In Darkness, Shadows Breathe

by Catherine Cavendish

  He rolled around on the floor, yelling and screaming in agony. Blood spattered the carpet, furniture, her dress. She watched it, conscious that the other presence in her body was seeing what she saw, with no passion or emotion, only sheer, naked hatred. Hatred so overwhelming, it chilled her bones. Her body was out of her control now. Time and again she slammed the letter opener into the man’s face and neck. No will of hers could stop it. The man screamed and howled out his agony, weakening as his lifeblood sprayed out. Just like Jonah…. In her mind, the entity whose body she shared laughed and stabbed harder.

  The door flew open and a man she assumed to be the butler dashed in. He dragged her arms behind her and hauled her off.

  “Let go of me!” she yelled.

  He tightened his grip. “Madam. Madam. No.”

  A younger male and a female servant appeared at the door. The girl blanched and screamed. She clapped her hand to her mouth. The young man cried out, “I’m going for the coppers.”

  The butler wrestled with Carol, whose strength showed no sign of abating. The woman she inhabited still exerted sufficient control over her own mind and body. She wouldn’t stop until that bastard husband of hers was dead. Right now, he had stopped moving.

  Her inner voice spoke to the host’s mind. That’s enough. You’ve done what you set out to do. He’s gone. He can never hurt you again.

  Gradually her struggles eased. She dropped the letter opener and finally the butler let go. The raging fire died within her and she shook herself and straightened her dress. She smoothed her hair, which the man on the floor had done his best to rip out by the roots. The pain throbbed in her head and at her hip. It seemed barely an inch of her existed that didn’t hurt. Self-defense. Surely no police officer would seek to charge her with…murder. Especially not when they saw the extent and nature of her own injuries. If she hadn’t done what she did, that man would have killed her. If not today then one day soon. Her host knew it and she knew it.

  The butler steered her over to a chair and she sat down. He looked at her, sadly, with fear in his eyes. “Oh, madam, what have you done?”

  “What have I done?” For the first time. Carol became aware of her – the woman’s – voice. It sounded strange, its tone deeper than her own. No trace of an accent, whereas her own voice held echoes of many of the places she had lived over the years. “I defended myself. You must know what I have had to put up with all these years.”

  “But, madam, look at him.”

  Carol looked through the woman’s eyes and felt her satisfaction. “I am only sorry he went so quickly, unlike me, who has had to suffer for ten years at his brutal hands.”

  The sound of men talking loudly came from the hall. A few seconds later, a policeman in a Victorian uniform, accompanied by a man in street clothes, sporting a bowler hat, burst in. The uniformed officer took up position by the door as the plainclothes officer knelt by the body and felt for a pulse. He replaced the hand by the dead man’s side and stood up.

  He addressed her. “I am Detective Inspector Antrobus. The police surgeon has been summoned but it doesn’t take a genius to know this man’s dead, or to see that he has been brutally murdered. I understand you are the perpetrator of this terrible crime?” His cold blue eyes scanned Carol’s face. Maybe he was looking for remorse, or maybe he couldn’t believe she could have committed such an act. After all, this woman, whoever she was, was a lady.

  “Yes. I did it,” she said. “And I would do it again. He has used me most cruelly all the years of our marriage and today he almost killed me. I had to defend myself.”

  The inspector looked from her down at the body. He knelt down again and peered closer at what he could see of the man’s ruined face. The he spotted the letter opener lying on the floor nearby, hopelessly bent out of shape after its hard work. The Detective Inspector folded it carefully in a cloth he removed from his pocket, stood up and handed it to the uniformed officer.

  “I am familiar with the deceased, your husband, I believe?”

  Carol nodded.

  Antrobus got out his notebook and flipped it open. “Lydia Warren Carmody, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Roger Carmody….”

  “No! It was self-defense. I demand a lawyer. I demand a physical examination. The injuries he has inflicted upon me, not merely today, but over all these years. The damage he has done is all over my body. This wasn’t murder. This was justice.”

  The inspector ignored her protests and droned on, clearly determined to complete the arrest speech. He nodded to the officer at the door. “Take her away.”

  “No! This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening….”

  * * *

  Carol shot up in bed, drenched in sweat and trembling. She threw the duvet off her and the chill in the room hit her, drying her clammy skin instantly. She reached for her dressing gown and tied it around herself as her stomach lurched. She raced to the en suite and made it just in time, releasing a torrent of vomit into the toilet bowl. She flushed it and, still retching, leaned her head against the cool tiles of the wall.

  It had seemed so real. She could even smell the dead man’s blood, the body odor of men for whom antiperspirant had not yet been invented, the beeswax that had been used to polish the heavy, dark furniture. The warmth of the fire and the chill when she moved away from it – all had been as real to her then as this bathroom was to her now.

  But they couldn’t both be real, could they? This was her world. The world of the twenty-first century with its computers, cell phones and social media. Hell, none of those words would have meant anything to the people she had just encountered.

  Lydia Warren Carmody. At least she now knew who the poet was. But, she reminded herself, surely she had merely invented someone to fill the void in her knowledge.

  Nature abhors a vacuum.

  An old science teacher had said that. If a vacuum occurs, natural forces will use any means available to fill it. Maybe that’s how her mind had worked. She couldn’t find any information on the mysterious poet of dubious quality so she had simply invented someone and turned it into a nightmare.

  Her watch read shortly after three a.m. Work beckoned in a few hours and Saturdays were always extra busy. She must put this experience behind her. An unwelcome dream, that’s all it had been, fabricated by her increasingly wild imagination. She must get back to sleep.

  Carol forced herself to walk to the kitchen, her stomach still uncertain whether it was going to heave again. She poured herself a glass of water and took it back to bed, glad of the warm duvet, fearful of what she would see when she closed her eyes.

  * * *

  “You look so tired, Carol. Haven’t you been sleeping again?” Sarah asked.

  It was the lull before the onslaught of weekend shoppers. The store was filling up but no one looked ready to leave yet. Plenty more items to pile into their trolleys before they came her way.

  “I can get to sleep all right, most nights. But I wake up at silly times and then can’t drift off again.”

  “Oh, I hate it when that happens. I always get up and make myself a marmalade sandwich. My mum used to swear by them and she was a martyr to insomnia.”

  “Marmalade sandwich? But what about the sugar?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I know. It shouldn’t work but somehow it does. Some sort of comfort eating, I suppose.”

  “I’ll try it. I need to do something.”

  “Let me know how you get on.”

  Carol nodded. A customer began loading items onto her conveyor and Carol picked up a packet of washing powder to scan.

  Sarah seemed about to move off. She hesitated. “Fancy a quick drink after work?”

  Carol was about to issue her well-rehearsed and often-used excuse, but found herself saying something different instead. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “That’s sorted then.
You finish at seven tonight, don’t you? Same as me. I’ll see you outside.”

  Carol smiled and carried on scanning. Part of her was even looking forward to it. Socializing. She never did that. Then the butterflies and doubts kicked in. What on earth would they find to talk about? She knew nothing about Sarah, but surely they couldn’t have much in common. For one thing, the woman was married, with a couple of kids. So why wasn’t she with them on a Saturday night?

  * * *

  “We split up,” Sarah said, as she sipped her pint of Carling. “And the kids left home anyway. They couldn’t stand all the arguments. Amy was eighteen and Carlene seventeen so they got a flat together. Bit of a traumatic time all round.”

  “It must have been awful.” Carol tried to crush the flashback memories of her own lousy childhood. She concentrated all her effort on listening to the older woman opposite. How old was Sarah anyway? She had thought her to be in her forties but with daughters of that age she could be older.

  “It was no picnic but I’m over it now.”

  She might say that, maybe even convince herself it was true at least part of the time, but Carol knew, deep down, Sarah still hurt. Bet she even cried herself to sleep some nights. Hence the marmalade sandwiches.

  The conversation died. Carol knew she should speak. That was the way of things. One person spoke, the other listened, then they spoke. Those were the rules of social intercourse. Rules that Carol had never felt comfortable with. She searched her brain and took a long swig of lager to cover the awkward silence. Her fingertips tingled as they always did when she felt ill at ease.

  Sarah pointed her empty glass at Carol. “Another drink?”

  Relief. “It’s my round. I’ll get them.” Carol nearly leaped out of her seat in her hurry to buy herself a few minutes of thinking time. As she waited at the bar, she struggled to think of what to say next. The weather? No, not that old cliché. Obviously talking about Sarah’s children was taboo as was, in fact, anything about her home life…. But she could ask her about any interests she had. Even if Sarah only enjoyed shopping, she could at least tell her about her latest purchases although, in reality, Carol couldn’t give a damn. But what if Sarah then felt obliged to ask her about hers. What interests did she have? Reading, occasional trips to the cinema – alone of course – but she could talk about some films she had seen. Oh God…. No wonder she preferred to stay at home. It was far simpler. Except, right now, home wasn’t the place it should be. Waverley Court, at least for now, had ceased to be her temporary haven.

  Carol had to admit, as the barmaid handed over the brimming glasses of cold beer, that maybe she had made a terrible mistake in taking the place on, but she was financially committed to the full six months. If she left, she would still have to pay the balance of the rent and she couldn’t afford to do that and find somewhere else to live.

  Sarah thanked her as she placed the glass of Carling in front of her. “I like this place, don’t you? Haven’t been here for ages though.”

  Carol looked around at the pleasant, modern décor, clean lines and large photographs of the town in Victorian times that adorned each wall. “I haven’t been here before, but I like it. It has a comfortable feel about it.”

  “So what do you do when you’re not serving customers?”

  The question she had dreaded had been placed out there. It couldn’t be taken back and she would have to address it. Time for another minute-buying swig. She drank. Sarah waited, politely. Carol knew she had to speak or she would risk coming over as rude and unfriendly. Here goes….

  “Not a great deal, to be honest. I’ve been busy moving in and getting to know my surroundings.” That wasn’t too bad. It made perfect sense, and she hadn’t been there very long, after all. Ask me again in four months and I’ll still have the same answer. She would have to handle that if and when it occurred.

  “So you don’t know anyone round here yet?”

  Carol shook her head. “Only you and the others at work.”

  “May I ask what brought you here? I don’t really know anything about your background or where you used to live.”

  Another question Carol always attempted to avoid. But, here again, she would have to say something in response. “I’ve lived all over the place. I was fostered as a child.” Damn, she hadn’t meant to say that. Now there would be more probing questions and she would have to make light of all those miserable years. Maybe if she kept talking, moved the subject on to more recent things….

  “When I left school, I decided I wanted to go traveling….” That always sounded better than, I had to get away from the city I was living in or an evil bastard who raped me was going to come for me. I’ve been running ever since….

  Sarah’s interest grew. She leaned forward. “Where did you go? Abroad?”

  “Sadly no. I couldn’t afford it, but I lived in a few different places over the next few years. I had a variety of jobs so I learned a lot.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Waitressing, working in various shops and supermarkets. I even sold expensive perfume for a time. That was down in London, in one of the big stores.”

  “Harrods?”

  “Oh no, nothing as grand as that but it was in Oxford Street. The store’s not there anymore. That’s why I left. The wealthy Arab owners pulled out and the place went belly up.”

  “That’s happening a lot. I worry about us sometimes. Profits were down last quarter and there have been some rumors about redundancies. Maybe even store closures.”

  “But they took me on.”

  “Yes, but only to cover Jordan’s maternity leave. You do know that if she decides to come back full time and there are no other positions, that’s it.”

  Carol nodded. HR had made that abundantly clear. “But they must have realized they couldn’t do without someone in her role, so that has to mean they aren’t looking to lay anyone off in our branch. At least not yet.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Carol felt her muscles relax. Here she was having an intelligent, social conversation. When was the last time she had done that? Even stranger, she was enjoying chatting to this affable woman who had shown her consideration from her first day on the job.

  “Maybe we could do this again sometime, and bring some of the other girls along.” Sarah’s second suggestion sent Carol’s heart plummeting. Having this one-on-one chat was proving much easier than she had anticipated, but adding more people into the mix? She couldn’t keep the doubt out of her voice.

  “Yes. Maybe,” she said.

  Sarah looked quizzical. “You’re really shy, aren’t you? Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”

  “No, it’s okay. You’re right. I am shy. It’s a curse.”

  “You know, I think deep down most of us are. It’s just that we’re not as honest as you in admitting it. We cover it up with a show. Bravado or whatever. You’ve not had it easy, have you? I can tell. It’s bound to make you wary.”

  All that carefully rehearsed reserve, perfected, she thought, over many years, and all for nothing, because Sarah could see straight through to the frightened little girl underneath. Tears pricked Carol’s eyes.

  Sarah covered her hands with hers. “I’m so sorry to have upset you, Carol. I didn’t mean to. Me and my big mouth. I should learn to leave it at home.” She smiled.

  Carol forced herself to speak, keeping the trembling out of her voice as much as she could. “It’s not your fault, Sarah. It’s me, I’m afraid.” The punctuation. She heard it in what she had said. She could as easily have spoken the words differently and said, It’s me. I’m afraid. It would have been equally true – if not more so.

  They had one more drink, spoke about nothing much, each of them skirting around Carol’s earlier distress. She couldn’t relax anymore. She felt vulnerable now that Sarah had glimpsed her insecurities. By t
he time Carol returned home, she couldn’t even remember whether they had been discussing the weather or the price of cheese, although she suspected neither.

  The apartment felt almost eerily quiet, as if waiting for something or someone. Carol pushed the unwelcome thought aside and changed into her tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. Saturday night television was hardly enthralling but it provided a voice in the room, one whose origins she didn’t have to wonder at. She offered up a silent prayer that nothing unusual would happen that night and settled down to the latest talent show. One hopeful singer after another took to the stage to be selected or rejected seemingly at random. Certainly half the ones the judges picked wouldn’t have made it on her vote, whereas artists such as a young girl from South Wales with a voice to easily outmatch Katherine Jenkins was completely overlooked. The poor kid was only eighteen and left the stage bravely attempting to control a quivering lip, and weeping tears that threatened to ruin her mascara and dislodge her false eyelashes.

  Carol had become quite absorbed when she heard the crash.

  It came from the kitchen.

  She jumped up and raced out there. She saw it straightaway.

  “What the….”

  Through the glass frontage, the exquisite designer tableware had been reduced to a cabinet full of smashed china. Without thinking through the consequences, Carol opened the cupboard and it showered down onto her, the worktops and floor, smashing it still further.

  The cupboard was bare except for a few remaining shards, as if opening it had triggered someone into pushing it all out from the inside. How it had even got smashed in the first place remained a complete mystery. A quick check revealed the contents of the other kitchen units were intact.

  Moving like an automaton, Carol went to the hall cupboard and took out the long-handled broom and pan. She started to sweep and empty the ruined china into a heavy-duty refuse bag, her heart beating wildly. A cut on her hand bled, staining the white porcelain shards. It must have happened a moment ago, although she hadn’t been aware of it. She grabbed a piece of kitchen paper and wrapped it around her palm.