Lillian was on the ground. She was rocking on all fours, coughing and trying to say something through heaving sobs. The rain had become a fine mist, and Andrew bent down and said something to her. Then the rain petered out and everything went quiet, apart from the background sounds of the ocean and the whimpering coming from Lillian’s mouth.
Annabelle stepped towards them, thoughts spinning. Should she help Lillian? Would Lillian want her to interfere? Would Andrew kill her? She felt herself shaking inside the thin coat, as if the cold was in her bones.
Andrew was speaking again, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying, then Lillian turned her head and looked up at him. ‘How could you say that? It is yours. But now I wish it wasn’t.’
And in that moment, Annabelle understood. Andrew was a monster. He was a monster inside the body of a handsome, clever man, and he hurt women. With his words and his body and his fists.
‘You loved every minute of it. Every single time, sweet-cakes,’ he said to Lillian, then he flicked his head back towards The Old Chapel and said, ‘And so did she.’ He smoothed down his hair and straightened his jacket.
Lillian put an unsteady hand to the ground and pushed herself to her feet.
‘You’re insane,’ she said, leaning forward, her voice wavering. ‘She’s a child.’
Andrew shrugged indifferently. ‘Get over yourself, you silly bitch.’
He walked away from Lillian, then turned his head, and looked straight at Annabelle. A smile formed on his lips, and in a voice of pure authority, as if it was the absolute, certain truth, he sneered, ‘You loved it.’ Then he looked towards Merrivale, as if dismissing her. As if the whole night was nothing.
Annabelle took a step forward. ‘Stop,’ she said. Surprise, then amusement registered on his face. He shook his head as if she was an unbelievably naughty kid playing at being grown up. And she was. He was right.
In her hand, she felt the long, heavy pull of the ashtray, her fingers curled around the circular brass lip, its solid base resting in the mud.
An anger more pure and brilliant than anything Annabelle had experienced before surged through her, and without further thought, she twisted her body sideways and upwards and drove the ashtray with all her strength towards Andrew’s head. The corner of it caught his temple with a thick, satisfying thud. After a flash of shock, he crumpled and tumbled forward. His knees hit the ground first, then his body and face planted straight into the mud. Annabelle dropped the ashtray and stared.
Lillian stumbled forward. ‘Oh God.’
Small panting noises were coming from Annabelle’s mouth. ‘No,’ she whispered. His vile, hateful words pushed at her, mocked her. You loved it. You loved it. You loved it. Something inside her was brewing, black and boiling. Her mind was expanding, heating up with the remnants of spent rage; swirling with awe at what had been done to her, at what she had done. Her words began as a stutter, but they ended in a roar. ‘No I did not. I DID NOT!’
Twenty-Eight
Willa
Willa stood at the top of the veranda stairs, wondering what to do. Across the lawn, Barney was helping someone to move craft items off the display stands and bring them under cover into the main tent. People were crowded onto the veranda, exclaiming at the downpour.
She had left one of the garden club women in charge of looking after Tippy.
‘We needed this rain,’ said a woman standing on the steps beside her. ‘Just a pity it had to be now. Annabelle went to so much effort. We all did.’
‘Yes,’ said Willa. ‘Perhaps it will stop soon.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ said the woman, shaking her head.
Cars were pulling away from the paddock car park. Still, there were lots of people waiting under cover. Hopefully they would wait it out. Suddenly Willa wondered if people over at The Old Chapel gardens might need more shelter. She should probably open the house up and invite people inside. It should still be warm. She had lit the fire earlier to take the chill off, happy that she could have her own cosy base for the day. In the first week of autumn, Tasmanian weather could be temperamental.
Willa pulled up her jacket hood and bolted down the stairs and across the lawn, gasping at the cold rain. As she crossed the lane, she saw Indigo and Constance coming towards her, an umbrella swaying above their heads in the gusting wind.
‘Come into The Old Chapel. It’s closer,’ called Willa as she neared them.
‘Good idea,’ said Indigo. ‘This weather’s a bugger.’
Willa jogged up the steps and unlocked the front door, then came back to usher Constance and Indigo in ahead of her. ‘I might need to stoke the fire for you.’
She crossed to the fire in the corner of the room. The door of the slow-combustion stove was still hot, but the logs had burnt right down to embers. She threw some sticks and a handful of the tiny silver packets of instant fire-starters onto the smouldering remnants. After a few seconds, they burst into flames, and she added another log from the old copper bucket sitting on the hearth. She sat back, satisfied as the fire began throwing out heat.
‘I’ll just see if I can help move anything in from the stalls,’ she said, smiling at Indigo. ‘Make yourselves a cup of tea.’ She motioned to the kettle.
Outside, across the ocean, the clouds were a thick, swirling blackish-grey. As she was about to turn towards Merrivale, she noticed movement. A slim figure in black was standing out on the cliff, and another person was just ahead of her. In pink. Sylvia and Annabelle.
For a moment, Willa was confused as to what they might be doing out there. Then, as her mind spun, remembering Annabelle’s angst in the face of Dan’s questions earlier, she realised they were standing right at the cliff edge.
She turned her head, wondering if she should panic, wanting to ask someone, but The Old Chapel garden was empty. Indecision stopped her only for a moment, then she began to run towards the cliff, adrenalin turning her legs to wings.
As she approached them, she slowed. She realised they were just inside a wire fence. She forced herself to calm her breathing. Sylvia was making gestures with her hands, saying something she couldn’t hear. Annabelle dropped her arms to her sides and turned her head. Her shirt was plastered to her chest and her hat had blown off, leaving her curls matted and ruined. Mascara was running down her cheeks. She spotted Willa.
‘Hello, Willa. We were just having a word with the weather gods. I really can’t believe they’ve let us down so badly. Constance said she’d pray for sun.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Willa felt an acute sense of embarrassment, as if she’d interrupted something private.
Sylvia turned to Annabelle. ‘Willa is a grown woman, Annabelle. You don’t need to protect her.’
Annabelle sighed and looked back at the ocean. The silence seemed to stretch on into infinity. Eventually she said, ‘You know loss, Willa. You know how it eats you up. When I lost you, I blamed him. Then I blamed Sylvia. But I suppose they would have made me give you up anyway. So in the end, who do I blame?’
‘Who was he?’ The words formed in Willa’s mouth without a thought.
‘Andrew Broadhurst,’ said Annabelle calmly. ‘I did the wrong thing, you see. I made him look at me. Sexually. It felt wonderful, in the beginning.’ She had begun to shiver violently. She stared blankly ahead.
‘Annabelle, we need to go inside. It’s wet. You’re freezing,’ said Sylvia.
‘It was raining that night too,’ said Annabelle.
Willa and Sylvia exchanged nervous glances.
‘It was handy,’ she said, sighing. She turned towards the cliffs. ‘It covered the tracks.’
Twenty-Nine
Annabelle
1977
Lillian tried to turn Andrew’s body over, but Annabelle could see it was too heavy. A defeated cry came from her mouth, and she slumped to the ground and turned his head sideways instead. Mud was caked across his nose and chin. She touched her hand to the blood on his temple, then put her fingers to his neck. She looke
d back up at Annabelle, who was standing staring, frozen to the spot.
‘Help me turn him over.’
Annabelle felt the words float over her head.
‘Annabelle!’
She squatted down beside Lillian.
‘Help me, quick.’
It took a supreme effort for them to lift and turn the body. Lying on his back, Andrew’s lips were parted and his eyes were closed. Mud and dirty water were smeared across his whole face.
Lillian undid his jacket and pushed up his shirt. She put her ear to his chest. Then she put it to his mouth.
‘He’s not breathing.’
Annabelle could hear the beginnings of panic in her voice. It jolted through her. She stood and picked up the ashtray. Some deep-seated need for self-preservation was telling her that perhaps she needed to hide it, or do something with it, but she wasn’t sure what.
‘A phone…’ she whispered. Her voice sounded shaky, unfamiliar. ‘Dan said there was a phone… over there.’ She nodded towards Merrivale, and Lillian followed her gaze, then dropped her head back to Andrew.
Lillian stood up. ‘Yes.’ She took a step around Andrew’s body, then turned back to Annabelle. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m sorry, Lil.’ Annabelle wanted to sob, but she wouldn’t. She would be strong. She’d done this and now she must face up to it.
‘No. I’m sorry. Go inside.’
Annabelle took a few hesitant steps as Lillian sprinted across the garden towards the big house. Suddenly the rain began again. In an instant, it was pelting, furious, as if the gods knew what she had done. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, making an eerie spectacle of Andrew’s lifeless form. Thunder crashed, and Annabelle jumped, then the lights of The Old Chapel died.
She looked up. Across the road, the porch light of the big house had gone out too. Everything was black. Still holding the long stem of the ashtray, she felt her way through the garden to the edge of the house. A sliver of moonlight began peeping through the clouds, guiding her way.
In the foyer of The Old Chapel she stopped and wiped her muddy bare feet. They felt like blocks of ice. The cold was right through her. The flames of the fire flickered an eerie glow through the dark little house, and she stopped to let her eyes adjust. She began to walk tentatively, one hand out in front of her into the shadows, the other clenching the stem of the ashtray. The light from the fire was stronger as she reached the sink, and she found the dishcloth and began to wipe the mud and blood off the ashtray.
An idea came to her, and she set the ashtray down and felt around under the sink. Yes, the same place as in her own house. Her hand grasped the large box-like form of a torch and her finger pressed at the pliable button on the top. The beam of light brought a small sigh of relief. In the torchlight, she rinsed the cloth then took the ashtray back to the living room and picked up the little removable tray and replaced it. She noticed she was dripping water. She made her way to the bathroom and found a towel. She took off Lillian’s jacket and hung it over the bath before drying herself off. She ignored the urge to inspect the ripped top in the mirror. She could feel herself shaking, hammering with the cold.
Holding the torch awkwardly, she climbed the steep stairs to Lillian’s room. She ducked across to the bed and pulled off the top, then snatched up one of Lillian’s jumpers and threw it on over her head. She tiptoed back down the stairs, fearful that she might wake Len.
Picking up the cloth again, she crossed to the scattered ash and knelt to wipe it up, rubbing some into the rug as she did so. She rinsed out the cloth once more and tiptoed back to the doorway. She wondered how long an ambulance or the police would take, wondered if she would go to jail. What would Sylvia say? What about her father? They’d both be so angry.
Everything hurt, but she tried not to think about it. She wondered why Dan hadn’t come back yet. It must be midnight. She turned off the torch and stood at the door and closed her eyes, but behind her lids she saw Andrew and his sneering smile. When she opened them again, she could see two figures coming across the road in the weak moonlight, announced by the beam of another torch.
The woman with the torch darted ahead and passed the door of The Old Chapel, barely glancing at Annabelle. The downpour began to ease, and Annabelle followed the woman and Lillian around the corner. The woman knelt down next to Andrew, shining the torch onto his face. She was small and neat, and Annabelle knew this was Constance Broadhurst. She drove a big silver Mercedes Benz and everyone in town knew her elegant form. Constance put two fingers to Andrew’s neck, as Lillian had done, then picked up his arm and did the same to his wrist. Then she put her head on his chest, and finally she rested the back of her hand against his mouth. After a moment, she shook her head and stood up, and Annabelle knew she was in trouble. Her stomach curdled with fear.
Constance turned to her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Annabelle.
‘What did he do to you?’
This was not the question she had been expecting. Could she really tell this lady what her husband had done? It was too unbelievable. Too disgusting.
Before she could answer, Constance stepped forward and laid the back of her hand on Annabelle’s cheek.
‘Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for what he’s done.’ She dropped her hand to take Annabelle’s. It was warm and kind.
Annabelle felt a well of misery rising up. It began leaking and leaching out of her eyes, her mouth, her body. She started to shudder and sob, and Constance drew her into her arms and let her cry.
‘We can’t just leave him like this.’ Lillian’s voice was panicked. ‘We’ve got to try and get help. I’ll drive to Dan’s and see if his phone’s working.’
‘There’s no hurry, Lillian. He’s dead. Nothing’s going to help him now.’
‘We still need to try! She didn’t mean to do it. They’ll understand.’
Constance was still holding onto Annabelle. She looked at Lillian. ‘Will her lawyers be able to successfully argue self-defence?’
‘Constance! We’ve got to get the authorities. We can work it out later. She’s only fifteen – she’ll be treated leniently.’
‘What does that mean? Prison time?’
‘I don’t know. Juvenile crime, all that stuff, it’s not an area I know.’
‘I won’t let her go to prison. He was evil.’ Constance let go of Annabelle and looked back at Andrew. ‘But nobody would have believed me.’
Lillian stared, panic and fear playing out equally on her face. The silence stretched until she said, ‘I believe you, Constance.’
‘Then listen. The Lord will protect us. You mustn’t fear. But it’s up to us to find the path he has in mind. What about self-defence? Could you argue that?’
Lillian’s hand dropped to her stomach, and Annabelle saw that Constance’s eyes had followed it. Lillian’s next words were measured. ‘He was walking away from her. She stopped him. Self-defence wouldn’t work. The danger to her life had to be immediate.’
‘He taught you well,’ said Constance, flicking her head at Andrew. Then she looked off into the darkness. ‘He’s not worth a trial. He’s not worth the risk. Annabelle, go inside.’
Annabelle turned and followed the beam of Constance’s torch. She walked past the gravestone and towards The Old Chapel door. She was used to being told what to do, and something about Constance felt certain and calming.
She stopped as she rounded the corner of the house, listening.
‘Back your car up, Lillian. We’ll take him down near the path in front of the lighthouse. There’s good access there to the cliffs.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll say he was going to find the dog. It’s gone missing anyway. Hates the thunder. He was going to look for it.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Andrew has powerful friends. Judges. Lawyers. Politicians. They won’t stand for a story like yours.’
‘It’s not a story! It’s the truth!’
‘Maybe we should get Dan, Constance. He’ll know the legalities better than me.’
‘He likes Andrew. Loves him. Do you think he’ll believe you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Then don’t involve him in all this. Who’s to say he won’t be pulled down with it?’
‘Please, Constance. This is madness.’
‘The Bible tells us it’s right. Is a child less worthy than an engaged woman?’
‘What?’
‘Deuteronomy Chapter 22: “But if in the field the man finds the girl who is engaged, and the man forces her and lies with her, then only the man who lies with her shall die… You shall do nothing to the girl; there is no sin in the girl worthy of death.”’
‘They won’t kill her, Constance!’
‘They won’t call her innocent either. And there’s no sin in her. Get your car keys. Please.’
The rain was gentle now, and Annabelle could hear every word of their strained conversation. She was shivering as if it was the middle of winter.
‘I’ve lived with his violence for more than twenty years. He was savage and cruel in every possible way. Each year he got worse. Every time he took a new lover. Every time he lost a case. Or gambled the money away. There was no end to it.’ Constance’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Please, Lillian. For the sake of your child. Do you want it to know that its father was Lucifer incarnate? All the details will need to come out if we are to save the girl through the courts. His child won’t live it down.’
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 25
