by Helen Fields
‘I can fix that,’ he said, a bottle of liquid soap appearing from the floor at his side.
He squirted a generous amount onto his own palm then rubbed it onto her ring finger. Her wedding and engagement rings, those 24-carat traitors, slipped off without a moment’s hesitation. A quick towelling dry, and he pushed on his ring of choice. She wished she still had enough bile in her stomach to be sick over her new accessory, but her body wasn’t performing to command.
‘Ceremony,’ he mumbled.
She gazed at him through the soreness of dehydrated, tear-blanched eyes. Scrawny, with sallow skin that would reject sunlight and sunken eyes sat atop the twin brown half moons of insomnia and malnutrition, his hands shook as he wandered around, picking up one object and setting down another, murmuring to himself constantly.
‘Didn’t get shoes,’ he said, slapping his own face hard.
The sound echoed against the windowless walls.
The floor was tatty old carpet, scratchy beneath her one bare foot. Her absent shoe was in a bush, waiting to be discovered, and in her mind it had become a living thing, lying quietly as it looked anxiously skywards, hoping for a face to peer down and notice it, rescuing it gently. That shoe was her message in a bottle. She’d bought the pair only two weeks earlier, loving the softness of them as she admired their bright yellow canvas and black elastic laces. They’d been an extravagance, but then she’d never had to worry about money. She’d never had to worry about anything before, she realised now. Wealth and privilege had shielded her from everything except illness and the more distressing news broadcasts. To combat those, she’d been an enthusiastic supporter of numerous charities. Over the years she’d helped raise millions for social issues such as homelessness and child poverty, and made sure the new teenage cancer wing on a nearby hospital was completed to the highest standards, fully equipped and as homely as could be.
‘Put it on,’ the man said, laying a greying, too large wedding dress over her lap. Elspeth stared at it.
‘You want me to do what?’
‘Going to get ready,’ was his reply.
He shuffled through a doorway that led into a bedroom beyond. What the other rooms held, Elspeth hadn’t yet discovered. Standing was painful. She’d spent the first twenty-four hours after her abduction bound and laid on her side, knees up, wrists roped behind her back. Her captor had carried her from driveway to vehicle, and from there into a house. When her bindings were finally cut, she’d remained in position, moving only inch by inch, tendons stiff and muscles seized. In spite of regular yoga classes and trips to the gym, it had taken only that brief time to weaken her.
Now, she was undoing the zip on a wedding dress that surely hadn’t been worn for decades. The lace was ripped and the stale yellow of old pub wallpaper. Stepping into it, she shed silent tears for her own husband. Her parting words to him had been snappy and churlish. She’d been desperate to return home and make things right with him. Now she might never have the chance. She pulled the dress up over her chest and slipped her arms into the puffy sleeves. A cloud of dust burst upwards into her face, leaving her choking. The smell was of attic and rodent droppings.
‘You look beautiful,’ the man said.
He’d reappeared with ghostlike stealth around the door. Elspeth wrapped her arms around her waist.
‘Here, I’ll zip you up. My brother should have been here. He’d have been my best man. That’s something I’ll have to fix a bit later. Couldn’t get to it in time for the wedding. Not the right time to feel sorry for ourselves though, is it? This is the first day of us spending the rest of our lives together.’
His clothing was a perfect match for her dress in terms of age and state. The sleeves of his jacket ended inches up his arms, but the rest was far too bulky for his frame. The blue-and-green kilt hung off him, no socks, and too high over the knee. It had been made for someone short and round, whereas he might not have eaten for months, every bone digging at his skin from the inside. He had to be dying. The thought warmed her.
Moving to face her, he took hold of both of her hands. Elspeth swayed slightly. On a different day, at a different venue, that sway had been taken as a sign of delirious happiness. She’d been a bride overcome by the emotion of the moment, the watching crowds and the promise of a lifetime of love and devotion. Her parents had clutched one another joyfully, so certain of her choice of partner. A string quartet had played classical music, and her bridesmaids were her sister’s twin girls dressed in tea rose pink with daisies in their hair. Elspeth imagined her husband’s face and wondered if she would ever touch it again.
The man opposite her now coughed into her face with no thought for whether or not he should cover his mouth. Elspeth looked sideways at the bizarre painting on the wall and sang a song in her head. The words were a jumble in her mind, and she couldn’t remember all of them. Her mother had sung it to her as a girl, something about cambric shirts and a sickle of leather. There was a tune and she wanted to hum it, but now the man holding her hands was raising his head grandly and puffing out his chest, and oh sweet God, he began speaking as loudly as if they were in a cathedral with a thousand people watching their nuptials. Elspeth knew her mouth was hanging open as she stared, but there wasn’t a threat he could issue that could wipe the horror and incredulity from her face.
‘Is there any person here present who knows of any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony?’
There was a pause. Elspeth had been alone with him in that room for what had seemed like forever, and still she felt the need to look around. There was no one. He was talking to absolutely no one. Still he paused, waiting the proper amount of time, in case of an interjection.
Stepping a few inches closer to her, lowering his head to look fiercely into her eyes, he began to recite his vows.
‘I, Fergus, take thee, Elspeth Brenda, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer …’
Fergus? Elspeth racked her brains. She’d never met anyone called Fergus, not even heard the name in the context of a friend. And yet he knew her middle name. Did he know it was her grandmother’s name? Did he also know that her grandmother, Brenda, had been an unstoppable woman who’d never accepted what she’d been told was her place? Brenda would have done something. She’d have talked this man – this Fergus – into releasing her, or beaten him into submission. And what was she doing? Playing weddings with a maniac. Elspeth did her best to breathe but the air was poison. Now, he was smiling at her. Actually smiling. Waiting for her to say something. She couldn’t understand what.
‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘Repeat after me … I, Elspeth, take thee, Fergus …’
‘I, Elspeth …’ she muttered, glancing around again.
Had she lost her mind? Were there people watching them who she simply couldn’t see?
‘Say the words. Say the words. Say them, say them, say them.’ He fist-hammered the wall to punctuate each syllable, throwing his head back and opening his mouth to its most extreme cavity before letting loose a feral scream from the depths of his throat.
Elspeth covered her mouth with one hand, tried not to scream in response. She shuffled backwards as he swayed on his feet, his whole head tipped back as if he could consume his rage whole. The purpling skin of his cheeks swelled, and he growled and howled, still thumping the wall, shifting from one foot to the other.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, willing herself to unsee the lashing tongue and ground-down back teeth. It was time to save herself.
‘I, Elspeth, take thee, Fergus,’ she said, the words a mush amid her sobs. Again. ‘I, Elspeth, take thee, Fergus.’ That was better. Louder, clearer.
He stopped howling and just stood, mouth still a gaping hole aimed towards the ceiling, swaying on his feet. But he was listening now.
‘To be my wedded husband,’ she said.
Fergus’ mouth began to close and his chin dropped.
His eyeballs were still playing pinball in their sockets, and his breathing was ragged and harsh, but – to quote a phrase Elspeth’s husband loved – he was back in the room.
‘To have and to hold, from this day forward,’ Elspeth said. She reached out her hand, hating herself for weakness, for complying, but knowing saving herself this way was probably all she could do. ‘For better for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health.’
At that he smiled. Too many teeth and too much gum, too wide and wild. It wasn’t just his body that was sick, she realised. And he wasn’t just some pervert. If she had to put a label on it, to really capture what she’d just seen of him, she would call him a demon.
‘In sickness and in health. That’s good,’ he panted. ‘Go on.’
‘To, um, give me a moment.’ Elspeth shook her head, desperate to find the words. She’d been doing so well. What came next?
‘Love,’ he said, smiling at her and stepping even closer so that their joined hands brushed against both of their stomachs. The foulness of his breath gave the air an acid bite.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘To love, cherish and obey, till death do us part.’
Fergus shuddered.
‘Death.’ His shoulders heaved. ‘Won’t part us. I won’t let it.’ He ran dirty fingers over his scalp, circling his palm around the top of his head clockwise, anticlockwise.
Elspeth tried not to stare at the bristles of hair that came away, leaving little oily stubs.
He reached for Elspeth’s hands again. She gritted her teeth against the sensation of grease on his fingertips, knowing she would still be able to smell his touch on her later. Probably forever.
‘Finish it.’
‘According to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth,’ she said.
He leaned into her body, letting his head drop onto her shoulder, nuzzling into her neck. The desire to gag again was a time bomb in her throat.
‘Nearly forgot,’ he muttered. ‘Stupid me. Stupid boy.’ He dipped his right hand into his trouser pocket, and drew out a gold band that he slid onto her finger, nestling it close to the engagement ring, before placing a larger gold band in Elspeth’s left palm, extending his ring finger for her to continue the ceremony.
She stared at the symbol of eternity. Together forever. Always bound. Making herself one with a monster. With a shaking right hand, she took the precious metal band and pushed it, slowly, onto his ring finger. A saline droplet exploded on the rim of the jewellery, spattering the back of his hand. He must have considered it a joyful tear, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close into his chest.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. It’s a lot. I feel the same. I’ve waited so long for this day, and you look so beautiful. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed.’
Fergus kissed her forehead then released her, pushing the ring more firmly onto his own finger and taking a half step back before raising his head once more.
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife,’ he told the roughly finished ceiling.
The words echoed around them.
A gavel fell in Elspeth’s head.
Fergus punched the air. She leapt backwards.
‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Fucking yes. I’m married. We did it!’ He picked her up, arms around her hips, and hoisted her into the air, twirling her round and whoop-whooping.
He was stronger than he looked, but then she’d learned that the first time he’d picked her up and thrown her into the boot of his car. She made herself rigid rather than gripping his shoulders for balance, half hoping he wouldn’t drop her and crack her head on the floor, half hoping he would. It would mean a quicker end to the insanity.
‘It’s our honeymoon, Mrs Ariss,’ he said, staring up at her, eyes shining with a terrifying mixture of adoration and desperation.
It took Elspeth’s breath away.
She’d been wrong. He wasn’t just a monster. Monstrosity was singular and predictable. It was consistent and reliable. The man who honestly believed he’d just joined her in wedlock was also a child in an adult’s body. He could kidnap her, then feed her and keep her warm. He could strip her of the wedding band she cherished then celebrate his own union with her. Drug her then tell her he adored her. She wished he were just a monster. There were rules for those. Never look under your bed. Keep the closet door shut. Make sure your bedroom window was locked at night. But there were no rules that would keep you safe from this.
This was a credible, well-informed source of information that could tell you something awful had happened to her best friend, and that he’d been sent to ask her to go there immediately. This was a gentle voice with a concerned manner, who knew everything about her and her life. This was a planner and a stalker, super-fan and hater. She’d lost her life in a heartbeat to land in a fucked-up hellhole of a honeymoon with a psychopath.
‘We should consummate it,’ Fergus muttered, more to himself than to her.
Elspeth backed up against the wall.
‘It’s not legal unless we consummate the marriage. I read that once. In the old days there’d have been witnesses.’ He laughed and looked away. ‘We won’t have any of those, but we’ll know, won’t we? That we did it all properly, I mean.’
Elspeth shook her head, raising her hands and making small fists in front of her mouth.
‘Don’t-want-to,’ she stuttered, her breath hitching between each word.
‘We’ll have to at some stage, for it to be real.’
‘We should …’ She tried to get some air into her lungs. ‘We should celebrate first. I mean, we just got married. Do you have any wine, beer even? Anything?’
He patted his body up and down as if he might find some hidden, long forgotten bottle secreted on his person.
‘I think – and I may be wrong – but I think possibly I’ve some whisky in the cupboard downstairs. Would you like me to go and look? I can’t let you come with me, obviously.’ He frowned. ‘Not that there’s another woman here. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. God, would you listen to me? You make yourself comfortable and I’ll find us something to toast with.’ He hustled out.
Elspeth waited until she heard the key turning in the lock before ripping the wedding dress from her shoulders. Fergus Ariss was deluded about many things, but not about the need to keep her secured. She was his prisoner first, his wife second. He knew she would bolt given the opportunity.
The alcohol would help, one way or another. If she could persuade him to drink enough and minimise her own intake, perhaps she could disable him. It was clear from the state of his face that he’d been in other altercations, and recently. His nose was still scabbed in a long line from top to bottom, and his forehead bore yellow patches with a faint purple trim that highlighted the old bruising. One of his fingers was bandaged. If she could attack those still-vulnerable parts of him, perhaps she could cause him additional pain.
Smoothing her T-shirt and her hair, she sat back down on the ancient heavy sofa and tried to control her breathing. She did it in yoga every week. Surely all those hours of practice had to count for something. Breathe in, expand her chest fully from the bottom of her ribcage, breathe out slowly, making sure her shoulders and neck were relaxed.
Fergus Ariss was going to rape then kill her. She couldn’t fool him. She could barely stop herself from shaking.
Breathe in. Imagine she was an empty well that she was filling with life-giving cool spring water, cleansing and refreshing her.
If she tried to attack him and it didn’t work, what then? Presumably he’d beat her skull in with his bare hands, or drug her like he had when he’d kidnapped her, maybe wait until she came round again and then take his time torturing her. Maybe this time she’d wake up in a cage.
Breathe out. Let all her worries flow out on that used-up air, sending the toxins from her system into the atmosphere. Be aware of the strength and potential of her own body, of how alive she felt, how vital.
How terr
ified.
Yoga was bullshit, she decided. If she’d taken self-defence classes three times a week instead, she wouldn’t be in the position she was. What a waste of time and Lycra.
The door opened, and for the first time she saw where Fergus kept his keys. A length of sturdy chain was wrapped around his waist beneath his clothes, the keys no more than a few inches from the junction of the chain. If she disabled him, she would have to drag him and lift him up to use the keys in the lock.
Fuck, she thought. Bastard son of all the fucks she had never given before.
Fergus grinned and raised the bottle in one hand, and a pair of plastic cups in the other.
‘Found it!’ he announced needlessly. ‘You took your dress off. Why would you do that?’ Fergus stared at the crumpled heap on the floor.
‘I was just getting comfortable, like you said,’ she smiled. Her efforts felt feeble and poorly acted. ‘I wanted to hang it, but there’s nowhere in here to do that. Perhaps you could look after the dress for me … afterwards.’
Turning her face slightly sideways, she gave him a look from beneath her eyelashes. It was grotesque, the faux flattery of a man to make him think she wanted him when she was preparing to get him drunk then smash a bottle over his skull. But somehow, he was oblivious to the fact that her smile was a snarl, and that her soft words were the worst lines of dialogue ever constructed.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said, matching the soft tones of her voice with his own. ‘Afterwards.’
Sitting down next to her on the bed, he filled one of the plastic cups with a generous measure of whisky, keeping the other empty. He passed her the full cup.
‘Shall I pour yours, then?’ she offered sweetly.
‘Oh no, I don’t drink at all. I just wanted to be able to hold a glass so we could toast one another. I take too much medication to be able to drink alcohol. I’m afraid to say your husband isn’t in the best shape at the moment. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with that, though. So much about our physical self is in being fulfilled and happy. You know that, right, with all the yoga and Pilates you do? I really admire that about you. Being in touch with your body. Perhaps you can show me some exercises. It might help me.’