by H K Thompson
I walked up the hill, it was steep and I had to stop and catch my breath at one point. When the road evened out I could glimpse the car, tucked in to the gateway, and I felt a wave of relief at being somewhere I knew and the thought of being in the dry and able to phone the hotel and tell them I might not be back that night. I was still worrying about the hotel and not letting them down. When I finally got there I unlocked the door with such a rush and fell into the seat. I shut the door behind me trying to shut out the darkness and the wet and the cold. I found the mobile in the glove compartment and dialled the hotel number. Thank God I’d stored it. Geoff answered at the other end and I told him that I probably wouldn’t make it back that night and wouldn’t need dinner and I apologised for letting them know so late. I’d been so anxious about them wondering where I was. I lied and said I’d met up with friends in Haverfordwest and that I was staying over. I said, of course, I’d pay for the night and I hoped to be back tomorrow. I said there was an outside chance I’d be back that night but I had a front door key so there was no need to worry. I wanted to cover all eventualities, you see. I spent a few minutes sitting in the driver’s seat, sort of pulling myself together. I found my hat and my waterproof jacket on the back seat and struggled to put them on. I didn’t want to get out of the car to do it. I was feeling nervous about what I was about to do and, and now I was back there I was afraid that the three men might still be around, waiting for me. I got out of the car and walked across the road to the track down to the cottage.
I began to walk down the track. I kept to the side of the track because I knew at a certain point, by a couple of hawthorns that grew together, I would come within sight of the cottage and that I would be seen if anyone was watching. The moon had gone. I looked in the dark for the four by four and I knew it was black and it might be hard to see it. I could see the old van in front of the house but I couldn’t make out anything else. I was feeling very nervous, frightened really. I left the track by the hawthorns and made my way through the scrub towards the back of the house. My waterproof was making what sounded like a real racket. It rustled and squeaked as I moved and I was afraid that anyone listening would have heard me coming. By the time I reached the corner of the cottage I could see onto the parking space and around most of the perimeter of the building. I couldn’t see the four by four and there was no sound coming from inside. There was a light still on in the kitchen and I squeezed around the corner of the cottage and peered into the kitchen window. Stephen was there where I’d last seen him, covered in blood and still tied to the chair. His head was slumped on his chest and he wasn’t moving. I walked around the front of the cottage and at that point I was sure they’d gone. I waited a few more minutes listening hard to the sounds of the night, the trees rustling in the wind, the rain falling, an owl whistling, and my own breathing, my own heart beating. I was trying to breathe evenly because my heart had been pounding again with the anticipation of what I’d find.
And then I walked quickly to the front door and pushed it hard. It opened a little with that loud grating noise. I stopped and listened again. Anyone within a hundred yards of me would have heard the noise. I waited two, maybe three minutes. There was no sound of anyone moving inside or approaching outside as I stood at the door. I squeezed around the door and walked slowly and quietly down the passage towards the kitchen. I was bracing myself for what I knew I’d find. As I walked into the kitchen I saw Stephen, slumped on his ropes, head lolling on his chest. He wasn’t moving at all and I couldn’t see him breathing. I thought the worst. For a few moments I thought he was dead, that they’d killed him. I felt my stomach flip over and I held my breath as I walked to him and felt for a pulse on his wrist. My hand was shaking and cold. His hand was blue from loss of circulation and I couldn’t feel anything. I listened for his breathing and thought I felt an out-breath onto my hand. It was indistinct and I wasn’t certain, not yet, that he was still alive.
I found a knife on the draining board and pushed it hard between the skin of his hand and the rope. It was very tight. I sawed at the rope for what seemed like forever and it finally gave with a snap. Stephen’s hand fell to his side, limp. I set to work on the other wrist and eventually his hand fell to his side as the rope broke. There was nothing holding him onto the chair except for the ropes around his ankles. Before I could stop it, he overbalanced and fell sideways onto the floor, the chair still attached to him. It made a very loud noise. And then Stephen moaned. I knew he was alive. It took me several minutes to cut through the ropes around his ankles. The chair legs had twisted them and they were like tightened tourniquets. When he was finally released he moved his legs a little and moaned again. I rubbed his wrists and ankles to get the blood flowing and it must have hurt him because after a moment or two he came to and fought me off. I don’t think he realised it was me.
I said, ‘Stephen, it’s me, Tess. Don’t fight me. I’m here to help you.’ He was very groggy. I went to the tap and found a cloth, which was filthy, rinsed it and squeezed it and started to wipe the blood from his face. Every time he moved he groaned and as he became more conscious he winced at the pain in his body. His top lip was split and he’d clearly lost at least one tooth. His right eye was starting to swell and there were two lumps growing on his forehead. I thought that at least one of his fingers was broken and he howled with pain whenever he tried to move his hand. Of course, there was no first aid kit to be found anywhere, so I told him that I was going back to the car to find my kit and that I’d be back in a few minutes.
He didn’t hear me and I left in a hurry, ran back up the track and onto the road. I was careful. I was still listening for anyone there but there were only the familiar sounds filling the night. It was raining quite hard by now. I reached the car and found the kit. Just as I was locking the door I saw headlights approaching on the road and I ducked back by the wall. It went past and I followed its lights for a hundred yards until I thought I was safe. I got back to the cottage and found Stephen still on the floor where I’d left him. I put an old cushion from the other room under his head and an old knitted blanket from the bedroom over him. Then I found the kettle and some tea bags and made two mugs of tea with sugar. I’d found some hard lumps of sugar in a jar in the cupboard. I let his mug cool – there was no milk – and then I lifted his head and put the cup between his battered lips. The warm liquid must have made the cut in his lip hurt like hell and he pushed the mug away spilling most of the tea on the floor. I told him he had to take some liquid, that he was in shock and he was dehydrated. He refused it so I sat on a chair and drank mine. I was glad of it. I was still shaking and still half-afraid that someone would come.
I bided my time before I undid the first aid kit and found some gauze and cotton wool and plasters and, most important, antiseptic. Stephen was still lying on the floor, not moving much and groaning from time to time. I thought it would be a long time before he could get up but he needed to be more comfortable. It was daft, I know, but I thought he’d be better on the mattress, what with all the bruises he had and maybe some breaks as well. What I actually wanted to do was call an ambulance but I knew he’d never forgive me and he’d fight every inch of the way. I just knew he’d not want to leave and be moved to a hospital. So I found a basin and poured the rest of the hot water from the kettle into it and then poured in some of the bottle of antiseptic. He was still half-comatose and groggy and I dipped the cotton wool balls into the solution and started to wipe his face to clean the cuts he had.
There was blood coming out of his mouth where he’d lost the tooth. I found myself looking for it on the floor. I saw a front tooth, lying on the rug. It made me want to retch. It was so out of place on the floor. I pulled his top lip back very gently and saw the hole the tooth had left. There was still some root visible in the socket. It was shocking, Evelyn, to think someone was that damaged by other people, that they didn’t flinch from doing such a violent thing. It made me think that I was better off in my little sheltered world, not havin
g to deal with that sort of thing. But then there I was dealing with it. It seemed inescapable suddenly, that there was no way of avoiding it. He began to look better and at least the wounds were clean. I opened up his shirt and pulled his T shirt up from the top of his trousers. Already there were livid marks on his ribs and I thought they were probably all over him. They must have beaten him before they tied him to the chair, to prop him up so they could get at him maybe.
He kept coming to and moaning. I said to him, ‘Stephen, I’m going to help you get to the bed. You’ll be more comfortable.’ But when I lifted his arm to help him get up he screamed with pain and fainted. He went limp so I decided it would be better to leave him on the floor until he felt he could move. I couldn’t have lifted him anyway even if I’d wanted. He needed to sleep, that was the most important thing. I hoped to God he had no serious internal injuries or bleeding, and I’d see how he was in the morning. It was getting late by this time. I suddenly felt very tired and hungry. The wind was howling and whistling in the windows and down the chimney. There were draughts everywhere and the place was very cold. I found another blanket – if you can call it that – and covered Stephen with it. I still had my jacket on. I’d taken the waterproof off.
I was warm enough but I was facing the prospect of sleeping upright with no covering and no fire to keep me warm. It had gone out since I was there earlier. There was some wood, small logs and kindling, in the fireplace. There were matches on the mantelpiece so I laid a fire. In ten minutes it was drawing well up the chimney. Something in the cottage worked! I pulled an old broken-down armchair, the only one in the place, up to the fire until I was nearly on top of it and sat down to get warm. The wood I’d found didn’t last long and I had to hunt for more. There was some in the living room and some, rather wet, outside the kitchen door. I brought some of that in to dry and hauled what there was inside to the kitchen. After about half an hour I had a stock for the night and I settled down to try and sleep.
I slept fitfully until dawn. It was still wet and windy. Stephen had woken me several times in the night, moaning and whimpering and once shouting out in his sleep. Then he seemed to sleep more peacefully until I woke up because shortly after I’d woken he opened his eyes. I’d been looking at him at the time and he looked straight at me and said, ‘You’re here again. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here, they’ll be back.’ When he said that I felt my stomach turn over with fear and I had to run to the toilet. I’d avoided it since I’d arrived and gone outside. But I had to use it. I managed, just about. I was very tired by now, exhausted from the tension I felt being there and when Stephen said about them coming back I felt terrified. Just for a moment, and then I pulled myself together. By this time I was ravenous. I thought of the chickens in the yard and I thought of eggs. I went outside to find the hen house and when I found it I found seven eggs lying in the straw. I was euphoric. I took them in, found a disgusting frying pan, a fork and the bowl from the antiseptic, washed them as best I could and made an omelette. With all the eggs. I found a tin of sardines in the cupboard so it became a sardine omelette. I’d never tasted anything so delicious. Stephen ate some with difficulty but his colour changed and he started to look a little better.
I persuaded him to drink some black tea and used up what remained of the sugar to try and get some sugar into his bloodstream to help him pull out of his state. He did drink some and looked as if he had just some faint colour in his face. But he looked awful even so, pallid and sweaty and I thought part of his strange state was because he was taking drugs. I said to him, ‘Are you taking drugs?’ And he said angrily that he didn’t have any. He seemed a bit deranged and I was getting anxious. I realised he must have needed drugs and didn’t have any and I didn’t know what happened when someone came off drugs but I knew it wasn’t easy. I told him a bit lamely that I couldn’t help him there but didn’t he think I ought to take him to hospital? I told him I thought he had some broken bones, fingers and ribs.
He flew at me, he was furious. He told me to mind my own business and that he didn’t want me there. I told him that if I hadn’t come he’d still be tied to the chair and that he might have died there if I hadn’t found him and bothered to free him and give him some food. He had this easy ability to make me feel small and to blame and at fault. I found myself getting very angry and I told him that maybe he ought to be grateful. He was trying to get up off the floor but it was obviously very painful and he was struggling. I said, ‘Do you want me to help you?’ And he said, ‘Of course I do.’ He was impatient and contemptuous. He didn’t even say thank you. I helped him to sit on the chair and I moved it so that he could lean on the table as he was so weak.
At that point, Evelyn, I asked myself why I was bothering, that I was a soft touch and that he was taking me for granted. I told him that I was going to leave him to it, he could fend for himself but as I stood up to leave he grabbed my wrist and asked me to stay. I was so taken aback that I sat down at the table with him and he held on to my wrist, looking at me in a strange, angry way.”
Chapter 19
Stephen Dawson floated between sleep and wakefulness. Whenever he came to he felt sweaty and nauseous. There was a sharp pain in his head and when he touched the place where the pain seemed to come from, he remembered the crack and the flash of light somewhere in his brain and the intense pain seeping through the numbness when he had fallen. He could scarcely remember how the injury and the fall had come about; only that Tess had been involved. Beyond that scanty recollection there was nothing. He floated off into confusion and an indeterminate dreamworld. Stephen bobbed about on the surface of consciousness, often sinking below into the darkening depths. He had the vaguest inkling that things were bad and, in fact, had been bad for several years.
Without the distraction of the unending struggle to make money, he had come to realise in an inchoate way that his life amounted to less than nothing. It amounted to harmfulness, badness and the perpetuation of human suffering. But Stephen found it hard to put his thoughts or semi-thoughts into words. It was not his way. So he struggled with trying to take hold of something that he didn’t have the tools to understand. His cerebral synapses were dislocated and misaligned. The sudden, intense charge of electricity meant to carry a message from one neuron to another simply missed its target and Stephen was left feeling jumbled and frustrated. His brain no longer worked properly and yet he still sometimes struggled to formulate some concept of his condition, usually to no avail. After such a struggle Stephen could find himself weeping in a desultory and unexplained way, as if defeated by a simple feat of cognition that ended up in disarray. He felt defenceless, unable to hold onto the meaning of what was happening either outside himself or inside. Most painfully, deep inside he had the vaguest insight that this was the case, again unformed but lingering on the threshold of his consciousness, but whenever he reached to grasp any fleeting burst of insight it would disappear.
During the night, as he lay on the floor where he had fallen, he found himself on the surface of awareness as if holding his head above the water, gasping for breath. He was hallucinating, whether from the blow to his head or from hunger or dehydration or drug withdrawal or a combination of all these baleful factors. He found himself thinking of his sister and experiencing an involuntary surge of rage as he pictured her, distorted, in his mind. She was the emissary of his mother, sent to destroy him finally and for good. In his deranged psyche, or perhaps it was unexpected insight, he was in the sea and Tess was in a boat, floating above him with a boat hook in her hands. She was trying to fish him out, he thought, at first. But when she got near him she pushed him under the waves and he began to sink. His chest was clenched in a rictus of drowning, his lungs filling with water as he tried to breathe in something that would preserve his life. He could taste the salt of the sea and feel the pressure behind his eyes as life slowly ebbed and he was nearly gone. Then he felt a tug at his collar as the boat hook grabbed him and his sister pulled him to the surface
again, as if playing a cruel and excruciating game. He gasped and fought and cursed as he took in air and spewed out the sea. She was looking down at him from the dry safety of the boat and her face was that of Irene Dawson, no longer Tess the emissary but the Queen herself, powerful, lethal and his destroyer.
Stephen’s mind was filled with the awful wrath and cruelty of his mother as she toyed with him in the ocean of his despair and perpetual Armageddon. He could not remove her from his mind because she was part of him and part of it. She had made sure that Stephen would never escape her because she had entered him when he was defenceless, small and pliable and she had occupied him and there she had remained all his life. He was haunted by her and he blamed her. He maintained the story he told himself that it was all her fault, that she was to blame for everything and in so doing, with bitter irony, kept her firmly ensconced in his psyche. It needed no analysis or definition, this blanket blame. It simply was, and it could not be questioned, for this was the way that Stephen absolved himself from all responsibility for the bad things he did. It was not him but his mother. He languished in this unending conflict between guilt and blame, fought inside his weakening frame. To conceptualise and grasp this state of affairs was beyond his resources, as they atrophied and declined into a shadow of who he could have been.
Rather than distinguish Tess from Irene, his hallucination, unrecognised for what it was, reinforced his hatred of Tess and as he surfaced from the depths he shouted out at her, cursing her betrayal of him and her duplicity in becoming Irene, it was all so mixed up in his mind. It was light by this time and he had come through the night, he had survived the blow and the nightmare. He moved his limbs, lying there on the floor, and felt the agonising ache and stiffness of his bones changing their positions against the hardness of the cold stone. To move brought a strange and painful comfort, a bitter affirmation that he was still alive. He pulled himself half up and lent against the dresser, reaching for his tin of tobacco and papers that he usually kept on the chaotic surface. He couldn’t find them. He groaned and rolled over onto his hands and knees and hands, pushing himself up unsteadily until he was kneeling and could see the tin pushed between two books, dog-eared and grubby. He reached for it and hauled himself onto his feet, his legs shaking and weak. He found the old armchair in the corner of the room and, with the tin clasped in his hand, he collapsed onto the sagging seat and closed his eyes in exhaustion.
