by Lynda Renham
‘Shut it, for Christ’s sake,’ he hissed.
‘Please Billy, I don’t feel well,’ she said through numb lips. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. Blood, something was bleeding.
‘I’m going to have you, you cock-teasing little bitch,’ he spat, his saliva mixing with her tears.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Cold air whispered across Rita’s crotch and she knew he’d torn off her knickers, the pink knickers with the white lace, the pretty ones that made her feel feminine and pure. The shame of being so exposed, the shame of her sin, made her want to scream even more but Billy had his hand over her mouth. She wanted him to stop. Please stop. He released her for a second to undo his flies and she fought to get up, but her struggles seemed to spur him on even more and he easily held her down with one hand. Then horrifyingly, terrifyingly his penis was pushing into her. Pushing, probing, and tearing until she felt he would rip her apart.
‘No,’ she screamed silently, ‘NO, NO.’
It hurt, oh, it hurt so much.
Her foot kicked out with such force that it sent him reeling off her.
‘You can’t,’ she cried.
His face reddened in anger and frustration. Rita grappled with her knickers. There was a roar as Billy charged at her, dragging her from the couch. Rita’s legs twisted under her and she cried out.
‘Oh, Billy, please stop.’
She tried to cover her face as Billy kicked over the coffee table sending the whisky glasses crashing to the floor. Fragments of glass skated across the room, disappearing under chairs and imbedding themselves in the grubby beige rug. She felt some cut into her back as she fell. But the pain from his shoe in her stomach was much worse and knocked the breath out of her. Her legs were like blancmange, floppy and useless. She had to escape, she had to. He cried out suddenly, lifting a bloody hand to his face. Rita saw the shard of glass sticking out of his thumb.
‘Bitch,’ he yelled, slapping her again before hurrying to the sink to staunch the bleeding. ‘You’re nothing but a prick teaser who needs to be taught a lesson.’ Rita struggled to get up but her trembling body wouldn’t cooperate. She crawled to the couch and used it to heave up her trembling body. Billy turned and their eyes met for a brief second, hers terrified, his lustful and menacing.
‘What are you doing?’ he growled, walking towards her.
She fled to the bathroom and looked for a weapon but there was only the loo brush. She threw it but it was harmless. Billy laughed cruelly at her. Rita then remembered. Remembered the gun in the cupboard and her hand grabbed it desperately.
‘No,’ Billy cried, stopping in his tracks. ‘Don’t be stupid. It was only a bit of fun.’
The lust had left his eyes and Rita felt smugly in control.
‘Get away from me,’ she screamed. ‘Get away.’
The gun shook dangerously in her hand. Her finger felt for the trigger.
She thought she heard the sound of bells. It was her ears. He’d damaged her ears. Her hand shook so violently that she was terrified the gun would accidentally go off.
‘It’s not loaded,’ said Billy but the tremor in his voice told her it was.
‘Get out of my way,’ she hissed, wiping blood from her chin.
‘Look, Rita …’
‘I’m going to call the police.’
‘Look Rita,’ he pleaded again.
She pushed the gun towards his chest. Billy held his hands up in surrender.
‘You had no right.’
‘Okay,’ he said stepping back.
Rita could see the sweat glistening on his forehead.
‘Get out of my way,’ she said firmly.
He stepped to one side and she raced from the room and up the stairs. The key slipped from her hand and she crawled around the floor to find it, tears blurring her search. Then she had it and finally, with panting breath, she fell into her bedsit slamming the door behind her.
*
He’d heard the yelling as he’d approached the house. At first, he’d thought it was Billy’s television, but then he’d recognised Rita’s voice, anxious and scared. He stopped, uncertain what to do. Had his misgivings about the landlord been proven right? Perhaps he shouldn’t get involved. No doubt someone had called the police already. But Rita’s screams frightened Henry and for a moment he hesitated between turning back or going forward. He wasn’t a man to get involved in other people’s business. He certainly wasn’t a man to fight. Henry kept clear of trouble. He fleetingly considered knocking at a neighbour’s house and asking for help but when Rita screamed, ‘Get away from me, get away’ he felt sure the neighbours must have heard anyway and would soon come running to her aid.
His hands were shaking when he rang the bell. No one answered and Henry rang it again.
‘Hello, Rita, it’s Henry.’
He should have barged in but barging in wasn’t Henry’s way.
*
She listened but could only hear her heart thumping in her chest. Then she heard him. He’d followed her. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, now his fists were pounding at the door, yelling her name. She couldn’t breathe, the fear was suffocating her. Her stomach cramped so badly from the kick that she couldn’t think straight. He was shouting but her ears were ringing so badly she couldn’t understand what he was saying.
‘Oh God,’ she moaned. Billy had a key. He had a key to her room. She stepped back nervously until her body hit the windowsill.
The police, she must phone the police. But her handbag was still in Billy’s living room, her phone inside it.
There was the sound of a key turning in the lock. Rita found herself rooted to the spot, frozen and clammy, her hands clenched around the gun until the knuckles turned white. The door swung open and Rita screamed. She was trapped like a rabbit caught in headlights. There was no escape.
Tears blurred her view. But she could sense him and smell the sweat that emanated from him.
One minute he was there in the doorway, more alive than he had ever been, and the next he was meat on the landing. A little squeeze of a finger, that’s all it took. It had been less trouble than peeling an orange. The bullet had spat out of her hand, red in the darkness. It hit him in the thigh, propelling him backwards in an awkward cartwheel. Rita’s sweaty hand dropped the gun. She stared uncomprehendingly at the body. Blood was spurting from his leg. He was writhing on the ground. Oh God, she’d done it again.
‘Father?’ she murmured.
She shivered. It was suddenly very cold. The branches had hung low with the weight of the snow, she’d remembered. Just like her mother's arms when she returned from the greengrocer’s, laden with winter vegetables for their stews. Father had bled to death in poppy red snow. Had he been afraid? Had it hurt much? Now, it was happening all over again. Billy’s leg lay misshapen on the landing floor. Oh God, please, please stop the bleeding. Not Billy too. But it wasn’t Billy lying on the landing at all. Billy was standing on the top stair, his eyes glued to the bleeding body.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Billy had opened the door to Henry, his features contorted in anger.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘What’s going on?’ Henry had said bravely. ‘Rita, are you alright?’ he’d yelled up the stairs.
He could hear her sobbing.
‘Mind your own business mate,’ Billy had said.
Henry had known he was no match for Billy, but he couldn’t just ignore a woman in distress. Especially as that woman was Rita. He’d hurried up the stairs and knocked on her door, but she wouldn’t open it.
Had she been hurt? Had Billy hit her again? Not poor Rita Meter Maid.
‘Rita,’ he called. ‘Open the door love?’
He remembered the spare key under the mat and slotted it into the lock.
‘Rita,’ he’d said stepping into the doorway. ‘Rita what the …?’
She was standing by the window. A whisper of light from the street lamp sparkled on something in her h
and. Then he’d seen what it was and had tried to make sense of it. Something isn’t right, he’d thought. A knot of fear had tightened in his stomach and a knife seemed to slide through his chest. It was then he realised. The jigsaw puzzle all came together. He should have waited, waited until midnight.
‘A terrible tragedy,’ they’d said.
‘Never try to be a hero,’ Ray had said.
He’d got it all wrong. Fool, he’d been an arrogant fool. He hadn’t drowned at all. Don’t try to be a hero. But, it was too late.
*
‘Henry,’ Rita screamed, dropping down beside him.
Blood had soaked through his light corduroy trousers and was slowly spreading across the landing. Rita pushed her shaking hands onto the wound in an effort to stop the river of blood that threatened to drown them. The bullet had gone through his thigh. Rita could see the gaping hole. Do something, a voice yelled in her head. Why don’t you do something?
She clutched his hand in hers.
‘Call an ambulance,’ she screamed at Billy.
Billy stared at her, his eyes blank.
‘Now,’ she yelled.
Billy turned, almost falling down the stairs in his haste.
‘Jesus, what have you done?’ he groaned.
Henry clutched at his chest.
‘Ca … Can’t bre … breathe,’ he croaked.
Oh no, not Henry the nice man, Henry the epitome of kindness, the man Rita dreamt of.
The hallway smelt of bluebells. Her knees were damp, and she looked down to see the broken bottle of Jo Malone perfume sticking out of pink tissue paper.
‘Please hold on,’ she whispered. ‘Everything is going to be alright.’
She could hear Billy shouting. ‘Hurry for Christ’s sake. He’s been shot.’
The clock ticked; time waited for no man. Henry’s time was up. Oxygen was slowly being ripped and snatched from his lungs.
‘Help is coming,’ Rita sobbed.
His hand shook in hers.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll never leave you,’ she said.
A small smile played at Henry’s lips. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it.
‘Hang on Henry, please hang on.’
He had time, she thought. Father took a long time. Remember? He took an awful long time to die. Demons are in you, Rita. You’ll never be free. You don’t even know how long he took. You left him. You left him to die in agony. God has no mercy for you.
*
In the few seconds before Rita pulled the trigger Henry knew he’d lost. He’d tried to cheat death, but death was always going to win.
‘When your number’s up, your number’s up,’ his father used to say. For once he’d been right. Henry had opened his mouth to ask Rita what was happening, but she’d screamed hysterically. Her wide-open mouth had been stained red with blood. Not red like poppy red lipstick but bright red, warm and sticky. Then it had happened; his destiny, the inevitable. He hadn’t felt anything at first, not really. It was a bit like being stung by a bee. His leg had cramped and then given way. It was the vice-like grip in his chest that had knocked the breath out of him. It had felt like someone was sitting on him. He couldn’t breathe. The pain had raced down his arm and he could do nothing but clutch his chest and lie there. The smell of bluebells had filled his nostrils as he’d struggled to get his breath. The perfume, he hadn’t given her the perfume. Then she was there beside him. His lovely Rita Meter Maid.
She’d clutched his hand in hers. Henry had tried with his other hand to ease the pressure on his chest. If he managed to pull off the heavy weight, then perhaps he’d be alright.
‘Ca … Can’t bre … breathe,’ he’d croaked.
He could hear Billy shouting. The clock had ticked relentlessly. His time was up. He’d felt a great weight on his chest and been drenched in sweat. He’d learnt life’s lessons too late.
‘Please hold on,’ Rita whispered. ‘Everything is going to be alright. Help is coming.’
His hand had shaken in hers.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll never leave you,’ she said.
Poor Rita Meter Maid. How could he save her. It made sense now. Of course she could see him. Only the dead can see the dead.
‘Not your fault,’ he whispered. ‘It was meant to be. Remember, not your fault.
He felt her tears on his face.
He couldn’t hold on any longer. He knew it was futile to fight any more. It was time to leave. He would have liked to have stayed longer, long enough to have had the child. Stupid, bloody fool, you should have made the most of it. Should have made the most of Imogen, he thought angrily. Now his life was over. Hardly anyone would come to the funeral, he knew that. I should have invested more in friendships. Poor Imogen, she’ll have a task finding people to come.
‘Hang on, Henry, please hang on,’ Rita sobbed.
‘Not your fault,’ he said, knowing it was futile.
He’d see her again, he knew that. Poor Rita, he thought, she had no idea and with that thought, Henry finally let go.
*
Henry blinked his last second and Rita felt the breath leave him forever.
‘Oh God, Henry,’ she moaned.
‘Christ,’ murmured Billy who’d rushed back upstairs. ‘You’ll do time for this.’
Rita sat by Henry. Her heart seemed to strangely slow and a warm feeling of calmness enveloped her. You’ll never be free, whispered a voice. She felt sore where Billy had tried to enter her. She thought she could smell his semen and sweat. She had a weird sensation as though he was still inside her, still pushing, trying to possess her.
‘Should we do CPR or something,’ cried Billy.
‘He’s dead,’ said Rita softly.
She lifted her head and looked at Billy. He was the frightened one now. She smiled fleetingly and for a second Billy wasn’t sure if she had smiled at all for her face was now a white mask. She doesn’t look human, he thought.
‘This is your fault,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion. ‘You shouldn’t have had a gun in your house.’
‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Billy. ‘You’re nuts, you are. Don’t you put this on me.’
Rita stood up slowly and stumbled into the bedsit. Billy watched as she fetched a multi-coloured blanket and laid it over Henry before looking back at Billy. Her hand clutched Henry’s tightly and then Billy saw something glitter in her other hand. She was holding the gun. Billy froze.
‘What are you doing babe?’ he asked, fear paralysing him.
‘I will be free,’ she said. Billy watched in horror as she lifted the gun. His eyes widened in fear and his body tensed in anticipation. She put the gun to her mouth. Billy clutched at his throat and let out a primal scream.
‘No!’
But she was dead before the gunshot reached his ears, showering the white walls crimson. The shock sent Billy reeling down the stairs where the police found him minutes later.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Imogen
They said he’d been having an affair with her. What did the papers know? ‘Man shot dead by lover’ ran the headline. They’ll write anything if it makes a sensational story. Henry would never have had an affair. ‘A crime of passion’ they called it. I’d wanted to scream. It wasn’t him having the affair, it was me. She’d been mad, that woman. Her mother had been mad too, the papers said. They’d found her in a nut house somewhere. The shock had killed him. Not the bullet. Massive coronary the doctor had said.
The woman’s landlord, Billy Wallace, was arrested for possession of an illegal firearm. Released on bail, of course. Walking around now like nothing ever happened. He claimed the woman Rita was mad and he needed the gun for protection. People tell me that seeing Rita shoot herself had affected him in the head and that sometimes he thinks he hears her talking in her bedsit.
Henry had unwittingly interrupted a domestic dispute, the police said. They think he’d gone there t
o give the woman a bottle of perfume that he’d bought the day before. The bottle had broken when Henry had fallen, spilling its contents. They say the house still smells of bluebells, even today. But why would Henry buy perfume for a woman he didn’t know? Why did he go to her house? How did he even know where she lived? All that fuss he’d made about Jim, when there’d been nothing to make a fuss about. Surely he hadn’t been carrying on. Not Henry. Not with that woman. Her photo was on the front page of the newspapers. Rita Monk was her name. A loner, they said. Hardly ever spoke to anyone, the neighbours said. She’d worked in the supermarket, giving out samples. How could Henry have possibly known her? Some woman who worked with her had tried to claim Henry had been stalking Rita and that Rita had been scared to go home alone in case he followed her. How ridiculous. Henry would never harass a woman. People will say anything to get into the papers these days. I don’t think the perfume had anything to do with Henry. Henry had obviously heard an argument and had knocked at the door, thinking someone was in trouble. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Henry the Good Samaritan, that’s what they should have put in the papers.
‘Don’t get involved in other people’s domestics,’ he’d always told me.
Oh, Henry, why did you get involved? I bet the loner, Rita Monk, never thought she’d be in the papers.
‘The bullet didn’t kill him,’ the doctor had said. ‘It was a soft tissue wound. He was unlucky. Anybody else would have walked away with that injury but unfortunately the shock brought on a massive heart attack.’
