Hope's Vengeance (17 page)

“No, I was the same with Pat in the early days, angry at her, as if it was her fault.”

“Why didn’t you want an abortion if you were only thirteen?”

Dawn rose, her lean, athletic body swamping the room, parting the charged atmosphere, and she strolled, with her awkward, streetwise gait, to the window, placing her hands on the pane, sensing the cold wetness from the other side. “I was lucky to get this job, I’m sure Pat pulled some strings. She was my mentor.”

“Did you report your uncle?”

“They put me in care. When my mother and father didn’t believe me, I went to a teacher, she helped me to tell the police. My parents threw me out, so I was taken into care. But me, the teacher, we persevered, and the police were great. He was imprisoned on three counts of indecent assault, and one of rape of a minor, he got twelve years.”

“Hell, Dawn, you’ve had it rough.” Hope stood, stretching, and joined Dawn at the window, and for minutes they lost themselves in the storm unfolding outside. The rain battering against the glass, people scurrying frantically, soaked through, angry flashes of electric white, followed by booming, angry thunder that rocked the foundations. “I always find storms cathartic, the uncontrollable drama makes me feel peaceful.”

“Why do you want to see Griffin?”

“I told you, I want…”

Dawn faced Hope, ensuring eye contact. “No, not the acceptable version. Why are you really going?”

Hope swallowed hard, the intense blue boring into Dawn’s hazel, inside her head, burrowing into her brain, and the smile was back, enigmatic and mischievous, not reaching her eyes. “Griffin won’t get twelve years, he won’t get five, or three, in fact, not even three months. He’s a respected rector now, who’s going to believe me against a man of the cloth?”

“So you’re getting your revenge in another way?” Dawn nervousness had dissipated, something had passed between the two this session, and there was no going back. Hope no longer scared her, she had nothing to be scared of. They were in this together, allies in a bitter war, and Dawn knew Hope would now protect her from any possible onslaught. And whatever Hope was planning for the next evening, she would support to the bitter end.

The chilling smile, glowing, cruel stare. “No revenge. Research. It’ll be a surprise, but I can guarantee you’ll enjoy it.”

“Go to the police, Hope, don’t take this into your own hands, please.” Dawn was focusing on the tumultuous weather again.

“It’s more fun this way.” Hope swiftly moved across the room, scooping her winter outerwear from the chair. “The hour’s almost up, I’ll get off a bit early if that’s okay. I’ve got some shopping to do, last minute presents, fruit and veg, that kind of thing. I’ll need to prepare the meal before tomorrow evening, otherwise I’ll be in the kitchen all Christmas Day. I’ll come and watch you play tomorrow, I’m looking forward to it.” She pulled the door open, but stopped, turning back to Dawn, still soaking up the raging storm at the window. “By the way, do you sing rock?”

Dawn’s attention was back with her client, she adored talking about the band, in fact she adored everything about the band, the singing, the lads, the gigs, the recording. Everything except the endless rejection letters. “Yes. The lads are fantastic musicians, they’re tight, they bounce off each other.”

Hope smiled, and for the first time this session it met her eyes. She cocked her head, a friendly, collusive gesture, and left the room. Relieved to be alone, yet already missing the new level of warmth between the two, Dawn pulled her mobile from her back pocket, and searched through her contacts. She dialled the number and waited.

Taylor and Dawn

“You did what!” He was incredulous, moving the phone to the other ear in case he’d misheard.

“I told I’d also been abused sexually.” Dawn’s tone was challenging, rather than ashamed.

“Dawn, you have got to stop seeing that client, you’re too close, you should never reveal yourself in the sessions.” Taylor was pacing his office, determined to wear the carpet further.

“It was a good move, it’s made her trust me, we’ve got a new bond.”

Taylor tugged at his balding, white wisps in frustration. “Goodness, Dawn, listen to yourself, you have got to get off this case, my love, and pronto, you’re too involved.”

Dawn turned from the window, her pacing mirroring her tutor’s, and, although she was aware that the door was wide open, and eavesdroppers were a threat, she made no move to close it. “No, I need to see her through this journey, Taylor, we’re really getting somewhere. I’m going to see the man who abused her tomorrow, with her, we’re meeting at the gig I’m doing.”

Dawn had returned to the window, once more witnessing the storm, glancing up and down the street for Hope’s figure, to get a final glimpse of her. She had no inkling that Hope had re-entered the room, and was standing, holding the door, boring into Dawn’s back as she soaked in the one sided conversation.

“No, Taylor, you can’t do that, please don’t, you’ll ruin everything… No, you don’t get it, she needs me… Taylor, don’t, just don’t tell… I haven’t really got a boss at the moment, no-one’s been appointed since Pat died… yes, Pat Hinds… It isn’t a dangerous situation, what can Hope do that’s dangerous, and what’s the problem if we get on well… Oh, fuck it!” Dawn clicked the call dead angrily and spun round, shocked to see Hope at the door.

“What’s going on?” Hope’s words were a gentle growl.

Nervous, a tale-telling child, Dawn deflected the probing. “You shouldn’t have heard that, why have you come back?”

Hope indicated the glove she’d thrown onto her seat less than a minute before in anticipation of Dawn’s question, and stepped across to retrieve it. “That sounded as if somebody was trying to stop you seeing me.”

Dawn sighed, frustrated, ready to lay her truthful cards on the table. “Taylor Wilkinson, he’s my old psychology tutor from university. He thinks our counselling sessions are unhealthy, and that you should move on to another counsellor.”

Hope was ensuring her eyes held Dawn’s unwaveringly, to lose contact now would be detrimental to her plans. “Are you going to?”

Dawn could feel the rope binding her to her client again, but still felt no fear, the danger in the partnership had gone. “I don’t want to, but…”

Anger now, flashing fire. “But?”

“It’s not me, Hope. Taylor wants to tell my boss, get the firm to separate us.”

Hope said nothing, her lips were contorted, an angry sneer, her fists were pumping, white knuckles, and her shoulders were tense. The pools of blue framed ebony glistened in the darkened room, the atmosphere now equally as heavy as the thunderous storm’s. Slowly, she pulled on her quality leather jacket, the tassels bobbing from side to side, tugged her baker-boy cap onto her reddened waves, dragged the gloves over the bony knuckles, and suddenly she looked ten years younger, a twenty something rocker, quirky and hot. A sex bomb. “Taylor Wilkinson, you say?” For the second time in five minutes, Hope left the room.

Christmas Eve at Work

Dawn had just two clients lined up for the morning, and these passed uneventfully, albeit not as professionally as she would have once strode for. Her mind was on other things. Two other things, to be precise; first, and most foremost, when was her acting manager going to come and read her the riot act for the way she was counselling Hope; and secondly, excitement about the forthcoming gig and subsequent journey to Bedfordshire. She said the right words, interjected in the right places, and was grateful when the second client left, enabling her to get on with the things that mattered, and the first stop was a nearby pub with her colleagues for a Christmas drink.

Sitting by the dark, waxy oak table, the notes of stale lager filling the room, Dawn felt at home in the once smoky inn, supping her pint as confidently as any man. A few of her colleagues abhorred the commonness of the working man environment, they complained bitterly when The Red Horse was chosen, but Dawn didn’t share their pretensions, she preferred non-ostentatious, and was more than happy to strike conversation with a stranger, have an unexpected laugh.

Chris Blinkhorn, the fifty-something weedy, compulsive counsellor, who was temporarily filling Pat Hind’s shoes until a suitable replacement could be recruited, sat opposite Dawn, randomly picking at bits of nothing on the table, smoothing his trousers on a regular basis to the count of ten, his left eye flickering in the process. Dawn had been waiting all day for him to begin his reprimand, lecturing her about how she shouldn’t get involved with clients, and rejecting Hope to another counsellor, but he didn’t even make eye contact, let alone lay into her. After an hour of drinking, Dawn was bemused. Taylor had been adamant on the phone that he was going to talk to her supervisor, so why was Chris avoiding her?

As she tugged on her tasselled leather jacket, a cheaper, tattier version of Hope’s plush one, she realised Christmas and New Year were going to have to pass before she found out the fate of hers and Hope’s sessions.

The Gig

Never did Dawn feel more alive than when she was singing on stage. She was an excellent show-woman, her voice was strong, clear, powerful, her body athletic, and the clothes alone could make grown men cry. She strutted, jiggled, ran, jumped, whooping the audience into a frenzy.

Reveal had been playing together for just over five years and they had quite a following now. Chaz, Dawn’s good mate and ex-boyfriend, played bass guitar, a talented musician whose skills were only freed when he wasn’t drunk or high, which was becoming less frequent. LeMan, with his wild, frizzy hair and puppy dog eyes was the craziest member of the band, battering the drums, and life itself, with enthusiasm and force. There were two lead guitarists, Ed, the quiet one, and Rick, Dawn’s brother, and they were both brilliant players.

Rick and Dawn had co-founded several bands since their teenage years, Reveal being the tightest mix of personalities and musicians yet, and they were unusually close for two siblings, but Rick’s increasing sexual encounters with the groupies grated on her. They argued about it often, she felt his womanising ways were taking advantage of their naivety and innocence, especially the young ones, but he was adamant they knew what they were doing.

The heavy beat pounded the room, power chords resounding from the brown-stained walls, the impressive vocals and harmonies enrapturing the engrossed audience. The girls and women in the crowd all had a favourite idol of the four stunning lads, many wishing in their daydreams they could meet, marry, and make babies, and the majority of the men had fantasies about taking the sexy singer to bed. Or into an alleyway.

The set was a mixture of their original material, and covered rock classics, and tonight they were playing on form, the musicians tightly knitted and Dawn’s voice incredible. The resulting outcome was beautifully professional and they ticked every box required to have a number one single. Except youth. Thirty was a milestone no wannabe star should pass before making the big time.

On the undersized stage, the heat from the lights searing, Dawn was tiring, unladylike sweat dripping from her brow, her throat tingling, eyes raw and stinging. She finished the song with a flourish, the strength appearing from nowhere, and took a low bow, soaking in the screaming, the clapping, the whooping for more. The lads followed her from the stage, each giving the fans an appreciative and exhausted wave, and they all accepted a welcome pint from their manager, downing them hastily, greedy with thirst.

When they finally stepped back on the stage the crowd went wild, their chanting for more granted. Chaz began his plucky, catchy riff to cheers, and soon Rick joined in with his guitar. LeMan’s frenzied drumming dropped into place, before Ed’s power chords completed the introduction of AC/DC’s Livewire, the wild screaming now overpowered.

Dawn, who had been strutting across the stage, exaggeratedly nodding to the beat, finally stood in the centre of the stage, leaning into the microphone, taking a deep breath ready for the first vocals. Suddenly she froze. Her hands dropped from the microphone, her face paling. The cue for the song was missed, and the band, quick to improvise, continued to repeat the introduction, sneaking glances at their singer, concerned by the abnormal mistake.

The clammy sweat covering her torso, her face, increased uncomfortably, she could feel eyes boring into her, burning into her soul, and her breath lightened, shallow gasps, fear gripping her body, squeezing her. Staring into the audience, the lights blazing in her eyes, everybody else disappeared to nowhere, meaningless figures that didn’t matter, and Dawn made eye contact with Hope. They held each others gaze for far too long, the anxious musicians, glancing at their singer, at each other, confused, carried the song, the audience beginning to tire of the repetition. Finally Hope smiled, she waved her hand, an order to carry on with her job, and Dawn returned the smile, preparing herself at the microphone.

A subtle beat in by LeMan, and Dawn took a deep breath. “Well if you’re looking for trouble, I’m the gal you’ll need, looking for satisfaction, I’m satisfaction guaranteed…”

The vocals were impeccable, pitch perfect, powerful, Dawn knew she was giving the best performance she’d ever done. She fronted the song with energy, rawness, and sexiness, a fantastic tribute to her idol, Bon Scott, who’d died when she was a toddler.

The five raunchy, thundering, awe-inspiring minutes were over too quickly, the crowd screamed for more, but Dawn, bowing low, exhausted, sticky, and, more importantly, desperate to see Hope, left the stage. The lads, more puzzled than ever, were just gearing up for the usual finale, an excellently energetic cover of Led Zeppelin’s Rock and Roll, and they kept playing, hoping Dawn had just stepped off for a drink. But after a minute of waiting, their playing petered out, and they had no choice but to shrug at their fans before leaving the stage too.

Back in the small, cramped bathroom that the landlord of The Farmer’s Arms insisted was suitable as a dressing room, Dawn reached for a towel, dabbing at her face, arms, chest, before shrugging on a fluffy housecoat. The knock was anticipated, she tugged the door wide, welcoming Hope to the room.