So Long At the Fair (14 page)

As she recovered her breath she slowly drew herself straight again, the tree bole at her back. There was no way out for her; with the tree and the brambles behind her and the man’s dark form before her, all routes of escape were blocked.

They stood facing one another. It was so dark beneath the trees that she could make out little more than the general shape of him. He was standing a few yards from her, one hand to his mouth, his chest and shoulders heaving as he regained his breath. He took a step towards her and she screamed.

He came to a stop. ‘Go on,’ he muttered, ‘scream as much as you like. Nobody’s gunna ’ear you.’

‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please – don’t hurt me.’

‘Hurt you?’ he said. ‘After what you did I should fucking kill you.’ Raising his hands, he lunged forward.

As he moved over the short distance of ground between them, she braced herself, her left hand clutching at the tree’s rough bark. At the same time her right hand lifted her skirt, and she drew back her foot and swung, kicking up and out with all the strength she could muster, a strength charged with all the fear within her. Her foot connected with him as he threw himself towards her, arms outstretched, the toe of her boot thudding upwards into his scrotum with such force that she felt a jarring in her ankle. He gave a cry of agony and, clutching at his groin, fell heavily at her feet. While he lay gasping and writhing on the earth she pushed herself away from the tree, ran past him and dashed on among the trees.

Eventually emerging on the other side of the wood, she came to a stop and crouched, gasping for breath, a stitch tearing at her side, her head hanging down. After remaining there for a few minutes she staggered to her feet and ran on again, keeping the edge of the wood on her left.

When she could run no further she re-entered the trees and scrambled down into a deep hollow overgrown with brambles. There in the dank, earthy-smelling dell, with the brambles forming a roof above her head, she crouched, bent over, chest heaving, her gasping breaths so loud that she was terrified the sound would give her away.

Slowly, as the minutes passed, her breathing grew calmer. In her mouth she could still taste the blood from the blow she had received, while her arms and hands had been cut and scratched from her dash through the trees. At some point she had lost her bonnet. Fingers pressed into the soft, leafy mould that lined the dell, she listened for voices, for any sound of her pursuer. There was nothing; nothing but the cries of nightbirds and the rustlings of foxes and other creatures that moved past in their forays for food. All she could do was wait.

Beatie had not managed to get far.

On breaking from the taller man she had run a wild, zigzagging course along beside the wood, crying in terror, her pursuer only yards behind her and swiftly gaining. Veering off to the left, she headed towards a little thicket that grew in the middle of the field. The man caught up with her as she reached its edge. Throwing himself forward, he caught her skirt just below her waist and hurled her to the ground. She fell heavily, her head striking the turf, momentarily stunning her and knocking the breath out of her body. As she lay there the man was upon her.

When she became aware of his feverish hands clutching at her she screamed, but then a clenched fist struck her violently in the face, cutting off her cry and making her head spin. Held down by his weight, she felt her wrists caught, yanked up over her head and then held there by one strong hand. Next moment his other hand was pulling her dress and petticoat up around her waist, and she could feel the night air on her stockinged legs. She felt a warm wetness around the top of her thighs, and dully the realization came into her mind that she was urinating. The awareness was only fleeting. The next moment she felt fingers snatching at the waist of her drawers and pulling them down, and heard them tear as they were wrenched over her boots. Moments later the cotton fabric was at her face, being forced into her mouth, cutting off her cries.

It couldn’t be happening, the thought flashed through her mind; it was all a nightmare. But it was all too real. Only too real the hands beneath her knees, lifting them, parting them; too real the rough hands on her vagina, clutching, probing; too real the feel and the weight of the body between her legs, the man’s hot member pushing against her, entering her, tearing, thrusting into her.

Although the man’s passions had been inflamed by his lust and the alcohol he had consumed, the latter had affected his potency and it took a long time before he finished, heaving into her with long, violent thrusts in the spasms of his orgasm. He withdrew, straightened, knelt there for a moment and then got up. As he did so, his companion appeared, unfastening his belt and trousers. Quickly he lowered himself before the girl and entered her. He lay on her, pushing forcefully and rhythmically into her body, grunting with his exertions. Then, turning his head to his friend he complained, ‘She don’t put anything into it.’ Pausing in his heaving, he reached out and snatched the gag from her mouth. ‘How’re you liking it?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’ As he spoke he slammed into her with such violence that her body moved on the grass. ‘Good?’ he said. ‘Is it good?’

The girl did not answer. The man slapped her on the cheek, but still she made no response. ‘Useless bitch,’ he muttered, ‘she’s out cold.’

From the distance on the night air there came to Abbie’s ears the striking of the church clock in Old Ford as it sounded the hour of ten. How long had she been there? It must have been well over an hour. She did not know where she was in relation to the men, though she knew she had run a considerable distance. And where, she wondered, was her pursuer? Was he still in the woods, searching for her? Lowering her head, she pressed deeper into the damp shelter of the dell.

When the church clock struck eleven she was still crouching there, still having heard no further sound of the men. Some minutes after the last stroke had faded she drew her courage together, slowly pulled herself up and gingerly raised her head above the rim of the dell.

The light of the moon was very bright now and she could see clearly. Facing in one direction, she found herself looking into the dense darkness of the wood. Turning the opposite way she looked through the straggling trees and shrubs of the wood’s edge across a meadow. In the distance twinkled lights in the windows of a small group of cottages. There was no sign of the men.

She remained there for several minutes more, peering this way and that in the moonlight, and then, doing her best to avoid the thorns of the brambles, pulled herself out of the dell and onto the grass. On shaky legs she stood up, stiff in her joints from crouching for so long, and warily looked about her again. She had to find Beatie. Entering the trees, she moved slowly, carefully, heading for the far side, all the while keeping alert for any sound or sign of the men. Eventually, after some time, she emerged from the darkness of the wood to face the meadow, some hundred yards or so from the point at which she and Beatie had met the strangers.

There was no one in sight. Stepping out onto the footpath, she turned full circle, gazing about her. No one. After a moment she set off along the path.

Further along she saw something shining in the grass, and on drawing closer realized that it was one of the pieces of the broken teacup. Over to her right under a tree lay the cardboard box and the shattered remains of the rest of the teaset. She moved on.

Reaching the stile at the edge of the field, she turned and started off back over the grass, all the while looking for some sign of Beatie’s presence. She was afraid to call out for fear of alerting the men. Eventually, nearing the end of her search of the meadow, she approached, towards the far side, the little thicket. As she drew nearer to it she heard the chimes of midnight on the night breeze. Reaching the thicket, she hesitantly entered the darkness of its shadows and began to move among the trees. As she stopped to unhitch her skirt from the thorns of a bramble she heard a sound. She froze, listening. It came again, from the far side of the thicket, a sound like a little moan, the sound of a child, lost. Beatie’s voice.

Palms damp, heart thumping in her breast, she spun, lurching away in the direction of the cry.

Beatie was sitting on the ground at the edge of the trees, her hands in her lap. As Abbie burst through the screen of trees and ran towards her, Beatie turned her head and looked around at her.

‘Oh, Beatie – Beatie.’ Kneeling beside her, Abbie gathered her sister into her arms. ‘Beatie – oh, Beatie . . .’

Beatie remained silent in Abbie’s embrace. After a few moments Abbie drew back a little and looked at her through the distorting film of her tears. In the growing brightness of the moonlight she saw that her bonnet hung loose and that her dress had been ripped at the shoulder so that her right breast was visible. Beatie seemed unaware of her nakedness. Her dress had also been torn at the waist, the skirt partly ripped from the bodice, while the hem of the skirt, hitched up beneath her buttock on one side, revealed that her stockings were torn and her legs smeared with what appeared to be blood. Raising her eyes again to Beatie’s face, Abbie saw that her hair was tangled and matted, with twigs and leaves caught in it. There was a dark bruise on her cheek, her mouth and nose looked swollen and there was blood on her lower lip and around her nostrils.

‘Oh, Beatie – oh, my love . . .’ Tears welled in Abbie’s eyes, spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

Beatie remained silent, her vacant eyes looking unfocusingly past Abbie across the moonlit fields. Then, her voice small, distant, a shade touched with shame, she said, ‘I wet myself, Abbie. How awful. I couldn’t help it, though.’

‘Oh, Beatie,’ Abbie burst out in a sob. ‘Oh, my darling!’

Sitting on the grass, Abbie held her in her arms, occasionally patting her, as she would a child. After a time she spoke again.

‘Come on,’ she murmured, ‘let’s go home.’

Chapter Nine

At times it seemed to Abbie that she and Beatie would never get home that night. Beatie was not only in great pain but also appeared to be mentally stunned. Stumbling along at Abbie’s side, she rarely spoke, seeming to move as if in a dream.

After traversing the fields they eventually came out onto the road again. And then, after what seemed an age, they reached Flaxdown and started up the lane. As they drew near the cottage Abbie saw the figures of her father and brother emerging from the front door. Her father was carrying a lantern. Seeing the girls, the men hurried forward.

‘Dear God’, Frank Morris said, ‘where have you been? It’s after one o’clock. Eddie and I have been out looking for you. We were just starting out again.’ Coming to a stop, he raised the lantern so that its light fell on the girls’ faces. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said, his voice full of horror and fear. Abbie gave a sob and ran to him. His free arm came up and held her. ‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

In the same moment Eddie came forward, and standing before Beatie with her bruised and bloody face, and her torn and dishevelled clothing, he raised his fists before him. ‘Who did this?’ he cried out. ‘Who did this to you?’

Abbie had never seen such passion as that shown by her father and brother that night. For the first minutes they were like madmen – Eddie in particular charging this way and that, going nowhere, aimless and disorientated by the shock and his rage and impotence. As well as she could, Abbie told of their meeting with the men, though with certainty she could only speak of her own experiences. What had happened to Beatie could only be surmised, for while Abbie and her father wiped the blood from Beatie’s face, Beatie herself sat in silence, giving no answers to their questions. After a while Eddie, at Abbie’s suggestion, ran off to fetch Mrs Carroll from Tomkins Row.

When Mrs Carroll entered the cottage behind Eddie a little while later she and Abbie took Beatie upstairs where they gave further attention to her injuries. All the while as they worked, Mrs Carroll talked gently to Beatie and gradually, at last, she began to respond.

After a time, with Beatie in bed and Mrs Carroll sitting at her side, Abbie went back downstairs. There she told Eddie and her father what she and Mrs Carroll had learned.

Eddie cried, new tears springing to his eyes, ‘Both of ’em? You tellin’ me it was both of ’em?’

Frank Morris gave a sob and put his head in his hands. For a few moments he remained so, then he looked up. ‘What were they like, these men? Tell us what they looked like.’

Abbie gave what descriptions she could, but these were mainly limited to their height and what she surmised as the men’s age range, that she guessed them to be in their twenties. She had not seen their faces, she said.

‘They said they saw you at the fair?’ Eddie said.

‘Yes.’

Eddie and his father looked at one another.

‘Come on, son,’ Frank Morris said.

With a nod, Eddie strode towards the stairs. At the same time his father went to a cupboard and took out a horsewhip. When Eddie re-entered the kitchen a few moments later he was carrying his gun. His eyes glittering, he said, ‘I’ll swing for ’em. We’ll find ’em, and when we do I’m gunna kill the bastards.’

Seeing their rage, their determination, Abbie said quickly, ‘Please – oh, please, don’t do anything. You’ll only make things worse.’

‘What d’you expect us to do,’ Eddie said, ‘just sit here and do nothing?’

‘But you’ll never find them at this hour anyway,’ Abbie protested.

‘Abbie,’ their father said, ‘you just do what’s possible for Beatie. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’ Moments later he and Eddie were gone.

Left alone, Abbie washed herself, and cleaned the cuts and bruises on her hands and face. She put on the kettle for tea and then went upstairs, where she found Mrs Carroll as she had left her, sitting beside the bed. Beatie lay quiet, her eyes closed. As Abbie entered the room Mrs Carroll lifted a finger in warning. ‘She’s sleeping.’