Hell Hath No Fury

by Rosie Harris

  He had no further use for her. He had tossed her aside like a broken doll. In his eyes she was soiled, tainted, defiled.

  She picked up the cheque, prepared to tear it into a thousand tiny pieces. Her pay off! Wages for services rendered! She laughed hysterically. And she’d thought it was to buy an engagement ring!

  There was no engagement! There would be no wedding! There would be no further contact. His brief note made that very plain.

  Stunned and furious, she quivered with mindless rage. She hated Philip Harmer with a savage vehemence.

  But that was insignificant compared with the overpowering malevolence she felt towards the boys who’d ruined her life all those long years ago.

  THREE

  Benbury sparkled in the sharp March sunshine. Flowering cherry trees and early daffodils set the bright stamp of spring on the town. In spite of the keen wind it was a glorious day.

  The house in Mayling Street where Maureen had been born, and had grown up, looked smaller than she remembered. It had a dejected air. The net curtains at the upstairs windows needed a wash, and the silk flowers in the downstairs front-room window looked as though they’d been thrust into the black and white vase more as a means of getting rid of them than with any real thought.

  White paint was flaking off the bedroom window sills, and the black front door was chipped and scratched. It had never looked like that when she’d lived there. Her mother had been most fastidious, and, regular as clockwork, her father had given the outside of the house a coat of paint every springtime.

  Her mother had changed the curtains twice a year. She had hung up crisp floral cotton ones in April and changed them for heavy velvet drapes in October to keep out any winter draughts.

  Maureen’s own bedroom had been at the back of the house. There had been a huge horse-chestnut tree right outside the window, dominating the long, narrow strip of garden.

  She’d loved that tree; had considered it her friend and carved her name on its bark. In late spring it had been covered with clusters of erect white flowers, like candles. In autumn it had provided a rich harvest of glossy conkers that everyone at school had wanted, especially the boys, so she’d filled her pockets with them for the sheer thrill of handing them out. Her face hardened. Dennis Jackson and John Moorhouse had been two of those boys. In those days she’d thought of them as her friends.

  She let out the clutch and moved away. That had been a long time ago! She drove on, turning right, turning left, and then right again. The school was still there. She pulled in and surveyed the red-brick building with its tall narrow windows. A new wing had been added. It was like a huge concrete finger jutting out at one side, swallowing up part of the playing field.

  She gripped the wheel. It was sixteen years since she’d lived in Benbury, since that horrendous day that had changed her life. She didn’t want to dwell on it . . . not yet.

  Tight-lipped, she drove on.

  As she circled the town she found there were a great many changes. The new housing estates of pseudo-Elizabethan boxes, new factories and office blocks had almost doubled the size of Benbury. It was now a thriving modern town with countless mini-roundabouts, several new petrol stations, and an enormous glass and chrome car-showroom.

  She drove slowly down the High Street looking for somewhere to park, surprised to find double yellow lines edging the pavement on both sides from one end to the other.

  She recalled there had been a parking area adjacent to the library so she made her way there, found a space for her red Ford Escort, and parked up.

  It was only a few minutes’ walk back to the High Street through the park. That was where she had pushed her doll’s pram when she was very small, and where she’d ridden her two wheel bicycle for the first time.

  The pond, where she had been taken every Sunday by her father to feed the ducks, had been filled in and was now a formal flower bed, bright with daffodils and primroses. One corner of the park had been turned into a playground with swings and a climbing frame.

  The High Street was much busier than she remembered it. There were now two supermarkets, two chemist’s, a health food shop, three greengrocer’s, two carpet shops, a toy shop, four hairdresser’s, a furniture store, a large newsagent’s, a hardware shop, several boutiques, half a dozen estate agents, and several cafes and restaurants, as well as two pubs and a wine bar.

  She walked up one side of the road, and then back down the other. Side roads that had once been residential were now crammed with small specialist shops. There was a beauty salon, a home-furnishing emporium, a jeweller’s, an Oxfam shop, and a betting shop in one of them. In another, a dentist, a shoe repairer’s, and two more charity shops.

  There were quite a few people about, muffled up against the bright cold. She looked searchingly at each of them, wondering if she would see anyone she recognized.

  The passing years would have changed most of them, she mused. Girls she’d been at school with would now be in their mid-thirties and either established in a career, the same as she was, or married with young children. People of her parents’ generation would be elderly, grey-haired . . . changed out of all recognition.

  She went into one of the cafes for a coffee, carrying her tray across to a table by the window so that she could study the passers-by as she waited for the coffee to cool.

  Most of the women about her own age were pushing prams or holding toddlers by the hand. Unfamiliar faces shopping for food for their families. She wondered how many of them had lived in the town all their lives. Probably not many! Most of them would have been drawn to Benbury by the new estates and factories that had mushroomed on the periphery of the town.

  It made her feel like an interloper; as if she had no right to be there.

  Why was she doing this, punishing herself in this way, she asked herself. What was to be gained from coming back to Benbury? The town had nothing but bad memories for her. Why torment herself like this? It was like picking a scab, or rubbing salt into an open wound.

  It would be far more sensible to forget the humiliation that had forced her and her parents to leave Benbury. Bury it deep in her subconscious the same as she had done before.

  It had remained dormant all these years so why resurrect it!

  What was the old adage her father was so fond of repeating? Let sleeping dogs lie.

  She should have known that Philip Harmer’s proposal would come to nothing. The very fact that she had fallen in love with him was enough to put a jinx on their relationship, she thought bitterly. Rejection was part of her destiny!

  Even her own parents had rejected her after the rape. They’d tried to hide it, of course, but things had never been the same between the three of them. There had been a strange, nervous atmosphere, even after they’d moved away from Benbury.

  They’d made a superficial protest when she’d said she was leaving home, but they’d made no real attempt to stop her. They’d even given her the deposit to buy a flat in Dutton.

  If only Philip Harmer hadn’t asked her to marry him, she could have borne it. She had actually reconciled herself to the fact that her work stint for him had come to an end. Hoping he might ask her to go with him on his Far East trip had simply been a pipe-dream, a harmless diversion to soften the parting.

  As she sipped her coffee, and stared out of the window, she noticed the name ‘Franklin and Son’ on the newsagent’s directly across the street from the cafe.

  Her cup rattled against the saucer as she put it down.

  Sandy Franklin had been one of the boys involved, and his father had owned a newsagent’s shop.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. To be so close to one of the boys who’d been involved sent shudders through her. She wondered if any of the others were still living in Benbury.

  Maureen steeled herself to go into the newsagent’s when she left the cafe, convincing herself that it would lay one ghost to rest, at least. At the last moment her nerve deserted her, and she backed off. She wasn’t read
y to come face to face with Sandy Franklin . . . Not yet.

  It must have been Fate that had made her decide to park by the library, she told herself as she hurried back to where she’d left her car. This was a research job she was going to enjoy.

  Her briefcase was in the car boot. She took out a clipboard and pen. Once in the library she headed straight for the reference section. Twenty minutes later, she had all the information she wanted: the addresses and telephone numbers of the boys who’d raped her.

  There was one more thing she needed . . . A street map.

  Her mind busy with details, she walked back to the High Street. The newsagent’s would be the only shop likely to stock a comprehensive street map. Buoyed up with the success of her research, this time she had no qualms about going in.

  The shop was busy, so Maureen browsed through the various racks of magazines and paperbacks looking for what she wanted. There were no maps at all, not even in the miscellaneous section.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She’d been so engrossed that she hadn’t noticed a tall rangy man dressed in slacks and a sweater approach her.

  She looked up and did a double take. Her pulse hammered. She couldn’t be mistaken. It was Sandy Franklin. She would have known him anywhere. He was older, of course, but otherwise he hadn’t altered a great deal. His wild shock of red hair had been tamed by a short back and sides, but his raw-boned face and hooded grey eyes were an indelible part of her memory of that terrible day.

  She bit her lip, swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat at the recollection, conscious that he was waiting for her to answer.

  ‘I’m looking for a street map . . . Do you stock them?’

  ‘I think I can find you one.’

  He walked towards the counter and began sorting through the contents of a rotary metal stand that stood near the till.

  As she watched his bony hands at work she found that it took every vestige of will power not to cry out, not to run out into the street. She could feel them on her body, kneading her flesh, poking, probing. A shudder went through her. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

  ‘Here you are, have a look through these.’ He spread out a selection of local maps for her inspection.

  He obviously hadn’t recognized her . . . not yet, at any rate, she thought with relief as she selected the map she decided would be most useful.

  There was still no glimmer of recognition on Sandy Franklin’s face as she paid him. He popped her purchase inside a bag printed with the shop’s name, address and phone number, and handed it to her.

  Maureen found it hard to believe that he’d failed to remember her. She had known it was him the minute he’d spoken, even before she’d seen his red hair and prominent features.

  It was better this way, of course. She felt exultant; it left her more in control of the situation.

  She returned to her car and spread out the map on the roof. Referring to the list she’d drawn up in the library, Maureen pinpointed where the other four lived.

  The High Street had been the only listing for the name Franklin, so she assumed that Sandy lived over the shop. Not that it mattered. She knew now where she could locate him.

  She wrote down the names of John Moorhouse, Dennis Jackson and Brian Patterson in the margin of the map, and gave each of them an identifying number. Next she located the road in which each of them lived and circled it in red. There wasn’t enough room to write in each name so she added the appropriate reference number.

  It was now almost midday. Stowing the clipboard into the boot of her car she slipped a notebook into her handbag along with the map. Then she locked up the car and went to find somewhere to have lunch.

  There were plenty of places to choose from in the High Street, but in the end Maureen decided it would be either the Eatery or the Benbury Arms. She studied the menu on the window of the Eatery, an upmarket restaurant, and decided she didn’t really want a three-course meal, so she settled for the pub.

  It was not quite half past twelve, so there were not a great many customers in the Benbury Arms. The two men who were leaning on the lounge bar counter chatting earnestly to each other moved to one side to make way for her.

  ‘A glass of dry white wine, please,’ she told the fresh-faced young barman.

  ‘And something to eat?’ He passed her a printed menu card.

  She ordered a cheese omelette and a side salad.

  He wrote out her bill and passed her the top copy. ‘Take a seat, and we’ll bring it over to you when it’s ready. We call out the number on your bill,’ he added.

  Maureen thanked him and made her way to a window seat. She angled her chair so that she could keep an eye on everyone who came into the pub as well as those who walked by in the street outside. So far she hadn’t seen a single soul she recognized except Sandy Franklin. Yet she had known countless people when she’d lived in Benbury.

  While she waited for her omelette she studied the map, particularly the roads she’d circled in red. They were well scattered. It could be an interesting afternoon locating them all, she mused as she sipped her wine.

  She wondered how they would react if she knocked on the door and reminded them of who she was.

  ‘Here you are then,’ a cheery voice said, bringing Maureen out of her reverie.

  ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t hear you call out the number,’ she apologized. She scrabbled the map out of the way so that the plump, smiling woman, wearing a pink overall over her black skirt and white blouse, could set down the plate of food she was holding.

  The woman laughed. ‘That’s because I didn’t bother to shout it out. Not many in yet so I knew it must be for you.’ She handed Maureen cutlery wrapped in a pink serviette. ‘We don’t get busy until one o’clock. Then it’s all go for a while. All the business people come in then, you see.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Maureen folded up the map. ‘This looks very nice.’

  ‘Hope you enjoy it.’

  Maureen tucked in. For a few minutes she forgot the purpose of her visit, forgot the plan that had been forming in her mind ever since she’d walked into the newsagent’s and recognized Sandy Franklin.

  She was halfway through her meal when the barmaid came back to ask if everything was alright.

  ‘Yes, fine! The omelette is delicious.’

  She watched the woman go back to the bar. She was about thirty-five, and Maureen wondered if they’d been at school together. Rather funny if we were and neither of us remembers the other, she thought wryly.

  She was still thinking about it when Sandy Franklin walked in. She felt a moment’s panic in case he recognized her as one of his customers earlier in the day.

  So what if he does! He doesn’t know who I am or he would have mentioned it in the shop, she reminded herself.

  Rubbing his bony hands together, he strode up to the bar, a huge grin on his freckled face. The woman who had brought her food was standing on the pub side of the bar, and Sandy grabbed her round the waist, making her squeal.

  ‘Pint of the best, Fred,’ he ordered the owner, his arm still encircling the woman’s waist.

  ‘Well, let’s have Peggy back this side of the bar, and then she’ll pull it for you.’

  ‘She can do that without going behind the bar,’ Sandy guffawed. His hand slid down over the woman’s buttocks before she could move away.

  Maureen’s mouth tightened. Sandy Franklin hadn’t changed. Not one iota. She shuddered as his laugh rang out, coarse, obscene. She sensed the embarrassment the woman was feeling, and anger against Sandy Franklin flamed up inside her. It was almost as if once again she was being pushed down on to the floor in the filthy hut, and in the background was that awful braying guffaw.

  She pushed aside the unfinished omelette, her appetite gone. She took a gulp of wine, but it tasted as sour as the bile that had risen in her throat. She needed a coffee.

  She was trembling so much that she was afraid to stand up to go and order one. Anyway
, there was only one counter in the lounge bar, and Sandy Franklin was still dominating it.

  The realization that she’d have to walk past the bar to get out of the pub filled her with dread. It would mean walking so close to Sandy Franklin that she could touch him. Or he could touch her!

  The feeling of being soiled and dirty, which she’d experienced when she’d been raped, came flooding back. Her palms felt moist, and there were beads of perspiration dampening her brow.

  She felt vengeful, filled with a raw impulse to lash out at Sandy Franklin: to inflict some terrible, irrevocable damage, an injury that would remain with him for the rest of his life.

  Not just Sandy Franklin, either! She wanted the others to suffer too. Mentally as well as physically; the same as she had done all these years.

  Her day was ruined. Now, all she wanted to do was to go home to Dutton. Bolt the door of her flat in Windermere Mews. Barricade herself in.

  All her plans had turned sour. She wasn’t going to lay any ghosts by coming to Benbury, she thought ruefully; she’d only resurrected them!

  FOUR

  John Moorhouse turned into the driveway of Twenty-Seven Fieldway, and carefully negotiated his Rover into the garage, skimming past the two small mountain bikes that had been abandoned just inside the doors.

  How many times have I told Malcolm and Danny to park up tight against the wall, he thought irritably as he killed the engine. He’d give them one final warning. They had to learn to do as they were told.

  It was easier to control a mixed class of thirty fourteen-year-old boys than it was those two, he thought wryly as he struggled to open his car door back far enough for him to get out without dropping the pile of exercise books that he’d brought home to mark.

  The stillness of an empty house greeted him as he let himself in. It was Thursday. Marilyn and the boys were at Cubs.

  After a day in the classroom, bombarded by the deafening noises that seemed to make up school life, the utter silence was sheer bliss.

  Dumping his briefcase and the pile of books he was carrying on to the hall table, he went into the lounge and across to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a whisky.