by Lynda Renham
Rita stared after him. Dead? How could Henry be dead? He looked more alive than anyone she knew. The woman tasted the sample pie and pulled a face.
‘Spicy,’ she said accusingly, as though Rita had spiced them herself.
‘Sorry,’ said Rita humbly.
She was finding it hard to concentrate now that Henry had left. She found herself constantly looking at the clock. She’d never known time to pass so slowly. As the clock ticked by and it got closer to one Rita slowly began to lose her nerve. Henry was a married man. It would be sinful to have a coffee with him. Marriage was a divine institution, a sacred bond between a man and a woman. What right did she have to come between that?
‘Remember Rita, marriage involves leaving one’s family and being united to one’s spouse.’
Rita bit her lip.
‘It is the most intimate of all human relationships. Only a sinner comes between a man and his wife.’
Jenny sliced another pie into bite-sized pieces and Rita put a small chunk into her mouth. Her cheek twitched involuntarily as the image of her dog-collared father entered her mind. His pockmarked face and hard brown eyes were right there in front of her. Any minute she expected him to sample the leek and potato pie too.
‘You know what happens to sinners, Rita,’ he’d said, an evil smile twisting his lips. Rita tried not to look down at his severed leg and the circle of blood around it. The bright red liquid ran along the floor and twisted elegantly around the corners of the aisles. Soon customers would have to step over it. She’d have to tell them what happened.
‘It isn’t real,’ she whispered.
She closed and then opened her eyes to see a strange man standing in front of her chewing on a piece of pie and Rita sighed with relief.
‘Delicious,’ he said before moving off.
Rita had wished a sinner had come between her parents if only to give her mother respite from the endless beatings and torturous tirades. It was only right what Rita had done. Anyone else would have done the same, she felt certain of that.
‘This is what happens to sinners, Rita,’ her father would bellow, raising his fist.
Her mother’s pitiful cries and bruised body had made Rita vow never to sin like her mother, even though she never understood how dinner being late to the table or a mark on a shirt could be a sin. Coffee with Henry would be a real sin. Rita knew that.
‘It’s time for your lunch break isn’t it?’
Rita jumped at the sound of Dora’s voice.
‘Oh,’ said Rita flustered. ‘Is it one already?’
It was time at last.
‘It’s raining cats and dogs. You aren’t going out are you?’ said Dora.
‘I have to pop to the bank,’ said Jenny.
‘I …’ began Rita. ‘Yes, actually, I’m meeting someone.’
There, thought Rita. The deed was done, and she hadn’t been struck down.
‘It’s thundering so be careful,’ warned Dora. Except it wasn’t Dora’s voice that she heard but her father’s. Rita walked briskly to the staff room and collected her coat and umbrella. She didn’t want Jenny to walk with her. Supposing she introduced her to Henry and Jenny also couldn’t see him? She’d think Rita crazy if she started talking to an invisible man. Although, most likely, Henry wouldn’t be at the entrance. He would either have forgotten or changed his mind. Or, most likely had realised he wasn’t dead at all and had gone to work. Still, Rita decided, it would be good to get some air. Her heart was pounding as she left the store, where, to her delight, Henry was waiting.
Chapter Seven
There were ominous dark clouds gathering. Rita looked at them unperturbed. She liked thunderstorms. She knew that lightning would not strike her dead. One punished oneself for one’s wickedness. She knew that, of course, but a small niggle of doubt still gnawed away at her stomach and attached itself to the back of her mind, whispering to her late at night. It was inevitable, of course, that Rita would sin. Hadn’t her mother been a sinner? It was in Rita’s blood. Her father had constantly reminded her of that. It was difficult keeping evil spirits away. You just never knew where they were lurking or how they would appear. They made you do bad things and that scared Rita. She didn’t want to do bad things and go to hell. That place of endless pain and torture that her father had ranted on about.
‘You must not open yourself to evil spirits,’ he’d told her. ‘Lucifer will tempt you. He knows you are your mother’s daughter.’
Her mother would then weep silently in the corner of the room, her tears spilling onto the crochet lace runners she had made for their church. Rita hated their church. It was cold, musty, and damp and she was scared every time she entered it in case an evil spirit tempted her to do something terrible. She would shiver her way through the service, her toes clenched inwards, and her knees tightly together. Anything that would keep the devil out, Rita did. It would shame her father if she sinned. He was highly thought of. He had the gift of casting out demons. The congregation loved him, and Rita had wished she could too. Rita later discovered that the women loved him the most. He offered them forgiveness for their sins, which Rita presumed to be late dinners or regular marks on their husbands’ shirts. Or, perhaps, they weren’t showing enough love to their husbands or didn’t make themselves pretty enough. Those were her mother’s sins. Rita had thought her mother to be the most beautiful woman on earth, even with the bruises on her arms and legs. Her father always made sure not to hit Eleanor around the face. Rita would check her own reflection often. Was she pretty enough, she’d wondered. Would her husband not be happy with her? Perhaps she would find a husband who would free her from the demons that tempted her, like her father offered the women of his congregation. He released their demons, cleansing them of their sins. Rita had been fifteen when she’d learnt that it was not a normal religious ritual for the minister to lay his naked body upon that of a female congregant’s in order to cast out a demon. She had been appalled and ashamed and had pleaded with her mother to leave the farm.
‘The farm is my home,’ Eleanor had argued. ‘I have nowhere to go. Besides, I must obey my husband and you your father.’
Eleanor was too placid. Always giving in, doing what she thought wives were supposed to do. Rita sometimes hated her for her supplication, her willingness to accept her lot without question. Rita realised now that she’d had no choice. A vicar earnt very little and there was never any spare money.
Walter Monk had influence. No one would have believed Eleanor Monk. Casting aspersions, they would have said. People would always believe him. He was a man of God.
There were nights when Rita would lie in bed listening to the sounds of her parents fighting. Her mother would say something, always quietly and then her father would begin laying into her and the screaming would start. She cried, he seethed, and Rita pushed her face into the pillow.
‘He’s a bully,’ Rita would say.
‘Hush your mouth,’ Eleanor would exclaim, shocked at her daughter’s disobedience.
Rita decided to find them somewhere to go. She would plan their escape. She would liberate her mother from the hell that was the evangelist, Walter Monk, even if she had to drag her from the farmhouse by her hair. Each night she lay in her bed, the silence of the night deafening as she planned her, and her mother’s liberation. At breakfast Walter would leer at her as though he knew exactly what she was scheming.
One morning in December, the hand of fate stepped in and Rita realised she had left things too late. Walter had informed her that soon she would be sixteen and the devil finds ways to tempt sixteen-year-old boys and girls. The only way to rid the devil from her body was to allow him to cleanse it and cast out Satan for good. This could take several months he’d warned her. Rita knew exactly what that meant, and the realisation made her vomit into the toilet bowl. Her mother’s horrified eyes had implored Rita to escape.
‘You have a demon,’ her father had said earnestly. ‘We have to cast him out. You’ll spend an eternity in
hell if we don’t.’
Rita didn’t want to spend an eternity in hell, she knew that much. But, if she had to make a choice, even that seemed preferable to the haunting images she pictured in her head of her father laying his naked body upon hers. She had to escape, but to where? Her mother had sat staring despairingly at the walls of their tiny kitchen as though if she stared long enough a miracle would burst through them and they would be saved, but the grubby white walls stared back unhelpfully.
The morning following Rita’s birthday, snow had fallen heavily across the country. The white fields stretched for miles. Rita had watched Walter crunch his way through it to fetch logs for the fire. Eleanor had left early to walk into the village to get supplies and beef for their dinner. Rita had felt alone and vulnerable and knew that this was the day she had to escape. There was now no time to lose. She would have to go without her mother. The thought had saddened her. She would come back for her, she promised herself. From the kitchen window she could see Walter pulling out the chainsaw from the small outhouse. The kitchen had been chilly. Walter never allowed the heating to go on until the evening and there were no logs for the fire. Rita had glanced at the clock on the wall. Her mother had bought it in a charity shop years ago and Rita had stuck silver stars around it. Sometimes she would sit and watch the hands tick slowly around the stars. Now, there was no time to watch the hands. She’d turned back to the window. The covering of snow gave a veneer of purity to the wickedness the farm had become.
He’d be a while sawing the logs, Rita thought. Upstairs, her parent’s bedroom had been neat and tidy as always. Her mother’s grey knitted shawl had hung over a chair and Rita had stroked it, the soft material had felt comforting and safe.
To reach the top of the wardrobe she needed to stand on the dressing table stool. Dust had fallen from the battered suitcase and into Rita’s eyes. She’d watched as it fluttered down onto the dresser. For a few moments she had hesitated, the sound of the chainsaw jarring on her nerves. She should clean up the dust. Instead, she had fled to her own room, placing the suitcase on the bed. She knew that she had limited time. Soon the noise of the roaring chainsaw would stop.
When opened, the suitcase had released a whisper of her mother’s perfume. It had stilled Rita for a moment. She had inhaled the fragrance as if it were oxygen. If she took enough of it in, perhaps it would stay with her for years. How could she leave her mother? But how could she stay? She had glanced out of the window and at the sight of her father; her mind had been made up. It had not taken her long to pack. She didn’t have much. After wrapping herself in a scarf, she’d donned her coat and headed out of the farmhouse. Frosted air had filled her lungs and stung her eyes. Even with her coat and scarf wrapped around her, the chill had still seeped into her bones. She had tensed her muscles and glanced fearfully at her father. She would have to pass him. There was no other way to reach the gate. He wouldn’t hear her with the noise of the chainsaw, she’d felt certain of that. She’d only prayed he wouldn’t see her. The chainsaw had been deafening and made her teeth rattle. She didn’t even hear the sound of her feet crunching on the snow. She’d moved as stealthily as a cat and had almost passed him when suddenly he’d caught her in his sights. Rita had stopped abruptly, her face turning ashen. Her cold hands had turned clammy. She’d stared at her father in horror.
‘Hey girl, where are you going?’ Walter had shouted his voice crisp on the icy air.
Rita had looked down at the suitcase, her mind racing for a reply.
‘I …’ she’d said, sweeping a hand across her forehead.
‘Answer me girl,’ he’d barked.
Rita’s legs had turned to jelly. Soon she knew they would no longer hold her, and her father would put down the chainsaw and demand to know what was in the suitcase. She could not think of an excuse. He would open the case, see her clothes, and know. Her legs muscles had tightened, her body preparing to run.
‘Oh, dear God, help me,’ she’d prayed, feeling hot tears rain down her stinging cheeks. The wind had whipped cruelly at her face and she had to blink several times to keep Walter in her sights. She had moved her eyes from his and looked to the gate. It had seemed so far away. Above the roar of the chainsaw, she thought she heard a strangled cry. She looked about in panic. Had her mother returned? But there had been no one. All Rita could see was an ocean of snow. She wondered if she could run. What if she slipped and lay helpless in the snow? Her heart had thumped unmercifully in her chest. She had been tortured by indecision.
She had turned frightened eyes back to Walter ready to confront her fate and saw that he was writhing on the ground, the chainsaw thrashing at his side. The crisp white snow around him had turned crimson and Rita had stared, first in shock and then in fascination. The suitcase had slipped from her hands. Slowly she walked towards him, careful not to fall into a trap, after all, the devil was cunning, and she knew that. The change in her father had been so sudden that it made her suspicious. The angry man of a few seconds earlier was no more.
His hard brown eyes had searched hers appealingly.
‘Help me Rita,’ he’d groaned.
‘Father?’ she had whispered.
‘Pray,’ he’d demanded. ‘Get help and then pray.’
Rita had rather thought prayer would not be much help. His right leg was lying at an odd angle and Rita had stared at it for some time, trying to understand. She had then realised his leg had been almost severed at the thigh. Blood had poured from his body at an alarming rate, running like a river through the bright snow. Purity soaking up evil, drawing it out like a cancer, thought Rita.
‘Call … call help,’ Walter had gasped.
‘Yes,’ Rita had said turning back to the farmhouse.
She had hurried through the snow, stopping only once to pick up her suitcase. She had looked back to where her father lay on the ground and then had continued to the house where she had slowly and methodically unpacked her clothes from the fragranced suitcase and then folded each item carefully, before placing them back neatly into her wardrobe. She did not once glance out of the window. When the suitcase was finally empty, she had replaced it back on top of her parent’s wardrobe. It had been cold in the house and she had decided a hot bath would help. It would be sometime later before she would glance out of the window and see the large circle of red snow. She’d opened her mouth in shock and cried ‘Father,’ before rushing out, slipping several times on the ice before finally reaching Walter’s lifeless body.
‘I’ll get help,’ she had said calmly, hurrying back to the house where she had then phoned for an ambulance. It took some time for them to get through the snow and reach the farmhouse. By then her mother had returned.
‘He must have slipped in the snow,’ Rita had said. ‘He lost control of the saw.’
‘Yes,’ her mother had agreed.
‘If only I’d seen him sooner,’ Rita had lamented.
‘Yes,’ her mother had said.
They never spoke of it again.
Chapter Eight
Henry left the supermarket feeling euphoric, his face flushed, and his eyes wide. He thought if he had been wearing a hat he would most certainly have thrown it into the air. Rita could see him. He had touched her, and she had felt it. It didn’t make sense why only she could see him though. Perhaps she was right and that he wasn’t dead after all. Surely Rita wouldn’t be able to see him if he were. He really hadn’t expected her to see him at all. He had just started getting used to being invisible. He wasn’t even sure if she would be at the store. He’d always gone there in the evenings. He had been surprised at how different she’d looked. Her hair wasn’t the same. He couldn’t work out what was different about it, but he liked it. She looked bright and fresh faced. He’d smelt her perfume before he saw her; a mixture of bluebells and cut grass. He thought he would get a closer sniff of it. He had never been able to do that before. Often he had wanted to ask her what the perfume was. Perhaps he could buy some for Imogen, but then again, it w
ould no doubt, smell very different on Imogen. Henry liked Rita. He had missed her those few days he and Imogen had gone to the Isle of Wight. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to kiss Rita and had then felt ashamed for such sordid thoughts. Of course, he would never do it. It was just a little daydream. Henry was only ever bold and reckless in his daydreams.
He had been about to lean in and sniff her hair when Rita had opened her eyes.
‘Oh, hello,’ she’d said.
Her green-flecked eyes had sparkled with pleasure
He had reeled back in surprise. She must have thought me mad, Henry thought. I really must explain when I see her. It had finally stopped raining and the sun had broken through the clouds. Henry shivered all the same and turned up his collar wishing he was in his overheated office. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as the smell of cigarette smoke wafted towards him. Several supermarket workers were puffing away at the side of him, inhaling and exhaling smoke at an alarming rate. Smoke blew into Henry’s eyes and he groaned.
‘Disgusting habit,’ he muttered, careful that they shouldn’t hear. He then smiled and said it more loudly. None of them turned.
‘Do you know what you’re doing to your lungs?’ Henry shouted. ‘Not to mention, what you’re doing to mine.’
The group continued to puff on their cigarettes as if their lives depended upon it. Henry felt quite giddy. He had always wanted to tell smokers what he thought of them and now he could.
‘You’re a load of idiots,’ he said and walked away.
Imogen would have told him off.
‘Everyone is entitled to do what they wish, Henry,’ she would say. ‘Some people might think it odd the things you do.’
Henry couldn’t think of anything he did that was even remotely odd.
He ought to find Imogen. He had an hour before he had to meet Rita. Although he had no idea what he was going to say to her when they did meet. He rather hoped that by one o’clock other people would start seeing him too. He checked his mobile again, but nothing had changed. He decided to walk to the greengrocer’s. Surely if Rita could see him then Imogen most certainly would. His Imogen, that is, not the woman he had seen earlier, who looked like Imogen. Everything seemed so different, which convinced Henry that this was, most likely, all a bad dream. Even Rita looked different to normal and Imogen would not be kissing some man in Pansies. She would be at work. Most likely he would wake up before he even got to the greengrocer’s.
