Love Hurts

"I think I'll go for a little drive now, Marti. I'll be home in time for supper. I fancy grilled cheese on toast. You'll have it ready, won't you? We can eat together and talk about our day." Moments later I heard the front door closing, followed by the sound of his car being driven away.

I sat slumped against one of the floor cupboards, dazed and feeling sick. When I felt able, I crawled to a chair and used it to pull myself up then held a kitchen towel to my face. It was quickly soaked in blood. In the bathroom I looked into a mirror to assess the damage. My nose was swollen badly and pouring blood but thankfully it didn't seem to be broken. There was one huge bruise across my forehead and by morning I would have two black eyes. Perhaps I should have called the police then but I wasn't thinking too straight. After managing to staunch the blood, a long job, I went round the house making sure that all the doors and windows were locked and went to bed, arming myself with a large kitchen knife. I lay awake for a long time but eventually slipped into an uneasy sleep.

It was dark when I was awoken by a pounding on the front door. My face felt stiff and painful. One of my eyes was almost closed but I was able to see out of the other. The bedside clock showed 3:45. The pounding continued so I unlocked the window and shouted down: "Go away, Paul! Go away or I'll call the police!"

A woman's voice answered me. "This is the police, Mrs Chadwick. PCs Archer and Morris. Please let us in. We have a Mr Chadwick with us."

That decided me. I was going to have the bastard arrested and charged. When I opened the front door, the first person into the house wasn't Paul but Harry Chadwick. He saw my face and blurted: "My God, Marti, what happened to you?"

"Your fucking son, that's what happened to me!" I replied bitterly.

"Paul did this to you? I know he's odd but he's never been violent to my knowledge."

"First time for everything, Harry. He's started now." I pointed to my face. "Here's your evidence."

Harry put an arm around me. "Let's go and sit down." Followed by the two police officers, he guided me into the sitting room and carefully lowered me onto the sofa, sitting down beside me. The woman officer, the one who'd called out to me, was middle-aged and competent looking. I think her partner must have been a probationer for he was young and fresh-faced and looked both apprehensive and unhappy.

"I'm PC Archer, Mrs Chadwick," the woman said, "As soon as I've told you why we're here I think we'd better get you to hospital, have you checked over."

I was in no mood to appreciate her concern nor did I wonder why Harry was here with the police. "All I want is for you to arrest my fucking husband the minute he walks in. Lock him up and throw the key away. He's not normal."

Constable Archer started to speak but Harry raised a hand to stop her before putting a gentle hand on mine. "Marti, Paul's dead."

* * * * *

Paul had crashed his car—it happened on a quiet stretch of road and no other vehicles were involved. He had an argument with a massive old tree and the tree won. There were no witnesses to the actual collision so there was a certain amount of speculation but it looked as if Paul had been speeding. One certainty was that he hadn't been wearing his seat-belt.

At the inquest, an expert witness confirmed that prior to the accident the car had been in sound mechanical condition. The autopsy showed that Paul was three times over the drink-drive limit and there were traces of cocaine in his blood. Returning a verdict of accidental death, the coroner gave a short homily on the dangers of drink- and drug-driving and hoped that others would take heed of this tragedy. He extended his sympathy to the deceased's family, especially the grieving widow. If only he knew. The inquest had been held some months after the accident and my beating by Paul had not come into the evidence.

There was one bizarre incident at the inquest. While the pathologist was given his evidence about the drink and drugs, Phyllis Chadwick jumped up screaming: "That's a lie! Paul was a good boy!" She pointed to me. "That bitch killed my baby boy! She fixed his car! She poured the drink into him! Arrest the murdering bitch!"

She had complete breakdown and was hospitalised for several months.

I was surprised to learn that Paul had made a will. I wasn't surprised to learn that he left everything he owned to his mother.

I couldn't care less. I was free.

* * * * *

Following the inquest, I stuck around for a couple of months and then it was goodbye time. I had to get away from this house, away from the city, just see where wandering took me. I'd be travelling light so I packed some changes of clothing in a rucksack along with a sleeping bag and essential toiletries. The rest of my wardrobe went to a charity shop and that was it. I checked up on Mickey and was pleased to find him doing well. He'd met a nice girl in the Salvation Army and they were getting married. He was settled and that was one worry off my mind. But my conscience never allowed me to forget what I'd done to Niamh.

Late in the evening before I intended to set off, the door-bell rang. I tried ignoring it but my unwanted visitor persisted and so mumbling curses I wrenched the front door open.

"Hello, Marti, can I come in?" It was Harry Chadwick, looking old and weary and drawn.

I shrugged and stood aside. "It's your house, you can do what you want." Ungracious but I didn't feel kindly disposed towards the Chadwicks.

He gave me an odd look then noticed my rucksack by the door. "You going somewhere?"

"Yes, I'm getting the hell out of this place. Maybe I'll get rid of bad memories in time. You can have your house back now. I'm finished with it."

Again the odd look, then he gestured to the living room. "Can we go and sit down, Marti? My old brain works better when I'm comfortable."

I gave him a grudging nod. When we were settled, Harry asked: "First, you may be glad to hear that Phyllis now accepts that you weren't responsible for Paul's death. Then again, I suppose you couldn't care less what she thinks. I wouldn't blame you." He shrugged. "Why did you marry my son, Marti? It never seemed to me that you loved him. I told you at the time the whole business felt wrong to me."

Well, he might as well hear the truth about Paul. I'm sure Phyllis Chadwick would have called me a liar, regardless of her newly-found belief in my innocence. Whether or not Harry believed me didn't matter a damn. "He blackmailed me. The bastard threatened to destroy the life of someone I was very fond of. More than that, he threatened to have some tame thugs rape and cripple her. Sounded as if he meant it. Didn't give me a whole lot of choice—I wasn't prepared to take the risk."

Harry sighed. "I was afraid it might be something like that although I didn't expect it to be so bad. I'm so sorry, Marti. I blame myself."

"Why? You weren't responsible for his actions—he was a grown man. Trouble was, he'd just grown up the wrong way."

"I could have been more of a father." The old man took out his pipe and sucked on it as if for comfort. "Sometimes I wonder if he really was mine. You probably noticed that he didn't look much like either of us. Still, that's history now.

"Anyway, as you know, my wife is much younger than I am. I was always so tied up with the businesses, times I was hardly ever home, and she indulged him from the time he was a toddler. He'd get fixed ideas on wanting something and whatever Paul wanted, Paul got. And usually once he'd got it, he'd lose interest and discard it. It seemed to be more about possession than genuine need. I reckon you were just another of his fixed ideas, his 'wants'. If I'd been around more, perhaps he'd have been different."

"Doubt it," I said, " You thought he had undiagnosed Asperger's. Maybe, some of the signs were there, but I wouldn't bet on it. I reckon he was simply born bad—sociopathic even. Makes no odds now, anyhow. He's dead and... I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm not mourning him. I'm not even calling myself Chadwick any more—I'm Marti Howard again. Whatever, I'll be gone in the morning then you can take your house back."

Harry Chadwick filled his pipe from an old leather pouch, struck a match and lit it. "Marti, it's not my house, it's yours. I half-expected things to go badly—hoped they wouldn't but almost certain they would—I made sure the house was in your name so you'd have something to fall back on. You're the legal owner, Marti."

"So?" I said. It was obvious the old man had a good heart and wanted to help me but I wasn't feeling much in the way of gratitude. "I'm still on my way—nothing to hold me here."

"Where do you intend going, Marti?"

"Don't know... here... there... everywhere..."

"And how are you off for money?"

"I've got some in my bank account, enough for a while. And I should be able to get odd jobs—most places need washers-up and cleaners, the like... I'm not proud so I'll get by."

Harry's pipe had gone out so he struck another match. "I've got a suggestion, Marti," he said, drawing heavily on the pipe and releasing clouds of fragrant smoke, "We'll put this place in the hands of a good letting agent I know and he can liaise with my accountant. Rent the house out on short leases, say six months at a time. They'll retain enough to cover your taxes and their fees and pay the remainder into your bank account monthly. That'll give you a bit of security. All you need do is keep the agent informed of where you are in case we need to get in touch with you in a hurry. How about it?"

He looked at me as if appealing for agreement. Relenting, I went to the old fellow and gave him a hug. "Yes, thanks. You're a good man, Harry Chadwick," I told him.

I knew that I'd be taking Harry on trust but instinct told me my affairs would be safe in his hands. Having given him details of my bank account, I left the city the following morning to start my travels. I worked my way northwards, at times staying in a place no more than a couple of days, at others staying several months. I travelled by bus and by coach and by train and by hitching lifts. I slept in bed-and-breakfast places, in hostels, a few times even on park benches. I did odd jobs, ranging from the mildly pleasant to the downright horrible. It didn't matter where I went, though, or what I did, I couldn't shed my shame and guilt about the way I'd been forced to treat Niamh. Eventually, hopping from one place to another, I found myself in Carlisle and from there it was just a step across the border into Scotland. Going via Dumfries and Kilmarnock I soon arrived in Glasgow.

Between times

In Glasgow I got a job in a burger bar, not one of the big chains but a sleazy little back street joint surrounded by pubs and down-at-heel businesses. I only worked there—I wouldn't have eaten in the place for a fortune, it was that grotty. Whatever, the owner was a mean-mouthed, surly little specimen and I only lasted a couple of weeks.

His son took a fancy to me from my first day there, constantly pestering me for a date, not flattering even if I hadn't been gay. As well as being several years younger than me, he was overweight and spotty and not too particular about personal hygiene. One evening the shop was filled with customers eager for their daily fix of deep-fried heart attack and, playing to the audience, the little creep came up behind me, throwing his arms around me, one hand clutching a breast, the other grabbing at my crotch. At the same time he thrust his groin several times into my buttocks, sniggering while he did it. I don't think he saw the punch that blacked his eye and dumped him on his fat arse. He stopped sniggering.

There was a scattering of applause and ragged cheers from the customers. "Cripes!" I heard someone say, "Tha' lassie's got a mean right hook!"

The boss came at me screaming: "Right yew! Tha's assault an' battery, tha' is! Stay there! Ah'm callin' the polis!"

"Call the police," I invited him, "I've got at least a dozen witnesses who saw him sexually assault me. He'll probably get about six months inside for that. And I've heard other prisoners can be pretty rough on sex offenders."

He mulled this over. "Okay, no polis. Now gerroot! Yer fired!"

I held out a hand. "I'll go as soon as you pay me my wages."

"Ye'll get nothin' frae me."

"Gi' the lassie her wages, ye tight-arsed bastard!" a customer bawled. There was a chorus of "Ayes!"

Muttering, the owner pulled out his wallet, extracted some notes and grudgingly slapped them into my hand. I kept my hand out.

"Whit now?"

"Another week's pay in lieu of notice..."

I thought it safer to leave Glasgow after that—for all I knew, Surly and Son might have some nasty friends—so I packed hurriedly, caught the night bus to Edinburgh and found a room in a nice little bed and breakfast place. I got lucky with work too, landing a job in a casino as part-time cocktail waitress, part-time hat-check girl, and I stayed for about six months. The hours were long but pay was good, the tips were better and I could even put up with the clients who wanted to flirt and hold my hand while tipping me. Most of them were harmless and those who thought they stood a chance with me were generally good-natured enough to accept a gentle brush-off. Truth be told, I did succumb to a number of attractive middle-aged women who made a pass at me. All were married I believe, but either bi- or they just wanted a taste of what life was like on the other side of the street. I never objected to a night of unconditional sex in a luxury hotel and these encounters kept libido and pussy happy. And I like to think my partners left in the mornings with satisfied smiles. I only turned one down and that because her husband liked to watch and then indulge in a spot of caning afterwards. I'm not into that kind of thing.

Despite all that had happened on my travels though, despite the distance of time and place between us, I still suffered gut-wrenching pain over the distress, even anguish, I had caused Niamh. There were many occasions when alone in my room at night I became melancholic and shed tears over her. Yet when I thought about it I sometimes wondered if, in the long term, it hadn't been for the best. Our backgrounds had been so different that it might not have lasted. I hoped that Niamh had been able to find somebody better than me, someone who could give her the lasting love she deserved.

The year was drawing on towards autumn when I saw a newspaper article about the imminent skiing season in Aviemore. It noted that the numerous hotels and lodging houses always had vacancies for staff and people were invited to turn up and apply, they'd be sure to find somewhere.

I'd heard of the ski resort at Aviemore but wasn't sure where it was so I borrowed an atlas from my landlady. Aviemore was in the Highlands, lying towards the north of Speyside, a valley which fell between three lots of mountains, the Cairngorms and Grampians to one side, the Monadhlaiths to the other. It looked as if all the towns and villages along the valley were small and surrounded by open country and it would be a pleasant change to get away from cities for a while. When I left the casino, my boss there gave me a decent bonus "...to help you on your way, Marti. Come back anytime you need a job, you were very popular..." he winked "...especially wi' the ladies..."

I could have gone to Aviemore by train but decided to hitch to see some of the countryside—by road it was about a hundred-odd miles. Again I struck lucky. A fellow guest in the b&b, a gentle-faced elderly woman, said that she'd be able to drive me a good part of the way, as it turned out some eighty miles. She stopped the car at a crossroads on the edge of a village. "This is where I turn off, dear," she said. Pointing ahead she added: "Yon's Glenverie, you should be able to get a bus to Aviemore from here."

* * * * *

The weather didn't look too promising. For all that it was only mid-afternoon, it was getting dark and the sky was heavy with ominous clouds. Scottish weather tends to be on the unpredictable side. Glenverie appeared small, comprising a single street with several small side roads off. A few minutes walk and I found a bus stop. I had hoped that the stop would have a timetable attached but of course it didn't. I noticed a police Land Rover parked a little way along the road, outside a police station, so I went in there to make enquiries.

The sergeant at the desk was a big solid-looking man with a ruddy face and a neatly-clipped moustache. "Hello, Miss, what can I do for you?"

"Could you tell me the time of the next bus to Aviemore, please?"

"I'm afraid you've missed one, couple of hours back."

"When's the next bus?"

"Aye, now let's see." He rubbed a square chin. "This is Tuesday... Friday morning the next one."

I'd heard tales of the infrequent late-year bus services in parts of Scotland but I'd never really believed them. Until now that is. "Is there a hotel or something where I can put up for the night?"

He shook his head. "Our only hotel closed down when the owner retired and nobody's bought it yet. Tell you what, Miss, there's a small inn about three miles from here, run by a nice woman called Alison Richie. It's a bit off the beaten track but I'm sure Alison would give you a room for the night."

"Thanks. How do I get there?"

He smiled. "I'd hate for my own daughter to be out on the road with it getting dark. It's quiet enough here at the moment, I'll give you a lift in our Land Rover. Greg—" he shouted towards a back room, "—I'll be away for about half-hour. Look after the desk, will ye?"

"Aye, Sarge," the hidden Greg called back.

We'd not gone very far when the Land Rover's radio crackled. "Can ye get back here fast, Sarge, there's been a multi-car pile up on the A9. Looks really bad, ambulances are on their way."

"Sorry, lass," the sergeant said, "I'll have to deal with this." He drove another few hundred yards to draw up next to a side road then stopped the vehicle to let me out. He pointed. "Couple of miles up here you'll see the Lochverie Inn, it's on outskirts of a wee hamlet called Lochverie. My name's Ian Moore—tell Alison I sent you and she'll see you right." With a little wave, he turned the Land Rover and headed back towards Glenverie.

By now the clouds were low and black and I hadn't gone very far when it started to rain, though perhaps rain isn't quite the right word. It was a thick heavy drizzle of the kind which soaks you through fast and thoroughly. The further I went up the road, the steeper it became and although I'm quite fit the combination of road and awful weather was enervating. By the time I saw the lights of the Lochverie Inn I was footsore, wet and chilled and utterly miserable, beginning to regret leaving my comfortable billet in Edinburgh.

The front door led me straight into a bar where I could hear murmurs of conversation. A number of middle-aged and elderly men were sitting around with various drinks in front of them and it was almost like a scene from a Western film: as I pushed through the doorway silence fell, heads turned and eyes stared at me. Then someone said: "Welcome, young lady, but ye've picked a bad night to be out."

The speaker, a stocky man in a tweed suit, was sitting at the bar. He added: "Why, lassie, you're soaked. I'm Doctor Logan, for my sins the GP in this benighted place. My prescription is a glass of good malt whisky to ward off the cold, say a Glenlivet or Glenmorangie,."

"Thanks, doctor, but I don't drink. I'm teetotal." I could almost feel a sense of shock among the customers. Most looked bewildered at such blasphemy—a couple of centuries earlier and they'd have likely dragged me out to the nearest hanging tree.