Unsure (7 page)

“Get up.”

Not happening. I don’t move. I’m frozen, curled in a white toweling ball at his feet. And, in any case, I’m sure he’ll only knock me flying the moment I stand.

“I said get up—Shaz, isn’t it?” That voice, sharp, cruel. Like gravel—the faint Scottish burr vaguely familiar from the few words he said to me that night by the river. And commanding. And that hated name I thought I’d left behind forever, planned so carefully, worked so hard to leave behind.

I know I should obey, that would be the sensible thing to do. Humor him—hope that he calms down, that I can reason with him, explain possibly. Apologize even. But whatever shreds of defiance I have managed to cling on to insist I’m not answering to that name anymore. I stay down.

With a curse he bends, grabs me by the front of my robe and hauls me to my feet. I feel the belt loosen, but modesty seems the least of my problems right now. I flinch, my hands instinctively coming up to protect my head, knowing this is it.

It isn’t, though. This time I find myself deposited in a chair. Never amounting to much, I could be weightless now. He’s tossing me around like a rag doll. I try to curl up again, try to hide from the anger coming off his huge body in waves. But he looms over me, his hands on my wrists, pinning me in place. I feel the front of my robe gape open and for once in my life I thank the Lord I’m not blessed with anything resembling curves. My modesty might not be entirely intact but my body is sufficiently unremarkable that he may well not even notice. I’m rigid with fear, my eyes tightly closed. Long seconds tick by. Again, I wait for the blows to fall.

“Open your eyes.”

His tone is still hard, implacable. But I manage, at last, to find my own voice, a shaky, fractured whisper.

“I’m sorry.” Not much in the circumstances, but the best I can come up with just now.

“Not interested. Open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you. Yet.”

I don’t dare disobey. I open my eyes. His dark green gaze is fierce, penetrating, drilling into my terrified eyes. I blink back tears, but can’t look away. My first impression was right—he’s a handsome man, very attractive in a rugged, outdoor sort of way. Powerful, his muscles sharp and well defined—through use and hard work, I suspect, rather than wasting his energy in the gym. And his strength was made very clear when he picked me up from the floor and put me in this chair. Probably not a violent man usually, but as far as I’m concerned, Tom Shore is very dangerous indeed.

“Where are the rest of your dickhead mates?” He glances around the room, as though expecting Kenny to be hiding behind the kitchen door, or under the table. Released momentarily from his cold gaze I turn my head, try to gather my wits. Taking both my wrists in one of his hands he now pins them above my head. He uses the other hand to grab my chin and force my gaze back to his. “I said where are they?”

“I don’t know…”

“Bad answer. I said where are they?”

I know it’s futile, but still I start to struggle. I’m vulnerable, it’s just me and him, and I know what’s coming next. I’ve been raped before. Twice—both times by Kenny. Both times when he was drunk. No excuse, I know that, but it offered some sort of explanation. I survived it, physically, but the psychological impact has never left me. The helplessness, the humiliation, the violation. It floods back, as though it’s happening to me all over again, and I hear myself start to plead.

“Please don’t. Please don’t do this. He’s not here. Kenny, he’s in prison. I don’t know where the others are. Please believe me…”

My eyes are closed, but the tears are falling freely, running down my cheeks and into my hair. I’m shaking, my teeth chattering. If it was possible to die of sheer terror, I’d do it now, here in this chair. Let him explain that to the police.

Then, suddenly, it’s all over. He releases me, steps back. I hear the scrape of a chair being moved, and I realize he’s pulled my other fireside chair up close to me. I hear the slight creak as he sits down. His voice is cold, controlled.

“Pull yourself together, Shaz. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I’m no rapist, and I’m not even intending to beat the shit out of you, although I’m inclined to think you do deserve it. But I want some answers and I’m not leaving here until I get them. So, we’ll start with your delightful boyfriend. What’s Kenny’s name? His full name?”

“Potts. Kenny Potts.” Overwhelmed by relief I whisper my response, still shuddering though at that hateful name, resurrected from a past I so desperately wanted to leave behind and believed was gone for good.

“And the others. What were they called?”

“I don’t know. They were just friends of Kenny.”

“Another bad answer. You need to do better than that, Shaz. I want names. Now.”

“I don’t know. I’d tell you if I knew. I told you about Kenny.”

Long moments pass as he debates whether or not to accept what I’ve said, what I’ve offered so far. Then, “You were pregnant. Back then. Where’s your baby now?”

I hadn’t expected that. David’s not a secret, not really, but this is private. Personal. My grief is still too raw. I won’t share my aching loss with this cold, angry man who has no reason to be sympathetic. And I couldn’t bear it if he blamed me. It’s bad enough that I blame myself. I say the first thing I think of.

“He’s—with my mother. In Gloucester.”

“Dumped him on someone else, did you? Poor kid. Still, you probably did him a favor. Not exactly the maternal type, are you?”

Bastard!
What does he know about what
type
I am? I knew I was right not to tell him. I screw my eyes up tight as the crushing weight of my loss rolls over me again—the empty, aching loneliness rekindled by his careless, ignorant words. I wait, shaking, screwed up in my tight little ball, and the pain recedes. Eventually. And I know with absolute certainty that there are worse things that can happen to me than being raped or beaten. There’s nothing this man can do to me that will hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.

Strangely empowered, I turn to face him. I’m still huddling in my chair, still sobbing softly, my hair, loose and damp from my shower earlier, falling around my face and shoulders. I hide in it, behind it, using it as a dark shield to protect me from his gaze. And from his scornful contempt. I’ve heard enough. I know what I am, what I’ve done. And most importantly, I know what I’m striving to become.

The only sound in the room is my own sobbing, eventually subsiding to just ragged breathing as I calm down, as it finally sinks in that I am safe…sort of. Physically safe at least. If he intended to harm me, really harm me, he’d have done it by now. Kenny would have. Kenny wouldn’t be sitting calmly in a chair waiting for me to compose myself. Maybe Mr Shore’s telling me the truth—that he won’t lay a finger on me despite what I did to him.

At last collecting something of my shattered wits, regrouping, my instinctive resilience slowly reasserting itself, I manage to look at him. Properly look at him. The immediate physical threat might have passed for now, but Tom Shore’s still here in my cottage. Still threatening my fragile future, still ready to destroy my carefully constructed new life.

He’s in no hurry to leave. He sits opposite me, at ease in his waxed jacket and denim shirt, his blue work jeans, faded and scuffed at the knees. He leans back, that piercing gaze, his strangely beautiful eyes, watching me. Patiently, he waits for me to stop crying, before starting in on me again. “Kenny’s in prison, you said?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“Good, sounds about right. You soon will be too.”

Been there, done that, got the bloody T-shirt.
But I don’t say anything.

He continues. “Because your precious boyfriend’s not in jail for attacking me, is he? I’d have known if anyone was convicted for that. The police would have contacted me. So that little matter’s still outstanding. What did he go down for then?”

I don’t reply, still cowering behind my shield of dark hair. Suddenly he leans forward, grabbing a hank of my hair in his hand and pushing it off my face, leaning in close again to once more spear me with his cold, dark gaze. Feeling his hands on me again is enough to reignite the spark of blind terror. Beyond speech, mute with fear, I can only mouth the word—“No”. Something seems to shift in his eyes, soften perhaps. His hand is still in my hair, but not pulling or twisting, not hurting me. His voice is gentler now. “I told you, I don’t beat women up. Or rape them. And I won’t be starting with you so you can relax. But the sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner we can move on. It’s up to you. Are you going to cooperate?”

No alternative, I nod. His curt nod back is the only indication we have a deal of sorts. He releases my hair, sits back down in his chair. Watching me.

“So now we talk. What are you doing here, Shaz? How did you find me? And why?”

Chapter Five

I look at him, puzzled at first, but slowly understanding starts to dawn. And with it amazement. He thinks I’ve somehow been stalking him, that I’m here in Yorkshire because of him. No wonder then, I suppose, that he’s
so
bloody angry. He feels threatened. By me. I’d laugh if it wasn’t actually, really, so bloody tragic. I settle for taking several deep breaths. I shift in my chair, not yet ready to relinquish my death-grip on my bathrobe, but at least able to look at him. My previous victim, our situations now totally reversed. I try to speak, but my mouth is so dry my words come out as a croak.

His eyes never leaving me, Mr Shore stands and goes to my little kitchenette. He comes back with a small cup of tap water, which he hands to me. I slop it around as I try to drink it—my hands are still shaking so much. He crouches in front of me, his larger hands folding around mine, stilling the flutter and holding the cup steady. He helps me raise it to my lips and I take a few sips.

“Better?”

I nod. “Yes. Thank you.” My voice is a little steadier now. He notices and, sitting again, leans back in his chair. He watches me, waiting for me to start coming forward with some answers to his questions. I hesitate only a few more moments before I start with the one thing I want to get across first.

“I’m not Shaz. Sharon. Not anymore.”

“I think we both know who you are. And soon enough the police will too.”

I flinch at the mention of the police. Somehow, I need to keep him away from that line of thinking. Whatever it takes, I need him not to report me.

“You don’t understand. I mean, I don’t use that name anymore. I’m Ashley McAllister now. I split up from Kenny a year ago, maybe longer.” It occurs to me that I actually split from that thug the day David died, although Kenny was too bloody stupid and insensitive to know it then. Maybe he still doesn’t know it, maybe he’s sitting in prison blithely thinking I’ll be there waiting for him when he comes out. The loyal little woman who lied for him, ending up in prison herself for trying to protect him. Yeah, dickhead sounds about right.

“Go on.” His voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize I’ve stopped talking, lost in remembering—my mind drifting back to that awful time after I lost my lovely little boy. And to all my careful planning and scheming to get Kenny locked up so I could be free of him. I can’t let myself fail now.

“Yes, yes of course. Sorry. Kenny got locked up for being part of a ram-raiding gang. They robbed Co-op stores, nicked booze and cigarettes mostly. An anonymous tip-off…”

“Right. Honor among thieves and all that. Were you involved in the ram-raids?”

“No!” The truth was I hardly ever got involved at all in Kenny’s criminal activities. I was never any good at it, and having no drug habit to speak of I had no need to steal to fund one. I was only involved the night we robbed Tom Shore because I’d been working at a cleaning job in an office block near the river. Kenny had come to meet me because he knew I’d just been paid, in cash, and he wanted my wages. The attack on Tom was pure opportunism—Kenny caught sight of him walking down the steps to the river, got his eye on the smart leather jacket. He knew the riverside path was lonely and isolated, a good spot for a mugging. And that’s just how it happened.

I explain all that quickly, not really expecting to be believed about my own lack of regular involvement. Worth a try, though. And my story does have the benefit of being true. I’ve been twisting the belt of my bathrobe in my hands while I’ve been speaking, but I risk a glance up at Mr Shore, to see if he appears to believe me. His face is inscrutable, no clues there at all.

Eventually, “Okay so why are you here? In Yorkshire? A bit far from your usual hunting ground, aren’t you? How did you find me? And more to the point, why?”

“I didn’t. Well, not on purpose. I—I needed to get away. While Kenny’s still in prison, start again somewhere else. Somewhere he won’t be able to find me.”

A puzzled frown suggests my explanation is not convincing him.

“Kenny’s very—possessive. Persistent. He won’t let go easily. And he can be a bit… Well…he’s a bully.”

“Yeah, you don’t say!” Again the scorn. Again the disbelief.

“I came here because it’s somewhere Kenny would never look for me. I wanted to live somewhere…rural. Start over, build up my business as a photographer. I do landscapes. I wanted to leave the past behind me. I didn’t know you were here. How could I? And if I had I’d have run a mile. The last thing I want is someone recognizing me, knowing me from before.”