Happiness was not an emotion he experienced, but today he drove to the building in the woods with a strong sense of satisfaction. Everything had gone to plan.
It was barely 10 a.m. when he arrived. They ate their breakfast in silence. By the time he’d finished cleaning up, Lucy was on the bed listening to music. Deep in the woods little light penetrated the densely packed trees and even less entered the building. There was no birdsong and the only noises were the faint sounds coming from Lucy’s headphones. She appeared totally resigned to her fate. There was no sign she realized what he was doing. The ache in his heart, which never left him, began to ease. It had happened before but this time he was sure it wasn’t a false hope. Everything was going well. He was convinced of success. Beyond the trees, the sun was shining.
Thirteen miles northeast, screeching gulls filled the air above the cliff top at Reculver and a warm July sun bathed the lines of ageing mobile homes. It was almost midday when there was a squeak of rusty hinges and a woman appeared in the doorway of one of the more dilapidated caravans. Holding an open can of lager in her left hand, she barely paused before taking three steps to a plastic chair. The sun glinted on her bottle-blonde hair, warming her upper arms and shoulders. She needed that warmth. Oblivious to the screeching seabirds, she slumped in the half-broken chair on the bare patch of soil outside her caravan and abandoned herself to the comfort of the sun’s embrace.
No bugger cuddled her now. She hadn’t been cuddled for years. Sure, they slept with her but by the time the buggers climbed into bed she’d be too pissed to care, and Len, or Paul, or that new guy who’d moved into the park last month, they just wanted to get inside her. No thought of pleasure, just a drunk striving for release. Sometimes they weren’t up to it and she’d find her head pushed down and her mouth full of soft flesh. With luck they’d be snoring before she’d conjured life to their drunken loins. Who was it last night? Who was in there now, farting and snoring his head off? Bleary-eyed, she’d not noticed as she clambered out of bed for an urgent piss. Last night …? It was just like every other night. The evening slipping away, and, when it was almost gone, a voice in the back of her head would say – it could be different. And her last thought was always the bleeding same – how? I’ve never known another way.
When every day was the same it was difficult to keep track of time. Sitting in the chair, her mind still focused, she set herself a task: which month was it? June, July, August, surely not September already? She knew it must be summer because of the warmth. Once the summer had gone even the sunniest days lost their heat to the wind off a grey North Sea. She took another swig from the half-empty can in her hand, a hand old before its time.
Why did she do it? Why did she fucking pick up the drink? She didn’t know and each morning after a drink or two she no longer fucking cared. But this was the first can of the morning. Sod it, she’d not been up an hour and right now she did care. She didn’t think she was going to be all right – definitely not all right! She crushed the empty can in her hand and threw it at a waste bin. In a minute she’d get a new can. The moment would pass. Why get so worked up? Beating the drink was easy. All she needed was a second can and her worries would be gone. Just one more lager and then a few more cans to keep the worries at bay. With a grunt, she heaved herself up to get the second can of the day.
Back at her chair with her mind still clear, she paused before tearing off the ring-pull. The drinking, why did she fucking do it, when did it fucking start? The why she didn’t know but the when was fucking easy. It started before she’d left school but it was different then. She’d be with her mates and some of the lads from St Cuthbert’s. They’d get chips from The Frying Plaice and a couple of bottles of vodka from the corner shop. Have a laugh in the park. In the bandstand if it rained.
Chips eaten and most of the vodka gone they’d sit side by side letting the boys touch them up. When they started, breasts were off limits. They weren’t having the boys feel how small they were. All except Ginge. She was a redhead, early developer, already filling her first bra and angling for a new one that fastened at the front – easier for the guys to get it undone. All the boys fancied Ginge but she was a good mate and shared them round.
Most nights they played musical chairs. The boys had five minutes before moving on. Ginge re-fastened her bra between sessions, said she liked the moment her tits were set free more than the boys’ hands on her body. For the rest of them it was fingers, greasy from chips, pushing down inside their knickers. Sarah fancied herself, always did it standing up in the jeans she called her specials, lining cut from the front pockets and her knickers left at home. If it’s five minutes a shot you’ve got to make it easy for them. Some were better than others. Millie said they were all bloody useless. One night she put a hair grip on her clit so the buggers could find it.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only if you put vodka on it.’
It wasn’t long before her tits grew, not as big as she’d wanted but some guys preferred their women scrawny. She wasn’t complaining. Soon she’d covered all the bases, moved on to proper dating, and going all the way. By her first year out of school she was going steady with Ron from the timber yard. She fell pregnant and they got married before it began to show. Things were okay when Doreena arrived. They’d leave the baby with Ron’s mum and still went to the pub in the evening and a film each week at Dreamland.
All that fell apart after the boy were born. Reena had been easy but not the boy. She’d been in agony for 36 fucking hours before he put in an appearance at 3 a.m. Reena had arrived in the afternoon and she could still see Ron with his daughter in his arms. This time he’d spent the day drinking. The bastard was doubtless at home snoring in bed well before the boy came into the world. When they finally cut the cord, she felt released, but the boy was screaming as if they’d put vodka on it.
With two kids it was all change. Ron’s mum wouldn’t take them both so she had to stay home while Ron went drinking. He started rolling back well after the pub closed. She suspected he was seeing another woman. She confronted him and the violence started. For the few days each month when he wanted sex, if she weren’t up for it he’d force her. When she told him she was pregnant for a third time he threw her on the bed and punched her stomach night after night until she lost the baby. Finally he left with his latest bitch and she’d been glad to see the back of him. When her chance came with Fred she took it. She didn’t miss the boy but sometimes she missed Reena. Most of all she missed chatting with her old mates at the school gates.
The sound of Len, or Paul, or perhaps it was the new guy, moving inside the caravan interrupted her thoughts. Fuck thinking like this. Fuck thinking it could be different. Life isn’t what you make it; life makes you what you are. Either top yourself or handle it. She handled it – just. Finding men were easy, keeping them were another matter. Ron had started playing around soon after the boy was born and left when he was two. Fred had left her before their first anniversary. Well, it would’ve been their anniversary had they married the day they met. Still, with Fred she’d had her second moment in the sun. It was while she was on holiday with Fred that the kids had been taken into care. Social services said she weren’t fit to look after children. Here among the mobile homes she’d more men than you could shake a bleeding stick at but she wasn’t kidding herself. Len, Paul, the new guy, only stayed because, like her, they had nowhere else to go. They were all at the end of the line.
A cloud passed over the sun, taking away the only warmth she had. Her hand cradled the near-empty can. There were more noises from the caravan.
‘Get y’bleeding arse in gear and bring me another fucking can!’
Little light entered the building in the woods. Now there was even less as the sky clouded over. He’d spent the day with his collection, refreshing formalin, rehousing specimens, relabelling jars. He carried the bucket of blood-soiled preservative outside and emptied it in the pit. When he returned, Lucy had put the headphones aside and was reading one of the novels. Neither had spoken. Tonight he would wait until the sedative had its effect and she slept.