house was pleasant enough. As the town fell away, I found myself on the edge of a quiet lane that ascended up a hillside towards trees. Just before the trees, there was a turning on the right and I followed it, seeing a house appear further up on the hilltop overlooking the town. It was once a magnificent building, that much was clear. But it was equally clear that it had been neglected for a long time and the closer I got, the more dilapidated it looked.
The front garden was overgrown, a few tiles were missing on the roof and the window frames desperately needed replacing. It was the perfect house for a misanthropic playwright to hole up and scowl at the world. I doubted he ever went out, probably just sat in front of a rickety old typewriter with an overflowing ashtray and a half drunk bottle of whiskey, endlessly redrafting a follow up to About Last Night.