But Mortimer’s hand is like a boulder upon the back of my skull and the mud is a river and I am drowning. His thighs are pressing into my kidneys; I am all pain and panic and suffocation.
“Whore,” his voice is against my ear, breath warm, moist.
Gripping my hair, he wrenches my head back so that I am looking up into his upside down face. The muscles in my neck screech and I gasp. Slowly, taking immense pleasure in my fear, he wraps his other hand around my throat.
I splutter and breathe, splutter and breathe. I can breathe once more but my panic does not recede. Mortimer is smiling but from my viewpoint he looks like a sad clown with mad, mad eyes. I know what he is about to do.
Still holding my throat, he releases my hair and runs his hand lightly down my back, pausing just above my buttocks. He inhales sharply and I feel his heat pressing down on me: hard, hot, pulsating, terrifying.
I begin to cry, wish I could pass out as his hand kneads my flesh through my dress and his breathing grows raw, ragged, fast. His hand is moving again, moving down, tracing a light path down my thigh, my calf.
“Lissssbeth,” he moans.
I squeeze my thighs together, trembling, as he rolls my skirts up inch by inch.
“Such beauty,” he murmurs.
He abruptly releases my throat, which is at once a relief and a threat. I turn my left cheek against the mud so that I can breathe and close my eyes willing it to be over. I despise this feeling of helplessness; hate myself in this moment, my own weakness.
A memory of Christmas, of Charles and I walking hand in hand towards the church, snow melting beneath our boots, wetting our hair, holly shimmering, Venus beaming. Tears flow down my cheeks. It was the night Charles proposed. I remember his expression; his joy, hope, fear all moulded into one vulnerable, loving gaze. There were tears in his eyes and his hands shook.
A hand grasps my bare upper thigh. I gasp, the memory shattered. Tense, bracing for savagery.
“Ah Lissssbeth,” he moans.
He cries out and rips my skirts, tearing them up to my lower back and then his hands are on my hip bones, fingers digging in, ripping at my underwear. I struggle and scream and try to push myself up, to buck him off my back, but he is too strong, too heavy, too vicious. Please no, please no! I am sobbing, writhing around in the mud and he is laughing, enjoying my fear, enjoying the power.
And then he is no longer on my back. For a second I dare not dare to hope and I lie there, waiting for him to attack, but nothing happens.
Turning, I see Mortimer crawling away from me, a trickle of blood down his cheek, heading towards the shot gun. A hand touches my shoulder and I glance up to see Jojo. Jojo! I cannot believe he is here, but I react quickly.
“Gun,” I croak pointing to the grey tree.
Jojo’s eyes widen. Leaping over me, he darts forward and jumps onto Mortimer’s back, wrapping his arms around the bigger man’s shoulders. Mortimer rolls, slamming Jojo into the ground and winding him.
Though muscular, Jojo weighs nothing compared to Mortimer who pins him down and begins to thump him in the face. Jojo struggles, thrusting upwards with his hips, kicking his legs, but his fight is leaving him.
I try to stand but my body will not work. Throwing myself onto my hands and knees I crawl towards them as fast as I can.
Mortimer abruptly ceases to pummel Jojo’s face, turns and reaches for the shotgun.
Jojo’s head is lolling from side to side, his face red with blood. Mortimer touches the gun as I lunge forward and throw my arms about his neck. He gasps and the gun falls away from his bloodied hand. Laughing, he wrenches me off his back and tosses my broken body onto the ground.
Standing, he strides forward, picks up the gun, turns to face me and points the gun at my waist. I glance at Jojo. His head no longer moves and his eyes are shut, but his chest quickly rises and falls; he is still alive.
Mortimer blows me a kiss and whispers, “I am going to shoot you in the stomach, shoot your friend in the face and then take you whilst you bleed. Are you ready Lisssbeth darling?”
He is panting, but smiling, grinning wickedly into my eyes.
I stare at him boldly and drag myself to my feet. I am shaking from head to foot but I want to be on his eye level when I die.
Inhaling sharply I say, “If you think that this is what will bring you true happiness Mortimer, then do it.”
He blinks, confusion and uncertainty washing over his face. But in the next moment he recovers.
Raising the gun slowly, eyes never leaving mine he smirks, “Sweet Lissssbeth.”
I take a step towards him. His eyes widen in surprise, but his finger presses on the trigger.
Hands push me down as the bullet explodes from the gun. As I fall, I am aware that Jojo’s hands are on my waist and something wet is on my face. I feel the pain of falling onto the hard ground, but instantly know that I have not been shot. Jojo has.
I see Mortimer smile and then I see Charles behind him holding the rolling pin. Charles! My husband hits Mortimer once, twice, thrice, very hard on the back of the head and Mortimer’s shocked face falls straight to the dirt.
“Charles!” I shout stumbling and crying, trying to run to him.
Eyes wide, he runs forward and envelops me in his arms. I breathe in his unique smell, savour the feel of his body pressed against mine, the familiar sound of his breathing.
Gently, he cups my face in his hands and stares in wonder into my eyes, “My Lisbeth, my love, can it be true?”
“Yes!” I cry, laughing and crying at once, “I am me once again. I am back. I am yours.”
Silent tears roll down his cheeks and he kisses me, hugging me tightly, not wanting to let go. I hug him back, staring up into his eyes, hungrily kissing his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his ears, his chin.
I long to curl up beside him and be with him, tell him how much I love him, how much I missed him, but Jojo needs help.
Reluctantly, Charles kisses my forehead, releases me and gingerly picks up Jojo’s bleeding body.
“What about Mortimer?” I ask as Charles turns.
“I shall come back for him as soon as we get this young man safely to the cottage,” says Charles, his gentle eyes never leaving mine.
Worry flits cross my mind, but nothing is as important as making sure Jojo lives. With one last glance at Mortimer’s unconscious form, Charles and I hurry home.
EPILOGUE
HOPE
Dear Reverend,
I hope you and Jojo are well. We three are spectacularly well at present. Charles and I thoroughly enjoyed your visit last month, and I am happy to say that Clara in particular enjoyed seeing Jojo again!
Blackened Cottage is coming along splendidly and very shortly, if the weather holds, the outer walls shall be completed. Indeed, we shall have to rename the house Whitened Cottage!
Clara is well; her confidence grows daily and she pays regular visits to her Grandmother. Unfortunately, Sorcha’s health has taken a rapid decline this last month and I fear the poor girl shall have another great loss to contend with. However, Charles and I shall take care of her and keep her as busy as we possibly can.
Jean-Bernard visited this week and it was a pleasure to see him. He is such a charming, kind-hearted man. How funny it is to think that once both you and I believed him to be an individual of the worst kind!
On a less positive note, I must confess that I am still having the nightmares. He is out there somewhere, and until he is caught and locked up, I shall never rest easy. Charles reassures me every day that Mortimer has gone and will never return, but when night comes, my mind haunts me with possibilities too horrid to mention. I suppose all that I can hope for is that they catch him soon.
Now, I shall end this short letter with some exceedingly happy news. Charles and I have just discovered that I am with child! Words cannot express our joy. I know already that the baby is a girl. I can sense her. Charles and I have discussed names and have decided upon Hope. Clara too is extre
mely excited to have a little sister.
Please visit again very soon. We have a great favour to ask of you, which I am sure you can guess! Give our love to Jojo, my guardian angel.
Your loving friend,
Lisbeth
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I cannot take credit for the sermon ‘Thou Shalt Love Thy Neighbour’, which was delivered by the famous nineteenth century preacher Charles Spurgeon.
Many thanks to my family for their encouragement and advice, in particular to Steve Richards for helping to edit and format Blackened Cottage.
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