Fiona, 2012
How could I have been so stupid?
Such a pathetic, moronic idiot.
I’m that woman, the one I used to scorn. I believed him when he said he didn’t mean it, when he said he was sorry. The first time. The second time. Every time. I thought he’d change.
But he’s gone too far.
He’ll kill me if I don’t end things.
No. This stops now.
I won’t be a dumb victim.
This is what Fiona tells herself, bravely and resolutely, as she slowly limps along the lonely, narrow, hedgerow-lined road that leads to her home.
The sun is setting but still retains some heat, the evening hazy with it. Her bared arms are pale; the flimsy yellow cardigan hanging loosely from her fingers is almost trailing on the ground. The string strap of her vest slips down with every other step, coming to rest on an ugly four-finger-shaped bruise before she roughly pulls it back onto her shoulder, wishing it would stay put.
She’s nearing the river. Angry midges swarm at her face and she swats them away. She accidentally swipes her mouth with her finger and winces. Her split lip still stings.
She’ll stop at the bridge, rest a little on the stone wall her grandfather built with his own hands using rocks from their land. She’s always loved that spot. She can make herself look respectable, wash away the worst of the blood and the mascara tears before she returns to her mother and father. She’ll be safe then. Fiona inhales the sweet smell of pruned cherry laurel bushes and starts to relax.
A horn blares behind her and she jumps, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t even heard the car as it approached, despite the near silence of the countryside, the only sounds the late melody of the song thrush and leaves whispering in the gentle breeze.
Frightened, she turns to see who’s approaching. Is it him?
There’s little room for a car to pass; she has to stand flat against the hedge. Its sharp branches scratch her back.
It’s the blue Ford that belongs to the neighbour from two miles up. An older man who has just moved in to renovate the house vacated by his recently deceased mother.
He doesn’t observe rural custom. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t stop to offer Fiona a lift. He tries to not look at her at all, which is difficult considering she’s inches away from his bonnet as the car edges by. When he does glance sideways, she can see the shock register on his face.
He’s wondering, she realises, as the car passes but doesn’t pick up speed, if he should stop. But, no. He shifts gear. That girl looks a mess, he’s likely thinking. What if she claims he did that to her? He’s hardly here a wet week, but perhaps he already knows all about Fiona Holland. What type of girl she is.
What she doesn’t know is that later, he won’t come forward and say he saw her on that road. He will be afraid that as a single, childless, older man and the last witness to her whereabouts, they’ll try to pin something on him. He’ll keep quiet all the while they’re searching.
She drops her head in shame as the car moves past, belching exhaust fumes into the shimmering hot air in its wake. Then, defiantly, knowing he won’t be able to resist peeking in his rear-view mirror, she raises her middle finger.
‘Fuck you very much,’ she mouths at the departing vehicle. Her ribs hurt from where they were punched, her heels are blistered from shoes designed for aesthetic, not practical purposes. She would have gratefully accepted the offer of a ride.
A single tear meanders a lonely path down her cheek and she continues on her way.
She’s at the river when she hears the next car. This time, she’s aware of it. Alarmed because she’d started to relax, she’s on full alert now, her pulse that bit quicker, her senses heightened. Silly, really. Her boyfriend is far too wasted to drive. And yet she’s on edge, fearing danger in every unexpected sound, each sudden movement. He’s done that to her; he’s made her this nervous, jittery person.
The vehicle crawls to a halt and despite herself, she feels relief. She’s weary. She needs a cool shower and her soft, downy bed – her mother bringing her strong tea and bread toasted the right shade of golden-brown, smothered in real butter to the edges. No judgement, always loving her little girl no matter what. This car could belong to Jack the Ripper and she’d still take a lift. She thinks that, but Fiona knows there’s no risk. She left the real danger back in the village, downing whiskey shots from a mug, admiring his grazed knuckles and feeling like a big man.
The driver waves, but the sun’s glare on the windscreen means she can’t see his face, only the friendly movement of his hand.
Does she want to get in?
Bloody right she does. She opens the car door and slides into the passenger seat, pulling the seatbelt across and turning to smile at her knight in shining armour.
He doesn’t look at her. Instead, he keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead. The anger radiates from him, filling the small car with menace. She hears a click. He’s locked the car doors. She won’t be getting out.
Only then, too late, does she realise her mistake.