Deadly Harm Read online

  How must Caitlin feel?

  On top of the trauma of the crash, the crippling fear her former partner was coming after her would nag her to run as fast and as far as she could.

  Mackenzie had seen it all before. Most of the women in the refuge had gone through the same emotions. Finally finding the courage to break free came at a price. Gradually they calmed down when they realised it wasn’t called a refuge by accident. It was more than a roof over their heads, it was a place where no-one could get to them: a safe haven, theirs until they were strong enough to retake control of their lives.

  She sat up and listened. Caitlin was awake and probably terrified. Mackenzie pulled on a dressing gown, intending to reassure her all was well. Everyone agreed the first morning was the worst: waking alone to a new reality in a scary and confusing world, dark thoughts crowding in, strong enough to convince them they’d overreacted, made a mistake, that what they’d fled hadn’t been so bad.

  If children were involved, to be without them was agony, yet bringing them didn’t entirely salve the guilt. Kids needed stability. Their mothers looked at the four walls they were fortunate to have around them, seeing uncertainty, and blamed themselves for their choices. Some changed their minds, relented and went back to the hell they’d fled. Those who stayed needed time to accept their situation and find the resolve to make something of it. The woman on the other side of the bedroom wall would be no different. On this morning of all mornings, doubt was the enemy.

  Mackenzie heard the door to Caitlin’s room open and knew she’d decided to run.

  Mackenzie caught up as she was closing the gate behind her. ‘Caitlin! Caitlin, wait! I thought we were going to talk.’

  Caitlin kept her eyes on the Campsies, lush and green against a sky scattered with clouds.

  ‘You’ve been really nice. But I could never afford this. Even if I could, I’d never fit in here.’

  Mackenzie put her arms round her. ‘How you feel is exactly how every one of us has felt. It passes, believe me. Next week or the week after it’ll be you standing here trying to explain to some frightened girl why she shouldn’t go. And you’ll know she’ll be making a big mistake if she does.’

  Caitlin blinked silent tears.

  ‘Come and have breakfast. There’s a gang of neurotic women I want you to meet.’

  In spite of herself, Caitlin laughed.

  She took a deep breath and followed Mackenzie into the kitchen. A dozen females were seated round the table, chatting and laughing. The atmosphere was friendly and the smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the warm air. When the door opened, they looked up.

  Mackenzie said, ‘Ladies, allow me to introduce our newest resident. This is Caitlin.’ The women broke into spontaneous applause, obviously genuine.

  An older woman with short grey hair patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit here. I’m Sylvia. You’re just in time. Irene makes the best pancakes on the planet. Even better than mine, and that’s saying something.’

  Mackenzie spoke again. ‘I won’t tell her everybody’s name – she wouldn’t remember them – you can do that yourselves when you get a chance. Right now, she needs to know she’s among friends.’

  Sylvia said, ‘Are you hungry? When I arrived, I hadn’t eaten all day and I was starving.’

  ‘I am a bit.’

  ‘Good. So what would you like?’

  ‘Just some flakes will be fine.’

  Sylvia dismissed the idea. ‘Nonsense. I’ve lived longer than you and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never turn down a cooked meal – especially if somebody else is doing the cooking.’ She called to a woman at the stove. ‘Irene, give Caitlin some of everything, will you?’

  Irene answered without turning round. ‘Coming up.’

  Sylvia put a reassuring hand on Caitlin’s arm. ‘Only eat what you can manage. Juliette will get the rest.’

  ‘Who’s Juliette?’

  ‘My dog.’

  On cue, a Pekingese crawled from under the table. Sylvia picked her up. ‘Say hello to Caitlin. Mackenzie knows how much you mean to me and lets you stay, doesn’t she, baby?’

  ‘She’s lovely.’

  Juliette licked Caitlin’s hand.

  ‘Do you have any pets?’

  Irene interrupted. ‘How many pancakes, Caitlin?’

  Sylvia answered for her. ‘As many as you can spare.’

  A brunette sitting on the other side of the table reached across. ‘I’m Norma. A couple of weeks ago it was me coming through the door, so I know how you’re feeling. Bloody scary, isn’t it? All these mad females. At first, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here. Women aren’t always nice to other women, are they? But this is different. More like having your sisters around you. So, welcome. You’ll be fine, honestly.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Caitlin spoke to Sylvia. ‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’

  ‘Too bloody nice, unfortunately. Everybody has a story. In time you’ll hear all of them. Norma was the PA to a company director for twelve years. Their offices are at the top of St Vincent Street. He told her his marriage was over, that he’d separated from his wife and they had an affair. Then his wife found out.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Yes. None of it had been true. When the bastard told her he was letting her go, Norma refused, so he accused her of stealing and dismissed her on the spot. Didn’t even give her time to clear out her desk. Security escorted her from the building. Norma took her case to an industrial tribunal.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She lost. He’d faked evidence going back six months.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘That was just the beginning. With no reference and a judgement against her, she couldn’t pay her mortgage.’

  ‘And she lost her house.’

  ‘Correct. The house and everything else. Had a bit of a breakdown and ended up on the street. Mackenzie found her begging outside Queen Street station and brought her here.’

  ‘But she seems so cheerful.’

  ‘Because she’s starting a new job next Monday. With any luck, she’ll get back on her feet and be able to leave the refuge.’

  The breakfast arrived: sausage, crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, tomato and mushrooms, and a slice of fried bread. On a smaller plate, a knob of butter slowly melted on four golden-brown pancakes.

  ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ Sylvia said. ‘Dig in. Coffee or tea?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  Sylvia filled a cup from a pot in the middle of the table. ‘When you’re feeling overwhelmed, just remember Norma and don’t give up. It will get better. I’ve no idea what’s brought you here, but I’m guessing something bad.’

  Caitlin didn’t comment and Sylvia went on. ‘If you’re anything like me, you’re looking around thinking: “So it’s come to this.” All I can tell you is, you’ll be surprised how much we laugh.’

  To prove the point, a stout woman tapped Caitlin on the shoulder. ‘I’m Doreen. We’ll talk when you’ve found your feet. You’ll like the refuge. Not today and probably not tomorrow, but soon. And we aren’t a bunch of man-hating dykes, if that’s what you’re thinking. If we were, none of us would be here.’ She threw her head back and laughed a throaty laugh.

  * * *

  After breakfast, before they went their separate ways, all the women welcomed Caitlin. In the hall, she bumped into Mackenzie holding pruning shears and wearing rubber gloves, obviously coming from the garden.

  ‘You look better already. Let’s go and have that chat.’

  Sylvia passed them, carrying an envelope in one hand and Juliette in the other. ‘We’re off into the village. Got letters to post to my daughters.’ She turned to Caitlin. ‘We talk on the phone every week, but a letter’s more personal, don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘And Juliette’s out of biscuits so we’ll get her some in the Co-op. See you later.’

  When Sylvia had gone, deep lines of anxiety cut into Caitlin
’s face. ‘The crash will be on the news.’

  ‘No, I watched earlier, there was nothing. There aren’t any speed cameras on that stretch of road. The police will think it was joyriders, so relax.’

  They settled themselves in the lounge. Caitlin appeared calm. She wasn’t. There would only be one chance to convince her to stay. A wrong word, a clumsy phrase, and she’d be off. The fact she had nowhere to go to wouldn’t come into it.

  Mackenzie took a breath. ‘I came across this house three years ago. Right away I knew it was perfect for what I wanted to do. Since then, scores of women have come through the doors. Women like you.’

  ‘Who pays for it?’

  ‘I do. I inherited money. A lot of money.’ She waved at the room. ‘What better to do with it than this?’

  ‘How much does it cost to stay here?’

  ‘It doesn’t cost anything. How could it when the people who come to us often only have the clothes on their backs?’ Mackenzie smiled gently – this was exactly the position Caitlin was in. ‘Their goal is to recover from whatever they’ve been through, and go on and have a happy life. Originally, the house was small and could only take five. Now, with the extension, we can sleep twelve. You’re in luck. Normally we’re full.’

  She leaned closer. ‘Why don’t we tell each other who we are? I mean, who we really are. Then you can decide. I’ll start.’

  The clock ticked on the wall. Apart from that, the house was absolutely still. Caitlin listened without interrupting while Mackenzie told her story.

  When she finished, she said, ‘How do you get over something like that?’

  ‘The same way we all get over the bad stuff whether we know it or not. By letting go and learning to trust again, one day at a time.’ She gestured to the house. ‘Running the refuge has given me the purpose I needed and never had. No time to dwell on the past. No time to think about me.’

  Caitlin gathered her thoughts. ‘Peter’s older than I am, and he’s flash. Can’t afford a Mercedes but had to have one.’ Her laugh was tinged with fear. ‘Christ, he’ll be raging when he finds out. In the beginning, all I had to do was look in a shop window and he’d offer to buy me whatever I saw. But it wasn’t real – any of it. After we were married, I discovered he was in serious debt.’

  Remembering upset her and she paused.

  ‘Without knowing, I’d married a gambler. His idea of a night out with his wife was to take me to the casino. Didn’t matter that I hated it. Watching the look on his face. Always certain he’d win. Knowing that when we got home, he’d take it out on me. In many ways he’s a spoiled child, demanding attention or he’ll scream the place down. I know I should’ve left after the honeymoon, and again after he hit me the first time, but I didn’t. Then it became a regular thing. He was always sorry; for a while I had more jewellery than I could wear. Of course, it got worse.’

  ‘It always does.’

  Caitlin pointed to her battered face. ‘He gave me this because I asked him not to drink any more. That was it for me. I waited until he passed out and took his car keys. Then…’

  Her voice faded.

  Mackenzie stepped into the breach. ‘…you met me.’ She took a tissue from a box on the table and handed it to her. ‘It’s your life at the end of the day. You’ll have to live with whatever you eventually decide, not me. Except, now isn’t the time to be making those decisions. You need space to recover before you move on. I’m offering you that space. And before you say another word, remember, the refuge isn’t a holiday camp. We pull our weight, all of us. This week, as you probably saw, Mary, Alice and Irene are responsible for putting breakfast on the table. Next week it’ll be two other women helping Irene. You might even be one of them. So what do you think? Want to give it a go?’

  Caitlin smiled her thanks. ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘Right, that’s settled then. You said you’d lost everything in the fire, do you have any money anywhere?’

  ‘No, it really was everything.’

  ‘So staying isn’t such a big decision after all?’

  ‘Not really. What’ll you tell the others?’

  Mackenzie stood. ‘Nothing to tell. You’re one of us. We support each other here. They’ve been where you are. You’re only the new woman until the next one arrives.’

  ‘God help her, wherever she is.’

  ‘Probably on her way here right now. Come on.’

  There was rarely traffic on the country lane. This morning was no exception and Sylvia felt confident enough to let Juliette run. The dog raced ahead, relishing the freedom of being out of the house, sniffing the hedge at the side with its button nose, marking its territory every few yards.

  The house was a mile from Lennoxtown, a bit of a trek for most sixty-year-olds, male or female. Sylvia Scott had always been fit and took it in her stride: some people claimed age was just a number, with her, it was true. On the main street, she lifted Juliette and made for the post office. With the women in the refuge, Sylvia was relentlessly cheerful, encouraging them to find it in themselves to rise above their often-grim situations. But no-one was there to do the same for her. She chided herself for thinking like that. It wasn’t true. Mackenzie was there for all of them. Seeing the new girl had unsettled Sylvia. Nobody noticed her reaction when Mackenzie introduced them. The likeness to her youngest daughter caught Sylvia off guard. She’d almost broken down, and that would never do.

  Splitting with Robert was hard, though not as painful as her daughters’ reaction – they’d cut contact, blaming her for abandoning their father when he needed her most. The judgement was harsh and unfair, expecting their mother to sacrifice what remained of her life for a man suffering from uncontrollable rage who refused to seek help, while their lives went on undisturbed.

  The letters were the fourth she’d written, so far without reply. In the past they’d spoken on the phone every week. Robert would complain about the cost. But that was then. Not now.

  The girls had come down on their father’s side.

  Sylvia was alone.

  5

  Someone banging on the door wakened Peter Sanderson from a drunken sleep; he opened his eyes and lay still. The noise continued. He groaned and rolled over – his head hurt.

  He yelled. ‘Caitlin! Tell whoever it is to fuck off!’

  No reply.

  Sanderson sat up. ‘Caitlin! Where the fuck…?’

  He ran a tired hand through his black hair, greying at the temples, fingering the marks on his cheek – scratch marks. There were others on his neck and arms; angry red welts deep enough to have bled. Slowly the fog cleared and he remembered: the night before they’d started in Malmaison, round the corner from Blythswood Square. On a Tuesday, as expected, the bar hadn’t been busy. One after another, the Black Labels had flashed amber in the dim light. Across the table Caitlin was in one of her time-of-the-month moods, replying in terse one-word answers whenever he spoke. He should’ve accepted the evening was going to be a disaster, thrown her in a taxi and sent her home. Instead he’d pretended not to notice.

  Predictably, it hadn’t got better when they arrived at The Rogano.

  Caitlin had chosen some fish dish with a French name, then barely touched it. He hadn’t let it put him off his steak, bloody and juicy, just how he liked it. The restaurant had its critics but Sanderson appreciated more than its faded Art Deco look. For him, it was a symbol. Thirty years ago he couldn’t have afforded to eat somewhere like this. A lot had changed in three decades.

  Without bothering to ask what she fancied, he’d ordered a Pinot Grigio, swirling the tiny amount the waiter poured round the glass, sniffing it the way he’d seen people who understood wine do. An act. Sanderson hadn’t the faintest idea what he was supposed to be smelling. He’d finished the bottle without help from his wife and moved on to champagne. Across the table, she’d watched him. Sour-faced bitch. If you couldn’t celebrate a win on the gee-gees, what the fuck was the point of winning?

  Out on the street, the las
t thing he recalled was thin rain falling silently from a dark sky and an old man with a beard, soaked to the skin, surrounded by strips of cardboard on the steps of the Gallery of Modern Art in Exchange Square. Sanderson had never been inside the building. It was safe to say he knew as much about art as he did about wine: fuck all.

  The beggar’s cough was like rocks cracking in his chest, yet he’d managed a grateful smile when he’d stuck a fifty-pound note into his paper cup. ‘Thanks. Thanks a lot,’ he’d said, and held out a bony hand which Sanderson didn’t take. Caitlin had flagged a taxi in Queen Street and climbed into the back seat, as far over as she could get. Sanderson was asleep before they’d cleared George Square. From then until the house, everything was a blank.

  He’d come out of a blackout into an argument: they were in the lounge, their faces so close they were almost touching, Caitlin screaming at him, calling him a bastard. His brain felt waterlogged. All his life, Peter Sanderson had had the strength of a bull and the constitution of a rhino. Now – even in his sixties and dulled by alcohol – he was still a force. His fists hung by his side like weights; lifting them had taken everything he had. The blow connected with the side of her head – she’d fallen to the floor. Instead of staying down, Caitlin had leapt at him like a mad thing, raking her nails across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. He put his hands round her neck and squeezed but she’d struggled free, tearing at his throat until he hit her again. That time she didn’t get up.

  Sanderson had dragged himself to the drinks cabinet and sloshed whisky into a glass, spilling most of it. Caitlin hadn’t moved; maybe he’d killed her. Too bad if he had; she’d outlived her usefulness. Her blouse, torn at the shoulder, exposed a breast, the areola deep brown against the white skin. He’d seen marks on her face he didn’t remember making and bloodstains on his shirt. His cheek felt as if it had been opened with a paring knife. Suddenly her eyes flashed open. Through the haze of booze, he saw hatred in them and wondered how long it had been there. He’d shouted, the words thick with alcohol and contempt. ‘Get your things and get to fuck. Don’t be here in the morning.’