The Bitter End Page 11

  In the car Sally turned to him. ‘Okay, what happened? You don't look at all happy.’

  ‘I'm far from happy, but it's hard to explain. Just drive, Sal. Let’s get away from here.’

  She turned the ignition and steered the car back onto the main road.

  He let his eyes close, leaning his head back on the rest, relieved that the stench of burnt hair was fading.

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what went on.’

  He sighed. ‘There's nothing much to tell. I said what I wanted to say. I even held her hand, but there wasn't even a flicker of reaction. She was lost in her own little world. Then when I was going, I glanced back for a last look at her, and she was sitting bolt upright, glaring after me with a look of absolute hate on her face.’

  ‘Didn't you go back and speak to her?’

  ‘Sal, I've faced some pretty scary characters in my time, but Petronella is one of a kind. She's weird. In fact, this whole situation is weird and I'm struggling to get my head around it. There's something not right going on that I can't quite put my finger on.’

  Sally glanced at him. ‘I'm beginning to wish you'd never met up with Owen again.’

  ‘It's not Owen who's the problem here, Sal, it's Petronella Kytella.’

  The woman despised him. He couldn't blame her, he'd killed her cat – so it would seem, she'd probably wanted to murder him at the time.

  As they drove on, a thought slowly occurred to him.

  Maybe he hadn’t just fallen and cracked his head on a rock when he was a kid. Maybe Petronella Kytella had deliberately caved his skull in.

  15

  Playing with their minds is a joy. Playing with their bodies is also my release.

  For most of the following week Paul worked back in his London office, liaising with his immediate superior, Director General Daniel Rake, and the top men within his team; Desmond Fitzpatrick and Alistair Brooke – all good men who he worked well with and trusted.

  His office was on the third floor of Thames House, a Grade II listed building bought by the Government in John Major’s time at No. 10. After losing Helena and selling their house, he’d rented a flat on the far side of Lambeth Bridge. Until meeting Sally, the office had been his second home.

  Beginning a new life with her was nothing short of a miracle in his eyes. He never expected to find love and happiness again and he counted himself blessed that she’d come into his life. Right now, however, he was glad to be at work. He needed the discipline that his job imposed to stop himself thinking about the balls-up he’d made of visiting Petronella Kytella.

  He arrived back at the cottage the following Friday afternoon. There was no sign of Sally or her car but he did come across a note left on the kitchen worktop.

  Gone Shopping, love you xxx

  He changed out of his suit, swapping pinstripe for denim. The weather had turned quite cold, so he added a fleece to his woodworking attire.

  As ever, heading down to his workshop banished every other thought from his head. Problems melted away and he was eager again to feel the wood and tools in his hands, knowing they would provide tranquillity, as if the simple action of wood carving was putting everything into perspective.

  Unlatching the door, he breathed in the rich woody smells. An involuntary smile moved his lips as he took the axe from the wall. A stroll out into the forest for a new piece of wood was required.

  The trees were losing much of their foliage as autumn set in. Underfoot, a thick carpet of mulched leaves scrunched under each step. Reaching the uprooted oak, a variety of sections had distinct possibilities. He was just considering cutting off another sizeable piece to make another bust, when a more twisted piece of branch caught his eye.

  It was angled and rough with smaller twig-like branches as off-shoots. Its form reminded Paul of driftwood, a curious tangle of curves; and while he hadn't a clue what to make of it, there was something so fascinating about it. He viewed it from all angles before deciding where to wield his axe.

  It was less than two feet long when he carried his prize back home, twisted and misshapen, but he loved it.

  Sally still wasn’t back, and he was glad to have some time to get acquainted with his raw material. His hands smoothed over the contours and textures. It would be a horizontal piece of work – whatever it turned out to be, even if it was just a piece of abstract rubbish. He couldn’t call it art. But it would be horizontal, reclining. And it would need only the most delicate of tools, the narrowest of chisels.

  He reached across to his rows of carving utensils, selecting the tool like a surgeon about to perform a delicate operation.

  He held the blade to the bark, sensing where the first cut should be, but before steel touched grain, the barn door opened and Sally breezed in. Her arms were around his neck in an instant, and he had to hold the chisel away in case it caught her.

  He returned her kisses, determined that she wouldn’t even for a second sense his irritation at being disturbed.

  ‘Oh, I’ve missed you so much!’ she declared.

  Paul kissed her again, feeling a certain unexpected tingling in his loins. ‘I’ve missed you too, sweetheart.’ He placed the chisel back on the rack, aware suddenly that there were more pressing needs to fulfil than carving up a piece of old wood.

  ‘Is everything going okay at work? Or aren’t I allowed to ask?’

  ‘It’s all going to plan,’ Paul said, turning off his heater and leading her out of the barn. ‘But right now, my plans are to get you up into that bedroom.’

  She gave a little squeal of delight and half skipped – half ran across the lawn back to the kitchen door. Paul gave chase, excitement rising like a fire within him. In the kitchen he kicked the back door shut behind them and when Sally turned to look at him he saw a flash of nervousness in her eyes. It fuelled his ardour even more, stirring up a whole wave of lurid images in his head. He'd no idea where the fantasies were springing from. Certainly not from anything he'd ever done, not even from films, yet flashes of naked bodies darted through his mind, and his body felt on fire.

  The desire was too fierce to take Sally upstairs. Instead, he swept her shopping off the table, ignoring her protests that there were breakables in her bags, and backed her up against the edge of the table. He unbuttoned her coat and dragged her jeans down without undoing them, his body straining against his own clothing for release.

  ‘Paul!’ Sally murmured against his mouth, half protesting, while at the same time wriggling out of her trousers and fumbling with his buckle and zip.

  He pushed her back onto the table, her jeans and knickers dangling from one leg as he moved between her thighs and pressed himself aggressively into her. She cried out, but he didn't ease up. Instead, he turned her over, face down on the table and took her again.

  His passion was spent greedily, and as quickly as his desire had erupted, it waned away to nothing, leaving him feeling self-conscious, and something else … something indefinable – used almost, even though he'd been the aggressor.

  Bluebell had tangled herself around his legs, and he nudged her away as he eased Sally gently to her feet. He felt he ought to apologise, this wasn't his way, but she smiled and breathed a long, happy sigh.

  ‘Paul Christian, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – you'll have to go away more often!’

  He closed his eyes, exhausted suddenly, needing to rest.

  Sally kissed him. ‘I think we could both do with a drink. Red?’

  He would have preferred to go up to bed, but he nodded and then noticed Bluebell sitting in the corner of the kitchen, her wide unblinking eyes fixed on him like a Mother Superior in a nunnery. In a flash she was gone, out through the cat flap, taking her high feline morals with her.

  When he and Sally did finally go to bed, he slept far deeper than normal, his body feeling unusually drained. Ruefully, he realised that he wasn't twenty-one any more.

  By the following afternoon, the carving was half formed. It turned out to be a woman, lyin
g prostrate, her back arched, her arms raised, and her head turned aside as if the desire was too much and she was forced to turn away. Her lower limbs were still encased inside the rough wood, waiting to be revealed.

  As he worked, he realised that this, more than any piece so far, was playing on his emotions. He didn’t usually consider himself to have an overly high sex drive, but as he worked, there was a constant feeling of horniness. Not particularly for Sally, just simply for the act of sex itself. And the more he handled the carving, the more his imagination wandered. Explicit images flashed through his head. Not the sort of fantasy he’d want to share with Sally. These were flashes of naked bodies tied up, raped; totally unpleasant thoughts that kept on coming no matter how he tried to think of other things – as if they had a mind of their own.

  The face of the carving was still a mystery to him. Maybe he would start work on that next, or most likely he would begin to form the intimate area of her pelvis and her legs. But for now, he needed to stop.

  Looking at her semi nakedness, it seemed wrong to leave her so exposed, and so he found a cloth and covered her. Shutting up the barn, he wasn’t sure which of his basic needs required attention first.

  There was a smell of fog in the air and a cold mist had settled over the garden. The kitchen lights were on, although there was no sign of Sally. Maybe he would make dinner tonight – afterwards.

  She wasn’t downstairs, and Paul went up the narrow staircase and into the bathroom, needing to freshen up. ‘Hi Sal, you up here?’

  There was no answer. Drying his hands, Paul headed for their bedroom but even before going through the door, he could smell the fragrance of scented candles, and saw the flickering glow from the darkened bedroom.

  ‘Sally …’

  She was lying naked on the bed, hair splayed across the pillow, her arms above her head, posed almost like the wood carving.

  Her eyes sparked in the orange glow of candlelight, full of devilment. Eagerly, Paul fumbled with his shirt buttons, anxious to get out of his clothing. To feel her skin against his.

  As he went to lie beside her, her legs parted, and she raised her hips towards him, her fingers tangling in his hair, forcing his head down towards her groin. He eagerly obliged, slightly shocked that his little Sally could be such a dirty little minx when she wanted to be. He was surprised too by her strength, this was a side of her he hadn’t seen before, and by God he liked it.

  She gripped his hair, controlling his movements, forcing and grinding herself against his face. She orgasmed over and over, then pulling him up she wrapped her legs around his back, locking him into her.

  Having satisfied herself in that position, she pushed him onto his back and straddled him, riding him until there was no stopping the inevitable. Finally, Sally flopped her face down onto the pillow, gasping for breath.

  Paul lay for a while, not quite sure what had hit him, then turned onto his side and stroked her back. ‘Where did that come from?’

  She turned her head a little, but her eyes were closed. ‘I need to sleep.’

  He kissed her spine, between her shoulder-blades. ‘Sleep then, my darling. I’ll make us some dinner for later.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Sally slept for a good two hours then staggered drowsily down in her fleecy dressing gown and slippers. ‘I’m sorry, is dinner ruined?’

  Paul had been on his computer, working. He logged out, stood up and kissed her. ‘No, it’s fine. I can just warm it through. Are you okay?’

  She yawned. ‘Sleepy.’

  He walked her through to the lounge and sat her on the sofa. ‘Relax and take it easy. Glass of wine?’

  As soon as he asked, he wondered whether she’d been hitting the bottle that afternoon. It would explain a few things. Not that he was complaining.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Cup of tea would be nice.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  It was easy enough to re-heat the chicken and vegetable curry that he’d made. He brought it through to the lounge on trays. They were both ravenous and conversation took a back seat as they devoured the lot.

  ‘How are the orders going?’ Paul asked her when they’d finally finished eating.

  ‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘The Covent Garden boutique have sent in a repeat order, which is brilliant. I’ve whipped up a few random wallets and purses, too. Oh … and I rang Juliet today to see if she wanted them for her shop, and she was really off.’

  ‘Off?’ Paul mused, taking their empty plates through to the kitchen.

  ‘Yes. Really quiet, which isn’t like Juliet at all. She said okay to stocking my wallets and stuff, but she sounded weird. You know, not chatty – sort of sad.’

  ‘We all have off days, Sal.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s okay. Anyway, I’ll be seeing her on Monday at the funeral. Will you come with me, Paul? I know you didn’t know the doctor’s wife, but most of the village will be going.’

  ‘I guess so. It’ll be an opportunity to get to know the locals.’ He tried to sound mildly enthusiastic, when really, meeting the locals was the last thing on his mind.

  They had an early night. Sally was still tired, and she’d said nothing about the amazing sex session they’d just had. He’d half expected her to be a little coy, but she was just his normal Sal, albeit a very sleepy version. Almost as if it had never happened.

  He was in the bathroom, when he heard her cry of dismay.

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  She was crouched by the bed, looking at something on the floor. ‘Oh! Poor little thing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A mouse.’ She showed him the small brown body, stiff in her hands. ‘It’s dead, poor thing.’

  Paul looked at Bluebell curled up on a chair. ‘Bluebell, was this you?’

  The cat gave him one of her disdainful looks and ran down the stairs.

  ‘There’d be nothing left if she’d got hold of it,’ said Sally. ‘It must just have found its way in, and then died. I wonder why it died.’

  ‘Animals do die, Sal. Give it here, I'll get rid of it.’ He placed it in a bundle of tissues and took it downstairs. ‘Wash your hands well, just in case.’

  After disposing of the mouse in the outdoor bin, he went to go back inside when a sound stopped him in his tracks. It was like a baby crying – a haunting sound. For a second the sound disturbed him. Then realisation dawned, it was just Bluebell yowling.

  ‘Bloody cat,’ he murmured, going back inside. He shut the door, turning the key and shooting the bolt across. Tomorrow, he’d see about rigging up some security lights. This place was just too vulnerable. It was a bad idea not having lights, anybody could come creeping right up to the house. He was amazed that Sally felt so secure here. Didn’t the girl ever get nervous?

  He reached across the sink to close the kitchen curtains, aware that anyone could see right into the house, especially with the lights turned on. He was about to pull them together when something slammed into the window pane. ‘Jesus!’

  Instantly he switched off the kitchen light so the garden was illuminated by the moonlight and he could see out rather than anyone seeing in.

  His heart dropped when he spotted the tawny feathers sticking to the outside of the glass. ‘Ah no. Not the owl.’

  He was out in a flash. As he’d thought, the owl was lying on the patio, flapping pathetically, struggling to right itself. His heart went out to it.

  ‘Hey, you aren’t meant to fly in to windows.’ He spoke softly as he bent down beside it. ‘I thought you owls were supposed to be wise.’

  It continued its frantic flapping and Paul wondered whether he should cocoon it in a towel, or if that would stress it out even more and it would die of shock. But if he left it, it would be fox supper in no time – or Bluebell’s.

  ‘Sally!’ he yelled back through the open door. ‘Sally, come down, can you?’

  A few moments later she appeared in slippered feet, her dressing gown hugged t
ightly to her chest. ‘What’s happen–’ she saw instantly and gasped. ‘Oh, the poor thing.’

  ‘It flew into the window.’

  ‘Do you think it’s broken any bones?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Well, we can’t just leave it, hang on …’ She raced indoors and returned with a tablecloth; she crouched close to the bird, speaking softly. She folded the linen around it and swaddled it like a baby.

  Paul watched, quite in awe as her gentle movements seemed to calm the bird’s terror a little. She got to her feel, cradling it in her arms, whispering soothing words. It stopped struggling.

  ‘If it hasn’t broken any bones, it might survive the shock. We could put it in your workshop, it’ll be safe from predators.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Paul agreed, nipping inside for a torch. There were feathers on the kitchen floor, blown in by the wind. Outside, Sally was still cradling and crooning to the bird, her face quite close to its dangerous-looking beak. ‘Careful, Sal. It could have your eye out.’

  She glanced up and smiled. ‘I think it likes me. Its heartbeat was frantic but it’s slowing down now. It’s stopped struggling, too.’

  ‘Sal, don't build your hopes up too much. It's probably not going to survive.’

  She glared at him. ‘No. Don’t say that. Besides its eyes are bright and it’s moving its head like it’s curious. Come on let’s get it safely in your workshop.’

  They settled the owl in a cardboard box on his workbench. Paul couldn’t help wondering if they would find it dead in the morning.

  * * *

  He couldn’t sleep. Long after Sally’s soft rhythmic breathing had settled into a deep silence, he lay staring through the window at a star-studded sky. He wasn’t quite sure what was disturbing him the most, that clumsy owl or memories of Petronella Kytella in the nursing home. He'd hardly thought about her all week but now she was back in his head. He wished to God he hadn’t glanced back and seen her staring after him. If only he’d left thinking that she was in a world of her own. But her eyes had been sharp as pinpoints – and full of hate.