The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  The little girl offered up her face, no longer scared of the woman in blue with the queer eyes. She sensed that, as long as she was near, Uncle Jack wouldn’t touch her.

  He’d moved away from them and was standing by the water’s edge, looking out to sea, smoking another cigarette.

  “There you are,” Sister Clare soothed, her serious features softening into a sweet smile. “Now you’re like a princess.”

  She returned the hanky to a fold in her robes, took the child’s hand in hers.

  “Now, I’ve got a little gift for you,” she said, and put a small shiny object into her palm.

  The child stared at it, eyes wide with wonder. “Is it a fairy?”

  The nun leaned close and whispered. “No, dear, it’s an angel . . . your guardian angel, and she’ll protect you from all danger wherever you go. So don’t be afraid. Here, put her in the pocket of your frock, so no one will know about her but you and me.”

  The little girl did as she was bidden.

  “There, that’s better. No more tears, my little one. I’ll pray that God will keep you safe.”

  Without warning, she was on her feet, striding away in her laced-up boots and flapping robes, over to the spot where Uncle Jack was standing.

  She said something to him then moved off swiftly.

  He threw the cigarette down and caught up with her.

  “What was that, Sister?”

  She stopped abruptly, turned to face him.

  “I said: this beach is my back-yard. From my cell window I see everything. You’d do well to remember that.”

  A frenetic rapping wrenched Dorrie out of the dream state.

  “Ma’am, are you in there? Ma’am . . . ma’am, can you hear me?”

  Her head felt like lead. She tried to lift it off the pillow but the effort was too much.

  “Y-Yes . . . Who-who is it?”

  “Maureen, ma’am. Breakfast’s ready, ma’am.”

  Breakfast?

  She turned and stared in disbelief at the clock. It was 8 a.m.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll . . . be down in . . . in five minutes.”

  “All right, ma’am.”

  She heard the maid go down the stairs.

  She shut her eyes, too afraid to sit up. Heard the rain rap its bony knuckles on the window, the sizzle of car tyres, the screeching of gulls.

  Seaside.

  Fragments came at her like snowflakes at a windscreen, some sticking, some spiralling off into blackness. Words, pictures, voices, pulling her back to consciousness:

  Ocean

  Jane

  Edith . . . Edith LeVeck

  “Lady of the Dead . . . death.”

  “Death is democratic.”

  “I could hardly leave her alone in the house.”

  Sailor’s Arms

  Millman

  “You’re a pesky little bitch!”

  old man

  “Be like the tree . . . ”

  “From my cell window I see everything. You’d do well to remember that.”

  coat . . . coat

  COAT, blood . . .

  BLOOD-STAINED RAINCOAT

  She shot up, wide awake, heart pounding.

  The room swam, floated, then steadied itself as complete consciousness returned.

  She was still fully dressed.

  The room was a mess: bedside table toppled, towels scattered, a red fur coat lying by the door and near it an empty whiskey bottle.

  She staggered to the mirror, and nearly wept at the wreckage her drunken night had wrought: blotchy face, swollen eyelids, hair a mess.

  It doesn’t matter, Dorrie dear. Today you’re leaving. Remember? Now get yourself downstairs and get your car. You need to get yourself out of here. Just go! Go with the flow, my dear.

  “Yes, Mama, my car . . . yes, yes, I must get my car. Must get my car and leave.”

  Girded by this thought, she grabbed her handbag, flung the fur coat over her arm and left the room.

  The stairs swayed as she negotiated her way down, step by careful step.

  Nearing the last few treads, she heard a voice, high-pitched and sudden.

  “Miss Walsh, there you are . . . finally!”

  Gladys Millman was standing in front of her baroque desk, striking an imperious pose in a dress of startling mauve and a look of acid reproof.

  Dorrie wobbled, teetered, caught the balustrade to steady herself.

  “Eh . . . oh, em . . . Mrs . . . Mrs Milkman . . . em . . . ”

  “Millman . . . Millman. Are you all right, Miss Walsh? You look unwell.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I’m . . . I’m . . . em . . . Y-Your coat.”

  She held out the fox fur, hoping the offering would divert attention and soothe matters a little. “Th-Thank you . . . for the loan. I . . . I . . . ”

  Of a sudden, Mrs Millman stepped forward.

  The brisk movement gave Dorrie such a fright that she missed her footing and toppled. Her head struck the polished terrazzo with a sickening thud. Before passing out she was aware of a pair of mauve suede peep-toes and a voice raised in alarm.

  “Oh, my heavens! Maureen, Maureen, come quickly! We have an emergency.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rita-Mae sat on a boulder under a linden tree in Crocus Wood on the edge of Killoran, trying to find peace. Better there, out in the middle of nowhere with the mist and rising sun, than inside number 8 with the secrets of its afflicted room.

  All those bitter memories hauling her back there into her darkest days with Harry! Better to dwell on them than face the new threat: that she was occupying a house that had driven a young woman insane. And that she, Rita-Mae Ruttle, could very well be the next victim.

  The boulder was part of a stone circle, a sacred relic from ancient times. They were all over Ireland, these circles, and perhaps she was committing a grave sin by actually sitting on one, but given her plight she didn’t much care.

  The beauty of the little spot was its location – far enough off the main road for her not to be bothered by the sound of traffic, isolated enough not to be discovered at that hour.

  She’d had a restless night. Harry’s assaults, a vivid montage mixed in with snatches from that Samaritan file on Vivian-B, prodding her awake at every turn.

  SAID SHE WAS BEING WATCHED.

  TOLD ME HE’D LEFT A DEAD BIRD ON THE DOORSTEP . . . A BAD OMEN.

  Once in the night she could have sworn she’d heard a bird pecking at the window-pane. Got up to look, but the only thing that startled her was her own reflection – wan face and pale gown making a ghost of her in the glass.

  There was no sign of a bird. But maybe it was the dead one come back to life. The one he’d left on the doorstep – the bad omen.

  A magpie swooped down on the bracken near her – one for sorrow – and strutted about proudly as if it owned the place.

  OBSESSED WITH A SAINT CALLED CATHERINE. . .

  She took Blossom’s booklet on St Catherine from her bag and flicked idly through it.

  Each page was edged with little pink roses. A quotation in ornate script along the top.

  PROCLAIM THE TRUTH, one read. DO NOT BE SILENT THROUGH FEAR.

  She turned to another one:

  START TO BE BRAVE ABOUT EVERYTHING. DRIVE OUT DARKNESS AND SPREAD LIGHT.

  And yet another, longer this time:

  WE’VE HAD ENOUGH EXHORTATIONS TO BE SILENT. CRY OUT WITH A HUNDRED THOUSAND TONGUES – I SEE THE WORLD IS ROTTEN BECAUSE OF SILENCE.

  She stared at the last line. I SEE THE WORLD IS ROTTEN BECAUSE OF SILENCE.

  All through her years of marriage she’d been silent. A silence that had brought her nothing but pain.

  She heard her tormentor’s voice: “If yeh tell anybody, I’ll kill you. If you leave me, I’ll kill you.” With each threat she died a little more inside, until . . .

  Until she’d finally had enough of those exhortations to be silent and made her escape. She couldn’t fix Harry. He was a project, not a person
– not a real person with empathy and understanding. But she could maybe, just maybe, fix herself. Make a life for herself without him.

  The magpie moved closer, assertive on its bold black legs, bill probing the earth. She could easily have been just an outcrop of the stone she sat on, for all the notice it took of her.

  At close quarters, its wings were a mesmerizing sweep of blues and greens, glossy and iridescent in the light. She felt like reaching out and stroking them.

  A beautiful creature, yet so maligned – considered to be one of nature’s villains.

  All at once it flapped away, making her flinch. The booklet slipped to the ground. She picked it up, disappointed to see that one of the pages was soiled. Wiped away the detritus. Saw that it was the first quote she’d read.

  PROCLAIM THE TRUTH. DO NOT BE SILENT THROUGH FEAR.

  In her mind’s eye she saw a little boy jeering:

  Ma, Ma, that’s the madwoman’s house!

  Close by him a woman:

  You haven’t seen the last of us, you screwball!

  Thought again of the line in the case notes:

  CALLS HER NAMES – “NUTTER”, “SCREWBALL” . . . SAID HIS NAME WAS RYAN.

  “No, they will not drive me out,” she said aloud, seized suddenly by an audacious need, emboldened by the quote. “They drove one woman out or to her death, but not this one. I will not be silent. I will proclaim my truth to Bram Hilditch about the Glacken woman, and the sooner the better.”

  Her voice rang out in the silence, echoing through the glade.

  The sky dimmed. A soft rain began to fall.

  Perhaps it was time to go.

  Crack . . . crack . . . crack.

  What was that?

  Something stirring . . .

  Someone stirring?

  She froze.

  Someone, behind her, watching her. She could feel them, him. Her spine tingled. Her hand closed on the flick-knife in her pocket.

  Yes, she’d come prepared.

  She got up.

  Slowly turned.

  “Who’s there?”

  A shuffling sound.

  To her alarm, Dan Madden the handyman stepped out from behind a tree.

  At the sight of him fear turned to anger.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He removed the baseball cap. She saw his face properly for the first time. Features off-kilter. Shifty eyes. Balding.

  Guilt-ridden. Yes, she could see he was guilt-ridden. It was the way he stood, kneading the cap, not meeting her eye.

  “Sorry if I disturbed yeh, Miss Ruttle—”

  “Why are you following me? Why are you watching me?”

  “But I . . . I’m . . . I’m not f-following you,” he stammered.

  “Then what are you doing here, this hour of the morning?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Your, eh . . . your car, parked out there on the road.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Noticed it had a flat . . . thought I’d come and tell yeh, ’cos . . . ”

  Should she believe him? It sounded plausible. She’d never changed a flat tyre in her life. Now she needed him.

  “’Cos I could change it for yeh, if yeh want?”

  He continued to knead the cap, staring over her right shoulder, self-conscious. Was he wall-eyed? Perhaps that’s why he wore the bill of the baseball cap pulled so low. Had he taken the cap off out of respect? And if so, why hadn’t he removed it back at the house on their first meeting? The time he removed a “dead bird”. Oh, God, there it was again – the dead bird.

  She braced herself. “How do I know, Mr Madden, that you didn’t let the air out of my tyre on purpose?”

  “What?”

  “I said how do I know you didn’t let the air out of that tyre yourself?”

  He gave her a hard look. Took a step closer.

  She took a step back.

  “Stay away from me!”

  “Don’t unnerstand yeh. Why . . . why would I do the like-a that?”

  “Because you told me a story about a dead bird blocking a drain at number eight. That was several weeks ago and the smell in the house – and most especially in the box-room – is as strong as ever. So the dead bird was just a story, wasn’t it?”

  His face darkened.

  Her grip on the knife grew tighter.

  “Well, I could ask you why yeh were out the back with a knife in yer hand after Maud’s budgie was kilt. Didn’t make you look too good.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “I niver tolt nobody about that,” he continued, “not even Bram. And I could-a tolt him and the police as well, but I didn’t, ’cos I didn’t wanna get yeh into any trouble, like.”

  “I’d . . . I’d nothing to do with Mrs Gilhooley’s bird. Th-That burglar could’ve come into my house too. I was only protecting myself.”

  “That’s what yeh say! But how did yeh know Maud’d been burgled? It’d only just happened . . . that’s the thing.”

  She knew the answer to that one, but wouldn’t be telling Madden. Bram Hilditch would be hearing the explanation about the Glacken boy and her own break-in very soon. The sooner the better. But he’d be the first one and likely the only one.

  “Believe what you like, Mr Madden, but my conscience is clear.”

  “That’s as may be, Miss Ruttle, but I’ll not be tellin’ nobody . . . not unless . . . not unless I have to.”

  He was threatening her. Trying to blackmail her.

  “I’ll be telling Mr Hilditch myself.”

  “Yeh will? Strange yeh haven’t tolt him afore now.”

  “My reasons for not doing that are none of your business, Mr Madden.”

  “Aye.”

  He scuffed the earth with his right foot, dug his hands into his pockets, glanced back in the direction of the road again.

  “Now d’yeh want me to change that tyre or not?” He checked his watch. Replaced his cap. “I’ve another run tae do in half an hour and time’s goin’ on, so it is.”

  If she said no she’d be stuck, and would have to walk to his garage for his help anyway.

  “Yes, Mr Madden,” she said, evenly. “I’d appreciate that.”

  Relaxing her hold on the knife, she took a deep breath and followed him out of the clearing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Back at the roadside she opened the boot, located the jack and showed him the spare.

  “I’ll only be a minute or two,” he assured her.

  “Right.” She turned her back on him. She didn’t trust Madden and had no wish to make small-talk. She took out the booklet again and pretended to read, ears alert to his every move.

  Then: “Miss Ruttle.”

  She saw him hunkered down, inspecting the spare.

  “Yes?”

  “That spare of yours is flat too.”

  She didn’t believe him.

  “It couldn’t be!” she said sharply.

  “Well, it is . . . see.”

  She felt for the knife again. Went over to him.

  “There . . . a nail stuck in her.”

  How the hell did that happen? Did he drive in that nail when my back was turned? Why did I turn my back on him? Why? He’s playing games because he knows he can.

  She felt powerless. Wanted to lash out at him, but had to hold herself steady, remembering his threat. She couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of him.

  The sight of his hands on the tyre repelled her. Crude hands like Harry’s. Dangerous hands.

  She’d have to play safe. But she was good at that.

  “Whoever driv this car afore you had a flat,” he went on. “Aye, had a flat and didn’t bother tae get it fixed or maybe just forgot.”

  Harry then. If it wasn’t Madden it must have been Harry. He prized the car. The car was his business. He cherished it more than he did her. But he’d been drinking heavily before he took off, which would explain the oversight.

  “That’s too bad,” she conceded.

 
“I’ll need tae take it back to me garage and patch it,” Madden said, straightening up and slapping his right leg. “Might take a while. But if you stay there I’ll get the van and run yeh home.”

  There was no way she was going to get into his van.

  “No, thank you all the same,” she said crisply. “I’ll walk . . . it isn’t far and it’s a nice morning.”

  He squinted at her. “But, it’s rainin’, Miss Ruttle.”

  She hadn’t noticed how wet it had become, so preoccupied had she been with safeguarding herself. Her hair was damp. A raindrop splashed against her cheek. She felt her feet clammy in her shoes.

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind the rain,” she lied.

  “Maybe yeh have an umbrella in the car.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s all right. Really.”

  “Aye . . . well, suit yerself. Might take me the hour. I’ll drop it off with yeh when it’s ready.”

  She opened the passenger door and took her bag off the seat.

  “Thanks again, Mr Madden,” she said, giving him a grudging smile, hefting her shoulder-bag. “An hour you say?”

  “About that, aye.”

  She hurried away, leaving him there, not daring to glance back. Sensed him looking after her. Yes, standing there watching her until she rounded a bend and was lost from his view.

  As she approached the house she saw Bram Hilditch on the front step, black umbrella raised, hold-all in hand.

  She opened the gate.

  “Miss Ruttle . . . my goodness me . . . you’re drenched to the skin. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m quite fine, thanks.” She fished in her handbag for the door-key. “My car broke down, that’s all. Mr Madden’s fixing it.”

  “But couldn’t he have given you a lift?”

  “I didn’t want one. What did you want?”

  She opened the door.

  In the lounge, he took his usual seat at the table. Glanced about the room, uneasily.

  “Tea,” she said, going through to the kitchen.

  “I’m afraid it’s not a social call, Miss Ruttle, more’s the pity. I’ve a rather delicate matter to discuss with you I’m afraid.”

  She hung up her coat. Found a towel and ran it over her hair. Patted her face dry, checking herself in the mirror by the back-door.

  “Oh . . . ?” she said to her reflection, feeling safer out of sight.