by H S Chandler
Maria made tea. They stood in her kitchen and talked. Ruth had pleaded with her to leave. Maria had made excuses why she couldn’t, like she had for so many years. When you were broken it took too much effort to pick up all the pieces of you and carry that weight somewhere else. Then the sound of the gates rolling over the gravel of the driveway had come again. Edward was home early. It was a trick he played, randomly, every few months. Today though she knew she should have foreseen it. He was too excited about the prospect of his evening with her, at watching her part her own flesh for his gratification, to stay away any longer.
‘You can’t be here,’ she whispered to Ruth. ‘He’ll punish me. It’ll make things worse.’
‘Maybe it’ll make things better if he knows you’ve spoken to someone,’ Ruth said.
‘No! You don’t get it. Please, please, Ruth. Oh God, it’s too late. Just get in the pantry and stay quiet. He’ll go up for a shower in a few minutes and I’ll let you out of the back door.’
‘Maria, I won’t let him hurt you any more …’
‘You have to do as I say. You can’t just walk in here and make decisions for me,’ Maria hissed.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ There were already tears in Ruth’s eyes. ‘Whatever you want. I won’t make a sound, I promise.’
Ruth stood in the pantry, her back against the wall, trying to quieten her breathing, convinced she sounded like a freight train. A minute later there were footsteps, and the sound of briefcase catches being opened.
‘Edward, you’re early, that’s nice,’ she heard Maria say. Ruth had never heard her voice so delicate. ‘I rewrote the letters for you. I hope you’ll like them.’
‘Stop blathering,’ Edward told Maria. His voice was exactly as Ruth had imagined it. Superior, demanding, patronising. It was almost as if she could see through the pantry door to the scene unfolding in the kitchen. ‘You remember what I promised you?’
Maria nodded.
‘Say it,’ he said.
‘I can cut myself tonight,’ she whispered.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Only not tonight. This afternoon. I came home early for your sake. Aren’t you lucky?’
‘Yes, Edward,’ Maria muttered. ‘Thank you. I hope it didn’t put you out.’
‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to work late tomorrow, but I’m prepared to make the sacrifice.’
Ruth could hear the enjoyment in his voice. Make Maria cut herself, then make her say thank you for the privilege, then make her apologise because her husband had to work late. Her hands were fists in her pockets and she was biting her bottom lip to keep from crying at the horror and injustice of it all.
‘Two blades tonight, good and deep,’ Edward’s voice rumbled, theatrically. He was loving it. ‘You must put plenty of towels down to soak up the blood. I thought as an extra I might film the event, make it a special evening. We’ve never done that before. Would you like to see it how I see it, Maria? Would you like to be able to watch yourself after it’s all over? To really wallow in it? I think you’d like that a lot.’
Ruth gagged, bundling her jumper into her mouth to stop the noise. Dr Edward Bloxham was everything Maria had said he was and more. She knew he was excited just from the way he was enunciating his words. She’d have put money on him being physically aroused. But it wasn’t some cheap thrill. It was a carefully conceived plan, executed over years. It was nothing less than incremental murder.
‘If you think that’s a good idea,’ she heard Maria reply faintly.
‘I do.’ He walked to the sink. ‘Two cups?’ he asked. ‘What the hell’s this? You’re getting so slovenly these days that you’re not even bothering to wash up one cup before getting yourself a second drink? What is it exactly that I work hard all day for? Presumably you’ve been sitting around dreaming the hours away, achieving nothing. This is what happens when I get home early. I find out your nasty, dirty little habits.’
‘Sorry,’ Maria whispered. ‘I just forgot. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a mistake.’
Ruth was reaching for her mobile phone, wondering how to adjust the settings so that it made no sound as she dialled.
‘It certainly was. Perhaps we need something extra tonight to remind you who’s in charge here, Ria.’ He made a show of contemplating his decision, walking to stare through the glass in the back door out into the garden, arms folded, chin high, the master of his own tiny world. He kept his back to her as he delivered his judgment. ‘Perhaps playing dead again will help you appreciate being alive. I think you’ve forgotten how lucky you are to live in this house with me. Go upstairs.’
‘Yes, Edward,’ Maria said.
‘You’ll cut yourself until I say stop. And afterwards you’ll tell me how grateful you are and how lucky you are. Until I decide you really mean it.’
Ruth heard the words cut, grateful and lucky, but in her mind she saw her sister, Gail, wired up and comatose in a hospital bed. The sister she hadn’t been able to save. The sister who hadn’t even been able to talk about her awful life. And Gail’s husband, who knew where he was now, abusing someone else unchecked because no one had done anything about it. But Maria had reached out. She had asked for help. And Ruth was right here, right now. This time there was something she could do. She reached her hand around for whatever was nearby – a frying pan or a rolling pin – whatever. What she found was solid and wooden. Just light enough to lift easily but heavy enough to send a message. And Edward needed to get the message. He needed to learn there were consequences. Maria deserved to be protected from him.
She pushed open the pantry door and saw Maria’s face slacken. Raising the broken chair leg above her head, she noticed the metal screw protruding from its end and winking in the sunlight. Then she brought it down hard and heavy, and there was the slightest movement of air. It caught Maria’s hair, wafting across her forehead. The sound was extraordinary, like halving a cabbage with a butcher’s knife. No sound came from Edward’s mouth at all. His upper body spun slightly, then his legs registered the blow and he crumpled, collapsing face forward onto the floor. Ruth just stood there, blood dripping down the chair leg towards her shaking hands.
‘What … what … did I …?’
Maria stepped forward, staring into the gully in her husband’s head. A pale worm of grey matter was oozing from a crack in his skull.
‘You should go now,’ Maria said, taking the chair leg from her, fascinated by the tufts of hair that had caught in the screw.
‘Gail?’ Ruth asked vaguely, staring at Maria, but not seeing her. Not properly.
‘Ruth, pull yourself together,’ Maria said. She sounded calm. So calm that Ruth hardly recognised her voice at all.
‘We have to call someone,’ Ruth said. ‘The police, an ambulance. We have to explain.’
‘No,’ Maria said, putting a gentle arm around Ruth’s shoulders. ‘You can’t say you did this. They’ll lock you up, Ruth. Who’ll look after the twins and your mother? They’ll be sent to institutions, foster care. You know awful how it’ll be.’
‘But I can’t run. They’ll find me. It’ll only make things worse,’ Ruth said, her voice wavering with dawning realisation as she stared at the man on the ground.
‘Not if they’re not looking for anyone. You did this for me. I can tell them how my life was. Now that he’s dead, I can do that.’
‘I killed him,’ Ruth sobbed, doubling over and clutching her stomach.
‘No, you didn’t. You saved me,’ Maria said. ‘I wish I’d had the guts to do what you just did, years ago. Give me that. Not for your sake, for my own.’
‘No. I won’t let you …’
‘I’ll say it was self-defence. I won’t be lying, not really. I have a chance to persuade them. You don’t. I want you out of my house, right now. You’ll have to go over the back fence to the passageway behind the garden, but you’re tall enough to make it.’
‘Maria …’
‘Think about Lea and Max, and your mum. That
’s all. You think about them, and you go.’
She looked at Maria, shock rendering her woozy and nauseous, but her friend was right. Even in the midst of the carnage, she knew it. ‘I’ll find a way to make sure you get out of this. I’ll do whatever I have to do, Maria. I promise you won’t go to prison.’
‘Just go,’ Maria said. ‘I need to sort the kitchen out before I call the police.’
Ruth went, leaving Maria washing up the second cup from the sink. She jumped the fence and walked as normally as she could to her car.
In the house, Maria made sure there were no footmarks on the floor other than hers and Edward’s. Then she picked up the chair leg from where she’d rested it on Edward’s head as she’d cleaned, and ran her hands up and down in the blood and gore to make absolutely sure all trace of Ruth was destroyed. Finally she stared outside a while, appreciating her garden as she counted enough minutes for Ruth to be long gone. The last thing she did was to push the pantry door shut with her elbow as she left the kitchen, on her way to finally say the words she’d dreamed of so often. Dr Edward Bloxham, her husband, was dead.
36
Lottie’s mobile rang as she was walking back to her car. It was Jennifer. She’d forgotten that they’d even exchanged numbers, it seemed such a long time ago.
‘Hey Lottie, whereabouts are you? I was hoping to say goodbye in person,’ Jen said brightly.
‘Not far from the court, on my way to the car park. You don’t need to worry,’ Lottie replied
‘Actually I’d like to, if you don’t mind. I didn’t get a chance at the court, too many people dashing off. Meet me at the court entrance? Five minutes.’
‘Sure,’ Lottie said. ‘Why not?’ It was on her route back to the car, and a distraction from what she was going to say to her husband. She was about to embark on a lifetime of lying. Frankly, delaying that, even for just a few minutes, seemed like a blessing.
Jen was already waiting when she arrived, wearing a red and green knitted cardigan in spite of the heat, with an equally bright smile. She hugged Lottie hard, in a motherly way. Like a proper mother, Lottie thought. Not one who had sex while her child was throwing up at the childminder’s. Not the sort of thing Jen would ever do.
‘I wanted to tell you, that was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen anyone do. To open up to a load of virtual strangers, and to be so honest after what you’ve been through. I know we’ve been on that jury together, but we still don’t know each other very well. Anyway, I respect you. And I’m here if you ever need me. I hope whatever you’ve gone through is in your past.’
A lump in Lottie’s throat was threatening to stop her from responding.
‘Thank you,’ she croaked.
‘Don’t you cry, you’ll start me off again,’ Jen said. ‘Look at us, silly things. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your car.’
‘That would be nice,’ Lottie said, wiping her face with her sleeve as Jen linked arms with her and they got moving.
‘Driving back over the suspension bridge are you? Traffic will be dreadful at this time. Just building up to rush hour now.’
‘That bloody bridge,’ Lottie laughed, glad to be thinking about something other than Cameron Ellis for a moment. ‘I must have done four different projects on it at school, for history, geography, maths and physics. I know more about Isambard Kingdom Brunel than my own mother.’
‘Ah, but he didn’t really design it,’ Jen said happily.
‘What are you talking about?’ Lottie asked. ‘Of course he did.’
‘Not the bits that mattered. A woman called Sarah Guppy patented the designs for the pilings in 1811. Imagine that! She didn’t even have the right to vote, but she was an engineer and an architect. Brunel only joined the project years later. Without her, that bridge wouldn’t be standing today.’
‘How could I not have known that?’ Lottie asked, shaking her head.
‘I’m a bit of a nerd about it. Apologies if I’m boring you. I’m writing a paper on Sarah Guppy for my history degree at the moment. Only a distance learning course, but still. Keeps me busy.’
Lottie stopped walking. ‘All you said was that you were a housewife. Why didn’t you tell any of us?’
‘No need to make a great big fuss about every little thing, is there? Anyway, I’m still a housewife first. That’s what I take the most pride in. It doesn’t mean I’m not anything else. This your car, is it?’ she asked, as Lottie stood with the keys dangling uselessly from her hands.
‘Um, yes, it is,’ Lottie said. ‘Thank you, Jen. I’m so glad you rang me. Do you think you’d mind if I kept in touch. I mean, you’re obviously busy, so I won’t hassle you …’
‘Hassle away, anytime. I’d love that,’ Jen said. ‘Speak soon, yes?’ She kissed Lottie’s cheek and walked away.
Lottie climbed into her car, keys sitting in her lap. Jen wasn’t what she’d seemed. Lottie’s own prejudices had reduced her to something less. She felt ashamed of all the times she’d thought of her as Just-Jen. How could she have diminished another person to such a low status, and based on what … a few sentences of introduction? In fact, nothing inside the jury room had been what it first appeared. Cameron wasn’t what he’d seemed. Jack had been duped and lied to. Lottie had been determined to hate the woman at the Cathedral who’d given Cameron the motive and opportunity to use her and Jack, only her heart wasn’t in it. The woman’s tears had been real, her sorrow genuine. If nothing else, the trial had taught Lottie something about reading people. She was certain – well beyond a reasonable doubt, or whatever the legal phrasing was – that Maria Bloxham had spent her life forced to live someone else’s lie. Her rage in the witness box hadn’t been a symptom of anything except the deeply felt frustration of injustice. She was no more insane than Lottie. If that was a good enough reason to lock someone up, then there would be many more candidates than there were cells available.
Now Lottie was about to go home, and pile up yet more of that deceit in her own life, through fear, and a lack of self-respect. She was taking away her husband’s right to choose his future. The thought made her sick. Worse than that. It would make her less than she really was.
She started the car and followed the trail of vehicles to the suspension bridge. Jen was right. It was blocked all the way across. It took her another forty-five minutes to get home. Zain was already there, and just about to go and fetch Daniyal from the childminder’s.
‘Hello you,’ he said, kissing her forehead.
Lottie hugged him once, briefly. She knew what she had to do. She’d had enough lying for a lifetime.
‘Zain,’ she said. ‘I need to tell you this, and we’ll work out what to do. I’m not asking for forgiveness because I don’t deserve that, but you do deserve the truth. I love you. And I love our son more than life itself. I was unhappy and feeling trapped. I think I lost all my self-worth somewhere along the line. That’s no excuse for what I did, but it’s part of the facts. I had an affair with another juror. It’s over now and I regret it more than I will ever be able to tell you. But I won’t lie to you. I just can’t. So when you’re ready, however long that takes, I’d like to know if you’ll give me a chance to fix it. And if we can’t fix it, then maybe we could try starting again. I want to be your wife, but it has to be on both our terms. Equally. You take all the time you need to hate me. I just wanted you to know that it cannot possibly be more than I already hate myself. And I’m sorry.’ She lifted her chin and looked her husband straight in the eyes. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’
37
Maria sat in her car outside the solicitor’s office and looked at her watch. Ruth dashed across the street and hopped in, avoiding the sleet. Winter was bringing as much cold as the summer had heat, and the roads were treacherous.
‘Sorry I’m late. You ready?’ Ruth asked.
‘To sign my divorce papers? Do you really need to ask?’ Maria smiled.
‘It’s freedom from him finally, legally, not to mention financial indepe
ndence. You must be feeling a bit emotional,’ Ruth said.
‘I suppose I am a bit, but it’s not that big a deal. He’s still there, rotting away in some hospital. Do you think he understood the outcome of the trial? Do you think anyone even bothered to communicate it to him?’
‘Probably not. What would have been the point?’ Ruth looked at her watch. ‘We should go.’
‘One more minute,’ Maria stared at the grey sky. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking I might go away for a while, take a trip. See something of the world. Good idea or bad idea?’
‘Well, you’ll certainly be able to afford it. Once you’ve signed those papers, you’ll have six hundred thousand pounds in your bank account. Even after you’ve bought a house, that’s more than enough to fund a long trip,’ she said.
‘But?’ Maria asked. ‘Come on, I can hear it in your voice. What are you worried about?’
‘The nightmares,’ Ruth said. ‘I haven’t been listening deliberately, but I can hear you in the guest room. It’s perfectly normal. You know my view. You’re suffering post-traumatic stress disorder which probably requires treatment. I’m concerned that you might not cope very well in unfamiliar places.’
‘You mean you’re worried I might not cope without you,’ Maria said.
‘I mean … yes, without me. I want to take care of you, Maria. After all you did for me. What you risked.’
Maria reached across to take her friend’s hand. ‘Ruth, I know you think I did that for you, but you can rest easy. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the trial and the possibility of being found guilty, and my reality isn’t so selfless. Yes, I wanted to protect the twins and your mother from what would have happened if they lost you. And yes, I felt responsible for what happened even though I hadn’t hit Edward myself. You were in my kitchen for me, because of me. You didn’t choose the path you took that day. There was absolutely no way you could have come to court as a witness on my behalf. You’d have been cross-examined into a corner, and admitted everything. You’re too decent a person, and lying isn’t in your nature. But you need to understand that in large measure I took responsibility for Edward’s injury from sheer bloody-minded hatred. I didn’t want him to have the win. The idea of him taking you from me would just have been another victory, whether he’d have comprehended it or not. The loathing I feel for him isn’t temporary, it’s not post-traumatic anything and it’s never going to leave me. It’s part of my DNA now. So don’t go polishing my halo too often, all right? I’ve been driven by emotions my whole life – by nerves, and fear, and a lack of confidence – but hatred turned out to be the one thing that gave me strength. Perhaps a little too much, looking back on how I behaved in court.’