Shattered Lives

by Marian Phair

  “No point in yer tryin’ ter ‘ide it mate, I KNOW yer cut the bleedin’ brake cable, wot I want ter know is WHY?”

  Jimmy had the greatest respect for Charlie and knew if Charlie swore not to tell a soul, wild horses would not drag it out of him. He could trust Charlie with his life, knowing Charlie’s word was his bond.

  Jimmy’s throat had gone dry with fear at Charlie’s words, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Taking a long drink from his pint before speaking, he told Charlie all about the girl, Dr Sam and Melissa. Watching the different expressions flit across Charlie’s face as he related the past events to him, he wondered what Charlie would have to say about his deeds.

  Charlie sat quietly, listening to him, never taking his eyes off Jimmy’s face as he spoke, but all the while thinking, ‘what a turn up for the books’.

  First the problems with Amie and now this with Jimmy, only this was very serious. Melissa could have lost her life over Jimmy’s actions, leaving a widower and a young child, to mourn the passing.

  Jimmy sat relieved, that he had at last unburdened himself to his friend and felt he had been given a second chance to right a wrong. As hateful as Melissa was, he had no right to help someone to end her life.

  Charlie let out a sigh, shaking his head as he looked at Jimmy sipping his pint, “well, don’t worry mate, me lips are sealed.” Charlie pulled an imaginary zip across his mouth, “it seems ter me, yer ain’t faught fings frew. Wot ‘appens when ole doc Morrison realises ‘is plan ain’t worked and ‘e finks ‘e will ‘ave bumped orf Melissa.” Charlie stubbed his cigar out angrily, grinding it into the foil ashtray, wishing he had never let himself get involved with Jimmy and his problems. Charlie knew one thing for sure, once filming was over, he never wanted to see Jimmy Brown again.

  The thought of what Jimmy had put that young girl through made Charlie’s blood boil, and right now all he wanted to do was give Jimmy a fat lip. He deserved all he had coming to him and he, Charlie Makepeace, would not lift a finger in his defense.

  Charlie knew he could not go to the law and tell them about the attempted murder of Melissa. He had given Jimmy his word, beside, other than the brake cable on the stunt car being cut through, he had no real proof that Jimmy was telling him the truth. He could not warn Melissa either, but he intended keeping a close eye on that weasel Dr Samuel Morrison.

  “‘E should be strung up by ‘is balls,” Charlie said out loud.

  “Who are you talking about Charlie?” Jimmy asked, “Who should be strung up by his balls?”

  “That bleedin’ Morrison, wot calls ‘imself a doctor,” growled Charlie, “doctor my arse!, a doctor is supposed ter save lives, not take ‘em,” he continued, “murdering little nippers, wot never asked ter be born in the first place.” Charlie saw the startled look on Jimmy’s face.

  “You can’t call them babies Charlie, they are fetuses, not fully developed when he……..

  “You shut yer bleedin’ chops,” shouted Charlie never giving Jimmy a chance to finish, “I’ve read all abaht it mate. By nine weeks, it’s got its ‘ead, eyes, ears and, its little limbs are formed and fer gawds sake, yer can see the little ‘ands, an‘ feet and bastards like yer Samuel Morrison, are getting rid ‘ov these little ‘uns, after free munfs.” Charlie brought his fist down hard on the table, stressing his point, causing his unfinished pint to spill over its surface. Oblivious, he carried on, “and you,” he pointed an accusing finger at Jimmy, “‘ave ‘elped ‘im murder yer own little nipper, fink abaht that. I don’t know ‘ow the ‘ell you lot sleep at night, straight up, I don’t.”

  Charlie was suddenly aware that people were watching them, but his blood was up now and he could not have cared less.

  “Wot you bleedin’ lot gawking at?” He shouted. They turned their heads away, embarrassed at his remark.

  Charlie turned his attention back on Jimmy, letting him know in no uncertain terms, how he felt about this subject.

  “I dun no yer, that’s a fact, but know this, I won’t give yer away, yer ‘ave me word on that. As far as being mates, it’s over, I wouldn’t piss on yer if yer wos on fire, not after wot yer did ter that young kid.” With that said, Charlie rose to his feet, making his way out.

  Brushing past the people at the bar, who were waiting to be served, he could feel their eyes on him, as he crossed the room. Reaching the door, he spun round and stuck two fingers up at them.

  Seeing this, the barman called out in Spanish, “Fuera de mi vista, Gordon carbon.” He felt brave, with all the locals watching and thinking Charlie would not understand the insult. To everyone’s surprise, Charlie turned, angry at being told to get out and being called a fat bastard. After all the money he had spent in here over the past months, he shouted so that everyone could hear. “Gilipollas! Tu cerveza sabe a orina de Viego!”

  The barman’s face was a picture to behold, when one of the locals cheered Charlie’s retort with a loud ‘Bravo’! Letting Charlie know that he agreed with him, that the beer tasted like old men’s urine. He laughed at Charlie’s east end accent and the emphasis Charlie had put on the word ‘wanker.’ Slamming the door behind him, Charlie strode off into the night.

  Reaching the beach, he stood for a few moments, breathing deeply, needing to clear his head. Taking in the cool night air, he pulled it down into his lungs and released it slowly, calming himself down with every breath. Having regained his composure, he went in search of a lift back to Rojo Tejado.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Amie Richardson is it,” said the nun eyeing Amie through the grid in the door, “why weren’t we told to expect you? And where is this Father O’Leary? One of the fathers usually accompanies the girls who are sent here to the Magdalene?” She said looking at Amie suspiciously.

  “I had to walk the entire way from the village,” Amie lied, “through the bog road and the wood, since the only other road here is blocked by the recent landslide.” Amie kept her fingers crossed behind her back, hoping the nun would swallow her story, “the good Father could not walk so far, owing to the arthritis in his legs, and he told me he has to prepare to take High Mass. He could not spare the time and there was no one else to bring me here.” Amie hoped she sounded convincing, she needed to get into the shelter of the convent, as she was slowly freezing out here. To make matters worse, if they could get any worse, it had started to snow.

  If Amie had only known then, what lay in store for her behind those convent walls, she would have turned tail and made off into the wood, as fast as her legs could carry her. Right now she was blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.

  The face disappeared and the grid closed. Amie heard the rattle of keys and what sounded like heavy bolts being drawn back, then the heavy wooden door opened, just wide enough for her to squeeze through.

  With her battered suitcase held in front of her and holding the baby’s hold all behind her back, she squeezed past the nun, who was still holding onto the door. It was closed behind her, as soon as she had gone through its opening.

  She had to stand and wait while the door was secured again.

  “Follow me,” the nun said, leading the way up the path. The snow was falling heavier now, the flakes settling down a carpet of white.

  The old nun walked slowly, leaning heavily on her cane. Amie noticed she had a very pronounced limp, as if one of her legs was much shorter than the other. At this rate she thought it would be next year before we ever get inside.

  Once inside the convent, the nun left her standing in a large flag-stoned hallway, which had several doors leading off from it. Eventually, another nun appeared and as she approached, Amie could see she was much younger than the other nun, and not half as stern looking.

  She would have been very pretty at one time, but the livid scar, which ran from her forehead to her chin, on the left side of her face, took away her good looks. It was a pleasant face, nonetheless.

  Introducing herself to Amie she said, “I am Sister Bridget, if you come with me I wil
l get you sorted out, there are a few questions I need to ask you about yourself, and the situation you find yourself in. There are a few forms to fill out, but we will deal with that later.”

  Amie followed Sister Bridget up a flight of stairs, along a corridor and through a door at the end. She found herself in a large dormitory. The iron bedsteads, with horsehair mattresses, had been placed on either side of the room, with a small bedside cabinet separating each one. The bare wooden floorboards had been scrubbed until they were almost white. Amie mentally counted the number of beds in the room, there were fifteen beds on each side and only three were unmade, the lumpy mattresses showing stains on the worn stripped covers. There would be no privacy here.

  “This will be your bed and this is your locker.” Sister Bridget told her, pointing to an empty bed, immediately on the left side of the door, “I will get you some bed linen. We keep the clean linen in a cupboard in the corridor, which is kept locked and each dormitory has its own linen cupboard. The sheets are changed once a week and clean ones will be handed out then and at no other time, for whatever reason. We ‘top-and-tail’ them here, which means, the sheet you have lain on gets washed, the one that covered you, you will then lie on, with the clean sheet going on top. Wait here,” she commanded.

  Sister Bridget left the room, returning a few minutes later with a rough grey blanket, two cotton sheets and a pillowcase. She handed them to Amie telling her to leave them on her bed; she could make it up later.

  “Where will I leave my suitcase and hold all when I have unpacked my things?” Amie asked. Looking at the size of the small cupboard, it seemed half of her things would have to remain in her suitcase. There was nothing but bare boards under the beds, so it was obvious nothing was kept under them.

  “You won’t need anything you have brought with you, other than a hairbrush, comb, and a toothbrush, so you can remove them now, and put them in your locker.” Sister Bridget snapped at her, “You will be given everything else you need later. Now, do as I say and then come with me and bring the rest of your luggage with you.”

  Amie did not like the way she was being ordered about, as if she was a naughty child, who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Why were they taking away her things? Amie positioned herself in front of the cupboard, with her back to Sister Bridget, so the sister could not see what she was doing. She removed the silver hairbrush and comb set that Charlie had given her for the baby and pushed it to the back of the cupboard that Sister Bridget referred to as a ‘locker.’ Then she removed her own hairbrush and comb, from the suitcase, along with her toothpaste and toothbrush and placed them in front of the baby’s things. Amie was taken downstairs and shown where to leave her luggage.

  Sister Bridget led her to the shower room, where she handed Amie a bar of carbolic soap and a rough towel, and ordered her to take a shower.

  “You can leave the clothes you are wearing, on the wooden stool beside the door.” Sister Bridget informed her, “I will take them away and leave you your uniform, and you may keep your own shoes for the time being.” Sister Bridget went out of the shower room, leaving Amie more bewildered than ever.

  Amie could not understand why she was being treated in such a manner, as if she was a criminal, but it must be the same for every other woman here, she thought. She realised there had to be some rules to follow, some regime, judging by the number of beds in the dormitory, which was set out like an army barracks. Amie decided she had better go with the flow.

  She sat down on the stool and removed her trainers, tucking her socks into the toes, and then placed them under her seat. She stood shivering on the cold tiled floor, as she stripped off her clothes and placed them in a neat pile on the stool. She quickly stepped under the nearest shower, turning on the big chrome tap, which was shaped like a ships wheel, only without the outer rim. It required considerable force to turn it, hurting her hand and leaving its imprint on her palm. The water was tepid and the smell from the carbolic soap, made her feel nauseous. She washed as quickly as she could using her hands as a flannel. Turning off the tap, she reached for the towel to dry herself, wrapping it around her chest and tucking in the end to fasten it. She bent over, lowering her head and throwing her long curly tresses over her face; she gathered her hair between her hands and gently wrung the water out. Then using her fingers as a comb, she ran them through her wet hair, trying to remove the tangles.

  “There will be no need for that,” a voice spoke behind her.

  Startled Amie looked up, removing the wet hair from her face. She was looking into the face of the ugliest woman she had ever seen. The small ‘piggy eyes’ were sunk way back in her head, looking like chips of coal. Her fat cheeks were lined with red veins and she had a cruel twist to her mouth. Her lips were so thin; they looked more like a slash in her fat ugly face. She had a huge hairy mole on her chin.

  “Sit!” she ordered Amie, banging a wooden chair down on the tiled floor in front of her. Sister Bridget stood off to one side, a neat pile of clothes in her hands. She nodded her head to Amie, looking at her and then the chair, letting her know with her eyes it would be wise to do as she was told.

  Defiant, Amie looked into the ugly face of the nun and drawing herself up to her full height, she let the nun know that she had had enough of this carry on. She had no intentions of complying with the order she gave her.

  “I am not a dog to be told to, ‘sit’!” Amie said, “And unless I am told the reason why, I won’t.” Let the old bugger do her worst, she thought what harm could she do to her.

  Amie would soon find out. As ‘ugly,’ left the shower room, Sister Bridget turned to Amie, a look of pity on her face.

  “You should have done as Sister Mary asked, you will hurt no one only yourself, if you go on like this,” she told Amie, placing the clothes she carried onto the stool.

  “Go on like what?” protested Amie, “I am entitled to be treated with some dignity, I am not an animal and I refuse to be treated like one.” Before Sister Bridget could respond, Sister Mary returned and with her were two equally stern faced nuns.

  “We have a trouble maker here, in this one,” she told them. “Someone who thinks she is so special, she has to be treated differently than the rest of the women here.” Sister Mary moved up close to Amie as she spoke to the other nuns.

  “Now SIT!” she bellowed in Amie’s ear, grabbing her by the hair and twisting it around her hand, forcing Amie’s head back. Sister Mary had moved so quickly, that Amie had been taken completely by surprise. She forced Amie onto a chair. Her grip on Amie’s hair was so tight; Amie feared it would be pulled out at the roots. Telling the two other nuns to hold her down, Sister Mary relaxed her grip on Amie’s hair and before Amie realised what was happening, her hands were pulled behind the back of her chair and held there, while her wrists were bound.

  Despite her struggling, she was held down firmly in the chair by the two nuns. Sister Mary opened the box she had brought with her, taking out the scissors inside, she proceeded to cut off Amie’s long auburn locks, keeping as close to the scalp as possible.

  Amie gave up struggling, realising it was futile. Her arms ached, the back of the chair was digging painfully into her shoulder blades and her hands felt as if the blood supply had been cut off to them. She watched her hair fall to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks, as Sister Mary hacked it off. Her ordeal was not over yet. Putting away the scissors, Sister Mary took out a razor and shaved off what little hair Amie had left. She bent her head and whispered in Amie’s ear, “Well my little beauty, you should see yourself now, what man I wonder would fancy lying down with a shorn lamb?” She giggled insanely as she left the room; leaving Amie still tied up to the chair, followed, by the other two nuns who had held her down while she suffered this humiliation, leaving Amie alone with Sister Bridget.

  “Don’t worry child, your hair will soon grow back again and it will be prettier than before,” Sister Bridget told her, as she untied Amie’s hands and rubbed at her swoll
en wrists to bring the circulation back to them.

  Amie looked down at her swollen hands, seeing the red marks round her wrists where the binding had cut into them. The pain was even greater now the life was returning to them, than when they were bound.

  “Here are the clothes I brought you, it would be best to put them on now,” said Sister Bridget, handing Amie the pile of clothes and taking her by the arm helped her to her feet, steering her away from the shorn locks on the floor. “From now on, you will no longer answer to the name of Amie Richardson, you will be known as Bernadette, after the Saint…

  Amie lay exhausted on the hard mattress, yet sleep would not come to her. All around her were sounds of slumber from her equally exhausted roommates. She buried her face into her pillow to muffle her sobs and wept bitterly. This was not the safe haven she had thought it to be, this place was HELL! Hell, run by demons, who called themselves, “Sisters of Mercy,” Mercy, they did not know the meaning of the word. The only nun who had even shown her a spark of human decency, was Sister Bridget, as for Sister Mary, the woman positively enjoyed torturing the women in her charge.

  Amie still bore the mark on her cheek where she had been back-handed by Sister Mary that morning. Amie had burnt her hand on the flatbed ironer, as she helped another inmate fold the sheet, which had been fed through its big heavy rollers by two women at the other end.

  She had asked for some salve for the burn. She had been sent along to see Sister Bridget, who was in charge of such things, to get it attended to, when she had the misfortune to cross Sister Mary’s path.