She stood in the middle of the caravan. The lack of light made it hard to see clearly, but she was touching herself, rubbing her breasts with one hand and rubbing her other hand up and down her thigh. Her movements offered a tantalising glimpse of pubic hair through the split in the skirt.
Fraser felt the bulge in his trousers grow, the snake charmed by the charmer. He licked his lips and entered the caravan. His heart hammered in his chest, but this time it wasn’t through fright.
“Melantha …”
“Shush,” she said, lowering the strap from her shoulder.
Fraser stood with his mouth open, hardly daring to breathe in case he broke the spell. He watched as she slid the flimsy fabric down to reveal a large, erect nipple. She covered her bare breast with her hand and parted her fingers slightly so the nipple peeked through, teasing him. Finally, she removed her hand and pulled down the other strap so the top fell around her waist. When she moved, her large breasts swayed and Fraser ached to touch them.
Although dark in the caravan, it seemed to grow darker. Fraser found himself afraid to take his eyes off Melantha in case it was all a dream. Eventually he blinked. The split second that he lost sight of her made his heart yearn. His legs went weak and he staggered slightly. He felt the blood pump through his body, could feel it pound at his temples almost as much as in his trousers. He’d never felt like this before.
“But why ... why now?” he asked.
Melantha smiled and backed away, towards the rear of the caravan where the darker shadows became an almost physical presence.
Somewhere close by, the crows cawed, the sound as shrill as a witch’s cackle.
Fraser staggered towards Melantha, making the caravan rock, the pots and pans suspended from the ceiling tinkling against one another like melodic bells. Fraser took a step. Then another. But strangely, Melantha seemed farther away. He couldn't understand it. From the outside, the caravan appeared small, but inside it appeared cavernous. With each step he took, his footfalls echoed.
He rubbed his eyes and blinked; felt dizzy and hot. Sweat prickled his forehead. He tugged at his tie, fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, but his fingers felt clumsy, like sausages. He couldn't breathe.
Fraser gasped. He muttered Melantha's name, but she didn't answer. He could still see her, as though viewed from afar as she reclined on a white mattress that framed her dark skin. She fingered herself with one hand while the index finger of her other hand circled her mouth, her tongue flicking out from between her lips like a moray eel in search of prey.
Fraser gave up on the buttons and tore his shirt open. He heard a couple of buttons ping on the ground and roll away, but he didn't care. Face flushed, he struggled to undo his trousers, the belt as slippery as a snake.
Trousers around his ankles, he hurried to reach her, but in his haste, he stumbled and fell onto the ground where a sliver of wood pierced his palm. He looked at his hand. A splinter protruded from his lifeline. He pulled the wood out and a spot of blood formed.
Ignoring the pain, he stood back up. Rapid little breaths burst from his mouth. Maude would never have done this. Never openly sexy, they even turned the light out when they made love, and it always seemed more like an obligation than a pleasure. But Melantha ... she wanted him, the little minx. All this time, she’d just been toying with him. A sharp, lancing pain exploded in his chest, but he staggered on, willing to oblige.
“Oh, Fraser.”
“I'm here, I'm here,” he replied, struggling to tug off his trousers. His face and palms grew sweaty, and he felt clammy.
He looked across at Melantha and froze on the spot, his mouth hanging open.
Outside, the dog growled.
Fraser rubbed his eyes and clutched his chest. Instead of Melantha, a hideously scarred harridan lay on the mattress. Ugly white scars covered the whole of its body, appearing to knit the flesh together. Wounds on its face smiled independent of its mouth. Eyelids and lips bulged with scars; the lesions on its lips gave it an abnormal fish pout.
Strangely, the mutilation seemed to have some sort of order to it, almost like hieroglyphics. No longer a woman, this was a cicatrised monster.
The disfigured creature cocked a finger at Fraser and grinned, the facial scars realigning to accommodate the ugly expression.
Fraser gagged. Every breath he took hurt his chest. He coughed. Choked; felt as though fingers squeezed his heart, wringing the blood from it. He staggered back, clutched at his upper body.
The last sound he ever heard was that of Melantha, laughing.
CHAPTER 5
A circle of prestigious cars blocked the driveway and the windows needed a lick of paint, but the large mansion appeared as Verity Crowe remembered it. She stood and stared at the building for a moment, allowing previously buried memories to claw their way to the surface.
After a moment, she started walking; tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Ruffled by the wind, her purple taffeta skirt billowed around her legs. The multicoloured, raindrop bindi glued in-between her eyebrows glinted in the sunlight, enhancing her blue eyes. With each step she took, the bangles and bracelets up her arm tinkled melodically.
A noise caught her attention and she turned to see a man hammering a stake into the lawn by the road.
Verity read the sign attached to the stake.
She frowned, couldn’t believe it. Biting her lower lip, she stormed towards the house. The front door stood open, and she heard voices inside. Perhaps they were holding a dinner party, but whatever it was, she wasn't going to let it stop her now that she'd plucked up the courage to come this far.
She entered the hall and saw the sitting room curtains were drawn. Puzzled, she looked at her watch: 11.30 a.m. Why hadn't they opened the curtains?
A long black box sat in the middle of the darkened room
Verity bit her tongue and rotated one of the bangles on her wrist like a rosary bead.
She recognised the box before she reached it, but it looked so out of place in the sitting room that she didn't want to believe what her eyes told her.
A cold chill tiptoed up her spine and she shivered.
What was a coffin doing here? Morbid curiosity drew her towards it like a voyeur at a road traffic accident. Then she saw the body lying in the white linen and she felt strangely detached.
Father!
She stared wide eyed, tears bristling behind her lids. He couldn’t be dead. Not now. Not now she had returned home to make amends.
She distantly registered the sound of footfalls along the hall, felt someone grab her, and heard a voice as if from a long way away.
Verity turned and saw her brother, Peter, standing beside her.
“He's dead,” she said.
Peter nodded, expressionless. Dressed in a dark suit, he avoided looking her straight in the eye. His short black hair made him look a lot like their father – the same rugged, charismatic features.
“How? When? I don't understand.” Her mind whirled with questions.
“Come on, let’s go outside.”
Verity followed her brother out of the house where she sat on the step and took a deep breath.
“He had a heart attack.”
“A heart attack.” Verity shook her head. “He can't have. He was only sixty.” She couldn't believe it. “Why didn't you contact me?”
“We tried.”
“Then you didn't try very hard, did you?”
Peter shrugged.
“Didn't you think I’d want to know he was dead?”
“We didn't think you'd be bothered. You hated him.”
“Wouldn't be bothered,” she cried. “He was my father, and I didn’t hate him.”
“Well, we haven't seen you since mother's funeral.” Peter shrugged again.
“So is that why you're selling the house?” she said as she remembered the man erecting the sign out front.
“Selling the house?” Peter looked down at her and frowned.
“Don't tell me you did
n't know about it.” She shook her head.
“The house isn't up for sale.”
Verity opened her mouth in exasperation. She pointed at the newly erected 'for sale' sign.
“Oh.”
“Is that all you've got to say?” He could be as infuriating as her father. Her dead father, she reminded herself, haunted by the sight of the coffin and its contents.
“Well, I didn't know anything about it.”
“How could you not know? You do ... did still work for father I take it?”
Peter snorted. “At least I work for my money.”
“You don't know the meaning of the word. I've seen leeches with less suction.”
“That’s rich coming from you. Look at you, Verity. Just because you ran away to join the hippy community, don't think you can waltz back in here and tell me how to run my life. You turned your back on father, I didn't. Where were you when he died? Smoking drugs in a squat I imagine.”
Verity clenched her fists.
“When are you going to grow up? How old are you now, thirty? You always were the baby of the family. It’s easy to be a dropout when you just live off father’s money.”
Verity jumped to her feet. Her cheeks flushed as she swung her hand at Peter's face, but before she struck flesh, someone grabbed her wrist and she turned to see her other brother, John.
“Welcome home, little sister,” he said, smiling without warmth.
“Let go of me,” she snarled.
“Only if you calm down. This is a wake for heaven's sake.”
Verity snatched her hand back, her breath rapid. “You're just as bad as Peter. I suppose you couldn't find me, either.” Like Peter, John had sharp, defined features, but his eyes were cold and dispassionate.
“I didn't try.”
“Why doesn't that surprise me? What were you two going to do, split the proceeds and run?”
John frowned.
“The house is up for sale,” Peter said, nodding towards the sign.
“Oh.”
“Oh, what do you mean, oh? One of you must have bloody put it up for sale.”
Both of them shook their heads.
“It was probably Melantha,” John said.
“Who?”
“Father's wife!”
“Wife.” Had she heard right, or were they playing some sick, elaborate joke on her? “Am I missing something here? This is my father you're talking about. You know, sixty year old man, married to my mother since the year dot.”
John nodded.
“And you're telling me he got married.” She couldn't believe it. Now she knew it must be a dream. “And no one thought to bloody tell me. What is she, some old spinster? I can't believe no one told me any of this.” Her voice had risen an octave or two into a petulant drawl but she couldn’t help it.
“Yes, he got married a few days ago,” Peter said.
Verity wrinkled her brow. She saw something in Peter’s expression. It looked like jealousy.
“Let me see, my father's dead and no one bothered to tell me, he's married a gold-digger, which no one bothered to tell me about, and the house I grew up in is going to be sold. For Christ’s sake, is there anything else I need to know?”
Her brothers shrugged.
“I can't believe you two let it happen.”
“Verity, things change. Life goes on,” Peter said.
“Not for father it doesn’t.” Why were they acting so strange? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something definitely didn’t feel right.
“So what are you doing back?” John asked.
“I thought it was time to build bridges.”
John laughed. “That’s typical of you. Despite what you think, the old fool loved you.”
“Well he had a funny way of showing it.”
“That’s just the way he was.”
Verity snorted. “He paid my fiancé to break up with me.”
“If your fiancé had been any sort of a man, he wouldn’t have accepted.”
Verity knew deep down John was right, but she would never admit that to him. Exasperated, she stormed into the house.
When she entered the sitting room, she noticed someone standing over the body. Verity recognised the person straight away, the family physician, Doctor Ruben; a small man with a grey horseshoe of hair. Pale folds of excess skin sagged beneath his eyes.
Ruben turned to face her. “Verity, is that you? It's been a long while. I hope you’re well?”
“Well! How can I be well? My father’s dead and no one bothered to tell me, so of course I’m not bloody well.” The coffin stood only feet away. She tried not to look at it.
Ruben arched his eyebrows. “You didn't know?”
Verity felt dizzy.
“I'm sorry. It must have been a shock.”
“Go to the top of the class, doc.” She rolled her eyes.
“Verity, he was sixty and he’d worked himself too hard. The business took its toll eventually.”
“I don't care if he was one hundred and sixty. The last time I saw him he was as fit as a fiddle.”
“And when was that?”
“I don’t know … about three years ago.”
The doctor struggled to keep a straight face. “Three years. So your father was fifty-seven when you last saw him. He lived a good life, Verity. Death takes us all eventually. I know it must be hard for you, finding out like this.”
“Of course it’s hard.”
“At least he died happy. That's more than most of us can say.”
“Happy!” She felt like a parrot. “Did you know he remarried?”
Ruben nodded. “I erm—”
“Well don’t you find it a little too convenient that he’s dead?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I don't know, but there’s something going on, and God help me, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
CHAPTER 6
Melantha didn’t attend the funeral. Not that Verity was surprised. The marriage had gold digger written all over it. During the service, her brothers were less than talkative, and instead of seeming bereaved, they seemed anxious. On more than one occasion she noticed them staring into the distance as though looking for someone.
Verity didn’t hang around after the interment. The thought of spending any more time with her brothers and enduring the crocodile tears of those who arrived for the free food and drinks made her nauseous. She needed to think things through, so she returned to the communal house she shared in the city.
Her father’s death still hadn't sunk in. Even though having seen the body, seen the casket lowered into the ground, none of it seemed real.
She still couldn't believe her father remarried and no one informed her. It felt unwholesome, with money being Melantha’s motivation.
And by all accounts, she’d got it.
The next day, Verity returned to her late father's house, partly for answers, but more in the hope of seeing Melantha and having it out with her.
The ‘For Sale’ sign was still in the front garden. Not that many people would drive past and see it with the house being so secluded.
She walked up the drive, noticed the windows looked like black pits, devoid of life, as though with the death of her father, the house lost its spirit.
Although it was a long walk from the station, she’d decided the fresh air might do her good, so despite the cold wind, when she reached the front door she felt hot and sweaty. Although she hadn't lived in the house for more years than she cared to remember, it still felt like home, the place where she’d grown up, and so she entered without knocking.
Straight away, she noticed how cold the house felt. And how hollow.
“Hello,” she said. “Anyone here? Peter? John?” No one answered.
There were notches in the doorframe of the living room, a record of how much Verity and her brothers grew over the years. She ran her fingers over them, trying to recapture those days of innocence when she wished she would grow th
at extra two inches so she could catch her brothers up. But it never happened. Fraser used to call her his little flower, saying she would 'put a spurt on' when the time was right.
Wandering through the rooms, she noticed bright squares on the wall where paintings once hung, and dust-free rings on cabinets where ornaments had stood.
After she’d checked the ground floor, she climbed the mahogany staircase, remembered riding a dinner tray down the steps like a toboggan when she was younger. Her mother had been furious; there was still a dent in the wall where she'd collided, but her father had laughed, saying he wished he was young enough to have a go himself, before he lamented on the lack of snow each winter brought.
When she reached her old bedroom, she opened the door and peered inside. It looked the same, as though left waiting for her to return. Make-up adorned the dressing table; her clothes hung in the wardrobe; her cuddly toys still sat on the bed like fluffy pillows. A snapshot of her childhood, the bedroom was preserved like a museum no one visited.
Continuing on, she walked to her father's bedroom. She could still feel his presence, as though a part of him remained, captured in the bed, in the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, in the carpet, in the ornaments on the dressing table, in the very walls of the house. There still seemed to be an impression in the mattress, an indentation where he would have slept. She looked around the room, realised there were no female artefacts, nothing to suggest a woman's touch. There were no dresses in the wardrobe, no brushes or make-up on the table, no beauty accoutrements like a hairdryer or crimpers or rollers or stylers. Nothing in the room suggested a woman’s presence.
Puzzled, she walked out and headed to the guest bedroom. As she opened the door, the smell of sickly sweet perfume greeted her. She guessed this must have been where Melantha slept. Cupboards were open and empty; drawers were likewise devoid of clothes and personal items. The sheets from the unmade bed lay coiled like a snake on the ground.
She walked around the room, hugging herself against the cold chill that blew through the partially opened window.
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