Mary Ellen, 2008
Something wasn’t right.
Mary Ellen could sense the change in the atmosphere. It was coming. Something bad – if it could get any worse.
She estimated she’d been in the cellar for a week. She’d got the feeling he was going to keep her captive for a while, but now … now she wasn’t sure.
When she had realised she was being kidnapped, Mary Ellen hadn’t fought. She’d learned, bitterly, that resistance just caused more grief. Sometimes it was better to just give in.
Her docility seemed to confuse him. When she woke up in the cellar, her ankles and wrists were bound with chains and attached to the floor. Between that and the dark, she’d started to hyperventilate. She passed out again and this time, when she came to, he was standing over her.
‘You will attempt to escape in the beginning,’ he said, almost as if he wanted her to try. She cowered on the bed. ‘But you won’t be able to. I’m going to lock that trapdoor and it all depends on your behaviour how often I come down and what you get when I do. If you’re good, and if you’re quiet, eventually I’ll take the chains off. I’ll bring you food and drink. But you can’t make a sound. No matter what you hear upstairs, you can’t shout out. If you do, I’ll beat you, do you understand? You’ll be staying here with me. If you’re good, no harm will come to you. Okay?’
He leaned down then and kissed her on the cheek, like she was his pet. She recoiled, bile rising in her throat. Even then, when she wanted to scream and spit at him, she said nothing. Whatever he expected from her, he wasn’t getting it.
The people in her village thought they had Mary Ellen pegged. The downside of living in a small place. Everybody knew your business. If you drank one too many or kissed some man you shouldn’t, it wasn’t something you’d be allowed to forget. Other girls in other places got to wake up the next morning, cringe, maybe avoid a certain pub for a while, but then get on with their lives.
Not here. In Glendale, people made up their minds early and they stayed made up.
Mary Ellen had learned it was best to let them think whatever they wanted and try not to let it upset her. She knew she wasn’t the slut they claimed she was, in spiteful whispers. She knew she wasn’t an alcoholic, like her father had been. And her mam and sister knew those things, too. They were all that mattered to her, really.
Words couldn’t hurt her.
But actions did.
It had been two years since the Moran brothers.
She’d gone back to the house with them – willingly. She admitted that, not thinking that was something she should feel guilty about. They’d bought cans and cheap plonk in the pub, the three of them. Everybody had seen. She’d gone to school with Ger, the younger brother. They all knew each other. What had she to fear?
Yes, she’d fancied Terence, the eldest. And yes, she’d probably thought something might happen between them. Maybe even that night.
But she hadn’t realised what the brothers had planned. When she’d tried to fight them off, Terence held her down so Ger could rape her. They called her filthy names and spat at her the whole time. Then Terence had climbed on, taking over, while Ger poured his drink over her face and flicked cigarette ash on her body. All night, they’d taken turns. The following morning, she had fled, so sore she could barely move.
When she’d reported the rape, nobody had believed her. Even Elizabeth, who loved the bones of her, had made her feel like it was her fault.
‘Why did you go back to their house?’ she’d asked Mary Ellen, crying in despair. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but why did you do something so stupid? Why do you drink and put yourself in these situations? You need to be more careful.’
Mary Ellen had tried to stop putting herself in those situations. She still drank. By then it was less about living it up and more about forgetting. But she didn’t leave herself as exposed any more. Except that one time, when she’d let Sergeant Doyle drive her home. She’d smelled the alcohol on his breath, but he was a guard and she hadn’t thought too much of it. She hadn’t been worried.
He’d pulled over at the crossroads and rammed his hand up her blouse, trying to stick his tongue down her throat and get her jeans off at the same time. He’d whispered in her ear that he knew she was up for it and he’d been waiting to get his hands on her. She kneed him in the balls and he smacked her in the head. Somehow, she had managed to get out of the car.
She had done nothing wrong. He was a guard. She should have been able to trust him. This time, when she told Elizabeth what had happened, they went down to the station together and threatened to report him to his superiors.
Doyle had denied it outright; then he angrily claimed that nobody would believe Mary Ellen anyway – sure, hadn’t she accused half the village of trying to rape her? She’d asked him for the lift home, not the other way round. He’d changed tack then and tried to be kind. He was sorry if she’d got the wrong impression. She was furious at his deception, knowing that the look in his eyes was one of nervous guilt and shame, not remorse.
She’d known she had to get out of Glendale to shake off her past.
But she’d missed her chance.
One last drink, she’d told herself. One last night drowning my sorrows.
Then she’d got into the car.
How unlucky could one girl be?
The trapdoor was suddenly wrenched opened. Her kidnapper came down the stairs.
It was his face – she knew immediately what he had planned. His expression wasn’t angry, or even gentle. He wasn’t going to rage at her. He wasn’t going to pretend to be nice.
He was resolute.
He stood in front of her.
‘I thought you’d fight a bit more,’ he said. He sounded disappointed. ‘Look, I have to do this. I didn’t want to, not so soon. But I have no choice.’
‘Please,’ she said, starting to shake violently. ‘I won’t tell anybody. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never tell.’
But she knew it was pointless. He wouldn’t give her the chance to prove herself. He pinned her to the bed with his knees and placed his hands on her throat even as she kept meekly protesting. Then she started to shout. And fight. No. It wouldn’t happen to her again. She couldn’t let it.
Something bad was coming.