Shattered Lives

by Marian Phair

  Sarah Morrison sat opposite her husband, sipping her coffee and watching him as he ate the omelette she had made him for breakfast.

  “I have asked you time and time again to get the well filled in.”

  Dr Sam had a funny way of holding his fork, looping the handle through two fingers; he ate, carefully avoiding getting any, on his moustache and beard.

  “Someone has been in our garden and thrown some rubbish into it. Have you had anyone here, whilst I was away?” Sarah asked him.

  “What are you talking about woman, no one comes into the garden, and our nearest neighbour is a half mile away. No, no-one has been here,” he muttered, past a mouthful of omelette.

  “Well, I am telling you that someone has been here. I tried to see what had been thrown down into the well, but it is so deep and unsafe I was afraid of falling in.” She helped herself to a slice of buttered toast off the plate, before continuing, “It looks like a handbag of some sort, with some bandages and other bits and pieces.”

  She studied him closely, knowing when he was lying. After all these years living with him, she knew him as well as she knew the back of her own hand. He didn’t think she knew him at all and she made sure she kept it that way. She’d had her suspicions, for some time now, that he was seeing another woman, but she would bide her time and wait for the right moment, to tell him what she had found.

  A lipstick in the bathroom that was not one of hers, an odd silver earring, she had found some months back, shaped like a crescent moon she found when changing the bed linen, but, most curious of all, was the used syringe, she had found underneath the bed in the spare room. She had her eye on some very expensive diamond cluster earrings, she had seen whilst away on the Bridge Tournament. This would be part of the price he would pay for her ‘forgiveness’ for his infidelity.

  “I don’t know what you are on about woman,” he said, irritated now, “all you ever do is nag, nag, nag, you go on about this and that. A man can’t eat his bloody breakfast in peace, without you going on about something.” He tore the paper napkin from his neck and tossed it onto the plate of unfinished omelette and leaving the table, he stormed from the room, knocking over his chair as he did so.

  Sarah sat finishing her coffee, and making plans of her own. She waited until she heard the roar of the Jaguar, as he sped off down the driveway, heading for his clinic in Tarragona. She rose from her seat and went to his study finding the door was locked. Sarah knew where he had hidden a spare key, she went and retrieved it and let herself in.

  Switching on the light, in the windowless room, she searched through his desk, but could find nothing there that was of use to her.

  He had sat in here with the police officer who called out to take a witness statement from him. Not letting her in on their conversation at all, he had sent her to make coffee for them, while they talked. Sarah hated all this secrecy, but she was determined to get to the bottom of it and find out just what he was up to and, who with. Sarah searched the book shelves, nothing hidden away there.

  His patient’s folders were filed away in the clinic and copies in a cabinet here in his study, which was also locked. She saw no reason to pry anymore; seemingly there was nothing to gain here. The bottom drawer of the desk was locked when she tried it. Why would he need to lock that, in his own home? She left his study locking the door behind her and returned the key to its hiding place.

  Sarah sat with her second cup of coffee for the day, feet up on a footstool, watching television and waiting for her favourite programme to come on, only half-listening to the announcement being made. A picture of the actress, Melissa Proctor came up on the screen. Sarah sat up in her chair, listening intently, at what the announcer was saying. Something had caught her eye, which took a few moments to register, before she realised what it was. The face staring out at her from the screen was wearing silver half-moon earrings, exactly like the one she had found in their bed.

  That bastard! She thought, he has been up to something. Sarah was determined to find out why he needed to lock his desk drawer. Going to the garage, she rummaged around in a tool box and found a screw driver; maybe this would do the trick.

  Taking the key from its hiding place, she again entered his study. It took several attempts to break open the drawer on the desk. She snapped the tip off the screw driver doing so, and tossed it onto the desk top. The entire drawer contained nothing but a diary, she felt disappointed. Just what she had expected to find, she did not know.

  She flicked through its pages, her eyes rapidly scanning the neatly written notes. As she read, she realised with horror, she did not know her husband at all. Abortions, meetings, and affairs it was all in there. Then, she read of his undying love for Melissa Proctor and how he had given her a gift of silver earrings, which had been made exclusively for her.

  The half-moons, representing the half-life he was leading, without her at his side. What really hurt Sarah the most, was finding out what he really thought of her, his wife for all these years. Describing her as frigid and that making love to his wife was like lying with a cold, dead fish; he hated her, but needed her.

  Sarah did not hear his footsteps. The deep pile of the carpet covering the floor, allowed him to approach her unheard. The first she knew of his presence was when his hand grabbed her by the hair and spun her around to face him.

  “You interfering bitch,” he snarled, “you had to go snooping around behind my back, poking your nose into things that are none of your damn business.”

  “It is my business,” Sarah said, as he released his hold on her hair, “you made it my business when you had affairs behind my back. You used my money to set yourself up in business in the first place. Oh! What a fool I have been all these years, I could not see what was going on under my very nose.”

  Tears of anger and frustration falling down her cheeks, she flew at him, raking her finger nails down his face. Doctor Sam pushed her away from him, the stinging nail tracks bringing tears to his eyes. Sarah hurled anything she could get her hands on at him and before he could stop her, she flew at him again, screaming, “I know you were involved with that dead actress and I bet the police will be pleased to hear what I have to tell them, AND show them.”

  “You will tell them nothing you bitch!” he spat at her, grabbing the discarded screwdriver, digging it into the side of her neck, splitting her carotid artery.

  Sarah put her hands up to her throat, trying to stem the crimson flow as it spurted out between her fingers. A look of horror on her face, she struggled to get away from him.

  Incensed, he slashed at her, again and again, not stopping even when she fell to the floor, her life blood pouring out of her. He continued to slash at her body, ridding himself of all his pent up anger.

  There was a trail of blood across the carpet where he had dragged the body to the door of the study. The room was in a shambles after the fearful struggle she had put up. He went and fetched a blanket to wrap her body in, locking the study door behind him, and putting the key into his trouser pocket. Exhausted, he lay down on the couch in the parlour, and slept as he waited for nightfall.

  Lifting her weighty corpse, he staggered out into the garden with it and under cover of darkness; he threw it down the well. Quickly peeling off his blood-stained clothing including his underpants he threw them on top of the body, muttering, “Well you meddlesome bitch, this is where your meddling got you.”

  Back in the house, showered and refreshed, he tried to plan his next move. He had gone too far to turn back now; he would have to find a way around this new found problem. Suddenly, the solution came to him.

  He would tell people his wife had left him, when she found out he was having an affair with his practice nurse. He would tell Ellen Rodriguez, the same story. That way, none would be the wiser, the less they knew, of his affairs the better.

  The next morning he gathered up all the garden rubbish he could find and threw it all down the well, all the half-empty paint tins from the garage, followed.
Happy that the body was well concealed under the rubbish, he returned to the house and thumbed through the directory, until he found what he was looking for. Lifting the telephone off its receiver, he dialed the number, a finger running under each digit in the directory as he dialed.

  “Olla, Manuel’s Landscape Gardening, Manuel speaking, how may I help you?” The voice on the other end of the telephone phone said.

  “This is Doctor Samuel Morrison. I have something I want turned into a garden feature. What is the job? I have a well I want filling in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  “Get out o’ Mr. McNally’s way, yer idle little shite, ‘tis a kick up the arse yer want,” Mary Maguire shouted at the boy in the worn out clothing.

  Millie glanced round surprised at Mary’s unusual use of bad language. The boy she shouted at, turned, his face serious and haggard. He fixed his eyes on both women for a moment, as they stood under the porch sheltering from the rain, then he made way for old John McNally and his handcart.

  Ragged, muddy, and miserable as he appeared, the boy, who looked to be a little more than twelve years old, held his head up with pride.

  He moved to help old McNally with the handcart, pulling it into the lean-to, under cover from the pelting rain.

  “No need for you to go back out in the rain me boy,” old John said. “Keep close to the wall and there will be shelter for the two of us while we attend to the unloading.”

  The boy gave him a grateful look, the brown eyes with dark circles underneath, looked out from under finely arched brows. His dark hair was plastered to his head by the rain; his lips were pressed together in a firm line.

  The old man studied the boy and decided he would be a very handsome lad, when he put some meat on his bones and filled out a bit. Now, the form in its ragged clothes looked small and pathetic. The boy flushed under the man’s scrutiny.

  “The rain will be over soon, ‘tis only a shower,” old John said, doubting if the boy had heard him at all, as deep in thought he stared out at the rain, as the two of them stood under the lean-to. The boy could see the old man was restless by the way he poked his stick into the little puddles close by. Old John pulling a silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and looking at it exclaimed, “I’ve lost a good half-hour owing to this shower, how will I ever get all the orders filled and delivered now. Ah, well it can’t be helped I suppose, you can’t fight with nature me boy, you will always lose.” Replacing his watch, he called out to Millie, who had gone into the room beyond the porch, telling her to put the kettle on the hob for tea.

  “Mary, he called out to Mary Maguire, would you ever come here a minute,” watching the boy out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, “do you know any lad who wants to earn a shilling or two?”

  Mary came to the door of the cottage, wiping her hands on the apron she wore wrapped round her waist. Before she could answer the boy spoke up,

  “Sir, I want to work, could I earn a shilling?” He stood before old John, looking up into the old man’s face.

  “What’s your name lad?” old John asked him.

  The boys face turned red and for the first time he looked embarrassed, and uncertain.

  “My name is bastard sir,” the boy kept his eyes lowered.

  “Bastard,” said a shocked old John, “what kind of name is that? That is not a name. What is your real name, the one your parents gave you?” said old John, seeing the boy was uncomfortable.

  “It’s just bastard sir, that’s all I have ever been called, it’s all I know.”

  “Where do you come from?” Old John asked him, trying not to look shocked.

  “Greenacres Orphanage sir,” the boy looked old John in the eye as he replied.

  “Have you any family that you know of?” old John asked.

  “No, sir none that I know of, I’m alone in the world” The boy shifted, uncomfortable under the old man’s gaze, not understanding why he had to answer all these questions, rapidly fired at him.

  “Well now, here’s the thing, we have to find a suitable name for you first, if you want to work for me. I can’t go around calling you that awful name, now can I? Old John McNally studied the boy for a moment or two, rubbing a gnarled hand across his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see, how does John Joseph sound to you, it’s my own name you see and you could be ‘junior.’ We will call you John-Joe, for short, it has a nice ring to it don’t you think?” The boy nodded eagerly.

  “Well, let’s try it out,” said old John, “how old are you, John -Joe?”

  “Fourteen years and three months, sir.”

  “Are you used to hard work?” Old John asked him.

  “Aye,” John -Joe replied, squaring his shoulders and standing taller.

  “Well, you have manners enough that’s for sure, what sort of work?” Old John continued to fire questions at the boy.

  “Any work that I can get sir,” John-Joe told him, “I’m a hard worker and keen to learn new tasks.”

  Mary along with Millie, who had joined her on the door step, listened to their conversation. It was obvious the boy had run away from something or someone. Millie knew old John McNally sounded harsh, but he was a kindly man. It was one of the two cottages that John owned, that Sean was doing up for the two of them, to live in after they were wed. They would rent it from him until they had saved up enough to buy their own place.

  Following Melissa’s death, Ralph had taken Peter to England to live with his grandparents in Church Dutton, while he himself honoured his contract abroad.

  Sean and Millie had returned to Ireland and were living with Sean’s parents, while their cottage was being made ready. There were nine bodies, all crammed together in the small two bedroom cottage.

  Sean’s three brothers shared one room with him, while Millie slept in a second bedroom, with his two sisters. With such a large family, his parents had partitioned off a small area in the living room, turning it into a bedroom for themselves. It was always very noisy and busy there, with so many bodies around the place. Millie was always glad to get away, for a little peace and quiet, spending any spare time she had, with Mary Maguire, whose cottage was just a mile away, over the hill.

  “So, where do you live now John -Joe?” Old John asked him.

  “What do you mean?” the boy asked the old man.

  “Where do you eat and sleep lad?”

  “Anywhere I can sir, I earn a meal as I go, and I sleep in lady green fields.”

  “What! You sleep out of doors?” exclaimed old John.

  “Aye, sometimes I get to sleep in a byre,” John-Joe hesitated, his cheeks reddening.

  Millie came over to them, upset to think he could sleep out of doors. It seemed to be the lowest ebb of human misery. This poor little vagabond appeared to be a decent respectable lad, judging by his good manners and humility.

  “John-Joe, how can you live this way?” inquired Millie, using the name old John had given him.

  “I get along okay; I go along the roads and do odd jobs for food so there is no need to feel sorry for me. I earn an honest crust and I have never stolen from anyone,” holding his head up high with pride, looking Millie in the eye until she was forced to look away in embarrassment.

  “Who is responsible for you?” piped up old John, trying not to look stern, “someone must be, you are too young to be living like this, is anyone from the orphanage, looking for you?”

  “I will not go back there, so don’t try and make me.” John-Joe looked at them with frightened eyes. “I like my life now; I please myself and answer to no one.”

  “So, how long have you lived like this, in lady green fields?” said old John, trying again to get the boy to open up to him.

  “Five maybe six months,” John-Joe replied, “it’s nice to go to sleep listening to the sounds of the night, with the sky full of stars shining over your head.”

  “What shall you do when winter comes?” Millie asked him.

  “I don’t know, I suppose I will manage somehow.”
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  “What had Mary Maguire got so angry at you for?” the old man asked.

  “I don’t know sir; I fed the hens, mucked out the pigs and stacked the turf sir. I sat to catch my breath before doing the rest of the jobs she had given me, when it came on to rain sir and you arrived.” The boys face paled and he looked as if he was about to pass out.

  “When did you last eat lad?” Old John asked the boy kindly.

  “I don’t remember sir, two, maybe three days ago.”

  It was still raining slightly, but old John McNally took the boy’s arm and headed towards the cottage door, ordering Mary to make tea for them all.

  “Get the lad some wheaten bread and cut him a lump of cheese. The least you could do is feed the lad, after all his hard work.” Without further ado, he pushed his way passed the startled Mary, pulling the boy by the arm into the cottage.

  Old McNally removed the boy’s wet jacket and sat the shivering lad down in front of the peat fire. He placed the wet jacket over the back of one of the wooden chairs and moved it closer to the fire to dry.

  The boy sat gazing into the blazing turf, steam rising from his drying clothes, whilst a very contrite Mary Maguire hurried backwards and forwards to do old John’s bidding. Later, the rain having ceased, they had hot mugs of tea, and freshly baked bread, with wedges of cheese inside them.

  Millie, John Joseph and old John McNally, made their way up the hill, the boy pushing the hand cart, the old man leaning on his stick.

  Reaching the crossroads, Millie said her goodbyes to the two of them and took the path to the right, which led to the O’Neil’s cottage.

  Old John, and John -Joe, took the left path, towards the two cottages that nestled side by side in a small wooded glade on the shores of Lough Neagh.

  Old John opened the door of his cottage and stood to one side inviting John-Joe to enter ahead of him. “This will be your home from now on lad, I will fix you up a bed in the small room I used as storage, and I will give it a lick or two of paint tomorrow. You can sleep on the couch tonight; we will soon have you settled in.” Saying that, old John went and fetched a blanket from his own bed, and then the two of them settled down for the night.