by Annie Murray
Cautiously Maryann stepped across the dark room.
‘Blimey, it’s cold in ’ere today!’ she muttered. It was bad enough normally, but this was worse than ever. She stepped closer to the dormer window and heard glass crunch under her feet. From the faint light from the street she saw that one of the panes was broken. ‘No wonder Sal’s gone out. I wonder ’ow that ’app-ened? P’raps a bird hit the window.’
She decided to wait, at least for a time. If Sal was all that long she’d go out and treat herself to some faggots and peas instead of buying them for Sal. She felt more cheerful. Maybe soon she’d be off on the Esther Jane after all! She felt her way to the table where Sal kept a candle and a box of matches. There was only a stub of candle left. Never mind, she thought, generous in her sense of relief. She’d go out and get her some, and other things she needed. Maryann lit the candle, which was stuck on the lid of a treacle tin, and took it closer to the window again to look, but the flame began to gutter in the draft so she turned away, treading carefully over the sharp slivers of glass.
And then she jumped so hard she almost dropped the candle. The light of the flame was caught, reflected in Sal’s open eyes.
‘Oh my God, Sal—’ She could make out Sal’s shape lying along the bed. ‘Why didn’t you say you was in?’ Maryann pressed her hand over her heart. ‘Flamin’ ’ell. You nearly frightened the life out of me! Sal?’
She leaned closer and smelled it, the heavy, sickening stench of blood.
‘Oh Sal . . . oh Christ no, Sal. What’ve yer done?’
It was everywhere. Holding the candle high, Maryann saw that most of the middle part of the mattress was dyed with it and it was dripping from Sal’s left arm, which hung over the edge of the bed, to a black pool on the floor. Maryann seized her arm, memories rushing back to her of Sal, that day, sitting jabbing, cutting at her arm.
Maryann heard herself whimpering, making strange, unbidden sounds. She knew now what had happened to the glass in the window, knew it all. Howling, she threw herself down on her knees beside her sister’s bed, regardless of the pool of blood, kissing her poor cold face, stroking her hair again and again, beside herself.
‘Oh Sal, my Sal – why did yer do it? I’d’ve taken care of you – I would. Oh Sal, don’t die, you’re my sis. We can look after each other!’
But she knew it was over, that there was no point in running to any doctor for help. Sal must have lain for hours like this. Maryann knelt with her arms round her sister, holding and rocking her, rage and sorrow possessing her like no emotions she had ever felt before. Sal was released from her agony now. Her heart was not beating. But she had not killed herself: she had been murdered slowly, brutally, over these long months, and the person who had killed her was Norman Griffin.
Twenty-Four
The day they buried Sal was wet and cold. The carriages followed the hearse to Lodge Hill Cemetery, and the horses’ hooves sounded louder in the damp weather, their warm breath swirling round them in the damp. They were decked out in black feathers and smartly polished harnesses.
It was an extravagant funeral, beyond anything they could normally have afforded.
‘We’ll make sure she has the best,’ Norman had told Flo. ‘We can’t bring her back – Lord knows what possessed her – but we can give her a good send-off.’
‘It’s more than ’er deserves really,’ Flo had sobbed. ‘Taking ’er own life like that – it ain’t right. But it’s all we can do for her now.’
They stood at the graveside as rain fell all round them, pattering on the leaves banked up at the sides of gravestones, dripping off the brims of their hats and gathering in little pools on the lid of the coffin. The priest looked thinly clad and unwell, and the only sound apart from the rain and his voice nasally intoning the burial rite was that of Flo’s weeping.
As the first handfuls of earth were thrown down on to the coffin, she burst into uncontrollable sobbing.
‘My little girl,’ she moaned into her handkerchief. ‘My baby – oh my little baby . . .’ Maryann saw Norman lay his hand on her shoulder for a moment to quiet her.
Tony was crying silently, his hand in Maryann’s, and she squeezed it and kept Billy close to her. There were no tears in her eyes. She watched Norman across the yawning slit in the ground into which Sal had been lowered, fixing him with an unwavering, icy stare. As she stood watching him across the grave she knew she would not weep here, at the funeral he had provided. Never, in front of him. Not after what he’d done.
‘. . . blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,’ the vicar was saying, ‘. . . for they rest from their labours.’
Maryann raised her eyes past Norman at the skeletal trees behind him. The wind was blowing rain sideways across the graves. In a few moments it would be over, the final prayer was being said and then they would leave the gravediggers to finish shovelling in the earth. She looked back at the coffin once more in a final farewell.
I won’t let him get away with it, Sal. I’ll make him pay, that I will. But you rest now, sis. You rest.
Holding the boys’ hands, she followed the others back across the cemetery to where the horses were waiting. She looked at Norman’s back, long and tall in his black coat, and she knew with sudden certainty what she was going to do.
She lay beside Tony that night, waiting for him and the rest of the household to settle for the night.
Flo came up first, followed by Norman, and Maryann relaxed a little, breathing more easily. He wasn’t waiting up the way he did when he was going to try and come to her room. Gradually it all settled down, the padding of feet, the wrench of bedsprings, then quiet at last. The rain seemed to have stopped now but it was still windy.
She had thought she was far too pent up to sleep, but some time later she found had been dozing and woke very suddenly and sat up, her heart hammering. It came flooding back to her: Sal was dead. She had to do it, to go tonight. Now. Getting out of bed with enormous care, she lit the candle and looked anxiously across at Tony – at his thin face, his straight, dark eyebrows, so relaxed as he slept – and for a moment all her resolve withered.
How can I just go away and leave him and Billy? she thought. But then she thought of Sal, of Joel and, fortified, put the candle down on the floor and crept round the bed to gather up her few things: her shoes, bits of clothes, and the little china cat which she laid lovingly on the pile.
When it was all ready she tiptoed round to Tony’s side of the bed and kneeled down by him. I mustn’t touch him, she thought, or I’ll wake him and mess it all up.
‘I’ve got to go away, Tony,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry to leave yer, that I am. I know I’m not much of a sister to you, but you’ve still got our mom and Billy and your pals. You look after our Billy now, eh?’ Tears came into her eyes at the thought of the two of them, little blond Billy and dark-eyed Tony, hand in hand as if alone in the world without her.
‘Only – I’ve got to go tonight, ’cause if I don’t, I’m gunna be in trouble, Tony. I don’t want to leave you, Tony, honest I don’t. ’Ere—’ She got up again and went over to her little pile of things, took out the china cat and brought it to him, laying it on his pillow, close to his sleeping face. ‘You ’ave little Tiger so yer know I’ll be thinking of yer.’ She couldn’t quite bear to go without touching him, and she reached out and stroked her hand over his head. ‘T’ra, Tony.’ He didn’t stir.
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she lifted the chair away from the door and blew out the candle. Every sound she made seemed deafening. The door opened almost soundlessly, but when she went to cross the small landing, one of the boards gave a loud, unexpected crack. Maryann froze, panic-stricken. The house was full of boards like that, which might suddenly betray her!
All you’ve got to do, she told herself, is get into that room. He sleeps nearest the door, so you can just reach across . . .
Clenching her teeth over her bottom lip, she pushed the door of her mother and stepfather’s room. To her a
mazement it swung open without a sound. She could hear Norman’s breathing, a rasping sound which helped her get her bearings as she stepped through the door. She could tell where the head of the bed was all right, with him making that racket. She stepped behind the door and, holding on to the wall, slid along the gap between it and the bed until she got to the chair. As she reached out for it her mother sighed and shifted in the bed, and she froze again, waiting. But all was well. Her hand met the scratchy tweed of Norman’s jacket which was flung over the back of the chair and she felt along it, searching for that pocket he pushed his hand into when he was walking along . . . The cold weight of the keys seemed to fall into her palm as if they had been waiting for her and she clenched her fingers tight to stop them jangling together.
‘Got yer,’ she mouthed in the darkness.
Moments later, shoes on and holding her belongings, keys in the pocket of her coat, she slid out through the front door.
The street was deserted but it was warmer than she expected, the sky busy with puffy clouds moving across a thin crescent moon. There was still lamplight to guide her, reflected in the puddles along the pavement.
She couldn’t believe she’d managed it, that he wasn’t behind, following her as she walked along to Monument Road. Even though hers were the only steps she could hear on the street, she kept turning to glance behind, expecting to see him. Pulling up her collar, she shrank down into her coat.
When she reached the door of the shop a cold feeling overcame her, a creeping sense of horror. She should forget this thing she had come for, the obligation she felt towards Sal, and just go, get right away from here for good. What was it Norman had said to Sal, or shown her, that afterwards, together with those dirty things he had made her do, had meant she was never free of him? She had steeled herself to do this and she couldn’t just walk away.
‘Don’t let ’im get yer in that cellar . . .’ Sal’s warning rang in her mind. She took out the keys and as she did so, she noticed in the faint light that one of them seemed to be a darker colour than the others. As she examined them, a sound came from along the street. Quickly she unlocked the door and shut herself inside. She waited, but heard nothing further.
Norman kept matches for the lamps in one of the desk drawers. Groping her way over to the desk she talked to herself in her mind, trying to fight her irrational terror of darkness.
Once she’d lit the lamp she started to feel a little better. The blinds were all down so no one could see in. The office looked exactly as she remembered: a small, bare, workaday place, much as it would have looked had she been left alone there on a winter’s evening. Now she just had to go downstairs, she told herself. That was all. Just have a look. Pretend Fred was down there, hammering away . . .
She lit a candle to take with her and, keys in the other hand, climbed quickly down the yawning darkness of the stairs, knowing that if she hesitated she might seize up with panic and run back out into the road. She had to unlock the cellar door – she had not known Norman kept it locked at night – and, with a huge effort of will, she went inside. She knew she must check inside the chapel of rest to see if there was anyone laid out in there. If so, she would have to rethink what she was planning to do. It took her a few minutes to find the courage. First of all she lit the gas lamps in the cellar and though the light was reassuring, she was trembling so much she could scarcely manage to insert the key in the lock and open the door of the chapel of rest. Every fibre of her was poised ready to run away should there be the slightest sound or movement.
Gritting her teeth, she swung the door open suddenly and held the candle high in the doorway. The long table was empty, with just a sheet folded on it. She let out a long, relieved breath. Thank goodness!
The place suddenly felt much more normal and unthreatening. She noticed then, though, that it was unusually messy: the floor covered in rings of wood shaving, which gave off a sweet smell, sawdust and offcuts of wood all over the place, hammer, chisels and other tools left out on the bench. Norman was so obsessed with tidiness and precision and chivvied Fred to leave the cellar looking tidy. Getting ready for Sal’s funeral had evidently been a rush.
She turned then to Norman’s cupboard. ‘Right, mister – let’s see what yer got in ’ere . . .’
Holding up the bunch of keys, she eyed the keyhole of the metal door and saw instantly the one which must fit. The keyhole had been smeared with black paint. Her heart beating painfully hard, she inserted the black key into the lock.
‘’Ere goes . . .’
Peering inside, holding the candle out, she could see nothing very much to start with. Her eyes grew more used to the deeper darkness in there and she saw that running along each wall were two shelves, one above the other, neatly arranged with an assortment of objects. There was a sense of order and fussiness characteristic of Norman. On one side seemed to be stored old ledgers, and a musty odour of aged paper mingled with the chemical smells. On a low shelf lay what looked like old tools – hammer, chisel, fretsaw, awl – each rather rusty, laid out straight, one by one. On the higher shelf to the left were arranged dark glass bottles and jars and beside them, an assortment of books. Stepping inside she pulled one down. It had a soft leather cover and worn gold letters on the spine. Whiteacres’ Manual for the Practice of Embalming the Human Body. Quickly she put it back, not wanting to look inside. Her toe kicked against something and she looked down to see a can of paraffin for the stove they used in the cellar on the coldest winter days. Maryann smiled grimly. Good.
Turning to look at the back of the cupboard, she saw to her surprise that in the small space at the back, right in the middle, was a chair. It looked like an ordinary kitchen chair. Maryann moved closer, frowning, holding the candle higher. It took a moment for her to make out any details, but when she did the very blood seemed to freeze throughout her body. Her free hand went to her mouth.
Details jumped out at her one after another in the flickering light. The chair was straight-backed, with two struts across the back and a flat wooden seat. Fastened round the uprights of the chair back were two iron brackets which were screwed into the wall. Resting on the seat was a carefully coiled length of chain, curled round itself like a Swiss roll and glinting in the candlelight. With it was a pair of manacles – another pair was positioned on the floor by the chair legs – and a second length of chain dangled from the back in a snakelike loop to the floor. Over the back of the chair, folded very neatly, was a square of white cloth, perhaps a scarf. Maryann took in the sight, unable to move, the implications of it sinking into her mind. Had he threatened to tie it round and round Sal’s mouth? Had he actually done it? Left Sal chained and gagged here – for how long? What else had he done? Was this the threat that he had held over Sal, month after month, until he had invaded her with fear, emptying her of her very self?
The restraining cords with which Maryann had held back her emotions that week burst open. She strode out of the cupboard and put the candle on the workbench. Moving with increasing frenzy, she began to gather up the mess that was strewn on the floor: the sawdust and wood shavings, the ends of wood, the sheet from the chapel of rest. Anyone who had seen her just then might have said she’d lost her mind. Going to the cupboard, she pulled out the armful of ledgers, tearing at their pages and throwing them down, their remaining pages splayed, then the books on embalming the dead. She tore into the cupboard and yanked with all her strength at the chair, trying to wrench it apart, levering it against the hold of the iron brackets, but it was strong and she couldn’t release it. In the end she brought the other chair from the cellar and added it to the pyre. Going back into the cupboard, she picked up the tin of paraffin and poured it over the mess. Finally she rested the candle, with almost reverential care, on its side in the middle of it all. She stood the tin carefully by the door.
Flames immediately began to work on the dry curls of wood with a tiny crackle. Maryann stood for a moment, arms tightly folded, watching it all begin to burn.
�
�Burn, burn!’ she hissed, her eyes gleaming. ‘You evil, murdering bastard, burn!’
She seemed to do everything automatically, laughing, crying, as she did so, looking round for more things to stoke the fire. There was too much brick down here, too many hard surfaces. But she hadn’t started on upstairs yet . . .
The smoke was beginning to build up, the flames reaching up towards the chair. She’d have to get out of here, but she needed to drag the trestle table out from the chapel of rest to make sure it carried on burning, or on the stone floor it might go out. She was coughing now, the cellar filling with smoke.
‘Burn, go on, burn!’ she urged, laying the trestles on their side amid the flames.
She heard a sound that penetrated her concentration. A bang from upstairs.
Norman. She was paralysed. It must be – he was here. Had followed her!
She stood listening, trying not to cough, but it was impossible. The smoke was getting too much. But he mustn’t get her down here! If she was to encounter Norman it must be upstairs, where she stood a chance.
Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and listened, taking in deep breaths. Nothing. Was he waiting, in that spot just by the door? She could see no shadow. The smoke was winding up the stairs with her and the coughing was impossible to control. Suddenly, unable to bear it, she tore up the stairs into the office, just as there came another bang! The front door slammed shut. The office was empty, but the door was not properly closed, had gusted open. Maryann found she was so unsteady with shaking that she had to sit down at the desk. For a few moments she put her hands over her face and wept, distraught.
‘I’ve got to try and forget this.’ She knew even then, without time to reflect. ‘Or I’ll lose my mind thinking of it. Sal’s gone – I’ll be gone. No more girls for ’im.’ She stood up, fiercely wiping her eyes. ‘And this place’ll be gone. I’m gunna make sure of that.’
