by Bea Paige
“He hired me right away, without an interview or even a trial run. I should’ve known that was an odd thing to do, but I was sixteen, naïve. I realise now that he had seen something in me that he didn’t in others.”
“What do you mean?” I ask through chattering teeth.
“A week after starting my Saturday job, I found out that a couple of my friends had asked for a chance to work for him the week before and were sent away without so much as a hello, let alone an interview.”
“I see.” My chest tightens at the bubbling anticipation of finally getting to hear Rose’s story. I want to ask why she’s revealing her past to me. Is it because she trusts me? Somehow, I don’t think it’s that. No, she’s revealing her story for another reason, one I can’t quite understand yet.
“Roman knew something about me that I didn’t. Perhaps it was my innocence, my naivety, or perhaps it was something else… Looking back I suspect it was my potential to be coerced, moulded more than anything.” She folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. “Either way, I got the job when my friends didn’t.”
Rose picks up the washcloth and wipes it over my chest and stomach. Then realising it has lost the coolness she heads back into the bathroom. I hear the water running and I’m pretty sure she’s muttering under her breath, but eventually she returns and sits back down. This time it’s more of a shock; I suck in a breath through my teeth as she presses it against my skin.
“How old was he at the time?” I ask.
Rose frowns, her fingers tightening around the washcloth. A drop of water slides out beneath her hand and rolls down my side. I bite down on the violent shiver.
“In his thirties.”
“Fuck.”
“It didn’t matter to me, or to him.”
“It wouldn’t to a paedophile.”
She tenses, her jaw gritting. “I was sixteen. It’s the age of consent in this country, Anton.”
“He was an adult, you were a child, Rose. There’s no disputing that fact, no matter how you justify it in your head,” I retort, suddenly feeling angry on her behalf. I have my faults, but I draw the line at sex with a child. Jesus fucking Christ.
“I was old enough to have sex, to fall in love…” her mouth snaps shut on the word she despises.
“You really loved him?” I ask. After seeing how she reacted earlier it surprises me that she can admit that truth now.
“Rosie did.” She stands abruptly, looking down at me, her face a mask now.
“Rosie?”
“Yes. The girl I was. She’s gone, dead. A ghost of my past.”
Just like Amber… My heart constricts, and another bout of nausea rises but it isn’t because of withdrawal, it’s because of guilt. Like a turbulent sea, my fucking stomach churns with it.
“And Roman’s the man we have to blame for destroying that girl?”
“He was the main person, but not the only one.”
“There were others?”
Dizziness ensures I see two of Rose, but I’m determined to find out more whilst she’s able to share. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, but I ignore it. I need to understand the colours of her past and how they make up the person she is today. I must fight the pull of sleep.
“Roman was the only man I was with, if that’s what you mean, but he wasn’t the only one responsible for killing that little girl for good…” she responds tightly.
Her hands grasp hold of the hand towel as I lose her momentarily to a memory from the past.
“Rose?” I prompt.
“It was my mother and father too.”
We stare at each other for a long moment and I feel a growing empathy for her, born from a twisted kind of kinship. My own father, the man I’ve both despised and worshipped my whole life is responsible for ruining me too. If I never see him again it’ll be too soon.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. It’s a worthless apology, but it’s all I have.
“Me too,” she replies heavily.
“Is this why you’re here now, Rose? To tell me your story?” I ask, another wave of fatigue batting against me. The events of the past of couple days have finally taken their toll and are clawing at my resolve to stay awake long enough to hear the ghosts of her past.
“We made an agreement. You told me your story, and I shall tell you mine. But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“To take care of you, but also… to bleed more colour. It’s surprisingly cathartic, Anton. Perhaps you’ll get your wish to bleed me entirely like you did Amber. Perhaps you won’t. Either way, I’m a willing participant. For now, at least.”
I make a garbled noise that draws a laugh from Rose. “You are the most complicated woman I’ve met,” I say, wanting nothing more than to dive headfirst into the depths of her soul. If I wasn’t such a mess, I’d be pulling her into my arms and plundering her mouth with my tongue. As it is, my strength fails me. I try one more time to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces me back down.
“Shh,” she responds, resting her hand on my shoulder. I’m so weak I can’t fight against even the gentlest of touches. “Not right now. Sleep first, Anton, and when you awake, we’ll move onto Cerulean Blue.”
“Cerulean Blue? That’s a very specific shade of blue. Why?”
“It’s not just a colour, Anton. It’s a boat. One that’s still moored in Mousehole Harbour.”
“A boat?”
“That’s right. It once belonged to Roman, now it belongs to me. The last time I set foot on it, I was willing to sail away with Roman, full of idealistic notions of love and marriage.”
“And now?” I rasp, my throat feeling sore and dry.
“Now?” Rose lets out a bitter laugh. “For a time, Cerulean Blue represented freedom, excitement, and an indisputable need to sail into unchartered waters. Now that boat is nothing more than a reminder of a time where I lost my innocence to a man who locked me in the bowels of its wooden hull…”
“He did what?” I gasp, my lungs constricting with shock.
Rose looks at me with turbulent eyes. Her bottom lip quivers until she bites on it with her teeth, regaining some of the strength I’m so used to seeing.
“That’s right, an object of freedom became my prison, and for a time the only thing to hear my cries for help was the endless stretch of ocean lapping against the hull.”
“Rose…”
She stands, shaking her head. I see her batten down the hatches, warding off my sympathy. Wary of it. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t trust me if I were her either.
“Sleep, Anton,” she says, turning from me.
She disappears into the bathroom once more and I find myself succumbing to the heavy pull of sleep as I slip under the surface of a bottomless ocean where a young girl’s cries are muffled by the churning current.
Chapter Twenty
Rose
Anton sleeps for twenty-four hours, not waking up until noon on Wednesday. I remained by his side the whole time, lying on his bed fully clothed whilst he thrashed and groaned in his sleep. I dozed on and off, only getting up to accept dinner then breakfast from Fran, and to accept a phone call from Ivan telling me he’d arrived in Moscow. It had been a brief call, and to the point. There were no lingering silences filled with unspoken words, I was grateful for that at least.
Each visit from Fran has brought a tray loaded full of food fit for ten people, let alone two. I’m just finishing up a lukewarm cup of coffee, when Anton finally stirs.
He groans loudly, his hand reaching up to his head. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hauling himself upright.
Turning, I help him sit up. He looks at me wide-eyed. “You stayed?” he croaks.
“You snore,” I respond lightly, relief flooding through me. He seems marginally better.
“What day is it?” he asks, swiping a shaking hand over his face.
He glances to the window. Bright light filters into the room. Today, though cold and crisp, is clea
r with a vast blue, cloudless sky.
“It’s Wednesday. You’ve slept a whole day away.”
“Well, that’s a record. Normally I’m out of it for way longer than that.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like shit…” His cheeks puff out with a breath, as he side-eyes me.
It’s funny, like this he seems so at odds with the man who hurt Amber. Like this he seems almost normal, as normal as he can be, given he’s an addict.
“Not surprising really.” I slide my stockinged feet to the floor, and pad over to the low table where the tray of food Fran brought up this morning still sits. On it are some pastries, fruit, a cafetière filled with lukewarm coffee and a couple of bottles of water. I grab the water and a pastry and return to Anton’s side.
“Guess you’re thirsty, hungry?”
“Thirsty mainly, though I should probably eat too. Thanks…” he adds as an afterthought, taking the bottle from me and opening it. He gulps on the water.
“Easy, you might bring that back up,” I say, pressing my fingers against his hand.
He lowers it, but not before taking another big mouthful.
“You’ve done this before?” he asks, regarding me with interest.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me with whom?”
“How about you eat this, whilst I use the toilet. Then maybe when you’ve got a bit more energy, you could take a shower. After that, we can talk.” I crinkle my nose a little, not because he smells terrible, but because if I feel nasty after spending twenty-four hours in the same clothes, he must feel ten times worse.
“Sounds like a plan,” he agrees, taking the pastry from me. He takes a bite, his stomach growling furiously.
“Just as well Fran brought up food, by the way your stomach is protesting, you’re hungry enough to take another bite out of me.”
Anton’s hand stills halfway to his mouth, which is now gaping at me. He watches as my fingers settle over the tender spot where he bit me yesterday. He bit me hard, it hurt but it broke through darkness, stopping it in its tracks. I know my damned cheeks are flushing at the thought. His hand lowers, the half-eaten pastry still clutched within it.
“About that…” he begins, his dark eyes flicking between the spot he bit me and my face.
“It was necessary. Don’t apologise…” I say, getting up and heading to the bathroom.
“I wasn’t going to,” he mutters under his breath as I slowly shut the door behind me.
When I come back out five minutes later. Anton is curled back up on his side, fast asleep once more.
On Saturday afternoon, five days after I entered his bedroom, Anton finally stays awake for long enough to take that shower he promised on Wednesday.
Whilst his body is finally beginning to recover, mine is aching in places it hasn’t before from the days spent holed up in this room tending to a man who has been oblivious, for the most part. As I walk over to the window a sharp pain stabs at my knee, lower back and hip. I desperately need to stretch out my tense muscles, take some painkillers and sleep in my own bed. Resting the palm of my hand against the cool window, I look out onto the grounds below. It’s another fine day for October, and my need to get out of this stuffy room has become my top priority.
Breathing deeply through my nose, I let out a stream of warm breath that fogs up the window. Below, Patrick has pulled up the car, ready to take me home.
Emerging from the bathroom, the thick moisture following him out, Anton is clean and dressed in a pair of low slung denim jeans and a long sleeved sweater. I watch him from my spot in the corner of the room whilst he pulls on a pair of socks and trainers with still shaking fingers. Opening the drawer in the bedside cabinet, he pulls out another woolly hat and shoves it on his head.
“What’s the plan?” he asks, his cheeks colouring. I’m not sure if it’s from the anticipation of getting out of this room, or the lingering effects of his withdrawal, either way he looks a hell of a lot better for it.
Pushing off from the wall, I approach him. “Are you sure you can manage? I can come back tomorrow if you need another day to recover?”
“No. I need to get out of this damn room, and by the looks of it, so do you.” He gives me a lopsided grin that churns my stomach. He needs to stop smiling at me like that. Right now, I prefer the guarded Anton, he’s the man I recognise.
He’s dangerous, remember.
I look down at my now five day old outfit. Showering whilst he slept has kept me relatively clean, but wearing the same clothes now is taking its toll. I’ve long since discarded my underwear. There’s only so long I can hand wash my knickers with shower gel and re-wear them.
“I really need to go home, refresh. Have a bath, change my clothes. Get some air. Would you mind?” I ask, smoothing my hands over my crumpled skirt.
“Is that an invitation?”
I hesitate. Is it? For the last five days I’ve been confined to this room with Anton. I’ve seen him at his worst and despite the ugliness of his addiction, I’m still very much attracted to him, to the complicated man that he is. The kiss we shared still burns my lips. So very different to Ivan’s but no less enjoyable. Besides, he’s already been in my home, what difference would it make?
“Sure, why not? It’s the perfect opportunity to tell you more about Cerulean Blue, both the colour and the boat…”
“You were serious about that?” he asks, a frown pinching his eyebrows together.
“I follow through on all my promises, Anton,” I remind him. “Haven’t you worked that out by now?”
“Point taken.” He grins widely, another smile dazzling me. I’ll have to watch that. The smile he gives me now is the kind that has the power to disarm and deceive. It’s just as well that I’ve experienced a man who could hide behind a similar ruse. I’m accustomed to the damage a smile like that can cause and I refuse to be lulled into a false sense of security.
Not this time.
“So now we know I always follow through on my promises, you’re welcome to accompany me to my home. Patrick already has the car waiting. He’s got to go into town to pick up Ms Hadley from the station anyway, so he is happy to drop me off on the way.”
“What? Where’s she been?”
“I’ve no idea. She left the same day as Ivan and called Fran this morning explaining her train arrives at Penzance station in about an hour’s time.” I say, my distaste bitter on my tongue.
“Fuck! What about Erik…!”
“Between Patrick and Fran, he’s been well looked after.”
The panic drains from Anton’s features, quickly replaced by relief. “I’m a selfish prick,” he mumbles, grabbing his coat from a hook on the back of the bathroom door.
“You’re an addict. Two very different distinctions.”
“You believe that?” he asks, searching my face.
“I’ll let you know in a few weeks.” I turn on my heels and head out of the door, before he’s able to question me further.
“Hold on!” Anton calls behind me.
I stop, waiting for him to catch up with me.
“I need to see Erik before we leave. Would you mind?” he asks.
“Of course not, I’ll wait in the lobby.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d come with me. I think Erik would too. I’ve had you to myself for far too long now and Ivan even longer before that.” There’s a whimsical note to his voice, as though he regrets not making the most of our time together.
“Sure,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance, when really my insides are churning with a mixture of excitement and fear. “What does another few minutes in the same clothes matter anyway.”
I feel the brush of Anton’s fingers against my own as he takes my hand and squeezes gently before dropping it again. “Thank you Rose, for everything. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me these past few days.”
“You’re welcome,” I respond.
He cracks another one of those disarming smiles which
I resolutely ignore.
Chapter Twenty-One
I follow Anton through the house to Erik’s wing. This is a part of the manor I’ve never seen before. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but bright corridors filled with paintings, isn’t it. I’m so used to the dark, wood panelled hallways, that seeing them painted a bright white is a shock.
“Are these all yours?” I ask, slowing down as we pass each painting.
“Yes,” he confirms with a rueful smile. “Erik claims I’m a brilliant artist. I humour him and let him hang these monstrosities up. If it helps him a little, then who am I to refuse?”
“You really don’t think these are any good?” They’re not just good, they’re beautiful. Every stroke of the paintbrush a tiny glimpse into Anton’s soul.
He shrugs, avoiding my gaze.
“You have a low opinion of your talent, Anton.”
I take my time looking at each painting. There are both landscape scenes and portraits. The painting I stand before now is breathtaking. Yet, whilst the image is stunning and almost a perfect representation of the meadows beyond the manor, the colours are skewed. Not quite the right shade for the sky over the meadow and an almost black-green for the leaves adorning the trees in the wood that edge the field. It’s not perfect, far from it, but it is beautiful. For me, the imperfection of the colours is what makes it so special, what makes it stand out.
“Any fool can see that these are incredible,” I say, admiring another painting of a woman curled up asleep, her long hair covering her face. There’s something about this painting that sets my skin on edge with sadness. She seems so alone, curled up in a foetal position. I want to reach into the painting and comfort her. Whoever she may be.
“Not everyone,” he murmurs, snapping my attention back to the present.
