The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  “Yes, I feel it best to clear the air.”

  She was losing weight. Cheekbones jutting sharply from her tired face. Eyes more prominent. Was it any wonder? Food was the last thing on her mind. She flattened her hair back into place, not really caring how she looked.

  “About trespassing in the box-room?” she said flatly, coming back into the lounge and sitting down. Proclaim the truth. Do not be silent through fear.

  She could see that her words unnerved him. He blushed.

  “Yes, I’m so sorry about that. But I can explain.”

  “Please do, Mr Hilditch. I’m listening.”

  He looked at her askance. “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Ruttle?”

  “Quite all right, thank you. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He likes me submissive, she thought. But she’d been submissive for years and it had got her nowhere. Time to fight back. She saw the bold magpie stalk through the bracken. The image gave her courage. She’d be like the magpie. Brazen. Unabashed. Madden, and now Hilditch, would see she couldn’t be messed with.

  “You were saying?”

  He touched the bag by his feet. “Yes . . . I . . . I mean to say. The trunk in the box-room . . . I mislaid a photo album and believed it was there and I just nipped up to get it and . . . discovered it was there. It was wrong of me, I know, and I do apologize.”

  “That’s disappointing. I thought you were a man of honour.”

  “But I am, Miss Ruttle. It’s just that . . . ”

  She saw him adjust his spectacles. That gesture she’d seen before – his pushing up the bridge with his middle finger. She was making him uncomfortable.

  She knew he wouldn’t mention the mess in the box-room. Not now. He was embarrassed enough as things stood.

  “You were saying?”

  He clasped his kneecaps, gazed at the floor. Made up his mind about something. “This isn’t at all easy, Miss Ruttle, but I have to be direct.”

  He leaned over, undid the hold-all, drew something out and set it carefully on the table.

  She saw that it was a shiny black box with decorative designs on the lid.

  “What’s that?” She wondered what he was playing at.

  He canted forward, turned it towards her and opened it.

  She saw some pieces of jewellery inside.

  He waited.

  “Well,” he said pointedly. “Do you recognize it?”

  “No, it’s not mine – if that’s what you’re asking, Mr Hilditch.”

  He shook his head. “Are you saying you haven’t seen it before?”

  “No, I certainly have not! Look, what’s this all about?”

  “I found it in the trunk in the box-room. It does not belong to me or my late aunt. It belongs to Maud Gilhooley and was stolen by the person who beheaded her little budgie.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, Miss Ruttle, I think you have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “I beg your pardon. Are you accusing me of robbing that poor old lady and killing her little bird? How could you think such a thing?”

  She got up quickly, her mind in turmoil.

  “Well, what am I supposed to think, Miss Ruttle?”

  Proclaim the truth. Do not be silent through fear.

  “Now let me tell you, Mr Hilditch, the police searched that room when they called. How come they didn’t find it? So how do I know you didn’t put it there when you were getting your album, just to . . . just to put the blame on me.”

  “That’s preposterous!”

  She turned on him, anger making her bold.

  “Oh, so it’s all right to accuse me with no evidence whatsoever!”

  “I have the evidence right here. The police didn’t do a very thorough search, obviously. And maybe it’s just as well they didn’t, Miss Ruttle, or you might be up in court. Now if you have any idea how the jewellery got there I need to know. I could have gone to the police immediately, but I wanted to protect you . . . give you a chance to explain. If you can’t tell me how it got there I’ll have no option but to report you—”

  “Oh, another man in the course of a morning, trying to protect me. Madden, now you. Blackmail me more like.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  She realized she’d overstepped the mark. Where was her Samaritan training now? Get a grip, she told herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “It’s Ryan Glacken . . . that young boy across the road, if you must know. Him and his malicious mother – they are the ones who’re doing this. They did this to me. Trying to blacken me . . . to drive me crazy like they did the woman before me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they do something like this? They don’t even know you.”

  “Ask them that. I asked the boy politely to stop kicking his ball because I had a headache that day and the mother came out and verbally abused me.”

  She could feel a migraine hovering. The upset was bringing it on. She paced the room, fuming at the injustice of it all.

  “And . . . afterwards I . . . I saw that Maud had forgotten to shut her back-door . . . and I went to shut it, naturally . . . and then . . . ”

  She was getting dizzy. Groped for the door-jamb to steady herself.

  “I feel faint.”

  “Here,” she heard him say, and allowed herself to be guided towards the settee.

  “Just sit there. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  “Thank you . . . yes, I need . . . I need to take a pill. In . . . in my handbag.”

  He gave her the bag. Sat down on the sofa beside her and handed her the glass of water.

  “Are you all right, Rita?”

  He’d used her first name. Crossing the bridge that kept him at arm’s length. Given the circumstances, she didn’t mind. But he was invading her space. She didn’t trust him. Shifted away from him. Returned the glass.

  “Yes, I’ll be all right now. But . . . but the pills make me very drowsy. Any kind of upset can bring an attack on.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s best you rest now. I’m sorry I upset you, but I had to know. I can call later?”

  She shook her head. Needed to finish her story. He needed to know the truth.

  “No, it’s best I explain. That day . . . that day, the young Glacken boy was kicking his ball, I had a headache. Then when the mother told me off it got worse and I . . . I had to take a pill. I . . . I lay down and that’s . . . that’s when he came in.”

  “Who came in?”

  “Ryan Glacken.”

  “But how do you know he came in?”

  “When I woke up this room was trashed too.”

  “What! But, but why didn’t you say this before . . . when I called that day?”

  She couldn’t give him the honest answer – that she was running away from a violent husband and didn’t want to be found. Could not afford to get involved with the police and the repercussions of an investigation.

  “Was anything stolen?” he asked carefully.

  “N-No . . . but don’t you see . . . he didn’t need to take anything. He just threw things about to let me know it was him. Then he planted the jewellery box so I’d get the blame. The last thing the mother said to me was, ‘You haven’t seen the last of us, you nutter.’ Or words to that effect.”

  “Goodness gracious me! She said that to you?”

  “Sorry . . . Mr Hilditch . . . I lie down . . . have to, please.”

  She was getting her words mixed up. Could feel the numbness coming into the side of her head and face. He had to go.

  “Please . . . go . . . now.”

  He looked alarmed. “Of course,” he said, getting up.

  He stowed the jewellery box in the hold-all.

  “What . . . do . . . what now?” she managed to say, for she needed to know.

  “I’ll drive round there now and have a word with the Glacken boy. This is a very serious matter and has to be sorted . . . the sooner the better. Maud is due out of hospital soon. Are you sure y
ou’re all right? Shall I help you up the stairs?”

  She shook her head, grateful that he was leaving and that she’d finally unburdened herself.

  “Well, you mind yourself now.”

  He picked up the bag.

  “There’s just one odd thing,” he said. “I was of the impression that Beryl Glacken and Maud got on well enough. Just goes to show, you never really know what’s going on with some people.”

  Rita-Mae Ruttle knew all about that. Perhaps only too well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Through a drab net curtain Bram observed Beryl Glacken slouched in an armchair, face lit by the electronic glow from a TV screen.

  He’d rung the doorbell, but she hadn’t heard. Either that or she was purposely ignoring it, hoping the caller would go away. The soap or game show being far more important than the visitor.

  But he’d no intention of going away. He was furious at what Miss Ruttle had told him and was determined to have it out with her.

  This time it was gloves off. The ill-starred Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara had complained about Ryan too. But he’d brushed it aside, thinking she was delusional, rather than involve himself with the Glacken clan.

  Miss Glacken’s father was a “high-up” in the IRA and you didn’t trifle with people like that. God knows you ran the risk of being kneecapped – or worse – if you looked crooked at any of them. That photograph of the dead “informer” he’d recently seen in the newspaper, shot through the head and dumped in a ditch, was an example of their ruthlessness. Sometimes they used the “informer” ploy as an excuse to eliminate people who crossed them.

  The last Bram heard, Glacken senior – or “the Enforcer”, as he was known locally – was behind bars for what was euphemistically known as “directing terrorist activities”. So he felt safe enough challenging the daughter, knowing he wasn’t around.

  He rapped on the glass again and finally saw her rouse herself, point the remote control at the screen, toss it aside and leave the room.

  It took a while before she answered and he was becoming impatient. She no doubt knew he was there to confront her and was priming the son. Getting their stories straight. Either that or the journey from armchair to door was proving a struggle.

  Finally the door was pulled open.

  “Whaddya want?” she carped, blinking up at him. “I’m in the middle of Cor’nation Street, so it better be good and you better be quick.”

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important viewing, Miss Glacken, but I have something of the utmost gravity to discuss with you.”

  “Gravee-what?” She studied him, mouth agape, hands behind her back, cigarette smoke spiralling up behind her as if part of her was on fire.

  “May I come in for a few minutes, please? It won’t take long.”

  “Better not take long . . . c’mon in then.”

  She led the way down the hallway, which reeked of chip fat, and into the living-room.

  Ryan the bird-slayer was lying on his belly on the sofa, sucking a lollipop, head stuck in a comic. He didn’t bother to acknowledge the visitor.

  “Ryan, get up the hell-a that and let the man sit down!”

  Ryan didn’t move.

  “Ryan, did you effin’ hear me, did you?”

  Bram winced at the crude language, sensing that this meeting would probably not go too well.

  The boy slid off the sofa and sidled to the door.

  “Perhaps it’s best you stay, Ryan,” Bram said, sitting down gingerly, trying to ignore the stray hairs from the moulting mutt in the corner.

  “Och, whaddya want me for?” he griped.

  “Shut yer bake, son, and come here and sit down when the man tells you. Where’s yer effin’ manners?”

  He hung back in the doorway, sticking the lolly back into his mouth. Pulling faces at the mother.

  “It’s all right, Miss Glacken. Ryan can stand there so long as he listens to what I have to say. It’s about my new tenant, Miss Ruttle.”

  “The nutter, Ma!”

  She glared at him. “Shut your trap an’ let the man have his spake.”

  Bram pressed on.

  “Well, Miss Ruttle says you were both very rude to her . . . shouted at her . . . called her names and made threats.”

  “Aye, and what if we did?”

  She swung her gaze back to the TV set. A male character was shouting at another man behind the bar of the Rover’s Return, fists raised.

  “Aye, knock the shite outta him, Davy!” she bellowed at the set. “He bloody well deserves it—”

  “So you don’t deny it then?”

  “Wha’?”

  “Being rude to Miss Ruttle.”

  “Nah, why should I? Tryin’ tae stop my Ryan playin’ in his own back-yard. Who doz she think she is, Miss High-Mighty-Muck?”

  She sucked on the cigarette and gazed at him dumbly.

  Ryan, still sulking, went over to the dog and started feeding it the rest of the lollipop.

  Bram really didn’t know how he was going to phrase the next question. But, he thought, better just get it out and over with.

  “Ryan, why did you trash Miss Ruttle’s house and put Maud Gilhooley’s jewellery box in her upstairs room?”

  All of a sudden, Beryl exploded with a coughing fit, deep and pulmonary, her face turning puce. She patted her bosom, gasping.

  “I didn’t,” Ryan protested, seeing the mother indisposed. “We saw her goin’ in there.”

  Yes, you would say that, you little ruffian, thought Bram.

  He looked back at the mother.

  “So that’s what’s she tellin’ yeh?” Beryl snapped, recovering herself. “Well, she’s gonna pay for lyin’ about my Ryan. We saw her at Maud’s back-door, me and Ryan did. So she cut the head off that wee burd and stole the jewellery, the psycho.”

  “Yes, but she was shutting the door because Maud’d forgotten to.”

  “Aye, that’s what she’s tellin’ you.”

  Beryl clambered to her feet, stabbing a finger at him. “And you’re a one to believe her side of things. Aye, you think she’s so hoity-toity that butter wouldn’t melt, and we’re just muck, so yeh do—”

  “Look, Miss Glacken, I’m only trying to establish the truth, that’s all. Miss Ruttle said you called her a ‘screwball’ and you threatened her. Something about not having seen the last of you. Now, is that true?”

  “Aye, and what if it is? Whadda you gonna do about it?”

  She stood over him, face ablaze.

  He got up, feeling intimidated. He was dearly regretting his decision, but forged on.

  “Now look here, Miss Glacken, you bullied my last tenant and if you persist in annoying Miss Ruttle I’ll have no choice but to report you to the authorities. You are bad for my business and I simply will not stand for such behaviour. Have you nothing better to do than annoy innocent women trying to live in peace?”

  “So you think she’s innocent, do you? The only feckin’ reason we didn’t tell the peelers is because we hate the bloody RUC. Pack a black Prod bastards. Wouldn’t spit on them if they were on fire, loyalist shites.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette, elbow going like a piston.

  All at once, from above their heads, came a loud creaking noise. It was followed by the thud of a door being banged shut.

  Bram, unnerved, had thought there was just the three of them. He hoped – really hoped – it wasn’t who he thought it was.

  Heavy footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.

  “Ma, there’s Granda!” Ryan cried.

  Bram’s worst fears were confirmed.

  “Da’ll fix you,” Beryl piped triumphantly. “Comin’ over here causin’ bother.”

  The door flew open.

  “What’s goin’ on here?”

  Glacken senior, “the Enforcer”, stood framed in the doorway, sending a pall of umbrage into the room.

  He was an intimidating sight – tall, muscular, with the mean face and hardened
eyes of the career psychopath.

  Bram had never been formally introduced to him and, given his reputation, had no desire to be. Due to his rank within the IRA you crossed him at your peril. His various prison terms for “directing terrorist activities” were at an end, obviously. Either that or he was on the run . . .

  “This Hillitch man’s accusin’ our Ryan of stealin’ from Maud and killin’ her wee burd over there, Da.”

  “Is he now?” the Enforcer growled, eyes laser beams of hatred boring through Bram.

  “Aye, Granda,” Ryan chimed in. “The nutter woman said it was me, just like the other one blamed me for everything too.”

  “Did she now?”

  He’d forced the phrase through clenched teeth, staring at the accuser, feet planted firmly, blocking Bram’s only escape route.

  There was a dangerous pause.

  Ryan went to his mother, taking cover under her wing. Both stared up at the terrorist, alarm in their eyes, wondering what he was going to do with the interloper in their midst.

  Bram could feel his legs going numb.

  The Enforcer remained still as a panther, ready and waiting for his chance to pounce.

  Then he took a step forward – the swiftness of the move making all three of them jump.

  “Comin’ over here till do her durty work for her, are you, Hilditch?”

  He was chewing on a matchstick.

  “Look, I’m only trying to establish the truth,” Bram explained. “That’s all, Mr Glacken.”

  “You pair: make yerselves scarce,” he ordered, eyes steady on Bram. “Leave this boy tae me.”

  “Come on, Ryan,” Bram heard the mother whisper.

  They hightailed it out and shut the door, leaving host and visitor to it.

  Bram could hear his heart thudding in his ears.

  He had not come prepared for this. Wondered how in God’s name he was going to get away unscathed.

  Glacken was standing so close he could smell him – the sweat, the rage, malevolence rising off him like heat off a stove iron.

  His whole appearance conspired to terrorize: shaved head, bull neck, medallion of skull and crossbones. Spider tattoos on each shoulder, their webs radiating over the biceps, trapping a fly at the crease of each elbow.

  He was wearing a tight-fitting vest, black track-suit bottoms and a pair of white trainers.