Duty and Delusion Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Shawna Lewis

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1838598 716

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This novel is dedicated to

  the doers of thankless tasks.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Prologue

  Blue, electric icicles dangled from gutters, flashing arrhythmically. Hoar crystals ferned the windows of the drab community building. Tiny flickers of light showed through the roughly-drawn curtains. It was Christmas morning, but only just.

  At the roadside, three police vehicles drew to a halt, one a normal squad car, the others multi-passenger. More than one arrest was anticipated. Resistance was unlikely. Intelligence had been passed from a trustworthy source embedded within the community. Incriminating evidence had already been examined in situ and would be confiscated as part of the raid.

  The officers approached the building, catching faint strains of music as they climbed the steps. There was no other determinable sound, yet a sense of life within. Breath, perhaps. Of the movement of limbs. Snowflakes began to fall.

  The door banged open. Lights blazed.

  “No one move!”

  Male and female officers strode in, spreading out between the sponge yoga mats and tea -lights placed around the floor, frost from their boots dotting the bare boards as skinny young men and plumper women struggled to cover themselves and comprehend what was happening.

  The party was over. Over, too, for the organiser, arrested and soon to be charged, under Section 53 of the Sexual Offences Act 2003, with running a brothel and recruiting others into prostitution for her own gain.

  Not a very festive turn of events.

  The participants were given time to dress before being led, shamefaced, down the icy steps and into the vans. The brothel-keeper was handcuffed and shown to the car. Those in custody, including a Country and Western singer fresh from a gig at the Working Men’s Club round the corner, were exhorted to join in with the officers’ hearty rendition of “Dashing through the snow…” broadcast countywide on the police radio frequency. The remarkable nasal twang of the lead singer was given more air time than he had ever dreamed of.

  The lads were let off with cautions. The women, mothers and grandmothers some of them, would receive further, non-custodial attention. The Madam pleaded her case: that she was fulfilling a demand; offering an ancillary service to the regular keep-fit classes she ran in the hall; creating an earning opportunity for women in this area of low employment. She argued compliance with the hall’s constitution by providing tuition which benefitted the community.Testimony from those entrusted with managing the building, however, confirmed that the night-time partner-work sessions were un-booked, unpaid-for and most certainly unauthorised by the committee.

  Marina Thorne was sent to prison for one year and one month.

  1

  Between the wardrobe and the foot of the bed there was just enough space to do it; where the pile of the yellowing carpet had been flattened by years of footfall, vacuuming and a fair bit of rolling around. One advantage of this flattening was that she no longer got fluff in her nooks and crannies.

  There was plenty of room for stretching out lengthways if she flicked the wastepaper basket onto the landing with an extended toe. Lateral extension was trickier: too sudden a move and she’d crack her head on a sharp corner or be skewered by the key of the ‘secret’ under-bed drawer, hidden by the faded valance.

  Lying flat, with her back to the carpet, she felt that one lone floorboard which had never quite lain flat over the copper pipework beneath. The pile of the carpet softened the sharpness of the ridge but she was always aware … always aware. But then, life is full of uncomfortable obtrusions, isn’t it? She tried to bear them stoically, aware that, however miserable she sometimes felt, there were millions of others who would rejoice in such tepid emptiness.

  She liked to begin gently; kinetic; beat by beat; moving towards the transcendental rush that made her gasp for air. She always remembered, now, to keep her eyes shut. Once a woman has given birth, it doesn’t do to come upon your intimate reflection in a dusty wardrobe mirror. There are some things it’s better never to think about or look upon.She had never been one who thought ‘the more the merrier’. To her, this was a private ritual, almost religious – heavenly at times, for sure. It held her life in place as surely as a silken cocoon shrouded the larva within, protecting those she protected. It enabled her to shelter, to support, to love. To shrink, unnoticed.

  Only when it was over, this day, did her ears open to the clatter of the window-cleaner’s ladder as he struggled it through the side gate. Had the bedroom window already been done? Had he been a witness?

  A polite tap on the front door signalled that the man was expecting payment. Leaping up she grabbed her husband’s flung-aside trousers, scattering loose change across the carpet. She scrabbled around – 50p, a £2 coin, 20p – not enough to pay the man. No good shouting down for Doug to fork out: he was already on his way to work. She’d heard the rev of his van’s engine before she’d got her breath back.

  What if she went down as she was and answered the door smiling enigmatically? What if she told him she couldn’t get her hands on any cash, today?

  He wasn’t bad to look at – always a grin and a cheeky wink. Maybe if she ditched the motherly air he’d find a way of letting her off the eight quid. He’d already had his money’s worth, perhaps.

  She would just have to brazen it out. Sleeking her hair into place with her left hand, with her right she reached for her dressing gown. By the time she opened the front door she was almost decent.

  Breathlessly: “Hi! I’m… er… I’m afraid I haven’t got any cash today.”

  “I’ve got change! He rattled his pocket. “Or – I can come back later…?”

  Was that a glint in his eye? His eyes went to his wrist, glance resting just a microsecond on her half-exposed thigh. Their eyes connected momentarily and Be
linda froze.

  “Never mind, love. Give me it next time.”

  With his trademark wink he turned on his heel and whistled his way back down the path, bucket bouncing off the ladder. By the time Belinda found her voice, the gate had clicked behind him. She closed the door, turning the key in the lock to be sure. The new woman next door was younger, more athletic and quite forward…

  *

  Thinking back later, she realised that the interruption had come before she’d reached the experiment. The plan she’d been working towards, the one that was to change her life, had never been given voice. And it was to be all about voice. This had been the day, the day of the first utterance, but it had not happened. Yet, incredibly, even without utterance, the plan had provoked change: brazenness.

  OK, so the window-cleaner had not noticed her brazenness, but for her it had been the first leap into her new self, the start of a work in progress. It had nearly worked, the chance of delivery following hard on the heels of conception, with no gestation period. Therein lay danger – but what if it was too late to backtrack?

  A fine, silky thread tickled her arm. If she pulled it, the golden cuff of her wrap, Doug’s gift, would unravel. She dare not pull the thread…yet.

  To care for; to compromise; to take responsibility; to endure. These had always been her options. “A Guide smiles and sings under all difficulties”: one of the defining maxims of her childhood, and one which she had failed, always, to live up to. Known as a crybaby, the question for Belinda had ever been, “Why isn’t everyone else crying too?”The window cleaner had responded as she’d expected: “Never mind, love. Give me it next time. Don’t catch cold.” This is what she’d remembered.

  Belinda Lowe (Mrs) had found herself disappointed but not surprised. No man would ever try to take advantage of her in that way, even when she laid it on a plate. They all knew her, you see. And anyway, how would she ever have faced him again?

  Did she feel spurned by the window-cleaner’s rebuff? No. Maybe she should. Maybe she should get her own back. She knew his wife by sight … but to cast aspersions would be an unkind thing to do, and Belinda had not been brought up to be unkind. Sometimes, she thought, life must be easier if you had. If you allowed yourself to hurt others, maybe they would take more notice; would do their share; not take for granted that whatever needed doing would be done by someone else.

  The water in the bath ran as hot as she could stand it. Eyes closed, she exhaled sparingly until her breathing slowed. On the in-breath, she filled every lung crevice to bursting point. With the controlled exhalation, unbidden, came the Ohmmm nasal in her head, her pharynx, tingling her soft palate. On the third breath she made the change which began the experiment.

  The sibilance at the start was easy: pushing the rest of the syllable up into her head took effort. Self is such a short word, easily missed, difficult to hum, but she persevered until it came out with a nasal quality. With practice, she felt, it might work, but it would not be enough on its own.

  If Belinda was to disappear, something stronger would be needed.

  *

  Over time she experimented with different sounds and words. Vile worked particularly well, but other suitable vocabulary did not quickly spring to mind. Duty drove her daily round, as before. The idea of the experiment faded. When the window-cleaner next visited, a month later, she remembered to pay him but almost forgot to be embarrassed – though she did wonder why he’d brought a helper with him this time, an assistant who stared leeringly up the stairs while she was paying.

  She couldn’t help turning to see what he was looking at and in doing so, let the coins fall from her hand. The bearded assistant bent first to pick them up. She noticed he had black hairs on the back of his hands before the bilious, two-handed touch as he placed the money in her upturned palm. Doug was not a hairy man.

  After closing the door, she climbed up thoughtfully, prompted to recover the experiment from the back of her mind. If only she’d had someone to discuss it with, to bounce ideas back and forth. She had women friends, but they were all busy and it was hard to find time to meet up. Maybe she needed advice on how to do it. Were there self-help books, she wondered? She stripped off her clothes and lay down on the carpet. The ridge of the raised floorboard was discomforting.

  ‘That’s like me,’she thought. ‘Slightly annoying but does the job.’

  Not worth sorting out, just something you’d prefer not to be there. That was almost certainly how Doug felt about her, though he never said.

  Soon they’d have been married for twenty years, but there had been no mention of a celebration. Not like Diane, whose husband Alan had booked a world cruise for their Silver Wedding. Diane, secretary of the village hall, had been a committee colleague for years. As with Belinda’s other friends, the closeness had weakened as women re-embarked on careers, were laden with grandchild-minding duties or husbands took early retirement. Life had become lonely, though she was rarely alone for long.

  No, there would be no world cruise for Belinda and Doug; the most she could hope for was a long weekend in the caravan somewhere. She’d bet her bottom dollar on Doug suggesting Appletreewick as a change from Pateley Bridge, to make it special.

  Not that she’d complain, of course. They had no money for world cruises and anyway, who would look after Mum and Dad? They were fond of Doug and he never complained about the hours she spent with them. As long as his tea was ready when he came home from work, there were clean clothes in the wardrobe and he could go to the match every Saturday, Doug was sound. He didn’t ask for much, everyone agreed.

  On her back, she shuffled herself along a little to a place where the carpet pile was thicker over the ridge, and began to slow her breathing, readying herself. A new technique involved simple leg-lifts. On the upward move she would inhale to the word not, then very slowly lower the stretched limb, exhaling, to the word nice. She did forty with little effort and knew that it was too tame. She didn’t want to be not nice. Bel wanted to be nasty. It was so difficult to change one’s personality, yet she must change or go under, for sure.

  Rolling over onto her stomach, she felt a sharp stab from the carpet. Her fingers rummaged in the compressed pile until she found the cause: bloody Doug’s toenail clippings – big toe again, by the look of it. Why did he do this? Why was picking up his detritus her responsibility? Had he always been so thoughtless? It would be easy to blame his mother, but Belinda had a son of her own and was reluctant to take the blame for his shortcomings, so her mother-in-law must be absolved.

  The stabbing nail had given her pause for thought. How much better to be a sharp pain than a minor irritation! Working up some speed in her movements, she found herself punching the air to the refrain, “Hit! Hurt! Punch! Pain!” Perhaps if she began with the physical it would be easier to move on to the emotional, psychological and unlawful. That’s where the real power would lie.

  The phone rang. Someone wanting to make a booking for the hall: a kids’ party a week on Saturday, 1p.m. till 4. She asked if it was OK to hire a bouncy castle for the event. Bel explained, as was her duty, the need for the bouncy castle proprietor to have his own Public Liability Insurance and to show the PAT test certificates relating to his equipment. God, she was bored of saying this.

  She took the booking and agreed to show the hirer round the hall … NOW!

  The woman, Candy Dunne, had been insistent. It was her four-year-old’s first proper birthday party and she wanted to be sure everything was just right. Candy had taken a few hours off work (she was a ‘P.A.’) to make all the arrangements. Her time was so precious. Candy’s brain was innocent of the notion that the person whose number she’d got from the village notice board might, actually, have a life. That it might not be convenient just now. You could tell by her voice that she would never ask; would just assume that ‘that woman from ’village hall’ had nothing better to do than Candy’s bidding.

>   Having done just that, Bel reached the hall panting hard, keys rattling in her hand. The glossily-groomed young woman sat impatiently in her car, parked facing the ‘Please use the car park at the rear’ sign on the front of the building. Bel’s hackles rose higher as she forced a smile and led the visitor up the six concrete steps and through the blue front door.

  Candy peered round, making little comment, though Bel knew she’d spotted the single cobweb which dangled from the metal roof girders, too high to reach without a scaffolding tower. Having paced the space, she decided that yes, one of the smaller bouncy castles would fit. She would go ahead and book it. Her blonde hair gleamed as she flicked open her smart-phone and started to talk into it while her eyes rested, unfocussed, on Bel, who, it seemed, was both inconsequential and invisible.

  A garbled conversation later, Belinda once more had Candy’s attention. The mother explained that her little boy, Job, deserved the party and the bouncy castle. He was such a star! Her blue eyes widened, as if surprised that his stardom had not yet made its mark on that woman from ’library who, it turned out, was also that woman from ’village hall.

  Bel’s attention froze as she imagined the child’s name in a school register. Job Dunne! Surely not?

  “We’re having grown-ups at ’party too. All my family are coming, and Tyson’s. And I’m going to invite everyone in Job’s class at nursery.”

  “Mmm … Nice,” murmured Bel.

  “I think I’ll ask ’teachers too. Job’s … well, he’s so special they all love him. They wain’t want to miss his big day.”

  “Has he been poorly?” asked Bel politely. What was so special about this child?

  “Oh, no! He’s fine. Just really, really bright, and so lively `e runs `em ragged. `E’s got enough energy for a classful,” she giggled. Candy believed in building a lively child and was proud of her darling’s hyper-activity, so amply supported by fizzy energy drinks and food additives.