The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  She staggered out of the cubicle, gasping for air, the weight of his threat ringing in her ears.

  If you hang up on me, like you did the last time, you might . . . well, just let’s say you might end up regretting it.

  What had she done?

  What would she do now?

  What would he do now?

  Oh dear God, he could be outside the Centre, waiting!

  Brrring brrring . . . Brrring brrring . . .

  The phone was ringing again. She knew it was him again. Just knew it in her bones.

  She needed to leave the Centre, and fast. Never mind that she had an hour of duty still to do.

  Switch the phone over to Belfast, she told herself. If volunteers felt unwell they were free to do that. And she was unwell.

  Her hands were trembling as she went through the process, dialling the relevant numbers so the operator could make the connection.

  Task completed, she found a pill and gulped it down, to stave off another attack.

  There was no time to waste.

  She switched off the lights.

  Quietly turned the doorknob and peered outside. Two lonely streetlights showed that hers was the only car. There was no one around.

  She slammed the door and made a dash for the vehicle.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Next morning she arose to a catastrophe.

  The butterfly case smashed to pieces on the landing. Wings rent asunder and crushed into the mounting board.

  Shards of glass scattered everywhere.

  He’d been in while she slept.

  The case was too high up on the wall for the boy to reach.

  He knew everything about her – Lenny, the TM caller. Lenny the stalker. Had been tracking her every move from the minute she arrived in Willow Close.

  Why?

  She lurched to the bathroom and threw up.

  He’d been in while she slept behind the bolted door of her bedroom. He’d invaded her space and she hadn’t heard a thing.

  She splashed cold water on her face. Wept at her reflection in the glass. The eyes of a haunted woman, glassy and vacant, stared back at her. A woman on the run, too exhausted to run any more, the finishing line too far in the distance now. Too, too far.

  The little house, no longer safe.

  “Why’s this happening to me? Oh, dear God, why’s it happening?”

  She stood at the sink, gripping the basin; pins and needles prickling her arms, tears blinding her, thoughts spinning frantically like a conjurer’s plates on sticks.

  She’d fled Larne only to have her life contaminated by another monster, the like of Harry.

  Her life had patterns that kept repeating. Now there was only one way left to put an end to the mayhem for good.

  The sleeping pills in the cabinet were only a hand-stretch away.

  Vivian-B had prayed and starved herself in order to cope. Emulating the behaviour of an ancient saint to escape her sorry life. Making herself suffer, as victims always do.

  Had he killed her? In the box-room; had he killed her? Or had she simply retreated in there and faded away? The foul smell: the only sad reminder that she’d ever existed, along with the concealed letter in the butterfly case and a few scant notes in the Samaritan file.

  An overdose? Yes, the easiest way. Just go to sleep and never wake up. How many times in her life had she come close? Perhaps it was finally time. She wept bitterly, feeling such a failure – such a fraud. How many times had she pulled people back from the brink of death, down the Samaritan helpline, only now to succumb herself?

  She went downstairs. Saw there was post – a small white envelope was lying on the mat.

  She picked it up. No stamp. No address.

  No, it was not post. The envelope was similar to the one Vivian-Bernadette had received containing the photographs.

  It was from him.

  She carried it through to the lounge, not really caring any more. Sat down at the table by the window and boldly tore it open.

  It contained three photographs. Candid shots, with her as the subject, as she’d been expecting.

  The first showed her washing dishes in the kitchen sink.

  The second had caught her emerging from her car at the rear of the house.

  The third showed her hanging washing on the line.

  Rat-a-tat-tat . . . rat-a-tat-tat.

  “Rita, are you in?”

  Bram Hilditch’s voice, urgent, through the letterbox.

  Her immediate impulse was to hide. Not answer it. His precious butterfly case lay in pieces. How would she explain that?

  But she’d be gone tonight, so what did it matter? And she was not guilty of the offence.

  She got up and admitted him.

  “Thank God I’ve finally got you in, Rita!” He snatched off his hat and clamped it to his chest.

  “Oh . . . I wasn’t going anywhere, Mr Hilditch.”

  Her voice was calm. She was amazed at her own composure. Strange when you make up your mind about suicide, the clarity it bestows. Fear gone. She revelled in the rare feeling. Stood before him, dauntless.

  “We need to get you away from here, Rita. Today, if possible.”

  He spotted the snapshots displayed on the table.

  “What are . . . what are these?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Good God, what are you saying?”

  “You’re a photographer after all. I naturally assumed that you—”

  “You’re being ridiculous . . . absolutely ridiculous.”

  She pulled out the drawer, drew out Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara’s letter and spread the contents before him.

  “Well, I had my suspicions when I found these. Your former tenant got the same.”

  He sat down, staring at the photos – Vivian in the box-room, combing her hair, Vivian at the line, hanging out washing, Vivian with her bag of groceries, carrying them into the house – staring at them, hand clamped to his forehead.

  “Where . . . where did you find these? I cleaned this house thoroughly.”

  “Hidden behind your butterfly case.”

  She saw his struggle. “What!”

  “Yes, that’s another calamity you have to see. Come.”

  He followed her up the stairs. Halted halfway, realizing what she meant.

  “Did you—”

  “No, I did not. I got up this morning to find it smashed.”

  “But who . . . who . . . ?”

  “The man who’s been following me from the moment I set foot in this place. The stalker . . . calls himself Lenny.”

  “What?!”

  “Yes, Lenny’s been making my life hell since I moved here. I thought it was you at first. Then I thought it was Madden. But now I believe he lives over there in that house with the horrid Glacken woman and her son . . . in the attic. Did you know he was there all along?”

  Bram shook his head. “I . . . I don’t understand. H-How do you know his name?”

  She had to be careful. Could not divulge her Samaritan work to anyone for reasons of confidentiality.

  “He rings me . . . threatens me.”

  “You mean . . . you mean he rings here?”

  “Yes, and last night while I was sleeping he went one step further . . . came in here and did this.”

  “Good God! Didn’t you hear him?”

  She shook her head. “No, I was asleep. I sleep very soundly when I . . . ”

  “When you . . . ?”

  “When I have to take medication for the migraine, the epilepsy, the insomnia, the stress . . . my many ills.”

  They were still on the stairs. She at the top, hands spread, looking down upon him. He, the supplicant, gazing up at her, beseeching. Both striking poses like something from a religious tableau.

  “Rita, you’re under a lot of stress.” He was looking at her gravely. “You need to leave this house right away.”

  “And go where exactly?”

  “The seaside . . . Portaluce. Now’s the
time. The guesthouse I mentioned: the Ocean Spray. I know the lady who runs it. You can stay there for a few days.”

  “I can’t afford to stay there . . . besides which, I’m not afraid of this Lenny character any more. He can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. He’ll not drive me out.”

  She thought of the sleeping pills in the cabinet. When the landlord left she’d clear up her things. Ring Grace Thorne. Go to bed and never wake up.

  “Glacken is a very dangerous individual. And don’t worry about that. The money I mean.”

  “I don’t want your charity!”

  “Please, Rita . . . you’re in a dangerous situation. Lenny Glacken is a high-up in the IRA. He’s in and out of prison regularly, but when he’s out he lives with his daughter over there. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t let me in or answer the phone.”

  Mention of the IRA gave her a jolt. Now she understood the danger.

  “And you don’t have to accept my charity. You paid me in advance, remember? April’s rent will cover the costs of the Ocean Spray more than adequately.”

  She looked down at his pleading face and knew he was making a lot of sense. Bram Hilditch was a sincere man. She could see that now. He cared enough about her to want to protect her.

  “If you pack some things I’ll drive you there now. It’s the safest thing to do, Rita. You’re too good a person to be left at the mercy of that maniac. I simply won’t allow that to happen. It’s imperative I take you somewhere safe.”

  She saw him adjust his glasses. “I . . . I care about what happens to you, Rita. Truly I do. And I’m so very sorry that these awful things have happened while you’ve been living here, in my hometown. You deserve better.”

  Had she heard him right? He said he cared about her. No one had ever said that to her in her whole sorry life. Not that she could recall. And he meant it too. He stood there on the stair, gazing up at her and she knew he meant it. His words kindling a tiny flame of hope, wavering bravely there in all the darkness.

  She felt tears well up.

  “You . . . you care . . . care about me?” she asked, amazed.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because . . . because, you’re a very fine person and . . . and you deserve better . . . much better.”

  He was throwing her a lifeline. Maybe this was indeed the chance she deserved.

  “Thank you, Bram,” she said turning away so he wouldn’t see her tears. “I’ll . . . I’ll just get my things.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Mid-afternoon and Gladys Millman, glamorous proprietor of the Ocean Spray, was relaxing in her drawing-room after a hectic lunch-hour with a rewarding Brandy Alexander and an Elegant Interiors magazine.

  She was considering the merits of Laura Ashley’s designer collection and checking the cost of some rather splendid curtain fabric in Aviary Garden Apple when she heard a car drawing up.

  “Now, who could that be?” she muttered, not a little piqued that her “me time” was being interrupted.

  Reluctant to move from her comfortable sofa, she lifted a tiny bell from the drinks table and rang it vigorously.

  Seconds later, the door opened and Maureen – resident maid, waitress, cleaner and general dogsbody – appeared in the room like a well-trained puppy.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Maureen, dear, I believe we have visitors. I have no memory of booking anyone in. Did you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then kindly tell whoever it is” – she checked her watch – “that luncheon is over. Dinner’s at five and we have no rooms left.”

  “But there are rooms—”

  “That is so, but they are singles and if my eyesight is not deceiving me I see a couple arriving.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maureen said, curtseying and withdrawing quietly to leave the boss in peace.

  Gladys sighed and took another fortifying sip of her cocktail, happy that she’d seen off the tiresome intrusion. She returned to the Laura Ashley spread.

  She was getting tired of the oceanic theme in the dining-room and was considering something more daring for summer. A page showing samples of wallpaper caught her eye. “Summer Palace Cranberry,” she murmured to herself, trying to ignore the mumble of conversation emanating from reception. She really hoped Maureen would be able to deal with the pair without interrupting her again.

  “Mmmm . . . ‘with bursts of garnet and rose, and hints of millwood truffle’. Now that looks just perfect—”

  A soft rapping on the door.

  “Spare me,” she muttered testily, removing her spectacles. “Yes, Maureen. What is it now?”

  The girl entered, looking flustered, closing the door behind her.

  “I really thought I could leave you to deal with matters on your own, Maureen. Is it too much to ask?”

  “Sorry . . . sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but . . . but the gentleman says it’s only for the lady . . . a single room. He won’t be staying and . . . ”

  “I see, and . . . ”

  Maureen looked warily at the closed door.

  Gladys, sensing something was wrong, cast aside the magazine and beckoned her forward.

  “Yes, what is it?” she asked, cautiously.

  “Well, the lady,” Maureen said in a low voice, “the lady with the man looks very like the one that was here in January, Miss Gladys . . . the one that got drunk and you sent over to the drying-out convent.”

  “What?” Gladys glared at her in disbelief and rose. “But are you . . . are you sure?”

  “It looks like her, b-but she’s a lot thinner . . . s-so maybe it’s not her.”

  “That’s all right, Maureen dear. I’ll deal with this. The cheek of her thinking she can simply walk in here after the bother she caused us last time! Tell them I’ll see to them presently and then go back to your duties in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maureen made her exit.

  Mrs Gladys Millman threw back the remains of her cocktail, reapplied her lipstick, smoothed down her Jaeger two-piece of tawny-pecan tweed, and sashayed forth to commence battle with the enemy in the lobby.

  “Mrs Millman . . . Gladys, how lovely to see you again!”

  Gladys halted mid-stride, disconcerted by the sight of Bram Hilditch, elegantly attired as usual in a chalk-stripe three-piece and trilby. He was clutching a pink travel case, which looked comical and much at odds with the sober suit.

  What on earth, she thought, is he doing here, and in the company of this reprobate? His mother, Octavia, always grandly attired, with her posh accent and upper-crust ways – one of her more “select” customers – stayed a fortnight every summer and, even though she was competition for Gladys, could be forgiven. The Ocean Spray needed more guests of the Mrs Hilditch calibre at that time of year, inundated as it usually was by flocks of tedious farmers and their lumpen, dumpy wives, taking the sea air on the annual Twelfth of July holiday.

  But it was only the beginning of April, and Abraham was not with his mother but this troublesome person. How very distressing! She wondered if Octavia was aware of the unsuitable liaison and made a mental note to ring her at the earliest opportunity.

  “Why, Abraham!” she exclaimed, switching on the charm and trying to ignore the mousy miscreant standing behind him. “I didn’t expect to see you here this time of year. I trust Octavia is keeping well?”

  Bram came forward and they air-kissed briefly.

  “She’s very well, thank you, Gladys. And do call me Bram.”

  “Bram it is. My word, what happened your arm?”

  She wasn’t at all interested in his confounded arm, but was buying time, trying to decide how to respond to Miss Dorinda Walsh, whose introduction was imminent. She noted that the offender had turned away from them and was gazing wistfully through the window at the spectacular ocean view, as if butter wouldn’t melt . . .

  How dare she?

  Images of the precious f
ox fur she’d lent her were threatening to blind Gladys in a red mist of fury. It had taken five specialist dry-cleanings and a hefty bill to eradicate the stains and reek of booze left by Miss Walsh’s drinking spree.

  She observed her now, standing in profile by the window. Thinner, definitely, as Maureen had said, and the posture seemed more erect than what Gladys recalled. But wasn’t this person even a little embarrassed to be here again? The sheer impertinence!

  “Oh, it’s nothing, just a fall,” Bram was saying. “I’ll be taking off this blessed sling tomorrow, I’m glad to say. May I introduce my friend, Miss Ruttle?”

  Ruttle? Oh, so that’s what she’s calling herself now, is it?

  “She’s one of my new tenants,” Bram continued. “But unfortunately some urgent repairs need doing at her house, so I thought it best she book in with you for a few days.”

  No doubt she trashed your house in a drunken stupor like she did my guest-room!

  But Gladys was a walking, breathing masterclass in fake sentiment and faux asides. In the hospitality trade you had to be.

  “I see,” she said, smiling broadly. “Miss Ruttle . . . How do you do?”

  “I . . . I’m well, thank you . . . er . . . Mrs . . . ?”

  “Millman.”

  Seen full on, the ghostly face was disconcerting. Gladys eyed her keenly, alert for signs that “Miss Ruttle” might remember her, but there wasn’t the slightest flicker of recognition in the large, doe-like eyes.

  She was either a very good actress or she had a doppelgänger.

  “Sorry, yes . . . Mrs Millman.”

  She was minded to add “Don’t you remember me?” but at that precise moment a family – husband, wife and two kids – returned from an outing and headed through to the lounge bar. She decided for appearance’s sake not to make a scene. Besides, it was a relief to hear that this so-called Miss Ruttle was a mere tenant of Abraham’s and not his consort.

  Gladys slipped beautifully into the busy proprietor mode and went behind the reception desk to check the register.

  “A week should be enough,” Bram said. “If that’s all right, Gladys, and you have the space?”

  Well, it isn’t all right actually. How on earth am I going to keep tabs on this one for a whole week? Her couple of days in January caused havoc enough.