ABIGAIL

He was waiting for her when she got back. Standing next to the hat stand, his expression lost to the shadows. She started, her body jerking involuntarily, then half-turned as if she could escape him. He had stepped forward, one flat palm closing the door, trapping her there. Her eyes rolled backwards as she took in his scent, mingled now with beery fumes, the first few words slurred before he righted himself.

‘Doctor’s been.’

She looked at him then, noticing a bloodied hand towel. ‘What’s happened? Is Connie alright? Is she hurt?’

‘She’ll live,’ he said, stressing the first part, his eyes dead.

‘I should go to her.’ Abigail moved to push past him.

He stepped in front of her. ‘She’s not here, she’s in the hospital. And we don’t want you scurrying away again, do we? What entices you out of the house, I wonder?’ He went to put a finger to his lips, the finger slipping to one side, tapping his cheek.

She didn’t answer him, her body rigid, arms thrust downwards, head strained backwards, the brim of her hat bent as she pushed against the wood. Did he know? Had he followed her? It was such a small place, eyes everywhere, had she really expected him not to find out?

‘All these secrets.’ He tutted, shaking his head slowly. He drew the bolt across the door, after the second attempt at ushering her in front of him, so that she was forced to move.

Did he know about Richard? About her visits to see him and his father?

She cleared her throat, eyes darting to the silver tray in the hallway, hoping that he was lying, that she might see her sister’s key, her distinctive key-ring, a threepence on a chain. There was nothing there, the glimmering surface containing a few pennies, nothing more.

‘I should visit her, take her some things, she’ll be scared.’

He shrugged, eyes crossing. ‘We’ll have a drink first.’

If she agreed, maybe she would get away from him quickly. She nodded once, unable to look at him now, feeling the weight of him, unsteady by her side, his eyes roaming loosely over her.

‘A drink’s allowed, isn’t it?’ His voice mocked her. ‘God knows, I need one. You can tell me where you scuttle off to.’ He lurched backwards before standing up straight, rolling his shoulders back and heading towards the living-room door in as straight a line as he could manage.

She followed him, not knowing what else she could do, tentative.

He was pouring whisky from a crystal carafe, the stopper already resting on its side, one glass already half-full. She had never drunk whisky before but took it when he held it out, a little off-centre. She sniffed at it cautiously, which seemed to amuse him. She looked at him as she drank, quickly, the liquid firing down her throat, the urge to cough and splutter it back up all over the carpet overwhelming, but she swallowed, kept drinking. Tears filled her eyes, her face screwed up as if she was drinking a glass of lemon juice. Her head ached with the shock of it.

He sloshed more into his glass, picking up the tumbler and directing it at her. ‘You’re very different to your sister, you know.’

Were they? She wondered. She thought of her sister, impeccably turned out in her cotton dresses, the waist cinched in, neat polished shoes, her hair clipped back in a chignon, the rest of it framing her face in pinned waves. The softly spoken women who hosted coffee mornings in her beautiful living room, who had taken her in. She thought of Connie now, in the hospital, knew then what had happened, the hand moving protectively over her stomach in recent weeks, her grey face in the mornings, her trips to the bathroom after breakfast.

She wanted him to be reminded of her sister, so she asked, ‘How did you two meet?’ realizing as she did so that she didn’t know, vague memories of him appearing, clutching drooping carnations for her mum in Bristol all those years ago.

Something flashed across his face, the expression gentler, wistful, a whisper and then gone. His mouth moved into a thin line as if he were suddenly afraid the words would tumble out if he didn’t lock his lips tighter.

‘I remember your wedding day. I couldn’t believe there was anything more perfect than how she looked that day.’ The dress she’d had hanging in her bedroom for weeks, the veiled hairpiece worn on glossy, dark hair. Her rosy pink lips full, her eyes trained on Larry, never leaving him, blushing as he took her gloved hand, as they posed for photographs on the steps of the registry office in Bristol.

‘She was the prettiest girl in Bristol.’ He said it as if it surprised him, clamming up again, then taking another sip of his drink. ‘You were… what? Twelve, thirteen? A little girl, a little flat-chested girl with a posy of flowers and a high laugh.’

Abigail smiled, one side of her mouth lifting, unnatural. She thought of that girl in her high-waisted dress, a satin sash draping along the floor. How had that little girl ended up here?

‘Just a little girl,’ he said. ‘Not so little now, are you.’

He moved quickly then; she had no time to react as he removed her tumbler before it could slip from her grasp and smash into a thousand pieces. She felt light-headed, the alcohol swirling in her veins, clouding her thoughts, stopping her voice. He had taken both her hands; his felt too small, too smooth. Richard’s hands were bigger, rougher, more welcome. He circled a finger on her palm in deliberate, slow movements, the pressure and feel of him making her momentarily nauseous. Her nostrils were filled with his breath, her mouth with whisky and fear.

He guided her over to the chaise longue, its cheerful peppermint shade at odds with the moment. He pushed her down onto it so that her face was level with the buttons on his trousers, the bulge of the material forcing her eyes to slide right to left before he took her chin in one hand and held it steady. With the other hand he reached down and undid the buttons one by one, his waistband loosening, the creases in his shirt imprinted on her memory. She seemed unable to move away from him, her breathing coming thicker, her chest rising and falling, her body getting hotter, palms damp, the roar of blood in her ears. It seemed that everything had slowed down then.

‘You’ve wanted to do this since you arrived.’

Where was Edith? She couldn’t hear anything except the sounds in her own head, the room blurred, just him in front of her, this moment. She had to get out.

He paused, removed his hand from her face, looked down, briefly distracted, and she took her chance, pushed him away, making him stumble as she lurched past him, across the room to the French windows, which had been left open. She imagined him turning to stop her, a hand gripping her arm, his fingers round her flesh, trapping her in that room. She made it into the garden, onto the terrace, weeds starting to peek through the cracks in the paving stones, the scent of lavender overwhelming as she moved to the grass, down to the gate. He followed her, stumbling through the French windows and, as she clicked the latch down on the gate, she dared to look over her shoulder. He had fallen, one knee on the paving stones, half up. Then she was through the gate and away down the path, her head woozy from the alcohol and fear.

She wasn’t aware of the path, the people walking past her, just her heartbeat and the certainty that she had to get out of there, she had to leave. She knew she was also running away from her sister, but she couldn’t stop herself. With every step she felt the thread that tied her to the house stretched, stretched until, as she looked across at the turquoise strip of sea and the tops of the houses of Lynmouth, she felt it finally snap and she was free again. She couldn’t go back there. How could she go back there?