ALTAR GIRL © 2006 Joseph D'Lacey "Get me a beer, would you, love." It wasn't a question. It was an order, the kind she was well used to. She stopped what she was doing, dried her hands and took a can from the fridge. She poured it into a chilled glass — that was how he liked it — and took it through to where he had shouted from. His place was the chair in front of the TV, a place of endless entertainment and flickered thrills. With his eyes still on the screen he raised his hand to accept the glass. "Ta."
Her place was entirely different: The most mundane and apparently ordinary spot in the house; in front of the kitchen sink. Even the downstairs toilet had more character than the nook where she stood to do the washing up, but it lacked the same 'magnetism.' It wasn't only because she spent so much of each day standing there with her hands in tepid soapy water. That fact alone would have made it a desperately unhappy place. She'd decorated the window sill with a few trinkets and comforting reminders of better days: A rounded stone from a beach in Cornwall, an amethyst crystal she had bought in a second hand shop, a fossilised branch she had discovered on a walk through the Derby Dales years previously, her dead grandmother's brooch made of deer horn. She kept the windowsill absolutely spotless, cleaning or dusting it at least once a day and this was where she came to sip her first coffee of the morning before everyone began to demand her attention and her favours. She would stand there just to experience the good feeling it gave her to have a place she knew was her own; a niche where no one else could feel at home or would want to. Time, or was it fate, she wondered, had stolen her freedom, her passion, her hope, and so she would stand there and wish for all the things she craved and knew she could never have. Sometimes, she prayed as she gazed out onto the backs of neighbouring houses and gardens with their sagging clothes lines, their dirty old sheds. She didn't know who she was praying to — she'd never been religious — but pray she did, for things to improve and for her life to mean something.
The era of the mysterious 'new man' hadn't lasted long for Sophie Cambridge, or if it had, she'd missed it. The notion that perhaps it had never really happened was more comforting, because it meant she hadn't made a mistake in marrying Eddie. It meant that there would never have been any other kind of man to marry — one with a caring, feminine side. One who would help around the house. One who understood that, at times, being a wife and a mother was a painful, difficult thing. But she'd been a coward and married Eddie for fear of being left on the shelf, and she was still a coward now. She knew beyond question that if she met the ideal man the following day, she would blush and turn away, accepting that her life had been defined by bad decisions. She would let him escape, believing she was genetically programmed to remain unfulfilled. She stared out of the kitchen window, the place where her thoughts often took this line, and realised that her hands had stopped washing up, so intent was her reverie. She washed little Eddie's plate; it was red from spaghetti hoops, the only thing he would eat in the evening. Already he was turning out like his dad, who demanded sausages on most evenings and occasionally beef burgers at the weekend. He expected her to know psychically which he wanted and would throw foul tantrums if his needs were not met. Next it was Verity's plate. Gorgeous, pale Verity whose plate still had virtually all her food still on it. Even at the age of ten, she was developing terribly obsessive habits toward her food and there was nothing that Sophie could do to make her eat. It was high summer and outside the sun was still shining just above the horizon. The kids were in bed although probably not asleep yet, if she knew them at all, and Eddie, dear, sweet Eddie, would be in his armchair gaining weight almost visibly as he watched any sport that he could find. Outside in the garden the grass was high enough to hide an army of snakes and garden tools. There had been plenty of time for him to mow the lawn, but as usual he hadn't bothered, content to sit in front of the television. A conversation was out of the question and so, when she finally finished washing, drying and putting everything away, she went out and in the last light of the day struggled with the mower until most of the green, mop-like grass was gone, leaving only a pale yellow scrub. By the time she came back in, she was exhausted and ready for bed. True to form, Eddie had helped himself to more food from the fridge and then left the plate and everything else scattered over the surfaces for her to clean. She took the greasy plate to the sink while she cursed him. As she reached the sink, the plate slipped from her hand and crashed into the sink where it split into several pieces, the clatter cutting through the blare of the TV. "Oh, fuck it," she whispered. No sound other than the television came from the other room where Eddie sat. He doesn't give a shit about me, she thought. I could smash my head open and he'd just go out and replace me with the latest model. She began to pick up the pieces of shattered crockery and, as she did so, one of the shards, so sharp that she didn't even feel it at first, opened up a red slit across her index finger. It was deep, but only the sight of the freely flowing blood informed her that she'd cut herself, then the pain gradually crept into the shocked nerves and her whole hand began to ache. "Bastard." She spat the word out although she knew it really wasn't his fault. Or was it? Sometimes she believed that if you had bad thoughts in your mind you were more likely to hurt yourself. She'd had angry thoughts about Eddie and now she'd cut herself. I have to be more positive about things, she thought. She held the wound under the cold tap and her diluted blood leaked into the drain as if she was washing out one of the children's paintbrushes. She didn't bother to ask Eddie if he would help her to dress the cut. She knew he'd have some excuse about how important the next shot, or stroke or penalty or goal was going to be. Fumbling in the cramped bathroom she dressed it herself and went to bed. She was wrong to think that Eddie didn't care about her, or at least she was wrong to think that he wouldn't miss her. When he came to bed much later that night he showed how much he loved her by waking her up and fucking her from behind. He never bothered to try to involve her in the process these days, and because she wasn't even vaguely interested in him any more, he had to spit on his hand to smooth his entry. Sometimes when he was drunk he didn't even bother to do that, and these days, he never did it facing her — always from behind, like a purse-snatcher. She thanked whatever god there might be that Eddie suffered from premature ejaculation because, after a few pathetic thrusts, he was done. He'd woken her and so she lay wide awake before finally going down to the kitchen for a cup of tea. As always, she stood in her spot with her little treasures and wished for things to be different, to be better. Eventually she felt content enough with her fantasies and tired enough of another useless day to go back to sleep. She awoke to find that Eddie had been up and made her a cup of tea. It was steaming and smelling wonderful on her bedside table next to the alarm clock. Still half dozing she closed her eyes again, she knew it was a dream — Eddie hadn't made her, or even himself, a cup of tea in ten years. She opened her eyes again and there it was; a mug of luxurious, brown wake-up juice with her name on it. She sat up and reached for the mug noticing the bandage on her finger. She flexed it experimentally and found that it didn't hurt at all. She pressed on the place where she had been cut so near to the bone the previous night. Still there was no pain and so, curious and disbelieving, she removed the bandaging and found that the cut was completely healed except for a scar that showed where it had been. It had the look of a wound that was a year old at least. The tea was still hot and so she let herself sip it and take an extra few minutes before rising. She was sure that she could hear Eddie whistling in the kitchen and the clash of pans and the opening and closing of cupboard doors. Within moments, she could hear sizzling sounds and not long afterwards, the smell of grilled bacon rose up to the bedroom and made her stomach growl with a hunger she'd forgotten was possible. She was so hungry it hurt. Unable to resist her begging stomach and her curiosity any longer, she rushed out of bed and downstairs to the kitchen where, sure enough, she found Eddie making bacon and eggs for everyone. The kids were up and dressed and sitting patiently with a glass of orange juice each while their breakfasts were prepared. Seconds later they were both eating as if their lives depended on that single meal. Verity was eating without pouting or picking at the food and little Eddie was enjoying it as if it was really a bowl of spaghetti hoops. She stood framed in the doorway watching an alien family going about a totally unfamiliar routine. "How would you like your eggs, love?" She looked at Eddie but he had his back to her, busy with the cooking. "Fried," she said to the stranger. "Yes, I know you like them fried, sweetie, but do you want them soft, medium or hard?" "Soft." She let her mouth answer for her. "Please," she added. "Coming up." She sat down between little Eddie and Verity, who both smiled at her, and a cup of black coffee arrived in front of her. I think I need this if I'm ever going to wake up, she thought. It was closely followed by a plate of bacon and eggs. The eggs were perfect, soft inside, cooked on the outside and he had not broken the yolk the way she usually did. Hunger took over and she began to allow herself to become involved in the bizarre world she'd woken up to. The coffee and breakfast tasted like something from the restaurant of a high-class hotel and she relished everything as it passed her lips and performed circus tricks on her taste buds. When Eddie sat down to eat his breakfast she noticed that his eggs were poached and on dry wholemeal toast. It seemed as if he'd lost quite a few pounds overnight. In fact, she could definitely see the angle of his jaw line coming back into focus after years of puffiness. He looked across the table at her and she knew right then that it was no dream. She felt the way she'd felt when she first met him. She remembered that she hadn't married him because she was weak and frightened about her life. She'd married him because she loved him. He made her feel the way no other person in the world could make her feel. He was looking at her and she knew that he could really see her, that he was the only one who knew her. She could see that knowledge in his eyes and she could see the love too. He didn't have to say 'I love you'; it was clear that he was hiding nothing from her and that his love for her was the truth. To say it in front of the kids would have somehow made the moment powerless. Instead, he smiled the way he used to and for the first time in years she felt that flutter of physical excitement in her tummy and a warm, oily dampness letting go between her legs. She knew that when he came home they would make love. She knew that it would be incredible. The kids finished their breakfasts and Eddie gave them each a hurry-up pat on the bum. "Come on you two, get to school. The bus is waiting." They grabbed their school bags in the hallway and ran out the door. "Bye Mum, bye Dad." "Don't forget to look both ways!" Shouted Eddie but the door slammed before he'd finished his sentence. "Little monkeys." He smiled once again and mopped up the last of his egg with a forked piece of toast. "I've never seen them so keen to get to school," said Sophie. "Course you have," said Eddie. "They're always like that." He stood and began to clear all the dishes into the sink. "Oh, wait. At least leave me the washing up." "You sure? It won't take two minutes." "No, I'll do it. And besides, you don't want to be late again." Eddie hadn't been on time for years. How he still had a job, she hardly knew. "I'm never late," he said, smiling. He stood up, took off the apron he'd been wearing and replaced it with his suit jacket. He was about to leave the kitchen when he paused and turned to her. "Soph." "Yes, Ed." "Is everything all right?" He was looking at her with some kind of concern on his face. Again the smile but not quite so intense this time. "I was going to ask you the same question." "You were?" He looked slightly amused. "Yes." "Well, in that case," said Eddie Cambridge to his wife, "everything's fine."
It was true; everything was fine; in fact it was more than fine. The kids were responsible and loving and Eddie was more attentive — not just to her but to the whole household. With him helping out around the house and in the garden, she had time to begin her life again. Seeing that Eddie was rapidly losing weight and becoming the man she remembered from younger days, she joined the local gym and went three times a week. She also enrolled on a painting and drawing course, something she hadn't had the chance to enjoy since she was at school herself. Some of the worry lines on her face receded magically and she felt five or maybe even ten years younger. Best of all, her sex life with Eddie became something that she hadn't realised was possible. She'd had a few boyfriends before meeting Eddie and one or two of them had showed promise, but she'd never really known sexual satisfaction, and even though Eddie had been extremely loving at the beginning of their married life, he'd never been particularly skilful. Now, even that was changing. Eddie took afternoons off from work and came home with flowers while the kids were still at school. He would carry her up the stairs to the bedroom or sometimes pleasure her half-dressed in the hallway. He seemed suddenly the most capable man she'd known and he used every part of himself to make her happy. Nothing was too much trouble for him. He would bring her to orgasm time after time until she could take no more and only then would he take his own pleasure to its conclusion. No matter how intimate or taboo the act, she could feel the love coming from him and that made everything he did beautiful.
Little by little, the flush of love wore off with Eddie. Even though there was nothing he wouldn't do for her, she found his efforts irritating; he was almost too eager to please her, but she knew she'd rather have it that way than how it had been. He was promoted twice at work within a few months and the extra money was enough for them to move out of suburbia and into the countryside, where she looked for other ways to fill her days, eventually taking part-time work behind the counter in the village post office. Meanwhile, the kids were almost as well-behaved as they had been on that special morning, with only a few minor tantrums and the occasional fight. Things were normal at last. In her new house she found an even better spot by the kitchen sink with a far more expansive and beautiful view, and there on the window sill she set up her precious baubles and would sometimes stand in reverie for up to half an hour without moving. Most of the time her prayers were prayers of thanks but sometimes, when she was just the tiniest bit bored, she would notice herself wishing for a little excitement.
One night, as Eddie's tongue wove its magic between her moist petals, she found she couldn't reach that pinnacle of pleasure. Eventually, she found herself having to act out the final moment. It was the second time in as many weeks. She couldn't really expect to fool him; after all, he had come to know her very well in the past year. "Is everything all right?" Eddie asked her in the darkness. "Yes, Eddie. Everything is fine." The problem was that it was no longer enough for things to be fine. She wanted more. What that 'more' would be, she couldn't say, but still she wanted it and her sessions by the kitchen window became longer each day as she prayed for deliverance from the unending 'fineness' of her life.
One day as she let the water out of the kitchen sink she caught her hand on an unwashed kitchen knife that was hidden by the cloudy suds of soap. It barely penetrated the skin, but it made her jump. She had to squeeze the tiny wound before it actually bled and when it did, she ran it under the cold tap for a few seconds. Thoughtfully, she sucked the finger as she drank the last of a cup of tea that Eddie had made her and that night she slept very deeply.
The gym was a place of hormones and posturing and a torture chamber for the guilty obese. It was in the private club of a nearby country hotel and it was inevitable, she supposed, that the affair had begun there. He was an older man but still taut and muscular. He reminded her, just a little, of Kirk Douglas and that made the whole thing seem comical when she tried to think about it coldly. However, there wasn't much cold thinking to be done. They didn't say much but they both knew it was 'on.' One day after, a particularly punishing routine she found herself knocking on his hotel room door with a pounding heart. She hadn't bothered putting her underwear back on after showering, so certain was she of the direction the meeting would take. It was a brazen, presumptuous thing to do but she couldn't stop herself. They became animals in that room once a week for the next two and a half months. There was no love involved, only curiosity and cruelty; a desire to do everything they'd never tried. Sometimes, when she thought about it afterward, she couldn't believe that it had been her doing those things — as if she weren't responsible for the actions of her body. She would feel disgust and revulsion as she washed their combined filth and stench from her body but within hours she would find herself fantasising about the extremities of their next meeting. At home, things weren't quite as rosy as usual. She caught a glimpse of Verity one day as she came out of the bathroom and noticed the cuts healing on her forearm. "What happened there, darling?" "Some of the girls pushed me into the holly on the way home from school. We were just mucking about. It doesn't hurt." "Have you put some antiseptic on it?" Verity rolled her eyes. "Yeees, mum." She scurried to her room and shut the door to end the discussion. Sophie knew the difference between holly scratches and cuts. The thought of someone hurting Verity dismayed her, and she wondered for much of that day who would do such a thing and why. Then it struck her that Verity had done it herself. She didn't know how she knew it, but she was immediately certain that was how the cuts had come to be there. Verity was self-harming. She tried to talk to Eddie about it but he said he hadn't seen the cuts and he seemed dismissive. "I expect it's a just a passing phase." "Oh for god's sake Eddie. That's too easy to say. The question is why?" "Look, Soph, I don't think it's that serious, honestly. When we were kids we used to put lit cigarettes on our arms and see how long we could stand the pain for. She's experimenting." "But she's a girl, Eddie. Girls don't behave like that." "How do you know?" Sophie thought about it and realised that he might be right. Kids did all kinds of strange things as they grew up and found out about the world. She decided to leave it for a while, but she promised herself that if she caught Verity with any new cuts she would take her to the doctor.
The cats had been going missing in the village for a couple of months. It was a story that had appeared in the local parish magazine and the neighbourhood watch group were being extra vigilant. No one knew if there might be a wild predator around in the nearby woods or if some kind of 'cat hater' was poisoning them. Seven had been reported lost already. Sophie wasn't a fan of cats, or any animals for that matter, so she didn't take a great deal of notice of the story until a small delegation of village residents came and knocked on her door one evening. It surprised her to see half a dozen or so people standing outside the front door and none of them looked like they'd stopped by for a social visit. "What can I do for you?" she asked, standing in the doorway. Mrs. Enderby, a local parish councillor who seemed to be the spokesperson for the group, stepped forward. "We're here about the missing cats, Mrs. Cambridge. These people are the owners of the animals that have gone missing." "Oh, I see," said Sophie, "Well I wish I could help you, I really do but I haven't seen any cats come into the garden. To be honest, I haven't seen many around in the village either, but if I do I'll certainly let you know." She began to close the door by way of ending the proceedings but Mrs Enderby seemed far from being finished. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cambridge," she said. "But we have reason to believe that your son may be involved with the disappearances." Her eye contact was direct and penetrating. "What? Little Eddie? No, I don't think so, Mrs Enderby. Eddie's not the sort of kid to be involved in that sort of ... nonsense." "It's a lot worse than nonsense, I'm afraid. There have been several sightings of your son with his air rifle around the village in the evenings. Some people have heard the sound of it being fired." Sophie relaxed. "Well that settles it, then. It can't be Eddie. He hasn't got an air rifle — we wouldn't allow it." "It's not a case of mistaken identity, Mrs Cambridge. We know what your son Edward looks like and it was him carrying the rifle. Suffice it to say that we cannot prove it was him at the moment, but when we do, the consequences will be severe. Of that I can assure you." Mrs Enderby and her posse looked pale with rage at the thought of little Eddie shooting their beloved kitties. Sophie felt the urge to laugh at them all, but suppressed it. "Meanwhile," continued Mrs Enderby, "I strongly suggest that you have word with 'little Eddie.' Village life isn't always the peaceful existence people imagine, you know." Sophie was right on the button with her response. "Are you threatening us, Mrs Enderby?" "If there's a threat in this village, it's your son. Be sure you have that chat with him." The posse turned and left and Sophie was left in no doubt as to their
feelings toward the
However, Eddie seemed even less interested in the air rifle accusations than he was in Verity's dallying with self-mutilation. "I suppose he could have borrowed a gun from one of his friends," he said. "Eddie! Whose side are you on? You know little Eddie would never do anything like that. He's a good boy. Why would he shoot cats, for god's sake? I mean if he really wanted to shoot something he could shoot the mole that keeps wrecking the lawn or some of the rabbits that have colonised the copse at the back of the garden." "I'll have a word with him." "Oh good." She unwound a little. "Thanks, Ed." "But to be honest I don't think it'll do any good. I never listened to anyone when I was his age. Especially not my dad." Sophie sagged in her chair. Later she stood looking out into the summer evening from her place in the kitchen. She wished she knew what it was that she really wanted; what it was that would make everything all right again.
The following day it was her weekly liaison with the Kirk Douglas look-alike. He seemed different when she entered the room. He was detached, still intensely animal, but somehow dismissive of her. He didn't give her a chance to take a drink of the vodka they usually shared or even a drag on one of his lung tearing French cigarettes. He grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. It was rough; he mashed her lips under his own and thrust his tongue deep as if trying to choke her with it. While she was still clothed, her tied her face-down between the bedposts. They always picked a room with a four-poster for exactly this kind of game. He lifted her skirt and pulled her underwear down just far enough. Then he took off his belt and began to beat her with it. There was no sense of fun in his touch, she realised. He was serious. He wanted to hurt her. He succeeded within a couple of strokes and she couldn't help but let out a yelp of pain. "Shut up." He took off his socks and stuffed them into her mouth. From somewhere he produced a roll of duct tape. This was new. She began to wonder seriously what it was he planned to do to her. "You're a dirty cunting bitch," he whispered in her ear. She twisted her head back toward him and her eyes widened at his wild demeanour. He looked insane. "A miserable filthy slag and you deserve everything your going to get. It's women like you that fuck this world up for the rest of us." The beating continued with increasing ferocity and her tears flowed hotly, dampening the pillows. After a while, he seemed to tire and then he mounted her raw, exposed behind. She could tell straight away that he hadn't used a condom. Before this, he'd always insisted, and so had she. She heard him showering and getting dressed again. It was only then that he loosened one of her bonds and pushed her slightly onto her side so that she could see his face. He'd been crying, by the look of him. "I'm sick," he said, "I think you know what that means, don't you? Too many dirty bitches like you in too many hotel rooms like this one." He looked around at the walls. "I know it wasn't you because we've been careful, but I'm not going to do this on my own. I need to know that I won't be the only one. I'm not going to leave anything to chance either." At first, she thought that he'd pinched her while he was speaking but then she realised that she could feel the prick of a hypodermic in her buttock. Twisting back she saw the last few cc's of his blood disappear beneath her skin. She struggled then but it was far too late. The man tied her free hand again but only loosely. "You'll be able to untangle yourself eventually," he said. "But I'll have checked out and be long gone by then. I'll leave the 'do not disturb sign' on the door. I'm glad I won't ever see your whore face again." He spat on her then and, picking up a small case, left the room.
In a teary haze of misery, shame and pain she drove home stopping frequently in lay-bys to cry, and each time trying to fix her make up before continuing home. Friday was her 'day out' and she usually arrived home just before the children arrived back from school. Today, however she was early and she would have a little time to recover some composure before she had to face the family. She was now a time bomb waiting for her own body-meltdown to begin. Eventually, she would have to tell the family what was wrong with her. She put such ideas from her mind — the most important thing was to find out for sure first and then decide what to do. She pulled into the driveway of the house. It was a beautiful Georgian creation with five bedrooms and more space than the four of them could fill. It all seemed absolutely worthless. That evening she gave the best performance of normality in her life but then feigned exhaustion from 'overdoing it in the gym' and retired to bed early. She knew that Eddie would not wake her to try and make love, he was far too thoughtful for that these days and it meant that their first night of marital celibacy was taken care of with no questions asked. But the questions would come eventually. She couldn't avoid that.
Saturday was always a lazy day for the family. Sometimes they went shopping or to the movies. However, as the weather was so good, they all decided to stay home and enjoy the garden while the summer still blessed them with its rays. Sophie announced that she was going to go for a walk after lunch. She knew the kids wouldn't want to go because they hated 'family walks' and Eddie always liked to sit and read the papers after he'd eaten and then fall asleep for half an hour or so. "Want me to come along, too, Soph?" he asked her, obviously wanting to stay. "No, it's fine. I'll enjoy the peace away from you noisy lot." She smiled and smacked his bum in play, as if the world and everything in it was perfect. "How long will you be?" "Well, I'm going to go around the fields, over to Bagshot chapel and then back. It's about six miles so say, an hour and a half, maybe two. OK?" "Sure. Don't get lost," he said. "Oh Eddie, I've done this walk twenty times or more. Don't worry about me." "OK, but take your phone anyway." Half an hour later, she was far across the fields and beginning to enjoy the space in which to think and be at least a little carefree. Being around her family only filled her with guilt and shame. Out here, she didn't have to face them or look into their eyes. From time to time, the tears came as she relived the scene in the hotel. What upset her even more, was how she ever could have become so dissatisfied as to have acted with such little regard for her loved ones. When she thought of that, the tears were the bitterest.
A couple of hours later she returned through the small wooded area at the back of the house and its broad gardens. As she stepped between the thick nettles on either side of the barely used path, she thought she could smell cooking. It made her stomach grumble and her mouth wet when the heavy, savoury scent hit her. It reminded her or of a rich game soup she had once tried in the hotel restaurant and it was a dish she knew she'd love to eat again. She wondered if the smell was from her kitchen and if so, who was doing the cooking. A little further, on she saw the decaying shed that leaned at an angle amid the weeds at the bottom of their garden. It was unused and falling apart — one of the jobs they'd yet to attend to. She realised with a thrill of unease that the delicious aroma was coming from the shed, not from the house. Her first suspicion was that a tramp was using the shed as a shelter and so, making her way more quietly, she crept around to the shattered doorway. In the gloom, she saw little Eddie poking a stick into an old paint pot from which steam was rising. She briefly wondered if the family had a closet chef on its hands but that notion was soon dismissed and forgotten. Her foot creaked on a floorboard as she stepped closer. Little Eddie turned around. She'd never seen a look of such guilt. "Mum. You're back early." "What are you doing Eddie?" "Nothing, mum. Just ... playing." "What's in that tin?" She stepped closer but Eddie stood up so that she couldn't see. "Eddie, you get out of the w—" It was only then that she noticed the small skulls hanging from the ceiling at the back of the shed. Each of them was as clean and bright as a laboratory specimen. The comparatively large eye sockets, the long, needle-sharp teeth and the fact that there were seven of them made everything clear. She stumbled out of the shed and vomited into the weeds. Without breathing another word, she ran back to the house to get Eddie — he would know how to handle it. There had been too much for her to deal with; all she wanted to do was crawl into bed, close the curtains and sleep until the century was over. In the house, all was quiet downstairs. Eddie's papers were scattered around his favourite chair but there was no sign of him. The TV was on but there was no one watching. As she passed the bottom of the stairs, she thought she could hear crying. It sounded like Verity. Little Eddie forgotten for the moment, she climbed the carpeted steps, but the sobs weren't coming from Verity's bedroom, they were coming from her own. As she came closer, the sobs became words that she could hear and understand. They sounded like begging. "No ... please. No more. Please, Daddy." Her guts turned to tubes of ice. The urge to vomit returned. Surely, she thought, this isn't what it sounded like. Verity's probably hurt herself and Eddie's trying to put medicine or a plaster on her. But she could hear Eddie's grunts of pig-like satisfaction and she knew the truth. The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open the rest of the way to see her husband naked and writhing on top of the so much smaller body of their only daughter. I should kill him, she thought. She told herself that she was going downstairs to find a knife in the kitchen but really, she just wanted to leave the scene — leave everything. In the kitchen she ran to her refuge by the sink and with her hands pressed against the draining board she whispered: "Why? Why is this happening?" For the first time, she thought about it; she thought about it hard. What had happened in her life that had led to all this? In a moment, it all came together in her mind. She realised she was staring right at the answers and had been for years. It wasn't easy to accept. It seemed impossible, but she knew instinctively that she was right. Two incidents in the last few months had led to all of this and both occasions had been when she had bled into the sink — her place of power; the special place where she dreamed all her daydreams. All these years she had been tending a shrine and on the days she'd cut herself she'd created blood offerings that had caused all her dreams come true. Some great force had accepted her blood and manifested all her desires in return. The first time she had been wishing for things to improve for herself and the second time she had wished for more excitement because having everything had not been enough. Now her family was fragmenting — put asunder by the pursuit of gratification. She was as guilty as the rest of them. In truth, she knew she was the cause of it all. Not only had she lost control of everything, she had also finally realised that she was fallible, mortal. The man in the hotel room had shown her that. One instant, one second, could change everything and then death would be staring you down. She wanted her life back. She didn't want to die and she could see that everything she'd wished for had been a mistake. Perhaps the act of wishing itself was some kind of evil that turned the world into hell. "Mum?" It was little Eddie crying in the hallway. Soon he would be in the kitchen with her and she would have to act. Upstairs she could hear footsteps. Obviously, Eddie had finished having his fun and was preparing to come down as well. She had to do something. She reached out and removed one of the kitchen knives from the wooden block that held them and pressed the edge of the blade against the palm of her left hand. "Please," she said. "I swear I'll never be dissatisfied, I swear I'll never wish again. Just make everything normal again." She gripped the blade and her right hand drew the knife away. She screamed as the skin opened. She felt the blade sever a tendon and then grate against bone. More blood than she'd ever seen in her life poured from her wound as if she was squeezing crimson water from a sponge. It was too much blood. The dizziness made her reel, her vision faded to white and her legs gave way beneath her.
The micro-surgeon kept her in hospital overnight after reattaching the separated flexor tendon in her palm. She'd lost a lot of blood and was suffering from mild shock. She awoke a day later and they let her family take her home. Eddie wasn't looking quite so trim as she remembered him and he hardly spoke to her on the way home. He'd been in the habit of opening car doors for her and treating her like some kind of royalty, but all such attention seemed to have evaporated. When he got out of the car, she waited for him to help her but he was already halfway to the front door. In the back of the car, the kids were arguing and kicking each other. Over lunch, Eddie was sullen. "What's the matter, Ed?" She asked. "I've lost my job. They're making me re-apply for my old position." "Why?" "Cutbacks. Times are hard." "We'll be all right won't we?" "We'll have to move. There's no way I can afford this place any more." His words both chilled and delighted her. She had knowledge that none of them could imagine. She turned to her son. "Eddie, eat your carrots." "Oh, Muuumm," he whined. "Can't I just have some spaghetti hoops?" "No, you can't. Come on, eat up." Inside she was smiling. Verity wasn't eating much either. "You all right, sweetie?" "Yeah. Just not that hungry." Sophie looked at Verity's bare arms and shoulders. They were hardly covered by her vest top. They were skinnier than she remembered and there was no trace of a cut or a scar. That night she did all the cooking and washing up and went to bed while Eddie watched the football. She awoke in the night to his selfish, inexpert thrusts. In the morning, there was no cup of tea and she had to go and prepare everyone's breakfast. It was tiring but she didn't mind. She knew that she wasn't going to die — at least not yet. After a few weeks, they moved into a house on the same estate where they had previously lived. It was cramped by comparison, but that seemed to her a small price to pay. The weeks went by and she settled into the old routines. They came back as if she'd never known anything different and with them came all the same old problems. Even they did not bother her as much as they used to. There was one aspect of her life that was a source of dissatisfaction to her, and that was her sexual relationship with Eddie. Basically, they didn't have one. She didn't call his using her as a masturbation device a 'sex life,' and the longer it went on the more it disturbed her. One night when the kids had gone up to bed but had, by the sound of it, not yet gone to sleep, Eddie called through to the kitchen. "Get us a beer, love." She duly obeyed. Handing him the fresh glass and removing the dead one, she noticed his huge gut and jowled face as his blank eyes searched the screen for action. Back in the kitchen by the sink, she looked out through the window into blackness and then, after a moment of absence, looked with carnal hunger at the handles poking up at a useful angle from the wooden knife block. Perhaps there was something that could be done to satisfy her longing. |
