Anything for Her (4 page)

She sits up and clutches her delicate stomach.

The rug is covered in photo cuttings: bits of scenery savagely chopped from memories; someone’s severed ear; a piece of a colourful clothing cut from its owner. Photo frames, which are stacked randomly on the coffee table, all display dark silhouettes of missing people, as if they escaped from the frames in the night
and vanished.

The doorbell rings again.

‘I’m
coming
!’

She gets up from the sofa and instantly whimpers. She sits back down and inspects her ankle: it’s still swollen.

She limps to the front door and opens it.

Dazzling daylight floods the house. She shields her eyes with the back of her hand. As the sun and the chill of winter pour in, the stench of vomit and despair gushes out, causing the visitors on the front step to wince as it hits them.

She opens her eyes and looks around in awe.

While Louise was sleeping, snow fell and blanketed everything in sight. The feral lawn has been smothered with white, sparkling snow, which hides its blemishes and imperfections. Every shrub and tree looks pristine, the tops of the trees mimicking white-tipped mountains.

In front of her stands a young couple.

The woman appears to be of Indian descent, with long, silken hair that reaches her petite waist. The man is Caucasian; he is tall and has a handsomely crafted face.

‘Hi,’ the woman says, with a gleaming smile, as white as the snow that speckles her coat. ‘We’re Ruth and Timothy Andrews.’

Louise stands in the doorway, waiting for the pair to
get to the point.

‘It’s a lovely village,’ Timothy adds awkwardly. ‘We’ve really fallen in love with the place.’

‘Well, if you want to leave a review, I’m sure you can do that on the Internet,’ Louise replies.

The couple look at each other and laugh.

‘No, no! Nothing like that,’ Ruth says. ‘It’s just… we noticed the For Sale sign outside your house, and we wondered if we could view the property.’

‘It’s a lovely house,’ Timothy adds. ‘Down a wonderful quiet lane. It would make a beautiful family home. We’re newly-weds, you see.’

‘Of course you are,’ Louise replies, failing to hide her disdain.

Louise can’t help but be reminded of the way that she and Michael were when they first bought the country house: excited, young, madly in love, and exuding happiness like overwhelming pheromones. She hates them.

‘What’s made you decide to sell?’

‘My husband, who is fucking my sister, made us both bankrupt.’

The happy couple stare at her with wide, stunned eyes.

Louise stares back at them, unfazed.

‘I see,’ Timothy says, blushing. ‘I’m sorry I asked.’

‘You poor woman, I’m so sorry,’ Ruth adds.

‘Now isn’t a good time to view the house, I’m afraid.
Maybe another time,’ Louise says, making to close the door.

‘How about later this evening? Or tomorrow?’ Timothy asks, anxiously. ‘We’re only in the village for a long weekend, you see.’

‘Well, what better reason to make another trip, hey Tommy?’

‘It’s Timothy,’ he corrects.

‘We don’t get much time to travel,’ Ruth interjects. ‘I’m a vet and Tim’s a dentist, you see. We both have busy schedules.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you would have much time to stay in the country.’

‘Well, we both want to open our own practices. Next door to each other… that’s our dream.’

They look at each other, with loving smiles. Louise has to fight the overwhelming urge to slam their perfect faces together and shatter all of their white teeth with the force.

‘Well, it’s a small village. You would probably see one or two pets a week, Ruth, unless you fancy trying to save road kill. And Tom, look around at the smiles in this place. Not many people in the village seem to be looking for Hollywood whites.’

The couple look at Louise as though she has just set their dreams on fire and extinguished them with her own urine.

‘It’s Tim,’ Timothy corrects again, defensively.

Louise’s stomach gurgles and then clenches, and the back of her throat tickles with the threat of vomit.

‘I’m not interested in having viewers right now,’ Louise says, trying to keep her composure.

‘Well, maybe we could pop by later,’ Ruth begins. ‘Or tomorrow, perhaps. Maybe—’

Louise slams the door shut and dashes to the bathroom, her ankle smarting with each bound. She kneels in front of the toilet and retches, her stomach clenches and jolts inside of her, as strings of bile creep from her lips like slug’s slime. Her empty stomach has nothing to eject, yet continues to contract, trying to force the alcohol out of her. Once free from the gagging spasms, she flushes the toilet, washes her face in the sink and drinks from the tap.

She goes to the back door and pulls the coat closer to her body, before slipping her feet into some wellington boots. She steps outside into the fresh air.

The garden seemed terrifying the night before, smothered under a veil of sinister shadows, but now it gleams with white snow, and the rolling hills in the background seem beautiful enough to feature on a postcard.

She lights a cigarette. The cold wind nips at her skin like small teeth, and her cheeks flush red.

Louise remembers the previous night and her desperate desire to die, which at the time felt like her only option. She couldn’t stay for her children; she
couldn’t stay for her husband; she had to escape for herself.

If I had jumped from the bridge last night, my body would be frozen beneath the river’s depths or hidden under snow by now. I wouldn’t have been found for weeks
.

Now, sober and very much alive, she must face her new reality: she has lost her husband, her sister, her home and her place of business – she has lost everything.

Chapter Eight

Louise closes all the windows after having them open for an hour, in the hope that the foul odour of stomach bile would clear from the cottage. She can still smell the scent of it lingering in the air, staining the fabric of the curtains and clinging to the rugs on the hardwood floor. She wraps herself up in a warm coat, hiking boots, thick gloves and a scarf.

She needs to escape. She needs to be alone. Thanks to the Andrews knocking on the door, she no longer feels that the country house is her place of peace any more.

Louise opens the front door and stops in her tracks.

On the doormat, colourful and still, lies a tiny bird – a robin. Its eyes are open and its wings are drawn close to its body. Its vibrant, orange chest is motionless and speckled with snowflakes. Its legs are stiff and thin like twigs, frozen into sinister poses, crippled by death. Its small, black eyes hold no sign of life.

Would another animal leave this here? A fox? A cat? Surely they would eat it, or take it back to their home? Did the robin really land on the doormat to die?

Louise bends down and carefully picks up the bird in her gloved hand. She rests it in both palms, and observes its serene innocence. It barely weighs a
thing, as if she is holding a dry sponge. It feels and looks so delicate. She strokes the top of its small head with a gloved fingertip, wishing she could close its eyes.

Walking down the path, slowly and respectfully as though the bird is simply sleeping, she kneels down on the snow that has settled on the grass, landing with a soft, quiet crunch. She places the deceased by her side, and digs a small grave under the snow. She rests the bird gently inside, and takes one last look.

The bird looks up at her with a vacant stare.

It seems such a shame for the world to lose something so beautiful
.

Timidly, Louise covers the bird in snow, until it is hidden from sight, and packs the grave shut with her gloved hands.

Everything beautiful and wonderful in this world always dies
.

Chapter Nine

Brooke lies on her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. Her eyes are focused on something only she can see – a memory that has haunted her for the past year. She sees the scene as though she is back there, and hears the sound of her own screaming despite her lips being closed and still.

Until that night, Brooke didn’t know it was possible to smell blood in the air, like a waft of metallic perfume. She remembers every sound, every smell, every word. She will never forget. A single tear slips silently down her nose, following the scar on its bridge – an injury from that night.

If only I had never been born
.
Then they would have lived
.

Brooke notices Dominic standing in the doorway to her bedroom and wonders how long he has been standing there, watching her. She wipes her wet cheeks and sits up on the bed.

‘How long have you been there?’

‘Not long.’

‘You okay?’

He hesitates.

‘Why are you always crying?’

His eyes search for the answer in his sister’s
countenance. His stance makes him appear lost and lonely. Brooke wants to hold him and never let go. She sits up and pats the bed. He enters and sits next to her.

‘Because I’m sad.’

‘What makes you sad?’ he asks, hoping he can fix it.

‘Lots of things.’

‘Do I make you sad?’

‘No,’ she replies through a faint smile. ‘You make me very happy.’

‘Do Mum and Dad make you sad?’

‘Yes. They make me sad.’

They sit in silence for a moment.

Occasionally, Dominic opens his mouth to speak, but words fail him.

‘I miss Mum,’ he says finally, looking down at the floor.

‘I do, too,’ Brooke replies, putting her arm around her younger brother. ‘She said she would be back.’

‘Will she, though? Come back?’

‘Of course she will. She’d never lie to you.’

‘She hides things from me,’ he says.

‘Like what?’

‘Secrets.’

‘Everyone has secrets, Dom.’

‘You and Mummy have a secret, don’t you?’ he says, looking up at her.

Brooke’s throat tightens.
How does he know that?

‘Yes, we do.’

‘Why can’t I know about it?’

‘Some secrets are better left untold.’

Dominic looks away, as if digesting her reply and storing it somewhere important in his mind.

‘Why don’t you have friends any more?’ he asks. ‘You used to be out all the time. Now you stay in here.’

Brooke loves talking to her younger brother because of the unfiltered, brutal honesty that all young children have. They haven’t yet learned the art of deception: acting one way but thinking another, pretending to care when they don’t care at all, and not asking questions that they long to have answered.

‘You shouldn’t trust people, Dom,’ she says. ‘People only look out for themselves, and they’ll trample all over you in the process. The only people I need are my family. I don’t need anyone else.’

‘Aren’t you lonely?’

The question hits her like a punch in the gut. Her brother’s eyes are pools of genuine wonder. He has so many questions about life and craves the answers. Brooke feels unqualified to answer them, fearing her bitterness and resentment of life will tarnish his attitude towards the world.

‘Sometimes.’

He takes his sister’s hand in his.

‘Well, I’m your friend.’

‘No,’ she replies. ‘You’re my
best
friend.’

They sit in silence for a moment, holding hands and thinking separate thoughts.

‘Do you want some hot chocolate?’ Brooke asks.

‘With marshmallows?’

‘Yes. A flake too, if you like.’

‘Yes please.’

As they make their way downstairs to the kitchen, their footsteps are the only sound to be heard in the tall house.

While Brooke warms milk in a pan on the stove, Dominic stands on tiptoes to reach the marshmallows and flakes in the cupboard. He then stands obediently by his sister’s side, watching her stir the milk.

As the milk begins to steam, the doorbell rings.

‘Watch the milk, Dom. Don’t let it burn. If it starts to bubble, turn down the dial.’

Dominic nods, and sets his eyes on the milk in the pan as though both of their lives depend on it.

Brooke walks down the hallway and answers the door. A delivery van is parked outside, and a bald, middle-aged man stands on the front step with a large, cardboard box.

‘Package for Mr Michael Leighton,’ he says, his London accent as thick as the clouds that smother the sky.

She signs the electronic reader that the man holds out to her and takes the package.

‘Cheers, love,’ the man says. ‘Oh, and I think
someone’s dropped a glove.’

He points at the ground by his feet before returning to his van. Brooke looks down and sees a black glove, unlike any she or her parents would own. The glove wouldn’t fit Dominic’s hand, but she already knows it doesn’t belong to him. She knows exactly who it belongs to. She also knows that, if she turns it over, she will see a dried bloodstain splattered on the fabric.

Putting the package on the floor, she crouches before the glove and picks it up with a shaking hand. She turns it over. Encrusted blood.

She drops the glove and tears begin to fill her eyes as she stands again. Her breathing becomes fast and shallow, as though she isn’t inhaling any air at all. Just as the van pulls away, Brooke releases an anguished scream that sends birds fleeing from the trees in front of the house. Her scream echoes around the square.

Michael rushes from his office, frantically following the sound.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demands, turning his quivering daughter to face him.

Her terror-stricken face shimmers with streams of tears.

‘What?’ he asks, horrified. ‘What’s happened? Brooke, speak to me!’

‘I can’t,’ she mutters.

‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ he asks, anger seeping into his voice. ‘Is it about that night?’

‘I can’t,’ she repeats.

‘Brooke, talk to me.
Please
.’

She wipes her cheeks and tries to calm her trembling hands. She shakes her head.

‘Is it about what happened?’

‘Dad… leave it.’

‘What did you do that was so awful?’ he pleads, his voice raised. ‘What happened to make you and your mother shut me out – and keep secrets? You have both disintegrated before my very eyes.’