by Alex Lake
She was glad it was dark. She did not want to see the mess she had made of her right hand. With her left she reached down and tugged at the rope around her ankles. It was tight, but, typically for Edna, it was a neat knot and when she found the end it came undone easily.
That’ll teach you to be so fucking perfect, she thought. Soon you’ll wish you hadn’t got the knot-tying badge in the Girl Guides.
She hunched her shoulders, her hands in her lap. God, they hurt, but the relief was enormous. She could feel the blood flowing back into them, bringing with it the tingling of pins and needles, although pins and needles didn’t really cut it. Knives and daggers, more like.
She heard footsteps approaching the priest’s hole. They stopped, then she heard the snap of surgical gloves being put on. It sounded just like it did on the television.
Julia readied herself. She took deep breaths, tensed her muscles, willed them to work, and readied herself for whatever pain was waiting for her.
She pictured Anna at fourteen, Edna looming over her, telling her she had to make something of herself, that she had to work hard, that movies and boyfriends were for other, lesser girls. That she would be punished if she did not do as her grandmother wanted, that she knew the form the punishment would take and she didn’t want that, did she?
Anna, fifteen, throwing up in the bathroom, thin red lines on the insides of her arm, where no one could see them. Anna, twenty, neurotic, terrified of failure.
No. Anna was going to have fun. She was going to enjoy her childhood, mess around, laugh, take time to explore art and music and watch television and eat junk food. Anna would understand that balance and cheerfulness and kindness were what mattered, not grades and titles and money.
Julia’s way, not Edna’s.
The door to the priest’s hole scraped open. A gap an inch wide appeared to Julia’s left.
She braced herself. She felt good. Strong. Like she could do this, whatever this was.
And then it began.
vi.
You watch her friends – was she fucking that fat man? probably, knowing Julia – get in the car and drive away. You wanted to be sure they were gone. You don’t think they suspected anything. It would be too much of a leap for them to suspect you have their friend locked in a priest’s hole in your living room. They lack the intelligence, the imagination. They think like every other sheep does. To them it is unimaginable you would be planning to murder your daughter-in-law, and so they do not imagine it. You are glad; the inability of the common run to think beyond themselves is part of what keeps you safe.
And it is most of what sets you apart. You would be a superb detective. You would see beyond the evidence. You would not make assumptions about what had happened. You enjoy reading Sherlock Holmes for that very reason, in fact, he reminds you of yourself. The same penetrating intelligence, the same willingness to do whatever is necessary to get what is desired. Was Holmes a pleasant man? Quite the opposite, but he is admired because he brought bad people to justice. This, you think, misses the point. It is not what he did that is admirable, but how he did it. You would admire him equally if his purposes had been nefarious. More, perhaps, for it would have taken even greater strength of character to follow that path, to break the bonds that society puts on us: something you have experienced first-hand.
To choose matricide was not easy. You had to summon all your reserves of character in order to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do; that your mother needed to be released. And as for Jim, well, that took strength of a different kind, for there was a chance you would be caught.
Just like now. But you will not let that deter you. You cannot. You have no choice in this. You have to do what is right for Anna.
You close the front door. The familiar creak. You could fix it, but you like how it alerts you to arrivals or departures. You hear noises from the priest’s hole. She is struggling. She has probably realized that she is about to die, and there is nothing she can do about it. It must be an awful thing to know: all the more reason to put her out of her misery.
It is a wonderful thing, that priest’s hole. A marvel of design. Centuries ago it saved the lives of men; housed them, hid them from teams of people whose only purpose was to find them and kill them. They were skilled searchers, these people, and they often knew that a priest was being sheltered in a particular house, yet they still failed to find them. Your priest’s hole was typical: a false wall inside a chimney flue. You had been told that the occupants would set a fire in the fireplace to show that there was no one hidden anywhere near the chimney. The priest’s hole was so well designed that the priest would survive the heat and smoke.
Most of the time, anyway.
But if a few dead priests was the price for a lot of living priests then so be it. They understood that kind of thing in those days. They understood how to make tough decisions. Now the health and safety brigade would put a stop to it. No one must be hurt. Risks must be mitigated.
There was always risk, always. Accepting it and acting anyway was what set apart those with greatness from those who would never amount to anything. There were big people, and there were small people. Big people did big things, and took big risks in doing so. Small people did not.
You were one of the big people, obviously. One of the few. Sadly, your son was not. But your granddaughter would be. You knew your interest in her bordered on obsession, but you didn’t care.
It is in her best interest, and that is all that matters.
You cross the room. Take your gloves from under the newspaper. Snap them on. It feels good, like being in theatre again, readying yourself to operate.
Could a small person operate? Cut a living human open and remove part of their brain, the right part of their brain, then close them up and walk away? Could a small person hold another person’s life in their hands and remain calm, detached, able to make good, balanced decisions? Could they accept that, sometimes, they would make mistakes and wives would become widows, husbands widowers, children father-or-motherless? Could they live with these mistakes, understand that, over a career, they would happen, accept it emotionally as well as intellectually? No. You don’t think so. Small people cannot do that. They do not have the detachment, the control.
You do, however. You have all the control you need.
You put your gloved hand on the sliding door of the priest’s hole and unclick the latch. You added that feature yourself. In the sixteenth century the priest would have wanted the ability to let himself out, but that was not an ability you wanted the present inhabitant to share.
You steady yourself. Focus on the job ahead. You are confident that your plan is good, but even the best plans need to be well executed. There’s a saying – of Sun Tsu, or someone like that – that you have always liked:
A bad strategy well executed is better than a perfect strategy badly executed.
You like that. You like how it puts the focus on the individual. Success is down to how you act. How you execute.
How you execute. An ironic thought, given what is about to happen to Julia. This situation really is about executing.
And not just executing the plan.
Executing your daughter-in-law. Executing an obstacle.
You take a deep breath, and slide back the door.
vii.
The door slid open and Julia launched herself out of the priest’s hole.
At least, she intended to. What she actually did turned out to be some distance from her intention. She had pictured herself – visualized, in the terminology of sport – springing out of the priest’s hole, her weight transferring squarely into Edna’s face and chest, and knocking the older woman to the ground, and rendering her senseless for just long enough so that she could sprint out of the house and into the main road, where a passing vehicle – a white van, perhaps, piloted by a solid, honest working man – would pick her up and transport her to the nearest police station.
But Julia’s legs had not been
straight for twenty-four hours, and the muscles and joints were stiffer than she had ever imagined possible. She also had two shoulders that, although looser, were hardly in their best condition, a back that screamed in pain as it uncoiled from its foetal curl, and a hand that was little more than a bloody pulp.
So when Julia pushed against the wall with her feet she did not generate enough force to spring anywhere; instead, she performed a kind of slow, barely controlled flop onto the floor.
On the way down she managed to thrust her good hand into Edna’s chest, which knocked her mother-in-law into a backwards stagger, giving Julia just enough time to roll onto her back.
Edna stared at her. Her eyes, which had been dilated with surprise, narrowed. She studied Julia, her gaze landing on her bloodied hand.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You got out. Did you crush your own hand? I’m impressed.’
From the tone of her voice Julia could tell she meant it. So, finally, she’d managed to impress Edna. So that was all it took, then. She wished she’d known earlier. She would have crushed one of her body parts before.
Julia backed away, propped up on her elbows. She would have replied, but the bit was still in her mouth.
‘Shame it won’t make any difference,’ Edna said. ‘I have no choice. Not now you know about Mum and Jim and the floozy. And I haven’t even mentioned the others.’
Julia continued to move away. She wanted as much distance between her and Edna as she could get, but more importantly, it felt good to move. Her legs throbbed with the new blood pulsing through them. She flexed them, tensing the muscles, feeling the strength return.
Her elbow hit something hard. The edge of the hearth. She stopped.
‘Right,’ Edna said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
She moved forward, the syringe in her hand. She was cautious, her eyes fixed on Julia, watching for a kick or a sudden motion. Julia waited. She thought she would be able to grab the syringe, maybe keep it away from her body, press the plunger, and empty it.
Then Edna stopped.
‘Too risky,’ she said. She reached down onto the hearth and picked up a large brass poker. ‘It’ll be a bit messy, but this will have to do.’
Julia rolled onto her front and dived at Edna. It was not a conscious decision, but something in her understood that this was her chance, that now, while Edna was leaning down, her hand on the poker, her balance not perfect, was a chance – maybe the only one she would get – to act.
This time, her legs worked a bit better. Not perfectly, by any means – she did not so much fly as flutter towards her mother-in-law – but better, much, much, better than before, and well enough so that, when she hit Edna, her shoulder colliding with her target’s wrist – which, she thought, she heard snap – Edna collapsed.
There was a loud bang when Edna’s head hit the floor, and then she was still.
Oh shit, Julia thought. Did I kill her? Then, that’s a good thing, though isn’t it?
But Edna was not dead. Her chest rose and fell, her eyelids flickered. She was unconscious, yes, but not dead.
Thank God, Julia thought. Evil as she is, I don’t want her death on my conscience. I’m not a killer.
The poker had fallen from Edna’s hand and rolled up against the wall. Julia got to her feet and picked it up. She went into the hall. The phone was on an old roll-top desk. She was about to call 999 when she noticed something. Next to the phone was a pad of yellow paper. There was a number on it.
Gill’s mobile phone. She’d given it to Edna when she came looking for Julia, not that Edna had any intention of using it. She’d taken it just to keep up appearances.
And now it was going to save Julia. Gill and Mike would be here quicker than the police; she’d left only minutes ago, so would be back equally quickly. She’d know what to do: call an ambulance, call the cops, truss Edna up.
She reached behind her head. The metal gag was held together by a screw at the back. Julia undid it and took the gag carefully from her mouth. Her jaw ached and her swollen tongue was pressed against the roof of her mouth, but the relief was indescribable. She massaged her jaw then picked up the phone and dialled the number.
‘Hello,’ Gill said. ‘This is Gill.’
‘It’s me,’ Julia said, her voice still thick. ‘I need help. I’m at Edna’s house.’
There was no reply. Not even the hum of a live telephone line. The phone was dead.
‘Gill?’ Julia said. ‘Are you there?’
‘You little fucking bitch.’
Julia turned around. It was Edna. She was standing by the wall, the phone cable in her hand. She let it drop to the floor.
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘If it isn’t Little Miss Plucky.’ She raised her other hand. It was holding a hammer, her knuckles white. There was a trickle of blood coming from her left ear and her eyes were dark, empty pools. All pretence of humanity was gone, stripped away by Edna’s rage, and all that was left was insanity.
She touched her forefinger to the blood on her temple and looked at it. She showed the red smudge to Julia.
‘You are going to pay for this,’ she said. ‘You’re going to die in agony. You could have slipped painlessly away, but not anymore. Not now. Now you will know what pain means.’
Without warning, she swung the hammer, low, against Julia’s hip. There was a dull thud, then Julia’s side lit up in pain and she crumpled to her knees.
‘Edna,’ she said. ‘No. Please. We can stop this. Pretend it never happened.’
Edna laughed; a high, braying, unearthly laugh.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course, we can. Why didn’t I think of that? Off you go, then, Julia. Pop off home and we’ll be friends for evermore. Perfect. Happy families again.’ She shook her head. ‘That, my dear daughter-in-law, is as far from what is going to happen as it possibly could be.’
‘What if Brian comes back?’ Julia asked her. ‘What if he sees this?’
‘He won’t. He’s having some father—daughter time, in Blackpool. I booked them a hotel. I suggested he take her there and he did. Of course he did. He does what I tell him. Such a good boy. He always was. Shame he’s also such a pathetic specimen, but then that’s genetics for you. You never know what you’re getting. Good job I have Anna to make up for him.’
‘Thank God, he’s not like you,’ Julia said. ‘We’re all safer for it.’
‘Yes. But not you. Not for much longer, anyway.’
‘He’ll stop you, you know,’ Julia said. ‘Eventually, he’ll see that you’re crazy and you’re hurting Anna, and he’ll stop you. He’s a father more than he’s a son.’
‘Do you really think that? Do you really think he could stand up to me? And besides, you assume he’ll disagree with me. He won’t. He’ll go along with everything I tell him.’
Julia knew she was right; knew Brian would toe the line. He always had before, and he would continue to do so.
Edna hefted the hammer in her hand.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Shall we begin?’
viii.
The thing in sport, Julia’s dad used to say, is to do the opposite of what the opposition are expecting. He usually went on to point out that, if he knew that, and he was merely a punter, albeit a particularly experienced and wise punter, then how in God’s name did professional coaches fail to understand it? Why, specifically, did the coach of Warrington Rugby League Football Club, aka the Wire, to whom he had dedicated a large proportion of the Sundays of both his childhood and adulthood, fail to understand it, even in matters as simple as team selection?
There are certain players that the opposition don’t like to play against, he would say, often on such a Sunday, when the Wire had lost and he and his friends had discussed the game over one or two or five or six pints of Greenall’s Bitter. And they don’t like to play against them because they run straight and hard and with purpose. And the purpose usually isn’t to pass on a friendly greeting. So what do you do if you’re a coach? You stick ’em on the field
. And you tell ’em to run straight and hard.
At that point he would kiss her on the forehead and grin at her, his breath warm and beery, his teeth stained yellow with pipe smoke.
And those are words to live your life by, petal. If in doubt, run straight and hard. They won’t expect that.
And Edna didn’t. Julia could tell from the slight furrowing of her brow as she watched her jump to her feet and run – well, lurch, there was a pain in her hip to go with the one in her hand – straight at her. She swung the hammer, but it was a fraction of a second too late, and, for the second time that evening, Julia crashed into her mother-in-law and sent her sprawling to the floor.
This time, Julia did not stop to look at Edna. She bear-crawled – her hip was seizing up badly – to the living room door and, rising to her feet, staggered into the kitchen. Edna kept the key to the back door in the cutlery drawer. Julia grabbed it, opened the back door, and then locked it behind her.
Through the window she saw Edna loom into the kitchen.
Julia set off to the front of the house and the safety of the main road, moving as fast as she could in a kind of half hop, half run. With her good hand she held her crushed arm against her chest to stop it bouncing around; it was agony when it was still, never mind when it was being shaken from side to side.
She glanced back at the door. It was still closed. She didn’t think Edna had another key, or if she did, it was not in an easily accessible place. Of course, her crazy mother-in-law would know where she was headed, and could try and cut her off, but Julia thought she should be ok. She was moving more slowly, but her path around the side of the house was more direct and, moreover, she had a head start. She pictured Edna trying the back door, pausing while she realized what Julia had done, and then turning to head for the front of the house.
Julia increased her speed. The pain in her hip flared, and she had a sick feeling that she was doing it some serious harm, but she forced the pain from her mind. She could deal with whatever damage was done later. For now she had to get away. That was all that mattered. She had to get away from this crazy old woman, find her daughter, and regroup. Everything else was just a detail.
