Bloody Mary (3 page)

“Yeah, we had a really long talk. I told her we were trying for a baby and she nearly cried, she was so happy. Said it was about time one of her lads gave her a grandson, she was dead proud of me.”

Sophie was pleased she’d managed to turn the conversation round, not comfortable with telling her husband about the ultimatum just yet. She took the bottle and poured a drink, emptying the bottle. “That’s nice, I’m glad she was happy.”

“Oh, and great news, too. They’ve got a buyer for the house, a youngish couple, they offered full asking price, and said they’d buy Dad’s car too, with the house, you know, so Mam and Dad won’t be car-less until the day they move to Mallorca. Fantastic news, isn’t it?”

Sophie was genuinely shocked: some people seemed to have such a lucky life, but she betrayed the emotion with a wide smile. “Yes, great news. That’s brilliant. So when’s the villa going to be finished? How are they going to tie it in?”

Darren waved his hand as he downed the dregs from the glass, refilling it immediately from a bottle he found in the sideboard. “The buyers have agreed to wait for completion until the villa’s built, but that’s not so far ahead anyway, three months or so. It’s all worked out perfectly.” He drew a packet of Lambert and Butler from his pocket, along with a lighter, and offered her one. She took it, reaching over the table for an ashtray and emptying it into the bin before setting it on the sofa between them. They both inhaled deeply, lost in their own thoughts: Sophie irritated that her in-laws had managed to sell their house within days, yet her cottage had been on the market with no success for months; Darren smug at the rosy news from his mother.

It was almost as if he’d read her mind. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from the estate agents at all?”

She shook her head, expelling blue smoke swiftly. “No, nothing.”

Darren glanced around the cosy room, taking in the darkened oak beams and cream painted lime plaster for a millionth time, and she knew what was coming, knowing the familiar spiel verbatim. “You made a bad decision when you bought this place, Soph. The thing is, people want modern places nowadays. I mean! Three hundred years old! Uneven floors! Woodworm filled beams all over the place! Scrappy plasterwork and inefficient heating!”

Sophie jumped in, defensive of the cottage that had been her pride and joy before she’d met her husband. “Oh, come on Darren, you know I had the heating installed by a good plumber. And that the woodworm and damp were treated professionally. It’s a cottage full of character.”

Darren scoffed, his arrogance biting her. “Whatever, I still think you should have got a modern place like I did, my apartment sold on the first day it was advertised. Modern is what people like.”

Sophie quickly raised her glass to her lips to stop herself responding, she wasn’t in the mood for an argument. It was true, his studio flat had been in a desirable area, it was neat and minimalist, economical to run, and it had brought him a good profit for the three years he’d owned it before selling up to move in with her. Not that she’d ever seen a penny from the proceeds, he was content to keep it hidden in some lucrative savings account somewhere while she paid for the bills and food with her growing loans and credit card accounts. It grated that she had no choice but to sell her cottage to pay off those debts, the house she adored, and had paid for through years of hard work as she climbed the career ladder. The temptation to slap the self-righteous words from his pompous face grew fierce. Time for bed. Sophie stood abruptly, draining her glass. “Come on, we need to get some sleep, we’ve both got work tomorrow.”

He sniggered as he finished his drink, stubbing dead the cigarette with his yellowed fingers. “You should have bought a modern place, Soph, that’s what people want.”

Sleepless due to the interminable rasping, Sophie lay in turmoil. In the minimal light creeping through the gap in the curtains from the new moon, she could just make out her husband’s features, his still-clothed body. Was he handsome? She’d thought so at first, well, in a quirky way, but nowadays his cocky sneer irritated her. Yellow-brown eyes, a crooked nose, slightly greying dark hair. He was undoubtedly fit, down to his manual job as a joiner cum carpenter more than exercise, but his belly was rapidly spreading through alcohol excess and take-away food.

Quite apart from his looks, the growing violence towards her was getting her down. He’d been caring and protective in those wonderful early days, treating her like a precious flower: compliments, gifts, cuddles, kisses. But as his drinking increased, so did his beatings, and with each punch she lost a little bit more of the respect she had for him. And for herself.

She turned away, and for the second time since the ultimatum wondered if she should have chosen her parents over Darren. Unfortunately, she considered gloomily, the word divorce did not appear in her personal dictionary.

In Darren’s hometown of Clayton, Newcastle-under-Lyne, his parents, Maureen and Bob sat with best friends, Peggy and Bry, at the expensive, perfectly polished walnut table, each with a large glass of wine raised. Bry was the most vocal, but Bob took credit for being the most inebriated. He was a happy drunk, or so he would have people believe, and the occasion for celebration made him happier. The imminent move to Mallorca. It had held the entire conversation from the meal at the local Harvester at the beginning of the evening, to this ‘early hours of the morning’ toast.

Bry stood, steadying his drunken wobble against the table, and raised his glass higher. His words were slightly slurred. “I’d like to take a moment to congratulate our good friends on their wonderful news today. As we all know, we’ve known each other since our schooldays, we’ve had our families together.”

Bry stopped his oration briefly for an ill-disguised belch, giving Peggy a chance to get a word in. “Get on with it!”

His glass shook a little, the red liquid splashing onto the varnished wood, prompting Maureen to snatch a tissue and mop it before it stained. “I’ll thank you, my good wife, not to interrupt me while I speak.” They all chortled drunkenly. “We’ve seen our children grow up as friends, move on into adulthood, get married. We’ve lived our lives alongside each other.” He glanced at the grinning group, reddened faces glowing in the soft light. “So I’ll cut the speech short, all I can add is you’d better damn-well make sure we get plenty of holidays with you in sunny old Mallorca!”

Bob took a swig, and chuckled as Bry sat himself back down on the elaborate chair. “You bet, mate, but on one condition: you make sure you look at villas for yourself when you come and stay! We want to see you follow us out there!”

Peggy giggled. “I’ll definitely drink to that!” She tapped her glass with a manicured, ruby red fingernail. “I’d also like to make a little toast myself. Our Davy’s Claudia’s just found out she’s having our first grandchild. We’re over the moon, aren’t we, Bry?”

Maureen shot an uncontrollable glare of annoyance at Peggy before settling a practised smile on her pink-stained lips. “Well done Davy and Claudia, we’re very pleased for you, Pegs, Bry. But if we’re talking babies, of course I wasn’t going to say anything yet, you know, I like to keep a little decorum, but our Darren and his wife are also having a baby, a son.”

“But…” Bob started, incredulous, hastily silenced by a withering stare from his wife. Crestfallen, and understandably irked at the instant upstaging, Peggy smiled politely and returned the congratulations.

The household was quieter in Littleover where Harold and Beryl lived, the pleasant semi-detached house in darkness as they both lay in bed. Harold was breathing softly, a gentle purr, but Beryl couldn’t sleep after the conversation with Sophie. She’d been tossing, turning, heaving, and contemplating for hours, perhaps even wishing she hadn’t seen that Mystical Mary, or whatever she called herself. If she had just stayed at home the telephone confrontation would never have happened.

Harold and Beryl liked to start the day in a refined way, and every evening she would prepare the table for breakfast, setting out a choice of cereals, the toaster, the crockery and cutlery. As always, the alarm was set for six. This gave Harold enough time to read his morning newspaper without a chaotic rush, before leaving for work at seven thirty. He was very close to retirement, and Beryl knew he would miss lecturing on forensic science at Derby University, but the languid days they had coming appealed to her. At least they had before the reading.

So now, the worries and confusion on Beryl’s mind eventually became too much and she realised that if she was to get any sleep at all before daylight began to break, she was going to have to be selfish and wake him. “Harold?” She lightly shook his shoulders, and he stirred dreamily.

“Darling. What is it?” He rolled over to face her.

“Harold, I just can’t sleep after what happened today. I shouldn’t have woken you, but please can we talk it through?”

Harold gently took her hand in his. “Of course, darling. Look, I know it’s upset you, and whether it was the wrong decision or the right one, I don’t know. But you have to remember that it also upsets you every time you see her covered in bruises. Sometimes you have to protect yourself, and, at the end of the day, Sophie’s

a grown woman.”

“Yes, I know that, but maybe we should support her, I mean, was it fair to essentially suggest that she leaves her husband?”

Harold was hurting as much as his wife at Sophie’s reluctance to give up on a relationship that was clearly destructive, but he also realised there was little they could do apart from sitting in the background and waiting until their daughter was no longer willing to deal with the violence. He contemplated Beryl’s indecision for a few moments before breathing a reluctant sigh. “I don’t know. It’s such an awful situation. For all of us.”

Beryl drew herself up, hugging her knees to her chest. “You should have seen her this time, Harold. Her make up was caked on so thickly but the bumps and bruises just glared through. Why does she tolerate it? Why doesn’t she admit it to us? I’ve even passed her leaflets about domestic violence, and then watched her discreetly throw them in the bin. It’s just become too hard to stand on the sidelines and see that happening to my child.”

Harold pulled himself up wearily, placing a caring arm around her shoulders. “I know, darling, I know, and if that’s the case then you’ve done the right thing. In a way we only have ourselves to blame…”

Beryl sat straight, abruptly, aghast. “Us! How dare you, Harold Waller! We brought both our children up to respect people and be respected in return, we…”

“Ssshhh, you’re misunderstanding me. Darling, we have a wonderful marriage, we rarely argue, and even when we do it’s a sensible discussion rather than a shouting match. Sophie has grown up to believe that once married, forever married, you know, until death do us part. We’re her role models and that will have made her determined to make her marriage work.”

Beryl sighed deeply, her body relaxing back into Harold’s warm shoulder. “I see your point.” The comment was resigned, but the emotion frustrated. “I just can’t bear to see her being treated so badly.” They both knew that no more words were needed, but she had to add the thoughts she’d had so many times over the years. “Darren’s always been rough around the edges, I mistrusted him from the very first time I met him.”

Harold gently snuggled himself and his wife back down until their heads rested on the pillows once more, drawing the cool sheets over their shoulders, and he felt despair as the solemn tears rolled from her cheek to his chest. Holding her close he whispered gently. “Sophie’s an intelligent girl, darling. She’ll not take the mistreatment forever. One day she’ll come to her senses and leave Darren, but it’s up to her to choose the right time, not us.”

Her voice was childishly innocent, despite her true age. “You really think she’ll leave him?”

“One day, yes. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Beryl closed her damp eyes, the warmth of his reassurance comforting her, and silently listened as his breaths grew deeper and further apart, eventually lulling her to sleep alongside him.

After doing Beryl’s tarot reading I’d had a good chuckle to myself, certain that meddling with her life in such a way was going to cause her distress. So, when I saw her the following week I was stunned to find that I’d inadvertently helped her, and I silently chastised myself, determined to find out more about the family so that my attempts at destroying Harry and Beryl’s lives would work.

It was an easy task, we didn’t even get as far as a ‘tarot reading’ or ‘psychic consultation’, because as soon as she sat at the table it was clear that this was a lady who needed to talk. Well, I wasn’t about to stop her getting things off her chest, was I! So I put the question to her, and she nodded her head gratefully. Rubbing my hands together with my secret glee, I leant forward and gently told her to go ahead.

She told me about Sophie, how her husband Darren had been increasingly violent, how it was affecting her work as a solicitor, how much it was upsetting her and Harry, and how useless Sophie’s devoted brother felt, knowing his sister was being beaten and not being able to do anything to stop it. Now I knew why she had so readily accepted my advice the previous week: Darren was a bad sort. And for the next part in the saga, it seemed that they weren’t the only people who had an intense dislike for the man. She told me that her son had received a call from an incredulous Sophie the very next day, explaining the unbelievable event that had happened at her cottage in the early hours the next day.

As Beryl explained, I could picture the scene in my head, her account being so, and I hate to admit this, conscientious. I was soon lost in the relation, gasping intermittently at the extraordinary occurrences. I’ll elaborate for you:

All was peaceful, the night sky clear of clouds, stars brightly glowing in the late summer warmth that had the people of the pretty village of Coleorton throwing off their covers in their sleep. Inside Iris Cottage, Darren and Sophie were no different, the duvet draping only their feet, eyes tightly shut, minds in separate dreamlands. A smash of shattering glass stirred them, but not enough to wake fully. But the second thunderous crash had them both sitting in bed, looking at each other with questioning eyes.