1989
She read the letter again. It was the fourth one. But this one was different. She stared at the words, willing them to change. They were terrifying, black ink on white paper, etched on her brain. Indelible.
She heard his shuffling footsteps outside. Stuffed the letter down her top. Pressed her shaking hands to her hot cheeks. She would deal with it later. Somehow.
She could tell by the way he opened the door he was drunk. The fumbling of the latch, then pushing it too hard, so it shuddered and banged against the wall. He stood in the door frame, swaying.
‘It’s not even three o’clock.’ She turned away from him, furiously washed clean dishes.
He shrugged. ‘So?’ He stumbled over. Tried to put his arms round her. He only ever did that when he was drunk.
‘Luke will be home from school any minute.’ She shook him off without looking at him. He smelled of whisky. Sometimes when he’d been drinking, he lost his temper and broke things. Plates, cups. Once, he’d put his fist through the door.
‘Luke here, Luke not here. It’s all the same to you.’
‘He shouldn’t see you like this. Why don’t you go and lie down?’
She carried on scrubbing and scrubbing, catching her knuckles on the scouring pad.
‘Shit.’ The soapy water stung her raw skin.
‘Rachel,’ he said softly. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t her name. She’d told him that very first week that she’d pulled it out of thin air, that she’d wanted to be someone else on Sark. He’d thought it was funny. ‘You’ll be Rachel, then, as long as you’re here,’ he’d laughed. And ten years later, she still was.
She stopped washing. Pressed her hands on her skirt to dry them. She turned to him.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked, not unkindly. It was infuriating, the way he knew her so well. She filled a glass of water from the tap. Drank. It soothed her throat, which was hot and scratchy with the effort of trying to subdue a scream. She took out the letter. Pushed it towards him.
He didn’t pick it up. ‘More money?’
She shook her head.
‘Then what?’ He picked up the letter.
‘Please, Reg.’
As he read, the colour rose through his neck, then pooled, an angry circle of red on each cheek.
‘We’ll fix it,’ she whispered, could barely hold back the tears, because she knew they couldn’t. He knew it too.
He slammed his fist onto the counter.
‘Reg, please. Luke will be home any minute.’ She glanced at the clock. Past three already. Any minute now he’d come running through the door, chattering about his day, wanting a hug, a snack.
Reg shouted. No words, just rage and misery. It washed over her, freeing her tears, which spilled, unhindered, down her cheeks.
‘Please. We can work this out.’ But it was no good. She’d lost him. He swept his arm across the counter, sending dishes flying to the floor, glasses smashing, a saucepan clanging, the sound ringing in her ears. She ran from the kitchen. There was nowhere to hide in this tiny house.
‘Enough!’ he shouted, spittle flying. ‘Enough.’ Calmer. Just a little. He crouched on the floor. Put his hands over his head. ‘Enough.’ He shook.
‘Reg?’
He remained crouched, shaking, silent.
‘Reg?’ She reached out. Touched his shoulder.
He looked up. His face was twisted with anger and grief and something else. Hate. She could see it now. He hated her. He stood, took a step towards her. She was frightened. There was nowhere to run. She closed her eyes. So many times she’d sat in church, repeated the meaningless words her father spoke from the pulpit, muttered the Lord’s Prayer, the Collect, Communion, never thinking about what she was saying. But now she did. Now she searched her soul, gathered the lies, the deceit and the dishonesty, and sent it all to God. Prayed for His forgiveness.