“Crying of the child? Brought what back exactly?”
“What Maud said . . . well, I suppose it’s not impossible. But how . . . how could she hide something like that?”
“Hide something like what?” Bram’s impatience was getting the better of him. “Look, spit it out, Mother. Tracy’s on her way with the puddings.”
“One day last week Maud saw baby clothes drying on Miss Ruttle’s line . . . Babygros. A pink one and a blue one.”
“Now, what’ll it be?” the waitress asked, cheerily positioning the trolley of delicious desserts alongside the table.
“Oh, just another glass of Chablis for me, dear,” Octavia said airily, unfrowning her look in anticipation of more alcohol.
“Babygros,” Bram repeated to himself, feeling nauseous, an image too frightening for words rising in his mind’s eye.
“What’s that, Mr Hilditch?” he heard Tracy say.
He pushed back the chair, holding his stomach.
“Abraham, what on earth’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mother. I don’t feel at all well. I . . . I need the bathroom.”
He rushed to the door, hoping he’d make it to the Gents in time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fifth-hand Hillman Avenger throbbed and rattled along the main road to Killoran, Rita-Mae Ruttle at the wheel, knuckles whitening on a sharp bend. She wasn’t used to driving. Harry rarely allowed her in the driver’s seat. Driving was men’s work. She’d worn out many a pair of shoes on the streets of Larne, suffering blistered heels and aching arms to bring him his daily bread.
All that changed with her decision to flee. The car was hers; the road was hers. This life was hers, finally hers, for the first time in fifteen long years. That she was unsteady in this new world was no surprise. There’d been no subtlety in the transition. It had happened in a flash, like a lightning bolt that fires up for the briefest time – for seconds, mere seconds – giving her no option but to run. Now, finally outside the darkness of her prison, the blindfold ripped off, chains loosened if not yet broken clean, she must find a way to live life on her own terms.
The outskirts of the town lay ahead. The countryside slid past on either side, fields flung haphazardly like bolts of green cloth, tiny birds fluttering in arcs, a mob of crows pecking at roadkill, the sky sagging, hinting at rain.
But she saw none of it. In her mind’s eye, Rita-Mae was searching the rooms of Willow Close for that envelope, the name Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara going round and round in her head. She was checking drawers that were empty. How could they be otherwise? She’d so few possessions that they fitted into two suitcases. No photographs, no mementos, no memories; she’d enough of those. She was opening cupboards. Looking under cushions. Turning up chairs as the landscape flowed past.
Had she imagined it?
The envelope.
No, definitely not.
It was there when the butterfly case fell. There for her to find. There for her to open and become part of the story that was Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara’s life. Rita-Mae the Samaritan knew this in her heart, in the very pit of her being. Vivian-Bernadette was a troubled soul who needed the compassionate understanding only she could give. She, Rita-Mae, would be the bearer of her secrets. The emissary who’d reveal her truth if need be.
Nothing in this life happens by accident. Everything is meant to be.
She was hearing yet again that saying from her old schoolteacher.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, slowed for an oncoming tractor.
The farmer touched his cap, raised a hand. She returned his wave, smiled, relaxed a bit. Eased the car into gear and moved off again, crunching on the gravelled verge. Here she was, driving through this unfamiliar place, waving at people she didn’t know. Making things up as she went along. Where would it take her, this story that she’d begun without her incarcerator, her jail warder?
She pictured him high up on a nondescript construction site, slathering mortar on to bricks, light glancing off a safety helmet, his face contorted with the effort of it. So hard in the bone, his heart silting up rage at the poor hand life had dealt him. On whom would he unleash his ire now? That vicious energy that flared up at the slightest wrong. She and Harry: the pair of them such a bad fit right from the beginning, such an inflammatory match.
She saw herself in the bridal suite of the Strand Hotel. The first offence: pouring his beer too quickly. The liquid frothing over the rim had sealed her fate. How could she have known? She’d never poured a beer in her life. Their honeymoon ended abruptly that night, she being throttled half to death on the balcony, her virginity taken violently and sadistically in the bed. The wedding-ring and vows a wicked con, her married life a war zone from that day on.
She shut her eyes briefly to stop the tears. Envisioned Bram Hilditch standing on the threshold of her bedroom as she neared the centre of Killoran. Could he have crossed to the bureau in such a short space of time, taken the envelope, secreted it in his boiler suit? The boiler suit had several pockets, but he’d removed it before coming downstairs. Why was that? Had he taken it off out of politeness because she’d offered him tea? Or had he . . .
She drove slowly down the main street, eyes alert for the Get Ahead hair salon.
It was late afternoon. There were few people about. She saw a pub called Barney’s Bar; Butcher O’Dea’s; Gilhooley Greengrocer’s with a crudely chalked sign in the window offering KERRIS PINKS FRESH DUG £2 A BAG. Johnston’s Purveyors of Ladies’ & Gentlemen’s Fashions, one mannequin on display in a black cape coat, wan bald head, legs as white as birch sticks.
The hair salon was wedged between the BiteSize cafe and a bakery called For Goodness Cakes. She pulled into a vacant spot and killed the engine.
Nervous? Yes, she was nervous. She’d phoned ahead to the number Bram Hilditch had supplied. Susan Mulvey, the proprietor, said she’d be happy to have “a wee chat”.
She pushed the door into the hot fustiness of the salon. Three customers: one lying back having her hair washed, an old lady in curlers reading Woman’s Realm – the cover showing a smiling Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson under the banner ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE ROYAL ROMANCE. Another female, smoking a cigarette, was having her long blonde hair blow-dried. She looked pregnant.
“Well, I just told him where to go,” the blonde was declaiming above the noise of the dryer, eyes on the stylist in the mirror – a slight woman in a black coverall, feet stuck in flat mules. “Honest tae God, expecting me to still help him with the farm-work and me ready tae pop.”
Rita-Mae stood by the reception desk, allaying panic by focusing on her surroundings. It was something she always did, most especially on entering a new place. She was a forensic observer, mentally framing the shots, inner camera clearly focused: six posters of glossy hairstyles, one between each mirror, eight mirrors in all, four on each wall. Three washbasins along the back. An exit door to the right. Chequered floor tiles, blue and white. She was slowly counting them when abruptly the hairdryer was shut off.
An unnatural silence imbued the room, through which she could hear the faint strains of “Manic Monday” playing on the radio.
The stylist looked her way, smiled, excused herself and came forward to greet her.
“You must be Rita?” She held out a hand.
She was attractive: mid-forties with dark hair worn in a feathered style like one of Charlie’s Angels, regular features, flawless skin. Only the dark hammock of worry under each eye spoilt the near-perfect effect.
The handshake was firm and confident. “I’m Susan. Just take a seat and I’ll be with you in two ticks.”
Rita-Mae, nerves easing slightly, sat down on a sofa by the window and watched Susan brush the blonde’s hair into shape, blast it with a can of spray and send her on her way.
“Now, Rita.” She sat down beside her. “So, what’s your experience in this business of ours?”
&n
bsp; “Ten years . . . yes, about ten in all—”
“That long? I’m impressed.”
“Well, yes, in Larne . . . but not all the time. I mean . . . it was more on a part-time basis . . . or when someone was ill.”
“Why was that? Husband and children getting in the way I suppose.” She chuckled. “Tell me about it. Have three of my own to contend with. All in their teens now, so you can imagine . . . How many do you have?”
“No, it wasn’t that . . . I . . . I’m not married.”
“You’re not?!” Susan’s eyes widened in surprise. “A pretty woman like you? Must be very hard to please then. Not a bad way to be. Wish I’d waited myself. Got hitched at nineteen. Far too young. So what brings you here?”
“Well, I thought . . . I thought you might need help.”
“But besides that. Larne . . . a bit out of the way. Why come so far to a little backwater like Killoran?”
She hadn’t prepared herself for such questions. Careless of her. Once you set foot in the outside world, she told herself, you need to get your story right. If you get to work here there’ll be more questions from the locals. A new face in a new place needs to give an account of itself. No one likes an interloper.
“Er . . . just wanted a fresh start I suppose.”
“Do you have references?”
Yes, she did have a reference: from Grace Thorne, the owner of the Eclips salon in Larne. She’d been carrying it around for months in expectation of an opportunity such as this.
Susan read through it. “I’ll need to call her. Not that I don’t trust you . . . ”
No, you don’t! She wanted to get up and leave. This whole venture had been a bad idea, not properly thought through. But Grace knew where she was. She was the only person she’d entrusted with the news of her escape. She’d called her from Willow Close as soon as she’d settled. And Grace had promised she’d alert her the moment Harry returned.
“I understand,” Rita-Mae said. “Please do.”
“Susan, whaddya want me to do now? Will I brush out Mrs Mulhern?”
It was the young girl who’d been washing hair. She was plump with rosy cheeks, pigtails as thick as hemp hanging down her front. She looked as though she should still be in school.
“No, Laura, you just sweep up that hair now, like a good girl.”
“All right,” Laura said nonchalantly, and slapped away in her rubber clogs to fetch the floor brush.
Susan rolled her eyes. “Work experience I’m afraid. Y’know, between you and me, they’re more bother than they’re worth at times.” She patted Rita-Mae’s arm. “Now, back to you. I’m not going to call . . . ” She checked the reference again. “Grace . . . ’cos I can see you’d be an excellent asset here. Emma’s going to be out for the next two Thursday and Friday evenings doing a beauty course. Those evenings okay for you?”
“Yes, indeed, that’s fine,” Rita-Mae said, conscious that Mrs Mulhern, nose stuck in her Woman’s Realm, was listening to every word of the conversation.
“It’s two pounds fifty an hour – the going rate – but the tips are good and you get to keep them yourself. That sound okay?”
“Fine, yes.”
“Great!” Susan gave her widest smile. “Now, just one more thing.” She reached under the coffee table and produced a notebook. “All I need is your address and telephone number?”
“Eight Willow Close . . . Killoran, of course.”
No sooner were the words out than the room went quiet again. The silence that had fallen when the hairdryer was switched off was nothing compared to this one.
The pen that Susan held froze above the page.
Mrs Mulhern turned in her chair and stared openly.
The brush sweeping up the hair had stopped abruptly.
“Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
Only silence answered her, a silence spreading like a rumour. She swore she could hear her heart beating.
“Now, Laura, that hair won’t sweep itself,” Susan said, recovering her composure. But she was unable to meet Rita-Mae’s eye and scribbled the address down so quickly it was barely legible.
She got up. “See you next week then. It was very nice meeting you.”
Mrs Mulhern was following the exchange grim-faced, the magazine discarded.
Rita-Mae, not a little irked, moved towards the door. The warm reception followed by such a chilly dismissal was not at all to her liking.
“Now, Molly,” she heard Susan say. “Let’s get you out of these rollers.”
Hand on the door-handle, she hesitated. Susan hadn’t even waited to get her telephone number. She thought about turning back to give it, but prudence stopped her.
Best just to go.
She stepped outside, awkward with urgency and the disquiet of that not-yet-finished moment tumbling into something altogether bigger and more sinister.
The sky had darkened; a last bleed of sun was disappearing in the west. Rain was on its way.
She hurried to the car. Was about to get in when she noticed a folded piece of paper under one of the wipers – a pamphlet advertising some event or other no doubt.
She freed it, opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, just as the first drops of rain began to spatter the windscreen.
She unfolded the sheet of paper.
No, it was certainly no pamphlet. No invitation to a bring-and-buy sale in the parish hall. No announcement of a bingo evening the following week. No printed matter at all.
It was a handwritten note. The letters large and childlike.
You shouldn’t a put the phone
down on me Rita
and you the good samaritan
Nobody does the like a that to me
as you’ll soon be finding out you bitch
CHAPTER NINE
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Helpless.
Hopeless.
Powerless.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Rita-Mae sat in her parked car, fighting the feelings she knew so well. For years she’d fought the enemy right in front of her: Harry, the monster she could see. Now another one had entered the fray. One even more menacing because she could not see him.
But she’d heard him. Oh, yes.
A lewd, drink-sodden voice down the Samaritan helpline in the middle of the night. A man who complained about his bad leg, his ex-wife, his sorry lot, and called himself Lenny.
He could be watching her right now. Seeing her distress. Relishing the callous game his twisted mind had conjured.
She thought of a winged thing fluttering wildly in a killing jar, put her face in her hands and leaned into the steering wheel, questions hitting her like hail.
What have I done?
Where is he?
How did he know my car?
Did he follow me from the house?
Is it Bram Hilditch playing games?
Is it Harry playing games?
No, no, not Harry. Grace would have warned me.
A sharp rapping on the window made her jump.
She looked up to see Bram Hilditch grinning down at her, tipping the brim of his hat.
She wound down the window.
“Miss Ruttle. I thought it was you.”
“H-Hello . . . Mr Hilditch. I . . . ”
“Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
He was impeccably dressed as usual: white shirt, claret waistcoat and matching dicky bow, camel coat. Had an official-looking black bag slung over one shoulder and a newspaper sticking from a side-pocket.
Rita-Mae stared up at him, trying to figure out where he’d sprung from. There was no sign of his car. And she now knew what it looked like.
A red Daimler was hard to miss.
“Yes . . . I . . . I think . . . I think I have a cold coming on, that’s all.”
“So sorry to hear that!” He threw a look in the direction of the salon. “Get sorted out with Susan then?
”
“Yes . . . yes . . . ”
He bent down, clutched the window ledge, leaned in. She got the reek of strong cologne and a whiff of peppermints on his breath. “I can recommend half a lemon squeezed in boiling water first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Works wonders . . . detoxifies the system, clears the sinus passages.”
“What? Oh . . . yes, I see. Thank you . . . yes, I’ll try that.”
She reached for the ignition key, eager to get away.
He glanced across the street. Turned back to her with a look of expectation. “Tell you what, I’m going across to the Heavenly Realms for a spot of tea. Would you care to join me? They do delicious cakes.”
Her immediate instinct was to refuse, but then a thought struck her. She’d be safe enough with him in a public place. Besides, if this “Lenny” person were watching, the sight of a man accompanying her into a cafe might give the impression that they were a couple, and so have the effect of deterring him completely.
Stalkers liked their women single, living on their own. Defenceless, lonely women: all the better to terrify.
She slipped the note into her pocket. “Yes, that . . . that would be lovely, Mr Hilditch. I’ll . . . I’ll just get my handbag.”
The landlord threaded his way between the grouped tables in the Heavenly Realms – all linen-clad and tinkling china – to a conservatory area at the rear. At the sight of him, a flurry of smiles and greetings broke out amongst the customers – mostly ladies of a certain age.
“Abraham, how do you do?” a plump woman in a shimmering top exclaimed, jowls wobbling, a forkful of pastry poised in mid-air. “And where is Octavia today?” She gave Rita-Mae the once over. “Or is this young lady the secret you keep from her?”
Bram bent his head reverentially, hat clamped to chest.
“Mrs Baldwin-Piggott, you’re incorrigible. Her Grace is resting and this is Miss Ruttle, my new tenant.”
“Tenant . . . oh, I see.” She lowered the fork, interest suddenly piqued. “How do you do, Miss Ruttle. You’re the one in Willow—”
The Spinster Wife Page 7
