When it all finally went horribly wrong, nobody really understood. All her friends, meaning to be kind and sympathetic, only seemed to criticise.
“He’s a complete wastrel. I can’t imagine why you married him in the first place.”
“Thank God he’s gone. Honestly, Jane, I don’t know how you lived with him all those years. The man’s an absolute monster.”
“Look at it this way, Jane. You haven’t lost a husband but a bloody liability, and a dangerous one at that. Darling, he would have killed you one of these days.”
And her mother, with undisguised relish…”Well, I’m glad to see you come to your senses at last. I told you he was a bad lot right at the beginning. Nasty piece of work. I can’t think what you saw in him. If you’d listened to me in the first place…”
And so on. And so on. Ad infinitum. And they were right, of course. The man she had married had turned into a monster. He was all the things they said he was, and he probably would have killed her one day. And she had had no choice but to get away from him before he damaged Kitty irrevocably.
But she did not feel relieved. What she felt was bereft. She felt as if she had deliberately ripped out a part of herself and was standing helplessly watching herself bleed.
And she watched Kitty, her beautiful, intelligent, vivacious daughter, turn into a little, lost ghost wandering silently about the house, opening and closing doors, looking for her father. Even checking cupboards as if she thought her father might be crouching inside (waiting to pounce?).
And sometimes she caught the child looking at her with a kind of fixed intensity, almost perhaps hatred, blaming her for the loss of her beloved father.
****
The first time he came back, she found him waiting in the living room in the dark and as he came for her all she could think was, “Stupid, stupid! Why didn’t I change the locks? Oh God how stupid!” Running over and over in her mind on a closed loop, a litany chanting to the rhythm of the beating.
Even the injunctions didn’t stop him. He would arrive in the middle of the night, hammering on the door, waking the neighbours, screaming drunkenly, “You fucking bitch! Let me in or I’ll fucking kill you!” And some traitorous part of her wanted to let him in, stop the noise. Maybe – maybe it would be different this time.
The last time he came, she woke up to find him standing over her, smiling, and as he grabbed her by the hair and began to drag her downstairs, she saw Kitty at her bedroom door, sucking her thumb and clutching her blanket, watching.
That time he nearly did kill her, kicking her savagely in the kidneys until she was a mass of pain, unbelievable pain, and then she felt something very small give way in her back and there was no pain any more. And that was even more frightening.
She heard the crash of the door breaking in, somebody gasped and a voice said, “Dear Jesus Christ!” Kitty sobbing and the murmur of a woman’s voice trying to comfort her. Her husband still standing over her, still kicking, the muscles in his neck bunched and rigid, his smile twisted into a grimace. The man who had shared her bed for eight years. The man who used to bring her flowers and kiss the back of her neck. Kitty’s loving daddy, who spent hours playing aeroplanes or donkey, sending her into transports of delight, screaming “Again, again!”
Even as they dragged him away, he struggled to turn his head back towards her and said, just once, very clearly. “I’ll be back, bitch. I’ll be back and next time I will fucking kill you.”
“No, you won’t, son,” said one of the policemen. “You’re not coming back for a long time. Not where you’re going, you bastard.”
And Kitty, still sobbing in the background, then screaming, “Daddy, Daddy, come back. Daddeeeee!!!!!”
And the bones mended and the torn muscles healed and the bruises faded, but the pain did not go away.
****
The teacher looked at her over the rim of her glasses and said,” Mrs Walters, we are rather concerned about Kitty. Her performance has deteriorated considerably in the last few months and recently she seems to having difficulty interacting with the other children. In fact, she seems generally to have become very withdrawn.”
She raised her eyebrows interrogatively and went on, “We were wondering, Mrs Walters, whether perhaps something is happening in her home life to account for this?” And she paused politely.
Oh, no. Not a problem. Just her father beating her mother to within an inch of her life on a regular basis. Nothing you wouldn’t find in any normal household.
“Yes, Miss Cam”, said Jane, successfully repressing the quiver in her voice, “I think there could well be a problem at home. My husband and I have separated, you see, and I think she may be missing her daddy.”
Miss Cam gazed at her reproachfully. “I do think it’s such a pity that people don’t try harder to make marriage work these days,” she commented. “It is so traumatic for the children.”
How dare she! Jane stood up, every muscle in her body quivering, her lips pressed together in a hard, tight line.
“I don’t think you can be acquainted with the circumstances, Miss Cam. My husband is presently serving a prison sentence for grievous bodily harm. I was the victim.”
And Miss Cam watched, open-mouthed, as Jane walked out of her office and out of the school, stopping only to collect her silent, unsmiling and socially difficult child.
And all the way home her own words echoed in her head… “missing her daddy, missing her daddy” and her own treacherous heart adding… “and so am I. Oh, dear God, so am I.”
****
Jane had trouble fitting the key in the lock when they got home and as she silently struggled, she had the strangest feeling that something was wrong. As the door swung inwards she was assailed by it. A premonition of disaster, a feeling that they were not alone in the house. Quickly she searched the downstairs rooms, opening all the doors, checking behind the furniture. (What was she expecting – Daddy crouching in the cupboard?)
Calling over her shoulder to Kitty, “Wait down here a minute, Darling.” she ran upstairs and did the same. Nothing, there was nobody in the house. What was the matter with her? Suddenly she felt furious with herself. She was damned if she was going to spend the rest of her life afraid to walk into her own house.
Martin was safely locked up in Rampton Prison and not likely to come out for many years.
She had done that. Finally, in fear for her life and in terror for Kitty, she had agreed to testify against him. Sitting in a wheelchair in the witness box, still unable to stand, the bruises still livid on her face, she had consigned him to hell. And it would indeed be hell. Martin would resent being locked up as a wild animal resents being caged.
She had determined not to think about it and most of the time she succeeded.
Kitty came up behind her, making her jump. “What are you looking for, Mummy?
And she turned round and dropped to her knees to hug her daughter. “ Nothing, Sweetheart. I thought I heard something, that’s all.”
Kitty turned her face away and struggled to get down. “Oh,” she said, in a small tight voice, “I thought you might be looking for Daddy.”
A thrill of fear ran down Jane’s back, but she managed to smile and say. “No, Darling. Daddy’s gone away, hasn’t he? Now let’s have some lunch, shall we?”
Later, she settled Kitty in her bedroom with her toys and left her playing listlessly with her Sindy collection, while she went down and made herself a cup of tea. She switched the television on but was not really paying much attention. It was just a background noise – company – and in a few minutes she was dozing, the tea forgotten and cooling on the coffee table.
Some time later she awoke with a start to the strident theme tune of the 6 o’ clock news, suddenly aware of what it was that had made her so nervous when she came home. She could smell after-shave – Martin’s after-shave. She couldn’t imagine how she had failed to identify it before. It was pungent, permeating the atmosphere with an astringent, slightly acrid smell.
The familiar face of the newscaster on the television held just the right expression of polite concern as he read out the headlines – another suicide bombing in Israel, Tony Blair denying allegations of sleaze in the New Labour Party. She let the words drone over her, not listening, as she struggled to understand how Martin could be here in the house. Knowing she must be mistaken and yet absolutely sure she was not. Something primitive in her knew completely, unequivocally. Martin was here. He was here and this time he would kill her.
Suddenly the voice of the newscaster seemed to increase in volume. “There has been a prison breakout today from high security Rampton Prison. Three prisoners succeeded in escaping and all three are said to be highly dangerous with a history of violent offences. The public is warned not to approach. …………
The voice receded and she felt a lurch of panic in the pit of her stomach. So that was it. Quite distinctly she felt every separate hair on her scalp move, as if a small electric current was passing over her head, and felt the goose pimples come up in little hard knots on her arms. She looked down and saw them standing out, each with its individual shadow in the bluish light of the television screen. And at the same moment she heard the footsteps coming down the stairs.
They came stealthily, almost too quietly to be the footsteps of an adult man, but she knew who it was. He was coming for her and he would kill her. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Her mind leapt and panicked, but her body refused to move. Every muscle locked, her knuckles white as she gripped the arms of the chair.
The smell of after-shave grew even more powerful, coming in great waves, Old Spice mingled with extra alcohol. She’d know it anywhere. Desperately she tried to make herself move. She felt if she could just get going, just move a fingertip, it would release her from the spell. Some detached part of her mind was amused to note that the hairs on her head were still moving independently even though she was utterly unable to move her limbs. She focussed with all her might and her left leg twitched slightly. “Run, run,” she urged silently, “Get out of the house”. She’d have to leave Kitty and at the thought a huge wave of guilt swept over her. But he wouldn’t hurt Kitty. He had never hurt the child.
And then it came. She felt the thump as the blade came down through her back and into her lungs. But, oddly, no pain, just the blow and a warm, wet sensation spreading across and down her back.
Once again the volume of the television seemed to increase. “We have an update on the prison break-out reported earlier. I have just been informed that all three men have been killed as they tried to evade recapture. It appears that they attempted to cross a railway line and ran directly into the path of an oncoming train. The driver is being treated for shock at…”
The voice faded out again and Jane struggled with the meaning of the words. It made no sense. If Martin was dead, then who?………….
Very slowly, with enormous effort, Jane managed to turn her head and look back.
And it was Kitty standing behind her. Kitty with the kitchen carving knife in her hand, glistening wetly in the blue light, the blood slowly trickling down her arm. Kitty smiling for the first time since her daddy left.
And she leant forward and said quietly, almost confidentially, “I’ve been talking to Daddy.”
[bctt tweet=”OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award – Entry #48 ‘WAITING FOR DADDY’ by Jenny Jenny Twist – Enjoy all this terrific, disturbing material you have in your hands, lots of horror stories at your disposal for your dark delight and vote!” username=”theboldmom”]
On October 23rd we’ll close submissions and open a poll for the readers to choose their favourite one! You’ll have a week to make your choice and on October 31st we’ll announce the winner!!!
