Bloody Mary (11 page)

Although I was in shock as I dusted off my clothes, giving my bruised thighs a stern rub to repel the bruising, and although I was sad to have spilled such sensitive news without planning it beforehand, at least I now had the registration number and make of Sophie’s car, and I knew where she parked it. Tomorrow, or whenever, it didn’t matter how long it took, I would be waiting in a taxi to follow Sophie home to see where she lived. In my mind I was doing what I thought best, I had no idea how much my words would upset her.

Her car hurtled through the familiar back streets and country lanes, speeding at every opportunity, but still the journey seemed to take an eternity. As she threw the car around the corner and through the open gates into her gravel drive, Sophie was massively relieved to see Darren’s replacement BMW parked in front of the cottage. They may have been distant recently, physical affection having taken a back seat to the pregnancy, but she needed him more than ever right now.

Not even considering her bags, Sophie jumped from the car and ran to the door, fumbling with the key in her haste, desperate to be inside with her familiar walls, her familiar furniture: her comfort zone. “Darren?” There was a slight edge of terror in her tone.

Sophie’s heart fell when no response came, she knew he was either at the local or drunkenly asleep on the bed. She crept up the stairs desperate not to wake him if he was there, that always made him angry, and her latter consideration had been right: under the covers, snoring loudly, he was in an inebriated coma, the dregs of his poison sitting in the tumbler beside the bed. She sighed deeply, not sure if she was strong enough to deal with this latest problem on her own.

In the kitchen she filled the kettle and switched it on, throwing a teabag into a mug she took from the draining board. Her mind was in chaos trying to decide what the next step should be, she felt like crying with frustration but the tears stayed buried away, her anger locking them firmly inside. As the noise of the boiling water reached a crescendo, Sophie’s resolve faltered. She took the bottle of cooking brandy from a wall cupboard, poured a large measure, and downed it in one, shuddering with the sharp aftertaste. Patting her tummy with both remorse and relief. “Sorry, baby, I need this today.”

Acutely aware that getting drunk would be detrimental to the child inside her, the child who was almost fully formed, whose heart was already beating, she poured another drink and replaced the bottle, resolute this would be her last. Carrying it through to the living room, Sophie sat heavily on the sofa, grasping the cordless phone and staring at it. As far as she could reason she had two choices. She could either call her parents and tell them what had happened, the parents who had once again told her at the hospital that they weren’t prepared to have contact with her unless she left her husband. Or she could call the police.

The phone lay in her lap, the minutes ticking away, and the only sound in the house was Darren’s regular snoring, a distant rumble with the door closed. Sophie ran through the latest altercation with that damned woman. Of course she wasn’t her mother! Beryl Waller was. It had been a cruel thing to say. Or was it just desperate? The woman was clearly crazy, she should be locked away in an asylum, not a crummy council flat.

Sophie dropped the receiver on the sofa beside her and strolled to the cabinet, opening the bottom door. She rooted through the photo albums, searching for the one containing the childhood photos her parents had given her when she got married. Slumping back into her seat, she flicked through the pages until she found the picture. Mum, Dad, Steve aged twelve, her aged six.

The family likeness was unarguable. Steve was the mirror of Beryl, eyes so dark they appeared black, large pools of darkness set into their olive skin, straight hair so ebony it reflected a metallic blue in the sunshine of the summer day all those years ago. And Sophie was definitely her father’s daughter, them both sharing the paler skin, chocolate brown eyes, spiralling hair, a chestnut tinged with auburn highlights, the highlights she detested so much she had her hair coloured blonde quarterly. A handsome family with no room for intruders. Mary Miller was clearly a nutcase.

Sophie picked up the phone book and found the number of the police Station.

PC Taylor was at his desk, filling out the tedious paperwork that took up so much of his time, an arduous task which hindered him from doing the job he’d applied for: policing the streets, reducing crime. The name echoed through his psyche, standing out from nowhere, and he stared at his colleague who sat at the desk beside the door. “Leon!” He’d begun walking swiftly towards the desk. “Leon!”

Kanhai waved his hand, pointing to the phone in the other, and mouthed ‘on the phone’, but Taylor was insistent. “Mrs Delaney, could you just hold on a minute, please.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece to mute his speech. “What’s up, mate?”

“Is that Sophie Delaney?”

“Yes.”

This was the moment Taylor had been waiting for. Although she had broken his heart with her news the night before, although he’d picked up a cute brunette at the pub in a vain attempt to eradicate Sophie from his mind, he still couldn’t lose his crazed preoccupation with her. “If you have to go out and see her, I want to come with you, okay?”

Kenhai smiled in affirmation and returned to his call. “Sorry about that, Mrs Delaney. Where were we?”

Darren was still asleep when the patrol car crunched along the driveway, parking behind Sophie’s Fiesta. She had been watching through the window since the call, waiting for them to arrive, and a sense of relief flooded her when she saw Taylor: at least she would be voicing her weird tale to somebody familiar. Having let them in and offered them a welcome mug of tea, they followed her into the kitchen while she prepared the beverages.

As the kettle slowly bubbled to the boil they went through Mrs Miller’s details, her description, address, the odd altercations leading to the latest where Sophie admitted to reversing into her. Although listening with the same intrigue as Kenhai, who was noting the details in his pocket book, Taylor was studying the woman before him intensely, the animated way she moved, the way her eyes shone with her expressions, huge pools of velvet, the colour gloriously deep, yet with a sorrowful quality, the long lashes framing them giving her an air of vulnerability. He adored the way her golden curls glistened in the glow from the fluorescent strip-light, with a tiny growth of roots that belied her true colouring. She was so beautiful, he just wanted to hold her, tenderly protect her, love her.

“Have you spoken to your mother about this woman’s claims?”

Kenhai and Taylor followed Sophie, each with a steaming mug in their hands, into the living room, and they all sat: Sophie in her usual place, legs curled innocently beneath her, Kenhai and Taylor on the second sofa. “Why would I? I mean, they’re just the words of a crazy woman.”

“Okay. Would you mind if we had a word with your mother?”

Sophie’s reaction was fierce, albeit polite. “Yes, I would. That woman is already trying to destroy my life with her weird auras and spooky predictions, I certainly don’t want my Mum being upset by her too.”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs had Kanhai and Taylor sharing a snatched glance. Darren came through the door and stood, head cocked to one side. He glared at Sophie. “What are they doing here?”

“I’ll tell you all about what’s been happening later, after they’ve gone.” Sophie was reassured by the police presence, comfortable that he wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on her whilst they were in the room.

Darren stormed through, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack by the front door. “Well, seeing as you seem to have more time for the pigs than for getting my dinner, nowadays, I’m going to the pub. Don’t put yourself out by cooking, will you, I’ll get something from the bar.” His sarcasm was still reverberating through the room as the front door slammed and his footsteps diminished along the gravel driveway.

Sophie felt humiliated. “I’m really sorry about that, I guess he’s had a bad day at work.”

Taylor knew the question was unethical, and Kanhai’s jaw fell, shocked, as his colleague spoke. “You know, Sophie, if he ever hurts you, or is going to hurt you, dial nine nine nine. I had your number listed as a priority.”

Sophie swallowed hard, averting her eyes until she’d gathered the strength to lie whilst maintaining eye contact. “Darren does not hurt me. He never has, he never will. He’s not that kind of person, and I would appreciate that you stop insinuating he is. I insist that my number is taken off priority, or whatever you call it!”

Her firm tone chastised both men, and Kanhai stood, tucking his pad back into the chest pocket of his uniform. “Right, Mrs Delaney. I think we have enough details to go on here. We’ll pop round and see Mrs Miller now, ask her to leave you alone, tell her we’ll bring forward a case of harassment if she doesn’t. Is that okay with you.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The first I knew about Sophie involving the police was when the two handsome young men turned up on my doorstep. I quickly cleared piles of wool, clothes, newspapers, magazines, puzzle books, and more, to make a small space each for the officers to sit. They’d already both politely declined a cup of tea, as most people who visited me tended to, I guessed the fact I led a cluttered lifestyle led everyone to believe I was dirty. Maybe I was. It was Kanhai who was doing the talking, leaving Taylor to scrutinise me, and what he considered to be my laughable claims.

I gave them my date of birth and saw the disbelieving glance between them. Hell, I know I’ve not kept very well, I’ve never been able to afford any fancy creams and I always cut my hair myself, but I was only forty six at the time. Sadly I knew I looked nearer sixty. As Kanhai reluctantly scribbled my details down, the pair of them still shared the joke between them and I became acutely self-conscious. Yes, I’d let my hair go grey, yes, it was lightly thinning at the top, and I knew the thick rimmed glasses with equally thick lenses made my blue-grey eyes seem tiny. And, fine, I was overweight and exercise wasn’t a hobby. The sensation in my abdomen was as if my insides were scrunching up, twisting, churning as the smirks they tried to cover swamped my painfully delicate ego. I touched the skin on my face, carved with deep wrinkles, and I knew the errant rosacea scattered across my nose, cheeks, and chin was unattractive. Taylor, who was clearly besotted with Sophie, the tender way he spoke of her made that obvious, must have been certain a creature as effortlessly beautiful as Sophie Delaney could not possibly have such a heritage.

Eventually the blushing subsided and my concentration returned to hear Kenhai stressing that I would be charged with harassment if I didn’t leave Sophie alone. I still insisted doggedly that Sophie was my child. I persisted relentlessly, repeating my story, the details standing firm: I’d had an affair with a married man, found myself pregnant at fourteen, had twins at fifteen, a boy I named Andrew and a girl I’d named Anna, and that the babies had gone straight for adoption against my wishes, due to my age. Having searched for both children for thirty one years, I finally tracked Sophie down. Harold and Beryl had obviously renamed her using her middle name, Sophia. The boy still remained unfound.

As they closed the door behind them, statements taken, warnings issued, Kenhai rolled his eyes mockingly. “Mad as a hatter!” I heard them. It wasn’t something I’d not heard before, but that didn’t stop it hurting.

I was furious that Sophie had gone to the police, put me in such an embarrassing position, I waited at the window until I saw the officers get into their car and pull away. Alone, as always, with nothing to do other than think, I paced around the flat, trying to work out what to do next. If I saw Sophie again I would be arrested. But she was my daughter, the precious baby I’d been searching for. And what made it worse was that, not only did Beryl have the man I wanted, she also had my child. She’d had the benefit of seeing my baby grow from a little chubby newborn to the stunning creature she was now. Destroy her? I’d wanted to hurt her before, maybe emotionally, probably not physically, but now? Now, I detested her with such a passion for the life she’d stolen from me, I was capable of anything.

It had reached ten o’clock and Darren hadn’t shown any signs of returning from the local. Sophie had briefly considered taking a stroll down to meet him, but the idea of sitting with a bunch of boring, old, drunken men whilst she sipped soda water seemed intensely unappealing. Having to eat for the baby’s sake, as opposed to hunger, had led to her preparing cheese and crackers, adding an apple for fibre, but it only served to disrupt the tediousness of the evening for a short interlude.

Sophie was pleased she’d chosen to call the police rather than her parents, but still the issues of the afternoon continued to burn in her mind. By quarter past ten, having switched the television off, she debated going to bed, but with her thoughts whirring so insistently she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. The only solution she could come up with had been the brandy again. She knew she shouldn’t, all the pregnancy books advised against alcohol, but she needed something to turn her off button.

The problem with having a couple of drinks was losing her inhibitions, and, although she guessed calling her parents late at night wouldn’t be appreciated, she still chose to do so. “Mum? It’s Sophie.”

She was going to have to come straight to the point, and quickly. “Mum, don’t go, this is important.” She heard the heavy sigh, and could picture her mother’s uptight expression, raised eyes and pinch-lipped, but she dismissed the image, swigging a large gulp, and grimacing. Sophie launched into her attack. “Did you give birth to me?”