The Guardian of Secrets and Her Deathly Pact Page 8

  “Well, dear, there’s nothing surprising about a married woman having a child. As I said, it’s the most natural thing in the world. I was never fortunate enough to have a baby. You were the closest thing to a daughter I ever had and now I feel even you’ve gone, as I barely see you now, so be grateful that you’ve got a husband, and a family coming.”

  “I am grateful for everything I have, including you, Mrs Baxter. It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready to be a mother. I miss my father; I wish he were here.”

  She sipped her tea and thought about what she’d just said. Should she be excited? Happy? What was there to be excited and happy about when there would be hell to pay?

  “Of course, dear,” Mrs Baxter said. “I know you must want your father, but I believe that when our loved ones pass from this world, they don’t go far away. They’re always with us, in our hearts and in our minds, and I just know he’s here with you right now, beaming with pride. You just hold on to that.”

  “I will, Mrs Baxter, I will.”

  Joseph sat at the kitchen table, cupping a whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His sullen expression caused Celia to hesitate at the door, for it was obvious to her that he knew she was there, yet he neither spoke nor looked in her direction. Celia’s first thought was that the kitchen was freezing cold and she had nothing ready to feed him; Joseph would not forgive that mortal sin. Why did he have to turn up today of all days, she then thought, walking with hurried steps towards the pantry.

  Joseph’s voice boomed behind her. “Well, woman, where’s my lunch? Why is it so fucking cold in here, and where the fuck have you been until now?”

  Celia stood perfectly still. She kept her head bowed and steeled herself towards the point of no return, for she knew that as soon as she opened her mouth, she was doomed.

  “I’m sorry, Joseph. I had to go to the village.”

  “Why? What for? I told you Friday was shopping day … Didn’t I tell you that? Anyway, what did you have to buy that was so important?”

  “Nothing. I bought nothing.”

  “Then why the fuck did you go?”

  “I had to go.”

  “Celia, just answer the bloody question will you!”

  “Joseph, I am answering your question. I had to go … You see, I had to see the doctor.”

  “A doctor? What for?”

  “Well …”

  “No, don’t bother. I don’t care. I’ll talk to you later about this. Just get my fucking lunch. I’m working my arse off to put food on the table, so the least you can do is get it there on time. What do you do all day? Nothing, that’s what you do; you sit around on your fat arse feeling sorry for yourself. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you think that’s right, eh?”

  Celia took a jar of pickled eggs out of the pantry with a rare scowl on her face. “I work just as hard as you, Joseph, keeping this house clean, making sure you have clean clothes, and walking around all day just to stay out of your way!” she wanted to scream. Instead, she bit her lip, put some bread and cheese onto a plate, and reached for a large bowl of creamed rice sitting on the window ledge.

  She placed the food in front of him, hoping that he’d be satisfied, and walked towards the kitchen door. At this point, she usually left him to eat alone, but today was different. She stood for a moment at the door and watched in disgust as he shoved a whole egg into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks like a squirrel. He bit and chewed open-mouthed, hard yoke escaping through lips coated in saliva, and when he’d swallowed the last of it, he burped loudly. She watched him unseen from the doorway, wondering how she could possibly allow such a man to become the father of her child when the sight of him made her feel sick to the stomach. He ate like an animal and behaved like one too. But the decision had to be made now. She would either tell him about the baby or go to a woman she’d heard about outside the village; a witch some said, the kind of woman who could get rid of unwanted babies.

  She stood a moment longer and then unconsciously glided her hands over the gentle swell of her belly. Sorrow crushed her like weighted guilt; she couldn’t get rid of the life growing inside her. She would have it, love it, and Joseph would be a father whether he or she liked it or not! She took a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen.

  “Joseph, I’m having a baby.”

  Joseph swallowed the last of his third pickled egg and stared at her open-mouthed. For the first time, Celia saw him lost for words and unsure of himself.

  “That’s why I went to the doctor,” she said, taking advantage of his silence. “I’m sorry, but I had to have it confirmed.”

  “You’re pregnant?” Joseph said, not seeming to understanding the words.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “You … you’re pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  When she answered this time, she was more afraid than the last. Joseph faced her now, not with an expression of disbelief on his face but with a hatred that chilled her to the bone.

  Joseph threw down the bread knife that he’d just picked up, knocking the salt pot over and spilling the salt onto the plate of cheese. “How can this be happening to me?” he said. He shook his head as though the gesture would clear it. “I only touched you the once! Once … you evil cow! This is what you wanted all along. You wanted to get pregnant so that I would lose the farm to your brat. Well, let me tell you something. It’s hard enough having to feed and clothe you, so how the fuck do you think I’m going to manage with another mouth to feed!”

  “It takes two to make a baby, and we’re not poor,” Celia said before she could stop herself.

  “Let me be the judge of that. Get rid of it. I don’t want it!”

  “No, I won’t get rid of it. How could you even say that? Just because you hate me doesn’t mean you have to hate your own child.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m having this baby. I won’t kill it just because you find it an inconvenience.”

  “Then don’t think I’m going to pay for it! It’s in your belly so don’t ask me for anything extra. What, am I supposed to be happy? Is that what you thought, that I’d want this? That I’d like you more? Well, I don’t. If you want it, you have it. I hope it kills you in the process!”

  Celia’s hatred, coupled with thoughts of revenge, surfaced. His words had cut like a knife. Thoughts that were usually well hidden threatened to spill out of her mouth. Grief and anger took hold of her tongue, and she found herself without fear and with enough pent-up anger to kill the man in front of her.

  “You’re a pig!” she screamed. “I hate you. I wish you were dead. You did this to me, and it’s just as much your responsibility as it is mine! Do you think I enjoyed it, that I liked you putting your filthy hands on my body? You disgust me, Joseph Dobbs!”

  Joseph moved suddenly, springing from his chair like a wildcat. She covered her face, and he grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her towards him, holding her captive with one hand. She stood as still as a statue, her chin resting on his hand, and watched him drag the bowl of rice towards him. He balanced it on the palm of his hand and she stopped breathing just as he guided her head into it with a quick, painful jerk. Blinded, she continued to hold her breath as her face was pushed deeper and deeper into the lumpy cold liquid. When he finally pulled her out of it, she sucked in some air, along with some rice. She coughed and spat out the rice that had lodged in her throat. She heard him curse her and the baby in a fowl language she never knew existed before throwing her to the floor like a rag doll.

  She lay there dazed and terrified. Joseph lifted the bowl above her head, and she looked up to see the creamy rice slowly tip out of it. The rice felt icy cold as it covered her head and trickled down her breast to rest on her lap. She stared stupidly at the mess and then wiped her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, Celia. These hands will never touch you again, not in that way, not even if you grovel at my feet because you want me. Oh, yes, Celia, I know what it is you want, and you
can forget it! I don’t want to have you again, and I don’t want to have your fucking brat crawling under my feet either. And you answer me like that again and I’ll kill you. Now clean up this mess!”

  She wasn’t hurt, not really. She had spoken out, and she had lived to tell the tale. Her head ached. She lit a fire and then washed her hair. Want him? Desire him? She laughed. The only thing she wanted or desired was to see him dangle at the end of a rope.

  She sat at the table with a cup of hot tea, pondering her future, a future now very different to the one she’d envisaged. Having a baby would change everything. She could not and would not live like this any longer. The thought of her unborn baby growing up with Joseph Dobbs as his or her father didn’t bear thinking about. Something would have to be done now. She’d been such a coward all these months, a weak pathetic creature without an ounce of courage, but now she would have to be strong for the baby’s sake and for her own salvation.

  Chapter 8

  Sergeant Butler walked into the kitchen early one morning, hat in hand and with his sympathetic eyes more tired than usual. He informed Celia that the police were no further on their investigation, adding that the possibility of finding her father’s killer was becoming increasingly remote. He reiterated that there had been gypsies in the area around the time of the murder but also that none were suspects. Farm workers in the area had also been questioned, as had shopkeepers and the drinkers, and the owner of the Goudhurst Arms, but no one had seen or heard anything on the night in question. He also told her that they’d searched for her father’s watch and ring in the nearby pawnshops – the one in Goudhurst and two or three in neighbouring towns – but there was no record of either piece of jewellery being deposited. He concluded that whoever had committed the crime had probably left the county with the items in his pocket. This particular line of investigation had been closed. He was sorry, he told her, but in his opinion, they’d reached a dead end on all fronts.

  Celia’s own suspicions were never voiced, although as the days passed into weeks, she’d become more and more convinced that Joseph had killed her father. She’d searched for her father’s jewellery and for any piece of evidence linking Joseph to the murder. She’d turned the whole house upside down. She’d even dug up all the straw in the barns and had lifted wooden floorboards, but she’d found nothing. All she had was her own gut feeling, and that, she thought sadly, would never be enough to convict Joseph in a court of law.

  “Another whisky!” Joseph shouted, hanging precariously off a bar stool in the Goudhurst Arms.

  Michael Black, known as ‘Blacky’ to his customers, raised his eyes to the heavens in despair and said, “Joseph Dobbs, you’re a man to try the patience of a saint, and you’re crossing a thin line of friendship here. If you weren’t such a good customer, I wouldn’t even have opened the door to you in the first place.”

  “Yes, well, you did so stop fucking complaining and give your best customer another drink, will you?” Joseph slurred drunkenly. He then belched noisily.

  Michael Black dried his hands on a dishcloth and then placed them squarely on top of the bar. “You’ve had enough, Joseph,” he told him. “Go home. It’s Christmas Day, and I’ve got better things to do than sit here listening to your drunken whining. Anyway, poor Celia will have a burnt turkey on her hands if you don’t get a move on. You’re not being fair on her.”

  “Have you tasted my wife’s cooking? It’s fucking shit,” Joseph slurred back.

  “Well, that’s not my problem. I just want you to go, and as I said, I only gave you a drink because it’s Christmas and because you wouldn’t stop banging on my door. I could get into real trouble for this, you know.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Michael. Nobody saw me come in … It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Enjoy it. Go on, have a drink with me.”

  “No, I’m going to enjoy Christmas with my family upstairs. I won’t ask again, Joseph. Here, take the bottle with you if you want. It’s a Christmas present, just as long as you leave.”

  Joseph staggered to his feet and zigzagged across the room, picking up the bottle of whisky on his way out. “I get the message … miserable sod,” he slurred. “But you’re right; I’d better not keep the old woman waiting. Never hear the end of it.”

  Joseph had left the house early that morning and wandered around aimlessly, wondering what to do; to him, Christmas was the most boring day of the year. There were no poker games, and no pubs in the area would give him a decent drink. This year, he had nowhere else to be apart from Merrill Farm.

  He zigzagged again across the road towards his horse, whose reins were tethered on a shop door handle. Thank God, he thought. Thank God he’d turned down Marie Osborne’s offer of Christmas dinner; he couldn’t stand the overbearing old bag. Snotty cow. He’d like to give her one, loosen her up a bit. Celia hadn’t been too pleased, but he’d shut her up quick enough with a clip around the ear. Christ, that woman was driving him to drink!

  He staggered onto his horse, took the reins, and kicked hard. Celia would be waiting for him as usual, her face all screwed up as if she’d been hit by a tram. “Where have you been, Joseph?” she would say when he saw her. He hated her, he hated the farm, and he hated having to report to that stupid lawyer every month, cap in hand, with the farm’s accounts under his arm. He felt like a fucking schoolboy being ordered to the head teacher’s office. Well, he wasn’t going to go to London again, and if Ayres didn’t like it, that’d be his problem.

  His body began to sway in the wind. He took another slug of whisky from the bottle and tried to steady himself. He was beginning to see double now. Trees, bushes, and the ground were dancing, coming closer and closer towards him. He felt himself lean to the side, but he couldn’t right himself. He grabbed the reins but didn’t know where exactly to put them in order to right his body. He felt himself sliding, and his foot fell out of the stirrup. He hung on to the bottom of the saddle with the bottle of whisky still in his hand, slipping again, and he was then trailing underneath the horse’s belly.

  He chuckled after eventually ending up in a heap on the ground. “I’m drunk, and I’ve fallen off my fucking horse,” he chuckled again. “Silly as arseholes I am.”

  He lay on the soft snow looking up at the grey sky, which darted backwards and forwards. Snowflakes fell in confusing undisciplined lines and landed in his eyes quicker than he could blink them away. He turned his head to one side and vomited. The whisky, beer, and bits of digested food flew in the wind and spread over his face. The whisky bottle lay broken and empty on the ground beside him, and he cursed. “What a waste … What a fucking waste!”

  Smelling the alcohol and stench of vomit as soon as the kitchen door opened, Celia felt the usual repulsion. She stood facing Joseph in one of her loveliest dresses, apron on, and with a perfect smile. “Are you ready for your dinner?” she asked him whilst watching him stagger towards the table.

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to try just a little turkey? It’s still warm, and it is Christmas – or have you forgotten that in your drunken stupor!” She threw her hand up to her mouth, desperately trying to cover it before any more words came out. Dear God in heaven, why did she say that? How could she have been so stupid? She wished she could take back the words.

  Joseph thumped his fist down hard on the table, rattling the condiments. His body rocked from side to side, and Celia realised that he probably hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He was mumbling incoherently and taking no notice of her at all. His hands were gripping the edge of the table, holding him up and probably stopping him from falling off the chair. She took a step backwards towards the door, hoping that her departure would go unnoticed. She had never seen him so drunk or so weak-minded. She stared at him again. He was pathetic, she thought. He wasn’t to be feared today, just pitied.

  “Celia, Celia, where the fuck are you?” Joseph’s voice slurred louder this time. “I said I wasn’t hungry … but I didn’t say you could le
ave … Get back here!”

  “What do you want?” Celia asked him, still unafraid.

  “Whisky … Get me whisky.”

  Celia filled a crystal whisky glass right up to the brim, hoping that Joseph would eventually pass out. She handed the glass to him and sat down at the table next to him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to eat. You should eat something, you know,” she said.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Torture, that’s what it is … fucking torture! God, get me out of this place … Fuck sake! How much more … I got to take … She’s going to kill me with her fucking nagging!”

  In a split second, the whisky flew out of his glass and hit Celia in the face. She jumped up from the table, knocking over the chair, and wiped her eyes with the apron. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the stinging liquid had blinded her. Slowly she began to focus her eyes on Joseph’s shadowy figure staggering towards her. She took a step backwards and hit the fallen chair with her foot. Joseph laughed and then giggled like a child. The same laugh had haunted her dreams for so long now. She tried to get past him, and he hit her across the head. She cringed and then covered her face when his arm shot out again. She felt her wrist and arm being squeezed and then twisted up behind her back. She screamed in pain and tried to kick out with her feet. He hit her sharply across the top of her head two or three times and then staggered back into the chair, releasing his grip on her.

  Celia fell backwards, dazed and disoriented. Her body slid down the wall beside the fireplace, her legs underneath her, and she quickly covered her face again, trying to shield herself from his next assault. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, and didn’t cry. She could hear Joseph’s incoherent mumblings and thought that maybe if she sat still enough, and quietly enough, he might forget she was there.