The House Keeper, page 9
Richie was gone, but in a way, she’d brought him with her. The memories at least – the grim tense relationship they’d had at the end when they tiptoed around one another, until she hadn’t been able to hold the words in and they’d burst out in a long shrill tirade full of pain, betrayal and soul-crunching hurt.
The darkness that had troubled her after Richie’s death hadn’t gone away, instead it lay hidden, waiting for its opportunity. And now it was back, like a disease.
It all suddenly made sense and having something concrete to blame for her fear washed it away. This she could handle. She gave Richie too much power when he was alive, she was damned if he was having any now that he was dead. Grabbing her mobile, she switched on the torch app and opened the bedroom door. The circle of light didn’t look too inviting. She followed it anyway, stepping carefully and descending the stairs one slow step at a time. When she opened the fuse box door, she was unsurprised to see the same switches down. Snapping them up, she smiled when all the lights came on. A fault. She’d have a sharp word with Cody on Monday about his electrician.
Humming under her breath, she switched off her torch and headed down the narrower stairway to the kitchen. The cake box was on the table where she’d left it. She was still humming as she opened it, the sound cut off suddenly as she pulled the flaps back and stared into… nothing. For one long gut-churning terrifying moment, she was afraid to look up from it, afraid of what she might see. A cake-eating ghost? The stupidity of the thought was enough to calm her scrambled mind and she thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead, wincing as it hit the bruise. She’d put the damn cake into the fridge, hadn’t she?
Hadn’t she?
She glanced across the kitchen to where the appliance in question sat humming softly. Looking all innocent. ‘Cake-eating ghosts,’ she muttered, walking slowly over to the fridge. ‘Scaring myself stupid with such bloody nonsense.’ Her hand rested on the handle for a few seconds before she pressed her lips together and pulled it open with such vigour that the carton of eggs balanced precariously on the edge of a shelf tumbled to the floor.
The ominous crashing sound of cracking shells would have upset her if she hadn’t been so relieved to see the chocolate cake sitting on the shelf where she’d put it. She didn’t remember the action; it was one of those things done with little thought.
Taking the cake from the fridge, she stepped over the mess on the floor, and put the plate on the counter. It was silly to make a drama out of things that were happening. Incredibly stupid to turn things into a ghost story. Now that the mystery was solved, she was able to smile at the cake-eating ghost notion.
Still, she didn’t fancy sitting in the kitchen where a skin-prickling damp lingered despite the warmth of the weather. In any case, there was no knowing when the light would go out again. It was better to take whatever she wanted upstairs with her.
Unable to stir up any enthusiasm for something more nutritious, she cut a slice of the chocolate cake, then shrugged and cut a second. Cake and a mug of tea were the perfect combination. Working as hard as she was, she’d soon work off the extra calories. She picked up the plate and mug. With both hands full, she’d no option but to leave all the lights blazing after her. It was nothing at all to do with being afraid of the dark.
The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open with a tap of her hip. Inside, she placed the plate and mug on a small table then, because she felt better for doing it, she wedged the chair back into place.
Being refrigerated had changed the texture of the cake, it was drier than earlier and needed a mouthful of tea after every bite to wash it down. All that could be said in its favour was, it had filled a gap.
She’d no concerns about finishing the tea. Earlier, when she was clearing out the other bedroom, she’d found an ugly orange flowerpot. It was destined for the skip, and almost went flying out the window before she stopped and looked at it more closely. It was chipped, and well worn, but not cracked. It was just what she needed. Now, it sat on the floor in the corner of the room waiting to be useful once more. No more desperately waiting till morning if she needed a wee. It was surprising how you adjusted when you needed to.
Adjusted, and accepted what was necessary.
It’s what she’d done when Richie died.
What she’d done before he died.
She’d bought this house to make her dream come true – eventually she’d learn to accept that it was blood money that had paid for it.
Blood money.
She needed to stop thinking of it that way – as Richie’s wife, she’d been entitled to the life insurance money.
It didn’t matter that he’d asked her for a divorce the day before he died.
18
The lights in the kitchen were still blazing when she came down early the following morning and she left them on, relieved to find them still shining every time she popped back at regular intervals for a caffeine fix. There had to be an intermittent fault somewhere. Often the hardest things to repair. When things were completely broken, smashed to pieces, lying at your feet crushed, that was far easier. That’s when you knew you had to throw out the old and replace it. It was how Richie had seen their marriage. He’d judged her as faulty, toxic, and decided to replace her with something in better working order.
Annoyed with how easily her thoughts drifted back to him, Cassie worked even harder, hoping the exhausting backbreaking work would leave little time for reminiscing. If it didn’t completely stop her mind from drifting into the past, it did get the last of the front bedrooms emptied before she heard the faint rumble as the new skip was delivered to the rear of the house. She hurried down to gather up the last of the rubbish she’d tossed from the window, finishing just as the truck came to pick up the filled skip.
She waited till it was loaded before approaching the driver. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ He looked behind her to the house. ‘How many more d’you think it’s going to take?’
Cassie had no idea. There was all the old junk in the remaining two bedrooms, then the contents of the attic whenever she could get access to it. Plus the ground and lower ground floors with their moth-eaten carpets, curtains and dated furniture, most of which would need to go, and the contents of all those horrible little cells behind the kitchen. There’d also be the rubble that the building work would create. ‘Quite a few,’ she said finally.
She stood watching as the truck drove away, then turned and looked at the house. What she’d have loved to do was have a long soak in a hot bath. What she was going to do was to make a start on the last two bedrooms. Cody and his team would arrive in the morning. She wanted them… him… to be impressed with how hard she’d worked, to see how serious she was about this project, how committed she was to making it a success.
The final two bedrooms were even more chock-filled with rubbish. Cassie sighed, and peered at the mound of old, worn and broken furniture, assorted boxes, and bags. Ragged moth-eaten curtains hung at the window from bowed window poles. One pull would have the lot down. They’d be the first to go.
The curtains came down over her head as soon as she laid a hand on them. She grimaced and pulled the dusty shredded material away. She’d have liked to throw it straight out the window, but one glance told her that wasn’t going to happen. Someone, sometime in the past had painted them shut. Even knowing it was a waste of time, she hauled on the lower sash, willing it to move upward. The wood was rotten; if she had a knife or something she could probably prise it free.
Never one to put off things, she headed downstairs to find something suitable. The lights were still on. Something was going her way. She unlocked the back door and headed to the shed for something she could use to lever the window open. Spiders scurried out of the way as she searched through the rusted tools, settling finally on a flathead screwdriver and a hammer.
Back at the window, she jammed the tip of the screwdriver between the sash and the window frame. A tap of the hammer and it sank into the wood. It took longer to pull it out, then she moved it along, and hit it again. Maybe she was getting tired, maybe she was basically an idiot, but for whatever reason she didn’t pay enough attention to where she placed the tip of the screwdriver and when she hit it, it slipped from the window and hit the glass. Her reflexes were quick, but not fast enough to miss the rain of broken glass that fell on her. She stumbled back, fell over a heavy box on the floor behind, and crashed onto a wooden chair that shattered under her weight.
She lay, winded and shocked, afraid to move, terrified to lift her head to see blood pumping from her body. From the recesses of her mind came some alarming bits of information. If she’d sliced a small blood vessel, it could take hours for her to bleed to death. A major vessel… she’d be dead in less than five minutes. How many minutes had it been? How ridiculous if her last thoughts on this earth were worrying about numbers.
Everything hurt. Was that a sign she wasn’t going to die? Not that day at least. Maybe it was relief, or pain, or the feeling of being a total idiot that made the tears come. She didn’t consider herself to be a particularly clumsy person, yet all she seemed to do recently was fall over. Exaggeration wasn’t usually one of her traits – she’d fallen over twice, this being the second time. It wasn’t her fault she’d fallen through the damn attic floor. She needed to stop berating herself. Taking over from where Richie left off.
It was irritation that her thoughts had once more circled to her late husband that forced Cassie to sit up, instantly relieved to see no blood pumping or oozing from her at any great speed. Trickling, definitely. There was a long, and painful slice down her right arm and a piece of glass embedded in her left hand that made her eyes widen in horror. Shards of glass stuck porcupine-like from her T-shirt, some of them piercing the skin of her breasts, small pinpoints of blood showing through the grubby material.
Using the edge of a chest of drawers to give her support, she struggled to her feet, testing each limb, reassured that all were in working order. It didn’t appear she’d broken anything. But she’d certainly added to her bruise collection.
It was only the glass from the lower sash that she’d broken, the top was still intact. She tried to look on the bright side – at least she’d have no need to open the window, she could simply throw stuff through.
Not with a large piece of glass sticking from her palm though. She stared at it. It hurt like hell and had to come out. There was a small amount of blood pooling around its base, not enough to signify major damage. It would be okay to pull it out, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it? Or would she bleed to death?
Tears came again. She could ring someone. One of her friends. They’d come down, she knew they would. And they’d look after her, sympathise, be there for her. Pity her.
Annoyance with the stupidity of her predicament made her act without further thought. She grasped the piece of glass, shut her eyes, and pulled it out.
Too late, she realised it would have been more sensible to have gone back to her room and taken out a clean towel to wrap around her hand. All she could see to use was the tatty curtain she’d pulled down what seemed like hours before.
Her legs were unsteady as she climbed over the obstacles to leave the room. So much for getting the room cleared; she wasn’t sure when she’d be fit to do any more clearing out. And if she had to get one of Cody’s team to do it, it would slow things down and cost more.
Guessing tears weren’t going to be of much use, she snuffled, and headed into her room to grab some clean clothes and towels.
Down in the kitchen, where she sighed in relief to see the lights still working, she filled a basin with water, stripped off her dirty clothes and used a flannel to wash away the blood and dirt from her skin. Her hand was bleeding, as was her arm, but neither to any great extent. Small cuts on her breast were oozing slightly. Only when she wiped a damp flannel over her face did she realise she’d some cuts there too. Luckily, she wasn’t vain, but it might be best to stay out of the café for a while. The thought of what those waitresses might say if they saw her even more battered and bruised made her giggle, the sound loud and with a trace of mania at the edges.
Of course, she didn’t possess a first aid box. Nor did she have even a simple sticking plaster. When she was up to it, she’d drive to the nearest big town, find a pharmacy and stock up. For the moment, she’d have to improvise with clean towels.
She was crying again by the time she’d managed to tie a makeshift dressing around both her arm and her hand. The clean T-shirt was baggy enough to slip easily over her head, catching the tears and snot and bubbles of blood as she dragged it on. That was as much as she was going to wear.
Weary beyond reason, she forced herself to take something out of the fridge to eat. When the microwave pinged, she took it out, put the hot container on a tray and brought it upstairs to her room.
She sat on a chair in the barely habitable room, every part of her either aching or stinging, cut to pieces, battered and bruised, and as she chewed her way through some barely edible chicken pasta, she finally admitted that she couldn’t do this. She’d made a mistake. A great big fucking unbelievable mistake.
Life had defeated her once again: she couldn’t carry a child to full term, she couldn’t make her dream come true. She was a great big fucking waste of space – worse, a toxic fucking waste of space. She called herself every name she could conjure up, castigating herself for everything that had gone wrong for her, for the country, for the damn world. Tossing the fork on top of her half-finished meal, she screamed in frustration. Loud yells that echoed around the room and bounced off the glass in the windows. It didn’t matter; she could scream all she liked because she was alone. Nobody was going to care.
Defeated, and pathetic? This wasn’t who she used to be. Tears were running down her cheeks. Was she going to give up now after all she’d been through? Using the back of her hand, she swiped away the tears. Hadn’t she already learned that when life and circumstance pushed you down, when it held you squirming in the dust, you did what you could to drag yourself back onto your feet, dust off all the crap and get on with living.
She’d done it before; she’d do it again.
She might be a little pathetic, but she was not defeated.
19
Although she didn’t have any dressings in stock, Cassie did have a supply of painkillers. Taking a combination allowed her to get a few hours’ sleep, waking early morning when the effect had worn off. She lay for a moment with every part of her body hurting. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to waste any more tears, but they came anyway as she struggled from the air mattress. The only way she could manage was to roll onto the floor on her belly and push up from there, every action making her wince.
Once on her feet, she examined her injuries. Blood had seeped through the makeshift dressings on her hand and arm. She peeled them off one at a time, gritting her teeth against the pain. Both were still oozing a little and she used clean towels to wrap them up again.
As soon as Cody and his team arrived, she’d go in search of a pharmacy. The nearest town was only a twenty-minute drive away – she was sure to find one there. It mightn’t be any harm to stock up on some disinfectant as well as dressings. The earlier scratch, courtesy of that blasted bramble, was looking very angry.
Feeling as if she’d aged fifty years, she dressed in the loosest clothes she could find, and went downstairs where not even the lights still burning in the kitchen managed to cheer her up. Nor did the bowl of cereal she forced herself to eat prior to swallowing more painkillers, or the mug of coffee she took outside where the empty skip seemed to taunt her.
Twenty minutes later, with the edge of the pain softened by pills, she went upstairs to the back bedroom. She had one undamaged hand; she might as well put it to some use. Unfortunately, the hand was attached to her shredded arm and after throwing a few small items through the window, she faced the unwelcome reality. Until the wounds healed, or at least till she bought some proper dressings, she was stuck.
Refusing to be seen as a pathetic failure, she went back to her bedroom. With the help of a make-up mirror, she applied some concealer to the bruises and scratches on her face. Since her hair was a few days past needing a wash, she’d have liked to have tied it up in a bun. Impossible with one hand, she resorted to a tight ponytail with the end doubled over. She found a long-sleeved shirt loose enough to cover the towel wrapped around her arm. Everything was a struggle and took far longer than it should. She was just ready when she heard the beep of a car horn.
It would have been nice to have run down the stairs and greet them at the back door with a cheery hello. That wasn’t going to happen. She hobbled down, her good hand gripping the banisters, every foot placed with understandable caution.
Two vans and a car had pulled up and a group of men had gathered. At a quick count there were six of them including Cody.
‘Hi,’ she called drawing their attention. They moved towards her en masse. She felt their eyes sweeping over her, no doubt taking in her bruise collection.
‘Morning,’ Daniel Cody said. He looked as if he wanted to ask what had happened to her. Instead, he nodded towards the skip. ‘I spoke to the hire company. You’ve done well. They said the first two pick-ups were full. Once we get going, this one will soon be too.’
‘I’ve cleared the front bedrooms. I’m using one but I can move as needed. I have the back bedrooms yet to clear.’ It was time to come clean. She lifted her right hand. ‘Unfortunately, I had a bit of an accident yesterday.’ She looked up to the window. ‘As you can see, the glass broke. It slowed me down I’m afraid.’ It had dragged her to a full stop and sent her into a spiral of self-loathing, but he didn’t need to know that. ‘I’m going to drive into Gillingham to get some supplies, so I’ll leave you to it, okay?’
He was looking at her hand and frowning. ‘You sure you’re okay to drive?’
