Hell Hath no Fury

The sky was clear, the sun was out. It had started as one of those glorious early spring mornings when Frank felt particularly glad to be alive, his red-blood raced at the thought of today’s outing. Frank was a man satisfied with life. He had been spurred on despite the chill wind by the thought of the warming Valentine’s day embrace of “The Anchor’s” new barmaid. He banished thoughts of explaining last night’s absence to his wife, Helen. He would be able to win her over as usual. He saw only the bright blue skies of the morning. They filled his head with a sense of promise before the pain struck and his grip loosened on the handlebars.

Frank lay there at the roadside. The road was quiet. His chest was tight, a film of sweat covered his smooth yet grey face, he was alone and he was dying. As his handsome profile twisted and his head knocked against the pristine, shiny aluminium frame, he grimaced - the hand-built wheels he had laboured over were out of true. “My lady love” he whispered and lost consciousness.

Helen was pacing around her studio. She prowled in front of her latest landscape and stabbed it with her favourite brush
“I hate you Frank Clayton, hate you, hate you! Just don’t even think about coming home again, and especially not today!”
She pulled her heavily laden brush over the vast canvas and black clouds formed. She daubed thick layers of red over the scene and stood back. She had been expecting him home yesterday. She had felt the familiar panic of his absence. “Maybe he has had an accident” until by early morning she knew she would not see him again for some days. He would be home when he had tired of his latest plaything. She did not want him at home but could not bear that this was beyond her control. “Man of fucking mystery!” she spat. Irritation poured out of her. She paused as the emotion sparked a memory of how things used to be when her hold over him had excluded anyone or anything else.

“That’s an interesting take on an otherwise beautiful scene”
Her thick dark brows rose as she swung round wondering if this smooth but arrogant voice was addressing her. She left her painting and saw her Frank for the first time
“How about I show you how I see it, lady love?” he purred…
That was their first afternoon together, teenagers, who were surprised by their sudden fierce passion. Frank Clayton cocksure but already with a reputation as trouble and she a powerful and creative force raring to be challenged. They were married within a year and their bond made them feel bewitched, safe, held together by the strong magnet of their love.

Helen’s eyes blurred. How she had loved him and how deep the first betrayal had felt.

“Where have you been this time?”
“It takes a lot of time and energy to build a successful business”
“Day AND night?”
“You sit here in this studio day AND night, what’s the difference?” “I need company, stimulation, someone to bounce off; you’re so difficult and moody”
“Right… Yes…that’s just it isn’t it…it’s female company”
“So…it doesn’t mean anything, you know you will always be my one and only lady love and I am your muse, my darling, my darling Helen”
Their lips met, his strong yet infinitely tender hands held her face to his and dispatched her anger. She met him hungrily, putting the betrayal to one side. He loved her.

But the dalliances continued and for many years Helen let him stray, shrivelling inside yet fiercely defending her marriage. She hated herself for still caring. Maybe it was time to think of divorce.

She caught sight of her reflection in the window,
“Not bad, Helen, you’re still a striking and very lovable woman” she crowed “Medusa eyes, those wild, dark curls, what a picture!”
Her face lit up, her chestnut eyes twinkled and she came alive when she smiled and Frank had always made her smile a lot. More recently she had found that others could make her smile too. She wrapped her arms around herself and grinned.
“On with the day” she sighed pushing open the heavy door her breath catching in the cold, clear air as she took in the sharp colours of the morning.

Jayne sat by the window. Her chestnut hair glinted like a knife against the intense low morning sun. Her face warmed behind the glass and she half-closed her eyes enjoying the soporific feeling. She leant back in the carefully upholstered armchair and let herself settle comfortably, her long legs tucked beneath her. She held her cup and let the strong coffee aroma tease her senses. Life felt good. She had a great job, a partner who made her heart sing and fascinating travels to the places she had whiled away her adolescence dreaming about. People had always felt awkward and uncomfortable around her – her precise nature and fastidiousness irked many. But Jayne’s emerald green eyes hid secrets. She was in love, not just any sort of love- the once in a lifetime, bolt of lightning stuff to scream from the mountain tops. This was virgin territory for Jayne.

As a child, she had always felt the misfit. She had had never been interested in parties and make-up. Boys just bored her. It was other things that fired her imagination. She remembered vividly her first trips abroad, the airports, the ferries, the exotic smells, the chaos, the changing landscapes and architecture, it threatened to overwhelm her senses. Her spirits soared whenever she travelled.

She was distracted by a hesitant knock on her hotel room door.

“Madame Clayton…Madame Clayton….”

Her carefully drawn eyebrows arched. Nobody had expected her to take her partner’s name.

Jayne was filled with the usual trepidation as she took delivery of her next project. Her heart raced as she began to think about this portfolio and the preparations needed for the trade delegation next month. She was due back in London later and then on to Oxford and her darling valentine.

She nervously picked up her silk blouses. Her deft manicured hands briskly wrapped them within pristine cream tissue paper. She reached for the tidy pile of freshly laundered lingerie and placed it on the top of the small black Louis Vuitton suitcase. Perfect! She sprayed herself with her hallmark scent imported from San Francisco, checked her crocodile handbag for her travel documents and closed the clasp on her case. Marcel would carry it down to Reception. She slipped her stockinged legs into her flawless suede boots, pursed her lips at the mirror and set off.

The shop was busy. The bright, sunny day lulled the locals into that false sense of early spring security that every day would be such! Old bicycles were dusted off and brought in for servicing and customers were transfixed, looking longingly at the spectacle of new bikes in all their array of colours, styles and weights opening new worlds of possibility. This was life in Claytons Cycles.

“How can I help?” asked Rick as he tried to balance two possible purchasers. He smiled as he showed them the new season’s range of bikes.

The phone rang in the rear office. Stu pushed aside the unsteady pile of catalogues and price-lists that seemed to be building up on the desk and grabbed the receiver. He was fed up. He had fancied a day out on his bike but Frank had once again left him in charge with no warning. He had been thrilled when offered the manager’s job some months ago but was now realising that his position was merely a sweetener to carry the can. Frank could be a real charmer, especially with the ladies but he could also be an intimidating bully. A now regular irritation for all the staff was covering Frank’s back by dealing with an endless round of female callers trying to find Frank. He lifted the phone wondering whether this would be the timid one or the husky voiced new caller.

“Claytons Cycles”
“Mr Clayton?” a male voice questioned
“I’m afraid he is out of the shop today, I am Stu Peterson the manager, can I help?”
“Thames Valley Police here” came the authoritative voice “we have an incident we believe you may be able to help us with. Is it correct that you hold the dealership for Shadow Bicycles.”
“Yes, we are the only agent in Oxfordshire”
“In that case Mr…..Mr Peterson, I will be sending car to collect you, we urgently need you to look at a bike to see if you can tell if it came from your shop.”
Stu felt apprehensive. Frank hated his manager leaving the staff unsupervised and hated not to be consulted but Stu was curious, Frank was unavailable and Stu knew that when the car arrived he would have to accompany the officers.


Jayne stalked through Gare du Nord, trying to shake off the stench of ammonia that seeped from the Metro entrance. She swept up the familiar steps to the Eurostar terminal and quickly dispatched the station porter with her considered tip. She passed through passport control into the emptying waiting area. She was on the home strait, down the escalators and onto the waiting train. Within minutes she was on her way back to England.

Jayne let herself relax into her soft leather seat and sip the ice cold champagne as she now thought of the evening ahead. She hadn’t been home for a month and the anticipation was growing.


As Jayne left Paris, Stu was getting into a police car outside the shop. Amused staff and customers watched Stu drive away. He could guess what they were all thinking! His imagination however, was in overdrive. He was fretful of Frank turning up and finding him missing and anxious that his knowledge of the Shadow range of bikes might be found wanting. He had longed for a day out of the shop but this excursion was not what he had in mind.

They crawled through the congested city centre to the police station. Stu felt riddled with guilt for some un-committed crime as he was briskly escorted through a labyrinth of corridors, past endless closed doors and permanently ringing phones until they reached a grubby, airless interview room – their destination. He was deposited at the table by the officer who left the room without speaking. Stu perched at the edge of the unforgiving seat, his hands clammy and the tension knitting across his brows and shoulders. He let out a deep sigh as he was joined by a tired looking man in a brown polyester suit
“I’m DC Foxton, I am hoping that you will be able to help us”.

Stu felt uncomfortable, a feeling that grew steadily worse as photos of Frank’s bike were laid before him. Frank never settled for a regular off-the-shelf model but from the frame of choice he built wheels and kitted up the bike to his own specification.

“This is the man we are trying to identify. He was found by the bike”
Grainy pictures were pushed across the desk. Frank was lying there, or someone who looked very much like a waxwork of Frank, beside his shiny new bike. Stu raised his head up from his hands, his face was damp, his eyes unfocused. He must have said something as the officer left the room; he guessed they had gone to contact Helen, Frank’s long-suffering wife.

A police car pulled up behind her as Helen raised the car boot, revealing a cornucopia of delights from the shops. She was looking forward to preparing and sharing this feast. She left the car open and turned curiously towards the officer who had approached her and was showing her his ID.

Jayne had phoned from London. She would be in Oxford around four o’clock – would her “wife” be able to meet her. Helen had laughed at their joke. Jayne and Helen had been joined in civil partnership last year on a spring day almost as perfect as today. This was their first Valentines Day as wife and wife! She laughed again as her taxi drove along the lane. There was a police car in the way.

“Want to get out here love, there seems to be a hold-up ahead?”
The driver’s loud, rhythmic music stopped abruptly as she settled her fare, carefully took her suitcase from the car and looked up. She nearly did not recognise Helen talking to the police – her face was bleached with shock, her beautiful long fingers covering her lips. Jayne’s mood altered and this morning’s feelings of unease returned.




A mother of five who admitted entering into a civil partnership with another woman while still married was today given a suspended prison sentence.
Suzanne Mitchell is believed to be the first person convicted of this form of bigamy since same-sex unions were introduced in December 2005.
Sentencing Mitchell to a suspended eight-month prison term and 100 hours of community service, the judge, Robin Onions, rejected the 30-year-old's claims that she had not realised she was breaking the law.
Last month, the justice ministry and the Crown Prosecution Service said they believed it was the first such case under the civil partnership law, which allows same-sex couples to have a legally recognised union akin to marriage.
Guardian August 2007

Waiting for Sadie

“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Are you having one?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’ll have one if you have one”

This is how it was with my sister. She never seemed to decide anything. She wafted in and wafted out. Others decided things. I decided things. Big things. Small things. Not by choice but because it seemed to be what I did. I played the role I was cast but I wanted out now, mum was dead and I needed Sadie to be my equal.

I found mum yesterday. She was peaceful. As peaceful as anyone can be with a plastic bag over their face. She had once told me that placing a plastic bag over your face would be a good way to go. We had laughed and I talked about shotguns, tall buildings, fast flowing rivers and tablets. That was years ago before Jack disappeared. I hadn’t thought of it again until recently. It was obviously a more familiar place for mum.

“I’ll have some cheese on toast next time, with Branston pickle.” That was the last thing she said to me.

I live a fairly sterile existence these days. I no longer have the energy for relationships. The fire rages in my belly only for simple pleasures feeding the cats, having enough Jaffa cakes, clean, fluffy towels. It hadn’t always been like this. My son lives with his father in Australia. I have seen the world. I have had experiences. I have come home.

There was a police woman here until this morning. She seemed to be watching over me whilst I waited for Sadie. Someone should have been watching over me long before now. They didn’t realise. I was pleased when she went. She was followed by a parade of other officials. Some of them asked me about Jack, Jack Fitzgerald. Maybe they remembered him as well, but they seemed too young. Whilst they were talking to me, two men put mum on a trolley and took her away. I was sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I felt too embarrassed.

I wasn’t sure Sadie would recognise me. She would remember my brown curls and clear skin, today I have a head of iron grey and sun damaged skin. I wasn’t sure what Sadie’s reaction would be if she did recognise me. I was prepared for anything. I waited and stared at the living room door, the frame still bearing scars of that row over 20 years ago. It had woken me from my stupor and I went. I walked out into the street and left them behind.

It seemed a long time ago now. Hard to remember. Hard to recall how distant compromise had been. I had left everything behind. Maybe mum hadn’t ever moved on from that summer. Maybe years of silence had taken their toll. I wouldn’t have been surprised 10,20 years ago but why now?

The house was the same. The furniture was the same. I remembered the pictures over the stairs. Not many families had prints on the walls when mum put those up.
“Ahead of my time” she said
“Yes, mum, dare to be different”
I liked being different back then. We were different. Now I like to blend in. I have mastered the art of not standing out. I am patient. I will sit here and wait patiently for Sadie.

It is a long time since I thought about Jack. Jack was Sadie’s sweetheart. A nasty piece of work. Everyone loved Jack but me.
“Come on girls, give us a smile, it may never happen” – the life and soul, give me strength. No-one saw behind the façade. The endless unforgiving darkness within him. I could tell mum didn’t believe me and for Sadie, he could do no wrong. They thought I was jealous.

Jack was a slimy little man. His clothes looked fine enough, although stale cigarette smoke and decay hovered over each outfit. His face was fronted by a grin which masked bad teeth and a lifetime of lies. He could fool people with his gaze, his empty, hypnotic gaze. His soft, playful words, his soft, white hands, his gentle, insistent touch, a hint of cologne and that forked tongue. They all trusted him. I am still shaking now as I recall the blankness I could see behind his eyes. I am not sorry for what happened. He had no soul. Beneath his skin was a well of emptiness. He was no loss. He always knew I was his match. His nemesis, he said. I bore the badge proudly.

Sadie was always going to be better off without him. She may not have agreed with me but she had always let me make the decisions. It wasn’t a hard choice. He had to go. I had planned it differently. It doesn’t matter now. It didn’t matter then, all those years ago. The outcome was the same. He didn’t bother us any more.

Of course, it would have been better if Sadie hadn’t been upset. She made mum cry too. I didn’t like that. As if he hadn’t caused enough bother. Dad’s money had gone. Sadie was pregnant. We would have been fine if Jack had only left then. He just couldn’t help himself. The odd thing was that nobody but mum and Sadie ever mentioned his absence. One minute he was there, bold as brass, the next gone. Ephemeral.

I lost my way for a time. I only planned to keep a low profile for a few days until they calmed down. It was 15 years before I saw the house again. Wilderness years. Mum never told me about those years. When I came back it was just like I had been out for a walk. I never asked and she never told. Now she can’t tell.

The neighbourhood has changed. The place is full of students. Nothing stays the same. It seems as noisy at night as during the day. I keep thinking I hear Sadie. Cars sit outside, their engines turning over, impatient to be gone, like mum.

I am hungry. It seems wrong to be hungry. Nature’s way of keeping me alive. Strange that after all, I am still alive. I leave the room and go towards the kitchen. No point, I know there is nothing I like to eat but instinct wins. I stand by the yellowing Electrolux fridge and my eye is caught by the row of keys by the boiler. Labelled in mum’s curly, hesitant hand. “Back cupboard”, “Number 16”, Blanket box”, “Cellar”…….. Cellar, the cellar. After all this time I was going down into the cellar.

The door stuck at first, the lever creaked and then lifted, the door inched open. The cellar blew its stale damp breath in my face but I wasn’t put off. I inched down the narrow stone steps, remembering their uneven tread. My back rubbed against the loose brickwork in the wall as the turn came more sharply than my memory. I reached the floor and heard the door swing in the cold breeze above me. Was someone there? I expected to come face-to-face with Jack. I often saw him, a memory of him, in crowded places but down here was emptiness. I trembled.

“Keep away from my family”
“I’m well in here, no bloody chance”
“I will make you stay away”
“Right…you and whose army?” he spat. His saliva stuck to the short bristles on his chin. His winsome smirk spoke of confidence in getting his own way. He turned his back on me. Big mistake. A lorry passed by on the road overhead and for a split second held our attention in a place beyond this.

I could hear traffic now and voices on the street above. I thought of his face as he realised I had punctured his skin. There was nobody home. I had chosen the time carefully. My mouth was dry although I could feel a smile spreading. I did not let myself remember very often. I put out the light and sat there. The darkness pulled me in as I heard him

“You bitch, what is it? Fucking cow, you can’t hurt me”
His words faded more quickly then I expected and I drew out the second dose. I pushed the air out of the syringe before re-filling it and inserting it clumsily into his shoulder. He felt clammy and touching his moist skin made me feel sick. He made me feel sick. As he faded so did my bravado and I remember slumping over there opposite him, a mirror image in the gloom for some time until I stood up and left. I sit there again now, waiting for Sadie, my eyes and fists clenched.