Bloody Mary

by Ricki Thomas

  “Yes, well, a village nearby.”

  Now I knew Harry was alive, and I knew he lived in Derby. Still a needle in a haystack, but a smaller haystack than ten minutes before. Appearing to come out of my mystic trance, I replaced the crystal ball under its cover and took the tarot cards from the table, shuffling. Without either of us speaking, I dealt the cards into the form of the popular Celtic cross. Obviously there was no way I could tell what cards were where, but I knew that whatever news I was going to impart was going to hurt Beryl, I would make sure of that. And although it would be a harsh reading, I was going to leave her wanting to come and see me again.

  Beryl kept her decorum for the entire time she was visiting me, and it was difficult not to respect her for that, considering I was advising her to give her daughter an ultimatum, and to see me again in a week’s time. I also asked her to consider if she wanted to use my psychic skills, which I told her may give more depth than the tarot. I didn’t have any such powers, but this meant that instead of our consultations being purely based on what I was telling her, they would involve interaction, and would hopefully lead to more details of Harry. She was understandably upset at my advice regarding Sophie, my stab in the dark had clearly hit a raw spot, and my suggestion appeared to be acceptable: she paid her cash after making a further appointment for seven days time.

  Slowly bumping along the driveway towards Iris Cottage, Sophie noted Darren’s BMW was already parked there, and she slapped the steering wheel of her car in frustration, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Damn him’, she whispered, wondering what to do next, and, switching off the engine, she decided to wait in the car a while, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was home. Buy some time before the inevitable argument.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the previous night, of preparing his meal as he drank at his local, waiting until he was home to see what mood the alcohol would leave him in this time. It hadn’t been a good one, and once more she had received his angry blows and spiteful words. To pacify herself as she always did in the circumstances, she’d driven to her parent’s house during her lunch break today, the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of the home she’d grown up in always calmed her, took her mind from the horrors she frequently experienced in her marital cottage. Her mum had seemed uncomfortable, even upset, which was uncharacteristic, but still, being in the homely surroundings pacified her.

  After a good ten minutes, without any sign of life from the cottage, Sophie began to wonder if Darren was actually out, and felt shameful for sitting in the car, so she decided to test the waters, brave going inside. Closing the car door as quietly as she could, she sauntered to the familiar oak door of the home she’d purchased alone, three years before meeting Darren, and turned the key in the lock. As she tentatively made her way inside, her shoulders relaxed when she realised the house was peaceful. Although she often complained about the amount of time he spent at the White Horse, today she was glad of his absence.

  Dropping her handbag and briefcase on the kitchen side, she was about to prepare a welcome mug of tea when the phone shrilled. Sophie answered, and, on hearing her mum’s voice, she hooked the handset between her shoulder and ear, and continued with the beverage. But once her mum had spoken, the tea was forgotten. “Mum, what are you talking about? You can’t do this, it’s crazy!”

  Beryl’s voice stilted her, the tone firmer than was usual. “It’s gone too far, Sophie, we’ve been in this place too many times, and somewhere a line has to be drawn. We will always love you, but you have to realise that if you continue to stay with that violent bully we will have no choice but to cease contact with you, at least until you come to your senses.”

  She was stunned. What was her mother saying? Why? “But Mum…”

  “No, Sophie. I’m sorry. Truly sorry. But we can’t constantly pick you up every time he gives you a hiding. If this is what it takes to make you see sense, then this is what we have to do. Leave him, or deal with him on your own.” The stern voice disappeared, hastily replaced by a dial tone.

  Stunned, the lids of Sophie’s dark, chocolate eyes dropped slowly as she comprehended the choice she’d been given, husband or parents, and she drew a hopeless breath in, deeply, holding it for too long. Letting out the air as languidly as she’d taken it, she reluctantly replaced the receiver. Pouring a large brandy from the bottle Darren had supped from the previous night, she knew the choice was already made: the wedding vows had been serious, and her marriage had to come before everyone, even her parents.

  Tears threatening, tears of mixed anger and confusion, Sophie resolved she was going to get herself drunk, not something she did often. She took the glass and knocked back the warming juice, before taking it, and the bottle, up the stairs. She needed to cry, she needed a drink, and she needed to sleep in the hope that on waking she’d discover this was all a bad dream. But her plans were thwarted when she reached to top of the stairs, only to hear the familiar heavy breathing. With a sigh, she crept into the room, knowing she’d find Darren in a drunken coma, an occurrence that was happening more and more regularly.

  As expected, he was fully clothed on the bed, slumped erratically, an empty glass clutched in his hand, and, without the shield of the bedroom door, his snoring was deafening. A litre bottle of vodka that he must have picked up after work was two thirds empty, and a spent carton of juice lay on it’s side, leaving an orange stain on the beige covers. Sophie sighed, and left the room, wondering if she’d chosen the wrong person in the hideous choice she’d been presented with, as she silently tiptoed down the stairs.

  Another brandy beckoned: if Darren could get himself wrecked, then so could she, but she was going to sleep on the sofa, too angry with him to share the bed. Downing her second generous measure as she snuggled into the comfortable sofa, Sophie’s first thought was of phoning her father, but she instantly remembered her mum’s words. Angry at having been forced to choose between her parents and her husband, if reconciliation was ever going to happen, it wasn’t going to be instigated by her. She was too stubborn. Sophie reached for the bottle and poured again.

  It had only taken a tame two brandies to start the tears rolling properly, and a third to knock her out, but she became aware of her husband’s heavy northwest accent, rousing her from her slumber. Opening her eyes to near blackness, the moon shedding an eerie hue through the window, Sophie cleared her throat, her head thumping. “Darren? What did you say?”

  Darren flicked the light-switch, and she threw her hands to her eyes as the glare from the crystal wall lights made her recoil. “I said why are you sleeping down here?”

  Thinking quickly, unable to gauge his mood just yet. “I, um, I saw you were asleep and didn’t want to disturb you. No other reason.” Sophie inched back instinctively, hoping he’d buy her story.

  He slumped down on the sofa, grinning, and her tense shoulders dropped with an inaudible sigh of relief. “Ahh, sweet, you should have just climbed in with me, we could’ve had a cuddle.” He winked.

  Sophie drew a remorseful breath. Today, or was it yesterday now, she had no idea how long she’d been sleeping, seemed to be a bad day for making choices. “I’m sorry.” The two words were all she could find in her hazy mind, and they weren’t true.

  Darren took the brandy bottle from the carpet, along with her discarded glass, and shot her a brief accusing glare, before pouring a large measure and taking a thirsty gulp. “Got yourself tanked up again, did you?” No answer came, the hypocrisy was too irritating. “So what did the old dragon have to say for herself today, then? More whingeing and whining? A bit of emotional blackmail, maybe?”

  Sophie jolted, the dreadful conversation flooding into her memory for the first time since waking, and she swiftly rose to find herself a fresh glass from the kitchen. Re-entering the room, she sat back beside him. “No. She was fine. Yeah, fine. Er, did you contact your mum?”

  “Yeah, we had a really long talk. I told her we were trying for a baby and she nearly cried, she was so happy. Sai
d it was about time one of her lads gave her a grandson, she was dead proud of me.”

  Sophie was pleased she’d managed to turn the conversation round, not comfortable with telling her husband about the ultimatum just yet. She took the bottle and poured a drink, emptying the bottle. “That’s nice, I’m glad she was happy.”

  “Oh, and great news, too. They’ve got a buyer for the house, a youngish couple, they offered full asking price, and said they’d buy Dad’s car too, with the house, you know, so Mam and Dad won’t be car-less until the day they move to Mallorca. Fantastic news, isn’t it?”

  Sophie was genuinely shocked: some people seemed to have such a lucky life, but she betrayed the emotion with a wide smile. “Yes, great news. That’s brilliant. So when’s the villa going to be finished? How are they going to tie it in?”

  Darren waved his hand as he downed the dregs from the glass, refilling it immediately from a bottle he found in the sideboard. “The buyers have agreed to wait for completion until the villa’s built, but that’s not so far ahead anyway, three months or so. It’s all worked out perfectly.” He drew a packet of Lambert and Butler from his pocket, along with a lighter, and offered her one. She took it, reaching over the table for an ashtray and emptying it into the bin before setting it on the sofa between them. They both inhaled deeply, lost in their own thoughts: Sophie irritated that her in-laws had managed to sell their house within days, yet her cottage had been on the market with no success for months; Darren smug at the rosy news from his mother.

  It was almost as if he’d read her mind. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from the estate agents at all?”

  She shook her head, expelling blue smoke swiftly. “No, nothing.”

  Darren glanced around the cosy room, taking in the darkened oak beams and cream painted lime plaster for a millionth time, and she knew what was coming, knowing the familiar spiel verbatim. “You made a bad decision when you bought this place, Soph. The thing is, people want modern places nowadays. I mean! Three hundred years old! Uneven floors! Woodworm filled beams all over the place! Scrappy plasterwork and inefficient heating!”

  Sophie jumped in, defensive of the cottage that had been her pride and joy before she’d met her husband. “Oh, come on Darren, you know I had the heating installed by a good plumber. And that the woodworm and damp were treated professionally. It’s a cottage full of character.”

  Darren scoffed, his arrogance biting her. “Whatever, I still think you should have got a modern place like I did, my apartment sold on the first day it was advertised. Modern is what people like.”

  Sophie quickly raised her glass to her lips to stop herself responding, she wasn’t in the mood for an argument. It was true, his studio flat had been in a desirable area, it was neat and minimalist, economical to run, and it had brought him a good profit for the three years he’d owned it before selling up to move in with her. Not that she’d ever seen a penny from the proceeds, he was content to keep it hidden in some lucrative savings account somewhere while she paid for the bills and food with her growing loans and credit card accounts. It grated that she had no choice but to sell her cottage to pay off those debts, the house she adored, and had paid for through years of hard work as she climbed the career ladder. The temptation to slap the self-righteous words from his pompous face grew fierce. Time for bed. Sophie stood abruptly, draining her glass. “Come on, we need to get some sleep, we’ve both got work tomorrow.”

  He sniggered as he finished his drink, stubbing dead the cigarette with his yellowed fingers. “You should have bought a modern place, Soph, that’s what people want.”

  Sleepless due to the interminable rasping, Sophie lay in turmoil. In the minimal light creeping through the gap in the curtains from the new moon, she could just make out her husband’s features, his still-clothed body. Was he handsome? She’d thought so at first, well, in a quirky way, but nowadays his cocky sneer irritated her. Yellow-brown eyes, a crooked nose, slightly greying dark hair. He was undoubtedly fit, down to his manual job as a joiner cum carpenter more than exercise, but his belly was rapidly spreading through alcohol excess and take-away food.

  Quite apart from his looks, the growing violence towards her was getting her down. He’d been caring and protective in those wonderful early days, treating her like a precious flower: compliments, gifts, cuddles, kisses. But as his drinking increased, so did his beatings, and with each punch she lost a little bit more of the respect she had for him. And for herself.

  She turned away, and for the second time since the ultimatum wondered if she should have chosen her parents over Darren. Unfortunately, she considered gloomily, the word divorce did not appear in her personal dictionary.

  In Darren’s hometown of Clayton, Newcastle-under-Lyne, his parents, Maureen and Bob sat with best friends, Peggy and Bry, at the expensive, perfectly polished walnut table, each with a large glass of wine raised. Bry was the most vocal, but Bob took credit for being the most inebriated. He was a happy drunk, or so he would have people believe, and the occasion for celebration made him happier. The imminent move to Mallorca. It had held the entire conversation from the meal at the local Harvester at the beginning of the evening, to this ‘early hours of the morning’ toast.

  Bry stood, steadying his drunken wobble against the table, and raised his glass higher. His words were slightly slurred. “I’d like to take a moment to congratulate our good friends on their wonderful news today. As we all know, we’ve known each other since our schooldays, we’ve had our families together.”

  Bry stopped his oration briefly for an ill-disguised belch, giving Peggy a chance to get a word in. “Get on with it!”

  His glass shook a little, the red liquid splashing onto the varnished wood, prompting Maureen to snatch a tissue and mop it before it stained. “I’ll thank you, my good wife, not to interrupt me while I speak.” They all chortled drunkenly. “We’ve seen our children grow up as friends, move on into adulthood, get married. We’ve lived our lives alongside each other.” He glanced at the grinning group, reddened faces glowing in the soft light. “So I’ll cut the speech short, all I can add is you’d better damn-well make sure we get plenty of holidays with you in sunny old Mallorca!”

  Bob took a swig, and chuckled as Bry sat himself back down on the elaborate chair. “You bet, mate, but on one condition: you make sure you look at villas for yourself when you come and stay! We want to see you follow us out there!”

  Peggy giggled. “I’ll definitely drink to that!” She tapped her glass with a manicured, ruby red fingernail. “I’d also like to make a little toast myself. Our Davy’s Claudia’s just found out she’s having our first grandchild. We’re over the moon, aren’t we, Bry?”

  Maureen shot an uncontrollable glare of annoyance at Peggy before settling a practised smile on her pink-stained lips. “Well done Davy and Claudia, we’re very pleased for you, Pegs, Bry. But if we’re talking babies, of course I wasn’t going to say anything yet, you know, I like to keep a little decorum, but our Darren and his wife are also having a baby, a son.”

  “But…” Bob started, incredulous, hastily silenced by a withering stare from his wife. Crestfallen, and understandably irked at the instant upstaging, Peggy smiled politely and returned the congratulations.

  The household was quieter in Littleover where Harold and Beryl lived, the pleasant semi-detached house in darkness as they both lay in bed. Harold was breathing softly, a gentle purr, but Beryl couldn’t sleep after the conversation with Sophie. She’d been tossing, turning, heaving, and contemplating for hours, perhaps even wishing she hadn’t seen that Mystical Mary, or whatever she called herself. If she had just stayed at home the telephone confrontation would never have happened.

  Harold and Beryl liked to start the day in a refined way, and every evening she would prepare the table for breakfast, setting out a choice of cereals, the toaster, the crockery and cutlery. As always, the alarm was set for six. This gave Harold enough time to read his morning newspaper without a chaotic
rush, before leaving for work at seven thirty. He was very close to retirement, and Beryl knew he would miss lecturing on forensic science at Derby University, but the languid days they had coming appealed to her. At least they had before the reading.

  So now, the worries and confusion on Beryl’s mind eventually became too much and she realised that if she was to get any sleep at all before daylight began to break, she was going to have to be selfish and wake him. “Harold?” She lightly shook his shoulders, and he stirred dreamily.

  “Darling. What is it?” He rolled over to face her.

  “Harold, I just can’t sleep after what happened today. I shouldn’t have woken you, but please can we talk it through?”

  Harold gently took her hand in his. “Of course, darling. Look, I know it’s upset you, and whether it was the wrong decision or the right one, I don’t know. But you have to remember that it also upsets you every time you see her covered in bruises. Sometimes you have to protect yourself, and, at the end of the day, Sophie’s

  a grown woman.”

  “Yes, I know that, but maybe we should support her, I mean, was it fair to essentially suggest that she leaves her husband?”

  Harold was hurting as much as his wife at Sophie’s reluctance to give up on a relationship that was clearly destructive, but he also realised there was little they could do apart from sitting in the background and waiting until their daughter was no longer willing to deal with the violence. He contemplated Beryl’s indecision for a few moments before breathing a reluctant sigh. “I don’t know. It’s such an awful situation. For all of us.”