Vengeance Blind

by Anna Willett

  “No.” It was the only coherent word Belle could muster while twisting and wrenching at the cord.

  “I can’t do this anymore.” Georgia was pushing the chair now, talking and moving with speed. “It’s got to end. It hurts too much. It’ll be better when it’s all done.”

  Belle tried to make sense of what the girl was saying, but her words seemed disjointed and jumbled. With each jostle and bump of the chair, Belle’s kneecap felt like it was ripping at her flesh and tendons. They were moving through the dining room and heading for the back door. At some point Belle was vaguely aware of one of her slippers sliding off and falling away.

  When they emerged onto the deck, the cold air slapped at Belle’s cheeks, pulling her attention away from the pain and towards the cold blue sky. The misty vapour in the air reflected reddish sparks across the firmament. The colours and the smell reignited something in her mind, a need to keep fighting, a stubborn determination to overcome helplessness and survive.

  “This will help. It will help us. It’ll make it better.” Georgia’s voice rose and fell in a one-sided conversation that made little to no sense. All the while she pushed the chair onwards with a sort of marching resolution that told Belle they were nearing the end of the ordeal. There would be no more games. No more chances to escape.

  Georgia steered towards the ramp and the pool came into view and with it the girl’s intention became clear. Belle bucked under her restraints, snaking her wrists and pulling back and forth as panic sent her brain into overdrive.

  “It’ll all stop. I can… I can make it stop.” Georgia continued talking, her voice echoing off the water as they drew closer to the pool.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The engine was still running, the noise gravelly like a chain-smoker’s cough. Raising her left hand made her arm shake. Her entire body was trembling, but the sight of her pinkie finger bent to the side at an almost perfect ninety-degree angle made her stomach flip and swirl.

  Above Joan, the car’s roof dipped dangerously close to her head. She swallowed back an acidy taste that washed over her tongue, then turned off the engine. Blinking and unsteady, she used her right hand to open the door. With each movement she paused, waiting for a stab of pain from the discovery of a new injury, but it seemed the broken finger was the only damage. That and her sudden inability to stop shaking.

  Placing her feet on the soggy ground helped; it pulled the situation from surreal into something close to manageable. An accident, a relatively small one. Not a catastrophe, not even close. Joan leaned on the open door and surveyed the damage. The odour of engine oil, thick and sweet, permeated the air. The roof was dented and the front of the car looked a mess, but it could have been worse.

  She held her left hand to her chest surprised that her injured finger felt so numb. It looks bloody gruesome. Another stomach flip told her it was best to avoid staring at the ghastly digit. With every passing second, her heart rate was decreasing. Another few deep gulps and she was able to catch her breath.

  The road was less than a few metres away, but deserted and likely to remain so. This was the first car accident Joan had been involved in, barring a few scrapes when reverse parking at the shopping centre. As her pulse settled, her mind began to work through the best way to proceed. The vehicle would have to be towed to the nearest garage. Thankfully her roadside assistance insurance would cover the costs. Using her uninjured hand, she reached into her pocket. Her fingers landed on the throat lozenges, but came up empty on the phone.

  Still shaken from the crash, she reached around and dug into the other pocket. With a growing sense of alarm, she found nothing but a crumpled Kleenex. She’d left the house still dazed from the nightmare and in a hurry. Vaguely, she remembered pulling on her trainers, grabbing Roger’s jacket and her car keys, but after that things got foggy.

  “Damn it.” She had been so absorbed with Arthur and Belle, she had raced out of the house, and not bothered to take the usual precaution of making sure she had her phone. What was I thinking? Thinking too much was what had got her into this predicament. It was blood on the back of that car, I know it was. Thinking too much was how she’d convinced herself that the residents of Silver Gum Lane were caught up in the middle of some sort of dangerous drama. And now, the drama was all hers.

  The numbness in her hand was wearing off and her pinkie was starting to hurt. It more than hurt. It felt like the first joint was being squeezed by a pair of invisible pliers. Without her phone she had only two options: walk home and call a tow truck or go on to the Hammers’ house and ask to use their phone. The first option meant a long walk in the cold, clutching her broken finger. Belle’s place was just around the bend. As much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it, a small part of her was glad of an excuse to knock on the Hammers’ door.

  Joan grimaced at her own deviousness. Am I really going to use the accident as an excuse to find out what’s happening in Belle’s house? She glanced down at her twisted digit and winced. She decided that was exactly what she was going to do. Without further consideration, she started back to the road.

  * * *

  Mist curled up from the water in lazy wisps. Belle could feel a breeze lifting her hair and chilling her skin. Georgia turned the wheelchair, bringing it to an abrupt stop near the pool’s edge.

  The girl crouched between Belle and the water, bringing their faces level. “I was going to kill myself.” Her eyes were shiny, bouncing between the pool and Belle’s face. “That was the plan. I’d come here and make you understand what you took from me then kill myself.” Her teeth were chattering, making her words sound tremulous. “I didn’t want to hurt that girl.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead.

  Despite the fear, Belle felt a pull of pity for the young woman who’d tortured and bullied her. “I believe you, but don’t do this.”

  There were tears in Georgia’s eyes, hanging unshed on her lower lids. She turned and looked at the pool. “Please, Georgia, killing me won’t make anything better. It won’t change what happened to you.” Belle twisted her wrist, still trying to pull free of the cord. “I know how it feels to have something terrible done to you. I know what it’s like to be helpless, but you don’t have to ruin your life to make the pain go away.”

  She felt the cord give and turned her hand sideways, flattening it against the arm of the chair. She was playing for time again, but the things she was saying were true. She really did understand the rage and pain that came from being a victim.

  “There are things worth living for. You just have to find them.”

  Georgia sniffed. When she turned back from the water, the tears were gone. “I have, Belle. I’ve found a reason to keep living.” She leaned closer so their noses were almost touching. “I want to live knowing your life is over.”

  Belle shook her head. Nothing she said made any difference. She could see by the cold and faraway look in the girl’s eyes that Georgia was unreachable. As Georgia stood and took hold of the wheelchair, Belle wrenched her hand back and it slipped out from under the cord.

  The chair moved forward and suddenly. Belle’s feet were at the edge of the pool.

  She was past panic. Sheer terror drove her to scream. “Georgia, don’t!” Her pulse was jumping, the blood thundering in her ears, making it almost impossible to focus while alarm bells screamed in her brain.

  She wanted to jump out of the chair, even plunge into the water and try to swim, but with one arm still bound, the chair would drag her down. Desperate, she used her right ankle to flip back the footrest and planted her bare foot on the rough edge of the pool, hoping she could summon enough force to push back against Georgia’s force. But as the chair edged forward, all Belle managed to do was slow the inevitable. With a grunt, the girl shoved the wheelchair forward and the ground disappeared from underneath Belle’s foot.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Joan rounded the bend and the Hammers’ place came into view. The sun was almost up now. Pale light dappled the roof
and the red pea gravel driveway, giving the house a cosy almost idyllic look. She held her injured hand close to her body and started up the driveway.

  A few paces closer and Joan heard birds twittering in the trees to the right of the building. As she turned her head in the direction of the birdsong, another sound ripped through the air. A scream, agonised and piercing, set off a flurry of screeching from a flock of startled wattle birds that burst from the trees and took flight.

  Joan clasped her right hand around her injured finger and jogged towards the house. As she neared the white car, her foot landed on a large stone and her ankle wobbled. The sudden shift in balance sent her stumbling forward onto one knee. She cried out and held up her broken finger, grateful that she was able to stop herself before her body hit the ground.

  Without pausing to examine her knee, she was up and running while overhead a cloud of birds squawked and swirled. She reached the car, but didn’t stop to inspect the smudge of blood. Instead, Joan ran to the front door and balling her good hand into a fist, she pounded on the same spot she’d knocked only the night before.

  There was no sound from inside the house. Waiting less than a couple of seconds, she banged the door a second time. “Belle? Belle, it’s Joan.” She wasn’t quite sure why she was yelling only that she wanted the author to know she wasn’t alone.

  She tried the knob and found the door locked. It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds since she heard the scream, not long but enough time for anything to happen. Banging on the door and shouting was getting her nowhere. With the memory of the scream still resonating in her ears, Joan stepped off the small porch and went in search of another way in.

  Skirting the car, she made her way around the right side of the house, following a path of half metre slabs that led past the garage and between a thick crop of shrubs. The track darted alongside the house, tapering off at a wide area that housed a large green wheelie bin. A few metres further and she came to a window.

  Shards of glass edged the sill below a gaping hole. Without touching the frame, she leaned her head in and surveyed the tiled floor and large bathroom. Joan tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. This room with its broken glass and tipped over furniture was the scene of something intense, something violent. Any doubts she had about what she’d seen the night before evaporated like the saliva in her mouth.

  She glanced back at the narrow pathway and for a second she considered fleeing. Running back to her safe little house and calling the police. Even as her mind threw up reasons to go, Joan knew she couldn’t turn her back on whoever had screamed.

  Still cradling her broken finger, she pulled her good hand inside the roomy sleeve of Roger’s jacket and grasped the window frame. As she stepped up onto the window, splinters of glass crunched under her trainers.

  “This is crazy.” Her voice sounded small and echoed as she dangled one foot inside the bathroom.

  She wasn’t a Hollywood action hero, just an aging ex-medical receptionist with a broken finger. Yet, here she was jumping through a broken window, coming to the rescue like a super-hero. More like stumbling than jumping. What, she wondered, would Roger make of all this. The string of thoughts was fleeting. As both her feet landed on broken glass, her gaze came to rest on the knife in the sink.

  Stepping carefully across the floor, she picked her way to the open door where she paused and listened. The house was silent, no sound of voices or struggling. Breathing heavily now, she slipped through the bathroom doorway.

  A breath caught in her throat. The destruction in this area was worse than the bathroom. A broken lamp tossed on the floor, drawers pulled loose from the dresser, their contents spilled and heaped on the bed, and photo frames smashed against the far wall. Joan had the sense she was following the path of a cyclone more than that of a human being.

  Without thinking, her hand slipped into her pocket and clenched the packet of throat lozenges. She was out of her depth. Whatever was happening in the Hammers’ house was beyond anything she’d imagined. The best she could do for Belle was to find a phone and call the police.

  It was difficult to tell if a phone hid somewhere amongst the debris, so she crept further into the room intent on checking the bedside table. With any luck, she could call for help and then exit the building the way she’d entered. What about the scream? Could she really ignore what she’d heard and stand on the driveway like a coward waiting for someone else to act? Was that what old age did, make you weak with fear?

  Her fingers crinkled the lolly packet and she felt a surge of defiance. No. Joan decided she wouldn’t run like a terrified old woman. She’d find the phone, summon help, and then do what she could to help Belle. As Joan rounded the bed, she noticed what at first looked like more destruction: a pile of clothes heaped on the rug. Stepping closer, her heart jack-knifed and she realised it was a body.

  “Dear, God.” All thoughts of stealth vanished as she sunk to her knees next to Arthur’s head.

  She touched his face and was relieved to feel its warmth. Moving her fingers down, she pressed his neck. With her own pulse racing, it was difficult to focus all her senses on the tips of her fingers. For a moment there was nothing, but then she found the thready bump of his pulse. He was alive.

  “Arthur.” She leaned close to his ear. “Arthur, can you hear me?” Following her first aid training, she touched his hand. “Move your fingers if you can hear me.” Movement, but not much. Only a twitch of his fingers, but a definite response.

  She noticed a laceration and swelling on his forehead. “I’m going to roll you on your side.” The manoeuvre was awkward; Arthur a dead weight and Joan only using one hand. As his head rolled, she spotted blood on the back of his head, sticky and matted in his grey hair.

  As she settled the man’s hand across his chest, it occurred to Joan that he might have been the one who smashed up the bedroom. After what she’d seen at his house, she had no idea what Arthur Howell was capable of or why he was unconscious in Belle’s bedroom.

  Standing was a monumental effort. Adrenalin, some left over from the car accident and then fuelled by the shock of finding Arthur, set her legs quivering. For now, Arthur’s involvement didn’t really matter. Getting the injured man medical help was a priority, but so was finding Belle and her carer. But wasn’t it the vulpine look in the caregiver’s eyes that had first set Joan’s senses on edge? Her thoughts were spinning.

  As she exited the bedroom, Joan clenched her teeth, preparing herself for what she might find. When she found the sitting room empty she felt a moment of relief, but that feeling was swiftly swallowed by dread. If the two women weren’t in the sitting room, then where? Had Arthur done something to them?

  She knew there were people who no longer bothered having a landline in their homes, and as she scanned the sitting room it became clear that the Hammers were like that. She should have checked Arthur’s pocket for a phone. Cursing herself for not being on the ball, Joan spotted something that shut down all thoughts of landlines and mobiles. A woman’s slipper, pink and shiny, lying on the floor just past an archway that looked like it led to the rear of the house.

  Trance-like, she walked towards the slipper. The mundane item out of place in the dining area seemed somehow sinister. Glancing right, she spotted a doorway and the staircase. On the left, the kitchen and the back door. The last time she’d seen Belle, the woman was in a wheelchair so Joan quickly discounted searching upstairs.

  The doorway next to the stairs was the obvious choice, but Joan hesitated. In that heartbeat of indecision, a small sound changed her course. One word faint but clear. “Don’t.” Panicked and clearly female, the voice came from outside.

  Joan raced for the back door and tore it open. The cold wind blew back her hair as she looked left then right, searching for the source of the cry. The angle of the deck blocked much of the garden. It was only when she dashed forward that Joan saw the ramp and the two women at the edge of the pool.

  Belle in the wheelchair, shaki
ng her head and struggling, behind her the caregiver gripped the chair’s handles. They were close to the water – too close. Joan opened her mouth to call out to the women, but before the words were out the unthinkable happened. The girl shoved the chair over the edge and into the pool. In the second when the wheelchair tipped, Belle reached up and grabbed the girl, pulling the girl into the water with her.

  Joan saw them disappear. She heard the splash, sudden and shocking in the misty morning air. And still, her brain couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. A second slipped by, then two before she blinked and burst into action.

  “Oh, God.” Joan ripped off Roger’s jacket and tossed it flapping in her wake.

  She burst down the ramp, thumping the wooden boards with speed she didn’t know her sixty-four-year old legs possessed. As she reached the paved area alongside the pool, Joan hopped on one foot and pulled off her trainer, dropping it with a dull thud. The second shoe took more effort and for one maddening second, she almost fell forward.

  When she reached the edge of the pool her breath was already laboured, her heart hammering into her throat. Joan curled her toes over the rim and took two deep breaths.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Icy water smacked the breath out of her lungs. As the chair sank, it tipped sideways in a blind flurry of bubbles and thrashing limbs before clunking down on the floor of the pool. Belle gripped Georgia’s shirt, her fingers seizing on the fabric as the water obscured everything but her sense of desperation.

  Something batted at her head as the chair settled at the bottom of the pool. Underwater, sound receded into a hollow muffle of air bubbles and swooshing as the two women struggled. Belle’s glasses were gone, but close up she could see the girl’s mouth open and her eyes wide with panic. The air in Belle’s lungs was running out and the urge to open her mouth and suck in water was almost more than she could bear.