by Cathy Ace
She typed, retyped, read, then deleted her comment. It was best to not post something like that on the Internet. Even though the group was supposedly surrounded by layers of security, you had to believe nothing on the Internet was ever truly private. That was why she always used a false name. She supposed many others did too. After all, she couldn’t believe anyone really wanted the world to know what had happened to them, and what they’d had to do to survive it.
Bob had been gone for thirteen years, and the thought of him lying next to her in the bed she was perched upon still made her sweat; her heart still thumped at the thought of his touch, at what might make his mood, and demeanor change.
Deep breaths, Helen, deep breaths. He’s gone. You’re safe. Sadie’s safe. He can’t touch you now.
She counted to twenty, breathing slowly, deeply; she closed her eyes, and visualized herself walking along the golden sand of Rhosddraig Bay, the waves bubbling over her bare feet, the sun warming her upturned face. She felt her heart rate normalize, her hands stop trembling.
If only she’d had the physical strength back then that she had now; years of moving barrels, taking long runs in the early morning, shifting furniture, and carrying heavy loads of all types of supplies into the pub had allowed her to develop a satisfying level of physical superiority she’d not possessed when Bob had still been around.
Alright, she’d put on a few pounds recently, but she was still strong. Too late she’d grown into the sort of woman who might have had a chance of overpowering him. If she’d dared. Or maybe she wouldn’t have; she’d worked hard at being quiet, not allowing her mother or daughter to hear her from their bedrooms. Trapped in her nightly prison.
She realized she was no longer in the mood to be supportive, or seek the solace of discussion. The bed creaked as she rose to plug her laptop into the socket on the wall to recharge. The bed had always creaked. So loudly. She’d hoped to get rid of the noises that still echoed through her dreams by pulling the bedstead to pieces. She’d greased and tightened every bolt and screw when she’d put it back together, but the creaking remained.
Helen had to acknowledge to herself, silently, that her mother had been right to warn her she was choosing to spend her life with the wrong man, but Helen had never admitted it aloud, and certainly not to her mother. She didn’t need to; the day Bob left had told Nan all she needed to know – she’d been right all along.
Helen recalled when her then-prospective husband had first met her parents; it had been a beautiful day, and the four of them shared a meal after the Sunday rush. It started not too badly, but it hadn’t gone well overall, largely because her mother had – as usual – spoken her mind. It had broken Helen’s heart at the time.
She shook her head as she thought about how that disastrous dinner had brought her and Bob closer together – to battle her mother’s disapproval as a couple. They’d developed a united front; became a force to be reckoned with. Of course it had been easier to do at that time because they’d been living in London. But the hurt ate away at Helen between the phone calls to her parents, which became less frequent as time passed.
Hindsight – and the reading of many books about the techniques used by abusers – had granted Helen the ability to realize Bob had been extremely clever at exploiting her emotional weaknesses; raising her mother’s dislike of him in the middle of conversations Helen initiated about visiting her home, and pointing out how any woman who voiced a strong opinion he disagreed with reminded him of her mother.
Looking back, she knew the years she hadn’t visited Rhosddraig at all were her least memorable, and she’d lost so many opportunities to spend valuable time with her father.
I miss you, Dad, she mouthed at a photo, taken by a fellow climber, of the pair of them out on the Dragon’s Head, windblown, ruddy-cheeked, and triumphant they’d made it to the top.
Dad must have been about the age I am now, in that photo, she thought, wondering what it must have been like for him to see his daughter diminished, years later, by the man she’d chosen to love, and marry.
Did he know? she wondered. He can’t have done. Before he died we were never here long enough, or often enough, for anything to really happen.
Helen switched off her bedside lamp, and snuggled under the duvet.
Eventually she gave in to her final resort when she needed to get to sleep; she visualized Bob being consumed by eternal hellfire, his screams unheard by anyone but her.
It usually worked.
9th November
Betty
Betty Glover was nervous. More nervous than she’d been about anything since her wedding day. She wanted her husband to enjoy his send-off, but was terrified something might go wrong.
‘Almost everyone’s here, where is he?’ she asked Rakel Souza, who was hovering at her friend’s elbow.
‘Ted Jenkins is bringing him,’ replied Rakel. ‘He was supposed to come up with some sort of delaying tactic so we could all be here to greet Evan.’
Betty glared at her watch. ‘They were due to be here twenty minutes ago. What’s going on?
Rakel looked around. ‘There’s no sign of Liz Stanley either.’
Betty didn’t want to say the words, but they blurted out of her anyway, ‘You don’t think anything can have happened to them, do you? I hate looking forward to things, because I’m always afraid they won’t go as planned. Maybe Evan got dragged back in to look into this Rhosddraig thing.’
‘You do remember you’re a trained psychologist, don’t you?’ asked Rakel, her eyebrows arched. ‘Good grief, woman, give yourself a good talking to. Hey, Gareth, come over here and have a word with Betty about her giving herself permission to expect good things to work out, will you? I’ll get her a drink from the bar. It looks like she needs one. Give me a couple of those ticket things. Don’t panic, I’ll get you a pint too, husband dear. You’re not driving home, after all.’
‘I love being married to a woman who doesn’t drink,’ said Gareth, as he enveloped Betty in his long, strong arms. ‘Don’t worry, Evan will be here before you know it. Probably with his work-wife in tow, as per. Funny that, isn’t it? Both his work-wife and his life-wife are named Elizabeth.’
Betty’s eyebrows almost met her hairline. ‘Work-wife and life-wife?’
Gareth had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Oh, just ignore me, we’re like a load of kids ourselves in the teachers’ common room at school. Forget what I said, let’s just enjoy the chance to take in the magnificent surroundings they’ve splashed out on for Evan, and what we can see out there. A million-pound view if ever there was one.’
He steered Betty to sit on a window seat, between faux-curtain swags of scarlet and gold. ‘Look at that moon on the sea. Swansea Bay is one heck of a place, isn’t it? All the lights down in Mumbles, twinkling away. I can’t help but remember doing the old Mumbles Mile donkey’s years ago when I see that. I don’t suppose anyone bothers with it any longer . . . there just aren’t the pubs along the front that there used to be, and Wind Street’s a lot more convenient these days, I suppose. Youngsters today, eh? Can’t even be bothered to put a bit of effort into getting drunk. Let’s hope they all start earning enough to pay taxes to support us in our old age, otherwise we’re up cach creek, without a paddle. What’s this?’ he said, looking with dismay at the glass his wife handed him.
‘It’s called Old Speckled Hen,’ replied Rakel. ‘It’s bitter. It’s that or Stella on tap, and I know you always call that stuff “a hangover waiting to happen”. They’ve got something called Brewdog Vagabond in a bottle, but I think that’s pale ale. I thought this would be the best choice.’
Gareth mugged a look of horror. ‘Dear God. Belgian or English beer, or Scottish pale ale? Don’t they bloody know this is Wales? We do make our own beer here. Bloody hotel chains, they think we’ll drink anything.’
‘You will, love,’ replied his wife, smiling. ‘Four tickets each for free drinks, so you’ll drink your four, and probably use all mine, and
by then you’ll have got used to it, so you’ll drink a few more, I shouldn’t wonder. All those years of swilling down a gallon of dark mild after a game on the rugby field will come into play, I’ve no doubt. So stop grumbling, and be grateful the West Glam Police are paying for you to drink tonight – for a while, anyway. Oh, look, Betty, I think they’re coming. There’s a bit of a fuss over at the door. Let me hold that for you.’
Betty took a swig from the gin and tonic Rakel had just given her, then passed the glass back to her friend, wiping her hands together to try to dry them. She was about to hold her husband for the first time as a non-policeman; he’d already been on the job when they’d first met, so she’d had some inkling of what she was letting herself in for, and she’d been supportive of him every step of the way through his career, even when she herself had been working full time.
Nowadays, with a good amount of money in the bank thanks to Auntie Barbara, he could retire; she only put in a few days of volunteering at local places, and still did a little consulting work – mainly in Cardiff, because she didn’t like to practice too close to home where she might bump into clients in the aisles at the supermarket. And there were the online support groups she belonged to, of course, which were essentially anonymous. But, still, they’d have more time together after his retirement.
She’d been thinking about what she might cut back on now that Evan wouldn’t be going out to work anymore, but hadn’t made any decisions. They’d agreed that too much change for both of them at the same time would probably not be for the best, so they’d have a proper talk about it during their dream cruise, as they pootled around the Caribbean.
A cheer rose as it dawned on the crowd that the Man of the Moment had arrived. Betty rushed forward and threw her arms around her husband, whose expression told her he was a bit overwhelmed by the set-up.
‘I love you, Evan’ was all she had a chance to say before she let him go; he had to shake hands with everyone who pressed toward him, including Superintendent Lewis. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ she shouted, as corks popped.
Ted Jenkins called for order, ‘Bubbles all round, followed by the speeches. Then we can get on with the serious business of the evening.’ He made drinking motions with his hand while rolling his eyes, and elicited a roar of approval from the crowd. ‘We’re all off duty here, and among friends. The man we thought would be one of us forever is leaving our ranks, so let’s celebrate his career.’ Another cheer.
Rakel handed Betty a tapered glass of fizzing Prosecco. ‘Here, you take this, I’ll nurse your G & T. If you like that one, you can have mine too, and Gareth’s. There’s no way he’ll be touching it.’
‘Thanks, Rakel. I might not see much of Evan tonight, by the looks of it. There’s such a lot of people here. Do you know many of them? I don’t.’
Rakel stood on tiptoes. ‘Yes, I recognize most of them, but there are a few who might never have crossed my threshold. The office mice.’
‘Office mice?’ asked Betty.
‘Not involved with the nasties I get to deal with, just the paperwork, filing, online stuff, that sort of thing. Some of them are civilians, too, of course. They’ll be the ones who leave early, I should think. But you’d better prepare yourself, Evan’s going to have quite a night of it. Good idea to have the speeches early – otherwise it’ll drag on, and everyone will be maudlin before they get to say anything. Are you speaking, by the way?’
Betty shook her head. ‘I wasn’t planning on it.’
‘Sometimes the wives do,’ said Rakel with a smile. ‘I should say “significant others” because they aren’t all wives, of course – some are husbands, or partners. I’ve already told Gareth he’s not to say a word when I eventually retire, but that’ll be a whole different kettle of fish – it’ll be a hospital do, not this sort of thing. Dried-up sandwiches and a variety of juices usually . . . my word, we know how to party at West Glam General. No swanky hotel conference rooms like this for us, oh no; just the canteen, and a collection of people who are either on-call, or have been for so long they need coffee, not alcohol.’
The evening progressed through a few blessedly short speeches, with Evan choosing his words wisely after being presented with a silver-plated tray and a travel voucher, and Betty taking the chance to simply thank everyone as she carefully cradled the large bouquet she’d been handed.
After the official bits were over, Betty noted how those who were about Evan’s age patted him on the back with something she read as a mixture of envy and understanding. She was also aware of the pinched faces and the bags under the eyes of the senior officers, the fire of enthusiasm and even a little triumph in the expressions of the younger ones. As she was smiling and nodding, aware of the increasingly wide and heavily populated gulf between herself and her husband, Betty was pleased to see Liz Stanley making her way toward her.
The women hugged, and Liz said, ‘Come on, let’s grab a seat while we can.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Betty. As they wandered away from the melee she added, ‘Nice new hairdo, Liz. It suits you. But he’s not leaving you, you know. He’s leaving the job.’
Depositing her drink on a tiny glass table Liz replied, ‘How do you mean, he’s not leaving me? I know that.’ She sounded puzzled, and a little uncomfortable.
Betty sat down, and patted Liz’s hand. ‘The haircut. It’s a thing some women do as a sign of taking control, when real control in a relationship is beyond them, or the whole thing’s over. Is that how you feel?’ Betty always thought it was best to be as direct as possible when speaking to friends.
Liz’s brow furrowed. Eventually she smiled. ‘I always forget your professional background, Betty. There’s really not much that gets past you, is there? But I hadn’t thought about it that way at all; I’d just got annoyed with having to use a hairdryer every morning, and force my natural curls to do what I wanted them to. This way, all the curls have gone and I can run from the shower to the car with my coffee in my hand, and be none the worse for it by lunchtime.’ She grinned, sat, then sipped her Diet Coke again.
Betty couldn’t help but notice that Liz hadn’t responded directly to her question.
She decided to press the point; she wanted Liz to know how highly Evan thought of her. Laying her hand on Liz’s she said, ‘Good. So long as you understand his leaving is nothing to do with you, personally. Indeed, but for you, he might have left some time ago. He’s enjoyed working with you more than most. Says you’re the face of the new service – a woman with a brain, a life outside work, and a healthy attitude toward upholding the law. He’s also said on more than one occasion that you’re intelligent enough to be able to investigate crimes, discover the culprits, and bring them to justice with enough evidence to allow the courts to do their work. Unlike many of the older ones here who joined a force, not a service, he thinks you get it. He’s often said you’re a good detective sergeant, and I know he believes you’ll make a good DI one day.’
Liz stared into space. ‘Thanks.’ She smiled shyly. ‘DI Glover really is one of the good ones. A bit of a legend, even. Known as fair. But there’s still a lot that goes on that makes me feel . . .’ Betty wondered what Liz was really thinking as she paused to choose her words. ‘That we could be doing better,’ she concluded.
Liz’s gaze refocused on the events surrounding her, and Betty sensed the woman had surrendered a chance to speak her mind.
Betty ventured, ‘I hear you’re working with Ted Jenkins on that case out in Rhosddraig. How’s it going?’
Liz sipped. ‘It’s a weird one. Has Evan told you about it?’
Betty nodded. ‘A bit.’
Liz winked. ‘I understand. He’d have loved it, you know. He said when we found the remains it would have been the most interesting case of his career.’
Betty wondered how best to reply. ‘Maybe that’s because he knew it wouldn’t be a case he’d get to work on.’
Liz nodded thoughtfully. ‘Possibly. Not too many grisly cases for him, I believ
e, over the years. And no job-related injuries, either. He’s been fortunate.’
Betty agreed. ‘He has been. Though you know only too well what it’s like to leave home not having a clue about what you’ll face that day; never being sure if you’re going to be able to help a victim of crime, or become one yourself.’ She sighed. ‘I won’t miss that feeling. Of not knowing whether he’s safe. That’ll be a huge weight off my shoulders.’
Liz put down her drink. ‘It must be difficult, feeling helpless like that. We’re alright, you know; we’re trained to deal with pretty much anything we might come up against, and we have the authority to act. But you make an important point; it’s the ones we leave at home when we go to work who do the worrying about us. For us, really, because we haven’t usually got time for it.’
A young male server dressed in black topped up Betty’s glass with Prosecco, then weighed the bottle in his hand, and left it on the table beside her. ‘Not much in there,’ he said. ‘You have that and I’ll get a fresh one.’
‘Ta,’ called Betty as he darted off. Rolling her eyes at Liz, she said, ‘I’d better watch it; I don’t usually drink much, and certainly not this fast. I’ll be the one who’ll be pie-eyed by nine o’clock, not Evan.’
‘Cheers,’ said Liz, raising her glass. ‘I hope you two will be very happy together.’ She paused, and Betty judged she was choosing her next words with care. ‘Does it feel like you’re getting married all over again? Someone – I can’t remember who – said that to me once. That when he retired he and his wife needed to rethink their marriage altogether, for the new life they were about to live that differed from the one they’d known for decades.’
‘If you mean do I think we’ll be able to share our home without one of us bashing the other over the head with a frying pan or something, I think we’ll be fine.’ Betty smiled. ‘But, if you’re wondering what on earth Evan will do with himself all day, well, I’ll be honest, and say I’m not sure. We’ve got this cruise coming up, and I know that’ll give him a psychologically important chance to wind down and have a think about the future, without the present getting in the way. But after that? I don’t know.’
