This story was written using prompts provided by Uxbridge Writers' Circle members - these words are shown in italics.
The woman’s gaudy skirt swirled
around her as she swept up some of the books and magazines in her arms, to make
a space for me to sit. Millions of dust particles were disturbed and caught in
the sun’s rays that had forced their way through the dirty window pane.
Her
bare toes brandished long nails that had the remnants of colour at their
tips. I didn’t get a good look. I didn’t want to stare at her grubby, flaky
feet.
This
wasn’t an ideal time to meet, she’d told me. The mornings offered her
the best creative hours, when the words flowed and the verses gathered on the
paper. She always wrote with pen on paper, she’d let me know.
A
terra-cotta sculpture caught my eye and she noticed my interest. She
explained that she’d been a sculptor once, before it happened. The fact that
she made reference to the tragedy, albeit fleeting, gave me an opening.
“As
you know, Serena, I’m here as a representative of the private investigator
hired by your ex-husband’s father.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
“We’ve
re-opened the case.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
“This
must be difficult for you, but please tell me all you know about what happened.
I’ll be recording this for my use, to help me with my notes.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
“I
realize you’ve told the police, probably several times, but please would you
tell me again.”
I
watched as she sat on a wooden chair behind a dark table that was covered in
papers. I wondered what she was thinking. Her reminiscence about the
events surrounding the death of her son would be clouded by time and distorted
by grief.
A
giggle. I was certain I heard a giggle. She stood up and threw her hands
into the air.
“I
won’t tell you what I said before.”
I
kept silent and watched as she twirled on the spot, her skirt ballooning out,
the papers curling up in the breeze.
“I
won’t tell you the lies.”
“I’m
here to get the truth,” I said, somewhat bewildered by her behaviour, wondering
if the unbearable grief of losing her son had sent her stark raving mad.
“I’m
not mad. I’m just sad. See, the poet can’t help it.”
“Okay,
tell me.”
She
sat down on the chair again, rested her elbows on some papers and stared at me.
“The
only problem is that you won’t believe it.”
“Try
me.”
“Bert,
…”
“Your
husband, or rather your ex-husband.”
“Bert
told Len he must be home by midnight. Len drove Bert’s Mercedes home at three
in the morning and it had a dent in the roof and was covered in mud. You know
all that.”
“I
do, from your statement. The Mercedes was found in the driveway.”
“Now
the truth part. Bert was angry. He was really mad. I screamed at him to leave
Len alone, but he wouldn’t. He lost it. You know he beat me up just about every
evening, right?”
“I
didn’t know.”
“Violent
man. Angry man. Hateful.”
“What
happened?’
“Bert
punched Len so hard that he fell and hit his head on the hall tiles. I screamed
some more. I was half-way down the stairs. Bert threw the small sculpture at
me, that I’d put on the hall table. It smashed on my shoulder and I fell down
the stairs. I couldn’t move for a couple of minutes. I don’t know why. Fear,
pain, not sure.”
She
smiled.
“It
feels so good to tell someone. Now that fiend of an ex is sick, I can tell you
the truth.”
“Please
go on.”
“La,
la, la,” she sang. Her behaviour shook me and confirmed my suspicions.
“I’m
not making this up,” she said, looking straight at me through a web of
wispy hairs hanging over her face. “Bert dragged Len into the living room. I
made myself crawl on my stomach to the doorway. I don’t think I was screaming
anymore We had large, puffy cushions on the sofas and chairs in there. Bert
took one of them, the soft stripy one, and put it over Len’s face. I thought
Bert would do the same to me. I had to get out of there. I crawled backwards
down the basement stairs.”
“You
were found outside in the pool hut.”
“I
don’t remember that part.”
“And
Len was found in the garage.”
“Yeah,
yeah. Where Bert hung him up to look like suicide.”
“The
reason you feel free to tell me this now…”
“Is
because Bert’s sick and can’t hurt me any more. La, la, la.”
“What’s
wrong with him?”
“He’s
an alcoholic. You know, liver stuff, brain function. It’s caught up with him.”
“I
didn’t know that. What he said doesn’t match with what you just told me.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
“Nothing
in any of the statements or evidence pointed to him. He wasn’t under
suspicion.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
“Was
there evidence of his physical abuse of you? Did you ever go to the police or a
hospital or your doctor?”
“No.”
“So,
your injuries didn’t require medical attention?”
“No.”
“Did
you get checked out after you were found in the pool hut that night?”
“No.”
“But
you must have appeared to be injured. You said you were hit by a sculpture and
you fell down the stairs and could only crawl on your stomach.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
“But
Bert had bruises on his head and neck that he couldn’t explain.”
“Yeah,
yeah. Time for you to go.”
“Why?”
“Because
you don’t understand.” She stood and turned to face the window. “Bert and Len ridiculed me day and night,
night and day, demeaned me, made me feel worthless. That’s why. I wasn’t going
to take the abuse any more. They were both so blind drunk that night that they
had no clue what happened. I couldn’t get Bert to die. He was too strong and I
was too tired, after Len.”
“That
explains Bert’s injuries.”
“Bert
told the police that he couldn’t remember anything, but I wasn’t sure. Now he’s
so sick he can’t remember anything, for certain. I’m free. La, la, la.” She
whips round, her skirt catching on the chair and it crashes onto the floor.
“Except you’re here.” Her steel-grey eyes stared at me with unwavering
intensity. Her chest heaved and I could smell her sour breath.
I’d
set my personal alarm off in time. My trusty ex-cop turned private investigator
colleague, Clive, appeared in my peripheral vision just as Serena lunged
towards me, hands extended as if she planned to grab my neck. I felt the warmth
of her body and saw her jagged finger nails.
It
was a close call.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2019
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