Hope's Vengeance (18 page)

Dawn took a flannel, soaping it, rubbing her face, her neck. “What did you think?”

“You’re ace, really brilliant. I’ll definitely mention you to Happiness and Tony.” Dawn grinned, desperately hoping her musical luck had changed. “You’re a good looking bunch too, especially the lead guitarist on the right, he’s hot.”

Dawn chuckled, now towelling the sweat from her damp, unkempt ringlets. “That’s my brother, Rick. Watch him, he’s great looking, but he knows it, and he’s a real ladies man. I wouldn’t go there with him if I were you.”

Hope dismissed the warning, her face becoming stern, the contradicting smile not reaching her eyes. “Yes. But you’re not me, are you. Men always fall in love with me. If I wanted to have him, he would be hooked, ladies man or not. I’d have him eating out of my hand.”

Worry skimmed her forehead, a protective surge for her brother, and she prayed that Hope wouldn’t want to have him. Throwing the towel on the damp wooden bench, she resolved to get her out of the pub before Rick finished his customary pint and made his way back to the room. She checked her face in the mirror, fingers smoothing away the smudged mascara from under her eyes, and ran her hands through her hair, expertly tugging through the dampened knots. She shrugged on her jacket, spraying deodorant about her body as an afterthought, and grabbed her bag. “Come on, let’s go or we’ll never get there in time.”

Hope’s eyes questioned the haste, studying her counsellor as she tugged at the door handle, gesturing the exit, impatient. They stepped into the corridor, the carpet a soft welcome from the cold, cracked tiles in the bathroom, and Dawn’s heart sank as she saw Rick and LeMan approaching. They waved, wide grins fuelled from the adrenaline high of playing live, and Dawn worriedly glanced beside her, but it was too late, Hope was already making a beeline for her brother, and she looked fantastic tonight, high heels, slim legs in drainpipe jeans, enhancing her perfectly rounded backside, and her hair was glossy, bouncy, and vibrant. Dawn was helpless, Rick was about to get caught in the same headlights that had her entrapped. She cursed.

As Dawn neared the mutually attracted pair, tugging at Hope’s arm, insisting they needed to leave instantly, she balked with dismay when Hope brought an address card from her pocket and handed it to Rick. Their eyes were still locked, Hope’s inviting and flirty, Rick’s mesmerised and entranced. “Call me.”

Dawn had succeeded in shuffling the woman towards the exit doors, with Hope glancing seductively over her shoulder, but she despaired when he replied. “I will. I definitely will!”

A Late Night Journey

It was dark, the moon being the newest, shedding just a tiny sliver of light into the sky, so when the road left the villages and towns, it also left the lampposts with their brightening orange hue. Dawn and Hope shared no words for the first leg of the journey, Dawn depressed over her brother’s latest potential union, Hope concentrating on her unknown agenda. Eventually they reached Cambridge’s ring road, and Potton was only a short journey away.

“Reveal’s a great band.” Hope’s eyes remained on the road, she was a competent driver, and Dawn felt secure.

She glanced at her chauffeur, her ambitions instantly taking precedence over Rick’s sexual conquests. “You really think so? Do you think we’ve got potential?”

Hope nodded. “Yes. I’d buy your stuff. You’ve got a great voice, and those boys are all dreamboats, handsome as fuck, and they’re so tight together. I was really impressed with what I saw tonight. Who writes the original material?”

A huge smile had spread across Dawn’s face, the compliment sinking in, stroking her modest ego. “Me and Rick, mainly. Chaz and Ed have a say in it, you know, they add bits or suggest things, but it’s me and Rick who come up with he ideas.” Dawn hesitated every time she mentioned her brother, concerned about forcing him into Hope’s consciousness.

The silence returned, the plush BMW sweeping through the English countryside, darkness separating the car and its inhabitants from the rest of the world. Dawn shrugged her shoulders down, relaxing into the soft leather seat, the heating and movement lulling her, making her tired eyes droop, her breathing rhythmic. Soon she couldn’t control the urge to sleep any longer, and her breaths deepened, a light snuffle. In her unprompted dreams she was comforted by Hope’s presence, and for the remainder of the journey, with the two of them alone and isolated, trapped inside the luxury, speeding car, only Hope and Dawn existed.

Unaware that her passenger had fallen asleep, Hope voiced her thoughts. “I’ll have a word with Happiness about you, I’m sure she and Tony will come and see you play sometime. She’s not into rock, but she appreciates good musicians. Him too.”

The unanswered statement prompted Hope to glance at Dawn, smiling tenderly when she realised she was sleeping. She fixed her eyes back on the road, her fingers fiddling with the stereo, searching for some music to pass the time. U2 was the best candidate, and she sang along quietly to ensure she didn’t wake Dawn.

In the peace of the night, the traffic light due to the time of year, the car raced along the black roads, headlights painting a limited picture for them to move towards while the crisp air bit at the car before being warmed to a comfortable heat. The radio station, absent of adverts and Christmas tunes, kept Hope awake and whiled away the time. Eventually St Peter’s Church, flatteringly lit from floodlights on the ground, which enhanced its aged stone features beautifully, appeared in view. Hope pulled the car to the side of the road, parking carefully and switching the lights off.

After a few calming, deep breaths, she was ready to see the man who had taken her childhood, and through the low mist she could see a figure greeting the villagers as they arrived. She tapped Dawn’s shoulder, stirring her. “Dawn, wake up.” She pointed at the skinny figure, draped in robes, a gentle, welcoming smile on his face as he shook hands with his parishioners.

From nowhere a pain shot through Hope’s chest, acute and crushing, and she clasped her arm, her face contorted with pain, breathing laboured. Concerned, yet helpless, Dawn realised she’d never followed up her insistence that Hope see a doctor about the repeated aches. “Are you okay?”

Hope’s eyes remained fixed on the clergyman, ignoring the griping pains, willing them away, and ignoring Dawn’s worry. Her words were slow and repugnant. “I’ll bet you that’s Griffin.”

Angela Wilkinson

The light was low, dimmed to a relaxing level that still allowed enough illumination for the nurses to do their work. The rhythmic beeping of the life support machine lulled Taylor, background noise, monotonous, yet promising as it repeated, over and over, promising because it proved his beloved wife was still alive.

The accident had been sudden and unexplained, as yet. For apparently no reason Angela Wilkinson had skidded off the country lane, her car clipping a tree, rolling several times before settling upside down in a ditch. The weather was cold, but not enough for frosts, so the only feasible conclusion was that an animal ran in front of the car, and Angela, a keen nature lover, had been more concerned for its welfare than for her own.

A farmer, sitting high in his tractor, had noticed the car minutes after the accident and summoned help. He hadn’t a clue about administering first aid, so all he could do in the long, early minutes whilst waiting for the ambulance, was to sit by the car, holding Angela’s hand. She had lost consciousness immediately, he’d not exchanged words with her, or discussed where she hurt, and he knew better than to undo the seatbelt that supported her upturned body. He held, caressed, stroked, soothing words in case she could hear. The one thing he did know for certain was that she was alive.

The ambulance had arrived promptly, sirens blaring and lights flashing, regardless of the empty country lanes. The two men efficiently released Angela’s battered body, gently laying her, back and neck supported, just in case her spine was damaged, onto the stretcher, and moments later the only evidence of the accident was the undercarriage and wheels of the Ford Fiesta, the violet paintwork hidden in the undergrowth, and a narrow track in the boundary weeds that had been trodden down by Angela’s rescuers.

Angela Wilkinson had needed an emergency blood transfusion on arriving at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital, she had severe internal injuries, and as soon as she was suitably stabilised, she underwent surgery to repair her shattered spleen, and the tears in the diaphragm and duodenum. Numerous splinters from smashed three ribs were also removed from the soft tissue.

Taylor had arrived as soon as he could, driving like a maniac to be with the woman he loved in her desperate hour. Tears flowed copiously as he paced the corridor outside the operating theatre, the lengthy minutes folding to hours, his senses alert with the endless caffeine he poured into himself. When he’d finally been allowed to see her she was perfect, her eyes still made up, her hair neat. She didn’t look ill. She didn’t look close to death as the nurses had warned. She looked peaceful, serene. Asleep.

Her battered, war-torn body was taken to intensive care, and she was settled, a mass of wires fixed to her body to monitor her condition, a tube in her throat to enable the ventilator to breathe for her, saving her precious energy. Over the hours her adult children had spent time with her, tears rolling as they said the things they had to, just in case she didn’t make it. Their father, determined not to leave Angela’s side, patted them on the back reassuringly, grasping a shoulder, letting them know that he would do all he could to keep their mum alive.

It was nearly midnight on Christmas Eve. He’d been at the hospital for thirty-four hours now, he hadn’t eaten, his appetite had vanished. The broken man sat, his hand clasping his wife’s, rolling her wedding ring nonchalantly, not speaking. Nothing in the world mattered any more. Only Angela.

Midnight Mass

Hope felt desperately uncomfortable, not only from sitting on a hard, wooden pew at the back of the congregation, but from being inside a church. She couldn’t deny that the service was as beautiful as she remembered from her childhood. Lights low, and each worshipper brandished an orange representing the world, tied with a red ribbon to represent Jesus’s blood, and four sweet pierced cocktail sticks in honour of the four seasons and the fruits of the earth. A lit candle grew from the centre, a symbol to honour Christ and the light he sheds on the earth. The mass flickering shed a gentle hue on the ornate stained windows, the complex architecture, the religious statues that littered the church, and the hopeful, albeit tired, faces of the congregation.

Griffin Hall was leading the service, he had read his sermon, lead the hymns, quoted the psalms, and now he was summarising before wishing his flock well over the Christmas period. Hope and Dawn, for different reasons yet the same curiosity, had both scrutinized the man as he delivered his speeches. Tall, slim, typical ‘man of the cloth’ uniform of dull greys and olives beneath his robes, he had grey streaks in his dark frizzy hair, particularly around his temples, and a thick framed pair of glasses balanced heavily on his long, hooked nose. Sardonically, Hope imagined he still wore the Jesus creepers below the corduroy slacks that peeped from the hem of his robes.

The lights brightened, controlled by Griffin’s overworked verger, and the organ struck up, a gentle breeze of chords to guide the flock from the building. The throng of worshippers, old, young, tall, short, well insulated against the cold wintry winds, slowly shuffled along the aisle towards the imposing wooden doors at the entrance of the church, following the footsteps of their rector, who was now waiting in the foyer to wish them farewell. Dawn stood to leave, but sat again when she realised Hope had no intention of moving just yet.

Gradually the congregation thinned until a small group of stragglers were left, and Griffin’s eyes settled on the two unfamiliar women. He smiled, but it wasn’t returned. Having shaken hands and exchanged merriments with the final few, Griffin made his way towards Dawn and Hope, curious to their presence, and their reticence to leave.

“Ladies, thank you for attending our midnight mass, support of St Peter’s is always gratefully appreciated.” He had left the foyer and was heading towards them, brusque steps along the aisle, a slight limp causing him to sway unnaturally, albeit only slightly.

Hope could feel the bile rising from the pit of her stomach, his voice was whiny, now not enhanced and perfected by the microphone, and it threw long forgotten memories of him at her, reminding her of his filthy presence in her childhood. Her stomach muscles clenched, she’d not eaten all day so there was nothing to bring up. Except bile. It stung her throat, the acidic bitterness swamping her mouth, biting her teeth, and it was out, it was over him, greenish yellow, vile smelling, dripping from his robes, his collar, his chin. He recoiled, face twisted in disgust, blaspheming under his breath, angry.

Swiping his arm across his face, his chest, wiping away the vitriolic juice, the pungent odour settling in his nostrils, determined to lodge, and Dawn watched the scene in amazement. Eventually he stopped fussing, resigned that the stench would remain with him until he got back to the rectory, and he finally raised a questioning hazel eye to the attractive woman who had abused him so revoltingly. Her eyes were shockingly blue, clear, wide, innocent. And she was smiling. She took her handbag from the pew, not once losing eye contact with her abuser, and marched purposefully from the church.

The Rectory

Dorothy Hall busied herself in the kitchen, taking hot mince pies and sausage rolls from the oven, arranging them neatly on doily covered plates before taking them into the lounge for the small group of her husband’s parishioners to snack on. It had been a tradition since Griffin took over as rector of St Peter’s five years before to invite the church helpers for drinks and nibbles after midnight mass, and one which everybody seemed to enjoy, there was always a good turnout.