Once he could finally shake off the loss of his beloved wife, John gathered up Helen and the belongings they had that he assumed had not been infected, and fled Glasgow. With the horror and bad memories of Glasgow in the back of his mind, John wanted to put as much distance between himself and Helen and the slum there as he could. Remembering his days as a young boy on the northern lochs, John moved them to the small village of Poolewe. In his mind, John figured that the great geographic distance from Glasgow would serve to not only remove them from the reach of the cholera plague but as well would help them both recover emotionally from the devastating loss of Mary.
And for a while this was true. John was not able to find work as easily nor able to make as much money in Poolewe as he had in Glasgow, but at least he reasoned he had gotten himself and Helen out of the slum before the pandemic took them down as well. Helen seemed to be adjusting better than John, actually, to the move following their hurried departure, but John knew in his heart a lot of her brave face was just that. He could look into her eyes and see how she desperately missed her mother but was doing her best to hide it as they both struggled to survive. John did his best to make up for Mary’s absence, but he felt he was falling short trying to be both a father and a mother while he fought to bring in enough money to support them.
Just before Helen turned ten, word reached Poolewe that the brunt of the wave of cholera had burned itself out in Glasgow and the other major cities around. But the downside to that was that the disease had managed to spread to the smaller villages and towns in concentric circles from the major cities. Whether this was due to the migration of the plague by infected individuals who, like Helen and John, had fled to try and escape its ravages or if the new hot spots of disease elsewhere were new outbreaks was hard to say. And Poolewe was hit especially hard. Even though the people knew what the residents of Glasgow and other major cities had done to alleviate the contagion, they simply did not have the financial means to follow that example.
Late that winter, John became extremely ill and though neither he nor Helen spoke of it, they both knew that he had gotten infected. He did not have the dramatic and horrid demise from his infection that Mary had, but over time just wasted away from fever and dehydration. Helen did the best she could to attend to her father, but she knew it was not going to end well. Without John being able to work, they had little access to proper food and clean water, finally having to rely on neighbors for everything as John grew weaker and weaker before dying in the dark of night. For some reason, Helen had survived exposure from cholera from both her mother and father, even as she became her father’s intimate caretaker up until the end.
With no other options and nowhere else to turn, Helen was taken in by a local foster home, the Cleeman House. Helen felt as if her whole world had come crashing down around her as she trudged along to the large, but decidedly decrepit old mansion that was the home to many children from Poolewe and elsewhere that had become orphaned from the spread of cholera as well as other diseases rampant in that time. She trudged along in the half-frozen, half-mile of mud as she approached her new home.
Helen had never been mild or weak. Still, her legs trembled and her confidence faltered as she neared the Cleeman House. Helen gathered her thin, thread-worn shawl about her with a free hand as a light rain began to fall, and a moderate, but stiff breeze sprung up, lashing her with cold droplets. It was typical weather for Scotland, but somehow Helen had yet to get used to it. She halted suddenly just in front of the towering and dilapidated building.
Despite its size and why it had been built—as a semi-permanent or in worst case scenarios, totally permanent, home for orphans—the condition of the house was depressing. Like most structures in Poolewe, the weather had taken its toll on it. Random boards were splintered and cracked and warped and it seemed to Helen that it must have been decades since the place had received a decent coat of paint, much less a refurbishing of wooden slats. The once deep rich color of the exterior wood had faded to a sickening-looking gray hue, almost indecipherable from the sky behind it. In all her years, Helen had never lived in a place that was fine or elaborate, but looking up at the Cleeman House, all the places they had lived, even the slum of Glasgow, seemed palatial in comparison.
She could not recall any relatives anywhere along the line. When her mother and father had taken ill, no one had come then. They had been on their own, and in her heart, she knew she was totally on her own now. Feeling more chilled by the moment, Helen sighed in resignation and moved toward the huge front door. She pounded on the door as the rain picked up and slashed at her with a vengeance. Finally, the door was answered by a tall and gangly woman who looked more annoyed than anything else when Helen looked into her face.
Both her parents had always exuded a warmth and loving countenance about them, no matter how grim things had been. But this woman had a hard and fatigued look about her as she glared down at Helen. She exhaled in frustration and waved her inside with an air of irritation.
“Move along…you’re letting out what little heat we can afford in this place!”
Helen followed her order, moving tentatively forward. The woman slammed the massive door behind them, and Helen shivered. The interior was a bit better than it had been outside, but she was not exactly sure why the woman was so concerned about losing the interior heat…little heat was a vividly accurate statement. They were not, Helen surmised as she looked around, spending any real money on lights either. The cavernous entryway was illuminated dimly by just several large candles set about along the corridors that flanked a large, wide staircase ahead. From what she could see, the stairs were in just as poor condition as the exterior of the house, but for some reason that made no sense at all, the banister to the right was polished to a shining gleam.
“Your room is upstairs.” the woman grunted as she began the climb, a lone flickering candle lighting the way.
Helen followed along, the old wooden steps creaking under their weight. The woman showed her to a small space at the end of the upper hallway on the left and waited as she entered the room, hardly larger than a closet. The only contents were a small cot with a mattress as thin as any Helen could imagine, with a lumpy, stained, mildew-covered pillow and a worn out, tattered blanket folded at the end. A single, stumpy candle sat on a low table near the cot and the woman shoved by her to light it.
“We eat supper at seven and breakfast at six. If you’re late, you go hungry. All the children have chores as well. You will get your assignment in the morning. And if you want light in here, I’d take it easy on the candle.”
She pointed to the table.
“You get two per month.”
With that, the woman turned on her heel and left her alone. Helen was disconsolate. As chilled as the lower floor had been, it was nothing compared to this room. She sat on the thin pad on one cot and fought back her tears as she watched her breath appear as a vapor in front of her….
……….
A few weeks went by, and Helen was slowly getting used to the harsh conditions of Cleeman House. They had some remedial classes from a teacher that came twice a week from Poolewe, but it was not what she had been used to previously when their parents had been alive. The other children carried this callow and haunted look as they went about the same routines as Helen, and she began to wonder if she looked as pathetic and hopeless as the others. However, the monotonous and dull routine was not the worst of it. After she had been in the home for about a week or two, Helen became aware of a small group of three girls who had for some reason decided to gang up on her.
At first, their attacks were just verbal, taunting her mercilessly about her dark hair and skin. Helen, though a native Scot, had somehow developed a slightly darker skin tone than most, a light olive hue. It was not significant but apparently was just enough to make her stand out among the others in the house. The three girls were very fair-skinned and blonde and it was obvious they had clout among all the others. Helen did her best to ignore
them initially and to protect herself as best she could, but it as wearing her down. When the verbal taunts were not getting the desired results the girls wanted, they took to sneaking up on her and yanking on her hair and punching her when no one was around to see.
She was often roused from her rough bed in the middle of the night by the girls as they pulled her to the floor and worked her over. Helen found herself at a loss as to what to do. This was not something she had ever had to deal with and it felt as if she would soon go mad if the torment from the girls did not soon let up on her. Apparently, this was what many of the other children had endured at Cleeman House if they looked even slightly different from the small clique. Helen had even heard rumors that a few of the others had died unexpectedly following the girls’ assaults. She had no idea if this was true or if it was just talk, but her nerves were frayed and she felt trapped. Her life at Cleeman House was miserable, but it was not like she had anywhere to go if she ran away either.
One day, out of the blue, the apparent ring-leader of the trio approached Helen as her two companions stood behind her. Helen felt her heart sink as the group approached, wondering what new torture they had in mind for her.
“We have a proposal for you…” the leader spat at her.
Helen just looked at her and remained quiet. This had been her best defense, as any utterances from her previously had been met with even greater abuse.
“We have decided to stop bothering you…”
Helen looked at her with curiosity and disbelief.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes. But you have to do something for us first.”
“OK…” Helen replied.
“I have this brother here…Harold. He is a pain in the ass and I am sick of having to look out for him.”
Helen nodded slightly, recalling the small, pasty-looking boy she knew was the girl’s little brother.
“Want me to look after him?” Helen offered.
“Hardly…” the girl snarled back. “Just the opposite actually. You kill Harold and you will never be bothered by us again.”
“What??” Helen gasped.
“Kill him. That’s the deal. Otherwise, what you have experienced from us so far will have been just a warm-up.”
Helen felt her body shiver as an icy-cold tremor shot up her spine. What had happened so far was pushing her to the brink of madness. She could not imagine how they could make her life any worse, and the mere thought of it nearly brought her to her knees. But actually kill another person? How could she?
“Think it over, girly…. I’ll give you until tonight….”
With that, the three of them marched off leaving Helen alone. After a few agonizing hours, Helen came to the conclusion that she had no choice. Even if the gang was bluffing, she was sure she could endure no more from them. When the leader saw her at supper that night, Helen reluctantly agreed to her proposal. In the dark of the night, Helen snuck down the hallway to where the girl had told her she could find Harold. Following the departure of a few of the other boys, Harold was for now in a room alone. Helen eased open the door to the boy’s room and held one of the lumpy pillows over Harold’s face until all his ineffectual thrashing stopped.
She slowly removed the pillow from the boy’s face and waited until she was sure he was dead. Her heart was pounding and tears fell from her eyes onto Harold’s thin mattress as she looked at him, realizing what it was she had just done. Helen returned quietly to her own room and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the struggling limbs of the weak and sickly child clawing at her face from under the pillow. She was sure she would be found out, or possibly even double-crossed by the vindictive sister and her cohorts. Helen sat up in a cold sweat, her pulse pounding in her ears as she panicked over what would happen to her once the authorities found out.
It was too much for her to take on. With no other option in her mind, Helen climbed to the top of the Cleeman House and eased out of a window in the attic. She then sidestepped along the narrow ledge that ran around the steep apex of the roof as a new rainstorm lashed at her face. She quickly asked for forgiveness as she closed her eyes and dove from the roof onto the hard, jagged slate outcropping that lay just behind the house.
A New Start for Nadia
Poolewe, Scotland, United Kingdom, 2005
Nadia Ralston arrived in Poolewe feeling partly excited and partly scared. She had just recently split from her husband, Richard after less than a decade of marriage. They had been sweethearts since childhood, and Nadia was sure she knew Richard thoroughly. They had thrown an elaborate wedding which was followed shortly by the arrival of two children, Sophie, now six years old and Jack, just two. Nadia felt as if she were on top of the world. She had a devoted and loving husband and two beautiful children and was the envy of all of her other girlfriends who were either in loveless marriages or were still single and looking. They had a lovely home in Glasgow where Richard was a barrister and Nadia worked as a purchasing manager for a commercial construction company. Nadia could not have planned out a better life for herself, she thought, if she had drawn it up on paper.
That all changed in October of 2004. Nadia went into work one day and all was as it always was for her. She answered a few phone calls, set up the schedule for the next month’s vendor meetings, and finalized some travel plans for her boss who was attending a trade show in London scheduled for early in 2005. Just before her lunch break, Nadia got a call from Sophie’s school telling her that Sophie had developed a fever during the day and that she would need to come to pick her up as they could not take the chance on having a possible contagious condition spread through the school. Nadia’s boss told her to go and not worry about the rest of the day, that her daughter’s health was certainly more important than anything else going on at the company that day.
Nadia got Sophie from the school and bundled her into the car, seeing she was slightly feverish, but relieved it was not more serious. They headed off for home. As Nadia rounded the last turn into the neighborhood where they lived, she stopped short of the driveway. Behind Richard’s car was an unfamiliar vehicle. Why Richard was not at work was as mysterious as the strange little green sedan behind it. Surely he would have called her if he was not working. She eased her own car to the curb and gathered up Sophie and put her to bed in her room on the lower level of the house.
“Need anything, sweetie?” Nadia asked.
Sophie just shook her head and closed her eyes and sunk down into the covers. Nadia closed the door to the bedroom quietly and hung her coat by the door. She was about to call out for Richard, but she did not want to disturb Sophie any further. As she walked through the kitchen and into the living room, she looked down to see some clothing discarded randomly along the floor that led across the living room and to the stairs for the upper level. Her first inclination was that maybe Richard had come home ill, but then she remembered the other car in the drive…and now as she looked closer, she saw some of the clothing was not Richard’s. Especially the skirt and heels and bra…
Nadia felt like the floor had spun out from under her as she was having trouble catching her breath. It was only the quick movement to grasp the banister to the stairs that kept her upright. It couldn’t be, she thought as her heart pounded as she tried to figure this out. Then she heard the light, lilting laughter of a woman coming from upstairs. She paused, wanting to make sure she had actually heard it. The giggles repeated, only to be followed by the unmistakable sounds of the woman’s voice moaning from an obvious orgasm. Nadia felt stunned and shocked as she pondered her next move, tears welling in her eyes. Of all the men she knew, she would never have imagined this of Richard.
Nadia wiped away her tears and as quietly as she could she slipped off her shoes and padded up the thick carpet of the stairs. She eased down the hallway of the upper level moving toward the master bedroom as the sounds of the woman’s moaning grew louder, only to be joined by the voice she knew
well: Richard. She stood still in the hallway as their voices rose and she listened to the bed frame gently and repetitively collide with the bedroom wall. Nadia, now feeling as if she were disembodied, moved merely on autopilot toward the room, having no idea what she would do or say. She eased the door open only to see the most devastating and disturbing sight of her life. In retrospect, Nadia had no idea what held her upright as she gazed on the new, young paralegal from Richard’s office straddling her husband, her long, red hair hanging down her sweat-sheened tapered and lithe back as she cried.
Nadia just stood still in the doorway and waited. She was still too stunned and shocked to even speak. She was sure a lot of women would have yelled and screamed and maybe even a few might have thrown something at the engaged couple. But it was all Nadia could do to even breathe. She eased her cell phone from her pocket and waited until Richard looked up from his adultery before she snapped the photo of the naked paralegal with Richard’s face in full frame. As Richard scrambled to come after her and the embarrassed paralegal tried to cover herself with the sheets, Nadia just retraced her steps and went downstairs to wait.
She slipped her shoes and coat back on and sat at the kitchen table, her car keys in her hand. She listened with tears falling down her face as she endured the clattering of feet overhead. Richard fumbled to the entrance to the kitchen, out of breath, his robe flying behind him as he came to a skidding stop, apparently not having expected to find Nadia still in the house.
“Nadia, honey…it’s not what you think…” he said as he tightened the belt on the robe.
“Oh?” Nadia replied. “From my vantage, it looked like you were cheating with the new paralegal. Maybe you can clarify what it really was…”
Richard said nothing, realizing his lame reply was what men always said when they had been busted. He leaned against the door frame.
“You taking her deposition for a case? Or maybe this is what you barristers refer to as deep research?”
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