by H S Chandler
‘I can’t relax after what happened here,’ she said, but her voice was already hoarse and her breath was coming faster.
‘I think you can,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure I can help you.’ Cameron ran his free hand down to the hem of her dress, pulling the fabric up over her thighs to reveal white lace knickers.
‘Cam, this isn’t right,’ she said, releasing his wrist and pushing against his chest.
‘If you’re quiet, we’ll hear anyone as soon as they set foot on the stairs. As for what happened in this house, there are only two people who know the truth. This room is just four walls with only you and me in it. I’m not going to waste a chance to show you how much I want you.’ He turned Lottie around to face him. ‘You’re the only woman I’ve met – since my fiancée – who made me feel like this. Part of me thinks we were meant to meet, however bizarre the circumstances.’
Every last part of Lottie melted. Cameron pulled her against him, smiling as he brought his face to hers and parted her lips with his own, pushing his mouth down gradually harder until she let herself relax against him, kissing him back, her fingers gripping his shoulders. She pressed herself against him, feeling the iron of his body and the heat between them.
Cameron ran his lips along her shoulders, letting her feel the edge of his teeth before moving just far enough away to be able to see her fully. She wanted to be able to lie convincingly to herself, to believe that she hadn’t imagined him looking at her just like that when she was dressing that morning. She saw herself through his eyes. The thin cotton and tiny lace triangles of her bra accentuated her hardened nipples rather than hiding them. She was panting by the time he brought up his right hand to mould it to her breast. Pressing his thumb firmly across the centre of her nipple, she groaned, winding her arms around his neck and stretching out her body for him to enjoy.
‘Quietly,’ she whispered, doing her best to listen for footsteps on the staircase, terrified by the loudness of her own breathing.
Pushing her back against the icy mirror, he slipped one dress strap off her shoulder, following with her bra, then moved his head down to take a nipple in his mouth, pinning her upper arms against the door. She held her breath, forsaking all thought of Zain, knowing she wouldn’t stop Cameron, even more sure that she couldn’t stop herself. Cameron moved his hand down from her left arm, hooking his thumb into the side of her panties, shifting them across as he sucked and licked her breast.
‘We shouldn’t …’ she whispered.
‘But we’re going to,’ he said, as he ran his fingers down her rib cage, past her stomach and over her groin.
He slid gentle fingers down to that burning part of her that had seemed to be sleeping for too long. If the day before had been an awakening then this was an earthquake. As he circled the edge of her clitoris with the lightest of touches, Lottie cried out, thrusting forward, desperate for more of him. She ran her hand up to his hair, pulling his mouth harder against her breast.
He slipped a finger inside her and she bit down on his neck to silence herself. Every muscle in her body was flexed. She opened her legs wider, desire controlling every part of her.
‘I want you,’ she panted.
‘Not like this,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take my time. God, I can’t think of anything but you.’
He slowly pulled away from her, moving her clothes back into place, kissing her neck and mouth as she closed her eyes, coming back to reality.
‘Oh God, how long we’ve been?’ she whispered frantically.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down first and tell them you had an urgent phone call from your childminder. Okay?’
‘Fine,’ she said, straightening her dress.
‘I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I want to show you off, make it real,’ he said.
‘It’s already real for me,’ Lottie replied, stepping forward and kissing him, letting her tongue drift across his.
They pulled apart. ‘You’re amazing,’ he said. ‘Not just how you look or how I feel when I’m with you. You’re funny and sensitive. I never thought I’d meet anyone like you again.’
She stared at him, shocked. She’d expected flirting, but not such an emotional declaration. The spark between them was undeniable, but beyond that Lottie had no idea how she felt. There was Daniyal to think about, and she couldn’t even bring herself to consider how Cameron compared to Zain. Loud voices in the downstairs hallway made her jump. Now wasn’t the time to start dissecting where their relationship was going, but she needed to give him something back.
‘Maybe you just bring out the best out in me.’ She kept her response neutral. ‘You’d better go. Sounds like someone’s on the way up. Keep them talking.’
He picked up her hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm. ‘Give it a few minutes then come down,’ he brushed his lips against her cheek.
She watched him go. What they’d done in the Bloxhams’ house was wrong on every conceivable level, but she’d been too entranced with how Cameron made her feel to have resisted. Leaning against the doorway, adjusting her clothes, Lottie was already imagining how much better it would be next time.
19
Ruth sat in her car and stared at the shop where she knew Maria had topped up the pay-as-you-go mobile that had become a lifeline. The jury would be at the Bloxhams’ house by now. She had huddled in the court’s public gallery each day, in spite of Maria warning her off, arriving early to take the seat furthest from the glass dock, shielded by other onlookers and the press. Maria was within her rights not to want her there, not least because humiliation in front of strangers was preferable to your life being laid bare in front of people you knew.
Reading the jury’s expressions as the evidence came out had become a miniature obsession. It was, after all, part of what she was trained to do and for the most part the news wasn’t good. Ruth had spent a shameful night locating those jurors she could identify on social media after their names were read out when they were sworn. It had felt like going through someone else’s underwear drawer. At least ten of the twelve had left footprints on the internet. Photos, comments, purchase reviews in their real names. It was shocking what she had been able to find out in just a few hours. The Greek businessman was high profile. There were some media pieces about sales he’d made in the art world. Tabitha Lock had won numerous Women’s Institute prizes at different fêtes. Garth Finuchin had once run as a local councillor, independent to any mainstream political party. Gregory Smythe had written a letter to a local newspaper promoting gay rights. That one she hadn’t seen coming – even she was subject to profiling on the stereotype of age and dress code, she realised. Other jurors had Facebook pages or Twitter feeds. Ruth wished she could say she had only checked them the once, but the small hours were now full of checking for updates, to see if any of the twelve had mentioned the case to the friends and family. None of her new found knowledge could halt the steady progress of the court case against her friend, however.
The prosecutor – Imogen Pascal – had made a masterpiece of what was an already overwhelming case. The hedgehog video had drastically reduced the jury’s tolerance to hear anything but praise for Edward Bloxham. It would take a monumental effort for the defence to discredit him. Then there was Maria’s unfortunate lashing out at the psychiatrist. Some of the jurors had reacted strongly to that. The foreperson – Tabitha Lock – had been the most overt in her facial expressions. Others had followed suit, albeit more guardedly. There had been pursed lips, frowns and marked shock. Only four of the twelve had been able to take Maria’s abusive language to the psychiatrist in their stride. It didn’t bode well for the verdict, but Maria’s reaction had been understandable and the questioning had plainly not been as innocent as the psychiatrist had pretended. Asking a woman if she was premenstrual or menstruating was an intimidation tactic designed to humiliate. He had intended to throw her off her game, getting either an emotional reaction or a confused denial from her. Either way, he would h
ave followed up with a more probing question had Maria not suddenly decided to put the psychiatrist in his place. As much as Ruth wished Maria could have handled his questions more levelly, she was right not to have played his game.
Ruth checked her watch. Lunchtime. Just enough time left to get to the cashpoint and withdraw more cash before picking her mother up from the Active About Dementia group she attended each week. After that her two year old twins would need picking up and the rest of the day would be lost. Ruth hadn’t intended to drive past Maria’s house. Quite the opposite. Somehow though, her car headed off in that direction. She slowed before passing the driveway. A minibus sat outside, one wheel left carelessly on the pavement. The jury was still inside then, inspecting the scene of the crime. The kitchen wasn’t the only room in the house where human misery had been wrought, though. Far from it.
Maria had been phoning her once a month for nearly a year by the time Ruth managed to broach the subject of her sexual relations. It had lurked there, unspoken in so much of what had been discussed before, but Maria always edged away when Ruth asked about it. Then there had been one particular day when Maria had called sounding so unlike her usual self that Ruth had not immediately recognised her voice.
‘He wanted me last night,’ Maria had growled, her voice guttural, as if her vocal chords were twisted with rage. Ruth’s stomach had dropped.
‘Are you hurt?’ Ruth had asked first. Physical safety was always the primary concern. Psychological damage was the poor second cousin. There were worse things than death, though. She had counselled enough rape and abuse victims to be sure of that.
Maria had laughed. The sound had been nothing short of a horror movie special effect. For a few moments, Ruth had been genuinely scared, as if some demon had taken over her client’s body and could deliver itself through the phone line.
‘Maria, can you tell me about it?’ Ruth had asked. ‘You don’t have to, but it might help.’
‘It was normal between us at the start. That’s the thing about Edward. He’s a terrible person but a brilliant actor, it turns out. These days he likes me to play dead. I’m not even sure I should complain about it. It’s the only part of our lives together that isn’t a lie.’
‘That must make you feel …’ Ruth struggled to find sufficiently bland words, ‘less than human.’
‘It makes me feel the way he wants me to feel. I lie on my face. He likes me to have my arms down at my side. I’m not allowed to move or make any noise. At first it was a game. I’m not sure how I was ever stupid enough to play along. He would have me lie there in bed, pretending to be asleep, then move on top of me. He said it turned him on, the thought of screwing me in my sleep. Then I asked for something different, to be allowed to lie on my back. He made some excuse about the angle of our bodies being more comfortable if he was behind me. I just … I just accepted it. Do you know what’s more awful than getting fucked whilst having to pretend you’re dead? It’s knowing you’re getting fucked that way because you were too stupid and too weak to have stopped it.’
‘You’re being too harsh with yourself. This is how coercive control works. It’s slow, incremental. It plays to the parts of its victims that lack confidence and it steals their voice. How often does he do this?’ she asked.
‘Three times a month. Four if he’s got a new contract, a big pay cheque or a good book review. He seems to like it more when he knows my body doesn’t want him. I think he enjoys having to force himself inside. Hurting me. Sometimes his weight gets too much for me and I can’t draw breath. He counts the seconds when I’m not breathing. I think the only reason I’m still alive is because the thought of me dying excites him so much that he … you know … finishes.’ She broke off, the sob scratching her throat like sandpaper. ‘I cut myself every time after he makes me play dead, last night included. I know I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t know why I did. I think I just wanted to prove to myself that I was still alive. For a while when he was on top of me, pushing and shoving, heaving, pressing my body into the mattress while I kept my mouth shut, I wondered if I maybe I really had died and was stuck in a living hell with him.’
‘Maria, I’m worried for you,’ Ruth had quietly. ‘I’m concerned about what you might do. Forgive how patronising that sounds, but …’
‘You could never be patronising,’ Maria whispered, the first spark of warmth resonating in her voice. ‘Don’t worry about the cutting. I did it as a teenager. It’s a skill you never lose, apparently, knowing just how deep to go without losing too much blood and understanding what pain you can tolerate. I would cut myself a thousand times rather than have him touch me again.’
‘I can come and get you,’ Ruth had said, sufficiently emboldened by desperation to offer to break all her own self-imposed rules. ‘Give me your address. This has gone on too long. You have to leave him.’
Ruth knew she was lecturing, offering real world help that often wasn’t wanted and wasn’t the answer. Getting personally involved. But something in Maria’s tone and words haunted her. Sometimes listening to the bare hopelessness of her voice was like talking to an entity from beyond the grave.
Ruth’s drive to the cashpoint didn’t take long but it was far enough to get her worrying about her money situation again. Not her overall bank balance. Her father had made sure she wouldn’t want for anything. There was enough money in savings accounts and investments to last her for decades. The problem was that those accounts weren’t easily accessible and she was depleting her current account almost to nil. Those sorts of withdrawals might be noticed. Certainly they were out of kilter with her normal spending. Making a mental note to transfer some of her savings into her current account, she withdrew another five hundred pounds and stuffed it in her purse.
By the time she arrived at the Active About Dementia centre, there was a woman standing outside glancing at her watch, a bright green tabard marking her role as official. She began walking towards Ruth’s car before the engine was even off.
‘Mrs Adcock?’ she asked as Ruth opened her car door.
‘Miss Adcock,’ Ruth corrected. ‘Is my mother all right?’
‘We’ve been trying to phone you,’ the woman continued. ‘You didn’t pick up.’
‘Is my mother all right?’ Ruth repeated, calmly but firmly.
‘Yes, well, she’s being given a sedative by our nurse. There was a bit of a to-do,’ the woman murmured. ‘Would you like to come inside and have a chat about it over a cup of tea?’
‘I think as you were waiting for me out here, we’d best get on with it,’ Ruth replied. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a slight disagreement with Mr Baskins who wanted to help your mother finish a jigsaw puzzle. She took offence when he picked up some of the pieces.’ The woman stopped talking. Ruth summoned an additional measure of patience.
‘And then?’ Ruth asked.
‘Then your mother punched him in the face. Rather harder than any of us thought possible, actually. His bottom lip was badly split. There was quite a lot of bleeding …’ The woman let the last word drag. Ruth realised there was more to come. She waited. ‘Also, your mother broke one of his teeth in two. Mr Baskins has been taken to the hospital for emergency dental treatment.’
‘Right,’ Ruth breathed out heavily. ‘What sort of shape is my mother in?’
‘Not injured at all,’ the woman declared.
‘I meant emotionally,’ Ruth said. ‘How did she react to the incident?’
‘She said Mr Baskins should go and stand in the corner. After that we took her into a separate room and the nurse took over. I’m afraid this means we can’t continue to accommodate her at our sessions. I am very sorry.’
‘You saying you’re sorry doesn’t help. My mother needs contact beyond the immediate family, and stimulation from other places and people. You know dementia sufferers can be prone to violent outbursts,’ Ruth said, hands on hips, aware that she was looking and sounding confrontational, but finding it impossible to ease up.
‘They rarely understand or remember what they’ve done. They’re certainly not responsible for them.’
‘Quite so, but I have to consider the well-being of all our patients. I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but if your mother’s condition is worsening now might be the time to consider permanent hospitalisation. It’s only going to get harder for you to look after her at home.’
‘I’ll manage fine, thank you,’ Ruth said, pretending calm. ‘It’s not hard for me. I love her.’ She walked past the woman and began pushing open the centre door.
‘I only meant …’
Ruth let the door fall shut behind her before the woman could finish her sentence. Institutionalising her mother was unthinkable. However tough it was going to be, Ruth was determined to care for her until the end. She walked down the corridor to the nurse’s room, stopping outside to listen to her mother humming a nursery rhyme.
‘Hello, Mum,’ she smiled opening the door. Crossing the room to hug her, she noticed the blooming bruise on the back of her mother’s knuckles. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I didn’t get my pudding today,’ her mother said. ‘It was rhubarb crumble. My favourite.’
‘How about I make it for you tomorrow? There’s some rhubarb in the garden. You can have custard or cream with it, whichever you prefer,’ Ruth said, slipping her mother’s cardigan over her shoulders.
‘Can I have ice-cream?’ her mother asked.
‘Of course you can,’ Ruth replied as she guided the older woman out towards the car.
‘Ruth, I think perhaps I did something bad today. I can’t remember what it was, but people looked at me as if I had. Did I?’ Tears brightened the corners of her mother’s eyes, and Ruth’s watered in return.
‘No, darling. You didn’t do anything bad. You couldn’t possibly have done. Now let’s get you home.’ Ruth settled her mother gently in the car, wishing – as she did every day – that her sister Gail was still alive. Perhaps without that tragedy, their mother would never have succumbed to dementia, and Ruth would have been able to share the pain of seeing a proud, intelligent woman reduced to childlike helplessness and confusion. Fastening her seatbelt and kissing her mother on the temple, Ruth wondered how much time they had left together. Not long enough was the simple answer, and the last thing Ruth could afford was to have that time together shortened. The thought of losing another person she loved was unbearable.
