By the time he got rid of the Chairwoman of the Women’s Institute, who had some silly questions about the Harvest Supper, he had no idea what he had been writing about, so had to read his five sentences all over again. He’d just got to the end when he heard the mail plop through the letterbox and onto the hall carpet. He pushed away his chair and hurried into the hall to get his letters before his housekeeper reached them first. Otherwise she’d flick through each one, telling him who they were from and asking annoying questions. Not prying exactly, more wanting to keep up to date with goings on in the vicarage. At least that’s what she would say by way of explanation.
He placed the unopened letters on the edge of his desk and bent to his sermon. But he kept seeing the post out of the corner of his eye. Kept wondering who the letters were from and what they were about. Realising he wouldn’t get another word written until he knew the contents of the correspondence, he once more put down his pen and grabbed them eagerly with one hand while reaching for his letter opener with another.
But after all that they were a little disappointing, an electricity bill, which the parish paid for, a reminder that his car needed a service and a request for a christening. For good measure Mr Soames had sent him a note asking if he wanted to be part of a Football Pools syndicate. Stupid man. Didn’t Soames realise he was a member of God’s syndicate? He couldn’t be seen to be openly gambling.
Sighing in frustration at the idiocy of some of his congregation, he once more picked up his pen, determined to write his sermon. He was just mouthing the next few words, when there was a knock at his study door. Before he could speak it was flung open and in walked his housekeeper, Mrs Hardy. At this third interruption he nearly threw his pen at her, but caught himself just in time. He couldn’t have her gossiping about him throughout the Parish, telling people of his indiscretions, so he tightened his grip on the pen and forced a smile onto his lips.
‘Yes, Mrs Hardy? What is it?’ He couldn’t help snapping a little, his tone conveying his exasperation.
‘Just brought your coffee, Father. It’s just how you like it, made with hot milk.’ The cup rattled in the saucer as she carried it across the room. She hadn’t seemed to notice his brusque tone, she was probably used to it after many years of looking after him. She continued speaking, ‘I’ve put a couple of fig biscuits on the side. I know how much you like them.’
In fact Father Chumley had rather gone off them since she’d started giving them to him morning, noon and night. He’d tried to tell her that he fancied a change, but she hadn’t yet taken the hint.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hardy,’ he said, as she placed the milky brew on his desk, hoping she’d leave straightaway. But she didn’t. She started chatting aimlessly about her excursion to the market that morning.
‘And because I went early,’ she said to him, ‘I managed to get some really good fresh vegetables for your dinner this evening. Then, I was just looking through some aprons, for in truth the one I have is becoming rather threadbare and it has a few stains on it that I just can’t seem to get out,’ she paused and scratched away at a part of her apron, before recovering herself. ‘Anyway, sorry, got a bit side tracked there for a moment. What I wanted to say was that you’ll never guess who I saw across the way in the market. I saw her but I don’t think she saw me.’
Father Chumley looked suitably perplexed.
‘It was that girl you used to help,’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘It was quite a few years ago now, I suppose. Doesn’t time fly? Anyway as I was saying, I’m sure it was her. Same ginger hair and green eyes. What was her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue... oh yes, Matilda, that’s it. That lovely girl Matilda, you know the one who you counselled for ages. You tried to help her, the poor orphan. She looks stunning now, mind you, if it was her that is. What’s the matter, Father?’
Father Chumley had managed to stop her flood of words by coughing, very loudly, several times.
‘Oh, yes, sorry, Father, I’d best let you get on,’ she took the hint and much to his relief turned away from his desk and walked out of the study, closing the door behind her.
To begin with, as Mrs Hardy had been talking, Father Chumley thought that someone had opened a window, allowing freezing cold air to pour across his neck and shoulders. It enveloped his back like dry ice, sending shivers down it. Shivers that were equally frightening and equally thrilling. For Matilda had been the most delicious young girl and it seems she was still as striking now as she had been back then. It had been a privilege to have her, to mould her, to make her his own. But of course, if the truth be told, the privilege had been all hers. He had chosen her over many other girls in the orphanage. She’d been blessed by his attention, by the hours she’d spent in his company.
But then the dread set in, that cold shiver of concern. She had always been a bit headstrong, his Matilda, more difficult to break than the others. He wondered what she was doing in the area. Thought how strange it was that she should be shopping in the market just a few hundred yards from his house. He wondered if she was looking for him, but why would she be? Could she....? No, not possibly. She couldn’t be here to hurt him. To pay him back for the things he’d done when she was young, surely not. She must miss him. Yes, that would be it, Father Chumley decided. Yearn for him. Need to be with him. For hadn’t he looked after her so diligently?
And so he squashed his dread, unable to entertain the possibility that Matilda could want to harm him. For why should she? He had loved her so.
Four
Peter left the house the next morning, forgetting to kiss Louise goodbye, intent as he was on returning to his beloved barracks. But for once it didn’t seem to matter as much as it normally did. For today Louise had something she needed to do for once. As soon as Peter was out of the house, she clattered down the basement steps to retrieve the book from the chest. A flutter of excitement brewed within her, something she’d not felt for a very long time. For any excitement she’d once felt about Peter being in the army, had morphed into dread somewhere along the years. What people had failed to realise, namely her family and her husband, was that she was a particularly solitary person, shy and introspective. She wasn’t sure if it was in her nature, or just the way her nomadic childhood had moulded her. So all the new this and new that terrified her more than it would a ‘normal’ army wife. At times she felt as though she should walk a few steps behind Peter, not out of some religious respect, but so that he could shield her from people. Shield her from life.
As she opened the lid of the chest and unwrapped the book from the silk scarf, a shaft of light fell on the red cover, from a small window set high in the wall. Louise fancied the gold lettering was glowing, welcoming her back. She grabbed the book from the chest and held it close, relieved that it was still safe. Already it was beginning to feel like an old friend.
All yesterday afternoon she’d tensed every time Peter had gone into the cellar, worried in case he found the book. He couldn’t, he simply couldn’t. If he had, she was afraid he would have tossed it away, seeing it as just another piece of rubbish to be thrown out in his constant quest to clean up his life. And if that had happened she knew she wouldn’t have put up a fight. She would have just meekly agreed with him and then secretly retrieved it later on.
She sat down on the concrete steps, but the temperature in the cellar left a lot to be desired and goose bumps were forming on her bare arms. It was too cold to read in the cellar and too uncomfortable, so she tucked the book under her arm and climbed the stairs.
To draw out the anticipation of reading the next entry from Matilda, Louise went into the kitchen. Placing the book carefully on the kitchen table, she cleared away the breakfast things and stacked the dishwasher, all the while her eyes flitting back to the book. When she could take the expectation no longer, she poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed it off the table. Walking into the sitting room, she curled up in a floral armchair, placed her china cup on a small wooden table nearby and read on....
F
ive
It took some searching, but eventually I found the first person who had mistreated me all those years ago, the one that had started this whole chain of events. He’d moved away but the organisation he represented was very helpful and as a result I managed to track his movements around the country. He’d stayed a few months here, a few years there. And then, by a stroke of fate, yes fate not luck, for I truly believed it was meant to be, I found out he’d moved back to this area. Near to the place where it had all started. Not knowing that he had come full circle. Not knowing that his beginning would turn out to be his end.
I drove to his house, trying my best to contain my excitement, for there was no place within me for emotion that night. I knew I must be as cold and calculating as my victim was. I could look forward to enjoying the fruits of my labour afterwards.
My plan was to wait until late at night. Wait until I was confident he was alone. I would then be his last ever visitor. As darkness fell, from across the street, I watched his housekeeper leave, buttoning up her coat against the chill night air as she hurried home. I wondered if she knew what he was on the inside, knew his secret. Surely she mustn’t. For how could she continue to work for him if she did? Or at least that was what I hoped.
Then several people arrived. It appeared they were there for a meeting. They came in dribs and drabs and gathered in the lounge, sitting on an assortment of chairs, sofas and even a piano stool. I could see them talking, laughing and making notes through the open curtains. I watched them drink tea and coffee. A few looked like they’d welcome something stronger, but they didn’t seem to be offered it. Did the motley crew realise they were being observed? Did they have any inkling that the whole street could see them? They were displayed as brightly as any television screen for my amusement as I sat watching them. But really my eyes were only on him. They locked onto their target like a heat seeking missile and would not be deflected. This time the tables would be turned. This time he was mine. I would be his victim no longer.
It was two hours before they left, by which time I was beyond cold, not wanting to turn the engine on in the car in case it drew attention to my vigil. Luckily I’d worn warm clothes and also brought an old travelling rug I’d found in the attic of the house. The flask of coffee I’d packed had been most welcome, but by then it was empty. I would have to wait until it was time to get out of the car to bring any feeling back to my hands and feet.
I continued to watch his visitors as they passed around coats, hats, gloves and scarves. They struggled into their winter garments, girding their loins, ready for the cold night air. They called to one another and waved goodbye as they left the house and walked away, their breath pluming out and then dissolving in the cold night air. Their words disappeared into the ether, empty platitudes that held no substance. They climbed into cars and with engines roaring and exhausts trembling, their vehicles pulled away. The sound of their engines faded into the distance, until they could be heard no more and the street returned to its previously quiet state.
And still I waited.
I watched him through his window as he did a bit of desultory tidying up after their departure, no doubt preferring to leave the chore for the housekeeper in the morning. My eyes followed him into the next room, the kitchen, where he began to make what appeared to be a mug of coco. He fussed over the milk, making sure he had exactly the right quantity in the pan. He carefully spooned in three level teaspoons of coco powder, scraping the top of each one with a knife. Then he set the pan on the stove. Maybe he had trouble sleeping and needed the soothing brew to help him relax. I laughed mirthlessly to myself. If anyone should be an insomniac it should be him. After what he did to me and goodness knows how many other innocent girls, how could he possibly sleep at night? Maybe he replayed the memories of what he had done to us as his head lay on his pillow. We were the ones who kept him company, warmed his empty bed and made him smile. Took him by the hand and led him to the land of dreams.
I climbed out of my car and after stamping my feet to get some feeling back into them, walked up to his house. I knocked on his door. The bang of the knocker reverberated through the wood, the hollow sound echoing through the house. I experienced no nerves, no qualms about what I was about to do. I knew I was morally justified. He was an evil man who needed to be wiped off the face of the earth.
He opened the door confidently, appearing to not be afraid of whoever it was calling. I supposed he would be used to people arriving late at night, in his line of work, people who required his services, for an ill or infirmed relative who was about to take their final breath. He looked at me, framed in his open door. I stood there, staring back at him. Not speaking. After the initial shock, as my face was dragged up from the annals of his memory, he invited me in, the pleasure of my unexpected visit evident in his reptilian face.
‘Oh my,’ he said. ‘Matilda. Is it really you? Tilly? Come in, come in.’ His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth to lick his lips. His already protruding eyes bulged. He must have assumed I had missed his sexual advances and come back for more, as that’s where the social niceties ended. But let’s face it he never was much of a conversationalist, at least not with me.
Closing the door behind us, he immediately turned and lurched for me, arms outstretched, eyes gleaming. No doubt he was hoping I was as eager as he. He must have been seeing in his mind’s eye how I had looked when I was many years younger. But I was no longer a young girl and I was ready for him. As he bore down on me, I brought my knee up to collide with his groin. The pain must have enraged him, for instead of collapsing to the ground so I could break his skull with the rock in my pocket, as I’d anticipated, he grabbed my hair and smashed my face into a mirror hanging on the hall wall. Then he seemed to take great delight in grinding my cheek into the glass, cutting my face to ribbons. That nonchalant cruel act scarred me for life on the outside, as he had already scarred me for life on the inside.
When he eventually let go of my hair, having grown tired of the sport, I stooped down, picked up a shard of glass from the broken mirror that had fallen to the floor and plunged it into his eye. Not stopping until it was driven all the way into his brain. The shock on his face was the most pleasing thing I had ever seen. As his mind closed down and ceased to function, so did his body, crumpling in a heap at my feet. I stepped over his lifeless corpse and left the vicarage. Head held high, triumphant. Father Chumley, the priest who had been the first person to abuse me, could hurt me no more.
Six
Louise closed the book, shocked by what she’d just read. How easily killing had seemed to come to Matilda. Louise thought about killing someone, committing murder. She turned the thought this way and that in her mind. Felt the taste as she mouthed the words written in the book. She read again about the unspeakable act. Then pondered some more. Who could blame Matilda, she decided. Who could stand in judgement of her? It appeared that the vicar had sexually abused Matilda. He had been a paedophile, one of that ugly breed of men who were more and more being exposed. Public figures, celebrities, men who should have lived up to the trust placed in them by their young fans, were being unmasked for the beasts they were. It was always on the news, the list growing daily. Their disgusting ways had been brought to light, even though the events had happened 20, 30, or even 40 years ago. The time frame no longer mattered. No matter how long ago their transgressions, they were being made to pay for their atrocities.
But shining a spotlight on such acts probably wasn’t the case in Matilda’s time, Louise reasoned. She knew from the recent trials, that in the 1960’s and 1970’s sexual outrages against minors was just something that happened. Vulnerable victims were from children’s homes, orphanages or even those lying ill in bed in hospital. Everyone seemed to know about it, but no one did anything to stop it. There seemed to have been little thought for the victims. People had just shrugged and accepted that it was just the way things were.
The ringing of her mobile phone interrupted Louise’s thoughts of Ma
tilda and she picked it up from where it lay next to her now empty coffee cup. She saw skin had formed on the dribble left in the bottom of the delicate, floral painted, china cup. She must have been reading and then lost in thought for some time.
‘Hello, darling,’ Peter’s sugar smooth voice said. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be home late tonight.’
‘Oh,’ Louise said and although she knew that she shouldn’t question him, she couldn’t help asking, ‘Why?’
‘Just something on at the Officers’ Mess,’ he replied casually.
‘You never mentioned it before,’ Louise pressed him. She wanted to prod him, so he would realise how his absence that evening would make her feel. But she only succeeded in needling him.
‘No,’ he replied, the silky tone gone now. ‘It must have slipped my mind.’
Louise focused on the red velvet curtains they’d hung a few days ago. A warm colour that should have injected atmosphere into the room, but at that moment all Louise could do was shiver at the coldness behind Peter’s words. The room was no longer restful and comforting but cold and empty. She knew that nothing ever slipped his mind. He was a bloody soldier. They didn’t do slipped minds. Especially not soldiers of his rank. You didn’t get to the rank of Colonel by forgetting things.
‘This one’s not for wives, then?’ Her tone was light. But she’d pushed him too far.
‘Don’t wait up,’ he said and cut the call.
In an instant he was gone, the call having lasted less than a minute. There had been no thought as to how she was. No wanting to know what she was doing with her day. He hadn’t asked if she was she happy, sad, lonely. She thought that Peter was probably the most selfish man she had ever met.
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 2
