Beautiful Torture

by C. P. Mandara

  Where are you? My phone dings and vibrates with the arrival of a text message, which is just as well because the noise in Gatwick airport's arrival hall rivals that of an exploding volcano. Kids are screaming, suitcases are rushing by one after the other, and everyone around me is trying their best to yell so they can be heard above the cacophony of sound. Most of the people waiting here are excited to meet loved ones, but I'm not one of them. I just want to get this farce over with.

  Waiting in the arrival hall. You'd have thought Helena could figure that out all by herself, but nothing's guaranteed where she's concerned. Honestly? Shop lifting in Harrods? The place is wired with CCTV and security guards are everywhere. It's not exactly the first port of call in the shoplifter's handbook. As to the accidental pregnancy, I have no words. I hope someone's checked her out for STD's, not that I'll need to worry on that score. There's as much chance of me sleeping with Donald Trump as there is Helena Foster-Lyle, and if I'm honest, I think I'd rather sleep with Trump.

  Well, who is going to carry my suitcases?!! There are several frowning emoticons after that text, as well as a couple of exclamation marks. This is going to get tedious very quickly.

  Tell you what, I'll just jump through customs and run like lightning past the security guards lining the doors. Prince Charming has nothing on me. Don't panic, babe - I'm putting on my superhero costume as we speak. What the fuck is this woman on? Can't she lift a suitcase by herself? Is she afraid she'll break a nail? I then remind myself that she's pregnant and probably shouldn't be carrying things. If this is the case then I will virtually slap myself in the face, and hope she has enough brain cells to ask a passer-by to help her out.

  Would you do that for me? I get smiley faces this time and love hearts. I kid you not. Love hearts. I know what your game is, Helena, and it's not going to wash. I've seen you at work.

  No. Get your ass out of there, Helena. We're on a schedule here.

  I then add, Get a luggage trolley and ask an airport official to give you a hand. Even though she is smart enough to figure that one out all by herself, I play along with her act. Thankfully I hear nothing more, and twenty minutes later she breezes through customs looking like she's just stepped out of a glamour magazine.

  What the hell? This is not the Helena Foster-Lyle I remember. Mind you, I've been inside for the past five years. A lot can change in that time, and believe me, it has. Helena has made quite the transformation. I remember her as slightly nerdy with straggly, mousy brown hair, a wardrobe full of different colour cardigans, and a pair of oversize black spectacles that took up most of her face. Her favourite pastimes were dressing her pet Chihuahua in bright pink bows and horse riding. That was then. Now she is a tanned blonde bombshell, with curves in all the right places - including some aesthetically enhanced ones, if I'm not much mistaken. She's wearing a slinky wool dress, Chanel shades, and enough red lipstick to stop traffic. My eyes blink several times as she walks towards me, waggling her manicured fingernails breezily in the air.

  She recognises me immediately, which I find odd. I'm twice the size of the man she knew, and I'd be the first person to admit I've changed quite a bit. Mind you, I recognised her as well, and that's saying something.

  "Darling, it's so good to see you. You look amazing," she trills at me. Her voice is a pitch too high to be comfortably heard, but I manage not to wince.

  "Helena, what the fuck is going on here? The stupid act might wash on your parents, but I know better. Shoplifting? Really? You couldn't come up with anything better than that?" My eyebrows raise.

  "Needs must when the devil drives, darling. Why, what's your problem? I don't see a whole queue of girls lining up to marry you. You should be thankful I took pity on your sorry ass." Helena hands the luggage trolley to me and I push it reluctantly. The thing weighs about two tonnes and is almost as reluctant to move as Michel Barnier is on Brexit. Seriously, there are four suitcases piled up high on it, and the excess baggage charge for those beasts must have equalled the UK's national debt.

  "I don't need anyone to take pity on me, Helena. I'm more than capable of looking after myself." If I could get through five years' worth of prison, the real world should be a cinch in comparison.

  "Without Mummy and Daddy's money? Who'd want to do that? Come now, marriage won't be so bad." Her voice is horribly patronising. She then puts her arm on my shoulder and this time I do wince, although she can't see it as she's behind me.

  "If you were so worried about your parents' money it might have been an idea to stay on the right side of the law, and not get yourself knocked up," I say dryly.

  "Kettle, pot, black," she responds glibly, and giggles. I see red. Fucking Harper. That woman has so much to answer for.

  "While we're on the subject of misdeeds," I say, seeking retaliation, "who is the father?" Knowing Helena, she's probably got herself knocked up by some cocaine sniffing R&B star. It's certainly someone who's pissed off her parents, else she'd be marrying him right now.

  "None of your business," she sing-songs in my ear, while reaching for a mirror compact and checking her reflection in it. I take a deep breath. It is going to be a very long day.

  "Glad to see we're going to be upfront with each other from the get-go," I reply acidly, while negotiating the trolley through the throngs of tourists that line the airport. The walk to the car hire depot is going to feel like a three-mile hike up Everest while carrying Helena's mountain of cases. It's a good job I work out.

  "Come now, Brandt, don't be like that. I'm positive we're going to have lots of fun together. Preparations for the wedding have already started, and I plan to honeymoon in Fiji. We're only allowed a small affair, but I'm sure we'll manage to enjoy ourselves." The woman then blows in my ear and plants a kiss on my cheek. I want to murder her. Scrubbing off the sticky mess of lipstick she's left behind with one hand, I stop at the car and unlock it.

  "Buckle up, Barbie," I growl, as I wonder how the fuck I'm going to fit four suitcases into a Mercedes C Class saloon. Now I'm not an astrophysicist, but even I know that's going to be an impressive achievement. I get two in the boot, and the remaining two I manage to squeeze into the back seat, although there's no way I'll be able to see out of the rear-view mirror for the foreseeable future. I'm tempted to leave one behind for the bomb squad to have some fun with, but it's not worth the grief I'll get. I can do without any major theatrics on the drive into town, and I'm positive Helena could put on a show that would rival Les Misérables. Speaking of misery...

  We hit London just as rush hour traffic clogs up every artery that leads into the city. We should have taken the train. Why didn't we take the train? Oh yeah, because Helena is a bigger diva than Madonna with her entourage of cases. Someone upstairs must really hate me. The amount of crap I've had to deal with in the past five years has been pretty phenomenal.

  "So, what have you been doing with yourself lately?" Helena is filing her nails into points and trying her best to while away the hours with idle chitchat. All I can think about is Harper, and every time she opens her mouth it serves to distract my very pleasant, albeit evil thoughts of revenge.

  "Funny you should ask, Helena. For the past five years I've been living the high life, babe. Clubs, bars, parties, skiing in Aspen, and the odd beach holiday to the Virgin Islands. Also witnessed the odd murder, got stabbed, and made a mental note never to bend down to pick up the soap in the showers. Had an utter blast, thank you. Now if you don't mind can you sit back, enjoy the ride, and shut the fuck up for the rest of the journey?" My fingers are tapping angrily against the leather steering wheel. My eyes feel like they should have those red rays that superhero's use to melt through metal. If they did, Helena's head would currently be several feet away from her body. If I've just pissed her off, I couldn't care less because there is no way in hell I am marrying the woman. The sound of her snotty, posh voice grates on me in a way that I cannot tolerate for more than ten seconds at a time. That has to be an omen.

  "Prison has changed
you, Brandt. You used to be so nice. What's up with you today?"

  She stops filing her talons for a second and looks at me with a big frown on her face.

  You, I want to scream. You're what's up with me today. I haven't got time for this shit.

  Now I'm beginning to feel guilty for leaving Harper on her own. She looked like she was going to freak out before I left her, and I daresay she won't be in any better state by the time I arrive tomorrow morning. I hope to God she eats something while I'm away or I'm going to spank that ass red raw. Oh, fucking hell. I'm suddenly sporting an erection half a mile long and the devil incarnate is sitting right across from me. I swear the woman can read my thoughts, and the next words out of her mouth are confirmation of the fact.

  "Oh, honey. Do you need me to take care of that for you?" She's almost licking her lips with excitement. What is wrong with this woman?

  "You come anywhere near me and I'll snap your neck. That's a promise. I'm here under duress and I am unamused by our unseemly collaboration."

  Helena snorts. "Your junk seems to disagree, but hey, I was only trying to be nice. If you want to suffer in silence for the next hour or so, be my guest." She sniffs, turns her face away to look out of the window, and pretends to be offended by my outburst. Like I care.

  For the next thirty minutes we don't say a word to each other. The quiet that now surrounds me is bliss. You learn to embrace it in prison. It's noise that you have to be scared of. At least that's one thing Harper has going for her; she doesn't feel the need to fill up our space with unnecessary chatter. Helena, on the other hand, is going to pop. I can feel her rage from here. The pampered bitch is used to getting her own way. I have news for her. She's not going to get away with that shit on my watch.

  Eventually the dam of silence bursts. "Baby's due in November," she whispers.

  "And? We're not playing happy families, Helena. One look at you has STD written all over it." Like I can talk. I need to get tested. I hope to hell Gabriel was clean because if I find out I've come out of the clanger with a 'little present', so to speak, I'm going to flip my shit.

  "I'm clean. I was tested a week ago when they checked the baby over. I've got the paperwork in my bag." Helena's voice has lost its earlier animation. I have a feeling she thought I'd just roll over and take what was coming to me. She'll learn.

  "Good to know. I still don't want you anywhere near me." My lips sneer as I speak the words, and I can see her visibly recoil. Score one for me.

  Helena twists in her seat, wringing her hands together. I like this new look on her.

  "Why did you agree to this, if you don't want to go through with it? I thought you'd be pleased." Helena sounds puzzled. It's as if she can't believe I'd be anything but grateful for her rescuing me from the depths of social obscurity.

  "You thought I'd be pleased to be forced into marriage and raise some bastard's child as my own? What planet do you live on, Helena? Are there many men you know that would be pleased with that?" There's another huff of air and once again she faces away from me. I'm hopeful that's the end of the conversation for the time being, but my optimism is premature.

  "Don't you want to be happy, Brandt?" Her voice lacks the sincerity I'd need to believe that little sentence.

  "Happiness is a fickle thing, Helena. It comes upon you when you are least expecting it, and it can leave just as quickly. I don't think happiness is in our future. I think this arrangement is destined for misery, and lots of it."

  I finally get more of the silence I've been craving, and not a moment too soon.

  Dinner is a torrid affair. The heating in the Foster-Lyle's household has been cranked up to excruciatingly unbearable, and it's almost as if they want to see me sweat, sauna-style. I'm equally as determined not to give them the satisfaction. Stripping off my blazer, I roll the sleeves of my shirt up and try to stay as still as possible.

  "So, Brandt, I bet you're glad that all this nonsense is behind you now." This comes from Helena's mother, who is sitting across from me, looking supremely elegant while raising a forkful of greens to her lips.

  I am unamused. "Yes. I'm very glad to be out of prison, if that's what you mean." I watch her shoulders shake as the word 'prison' is mentioned and resist the urge to smile. This is too much fun. Awkward, much?

  "I suspect your parents will be very glad to see you settle down," Helena's dad interrupts, as if sensing his wife's distress. The man finally swallows the piece of steak he's been chewing for the last five minutes and we can all be thankful for that. It appears that the Foster-Lyle's are not friends with their chef, and my sympathies are wholly with the household staff.

  "I have no idea. They haven't spoken to me for the last five years, so one can only speculate as to their thoughts and desires," I offer, somewhat sharply. I'm really not in the mood for pleasant chitchat. It's not as if they're doing me a favour by allowing me to marry their daughter. She's almost in as much shit as I am. At least my disaster was not of my own making.

  We sit there awkwardly for a while after that, with nothing but the clinking of silverware on plates for company. I'm more than content with that, but it's apparent the Foster-Lyle's want to assure themselves that an axe-murderer is not about to marry their daughter because the conversation eventually begins again.

  "What do you intend to do with yourself, after you're married?" This is from Helena's father again, Rupert, who has thankfully finished his steak.

  "Well, Mr Foster-Lyle, I'm guessing we'll be quite busy raising Helena's child together. I will obviously be looking for employment when Helena feels she can cope on her own, but for an ex-convict that won't be particularly easy." I'm addressing all sorts of elephants in this room and while mine is probably the worst, Helena isn't doing too badly herself.

  Steering the topic off crime and punishment, Helena's mother, Julia, turns to her daughter. "Darling, how are the preparations for the wedding going?" This is fucking laughable. I haven't even agreed to marry the girl yet, and they're talking as if it's a done deal. They assume I'm just going to bend over and take it, and to be fair, I haven't disabused them of the notion. I wonder who my replacement will be when this all falls through? What poor shmuck is going to have to deal with this clusterfuck of a family? Time will tell.

  Helena is all too happy to be the centre of attention now and wastes no time sharing her one-sided excitement at our upcoming nuptials.

  "Well, Mummy, I found a florist, and she does these wonderful tall-stemmed crystal vases filled with roses. I was thinking white and cream roses, with maybe some pearls in the design. What do you think?" Her eyes are shining and for all intents and purposes she looks every inch the glowing bride-to-be. Those acting skills of hers are second to none. I need to practise mine, apparently.

  "Well, it will be nearly summer by the time you get married, Helena. How about pink or lemon?" Is this Julia's tactful way of saying that nothing should be ivory or white on our rather rushed special day? I think it might be. Bringing a glass of particularly good claret up to my lips, I savour the wine on my tongue as the two women talk dresses, invitations, napkin colours, and the like. They're even discussing what sort of suit I should wear, which is laughable. When, or if I get married - I will not have my clothes dictated to me. I'm prepared to compromise, but I'm not being walked over. I've had enough of that in prison.

  The evening drags on, slower than a Lada full of elephants going uphill. Rupert is trying his best to discuss current affairs with me, but as I've been inside for the past five years, most of what he's talking about flies straight over my head. In the few days since I've been home, I've been mostly concerned with trying to get Harper to confess (not to mention trying to get into her pants) than catching up with the news. This becomes blatantly obvious after five minutes, when Rupert sighs and tries a different tack.

  "What sports do you enjoy, Brandt? Are you a golfer?"

  Not a lot of call for that in prison, Sir. The only sports available were football and snooker, although we cou
ld shoot hoops, too. He probably wants me to say something like polo or rugby, but I'm not going to humour him.

  "I'm really not into much sport at the minute. I love working out, but sport will probably take a back seat for a while as I adjust to the outside world." We continue to talk pleasantries, that are anything but pleasant, for the better part of an hour, and after that time I'm exhausted. I cannot take any more of this rubbish.

  When the meal finally comes to an end after a rather painful six courses, I can't wait to escape. The thought of marrying into this family fills me with horror. I'd quite honestly rather be single and celibate for the rest of my adult life.

  Making my excuses, I give my future bride-to-be a chaste peck on the cheek for appearance sake and dart out of the door as fast as I can.

  On the ride to the train station something occurs to me. I still haven't heard a thing from Gabriel. Has he got my message or is he down there with Harper now? The thought fills me with dread. The man has a tendency to go off the handle on occasion, and Harper has a mouth on her like a squaddie. While I trust him not to kill her, and not to whisper a word to anyone, I don't trust him with much else. The sooner I get home, the better.

  Chapter 3 - Harper

  When Brandt left me I cried into my duvet for a solid two hours. It is still slightly damp with my tears several hours later. I just couldn't believe he would up and leave me all on my own. No one knows I'm here bar him, and I'm locked in the basement of a house that is virtually lost to civilisation. The nearest village is miles away, so my monster tells me. I am all alone, without a single friend to my name. Oh, happy days.

  My lip wobbles again, but I try my best to hold back the tears. Drowning in salty self-pity won't get me anywhere. Brandt will come back. He hasn't abandoned me. Burying my head under my duvet because the room is so cold, I want to burrow under here and fall asleep until he returns. But that would be the coward's way of dealing with things. Am I a coward any more? I hope not. I promised myself I wouldn't be once Alex died, but it's hard to stand firm in the wake of Brandt's anger. I want to break down and tell him everything, but I'm afraid that if I do he'll be in just as much danger as I am. Mal will come for me, eventually. I'm a loose cannon that needs to be silenced. He's been in Mexico these past few months, but I know his return is imminent. If I hadn't run because of Brandt, I'd certainly planned on running before Mal set foot back in the UK. My husband was evil, but Mal is in another league entirely. He's the kind of guy that needs to wear a warning label around his neck.