Bloody Mary

by Ricki Thomas

  Alan removed his cap, moved a pile of papers from the cluttered sofa, and sat, uninvited. “No, I’ve not heard from her at all, not for a couple of weeks. Mary,” he hesitated, running his hand across his face while he gathered his speech, “Mary, I’m here for personal reasons, it’s not an official matter. I’ve only got my uniform on because I’ve come straight from work.” He glanced apologetically at my visitors. “Um, actually, this is a bit of a private matter.”

  I was getting fed up with his blithering, and I was annoyed with the timing of his visit, so I was unusually dismissive. “There’s nothing you can say to me that can’t be said in front of my friends, so please just tell me why you’re here.”

  Taylor scanned the room, his face drawn, the reunion with the person he guessed was his birth mother was intimate, and he felt awkward. Beryl sensed his discomfort and diplomatically suggested they leave the room, but I adamantly declined.

  With no chance of privacy, a light stutter in his speech, he began. “Obviously you know Sophie Delaney.” Harry and Beryl, astounded at the mention of their daughter’s name, glanced at each other before avidly returning their attention to Alan. “Well, I had a visit from her husband, it was a couple of weeks ago now, and it was pretty unpleasant. From what he said, although he didn’t say in so many words, he wanted money from me for the details, I believe I may be the male twin you gave birth to on the thirtieth of August, nineteen-eighty.”

  Three jaws dropped in astonishment, the words forcing time to stand still as we each contemplated the revelation. Alan couldn’t understand why his announcement would have such an impact on the other visitors, and he glanced between the three of us, our mouths gaping wide, disbelief on our faces. Again, Beryl, the least affected by the suggestion, was the first to speak. “How do we know if you’re telling the truth?”

  “It’s only the truth as far as Darren Delaney has implied, but I do have this.” Alan tugged a folded piece of paper from his pocket, he shook it open and offered it to me, and I gasped, taking it in one hand and bringing the other to my chest. “It’s a copy of my birth certificate, my parents gave it to me when I left home.”

  A shudder ran through me as three sets of eyes stared at me, silent anticipation, questioning, I felt suddenly warm, yet had begun to shiver. I wanted to hug him, to hold the baby I’d searched over thirty years for, acutely remembering the despair of the moment they’d taken my second child away from me, the second child in as many days. Tentative, the stutter still apparent, Alan continued. “I have a copy of my adoption certificate if you want to see that.”

  Harry looked as if his heart had stopped, waiting for what seemed like years for a response from me. My eyes met his, and I gave a light nod, a tiny gesture that admitted his son, our son, was in the room. He began to breathe again.

  Not having heard the words he longed to hear, not noticing the exchange between his father and mother, Alan was still on tenterhooks: he wanted to run away, forget he’d found the courage to approach her. “Were you Mary Bryce? Have I found my mother at last?” Please let her say yes.

  Slowly, I laid the certificate on the table and gazed into Alan’s eyes, love was flooding through my thick glasses, and I slowly stood, holding my arms out, a grateful smile growing. Alan yelped as he jumped up and ran into my arms for an emotion filled embrace. It was a moment of joy that would last us both forever.

  Eventually we parted, and returned to our seats. Beryl, on his left, offered her hand to him. “It’s Andrew, isn’t it?”

  He shook her hand, grinning. “My parents re-named me after the adoption, I’m known as Alan.”

  “Alan. My name’s Beryl, I’m Harold, there, I’m his wife. It’s lovely to meet you at long last.” She was lying, not that anybody in the room would know, and she found the whole situation excruciatingly painful. She turned to Harry. “Now, are you going to tell him or shall I?” Harry shook his head, pointing to her, as the smile waned from Alan’s face to confusion. Beryl returned her attention to him and laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, dear! Harold is your natural father.”

  It had taken Alan a few days for him to come to terms with the realities of his birth parents, and, although ecstatic he now knew his heritage completely, it had still been a tough ride taking the scenario on board. He’d got himself drunk on a couple of occasions, trying to block out the endless thoughts which raced through his mind. He’d reasoned, rationed, but most of all, he’d been utterly disgusted at the thought that just two weeks ago, before these truths had opened up, he would gratefully have bedded the woman who was, in fact, his twin sister.

  The three parents had explained the situation regarding Sophie, the plans to emigrate that he already knew of from her, although he hadn’t realised it would be so imminent, the devious blackmail that Darren had entered into, and they’d pleaded with him to try and change Sophie’s mind away from the inevitable road to ruin. He’d balked at the time, but having loosely come to terms with his new family, he knew he had to try and stop her before she made such a terrible mistake.

  Sophie shocked him as she answered his ring on the doorbell, because she was uncommonly laughing. “Oh, hi, Constable Taylor, come in, come in.”

  “You seem very happy today!” His eyes still shone with love, but with strength he’d managed to morph it into a different kind of love.

  She indicated the second sofa and he sat, taking his cap in his hand. “My husband! He said he’d been to see you. Is it true that you gave him the black eyes?” Embarrassed, Alan avoided the question, she rolled her eyes and continued. “He’s a bit jealous, you see, I think because you’re a good-looking guy he saw you as a threat. I’m just pleased he’s at work, it might be a bit awkward if he was here.”

  Pre-warned about Sophie’s refusal to hear any details about her true parentage, Alan knew he had just one chance at finding the right words. “When are you moving?”

  She was still chuckling, her life was obviously a pleasant place for her to be in at this particular point. “Four days now, we leave here in three, stay at the airport hotel, you know, the Radisson at Manchester. Then fly out in the morning. I’m so excited, Constable Taylor.”

  “Please, Sophie, call me Alan. I’m not here with work.” She was briefly startled, why on earth would he be here if it wasn’t regarding a police matter? Maybe there was some truth in Darren’s suspicions. “Sophie,” he was struggling, he had to get his words right, “you said you were expecting a baby.”

  Her tinkling laugh, emphasising her delight in life, rang through the room again, and she patted her tummy lovingly. “I’m fourteen weeks now, nearly half way.”

  “What about your maternity care, I mean, well, I’ve never had a child myself, but surely you need antenatal things, scans, stuff like that?” He was consciously trying not to sound desperate, but it wasn’t working.

  Again, the joy. “Oh, that’s no problem. Darren’s parents have arranged decent insurance that covers everything, they’ve been wonderful. This baby’s only going to have the best!”

  “Sophie. Don’t go.” The desperation was now evident.

  And now her face fell, the smile gone, as irritation surfaced, she was getting fed up of people trying to stop her doing what she wanted to do. “He was bloody right, wasn’t he? You do have feelings for me!”

  “At least tell me where you’ll be staying.”

  “What! And risk getting beaten up again because…” She stopped abruptly. That was the first time she’d ever stated to anybody what was happening behind closed doors, and she realised she’d said too much. “I mean, well, look, I can’t keep in touch, can I. You’re a copper who was called out for some vandalism to the car, if Darren found out I was still in contact with you, he’d blow his stack, and quite rightfully too.”

  “Sophie! I do have feelings for you, it’s true, but not in the way you think.” He struggled to find the right words, and she sensed she shouldn’t interrupt him. His voice lowered. “I’m your brother. I’m your twi
n, and Darren knows it, he was the one who told me…”

  The words floated within her head, tumbling recklessly through her psyche, tormenting her. She couldn’t understand in the slightest why these people kept challenging her family unit. She wasn’t aware of herself screaming, she wasn’t seeing, she wasn’t hearing, and how she got into the bedroom, covers tugged up to her chin, tumbler full of brandy in her hand, she had no idea. She had a vague recollection of a policeman being in the house, but couldn’t remember what he’d said. All she knew was that in four days time she would be away from this place, away from the darkness, the scheming, the hurting.

  Darren, it seemed, had decided to persevere with his attempts of gaining money by extortion, and he was standing, arrogance written across his face, in my flat. “Give me a couple of thousand and I’ll give you our forwarding address, it’s as easy as that!” His pretentiousness was palpable, but still the offer was tempting to me without a plan ‘B’ to fall back upon.

  “I haven’t got any money, Darren! If I had it I’d give it to you.”

  This was the first time I’d ever seen any aggression in him. He towered over me, too close, manner threatening, and his face had twisted into a scowl. “You’re back in touch with ‘Huggable Harold’ and he’s got shed-loads of money. Fucking get him to pay up, you stupid, cranky, old witch! Just remember, Sophie’s my property, and so is that baby, and if you lot don’t show me the readies pretty fucking quick, you’ll never see them again.”

  Now I was scared from the antagonism, intimidated, and I slunk to the phone, sifting through post-it notes and scraps of paper for the number Beryl had passed to me. I dialled. Darren still had a little more vitriol to spit as I waited for an answer. “I’ve got special plans for Sophie, because once she’s had my baby, she’s going to have a big shock.”

  I glared directly into the malicious malevolence that radiated from his yellow eyes. “Harry, it’s Mary.”

  He stopped by the bank on his way to work the morning after the brief telephone conversation and handed me a wad of money, two thousand pounds, having withdrawn it in desperation for his daughter’s welfare, without consulting Beryl: he knew she’d be horrified. I was, I suppose, embarrassingly grateful, promising to contact Darren and pay him for the details we all craved.

  But once Harry had left for his first lecture of the day, I sat at my table and counted the money. The feel of it was wonderful, the crisp, powdery texture, and the smell of dankness that emanated from the used notes. I should give it to Darren. That’s why Harry had given it to me after all. But I’d never seen so much money in my life, never held such a remarkable amount. I ate beans on toast and lived in a freezing flat with ancient furniture, dressing in second hand rags, because my finances were so bad. If Harold Waller had done the decent thing and stuck with me when I was pregnant all those years ago, I would be living the privileged life that Beryl had the pleasure of experiencing. I wouldn’t be poor.

  I debated internally for a while, running the money through my hands, drinking in the texture, the odour, wondering if I could justify keeping it to myself and using my manipulative skills to hit back at Darren Delaney. It was so wrong, but it was also so tempting. Think of all the things I could do with two thousand pounds. Right or wrong, I don’t know, but I made up my mind.

  During our failed attempt to persuade Sophie not to leave England, I had discreetly unclipped the fob from Darren’s key-ring, and now it lay on the table beside the stack of cash. I glanced from one to the other, then resolved to keep the money for myself: it was worth more in my pocket than in Darren’s, and I hoped that, with the personal possession I’d gleaned from him without his knowledge, Sophie would never be a stranger. Stashing the cash in the back of my sideboard drawer for now, I took the crude material effigy of Darren I’d made weeks ago out of boredom, short tufts of brown wool stitched into the head, ochre eyes created with a felt pen, and clipped the fob to its side.

  Harold would never know the truth, he was too gullible, and I could be a good liar.

  Chapter 12

  And Gone

  It had been a busy day for Sophie, the storage company arriving early and taking the furniture to their depot, the garage to collect their cars ready to sell on their behalf, and later, the removals company picking up the boxes they were transporting abroad. Darren had finished working now, but he was nowhere to be seen throughout the chaotic arrangements, having left to see his parents in a borrowed van, their own lives in equal disarray, to ‘discuss plans’. Sophie was too excited to be annoyed, as she would have normally been at such a massive task being thrown onto her shoulders, her only focus was to get all the chores done, and then to look forward to the hotel tonight, the flight tomorrow. Meanwhile, three events were taking place of which she was completely unaware:

  Maureen poured a plastic cup of coffee from a full flask for each of them as the house was being emptied, all items being placed on an articulated lorry for immediate transportation to Mallorca, and they stood, with nowhere left to sit. “I’ve been giving her alcohol, Mam. I’ve done my research. If I tell the doctors she’s got a secret drink problem then they’re more likely to offer withdrawal drugs to the baby when he’s born.”

  She nodded, understanding his meaning. “Are you sure it’s a boy?”

  Darren laughed in his arrogant manner. “Come on, Mam! It’s my baby! Of course it’s a boy!”

  “And you’re quite sure the alcohol won’t damage the child?”

  “Not in the quantities she’s been having. Just enough to register that she’s a drinker, but not enough to cause problems.” He tapped his nose. “I’m being careful, it’s my son, remember!”

  Alan knew he was abusing his position as a constable, but, sometimes, real life mattered more. He’d spent the morning calling round the removals companies in the area, and had finally hit the jackpot when ‘Archies’ reluctantly admitted, pressurised by his status, that they were the company moving Mr and Mrs Delaney’s belongings to Mallorca. However, they refused to give the receiving address without seeing identification. Alan was in the car within seconds, he had no time to lose.

  The building ‘Archie’s Master Removals’ inhabited was a grubby place, grimy, dirty, and Alan began to wonder if they were as professional as their name suggested. He found his way to the main office and requested the man he’d spoken to on the phone, Tony Archival. “I’m PC Taylor, we spoke an hour ago. I have my ID”

  Gruff and dismissing, Archie waved his hand. “I can see your uniform. Why the interest?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, Mr Archival, I’m afraid, but we do need a forwarding address.”

  He wasn’t concerned in the slightest, he didn’t owe the demanding couple anything, their details weren’t something he could be bothered to protect. He scanned through the hand-written list, coffee stained, scuffed, and curled at the edges. “Puerto de Pollenca. The address is,” Archival checked Alan was ready with pen and paper, “Plot one two three, Number two, Calle El Nogel.”

  Determined not to take anything down wrongly, Alan glanced at the paperwork. “Calley?”

  “ It’s pronounced Kiy-yeh, it means street. Is that it?”

  Alan nodded at Archival’s abruptness, resolute that if he were ever fortunate enough to move abroad, ‘Archie’s Master Removals’ would absolutely not be the company he chose to take care of his cherished belongings.

  I was also unaware of Darren’s latest plans, as much as I was unaware of Alan’s success in gaining a forwarding address, so was at a complete loss. I’d spent the morning poring over all the details, and my theft of Harry’s money, and the answers I wanted to see were never there. I know I should have been happy for my birth daughter, pleased that her future appeared so positive, but from what he’d suspiciously said on our last meeting, I had such a gut feeling that Darren had some nasty plans up his sleeve, and I wanted to pre-empt him in some, any, way. Regardless, the bottom line was simple: he was bad news, he didn’t love Sophie the wa
y she thought he did, and somehow, no matter how, this journey had to stop.

  But with just one day to go before they flew across the other side of the Pyrenees, and my determination to keep Harry’s money for myself, it was time to see if this desperate attempt at voodoo idea that I’d been casually thinking about actually worked. I’d bought the book for myself the previous Christmas from the charity shop, never flicked through it or anything, just put it on the shelf for another day. So now I took it down, blew the dust away, and flicked through to the index, searching. I found the chapter that seemed to fit the circumstances most appropriately, ‘Spells for Revenge’, and read through it carefully, taking every word in. Eventually I was ready to give it a try. But first of all I needed a pink-ended pin. I rummaged through my haphazard sewing box, and found the tub of pins, a scrap of pink material from which I cut a small square, and then found the superglue in the kitchen drawer. Attaching the pink to the end of the pin, I was nearly ready, I just needed the ambience in the room to feel right, mysterious, mystical.

  From under the sink in the kitchen, I collected a box of tea-lights, and scattered them around the room, moving the piles of junk aside to make space, lighting them before switching the central light off. Perfect. The tiny flickering flames cast a wonderful spiritual glow throughout.

  Back at the table, I carefully took Darren’s effigy and laid it before me. Slowly, my every thought concentrating on my revengeful wishes, I recited the words from the book, and when the spell was fully vocalised, I took the pink pin, the colour of death, according to the book, and plunged it through the doll’s chest, grinding it from side to side, concentrating, willing evil on the man I hated passionately.