Bram cleared his throat, tried to stand more erect. He began in a voice he hoped sounded as equable as possible in the circumstances.
“As I was saying to your daughter and grandson, I was only trying to establish the truth. There is no need to think badly of my new tenant. She’s sorry she checked the boy.”
The last was a lie but, in a way, if Miss Ruttle were to know what she was truly dealing with she would indeed be sorry. Bram knew, for both their sakes, it was vital he “contain” the situation and not cross this lunatic.
“She had a headache you see,” he continued, “and Ryan was kicking his ball, making it worse . . . the headache I mean. So naturally she asked if he would mind stopping.”
As an afterthought he added. “Asked him . . . erm . . . asked him as politely as possible of course.”
The Enforcer said not a word. He listened intently, like a therapist, head tilted to one side, chewing leisurely on the matchstick.
Bram blinked, pushed his spectacles up on his nose.
Waited.
The silence was killing. He was forced to say more.
“That’s . . . that’s really all there is to it, Mr Glacken. Just a . . . just a simple misunderstanding. That’s all.”
Suddenly the Enforcer thrust his head forward, arms akimbo, and spat full in Bram’s face, matchstick and all.
Bram stumbled, outraged. Fumbled for a handkerchief.
“How dare you behave in that way towards me! How dare you? I’m calling the police immediately. You’ll be facing an assault charge, Mister Glacken.”
He had the statement out before realizing what he’d done.
That word “police” was the spark that lit the touch-paper, sending a fist shooting out, hitting him square in the chest.
He fell back on the sofa, gasping.
Glacken stood over him, watching.
He tried to get up, but a boot was pressed down hard on his belly.
He was pinned in place.
“Get off me!” he shouted, trying to move the leg. But the monster’s foothold was as firm as granite.
He leaned over his victim, causing him even more pain.
“Now . . . you . . . listen . . . tae me,” he said, enunciating the words slowly and deliberately. “My grandson had bother with the other crazy bitch you rented that house tae before, and look what happened tae her. You seem to have a thing for crazy bitches. Understand where I’m comin’ from, do yeh?”
Bram nodded, speechless.
The foot was pressed down harder.
“Aarrgh!”
Glacken eased off a little.
“What was that? Didn’t hear you right?”
“Y-Y-Y-yes . . . I . . . I under . . . understand . . . yes. Please . . . please let me go. I won’t . . . won’t say another . . . another word about it . . . and I won’t tell the police.”
“That’s more like it. Yer larnin’, son. You go near the RUC and my boys’ll have you trussed up in a ditch before you can say, ‘Mammy, where’s my knickers?’ So, I’m warnin’ you, if I hear so much as a cheep out of that nutter Ruttle over there, I’ll not be responsible for my actions. You tell her that from me.”
He released the foot, stood back and hauled Bram up by the ears, so that he was at eye-level.
The pain was excruciating. Bram yelled long and loud. He tried to wriggle free, but Glacken caught him in an arm-lock.
“Wanna run cryin’ tae Mammy, do you? Or maybe that oul’ spinster Ruttle over there . . . shoulder tae cry on, eh? Maybe you’d get more sympathy from her, seein’ as the pair of yiz are as odd as two left feet.”
“I . . . I won’t s-say anything. I . . . I promise. Please . . . just let me go!”
Glacken released his hold on the arm. Took him by the scruff of the neck and frogmarched him to the back-door.
“Now stay the fuck away from this house!” he roared, pitching him out across the yard and slamming the door.
Bram stumbled in the yard, tripped over a bucket and went headlong, glasses flying off. Lay a minute trying to get his breath back, seeing only the blurry outline of a red bucket and a football: the ball that had caused all the trouble and brought him to this sorry state of affairs.
He was half-blind without the glasses and groped about on his hands and knees in desperation.
The back-door opened again.
He halted, petrified.
The psychopath was back.
He tried to get away, but . . .
“There’s yer specs, Mister,” Ryan said, smirking, down at him.
He handed them to him and without another word disappeared back inside. Bram struggled to his feet, his whole body aching. He put on the glasses, grateful to see the world spring back into focus.
He lurched to his car, which was parked on the other side of the lane, reeling from the shock. His clothes were a mess and his arm hurt badly. Maybe it was broken, or damaged irreparably. He’d just suffered a serious assault at the hands of a maniac and there was nothing he could do about it, except go to the doctor and pretend he’d had an accident.
The cruel injustice of it nearly made him weep.
He glanced briefly at Miss Ruttle’s bedroom window.
The curtains were drawn, as he’d been hoping. She was still lying down then. At least she wouldn’t have to witness his distress and have him suffer even more embarrassment.
He was thankful for small mercies and asked himself how long it would take for her to sleep off the migraine.
He eased himself behind the wheel. Wondered how he was going to drive with one hand. But it was the left arm that was damaged and the Daimler was an automatic. So, all in all, he’d manage.
As he manoeuvred the car off the grass verge, he glanced into the Glacken yard.
Mother and son were standing by the fence.
He pretended not to notice the series of rude gestures being enacted by the pair for his benefit as he drove off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rita-Mae was glad Bram Hilditch had left Willow Close. That Ryan’s mother had made the boy plant the jewellery box in that room, to frame her as the perpetrator of such awful deeds carried out against poor Mrs Gilhooley, was beyond belief.
In such circumstances she’d had no choice but to tell the landlord about her run-in with the pair of them. She peeped through the curtains. Saw that his car was gone. God knows what lies the bold Beryl had told him!
She sat down on the bed in the darkened room, staring at the Babygros that were spread out on the counterpane. I must have forgotten to put them away, she thought. That’s not like me.
But then, given the upheavals so suddenly visited upon her, it was always possible. She could hardly blame the Glacken boy for that. She kept the little garments locked in a case. Wore the key on a chain round her neck at all times.
She picked up the blue one. Blue for a boy.
Had the baby survived, and had it been a boy, he’d only be a couple of years older than Ryan now. Would he have turned out as badly? Given his father’s volatile nature there was every possibility – any son of Harry Ruttle’s would have the odds stacked against him. Yet she was confident that her love for the child – the child she’d wanted so very much – would have conquered all.
She lay down on the bed, holding the Babygro to her heart, grieving for the lost boy, remembering all the suffering she’d endured so that Harry could have his way. Even going so far as having her committed to a mental institution.
A mental institution! It was an experience she would never forget, a memory that haunted her still.
She shut her eyes tight against the steadily worsening migraine, but was powerless to block out the scenes from that awful time replaying in her head . . .
“Mrs Ruttle . . . Rita . . . wake up!”
She opened her eyes to see a young woman – a girl – in a blue tunic standing over her.
She felt she’d been asleep for ever. Waking now from some kind of medieval curse, brought back to life by the voic
e and touch of this . . . this girl with the wide eyes and blonde hair tied up in a topknot.
She couldn’t figure out where she was. There was a bright light above her, and beyond the closed door she could hear the smack of heels. Some heavy and striding – men’s heels; some lighter, quicker – women’s heels, pacing and rushing back and forth.
Busy, busy people moving quickly, but she was going nowhere. Through a fog of unknowing she knew that with certainty.
“Mrs Ruttle,” the girl said again. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”
Where was she? Who was she – the girl in blue? A drift of questions, banking up in her tired brain, but no answers.
She’d have to search for the answers herself.
Maybe . . . maybe it’s all a bad dream, she decided. Yes, maybe I’m dreaming.
“Rita . . . Mrs Ruttle, wakey-wakey, it’s nearly visiting time,” the girl said cheerily. “Your husband will be coming.”
The word “husband” gave her a jolt.
She didn’t understand.
What, she thought, suddenly realizing she was not in bed, but sitting in a wheelchair.
“You’re in hospital, Rita. Don’t you remember? You had a wee bit of a breakdown, that’s all.”
The word “breakdown” gave her another jolt. She shook her head wildly, saliva all dried up, lips clamped together, as though someone had sewn them shut.
“Now, it’s all right,” the girl said again, pouring a glass of water. “You fell and hit your head and you’re resting here for a while till you get your strength back.”
She couldn’t hold the glass. Her hands were trembling so much the girl had to help her.
“Now, that’s better, isn’t it, Mrs Ruttle?”
Something didn’t add up. Why was she in a wheelchair? Afraid now. Really afraid.
Were her legs broken?
She needed to ask the question, but the words wouldn’t come. They were all jumbled up in her mind, as though someone had dumped a whole bucket of them in there and left them scattered everywhere, for her to seek out and arrange in order.
Now she needed to ask the question: Are my legs broken?
She knew the words. In her head, got down on her knees to find them. Put them in the right order. But they wouldn’t line up the way she wanted them to.
My broken are legs
Are legs my broken
Legs my broken are
She gave up, exhausted. It was such a labour and she was so very, very tired. She looked at the words lying there – the useless words – and wept.
“It’s all right, Mrs Ruttle . . . Rita,” the girl said, turning the wheelchair round to the window. “Look at that lovely view. Such a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
The sky was dimming. The sun bronzing the trees, casting bogeymen shadows over the lawn. A man in a dressing-gown was wandering aimlessly among the flowerbeds, throwing his head back, arms jerking wildly up and down.
“There’s Jimmy conducting his orchestra again . . . you remember Jimmy from yesterday, don’t you? He wheeled you round the garden.”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out who Jimmy was. Couldn’t figure anything out.
She shook her head again, speechless, helpless.
The girl continued to gaze out of the window.
“Oh, Jimmy’s been here for ever,” she said. “Part of the furniture now, poor thing. They’ve all deserted him . . . his family.”
She looked down at her in the chair.
“But you won’t be abandoned like him, Rita. You’re one of the lucky ones. Your husband looks in on you every day. Maybe you can sit outside instead of the day-room when Harry – I mean Mr Ruttle – comes?”
Harry!
There was that name again. Why did it frighten her? The sound of that name in the mouth of this innocent was like an obscenity.
Her stomach lurched. She began to feel sick.
“Oh, God, I shouldn’t have said his name,” the girl upbraided herself, thrusting a dish under the patient’s chin in the nick of time.
“It’s the medication that does that,” Rita-Mae heard her say. “But all in a good cause. You have to get worse before you get better.”
The dish was borne away.
Through the window she saw the conductor in the dressing-gown fall to his knees and draw his hands together. Heard his frenzied applause, before the girl drew the curtains and turned the wheelchair round.
A damp cloth found her mouth and wiped around it swiftly. The feel of the moisture was a relief on her cracked lips: the lips that had forgotten how to speak, to smile, to laugh, to shout, to sing, to scream – most especially scream.
The things she longed to do, but could not, locked as she was in this limbo. This hell.
The girl in blue was Betty and she was a carer and this was an institution for the mentally ill.
“That’s you all cleaned up,” Betty was saying.
She watched her dumbly as she opened a vanity-case and drew out a make-up bag.
“Now, let’s get you all nice for your husband. You’ve got a lovely face you know. He’s very lucky to have you.”
“But, I . . . ”
“What, love?”
“I . . . I don’t wear . . . ” she said, finally finding her voice, “. . . wear make-up.”
“I know, but you should.”
A powder-puff was patted round her nose and cheeks.
“And you’re very lucky to have him. So handsome, Rita, your husband . . . everyone says so.”
Rita-Mae just let her do her bit. No point in protesting. Offering up her face to be made nice. Unable to stop her. Whatever they injected into her, night and morning, made her numb and pliable, just the way Harry had made her, except now she couldn’t defend herself. She couldn’t fight back or run away. She was trapped in a wheelchair. And her legs weren’t broken. They were simply too weak to carry her. She didn’t have the strength to put one foot in front of the other.
Harry had her right where he wanted her – in an asylum amongst the living dead. The mad wife who’d tried to kill him.
Put long enough away so he could conduct his affair with Tricia.
Face all done, Betty wheeled her out the door.
“My sister,” Rita-Mae said suddenly, remembering.
“Your sister?” Betty said in surprise.
“I was . . . dreaming . . . dreaming about her.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister, Rita. That’s nice.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Portaluce, Antrim Coast
Dorrie found herself in a white room.
In a white room, in an iron bed, tucked in tightly on all sides by a white bed-cover stretched firmly across her chest.
Too afraid to sit up, she cast her eyes downward. Saw that she was wearing a regulation gown with the number F-32 embroidered on the breast-pocket.
Where was she?
Tentatively, she raised her head and peered about.
Directly in front of her was a door with an inset of glass high up.
Above the door hung a crucifix.
On the wall to the left: a narrow window filled up with sky, fog-laden and bleak, a seam of ocean as grey as granite at its base.
Nearby was a wooden chair. And, laid over it, her clothes.
Aside from the bed and the chair there was no other furniture in the room, save for a bedside table with a decanter of water and a tumbler.
It was a spartan and functional space.
Was it a cell?
Was it a ward?
Was she in prison or in hospital?
She tried to think, but her recall was as hazy as the view through the window.
Sounds. Somewhere in the heart of the building a door opened, and shut again.
Her head ached. Her right arm hurt.
Carefully she freed it from under the bed-covers. There was a sticking-plaster on her inner elbow. She ran her fingers lightly over her forehead, felt a lump above her right
eye.
Strange!
I need a mirror, she thought. But there was no mirror in the room.
Handbag? In her handbag was her compact mirror. In her handbag was her money. Where was her handbag? Thoughts came back to her, frantic thoughts tripping like dominoes, one on top of the other.
She pushed herself upright, wildly scoping the room.
The bedside table?
She leaned across and wrenched the door open. Sighed with relief.
There was her handbag, tucked safely inside.
She found the compact and checked her forehead. Saw that a large bruise was developing above her right eye. When she pressed on it, it hurt.
How had she come by that?
She tried to think. Then she remembered: Mrs Millman.
Oh God, I collapsed in front of her! She saw a fur coat lying outspread on the floor. The appalled expression on the proprietor’s face. Heard the words, “Maureen, come quickly . . . ”
I collapsed in front of her, hit my head and she got me into hospital.
It’s all right, Dorrie. You’re safe now.
“Mama!”
She called out the word, heard it resound faintly off the walls.
“Yes, Mama, I’m safe now. Everything’s fine.” She murmured the words to reassure herself. “But where am I?”
She felt like the only person alive in the whole world. The lazy washing of the waves and the sighing of the wind were making her feel melancholy and desperately sad.
Maybe if she looked through the door-pane she might recall where she was.
She threw back the covers, stumbled to the door and tried the handle.
It was locked.
“Hello . . . is anyone there?”
She stood on tiptoe and peered through the glass. Found herself staring at a similar door on the opposite side. From her limited vantage point she could make out a long corridor of such doors. Leading into rooms just like this one, she guessed. There was no sign of life. No nurses. No doctors.
This is not a hospital, she thought. A hospital does not lock patients in. Not unless . . . not unless it’s a . . . a . . . an asylum.
She rushed over to the window. There were bars on it.
Frantically she undid the catch, but the sturdy grill allowed the window to open just a crack. There’d be no escaping this place.
The Spinster Wife Page 23
