Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  She gestured towards the inner doors. ‘I just need to clean up. Can I use your toilets? Please?’

  The receptionist’s eyes went to the doors behind her as if she was expecting more than just a lone woman. ‘Jesus, you need more than a sink.’ She stepped back into the office and almost immediately re-emerged with a green first-aid case. ‘Here. I don’t think this has ever been used before. I’m pretty sure it’s full.’

  She put it down on the counter and unclipped the lid. Inside were bandages, plasters, safety pins, antiseptic cream and a pair of blunt scissors. ‘The toilets are just through those doors. Wash the blood off and we’ll get you patched up.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The hinge on the door into the toilets was stiff and the place smelled awful. She stood in front of the mirror and looked fearfully at her face. God. Her right eye was swollen half shut, dried blood caked her cheek and clotted her eyebrow. A fresh drip emerged from the split in her skin and caught in her eyelash.

  She looked around for paper towels but the dispenser was empty. So were the toilet-roll holders in the first two cubicles. The last had a small stack of tissues piled on the cistern.

  Five minutes later she stepped back into the reception, a tissue pressed to her eyebrow. ‘Seems it doesn’t want to stop.’

  The receptionist frowned in sympathy. ‘Was it a john?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your face? Was it . . . ?’

  Her mobile phone started to ring. Picking it out of her hand-bag, she saw her husband’s name on the screen. She turned it off and dropped it back. ‘Jeff. My husband.’ The admission brought tears to her eyes.

  The receptionist’s face softened further. ‘Let me see your face, you poor love.’

  ‘Really, you don’t need to. I can do it myself.’

  The receptionist peered at the cut. ‘These butterfly plasters might do it.’ She smeared antiseptic cream over the cut, then applied two of the plasters. ‘I’ve got some ice in the back. It will help with the swelling. You look like you could do with a cup of coffee as well. I’m Dawn, by the way.’

  ‘Fiona. Thank you so much for this,’ she replied.

  The back office looked as dilapidated as the rest of the motel, but the chairs were soft and the coffee hot. She sat down, and her resolve to return to her car instantly crumbled. Reaching for her handbag, she took out a packet of cigarettes and held it out to Dawn.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, sliding one out.

  Fiona held a flame to it and then to her own, took a deep drag and sat back in the seat. Bustling around the room, Dawn wrapped some ice cubes in a bandage and passed it across. Fiona regarded her, thinking that her concern seemed to extend beyond mere sympathy. ‘This has happened to you as well, hasn’t it?’

  Those eyes again. They moved with a look of perpetual alarm.

  ‘How could you tell?’ she asked.

  Fiona was surprised at how quickly her crestfallen look had appeared. She guessed Dawn was used to people seeing through her fragile front to the vulnerable person beneath. ‘Your kindness. It’s the sort of thing one shows to a fellow . . . you know.’

  ‘Survivor. The word you’re looking for is “survivor”.’ But it didn’t ring true, coming from her lips. Dawn sat down.

  ‘I’ve suffered, yes. But in the past, not now. I’m with a good person now.’ The comment was more than emphatic: it was defiant.

  ‘I’m glad for you.’

  ‘And you? How long has he been doing this to you?’ Breaking eye contact, Fiona lowered the ice pack and read-

  justed the cubes inside. ‘On and off over the last few years.’

  ‘On and off? But more and more often?’

  Fiona pressed the ice pack against her forehead and shut her eyes. More and more often? In truth, she couldn’t tell; her recent past had merged into one long nightmare. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure at work. He’s always so sorry afterwards.’

  ‘You mean, once he’s sober?’

  Fiona opened her eyes, surprised at the accuracy of the guess.

  Dawn leaned forward, anger in her voice. ‘They’re always sorry the next morning. But that doesn’t last for long. In fact, it lasts for less and less time. It’s a cycle, don’t you see? It’s a cycle that just gets faster and faster. You have to get out of it.’

  Fiona closed her eyes again, but the tears had escaped down her cheeks. ‘You know that’s not so easy. We’ve been married almost twenty years. I haven’t anywhere else to go.’ She started getting ready to stand. ‘In fact, I should get home. He’ll be asleep now. It’ll be safe.’

  ‘He’s not coming back,’ Dawn said quietly.

  ‘Sorry?’ Fiona replied, half out of her seat.

  ‘The man you married. You’re hoping he’ll come back one day, aren’t you?’

  Fiona pictured her husband of all those years ago. Slim, a full head of hair, the quantity surveyor eager to work his way up the construction company. She thought of him now. Overweight, balding, face ravaged by drink, the strength she’d once found so reassuring now used against her.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Dawn continued, laying a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t go back there tonight. Stay here – there are plenty of empty rooms.’

  Fiona gave a hollow laugh. ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Sod the money.’

  ‘I can’t have you risking your job because of me. What if your manager found out?’

  Dawn smiled. ‘I’m the night manager. As long as you’re out before the day manager arrives at seven, there’s no problem.’

  Fiona looked around the room uncertainly. ‘Who actually owns this place?’

  ‘Some business conglomerate down in London. I’ve never seen them. It was built for the Commonwealth Games last summer and it’s been dying on its arse ever since. Please don’t go back to him. You’d only be setting the whole process in motion again.’

  Fiona sighed. ‘Staying the night here won’t achieve anything, other than to aggravate him further. I’ll have to face him at some point.’

  ‘Why? Have you left any children back there?’

  Fiona gave an aggressive shake of her head. She couldn’t face that one, not now.

  ‘Then put a stop to it for ever. Leave him.’

  Fiona stared at the floor. ‘Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me. But leave him for where?’

  ‘Get a good night’s rest, and tomorrow I’ll put you in touch with some people. There are houses you can go to, places where you’ll be safe.’

  ‘You mean women’s refuges?’ Fiona said. ‘But they’re for . . .’

  ‘Battered women.’ Dawn completed the sentence for her.

  ‘Women from all walks of life, of all ages.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Women just like you.’

  Dawn got to her feet and removed a bottle of brandy from a cupboard. The sight of it made Fiona’s stomach clench with longing. ‘You could do with a splash of this,’ said Dawn.

  Trying not to appear too eager, Fiona extended her cup, watching the rich chestnut liquid as it glugged from the bottle. As she took a thankful sip, more tears spilled silently down her cheeks. ‘Is that how you escaped? By going to a women’s refuge?’

  ‘More than once,’ Dawn replied, taking a generous sip herself.

  ‘I’d begun to believe that I was one of those women who always fall for the bastards of this world.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m happy. You know what I reckon is most important? Companionship. A partner in life who treats you as equal. To be honest, sex isn’t really that important.’

  Fiona almost shuddered at the thought of what her drunken husband would do to her in the bedroom.

  The outer doors of the motel opened, and low voices sounded in the foyer.

  ‘Dawn!’ A woman calling. ‘You back there?’

  ‘Two seconds,’ Dawn whispered, getting up. ‘Yeah, hang on.’ She hurried into the reception area.

  ‘Got a spare ro
om?’ The woman’s voice again.

  ‘Yup. For the night or . . .?’

  ‘An hour.’

  Fiona leaned forwards to see out the door. The woman was standing on the other side of the counter, hair tied in a ponytail, long red nails tapping impatiently on the fake wooden surface. Next to her was a man in a suit, looking awkward.

  ‘That’s twenty pounds,’ Dawn said to him.

  ‘Ah. Right.’ He fumbled for his wallet. The money was handed over, but Dawn didn’t open the till. Instead the notes went straight into her back pocket. She passed the woman a key.

  ‘Number four’s free.’

  The couple went out through the doors and Dawn came back into the office. Fiona looked at her inquisitively and she shrugged. ‘That conglomerate? I couldn’t live on what they pay me. It’s the only way to make ends meet.’

  Fiona’s mind was working, ‘Earlier on, when you asked if it was a john, you meant a . . . You thought I was a . . .’

  Dawn looked embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t sure. Your clothes weren’t right, but most women who book in here are working girls. I’m sorry. As soon as you started speaking, I could tell you weren’t.’

  Fiona took a gulp of her drink, suddenly realising why the man in the bingo hall had been so callous earlier. She laughed at how her life had shifted.

  ‘What?’ asked Dawn, smiling nervously.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s just that if anyone had told me this morning that I’d be sipping brandy in a brothel in Belle Vue tonight, I’d have thought them mad.’

  Dawn’s face relaxed and she held the bottle out again.

  Fiona extended her cup but, before tipping the bottle, Dawn said, ‘So you’ll stay here tonight?’

  Fiona felt like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff. ‘What are these refuge places like?’

  ‘Heaven compared to what you’re suffering at home.’ Fiona took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll give it a go.’

  Dawn’s face broke into a smile and she topped up Fiona’s cup with brandy.

  Fiona wrapped a towel round herself and tried to step out of the shower. The brandy was coursing through her veins and she had to grab at the shower curtain. A couple of hoops were ripped off before she regained her balance. Wiping steam from the bathroom mirror, she looked at her face. Aside from the injuries, a good-looking woman with wavy brown collar-length hair looked back.

  ‘You can do it,’ she said slowly, words slightly slurred. ‘You can leave him.’

  The ice had reduced the swelling a bit and she hoped the bruising wouldn’t be too obvious. She wished she had her makeup bag with her. Instead, all she had was a miniature toothbrush and tiny tube of toothpaste Dawn had found in a desk drawer.

  Not surprisingly, acting as night manager of a run-down brothel wasn’t Dawn’s life ambition. As they had worked their way through far too much brandy, she had outlined her plan to emigrate with her partner to Holland, as soon as they’d put enough money aside. Renting rooms out by the hour was going a long way towards letting them realise their plan.

  Fiona hung the towel on the rail, then, not trusting her balance, sat on the toilet to put her knickers back on. Carefully she walked across to the bed, peeled back the bedclothes and climbed in. The sheets had worn thin from washing, but they were cool and clean. She flicked the light off and let her head fall to the side.

  She woke with a start some time later, certain that someone had opened the door. Her head was spinning and she had to feel at her sides to make sure she was still lying in bed. Keeping absolutely still, she heard a set of room keys fall to the carpet. But the sound was from the next room, not hers. Jesus, the walls were thin.

  Groggily, she got up on one elbow and pressed a button on her watch. Its face lit up: 3:36 a.m.

  A feminine giggle, the door shut and then she heard a man’s voice, words indistinct. The bed creaked as someone sat on it. The woman said something, words impossible to make out. Shoes hit the floor and a belt jangled loudly as it was clumsily unbuckled. Fiona’s eyes widened. Surely it wasn’t a prostitute and her client?

  She could hear the murmur of voices, and the bed creaked as they moved about on it. Fiona lay back and started breathing slowly, unable to resist trying to listen. Silence for a few minutes, then the bed began to creak rhythmically. The man started to grunt lightly. Oh God, they were having sex and she could hear everything. Fiona raised her hands to her ears, squirming.

  He began grunting more loudly, then said something and the creaking stopped. Her voice now. More creaking and Fiona guessed they were changing positions. The belt buckle jangled once more. Fiona shut her eyes, embarrassed yet fascinated by the noises. Now the creaking started again, accompanied by gasping. Their movements got wilder and she wondered what the man had requested. Jesus, it was starting to sound like a wrestling match. The headboard started banging against the wall and the gasping was replaced by a stifled moan. Fiona opened her eyes. It wasn’t the sound of pleasure. The moan changed to a choking noise. Fiona sat up, all attention. In the darkness it felt like the bed was lurching away from under her. The girl was fighting for breath. Was he strangling her? She listened as the movements and noises became weaker. Finally they stopped.

  Fiona kept absolutely still, nausea building in her stomach. The belt buckle again, then the bed creaking. A single pair of footsteps crossed the room. The bathroom taps came on for a while. Fiona willed someone to say something. If they started speaking again, she would know the girl was all right. The footsteps came back across the room.

  Still no talking. The bed creaked, there was a grunt of effort and then something heavy thudded to the floor. Fiona slipped out of bed, heart racing. The footsteps moved around for a while before they crossed the room, slower, more laborious. Concentrating on keeping her balance, she tiptoed over to her door and peered through the spyhole. Like a nightmare sequence in a horror film, the fish-eye lens gave a distorted view of the corridor. She heard the door to the next room open and her view was suddenly filled by brown material. She glimpsed wavy chestnut hair, then he was gone. Moments later the door at the other end of the corridor from reception banged shut.

  She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Had she really just heard a prostitute being murdered? Two glasses were by the sink and she filled one, gulped the water down. Her eyes were bloodshot and her head felt full of cotton wool. She drank another glass, then went back to bed. A chill went through her and she drew the covers up. The person had been carrying something over his shoulder, obscuring Fiona’s view of his face. But whatever he was carrying, it was heavy.

  She should go and tell Dawn. She’d started to fold the covers back when the doors from reception burst open. Drunken laughter. Someone running down the corridor, turning and running back. A key turned and a door slammed shut. Fiona sank back down in the bed. Everything seemed worse at night, she told herself. At home innocent rattles became the sounds of burglars testing the patio doors, the creak of wood the sound of a rapist’s foot on the stairs. She decided to wait until morning, see if daylight could put things in perspective. Uneasily, she lay back and closed her eyes.

  As soon as her watch reached six thirty, Fiona climbed out of bed, wincing as the action set off a pounding in her head. She drew the curtains. Weak daylight filtered into the room, the streetlights lining the A still on. Mist filled the bingo hall’s car park. Thank God, her car was still there, the only vehicle left. She examined her face in the bathroom mirror. The cut above her eyebrow still looked nasty: some swelling remained and the beginnings of a bruise was gathering below the skin, screaming that she was married to a wife beater. While she dressed, nose wrinkling at the stale smell trapped in her clothes, she thought over what had happened in the night. She decided to tell Dawn, see what she reckoned.

  Out in the corridor Fiona looked uneasily at the next room. The door hadn’t shut properly. She pushed with her fingertips and it swung open. The room was identical to the one she’d slept in. She wal
ked nervously past the bathroom doorway into the main part of the room. The top blanket was stretched tautly across the bed, the pillows plumped up.

  Nothing looked as if it had been touched. Fiona glanced into the bathroom. The sink was bone dry, every surface wiped clean. The possibility that she had imagined the entire thing occurred and, fearful of seeing an abused woman with the beginnings of madness staring back at her, Fiona avoided her reflection in the mirror.

  No. She couldn’t deny the glimpsed figure passing across the view from her spyhole. Staring at the bed once again, she thought of the object on his shoulder. It had been wrapped in something brown – the same shade as the blanket covering the bed. Fiona turned and checked the top shelf of the flimsy wardrobe. One spare pillow, but no spare blanket. The discovery gave her suspicions some foundation and she got down on her hands and knees, scanned under the bed. A small white object lay against the skirting board. The tips of her fingers just reached it and she slid it out from the shadows.

  Looping curled script gave the business card an exclusive air:

  Cheshire Consorts. Evening companions for the discerning gentleman.

  Fiona flicked the card over. Scrawled in biro on the back was the name Alexia, followed by a mobile phone number.

  She went to the window, eager for a glimpse of normal life going on outside the horrible scenario unfurling before her. The daylight was getting stronger, more cars flowing past on the A57 towards the city centre. Back out in the corridor, she saw Dawn emerge from the room nearest reception and dump a pile of sheets into a linen cart.

  ‘I was just coming to give you a knock. The day manager’s due any minute. I need you out of here.’

  Fiona hurried down the corridor, gulping back the emotion that threatened to erupt as tears. ‘Dawn, I know this sounds mad but, I think I heard someone being strangled last night.’