Authors: Ricki Thomas
Over the years the boys grew up to be men, if you could call them that. With their father’s laziness being their role model, they became thugs who preferred crime to work, and I had no respect for any of the men I lived with. Eventually I had enough, I had to lose Kev from my life.
Now, without hindrance from that drunken bum of a husband, one by one I kicked the boys out, preferring not to keep in contact. With everyone gone, I trundled through the tedium of each day, managing on a pittance of a hand out the benefits agency awarded me weekly, scraping the pennies together for food and bills. It was now that I discovered reading. And through reading, I discovered Beryl again. The wish for retribution that had been simmering for nearly thirty-one years was finally a possibility.
In the small parade of shops closest to the block of flats I lived in was a grungy charity shop, the type that smells cloyingly of stale body odour as you step through the door. With such a low income it was the only place I could replace my tatty clothes as they wore through from overuse, but soon I began to frequent the section devoted to cheap second-hand books. I began with novels, but soon tired of the cheesy tales of the type of life it appeared likely I’d never have: career girls falling in love; single mums falling in love; happy families enjoying love. I think you get the picture. So on the hunt for something more gripping one day a book stood out from the others, a book explaining how to read tarot cards.
With an equal measure of scepticism and curiosity, I handed some small change to the lady behind the counter and took it home to study. After skimming through the pages over a period of a few days, it dawned on me that it could be a potential money-making opportunity to learn the card meanings in depth, then advertise cheaply under a different name to give people daft enough to believe such rubbish a chance to give me their money in return for me telling them what they wanted to hear. So I bought a cheap deck of cards.
Being a quick learner, it took no time at all to memorise the pages, and a cheap advert in the Derby Evening Telegraph, under the guise of ‘the Mystical Madam Mary’, led to my first ‘reading’. I didn’t charge much, and the woman was pleased enough to start recommending my services, so, along with a weekly advert, visitors for my ‘talents’ slowly began to increase.
The extra income, undeclared, of course, gave me two main opportunities: first, I could pay the bills and even have the heating on in winter; and, secondly, I could purchase more materials to do with the occult. Over the next few years my living room, albeit cluttered due to my reticence to clean the house, was littered with spiritual goodies, which gave the place a believable atmosphere, and more books on subjects similar to the tarot cards. I became practised enough to offer my fortune-telling services with runes, dice, tealeaves, palms, auras, and crystal balls. In short, although never wealthy, life was manageable.
I remember the day with clarity, the shock of seeing Beryl’s unmistakable face as she appeared on my doorstep imprinting every sound and sight onto my memory. It had been a glorious July, and the late afternoon was still sunny and warm, but despite the cheery atmosphere, there was nothing bright about Beryl. She’d obviously aged over the past thirty years, but better than I had, and I felt a pang of jealousy, before the impending distaste that I wouldn’t have fared so badly if Harry hadn’t destroyed my life. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but why would there be? She’d only met me once and I was now the opposite of the striking fourteen year old I’d been then, the day before I screwed her husband.
I moved aside and she entered my flat, her eyes flicking about the murky hall as I guided her to the living room. We sat at the purple-cloaked table and I regarded her, realising I was about to have some much-needed fun. She had phoned my number that afternoon, distress apparent in her voice, and was obviously relieved when I said I could see her at six. She gave her name as Mrs Waller. Now she was here, the anguish was still palpable as she fixed her worried eyes on my face. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” She admitted this with embarrassment.
I turned aside and removed the cover from the crystal ball, lifting it before me. Beryl seemed confused. “I thought you read the tarot cards, that’s what I came here for.”
I pulled a few expressions, which I knew were crowd pleasers, and waved my hands slowly. “I will read your tarot, but my spirit guides are asking me to use the crystal ball for now.” I had mastered the art of the mysterious voice and tone over the years. “I can sense your name begins with a B … Be … Bella … no, wait … Beryl. Are you Beryl?”
She was visibly taken aback, gasping her ‘yes’, and I wanted to laugh, but I restrained myself and persevered. “I can see a man. Fair hair,” I kicked myself mentally as I realised he had probably gone grey by now, “dark eyes, I think he’s your husband, and the letter H is coming to me … Harr … Harry. Is it Harry?”
“Harold. He likes to be called Harold.” Amazement littered Beryl’s soft voice.
The ‘consultation’ with the crystal ball continued, and from the depths of my memory I recalled Harry mentioning in passing once that he had a young son. I couldn’t remember his name, but I could fish for that, most clients managed to give away answers without realising it. “I can see another man, younger, maybe mid thirties, his name … his name … oh dear …”
“That’ll be my son, Steve.” The affirmation came with a light smile, registering briefly until the anxiety returned to her eyes. “Can you see my daughter, Sophie? It’s her I’m here for.”
So that bastard Harry had continued to fuck his wife after ruining my life. I could feel the fury rising up through my body, I wanted to lean across the table and squeeze the life out of the bitch before me, but first I had to get to Harry. He needed his comeuppance too. “Your daughter lives in Derby too?” I was probing subtly, but Beryl missed it.
“Yes, well, a village nearby.”
Now I knew Harry was alive, and I knew he lived in Derby. Still a needle in a haystack, but a smaller haystack than ten minutes before. Appearing to come out of my mystic trance, I replaced the crystal ball under its cover and took the tarot cards from the table, shuffling. Without either of us speaking, I dealt the cards into the form of the popular Celtic cross. Obviously there was no way I could tell what cards were where, but I knew that whatever news I was going to impart was going to hurt Beryl, I would make sure of that. And although it would be a harsh reading, I was going to leave her wanting to come and see me again.
Beryl kept her decorum for the entire time she was visiting me, and it was difficult not to respect her for that, considering I was advising her to give her daughter an ultimatum, and to see me again in a week’s time. I also asked her to consider if she wanted to use my psychic skills, which I told her may give more depth than the tarot. I didn’t have any such powers, but this meant that instead of our consultations being purely based on what I was telling her, they would involve interaction, and would hopefully lead to more details of Harry. She was understandably upset at my advice regarding Sophie, my stab in the dark had clearly hit a raw spot, and my suggestion appeared to be acceptable: she paid her cash after making a further appointment for seven days time.
Slowly bumping along the driveway towards Iris Cottage, Sophie noted Darren’s BMW was already parked there, and she slapped the steering wheel of her car in frustration, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Damn him’, she whispered, wondering what to do next, and, switching off the engine, she decided to wait in the car a while, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was home. Buy some time before the inevitable argument.
Her thoughts drifted back to the previous night, of preparing his meal as he drank at his local, waiting until he was home to see what mood the alcohol would leave him in this time. It hadn’t been a good one, and once more she had received his angry blows and spiteful words. To pacify herself as she always did in the circumstances, she’d driven to her parent’s house during her lunch break today, the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of the home she’d grown up in always calmed her, took her mind from the horrors she frequently experienced in her marital cottage. Her mum had seemed uncomfortable, even upset, which was uncharacteristic, but still, being in the homely surroundings pacified her.
After a good ten minutes, without any sign of life from the cottage, Sophie began to wonder if Darren was actually out, and felt shameful for sitting in the car, so she decided to test the waters, brave going inside. Closing the car door as quietly as she could, she sauntered to the familiar oak door of the home she’d purchased alone, three years before meeting Darren, and turned the key in the lock. As she tentatively made her way inside, her shoulders relaxed when she realised the house was peaceful. Although she often complained about the amount of time he spent at the White Horse, today she was glad of his absence.
Dropping her handbag and briefcase on the kitchen side, she was about to prepare a welcome mug of tea when the phone shrilled. Sophie answered, and, on hearing her mum’s voice, she hooked the handset between her shoulder and ear, and continued with the beverage. But once her mum had spoken, the tea was forgotten. “Mum, what are you talking about? You can’t do this, it’s crazy!”
Beryl’s voice stilted her, the tone firmer than was usual. “It’s gone too far, Sophie, we’ve been in this place too many times, and somewhere a line has to be drawn. We will always love you, but you have to realise that if you continue to stay with that violent bully we will have no choice but to cease contact with you, at least until you come to your senses.”
She was stunned. What was her mother saying? Why? “But Mum…”
“No, Sophie. I’m sorry. Truly sorry. But we can’t constantly pick you up every time he gives you a hiding. If this is what it takes to make you see sense, then this is what we have to do. Leave him, or deal with him on your own.” The stern voice disappeared, hastily replaced by a dial tone.
Stunned, the lids of Sophie’s dark, chocolate eyes dropped slowly as she comprehended the choice she’d been given, husband or parents, and she drew a hopeless breath in, deeply, holding it for too long. Letting out the air as languidly as she’d taken it, she reluctantly replaced the receiver. Pouring a large brandy from the bottle Darren had supped from the previous night, she knew the choice was already made: the wedding vows had been serious, and her marriage had to come before everyone, even her parents.
Tears threatening, tears of mixed anger and confusion, Sophie resolved she was going to get herself drunk, not something she did often. She took the glass and knocked back the warming juice, before taking it, and the bottle, up the stairs. She needed to cry, she needed a drink, and she needed to sleep in the hope that on waking she’d discover this was all a bad dream. But her plans were thwarted when she reached to top of the stairs, only to hear the familiar heavy breathing. With a sigh, she crept into the room, knowing she’d find Darren in a drunken coma, an occurrence that was happening more and more regularly.
As expected, he was fully clothed on the bed, slumped erratically, an empty glass clutched in his hand, and, without the shield of the bedroom door, his snoring was deafening. A litre bottle of vodka that he must have picked up after work was two thirds empty, and a spent carton of juice lay on it’s side, leaving an orange stain on the beige covers. Sophie sighed, and left the room, wondering if she’d chosen the wrong person in the hideous choice she’d been presented with, as she silently tiptoed down the stairs.
Another brandy beckoned: if Darren could get himself wrecked, then so could she, but she was going to sleep on the sofa, too angry with him to share the bed. Downing her second generous measure as she snuggled into the comfortable sofa, Sophie’s first thought was of phoning her father, but she instantly remembered her mum’s words. Angry at having been forced to choose between her parents and her husband, if reconciliation was ever going to happen, it wasn’t going to be instigated by her. She was too stubborn. Sophie reached for the bottle and poured again.
It had only taken a tame two brandies to start the tears rolling properly, and a third to knock her out, but she became aware of her husband’s heavy northwest accent, rousing her from her slumber. Opening her eyes to near blackness, the moon shedding an eerie hue through the window, Sophie cleared her throat, her head thumping. “Darren? What did you say?”
Darren flicked the light-switch, and she threw her hands to her eyes as the glare from the crystal wall lights made her recoil. “I said why are you sleeping down here?”
Thinking quickly, unable to gauge his mood just yet. “I, um, I saw you were asleep and didn’t want to disturb you. No other reason.” Sophie inched back instinctively, hoping he’d buy her story.
He slumped down on the sofa, grinning, and her tense shoulders dropped with an inaudible sigh of relief. “Ahh, sweet, you should have just climbed in with me, we could’ve had a cuddle.” He winked.
Sophie drew a remorseful breath. Today, or was it yesterday now, she had no idea how long she’d been sleeping, seemed to be a bad day for making choices. “I’m sorry.” The two words were all she could find in her hazy mind, and they weren’t true.
Darren took the brandy bottle from the carpet, along with her discarded glass, and shot her a brief accusing glare, before pouring a large measure and taking a thirsty gulp. “Got yourself tanked up again, did you?” No answer came, the hypocrisy was too irritating. “So what did the old dragon have to say for herself today, then? More whingeing and whining? A bit of emotional blackmail, maybe?”
Sophie jolted, the dreadful conversation flooding into her memory for the first time since waking, and she swiftly rose to find herself a fresh glass from the kitchen. Re-entering the room, she sat back beside him. “No. She was fine. Yeah, fine. Er, did you contact your mum?”