The Bitter End Read online

  He was just about to suggest they head off when Juliet let out an almighty wail and shot across the street. Shrieking and cursing she lay into some woman walking by, pulling at her blonde hair and slapping her around the head. Paul recognised the green-eyed blonde immediately.

  ‘Oh God!’ Owen moaned, burying his head in his hands.

  ‘Juliet, don't,’ Paul yelled, sprinting across the road and hauling Juliet away from the startled blonde.

  The woman looked terrified. ‘Keep her away from me, please …’

  ‘You whore! Bitch!’ Juliet screamed, twisting in Paul's arms, desperately trying to get her hands on the woman again.

  Sally ran across too, trying to calm her, but Juliet’s eyes were wild. Paul hollered for Owen. He finally came over, his face bright pink now, as people stopped and stared.

  The blonde backed away, looking outraged now rather than afraid. ‘She needs locking up. The woman’s insane.’

  ‘You’re the sort that needs locking up, you whore!’ Juliet screamed.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ the blonde snapped back.

  Sally sprang to her friend’s defence. ‘You slept with her boyfriend. How do you expect her to react?’

  Those green eyes blinked in total disbelief. It was a look that Paul felt wasn’t faked. And when she protested, he had the strongest feeling that she meant every word.

  ‘I haven’t slept with your boyfriend! I don’t even know your bloody boyfriend!’

  Juliet wailed miserably. ‘How dare you deny it? You came into my shop two days ago and told me how he fucked you!’ Writhing in Paul’s arms so she could turn back to Owen she screeched, ‘See how much you mean to her? See!’

  Owen slumped back against a wall, head in hands.

  The woman turned on Juliet furiously. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I haven’t touched him and if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have told anyone. Are you insane? Or do you think I am?’

  She sounded convincing. ‘Juliet, are you sure you haven't got the wrong woman?’ Paul asked, not risking letting her go. Yet it was the blonde all right, the woman who had all but invited him in. She played a pretty cool game.

  ‘Have I, Owen?’ Juliet demanded, turning to him again. ‘The least you can do is tell me the truth now. Is this her?’

  Owen nodded miserably.

  The blonde gasped. ‘Oh, this is insane. You’re as mad as each other!’ She stormed away, glancing nervously back as if afraid of being followed by this crazy bunch of accusers.

  The crowd dispersed, most ending up at the Crow and Feathers. Sally took over the job of holding onto Juliet, but now all she could do was weep on Sally’s shoulder.

  ‘Take her home, Owen,’ Paul suggested. ‘You can’t undo what’s been done. You’re just going to have to prove how sorry you are, and how much you love her. If it’s your first mistake, you might be lucky. She might forgive you.’

  Owen stood awkwardly on the pavement, looking like he desperately wanted to hold his woman, but afraid of her reaction should he try.

  Sally moved her friend gently, easing her into Owen’s arms. Juliet flinched when he touched her, but she seemed drained and as his arm went around her shoulder she allowed him to lead her away.

  Sally linked Paul’s arm. ‘What was all that about? Do you think she accused the wrong woman?’

  ‘I don't think so, Sal. But she put on a damn good act of being innocent, didn’t she?’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but I guess she doesn’t want the whole village knowing what she’s been up to. Anyway, Owen would have said if it was the wrong woman, surely. What a swine! Why are men never satisfied with what they’ve got?’

  ‘Hey, I am,’ he objected, hoping to God his guilt wasn’t showing. Although he wasn’t actually guilty of anything. It had been a fantasy, nothing more – and it never would be. Not if he had anything to do with it.

  17

  Mid October, 10 Downing Street, London.

  With the Peace Conference scheduled for three weeks’ time, Paul spent the majority of the week at his London office working out a precise schedule to cope with fifty world leaders and Heads of State. Tensions were rising and he, along with Daniel Rake and some other key players, were invited to No. 10 to talk through security arrangements with the PM.

  Paul never felt more at home and in complete control than when his human logistics were running like clockwork – even with his security now covering this small gathering. The pressure was always on his shoulders, but it was pressure that excited him. And it was good to see the PM again. They got on well, seeing eye to eye on many things. And she always seemed appreciative of his department’s work. She was a charming woman despite being a cat lover. Her grey Persian barely left her lap throughout the meeting.

  The Peace Conference would last three days: Wednesday the seventh until Friday the ninth, with the PM welcoming all the heads of state, prime ministers and top dogs from around Europe and the rest of the world. The safety of them, their security officials and entire entourage was down to Paul and his team. It was certainly going to be full on.

  Later, in the car heading back to the office, Daniel Rake turned the conversation around to more personal affairs. ‘So how are you settling into your new place, Paul? Does the rural life work for you?’

  ‘It certainly does,’ Paul agreed. ‘Wildlife, fresh air, and I've even taken up something I used to do years ago.’

  ‘Really? What’s that then?’

  There was a sudden unexpected eagerness to talk about his hobby. ‘When I was a kid, I used to whittle away with a penknife and a bit of wood. I've kind of got back into that. But in a big way. Have a look at this.’ He took out his mobile and brought up a photo of the bust. ‘Who do you think this looks like?’

  Rake's eyes widened. ‘President Howard! It's damn good. What's your plans for it? Thinking of selling it?’

  ‘Giving it away, actually,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve got an idea I'd like to run past you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you think the President might like it as a gift from the UK?’

  ‘I should think he'd love it!’

  Paul smiled. ‘That exactly what Sally said.’

  ‘So, what made you do a bust of him?’

  Paul drew up his shoulders. ‘It wasn't planned. I’d no idea what it would turn into when I started it. It was like being on auto pilot.’

  ‘Well, it's first class, Paul,’ said Rake. ‘Pity you didn’t mention it earlier, we could have got her ladyship’s approval while we were at No. 10. Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you about it.’

  Paul rang Sally once they were back at Thames House. She was a while in answering, and in those few moments Paul felt a twinge of unease. He hoped to God she hadn’t sleep walked again. And then the phone was answered, and Sally's cheerful voice greeted him. He breathed a sigh of relief. All was well.

  * * *

  It was Friday afternoon when he finally got a chance to return to his workshop. The carving of the reclining woman rested on his workbench covered by a piece of cloth. He hesitated, resisting the urge to unveil it and continue cutting away the excess wood to reveal the beauty within. The very fact that the pull and desire to do so was so intense made him stop … made him resist.

  Instead he got a broom and swept up all the wood shavings. He went back to the house, made coffee and took a cup through to Sally as she machined her latest creation. He checked and dealt with his emails, but the pull was there, like a fishing rod reeling him in. Eventually, walking down the leaf strewn lawn to his workshop it almost felt like he was heading to an illicit rendezvous.

  There was no need for the heater to be on. Despite the cold October day, he was on fire – his body burned as he handled the figurine. His chisel slid over her body, peeling her out of her wooden cocoon so that her naked form was revealed. It was no real surprise that it was her – the green-eyed vixen from the old woman’s house.

 
Taking a strip of sandpaper, Paul worked on her delicate features and as she slowly revealed herself, so the desire to deliver the carving as a gift became almost overwhelming.

  It was impossible not to make love to Sally when he finally closed the barn door for the night. The urge couldn’t be ignored. But he was glad it was his lovely sweet Sally that he caressed and loved, and no fantasy running crazily through his head.

  She cooked him dinner afterwards and sat in front of a blazing fire with Bluebell stretched across the back of an armchair. Helena wasn’t in the flames any more. There had been only that one time, weeks ago now. She was at rest again.

  ‘Have you heard how Owen and Juliet are getting on?’ Paul asked as he gazed into a glass of ruby wine. ‘Have they kissed and made up yet?’

  Sally wrinkled her nose. ‘I popped in to see her on Tuesday when you were in London and she was still furious at how that woman denied everything. I mean why be so brazen and tell the wife you’ve been sleeping with her partner one minute, then deny it the next? What’s the point? I don’t get it.’

  ‘She’s just a troublemaker, I guess. Some women are like that when they can’t get what they want.’

  ‘Are they?’ Sally murmured. ‘Well she’s picked on the wrong woman there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, Juliet is a witch, isn’t she?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I told you, she’s a white witch, only she’s having some very black thoughts at the moment.’

  Why was it that the mention of any kind of witch caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle? He tried to shrug it off, make light of it. ‘Don’t tell me she’s mixing up a potion to get back at her.’

  ‘That’s exactly what she is doing!’ Sally exclaimed, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘After their skirmish, she ended up with a handful of her hair, and it's kind of given her the basis for a spell.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘It’s not good, is it?’

  ‘No, it's not! We need to talk to her.’

  ‘She’s too hurt, right now. It's just her way of getting it out of her system.’

  Although it wasn't his place to tell a grown woman what she should or shouldn't do, he liked Juliet. He didn't want to see her make matters worse.

  The following morning, Sally was snowed under with work. Paul decided to see Juliet alone. ‘I'll take a couple of carvings along too, see if she wants them for her shop.’

  ‘Which ones?’ Sal asked, barely glancing up from her sewing machine.

  ‘That ugly face one, though God knows who’d want it, and the nude.’ He needed that gone. The desire was still there, nagging at him to call by the blonde’s cottage and show her. And that would be suicidal.

  ‘Oh, I'd love us to keep that one, it’s beautiful. Get rid of the ugly one, though.’ Sally stopped her sewing and looked at him. ‘And Paul, be tactful. Juliet is struggling at the moment.’

  He agreed, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the nude.

  Sally smiled. ‘Thank you. You're an angel.’

  He didn’t feel much like an angel as he headed down to his workshop. Leaving the nude lying under her cloth, he took the face carving. It was bloody ugly. The face was thin and deeply lined. The texture of the skin – if you could call wood-bark skin, was rough, as if it had warts and lumps. He turned it this way and that, trying to find something pleasing to the eye, and failing. But then the eyes suddenly caught his. Deeply set and wrinkled, but the pupils were sharp as needles – and looking right into his.

  ‘Jesus!’ he yelped, instantly dropping the carving.

  It was her. The old woman. Skin prickling, he backed away. But it remained looking right at him with eyes full of disdain.

  Dear God, how could his subconscious have played such a trick on him?

  Stumbling, he ran for the axe on the far wall, knowing what he had to do. He took it down and carried it back, his heart pounding so hard it was as if he was intending a real murder rather than the destruction of a bit of wood.

  It was staring at him, its mouth set in a sneer that he hadn’t carved. This was insane. It was just a block of wood. He needed to take this outside and destroy it. But as if it sensed his intentions, its eyes seemed to narrow, looking even more menacing.

  The thought of touching it made his skin crawl. This couldn't be real. It was another nightmare. Even so, he grabbed one corner and threw it outside. At that split second, a stab of pain shot through his hand and he saw the splinter of wood sticking out of his palm like one of Christ’s crucifixion nails. Blood trickled down his wrist.

  There shouldn’t be any splinters, those days were long gone. Yet the slither of wood he eased out of his hand was inches long.

  After grabbing the rag off the reclining nude, he stemmed the blood. Then picking up the axe he went outside to finish the job.

  At first, he couldn’t see where it had landed and scoured amongst the shrubs before he saw it lying there. Harsh eyes glaring up at him.

  ‘Right, you bastard!’ He raised the axe above his head and brought it swiftly down, cleaving it in half. He stared into its ugly face, no longer intimidated. The life gone from it eyes.

  But then it moved. Small jerky movements making it writhe. He backed off, transfixed. ‘What the fuck …’

  As he stared, a darker shape separated from it. His hands tightened around the axe handle. But then came a small pointed head, and tiny feet. And when a hedgehog crept out from beneath the broken carving, laughter exploded like a released pressure valve.

  He watched the little creature vanish into the mist. ‘Run you little bugger, scaring me like that. You’re lucky I didn't chop you in two …’

  Using the axe head, he flipped one half of the carving on top of the other, took aim and sliced it into quarters. Finding a spade, he scraped up the remnants and dumped them onto the bonfire pile to burn when they next lit one up.

  He placed the axe back in the barn, confusion settling over him. He could handle most things in life – gunfire, bombs, aggressive people – but this was something else. Was it him? Some glitch that the doctors hadn't fixed from the coma? He thought back to the embers in the fire and Helena's face, and the smell of burning hair and the irrational fears and nightmares … and now this.

  ‘What the hell’s happening to me?’ he said quietly to himself.

  ‘Paul!’ Sally shouted from the kitchen door. ‘Telephone!’

  He was actually glad to be disturbed, though he wondered who'd ring him on Sal's house phone. His feet slithered on the wet grass as he headed towards her, his expression calm, determined she wouldn’t see his agitation. There was no point in worrying her.

  ‘What have you done to your hand?’ she asked, linking his arm.

  ‘Oh, nothing, just a slip with the chisel,’ he lied. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s that care home. We left our number, remember? Seeing as we were the only people to have asked about that old lady. What was her name?’

  ‘Petronella Kytella,’ he said, knowing what was coming; she was dead. And he’d killed her. His throat felt like it had closed up. ‘She’s died?’

  Sally cast him a curious glance. ‘No! Just the opposite. The nurse says there’s been a remarkable change in her, and they wanted us to know.’

  Paul’s eyes closed. He ought to be relieved that chopping up an effigy of the old dear hadn’t actually finished her off. But knowing she was still alive – that those harsh, unforgiving eyes could still look at him – left him feeling totally unnerved.

  He picked up the phone, positive it was going to be her cursing him to hell for putting an axe through her head.

  The gentle familiar Irish lilt of the nurse made him sway.

  ‘… we wanted you to know, seeing as you’d been good enough to come and visit her. Like I said, she doesn’t get visitors, and we're so excited, we wanted to share it with someone, and you …’

  ‘Yes, yes, her only visitors,’ Paul repeated, quickly thinking up an excuse for not visiting her, which he knew would be
coming next.

  ‘Today would be a grand day to see her at her best,’ the nurse went on. ‘You might get some sense out of her.’

  ‘It’s not possible today,’ Paul cut in abruptly. ‘I’ve a train to catch to London, my job …’ Sally shot him a puzzled look which he ignored. Wild horses wouldn't drag him back to that care home right now. He wanted to see her all right, but on his terms. He didn't like being manipulated, which was how this felt.

  A calmness spread through him. Years of military training returned, helping him control his thoughts. ‘So how is she, exactly?’

  The nurse sounded glad to be asked and her intake of breath indicated she’d got a story to tell. Paul longed to hang up. ‘Well, she was her usual self, semi-conscious, just about managing to wake up for a bit of food and drink when not ten minutes ago, she suddenly shot up out of her chair like the devil had pinched her backside. Cursing and swearing she was. It took two nurses to settle her down. That’s amazing isn’t it? We didn’t even know she could stand up straight like that, and my, she’s tall. When she’s not all bent double, she’s a mighty tall woman.’

  Paul could feel bile burning in his throat. It wasn’t possible. He struggled to find some rational explanation. ‘Has she gone back to sleep now?’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ laughed the nurse. ‘She’s sitting in her chair, grinding her teeth and banging her hands on the chair arms like she’s itching for a fight. We can’t get over it. Most of the staff have never seen her awake, let alone getting into a paddy.’

  The room was beginning to spin. ‘Maybe you should sedate her.’

  ‘Oh, dear Lord, no. We’re hoping that once she’s had a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake, she’ll feel like having a chat. We're all dying to hear about her life, where she’s from and all that.’

  ‘And you think she will settle down, not just get angrier and …’ his voice trailed away. What did he expect her to do? What was she capable of? He didn’t know. Although actually, he did know one thing she was capable of – smashing a nine-year- old kid’s head in with a rock.