She was about to yell out when she caught sight of the view through the bars, and a memory unfurled itself, absorbing her into the reality of a dream not long left behind . . .
Sun beating down.
A little girl down there on the beach, casting aside her bucket and spade to join her mother at the water’s edge.
The mother in a daisy-patterned bathing-cap, wading into the waves.
Fear.
Terrible fear.
Rough hands grabbing her.
Screams.
A man dumping her on to a rug.
A woman in long blue clothes.
Good day to you, Sister. Didn’t see you there.
I said: this beach is my back-yard. From my cell window I see everything. You’d do well to . . .
Cell window? She said “from my cell window”.
Was it this window? This cell?
Keys jangling in a lock had Dorrie pivoting sharply to face the door.
She waited, every nerve and sinew pulled taut.
The door was pushed open. A woman entered, dressed in a white uniform. On her head she wore a white coif. She looked like a nun, but could equally have been a nurse.
“Oh, there you are!” the woman said in surprise, looking from the empty bed to where Dorrie stood. “You shouldn’t really be out of bed you know.”
“What is this place? Where am I?”
“I’m Sister Magdalena. You are in our convent. We’re the Daughters of Divine Healing. Mrs Millman thought it best that you rest with us for a little. Until you get back to yourself.”
She spoke quietly but firmly. The kind of voice you couldn’t oppose. All Dorrie’s angst-ridden questions fell away and she allowed herself to be escorted back to the bed.
The nun drew back the covers and helped her lie down. “There. Now, that’s better, isn’t it?”
She tucked her back in and took her pulse, timing it with her fob-watch.
“Are you a nun?”
“Yes.”
“And a nurse?”
“Yes.”
“So . . . this must be a hospital?”
“A sort of hospital, yes. But we cater more to people with addiction problems. Mostly alcohol. People who have lost their way. We help them find their path back to God. All addiction is an avoidance of God. When you separate yourself from Him you suffer. When you unite with Him you are healed.”
“But, I’m . . . I’m not ill. I’m . . . not a . . . not an alcoholic.”
“Let us be the judge of that. You had a fall.” She drew a bunch of keys from her pocket and selected one. “We minister both to the mind and the soul. It’s all God’s work. When suffering comes we yearn for some sign from God, not knowing that the suffering itself is a sign.”
She unlocked the top drawer of the bedside table. Put two pills into a medicine cup and poured a glass of water.
“Now, God has given you a sign. Nothing but good will flow from it. He brought you to us. Be grateful and thank Him. We are here to make you whole again.”
She handed her the pill cup and glass of water.
“B-But what . . . what are they for?”
“They will ease your withdrawal symptoms and help you sleep.”
She stood and waited, watching Dorrie closely.
It was clear that refusing to take the medication was not an option. Dorrie swallowed the pills, took a gulp of water.
“It’s best to drink all of the water.”
“But . . . when can I . . . can I go home?”
The nun did not answer. Instead she crossed to the far wall and slid back a partition to reveal a closet – the patient wondered why she hadn’t noticed it – lifted her clothes from the chair, put them carefully on hangers and hung them up.
Each action was performed with a slow and measured grace. It seemed that Sister Magdalena inhabited a world free from earthly concerns. Her calmness was reassuring. I’m safer here with her, Dorrie reflected, than in Mrs Millman’s “little palace”. She thought of the haughty proprietor with her disparaging looks and polished airs, and trembled a little. She and this humble nun lived on different planes.
With the clothes safely stowed, Sister Magdalena drew the chair up to the bed and sat down. Folded her hands in her lap. They were slim hands, pale and delicate. Her face was long and narrow, the eyelids heavy, the face of some saintly martyr in a church painting. It was difficult to tell her age, even though her brown hair was just visible under the coif.
“When can you go home?” she said, repeating Dorrie’s question back at her. “Well, where do you live?”
“I . . . I . . . live in . . . in . . . ”
“You don’t remember?”
Dorrie, on the verge of tears, shook her head.
“Alcohol does that. But your memory will come back. That is when you’ll be well enough to return home. So it’s important you rest here for a little while and take the medication. In no time you’ll be back to yourself and this episode will be far behind you.”
“My car.” Suddenly Dorrie remembered Mrs Millman’s mechanic. “Is it fixed?”
“Yes. It is fixed and parked in the grounds.”
“When can I drive it?”
“When you are recovered and the alcohol has left your system.”
“Al-co-hol . . . but I . . . I don’t have a problem with—”
“That’s what all alcoholics say. It’s why Mrs Millman had you admitted here. You had consumed a whole bottle of whiskey. There was evidence of it in your room. The medication will aid your recovery.”
Dorrie was about to remonstrate when, in her mind’s eye, she saw a ten-glass bottle of Jameson whiskey lying empty beside a red fox fur on the floor of her Ocean Spray guestroom. The memory brought a flood of humiliation and shame. She could not meet the nun’s eye.
“It’s best to rest now,” Sister Magdalena said, slowly and quietly getting to her feet. She returned the chair to its place by the window with barely a sound.
“Please don’t lock me in!” Dorrie pleaded.
“It’s for your own safety.”
“But I . . . I . . . ”
“Now, now. It’s all right.” She came forward, smiled down at her and laid a hand over hers. “There is nothing to be afraid of here. Just rest and ask God for guidance. I’m praying for your speedy recovery. God is good. Relief will come; have no doubt of that.”
The last thing Dorrie heard was the sound of the door shutting and the jangle of keys locking her in again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“You’ve dislocated your shoulder,” Dr Sweeney said, examining Bram’s swollen arm. “Just as well it’s the left one. You’re right-handed I take it?”
Bram nodded, sweating and feeling faint through the pain.
He was in the GP’s consulting room, having driven there with difficulty after his “fall”.
“But the good news is that the humeral head doesn’t seem to have been put out completely.”
He pressed down hard on the joint and it made a loud cracking noise.
The patient yelled out.
“That’s it! Sounds like it’s back in place again.”
“Is it?” Bram asked, breathless, shoulder throbbing afresh.
“Yes. Worst part over.”
Dr Sweeney helped him back into his shirt and sat down at his desk again.
“You’ll need to wear a sling for a few days until the swelling subsides. And I’ll give you painkillers.” He began writing. “Good that you came as soon as you could, otherwise the muscles would have gone into spasm, making it far more painful to put back in place.”
Bram watched him dumbly: the handsome profile, the film-star looks, oozing such poise and confidence he could have been testing for a screen role.
He finished writing with a flourish and handed over the prescription.
“Painful business. How did it happen?”
“I . . . I erm . . . tripped over a football.” In a way it wasn’t a lie.
�
�Goodness me! Hadn’t you down as a player.”
He didn’t care for Sweeney’s implication – you’re middle-aged and overweight so I can’t see you following a ball about a pitch somehow – but let it pass.
“No, I don’t play,” he said, sighing inwardly at the first of many lies he’d have to parrot to all and sundry over the coming days. “It was in the road and I didn’t see it.”
“Right . . . and your mother . . . how’s she coming along?”
He lounged back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head: the picture of relaxation.
“Very well, thank you, Doctor. She’s taken to Mrs Magee’s ministrations very well, I’m happy to say . . . speaks very highly of her.”
Bram was indeed amazed that Octavia liked Blossom so much. Seemed as if they’d become quite close – so much so, that he found himself surplus to requirements on the days Mrs Magee was around. He’d noticed extra bottles of gin and vermouth appearing on the sideboard, and guessed that the reason his mother was so comfortable with Blossom was that she was using the good lady to run errands to the off-licence. He’d decided to overlook this because, as a welcome consequence, the installation of the home help had given him more freedom to pursue his own affairs.
Sweeney grinned. “Blossom missed her vocation as a nurse. Such a fine lady! Hope she’s taking the necessary exercise, your mother?”
No, she certainly was not, but he could hardly tell Sweeney that.
“Stairs . . . erm . . . they’re a bit of a problem,” he parried. “Says she’s afraid of falling down them. And she refuses to move from her boudoir to the ground floor, alas.”
“Well, you could always install a stairlift. Very important that she gets a good walk in the fresh air every day. We don’t want paralysis to set in.”
“No, doctor. I agree completely. I hadn’t thought of a stairlift, but now that you mention it I’ll certainly look into it.”
At the pharmacy he got the sling and medication, giving J.P. Rooney the same explanation he’d given the doctor, then mounted the stairs to his studio.
He was grateful he had the studio to go to, not wanting to return home to Her Grace immediately and go through the third degree of questioning as to how exactly he’d acquired the injured arm.
He needed to get his story straight.
Safely behind the studio door, he knocked back two of the painkillers and sat down wearily in his swivel-chair. He’d go over the mother’s interrogation, imagining how it might unfold . . .
“Abraham, what on earth have you done to yourself?”
“It’s nothing, Mother. I tripped over a football.”
“A football! Since when did you start playing football of all things?”
“I wasn’t playing. It was lying on the road and I didn’t see it.”
“Weren’t you wearing your glasses?”
“Yes, I was. I just didn’t see it, that’s all.”
“Perhaps you need new ones then?”
“New whats?”
“Why, glasses of course. What road?”
“What do you mean, what road?”
Yes, knowing her, she would pin him down for accuracy concerning the road.
“Thatcher’s Row, if you must know.”
“There are no young boys living there. It’s a row of thatched cottages – hence the name – peopled by geriatrics.”
“Well, they must have had grandchildren visiting, which was unfortunate for me . . . ”
He gave up, exhausted by real and imagined scenarios. What was happening to him? Bad enough that Vivian O’Meara had caused him so much trouble. Now Rita Ruttle seemed to be picking up where she left off.
What would be the end of it? Perhaps he should have stuck with undertaking after all. The dead didn’t demand much.
He thought back to their encounter and Miss Ruttle’s rather unexpected forthrightness. Then the confusion she displayed, her language thrown into disorder. Was that all part of the migraine or did it point to something more serious? He was sorry he’d upset her, but what choice did he have?
He really needed to tell her that he’d sorted things out with the Glackens. Fix it so she wouldn’t go over there again. The sooner he did that the better. He’d give it a couple of hours. Go and visit her again. By that time she’d be up and about – hopefully.
The very thought of what the Enforcer was capable of scared him. What he might do to Miss Ruttle if she wasn’t careful.
She was unaware of the real danger she was in.
His thoughts went back to Vivian O’Meara and the terrible discovery he’d made.
The memory of it made his stomach churn.
The pain in his shoulder started up again. He couldn’t afford to go back to that dark place in his head. Not during the daylight hours. The nightmares were bad enough.
No, he would not wait until Rita Ruttle had woken up. He’d write her a note and put it through the letterbox.
Something told him it was imperative he act now, and fast.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Rita-Mae was awakened in her Willow Close bed by the sound of pecking. The room was in semi-darkness and it took her a while to figure out where she was and where the noises were coming from.
Had she imagined them?
Her head still hurt and she was reluctant to move. Saw that she was still clutching the blue Babygro.
Slowly her memory righted itself and she recalled Bram Hilditch’s visit earlier with the jewellery box and the subsequent migraine attack.
The migraine hadn’t fully lifted though.
The pecking noises had drawn her from sleep too early.
Peck-peck-peck.
There they were again.
Was it a bird?
She raised herself up on her elbows.
Listened hard.
Then: Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
A blizzard of raps, more forceful now, against the window.
No, it definitely wasn’t a bird!
Fearful, she climbed out of bed and peeped through a crack in the curtains.
Couldn’t believe her eyes.
Ryan Glacken was standing inside her back-gate with a bucket – a red bucket. As she watched, he reached into it and drew out a handful of . . .
She ducked down as a hail of pebbles hit the window.
Enraged, she pulled on a robe and raced down the stairs.
Through the kitchen she could see him bent over the bucket again, selecting the right-sized missiles.
Seizing her chance, she slipped out the door, unnoticed, hunkering for cover behind the oil-tank.
More pebbles were fired.
Ryan had no idea she was there.
He bent over the bucket again.
She’d kept her bed-slippers on – for a reason. The reason: to take the little rascal by surprise.
With the furtiveness of a cat she crept past the stone cherub and around behind the garden shed. Now his back was in full view, a couple of feet away.
She sneaked right up behind him.
Poised at the ready, she waited for him to raise his arm.
“Gotcha!” she shouted, pouncing on him, gripping him round the wrist and squeezing hard.
Ryan yelled out. She clamped a hand over his mouth. The pebbles fell.
“Not so funny now, you little hooligan!”
Ryan stared up at her, eyes wild with fright, struggling to break free.
But she was stronger. Much stronger.
She hauled him back up the path.
The ground below her window was littered with pebbles.
“Now, Ryan,” she said very calmly into his right ear. “I’m going to remove my hand and I’m warning you, if you scream, I’ll take you inside and phone the police. I’ll be telling them you were trying to break my windows. And you could go to jail for that. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ryan?”
He nodded, terrified.
“Good boy.”
She removed her hand very slowly, still holdi
ng on to his wrist. The boy was speechless.
“Now, get down on your knees and pick up all of those stones at once. You’ve caused me enough trouble to be going on with, and this has to stop.”
He started to cry, softly.
“Do it now!”
He dropped to his knees immediately.
She fetched the bucket and stood over him, blocking any escape route.
“Now, every last one back in that bucket and you can carry them back to your spiteful mother. And you can tell her from me, if she troubles me again she’ll be very, very sorry. Understand me, Ryan?”
The weeping Ryan nodded, and started picking up the pebbles.
Bram Hilditch decided to walk from town to Willow Close to deliver the note to Miss Ruttle. It would only take twenty minutes and he needed to clear his head. With his arm now in a sling, driving was awkward.
He really hoped his tenant would be over the worst of the migraine and be up and about. Much better that he tell her in person that he’d sorted everything with the Glacken clan, difficult as that might be.
He resented having to be underhand with her. But in the circumstances it was the best thing to do. Rita Ruttle needed to be protected. The less involvement she had with the neighbours-from-hell, the better for everyone.
He strode along the road at a steady pace.
The showers of early morning had ceased. The sky was rinsed out and luminous, making the journey a little more pleasant.
He tried to put his troubles from him, and switched on his photographer’s eye as he proceeded along, questing for those frame-shots you tend to miss while driving. A stream at the edge of the road, which he’d never seen before, drew his attention. Brimful with the recent rain, its gentle gurgling as it sped along was a joy to both eye and ear. And he saw a catch of sheep’s wool on the rails of an iron gate, waving in the breeze. It looked as though an Old Testament prophet had climbed through the bars, unaware that he’d left half his beard behind. A few hundred yards from his destination he spotted a white van powering in his direction. Dan Madden.
Bram prepared himself. First the handyman would ask why he was walking, not driving.
Second, what had happened to the arm?
Presently Madden was drawing up and rolling down the window, engine idling.
The Spinster Wife Page 24
