Joseph’s body swayed from side to side, and then he growled a loud dangerous sound from deep in his throat, leaving Celia once again paralysed with fear. She watched him move towards her, and her legs buckled under her. She grabbed on to the chair. He pounced, and she fell onto her back on the floor, with legs apart. She stared up at him, wondering again how such a handsome face could have turned so ugly.
Joseph rested his foot nonchalantly on her breast and grinned. He squatted above her for a moment before throwing his weight on top of her. Celia sucked in her breath but was then unable to expel it. She screamed inside her head. Her body was going to break into tiny pieces under him.
Joseph grabbed her hair, wrapping it around his fist. He laughed when strands broke off in his hand, and he nonchalantly shook them away. He tossed her skirt up around her thighs with his free hand and then ripped off her bloomers as though they were made of paper. Through chattering teeth, Celia begged him to stop what he was doing. She struggled to release her hair from his grip, but her two hands were powerless against his one. She reached out to scratch his face, but he reacted quickly, trapping her arms one by one until they were unable to move from underneath her body. She spat in his face. A look of surprise crossed Joseph’s bloodshot eyes, and the attack halted.
Celia stopped moving and stared at him, hypnotised by the evil she saw. He wiped his face and smiled at her, making her think that it was over, that he had come to his senses. She closed her eyes, turned her head to the side, and relaxed her muscles. Then the first lightning pain struck her.
The huge fist connected with her small oval face. Her head rolled over to the side, and her nose hit the wooden leg of the chair. She saw the room spin and grow dark, and she tried desperately to focus through the mist. Her blood was hot, sticky, and pouring from her nose into her mouth. Her eyes began to fill with tears. When she tried to speak, only a soft whimpering sound left her mouth, and then her world dissolved in another blinding flash of pain.
Joseph studied her bloodied nose and the mark of his hand still etched on her cheek whilst fumbling with the buttons on his trousers. “You’ve wanted me inside you for months, and you still want me, don’t you? Well, this is your lucky night, you fucking slut,” he said to her nearly unconscious face. “Tell me how you like it.”
Celia snapped back to full awareness just as he entered her. Her legs were now in the air, her thighs painfully pushed apart, and they involuntarily straddled his waist and back. She felt as though her whole body were being ripped apart with sharp thrusts in and then out, scraping her skin like a burning hot poker. She let out a piercing scream as the reality of the situation hit her.
“No, please … no. Stop!”
“No? What do you mean, no!” he shouted, thrusting harder and deeper inside her and blindly staring into space. “Yes, Celia. Yes, you mean to say. This is what your whinging has been all about so shut your fucking mouth and enjoy it!”
His movements quickened, and he grabbed her hair even harder than before. In rhythm with his movements, Celia’s head banged against the stone floor with sickening thuds. She tried to shout out for her father, praying that he would walk through the door, but the wailing and cursing coming from deep within Joseph’s throat completely drowned out her hoarse whispers.
Joseph’s body shuddered to a halt, and he grew silent. Celia felt his coarse breath on her cheek, and she opened her eyes. She watched the droplets of sweat running down his forehead and onto her face.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
Joseph laughed and grabbed a handful of Celia’s hair. He lifted her head inches off the ground and punched her again, this time connecting with her cheek and ear. Celia’s eyes rolled upwards, and she felt herself slipping into a dark void, which to her tormented body and mind became her saviour.
Chapter 2
Peter Merrill climbed the steep hill that separated the village from the farm. The air was damp and freezing cold, and he pulled his overcoat tighter across his large chest. He was not a tall man, but he held himself proud and was, according to the village gossipers, a fine figure of a man and a good catch for any woman. He cursed into the night, pulled his black cap down to cover most of his sandy-coloured hair, and gripped his coat collar, trying to shelter at least part of his face. His night with Mary Shields had ended badly. In fact, he’d had a rotten night from start to finish, he thought, kicking a stone and quickening his step. Mary was always so bloody angry nowadays; she’d told him to go to hell. No woman had ever spoken to him like that before and gotten away with it. She was as stubborn and as proud as they came, but he loved her. She shouldn’t have called him a coward, though, he thought, remembering her exact words: “You’re a coward, Peter Merrill. Scared of your own shadow, you are.” He was no bloody coward, and if she were a man, he’d have proved it.
He lengthened his stride, bending deeply to tackle the steepest part of the hill. He’d freeze to death if he didn’t get indoors soon … But in a way, Mary was right, he admitted to himself now. Even he was tired of pussyfooting around in the dark, sneaking out of his room at night, and having to keep secrets from Celia. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, far too old to behave like a bloody schoolboy. Mary was fed up with it all, and she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t wait around for him any longer. It should go smoothly enough, he convinced himself. If they were still awake, he’d tell Celia and Joseph the minute he got indoors. After all, they both seemed happy enough, so they should be happy for him too, and it wasn’t as though he were going to leave for good. He just wanted to travel with Mary, go on the cruise they’d talked about, take things a bit easier. He’d given his whole life to Merrill Farm, and it was a dammed good business because of his hard work and devotion. He deserved to have a life now. He wasn’t old, and he might even get a son out of Mary; he’d always wanted one.
He smiled. Mary would be his wife soon. He’d have a completely new life, and he’d treat her like a queen. Overall, Mary was a good woman. She listened to him, made him feel alive again, and gave him what he needed on a cold winter’s night. He was a man with needs in bed, and there was more to life than a bloody hot water bottle! He’d mourned Lillian’s death for long enough. Life had to go on, and no one could deny him a bit of comfort in his old age. Could they?
The farm came into view. The gas lamp in the parlour was still lit. Good, he’d get both of them together, and then he’d get Joseph on his own. He’d been hearing rumours about his son-in-law, and he didn’t like their implications, not one little bit. Joseph’s gambling was becoming the talk of the village and beyond. He’d had to defend him against men he’d known and respected for years, and it couldn’t go on. He understood that it was normal for a man of Joseph’s age to want to get drunk with the blokes now and again. He could even relate to his gambling habit; after all, he played dominoes for money. But what bothered him the most were the gossipmongers who spread the word like wildfire across the county. According to them, Joseph was gambling the farm’s profits down the drain and whoring into the bargain. This affected his Celia, and he wouldn’t stand for it. Joseph had responsibilities now, and Merrill Farm’s reputation was far too important to be slurred by the likes of him, even if he was married to his daughter.
He knew that Celia still grieved for her mother. It had been one of the reasons he’d pushed her towards Joseph. She’d swooned over him from the minute she clapped eyes on him, and at the time, getting them together had been the right thing to do, for it had given him the time and space he needed to court Mary. Besides, it had made Celia happy.
Joseph leaned against the wall inside the barn, panting heavily as he lit a cigarette. He swore, angry with Celia but even angrier with himself. He would have to get rid of Peter Merrill now, he thought. He couldn’t let him see his daughter, not in the state he’d left her in. He didn’t want to kill Peter, though, not really. He still needed him; he needed to use his name for protection against his creditors. His gambling debts were spinning out of cont
rol. He’d had a bad run, and the last person he’d wanted to see when he got home was Celia in that chair, sitting there like a predator. He hated her! She’d had that coming and deserved everything she got tonight. He was only sorry he hadn’t done it sooner, for if he had, she would have learned to keep that hole in her face shut and none of this would have happened. It was all her fault, and now he’d have to pick up the pieces … Bitch!
He lit another cigarette. Kill Peter? Well, he’d killed before, so how difficult could it be? He suddenly saw his parents in his mind’s eye. They had brought him to this. They had taken everything from him. He spat on the ground. He hated having to think about them, but every now and again, their faces appeared in his head, forcing him to relive the whole thing over again. He still hated his mother and father; cruel bullies obsessed with the Church and all the hypocrisy that went with it. He’d lived for years afraid of the beatings with his father’s ‘holy belt’, as he called it. They stuck him inside that fucking cupboard under the stairs for days at a time with no food and just a cup of water, just for refusing to go to church with them. They’d even made him sleep outside in the rain on a winter’s night because of a stupid fight at school or just for pinching the odd shilling or two … Bastards! They’d preached to him every bloody day and night about how he should live in the eyes of God.
“God will save you,” his mother used to say. Well, he didn’t save them. He never lifted a finger, did he?
He dreamed sometimes of his mother’s fat, saggy body and arms the size of tree trunks crushing him to her, wrapping those arms around him until he couldn’t breathe between her huge floppy tits. The dreams made him want to kill her all over again. The dreams would never stop. She’d cursed him.
Of course, he’d got his fair share of revenge in the end. He got older; grew as tall as his mother, who was probably the tallest woman he’d ever seen; and got stronger and more streetwise too. He grew less afraid and changed the rules, hitting his mother when his father wasn’t looking, and she never told on him; she’d loved him too much, incestuous old cow. He stole money, jewellery, and ornaments, anything he could get his hands on in the house, and they never said a word. He’d thought about that a lot and had come to the conclusion that the whole subject of theft must have been just too ugly for them to speak about, as though God was going to come down and smite them all or something. He went out every night looking for poker games. He was good, very good, and he’d beaten the best of them, some a lot older than him into the bargain, but then the end came.
It was on an Easter Sunday, he remembered, and they’d just returned from church. His mother went too far that day. She stood in the kitchen, hat with flower on her ugly head and thinning grey hair, coat with bag over floppy arms. He’d gone for some bread and cheese, unaware that she was even home, and he’d been surprised by her presence. He’d never forget what happened next, never get it out of his head: her body pouncing on him, her wet lips kissing him as no mother should kiss a son. She’d smothered him with kisses, telling him that God was forgiving, that he could still change his ways. He still tasted her wet lips on his mouth. He’d hit her hard, a couple of times right in the centre of her belly and face. She’d bled all down her Sunday best.
When the doctor came with a police officer, no charges were brought against him, but he was sent packing that night and told never to return. Worst of all, he was told that he was disinherited. Maybe he should have started walking, cut his losses, but the farm and all its trappings were rightfully his, and they had no right to take his inheritance from him, not after all he’d been through. In a field two miles from the farm, he’d thought long and hard about what to do, and he’d made his decision with a cool head.
He broke into the house at about two o’clock in the morning, when his parents were both snoring like carthorses. He locked them inside the bedroom and started the fire in the parlour with a dozen matches. Curtains, chairs, and everything else seemed to go up in flames simultaneously, and it had all been so quick and easy. He grabbed what he could of value and ran out of the house just before the flames had time to bar his exit, and he never looked back, not once.
He still remembered the small piece in the newspaper that he’d read two days later. He’d kept that cutting for weeks, like a trophy: “Two charred bodies found,” it had said. He liked that word: charred. It had a nice ring to it, and it had confirmed their deaths. He knew that the police would be looking for him, either to give their condolences or to arrest him, so he didn’t hang around. He made his way south, keeping off the main roads and travelling mostly at night. He slept in deserted barns during the day, stole food, and even managed to win a few poker games on the way. He changed his name after finding one on a tombstone somewhere in the Midlands, and after weeks of travelling, he found Merrill Farm.
Kent had been a good choice; experienced farm labourers were always needed, and he could be whatever a farmer wanted him to be. He didn’t have any knowledge of the vast hop farming lands of the south-east, but he’d convinced Peter Merrill that he knew everything about everything. Later on, he’d even convinced him that Celia was the love of his life. That had been the hardest part, but she’d been gagging for him, and the odd smile here and there, a touch of his hand, and the speeches he made to her father were enough to ingratiate him into the Merrill household and into her heart; it had all been rather easy!
He lit another cigarette and thought a bit more about his situation with Celia. She would have to be controlled now, he decided, and she would have to keep her mouth shut about what had just happened, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He was her husband, and with her father out of the picture, she’d have nowhere to go and no one to turn to but him. He would be the master, and she would do his bidding, or else! He thought again about what had just happened. He’d never really needed a woman that much – a good poker game had given him a bigger erection than any women ever had – but he had to admit that he’d enjoyed the power of riding Celia. It had been a bit like breaking in a wild horse, although she wasn’t what you would call wild, not like some of the whores he’d been with. She’d been better than most, though, nice and tight, and she’d fought. Whores didn’t fight back at all unless you paid extra for special things. He ground his foot on his cigarette end and tried to focus. Enough of that: tonight he had more important things to think about, like how he was supposed to kill Peter Merrill and dispose of the body before morning.
As Peter approached the rear of the house, he was surprised to see a lamp burning in one of the barns. He also noticed that its two wooden doors were open and noisily swinging back and forth in the wind, and that concerned him. There must be a problem for Joseph to be in there at this time of night, as it was almost midnight, he thought with a worrying frown.
He crossed over the yard through the mud puddles and cow dung that he failed to see in the dark and stopped to pick up a large stone as he approached the barn.
“You never know,” he whispered to himself.
He stood perfectly still at the entrance to the barn and looked around. “Joseph, are you in there? Joseph?” he called softly.
Inside, the gas lamp burned brightly in the far corner, giving him his bearings, but he neither saw nor heard anything; everything looked just as it should. It crossed his mind that travellers or gypsies might be sheltering for the night, but he dismissed the idea because they wouldn’t light a lamp for fear of being discovered. He checked the locks on the doors for forced entry; no, the door looked just as it should. He took a couple of soft-footed steps forward and whispered Joseph’s name again.
Joseph watched his victim from the darkened corner of the barn, thinking that the old man looked afraid. His face shone brightly in the lamplight, his forehead was furrowed in a deep frown, and he held a stone in his hand. A lot of good that would do him … It was laughable, and Joseph laughed inwardly. He was pathetic, just like his daughter. Without a sound, he stepped into the light.
Peter’s expression changed
from one of fear to one of surprise. Joseph walked slowly towards him and smiled.
“So, Peter, did you have a nice time?” he asked with a smile planted on his face.
“Yes, thank you.” Peter said, looking at the spade swinging loosely in Joseph’s hand.
“Why are you here, Joseph? What are you doing with the spade? Is everything all right?”
“You sound just like your daughter, Peter – questions, questions, questions.”
Joseph twirled the head of the spade against the ground and smiled. “There’s a lot of wind tonight, and I thought I’d check for damage.”
“I’ll ask you again: why the spade? What the hell are you playing at? Are you drunk? Is that it? You look drunk.”
“Yes, I’m drunk … drunk with power.” Joseph stared slyly into Peter’s eyes.
“Look, I don’t know what’s got into you lately, but it has to stop now. I know all about what’s going on. I’ve heard about your poker games and the money you’ve lost. Your whoring ways and your drunken binges are being talked about all over Kent, and I’m telling you now that it’s time you grew up! You’re supposed to be looking after my daughter, not frittering away her future. And another thing: you don’t have any power. This is my bloody farm – mine. Do you hear me? It’s time you did as you were told! Now get the spade back in its place, shut off the lamp, get inside, and don’t make me tell you again.”
Joseph was bored now, as the old man was beginning to sound just like his own father. His grin faded. He didn’t feel any pity for Peter, not anymore. He just wanted to kill him and get it over with. He took a step closer.
“No, Peter, I’m not going inside, and neither are you,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere. It’s time you listened to me.”
A look of puzzlement spread across Peter’s face, and he cocked his head to one side. He cleared his throat and spoke with difficulty, the confused look on his face now turning into something akin to fear.