Find a nice place to sit and have a drink, Dorrie dear . . . Go with the flow . . . just go with the flow.
Dorrie stopped abruptly.
“Mama, oh dear Mama, you came back!”
Of course I’m back, Dorrie dear. I never left you, my sweetheart. Uncle Jack thought he’d got rid of me, but it takes a lot to get rid of me, darling. Now settle down and have that drink.
“Yes, Mama. I know, Mama,” Dorrie trilled, happier now than ever. “I know. You always come when I need you, Mama. Always.”
She picked her way down a rocky incline and went a short distance along the beach, her shoes squishing over the sand, eyes alert for the perfect place.
Not so far ahead she saw a flat rock jutting out between two bigger ones, and made towards it.
In his car outside 8 Willow Close, Bram cut the engine, wiped his tears and gazed up at the box-room window. Ryan Glacken hadn’t trashed the house that time, nor had his stalker grandfather broken in and smashed the butterfly case. A little girl called Ciara had done all the damage. He knew the truth now but still found it all so very hard to take in.
Best make a move.
He dried his eyes. Time was going on. He got out of the car.
He’d stopped by Willow Close to check on things. Just to make sure that all was well.
On Portaluce beach, Dorrie put aside the half-empty bottle of whiskey and hugged her knees in the increasing cold.
“Mama, I want to see you again like last time. Please, Mama,” she implored.
The alcohol was warming, releasing her from all the bad thoughts of the past. The loosening, the drifting away: away from the voices of rebuke, the faces of hate gathering in her head like the blackest crows, lifting her up and up into the heavens, where Mama – beautiful Mama – dwelt.
She leaned back on the rocks and began singing the song her mama loved so much.
I’m a single girl trying to live the single life,
I’m a single girl who’s got no wish to be somebody’s wife,
Not unless I meet the right kind of man,
Who’ll give me all the love that he can.
After a quick look round Willow Close, Bram made his exit and got back in his car. He was about to move off when he saw a police car pulling in behind him.
Two officers inside.
The one in the passenger seat got out.
Fearing the worst, and remembering Grace Thorne’s parting words, Bram cut his engine and stepped out. He recognized Constable Barry.
“Mr Hilditch,” Barry said, casting a glance at number 8. “Would your tenant, Miss . . . er . . . Mrs Ruttle be at home?”
“No, I’m afraid not, Constable.”
“D’you know where we can reach her?”
“Well, that’s a bit problematic. She’s recovering from an illness, you see . . . went to Portaluce for a few days. I’m on my way there now. Can I . . . can I take her a message perhaps?”
Barry removed his hat and hesitated.
“It’s to do with her husband,” he said grimly.
“Oh?”
“Bad news . . . very bad news I’m afraid.”
“I . . . I’m sorry to hear that,” Bram said uneasily, all kinds of thoughts racing through his head. “Maybe I’m the best one to tell her, Constable Barry, in that case. Is he ill?”
“He . . . he lost his life yesterday morning, I’m sorry to say.”
Had he heard the man aright? Rita’s torturer: dead. “Y-You mean . . . you mean he’s . . . I mean, Harry Ruttle’s dead?”
Barry nodded. “Afraid so. Fell to his death from the thirteenth floor of a tower block he was working on in Croydon. The scaffolding gave way under him.”
“That’s too bad,” Bram managed to say, barely able to contain his relief at the news.
“Well, thanks for offering to tell her, Mr Hilditch.”
The constable put his cap back on and adjusted the peak. He made to leave. Hesitated.
“If it’s any consolation, you can assure her . . . Mrs Ruttle, I mean, that it was . . . that it was quick . . . his death I mean. He wouldn’t have felt any pain. Th-That’ll be some consolation I suppose.”
“Yes,” Bram said. “I suppose it will be.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
On the final leg of his journey back to Portaluce Bram drove with a lighter heart. In spite of everything, he did have a surprise for Rita after all. With Harry Ruttle gone she no longer had to run.
The monster was dead.
She was free.
He, Bram, would not walk away from her. He knew it with the utmost certainty. Destiny may choose who you get to meet in this life, but only your heart gets to decide who will stay. Rejection had been the theme of Rita’s story from the beginning. That rejection would end with him.
He’d be there for her, no matter what it took.
On the rocks at Portaluce beach Dorrie Walsh sat gazing out at the ocean, entranced by a most beautiful display. Bands of light were playing out from the sun, which was setting behind a headland in the west. By their beams she could see her mama out there on the glittering waters, her pale arms plying the frothy breakers, perfect and true.
Not a memory. Not a dream. She was real. To Dorrie she was real.
There was no Uncle Jack. No sign of his car. No threat of his shadow anywhere.
Mama had returned, as Dorrie always knew she would, not in the Fatima-blue coat and white mantilla of her dream, but in the red swimsuit and beautiful flowery bathing-cap she’d seen her wearing all those years before. Lovely Mama was alive. She’d come to take her home.
“Mama!” she called out. “Mama, I’m here! I’m here!”
Bram, approaching the outskirts of Portaluce, thought back to that day in February, not so very long ago, when he’d picked up the phone and heard Rita’s voice for the first time, enquiring after 8 Willow Close.
How innocent he’d been then of her reasons for wanting to move so far away from Larne! How innocent of the courage she’d needed to make that call. To finally make the break from the husband, risking her life to start over again.
Now the tyrant was finally gone.
The joy he felt on learning of Harry’s demise was indecent he knew. But sometimes, whether for good or ill – and in this instance most definitely for good – bad people must die so that others can live, and live fully. Now, hopefully, with his help, Rita could do just that. They had a long road ahead of them, but together they’d make it.
Fate had handed her a second chance, and handed Bram a duty he would not shirk.
He got out of the car and hurried up the steps of the Ocean Spray, casting aside the dark picture Dr Ruane had painted of Dorinda and Rita. He’d wonderful news for Rita; her abuser was no more. That would be enough for now.
Gladys Millman, at the reception desk, was deep in conversation with a handsome young man holding a briefcase.
“Bram, there you are at last,” she said. “Everything all right I hope?”
“Never better, Gladys.” He moved towards the stairs, not wanting to be delayed. “Is Miss Ruttle in her room?”
“This is Victor Steenson by the way,” said Gladys with a smile. “He’s the current rep for Moët and Chandon, don’t you know . . . the champagne people. Abraham Hilditch, a friend all the way from Killoran, Victor.”
They exchanged greetings, the salesman raising a salutary hand. Bram didn’t move from the stairs, annoyed with Gladys, finding her need to be in control rather irritating, especially now, when she could surely see he was anxious to get on.
“Good day to you, Mr Steenson,” he said, turning back to the stairs. “You’ll really have to excuse me I’m afraid.”
“In answer to your question, Bram, Miss Ruttle could very well be in her room. I don’t think she goes out much at all.”
“Not so surprising, given that your rooms are so elegant, Mrs Millman,” he heard Steenson remark, to a coquettish tittering from Gladys.
“Right. I’ll just check.”
/>
He left them to it and climbed the stairs.
At room number 5 he rapped lightly.
“Rita! It’s Bram.”
Waited.
When she didn’t answer he tried the door, not caring if he was intruding. He needed to tell her about Harry. Couldn’t wait to see her face.
To his surprise the door swung open.
He looked in.
She wasn’t there. At the sight of the coat on the floor he grew concerned. Went over and picked it up.
Stared aghast at the dark blotches, knowing they were bloodstains. But they were old. He could see that.
Grace Thorne’s words came back to him.
He fell and knocked himself out, y’see, and was bleeding badly. She was in a panic ’cos she thought she’d killed him. Pity she didn’t. She took off. I think she went to the mother’s house for a few days, till the heat settled.
He searched through the pockets of the coat, fervently hoping he would not find the item that would prove beyond doubt everything the doctor had told him concerning Dorinda Walsh.
But . . .
His hand made contact with something in an inside pocket. His heart sank as he drew out a man’s wallet, an empty wallet.
He thrust it back in the pocket and rushed from the room.
On Portaluce beach, Dorrie got to her feet, waving excitedly. She left the rocks and moved on to the sand.
“Mama, Mama, I’m here, I’m here!”
But Mama merely continued plying the waves, her bathing-cap of pink-and-yellow daisies bobbing up and down like the most beautiful bouquet.
“Mama, it’s Dorrie! Can’t you see me, Mama? Please, Mama, can’t you see me?”
Dorrie headed slowly towards the ocean’s edge, hearing in the distance the waves lapping on the pebbled beach.
“Mama!” she called again. “Mama!”
To her delight Mama turned and saw her, and began swimming in her direction. Dorrie heard her voice, like the most plaintive melody, coming to her over the waves.
Come, darling! Come in and join me. Go with the flow, my dear. Go with the flow. I’m here for you now.
Dorrie grew afraid. She couldn’t swim. But she wanted so much to be with Mama again. So very, very much. In Mama’s arms again – away from all the hurt and pain of this terrible world.
She started to cry. Stepped gingerly forward, closer now to the water’s edge. The last rays of the setting sun were picking out brighter crests of the waves.
Don’t be afraid, my darling! she heard her mama call out. Come.
The champagne rep had taken his leave and Gladys was running an eye over her order when she heard a commotion above.
She looked up, disconcerted at the sight of a very agitated Bram Hilditch rushing down the stairs.
He was carrying something.
“What on earth’s the matter, Bram? Isn’t Miss Ruttle in her room?”
He slung the coat on to the counter.
She saw the bloodstains.
“My God!”
“Throw it away, Gladys. Please, Gladys. Get rid of it.”
“B-But, my God, has she . . . has she killed someone?”
He shook his head, ashen-faced. “No time, Gladys. No time.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
“But, I’m afraid, Mama!” Dorrie wailed. “What if I can’t reach you and the big waves take me away and I . . . and I never see you again?”
Oh, darling, it’s a very small price to pay for us to be together. We’ll be in spirit always.
Dorrie sobbed the tears of the little child she once was, torn between life and death, hope and despair.
Bram was running with a speed he never thought himself capable of. Would he make it to the beach in time? Twilight had fallen and the sky was ruddy, with dark clouds blowing in from the ocean. A shower of rain had made the rocky footpath treacherous. But he was blind to the danger. The sad refrain of Dr Ruane’s words driving him on.
I first treated Rita when she was committed after trying to kill her husband, but her problems go back much further than that.
She witnessed her mother drown when she was six. The mother’s boyfriend – or Uncle Jack as he was called back then, a thug of the highest order – most likely killed her. But there were no witnesses, apart from the little girl herself. He became her legal guardian, and bought the child’s silence by abusing her terribly: beating her, starving her and passing her round his male associates. Violent men don’t usually stop at the emotional and physical I’m afraid. She ended up with his sister when he was killed in a car accident. Hedda Mullane wasn’t such an improvement on the brother, I regret to say.
All at once, Bram stumbled on the wet paving.
He fell.
So far yet to the beach.
He was facing into the darkness of all he’d heard.
Remembering, remembering.
The doctor’s words pulling him back on his feet again, propelling him on.
There is no Dorinda Walsh, Bram. No Dorrie. Rita doesn’t have a twin. Never had. She has a severe psychiatric disorder. Multiple personality disorder – or dissociative identity disorder, DID, to give it its more modern term. A rare condition resulting from severe and sustained childhood trauma. Few childhoods have been more miserable or heartbreaking than Rita’s, alas. Dorrie is an “alter”. One of several.
Halfway along the path leading towards the beach, Bram tried to run faster, breath coming in great gasps, heart hammering, shoes smacking the wet ground, loud and hollow-sounding in his ears.
When treating her I met five alters, but the two most dominant personalities were Dorinda – or Dorrie – and a little girl called Ciara. Dorrie’s in her twenties: docile and eager to please, likes nice clothes and has a drink problem, like Rita’s own mother. In the guise of Dorrie she can see only an idealized image of the mother. Has dreams about her being buried in prim clothes of virginal colours – blue and white. This fantasy is a necessary protection against the truth, that Florence was nothing more than a prostitute who neglected her daughter and left her at the mercy of the male visitors to her home.
Ciara, on the other hand, is an unruly little girl of seven. When you mentioned her neighbour’s dead budgie I knew immediately it was the work of Ciara.
Mama was drawing closer in the reddish twilight. Her voice as soothing and hypnotic as the sea itself.
There, Dorrie dear, you’re not a little baby any more. Just go with the flow. Go with the flow. Just spread your arms wide and dive in.
Dorrie dried her tears, knowing in her heart of hearts she couldn’t disappoint her mama. She’d be brave and obey.
“Yes, Mama, yes. I’m not afraid any more.” The water was lapping at her legs. She extended her arms wide.
Now, Dorrie baby . . . oh, you’re doing so well! Soon we’ll be together, darling. Soon.
She was shivering uncontrollably. The ocean was making her dizzy. She hugged herself. The fear was coming back. The terrible fear.
“I’m sorry, Mama!” she cried. “I . . . I—”
Amy’s here, Dorrie. You remember Amy . . . your little canary?
“She . . . she is?”
Yes, Dorrie. We’re waiting . . .
Finally Bram was within sight of the beach. A wind had sprung up, coming in off the ocean in great buffeting gusts. He clambered down over the rocks.
Still no sign of Rita. Snatches of Ruane’s remarkable account of her past were making him desperate.
After her mother died Uncle Jack bought her a pet, a canary . . . she called it Amy. Loved it and kept it by the bed in a little cage . . . until one day Rita committed the sin of wetting the bed. Jack’s punishment was to cut the bird’s head off, right in front of the child.
The incident involving the Glackens brought Ciara out. The row with the boy was the “triggering event”. Rita wasn’t Rita when she went to shut Mrs Gilhooley’s door; she’d switched to Ciara at the sight of the bird in the cage. The symbolic trauma of that past episode took over. Th
at part of her that was so powerless and helpless as a little girl was now the angry, boisterous Ciara, who could lash out. She killed the bird, stole the jewellery box. Returned to her own place, trashed the lounge and did the same in the box-room. The sheer exhaustion of having carried out such a spree meant that Ciara fell asleep with the extreme tiredness of a child. But it was Rita who awoke with no memory of what she’d done.
Bram, frantically scanning the beach for a sign, lost his footing. He slipped. Fell heavily on his left shoulder. A searing pain shot through the entire arm, damaging again the shoulder Lenny Glacken, the Enforcer, had dislocated. He cried out in agony.
The pain was excruciating. He crawled with difficulty to level ground and eased himself up on his right elbow.
“Oh, dear God, help me!” he cried, pushing his glasses back into place. But there was no sign of Rita.
His shoulder was throbbing. He lay down again, tired out, his mind churning with words he could barely comprehend.
Alters operate as distinct personalities, Bram. Each with their own traits, histories, and ways of relating to others and the world. Rita’s amnesia is a defence mechanism. She’s powerless to stop them. When an alter’s out it’s out. She’ll have blank spells, lose time, consciousness and her dignity, will have no recollection of anything she’s done or where she’s been. Sometimes an alter, especially a child alter, will come forward just for a short time and play mischievous little games – displace objects, unlock doors, open windows.
Rita would have no memory at all of doing these things and believe it was the work of an intruder. She may meet people who seem to know her but whom she does not recognize or remember ever meeting. Of course marrying the abusive Harry didn’t help her at all. His way of dealing with her dissociative episodes was to lock her in the garden shed. When that didn’t work he’d have her committed. She’d go missing from time to time, but she’d somehow find her way back to him. The poor woman had no other choice.
“Oh dear God, I must find her!” he cried at the sky. “I’m all she’s got left.”
He hauled himself up again, willing the pain in his shoulder to ease.
The wind was his enemy now, battering him back. But he struggled against it, trusting his feet to guide him along the darkening beach, his eyes fixed on the shore, scanning, searching, longing desperately for a sign, the words of Ruane still playing in his head like an endless tape.
The Spinster Wife Page 32
