by Dee Palmer
“Yes, Leon…Thank you.” A tentative smile tips the corners of my lips, sleek and shiny with my trademark red.
“My work here is done. Now go and sort the house of horrors…and come home. Where you belong.” He hangs up and I chuckle. He never says goodbye.
I straighten my shoulders and hold on to the false bravado trickling through my veins hoping it’s enough to get me through this next hour.
It’s a beautiful cottage. The perfect picture of an idyllic Home County village dwelling. Honey coloured, washed out stone, four tiny windows under a mottled, red slate roof and an old oak front door with polished wrought iron fixings that wouldn’t look out of place on a church. The Old Rectory, my family home. The garden is bare now, cut back and pruned to within an inch of its life. My mother would spend hours—days—tending the flower beds. She craved the attention it brought from passersby, strangers, people who meant nothing.
The bones of the wisteria cling to the front of the house like some distorted exoskeleton, the branches so thick the blooms would block the sunlight from the windows in the spring. I slide my key into the lock. She didn’t change the lock when I left. Why would she? There was no need, I was the one who left, and I promised I’d never return as long as she lived.
The door opens to a shrill discord of creaking hinges loudly objecting my presence. I push the heavy door wide with a firm shove. The stale, dry air hits me with an aroma brimming with memories. I puff the air from my nose. I have no desire to reminisce; memory lane is for masochists. There is only one room I want to see.
It’s been so long, but I need to remember so I don’t let it happen again. I walk through the dim hall, lit only by the soft winter sun spilling in from the open front door. Everything is neat and tidy with a fine layer of dust that only now dares to settle. Now she’s dead that is. I drag my finger along the welcome table, swirling patterns, irregular and petty. Her coat is still hanging from the gnarled hatstand, and I wipe the dust from my finger on the thick woollen sleeve.
The stairs exhale a painful groan with each step, and I find myself hovering on the final tread. This was the only step that made a sound when I’d lived here. This was my warning. I place my foot down and feel my tummy tighten as the unique sound makes my foot start to shake. I stamp it down heavily. The sound is different this time, and I stamp my other foot, too. No need to fucking tremble, Sam. She’s not here, I reprimand myself. I stride the remainder of the corridor and don’t hesitate when I reach for the door handle of my old room. I step inside.
I’m surprised. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I thought she would’ve changed it. The small metal framed bed with the pink floral covers and a rickety bedside table with no lamp. The walls are plain light grey, as are the curtains cinched back with a thick rope tie. Above the bed and on each wall hang several embroidered pictures. A different prayer for each of my sins. My lips thin with bittersweet amusement. The walls would collapse under the weight of prayers needed for my sins now. I look to my feet just inside the threshold.
“There…something that has changed. That is new,” I say to myself. The point on my toe all shiny, in patent black knee high lace up boot, flips the corner of the new rug which is awkwardly placed at an angle by the door. “And that is why.” My voice catches, my eyes clamp tight and my hand flies to my mouth, an attempt to stop the sob that’s being wrenched from my chest. Don’t you fucking cry one more fucking tear in this house. I dig my long acrylic nails into my palms with such force the pain is exactly enough to stop my tears. I turn and walk to the window. I need some air. I lift the window catch from its cradle and push the small lead-encased pane, but the window is jammed. I roll my eyes. It’s not jammed; it’s nailed shut.
I let out a sharp laugh that bounces uncomfortably around the still silent room. It’s funny how, with time, your memory tries to trick you. You rewrite your own history. Some memories are exaggerated to make them a little more intense or a little more amusing. Others are suppressed, and some you think couldn’t possibly be as bad as you remember, so you do yourself a favour and forget. I shouldn’t have come.
“Hello!” A gruff voice calls from inside the house. “Hello, Ms Cartwright! Is that you?”
“Upstairs,” I reply and take a steadying breath. I hear Mr Brown, the solicitor in charge of my mother’s estate, climb the stairs and I watch him stumble and trip into the room. Flustered he tries to compose himself. He kicks the badly placed rug exposing more of the bare floorboards.
“Who places a rug there, like that?” He pulls the cuffs of his jacket one at a time to straighten the bunched up material. “Oh…Look at that.” He muses and leans to take a closer look. “I can see why now but still…it seems a stupid place.” He mutters, “What do you suppose that stain is?” He tips his head at the mark but my eyes are already fixed in the shadow on the wood…my mind unfortunately is hurtling into my past.
“Blood…lots and lots of blood.” I don’t recognise the chill in my own voice, and Mr Brown turns to look at me as if for the first time. He doesn’t respond to my macabre declaration. Well, he might have, but I don’t hear him. As much as I fight it, the flashback hits me like the first strike of a palm across my cheek, and I recoil as I stand just as I did back then.
Sam aged seventeen
“You filthy little slut!” His voice is menacingly low and he draws his hand back to strike me again.
“Richard, please!” I cry holding the heat in my cheek from his hand. It doesn’t hurt. I’ve had worse from him. Even his words don’t slice me like they used to, but the fury today distorts his face. Harsh lines twisted into an ugly scowl, thin lips pursed and pulled tight into a hate-filled grimace. He doesn’t look like my boyfriend. He looks like a monster. Clenching his fist this time, he swings and cracks my jaw so hard I feel it like a blade behind my eyes. An unbelievable pain that knocks me to my knees.
“You spread your legs for me quick enough. How do I know the little bastard is mine, hmm?” He sneers at me, down his too straight nose, his blue eyes wild with anger, spit now dripping from his lips.
“Richard, please. I’m sorry. It’s was an accident. That one time maybe, when you…you didn’t wear the condom.” His eyes widen, and I shrink rushing quickly to rectify my mistake. It’s too late he hauls me up by grabbing a fistful of my hair and throws me against the wall like a rag doll. Strange, I never thought him to be that strong, with his slight build. But he is taller than me, and obviously, with the pure hatred running through his veins, his strength is no match for me. “Richard, I didn’t mean it was your fault. You know my mother…I can’t risk taking birth control. She would kill me if she knew what we’d done.” I plead into vacant eyes.
He strides over to me and again grabs my hair, my scalp tender from hairs being torn from their roots. I grab his forearms to try and support my weight.
“Yes…let’s not forget your social-climbing mother in all this. She really believed me when I said I was going to marry you. Christ! To think I would have someone like her in my family…someone like you. A half-bred slut, who’s probably fucked every boy in the village while I was at boarding school,” he mocks.
“Richard, don’t…that’s not true. I love you.” My voice is horse from crying, and I choke back the words when his large hand reaches around my neck.
“Say that again… whore!” He squeezes and I gasp for air. His eyes darken, and I feel him harden against my stomach. Jesus, how can he get off on my terror? The thin cotton dress is no barrier at all. I panic because this doesn’t feel like the times he has abused me in the past. Something has changed in him. He looks unhinged. He needs to calm down or he’s going to really hurt me. I soften my voice.
“Richard, my love, of course I love you. There is only you…you know that.” I struggle to swallow against his grip. He loosens a little, and I let out a breath and try to smile. It catches when I realise, too late and with utter horror, his intention. He pulls his arm right back and levels a punch directly into my sto
mach. I collapse gasping for air that won’t come, winded and in agony I roll onto the floor. My arms wrap tight across my tummy trying to protect what’s inside.
I flash a glance at the monster before me just in time to see him let his heavily weighted boot swing forward. Easily crashing through my arms, again and again. Pounding his full force and weight into my abdomen. I try to curl in on myself tighter, but he grabs my head and stretches me out. I limply take punch after punch to my face. The pain is everywhere but the only noise I can distinguish is his heavy breathing and the sound of softly crunching tissue and sometimes bone. I can’t seem to scream…cry…I can’t find my voice at all.
“Who makes you happy, sweetheart?” His demonic chant rings in my ears. He always asks the same damn question, every time he hurts me the most. He repeats but emphasises each word this time with a carefully placed brutal kick to my stomach. “Who. Makes. You. Happy. Sweetheart.”
I try to answer because I know from experience he won’t stop until I do. But large floaty black spots seep across my glazed vision, tempting me into the darkness when an almighty cramp shocks me enough to sit bolt upright. Richard steps back and we both look at the large dark mass of liquid running between my legs. My white dress quickly unable to absorb any more of the blood as it drips, drips onto the floor.
“Richard, please.” I cry and hold my hand for him to help. The confusion in his face must mirror mine. Why won’t he help me? Can’t he see what’s happening? Can’t he see I need help?Can’t he see I’m going to lose the baby?
“It looks like we’re about done here, don’t you think?” He pulls his cuffs down and brushes at the specks of my blood that now pepper his sleeves. Little streaks and smears cover the pristine white material. “What’s good for getting blood out of cotton?” He inspects the material like it is the only thing remotely significant. I’m haemorrhaging badly, and the agony is barely masking my utter devastation. I drag myself toward the door just as it opens. My mother steps into the room and gasps. Not because she has seen me or the blood, but because having Richard in my room is strictly forbidden.
“Mr Brookes-Hamilton, I know you intend to marry my daughter, but please do not take liberties with my kind nature.” She gushes with her false reprimand, but her colour drains when he pushes the door a little wider to reveal me in a crumbled heap, losing more blood than I can spare.
“Mother…please.” I manage to cry before I sink back into myself.
“Oh, Grace, what have you done?” Her grave words are laced with accusation and venom. “Mr Brookes—”she pleads as Richard moves to her side. “—Richard please don’t go. I am sure there is a very good explanation.” She reaches for his arm to stop him from leaving but his thunderous scowl prevents her actually making contact.
“Oh, there is, Mrs Cartwright, there is…Your daughter is a whore.” I hear her suck in a sharp breath as his footsteps recede quickly or maybe my level of consciousness fails to distinguish the sound of him walking away and he is still there. I don’t care anymore, I just need help.
“Mother, please, you need to call an ambulance.” I reach for a hand that isn’t offered and freeze when I recognise that expression of stone and hatred settle on her implacable face. Her beady blue eyes narrow and her cheeks burn with anger. She looks like she is desperate to once more spew all her hatred and bile. But not today it seems. I know that everything bad that has ever happened in her life is my fault. She’s drilled it into me since I could talk, and now I have just ruined her chance at a life she believes she deserves.
My hand falls to the floor, skidding in the sticky mess and I slump down, flat on the boards. I manage to turn my head and meet her gaze…She could freeze ice with the warmth of her compassion for me. She’s not going to help my baby…she’s not going to help me. She steps back through the door and leaves me in an ever-increasing circle of my own blood. She leaves my baby to die and I don’t doubt for a moment she hopes I will too. I pass out to the sound of a solid click of the door closing and the turn of the iron lock.
“Miss, are you all right? You don’t seem to have heard what I just said.” I feel the cold chill as the sweat from the flashback that instantly coated my skin, just as quickly dries. I shake my head even if the residual image is too fresh to ignore. My heart is still racing, but I hold my arm out as steadily as I can.
Mr Brown is a portly man, and that is being kind. He is most likely in his early sixties with thinning grey hair and tiny, wire-rimmed glasses. His beady eyes comically widen when he really sees me for the first time. I get this a lot. Even living in a cosmopolitan, vibrant city like London I know I stand out, but in a sleepy village such as this, I must look like an extra from Underworld in a Miss Marple Sunday afternoon special. My choice of wardrobe was very deliberate today, though. It’s my armour. I offer my hand, and I swear he bends as if to kiss the back of it. I raise a brow and he stiffens with embarrassment. He shouldn’t be embarrassed; under any other circumstance it would be charming. In certain situations it would be expected. He opts now for a light shake and I offer him a warm smile.
“Grace Cartwright, I presume.” He is slightly breathless and I think there might be a little drool on his chin. I pull my hand sharply from his hold and straighten my back. His expression flashes from gentil to guarded.
“I legally changed my name when I was eighteen, Mr Brown. I’m Sam Bonfleur. I took my grandfather’s surname.” I correct.
“And Sam?” He nods but starts leafing through the pages of papers he has clutched to his chest.
“After a drink.” I gave it no more thought at the time other than I didn’t want to be called Grace ever again.
He chuckles as if I were joking. I wasn’t.
His sudden frown causes more deep-set wrinkles to form. “I’m glad you could come today. Your mother had many antique pieces I am sure you will—”
“Sell everything. I want nothing. Honestly, I didn’t think she would’ve kept me in her will at all.” I keep my tone level and, with considerable effort, maintain a much softer timbre than I feel. Rage and sorrow blend and course through me; my nerves are raw and knots the size of footballs roll in my stomach. Mr Brown shifts uncomfortably and won’t meet my eye.
“Um yes…you are right. Sadly, I believe that was her intention.” He clears his throat. “There was some irregularity in the documentation and essential forms weren’t completed correctly. In such cases the will is nullified and by default the estate would be bequeathed to the closest living relative.” I scoff derisively at his misplaced assumption and inwardly smile that my mother would be turning in her grave at this outcome.
“Only living relative.” I correct and draw in a steadying breath. Did I honestly think she would’ve softened over time and this be her final gesture of forgiveness? Of course not, she was evil, and evil is timeless. I shake myself free of the useless thoughts. “Regardless, it is what it is. You have my instructions. I just came today…” My voice catches, he doesn’t need to know why I came. He doesn’t need to know my gory past. “Sell it all.” I repeat.
He looks a little shocked but nods. “I know it’s of little comfort, but you will be a very rich woman, Ms Bonfleur.” His smile falters on his pallid face, and there is sweat beading on his top lip. I make him uncomfortable. I smile. I like making men uncomfortable.
“I am a very rich woman already. I don’t want a penny from the sale. I don’t want to take anything for a keepsake. It is all to go to the charity I listed. You have something for me to sign?” I hold my hand out expectantly.
“Why did you come then? We could’ve done this over the phone or at my offices.” His tone is a little irritated when he hands me a small stack of papers with little markers. I quickly work my way through signing my childhood away.
“I needed to remind myself. I needed this fresh in my mind so I won’t do it again.” I curse myself that I mutter this out loud enough for him to hear. I return his pen and he nods with kind eyes of understanding.
; “Fall in love.” He offers with a knowing look but my bitter laugh cuts him dead and now I do feel like I have to clarify…He does need to know.
“Not fall no, sometimes that sadly can’t be helped. But I needed to remind myself why I will never again tell someone I love them. All men lie, Mr Brown, but once you tell a man you love him, he seems to think it gives him certain rights, rights to hurt and control you.” I take my time to look him up and down, my glare accusatory. I feel only a tinge of shame that I judge all men by the one very bad apple, especially when I know it isn’t true. Leon isn’t like that, but it is better to be safe, to live by this rule than die being sorry. “Never again will I let someone control me.” I step past him but turn when he coughs for my attention.
“Sorry, Ms Bonfleur, but I need a forwarding address. I can’t use the PO Box I’m afraid, but perhaps I could send it to your office,” he stutters.
“My office?” I hold back a smile.
“I noticed you had passed the bar. I assumed you were practising law somewhere?” He is checking his notes again, and I let out a light laugh.
“You have been busy.” I turn to face him, drawing up to my full five foot ten height, six foot in my heels. His cheeks pink and he drags a finger across his shirt collar. He has the decency to look a little sheepish.
“You took some finding.” He shrugs and I bite my lip. He obviously didn’t look hard enough or he wouldn’t be asking this question. Or maybe he did.
“I qualified but I don’t practice, Mr Brown.” I raise my brow and fix him with a glare to see if he withers…To see if he is hiding my secrets and trying to play me but he doesn’t flinch. Satisfied he knows no more than he has alluded to already, I hand him my card, my smile widening with the stretch of his upturned brow. “Send whatever you need here. This is where I work.”
“What do you do?” He flips the black card over. There is nothing on the back and just my signature on the front and the club address.
