by Amy Cross
Still she didn't leave.
TODAY
“No, darling,” Mary said as she held the phone by her mouth, “I'll be home in a little while. I'm just busy with a few things.”
She was sitting on a bench in the centre of Dalston, watching the post box outside the village shop. Having left Robert Shirley's office in London a few hours earlier, she'd taken a train straight to the village after he'd explained to her that Dalston actually had only one post box, which meant that any letter bearing the local postmark simply had to be mailed from one particular spot.
Checking her watch, she was that it was almost two in the afternoon. She was willing to wait all day if necessary, and maybe even all night.
“Is bolognese okay?” Sarah asked. “Dad taught me to make it once.”
“That would be lovely,” she said to Sarah after a moment. “Yes, please, go ahead and I'll try to be home on time, but if I'm not you must just -”
Spotting a man heading toward the postbox, she held her breath and watched as he pulled a large white envelope from his shopping bag. Her heart almost seemed to skip a beat as she saw that the envelope was exactly like all the others that she'd received, and she watched in open-mouthed shock as the man headed away along the street. The whole scene seemed so innocuous and mundane, it was hard to believe that it was the root of all the turmoil she'd been experiencing.
“Oh Mum, guess what night it is tonight?” Sophie said suddenly. “It's -”
“I have to go,” she replied, before cutting the call and getting to her feet.
Hurrying after the man, she made sure to keep a reasonable distance so that he wouldn't notice that she was following him. Even though she'd only managed to get a brief glimpse of his face, she was fairly certain that she'd never seen him before in her life, but deep down she felt that Robert Shirley must have been correct when he'd speculated that the blackmailer was someone she knew. As the man made his way to a house and unlocked the front door, Mary stopped for a moment and waited until he was inside, and then she brought up Shirley's number and hit the Call button.
“I think I've found him,” she said as soon as Shirley picked up on the other end. “Fifteen Maryberry Garden Cottages. That's the address.”
“Hang on.”
She waited while Shirley looked up the address online.
“Trumpleton,” he said finally. “William Trumpleton.”
“Who?” she asked finally. “William Trumpleton? I've never heard of a William Trumpleton in all my life! Why would he be blackmailing me?”
She listened as Shirley read out a few more details about the man.
“Oh, this is all just rot,” she said finally, cutting the call before making her way to the front door. Just as she was about to knock, however, she began to wonder whether blundering straight into the situation might actually be counter-productive, not to mention dangerous. Her first instinct was to call the police, but she had little confidence that they'd treat the matter seriously so she stepped over to the window and peered into the house, only to see a nondescript front room that offered no clues as to the man's motivation.
“William Trumpleton,” she whispered to herself, still racking her brain for some hint of familiarity.
She knew she should leave, but at the same time she felt that she had to press on a little, to find some kind of clue...
Making her way around to the side of the house, she picked her way along a narrow alley before reaching another window. She looked inside and saw the man sitting at a desk with his back to her, and nearby a pile of white envelopes had been put in place, as if they were waiting to be posted off one by one, day by day.
Making her way around to the next window, she peered through the window and saw that, as she'd suspected, the top envelope was addressed to her.
At that moment, just as she was about to turn and leave, the man at the desk glanced over at her and their eyes met.
Mary looked over at the open door, just a few feet away, and finally she realized that she had no choice. Stepping over to the door, she looked in at the man. Part of her was scared, worried that he might attack her, but the thought of letting things drag on a moment longer was too much to bear. She had to know the truth.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice filled with fear.
“Willie Trumpleton,” he replied with a frown. “Who are you?”
***
“He gave them to me in the pub,” Willie explained as Mary looked down at the pile of envelopes. “He told me to put one in the post each day, every day, starting last Monday and not stopping until I'd run out. He'd already put stamps on, and he gave me some extra money for my trouble.” He paused for a moment. “He said they were love letters. He made out like it was all cute.”
“Love letters?” She took the top envelope and turned it around, looking for any hint of a clue, before finally tearing it open and looking inside to see that it contained more photos from the old days, once again showing Sarah's naked body. “I don't understand, who gave you the envelopes? When?”
“Oh, a while ago now,” Willie continued. “His name was Don, he used to come into the pub down the -”
“Don?” She turned to him with an expression of pure shock.
“Nice old guy,” he replied. “A little moody sometimes, but he used to come in the Dog and Duck for a pint sometimes and we got chatting. Eventually he asked me if I'd do this favour for him. Funny thing is, I never saw him again after the day he gave me the envelopes. Must have been seven or eight months ago.”
Reaching into her bag, Mary pulled out her purse and with trembling hands she opened it to reveal the photograph of Donald that she'd kept with her ever since his death. She turned the picture toward Trumpleton.
“That's him!” he said with a smile. “What's wrong? He's not in any trouble, is he?”
“This man gave you the envelopes?” she asked, her mind spinning as she tried to understand why Donald would have done such a thing. “He told you to send them to me?”
“What's wrong? They are love letters, aren't they? He said it was some romantic thing he wanted to do for his wife. He wasn't cheating, was he?”
Too shocked to speak, Mary took the photos out of the envelope. The first showed Sarah flat on her back with milk dribbling across her breasts, which had been Donald's rather naive attempt to make it seem as if she'd recently been with a man; the second image showed Sarah on her knees, squeezing her breasts together, while the third image was a somewhat out of focus close-up of the girl's vagina. Finding a note mixed in with the pictures, Mary forced herself to read another of Donald's messages:
Dear slut,
Another day, another reminder of your disgusting past. You and Donald Heaton are filth. Your life is a lie and no lie can be allowed to last, not when it hides something so heinous. You're both perverts and you deserve to be dragged through the street and punished for what you've done.
Don't worry, that day is coming. A day of reckoning. Everyone's going to know all about your foul little business. Most importantly, they're going to know what happened to that dumb slut Sarah Cole. All your lies will come crashing down.
Enjoy the truth, bitch.
She read the message a second time, this time trying to imagine Donald sitting at his computer and typing out such horrific words. After a moment, she set the letter down and grabbed the next envelope, ripping it open to find several more photos of Sarah along with another note:
Miss me?
You're nothing but a whore. Any right-minded individual would be driven to vomit by your sanctimonious hypocrisy. The only way you can escape the evil of your actions is to slit your wrists and end your miserable life, but you won't do that, will you?
You disgust me. You're a foul pig.
Hope you're looking forward to another message from me tomorrow, you stupid cow. The day of truth is approaching and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Looking down at the pile of envelopes, Mary counted them and realize
d there were still twenty left, as if the campaign of hatred was set to last an entire month. She lifted the rest of the pile aside and pulled out the final envelope, which she ripped open before slipping the contents out. First, she found a photo of Sarah with a dildo in her vagina, her eyes having been covered by a pair of felt-tip crosses while the letters R.I.P. had been drawn over the middle of the image. Then, she found another note:
So this is it. My final message to you, whore.
I hope you're happy with how things have gone. Today, another letter will be mailed to several leading newspapers, detailing every disgusting, perverted act that you and your vile husband committed.
“I rather think I'm way ahead of you there,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.
I can only hope that I've succeeded, or even better, that by the time this letter arrives at your house, you've done the decent thing and killed yourself. The world would be better off without bitches like you, Mary fucking whore bitch Heaton.
I just want to say, finally, that you disgust me. All the years we spent living together, I grew to loathe you with a passion. It was your fault that I was driven to do such awful things, and it was your fault that Sarah fucking Cole died. You're a bitch and a whore and I just hope you rot in hell. You're nothing but a disgusting pornographer and a slut who tried to drag her husband down to her level of putrid bile. Goodbye, you miserable bitch.
Taking a deep breath, she set the letter down. A slow, creeping sense of absolute calm was crawling up her back until finally it wrapped its fingers over her shoulders.
“You alright?” Trumpleton asked. “You look a little pale.”
“It was him,” she whispered. “His parting gift.”
“They... They are love letters, aren't they?”
She turned to him and watched as he picked up one of the letters.
“He seemed like such a nice man,” Trumpleton said after a moment, clearly concerned. “I swear to God, I had no idea it was like this. He seemed so friendly and kind, I just believed him, that's all.”
“Yes,” she replied, forcing herself to stay calm, “he was always very good at getting people to believe him.”
“What...” He paused for a moment. “This was your husband?”
She looked down at the pile.
“It must have eaten away at him,” she said after a moment. “All those years, as he rose higher and higher, he must have internalized his guilt and his self-loathing and then...” She closed her eyes, thinking back to the old days with Donald, before the political career and even before the business with the photos. “He hated me,” she said finally. “He loved me once, I know he did, but there must have been a moment when he turned against me, some kind of change in his heart. He blamed me for everything.”
“I'll get some plastic bags for you to take them in,” Trumpleton said, heading over to the cupboard. “I don't want them in my house anymore.”
“No,” she replied, opening her eyes and turning to him. “Actually, I...” She paused, before looking out at his immaculately maintained garden. “Do you by any chance happen to have the means to create a bonfire?”
THIRTY YEARS AGO
“Congratulations!” she shouted, wrapping her arms around Donald and giving him the biggest hug they'd ever shared. “I can't believe you finally did it!”
“Off to Westminster for you, mate,” John Neville added, patting Donald on the back. “They'd better watch out, they don't know what they're in for.”
“I knew you could do it,” Mary whispered. “I just knew it, all along, from the moment I met you.”
“I couldn't have achieved any of this without you,” he replied, holding her tight. “You know I appreciate you, don't you?”
She nodded, with tears streaming down her face, before stepping back and smiling at him.
“Donald Heaton,” she said after a moment. “The Politician.”
“Mary Heaton,” he replied, “the politician's wife.”
“You must be so proud of him,” Neville said, nudging her arm. “This man of yours is going to do great things!”
“You bloody beauty!” Carol shouted, bounding toward them and wrapping Donald in a huge hug. “I knew you could do it! I knew it!”
“Careful,” Mary said with a grin, “don't squeeze him to death before he's even had a chance to start work!”
***
“You did it,” Mary said a little while later, as she joined Donald in the office at the back of the club. The party could still be heard in full swing next door, but for a moment they were taking a few minutes alone in the darkened room.
“We did it,” he replied, staring out the window as he took a drag on a cigar.
“Are you sure you don't want me to turn the lights on?” she asked. “It's awfully gloomy in here.”
“I like it like this.”
“Can you believe it's finally happening?” she continued, putting her arms around his waist from behind. “I remember the very first time I ever met you, you were talking about getting into politics one day and -”
“Not like this,” he said suddenly.
“Not like what?”
He turned to her, and for the first time there was a hint of concern in his eyes.
“I just can't help thinking,” he continued, “about all the things we had to do in order to get here.”
“We did what we had to do,” she replied. “Donald, don't -”
“I spent so long worrying about making sure no-one else found out about those photos we sold,” he said, interrupting her, “I never thought about the fact that I'd have to know about it. I have to live the rest of my life knowing what we did.”
“You didn't seem to have any concerns at the time,” she reminded him. “In fact, you rather appeared to enjoy yourself.”
“That was then,” he replied, “but I'm a different man now. I'm important, I'm respectable, and yet I have to carry the knowledge of all that smut. It's as if I've got someone else's memories and guilt in my head.” He stared into her eyes for a moment. “Why did you let me do it, Mary? Why did you help me? You could have put your foot down and made me stick to a more respectable path.”
“Well, I...” She paused, somewhat taken aback by his words. “I just tried to support you.”
“Still, you could have warned me.”
“About what?”
“So now I suppose I shall just have to live with the guilt,” he continued, “until the day I die. Then there's that poor Sarah girl.”
“Yes,” she replied, looking away for a moment as she thought back to Sarah's dead face. “I went to her funeral, you know.”
“Why the bloody hell did you do that?”
“To show some respect.”
“You could have been seen!”
“I think I might go to her grave every year,” she continued, turning back to him, “just to show a mark of -”
“Don't you bloody dare!” he hissed. “Do you hear me, Mary? It's not often that I put my foot down, but don't you bloody go and do something so stupid and selfish! We have to forget about that part of our lives!”
“How can we just -”
“Don't be weak!”
“But...” She paused, and then finally she nodded.
“I'm serious! Both of us, we have to just put it out of our minds and never, ever think about it again. We don't even discuss it when we're alone, is that clear?”
“Donald -”
“Is that clear?” he shouted, pushing her back against the wall before glancing at the door to make sure that no-one could hear. Out in the main hall, music was still playing loudly.
“It's clear,” Mary said quietly, trembling with shock. Staring at her husband as the moonlight cast shadows across his features, she realized that she didn't recognize him at all. It was as if his entire physical appearance had changed.
“We can't let this change us, Mary,” he hissed, his face still seeming so desperately unfamiliar. “We were good people before and
we're good people now! We have to stay calm and stay firm, do you understand? We do not change! We do not change!”
“But Don, how -”
“It's going to be difficult,” he continued, evidently struggling to keep his temper under control, “but we must both work very hard to bury our regrets. Push them down, Mary, and make sure they're so deep, they can never come up again. We're new people now. It would be so easy and so weak to let this experience change us but we must focus. We're too good to let ourselves be dragged down, so we have to stay strong. I know I can do it, I just worry about you. Your mind is a little less experienced in these things than mine.”
She stared at him, still shocked by the fact that he looked so different. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Just that you must try extra hard to be strong,” he told her, kissing her on the forehead with lips that felt cold and unfamiliar. “I have faith in you, my little bee. Follow my example. I'm sure you can do it eventually. Just try not to let the guilt eat you up, Mary. It's not really your fault about that Sarah girl. Some people are important and some people are disposable. We're important, and she allowed herself to be disposable. She was trash, she was nothing, she was -”
Suddenly the door opened and John Neville leaned into the room.
