What Have I Done

Ten years ago



Saturday was a day of rest for some members of the school community. The younger years and those that weren’t in sports teams were free to idle outside or indulge in a hobby in their boarding house. If the kids had match fixtures, however, it was a school day like any other.

Kathryn folded her son’s cricket whites and brushed his school cricket cap. He was at best a keen amateur, but as per school rules could not be seen in anything less than full games kit. She correctly assumed that part of the allure of school sports for Dom was the paraphernalia that accompanied each activity. He was convinced that if he looked the part, he could play the part, hoping that wearing top-of-the-range kit might make up for his lack of natural ability.

Saturday or not, Kathryn had chores to do. Today she would polish the canteen of silver cutlery – it was seldom used, but best to be prepared; empty and clean the two wheelie bins; strip the oven down to its bare components and thoroughly scrub all parts thereof; sweep the garden path and patio; clean and polish all the windows on the landings and hallway including the glass of the front and back doors; and visit the supermarket for a ‘big shop’, ensuring that the larder, cupboards, freezer and fridge were adequately stocked for any eventuality.

It was a gloriously hot day. Kathryn had enjoyed her trip into town, stopping several times to debate the temperature with the various staff and parents she bumped into, and once to admire a collection of bugs that some pre-prep students had stuffed into a leaf-filled ice-cream carton. It felt like summer had arrived. After donning her sandals and spritzing her cologne she was ready for her next batch of chores.

She glanced at the kitchen clock and was happy to see she was ahead of schedule. This meant she could start preparation for supper and find a few spare minutes later in the day for illicit reading.

‘Kathryn?’

She abandoned the bowl of sugar snap peas that she had been prepping, dropping the sharp paring knife into the pocket of her apron as she wiped her hands on its floral fabric. The children regularly laughed at her choice of domestic cover-up, but she cared little; it felt homely and reminded her of her own mother’s apron, which she remembered as being constantly spattered with flour.

She followed Mark’s voice out into the garden, walking quickly to where she had been summoned.

‘Yes, Mark?’

She hovered, waiting to find out the exact nature of his request, which might be anything from a demand for iced tea to the name of a past pupil that had temporarily escaped him.

‘Gardening gloves? Any clues, my sweet? Can’t seem to find them!’

‘Yes, I’ll fetch them.’

Kathryn returned to the kitchen and rummaged in her bits and bobs drawer in the larder. There they were. She heard Mark’s loud chuckle before she ventured back outside.

‘There she is! Keeping me hard at it as usual, Roland.’

‘That I can see. Nice to see you, Kathryn!’

Sophie’s dad raised his hand in greeting from beside the rose bed. Kathryn waved as she approached, noting his tailored navy blazer, which he had teamed with white Bermuda shorts and deck shoes. He always looked so dapper, effeminate even, in his immaculate outfits and considered accessories. Dominic referred to him as an ‘old poof’. Kathryn would have to disagree; he certainly wasn’t old.

‘Hello, Roland. Sophie got a match?’

‘Yes, tennis. Thought I’d come and offer a bit of moral support!’

‘Well you’ve got a lovely afternoon for it.’

Kathryn swept her arm over her head, to indicate the sunshine.

Mark interjected. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. Some of us are slaves to the garden and our wives, sunshine or not! I can assure you I’d rather be sinking a pint and having a gander at the paper. Quite keen to know how England are getting on in the Test.’

Mark laughed and Roland laughed too. Kathryn marvelled at how her husband always knew the right thing to say to endear himself – she could swear that he had no interest in cricket whatsoever.

‘Now you’re talking,’ Roland concurred. ‘Go easy on him, Kathryn, the man works too hard!’

She smiled and nodded. Her heart thudded and her lips trembled with the temptation to scream.



With supper prepared, Kathryn decided to wander over to the playing fields, hoping to catch a bit of Dominic’s cricket match. She packed up a basket with some cold fruit juice and a homemade lemon cake. She would give the boys a treat; they were probably famished.

She had never grasped the rules or finer points of cricket but had to admit that there was something very soothing about the sound of leather on willow and the dainty ripple of applause at a job well done. It all felt very English and reminded her of days in the park with her dad when she was little.

Boys and parents alike lounged around the field, some engrossed in newspapers, some dozing in deckchairs and one or two even watching the match.

She spied a group of kids at the far side of the pitch and determined by their stance and number that her son would be among them. It took a while to navigate the edge of the field. She stepped over open novels, textbooks and crawling babies. She trotted between picnic blankets and folding chairs and stumbled over discarded shoes and cricket pads whilst nodding hello or acknowledgements to several staff and visitors. As she approached the group, she could see that her assumption had been correct.

Dominic lay face down, prostrate on the grass along with several of his peers. Kathryn averted her eyes as an empty bottle of champagne was hastily thrust under a school sweatshirt. The boys and girls alike were in various states of undress, as was fitting for the weather. One of them was Emily Grant, whose shirt was tied up under her bust, revealing the slight paunch of a tanned tummy. Her hair hung down over her face and her eyes were heavily kohled. She lay inches from Dominic, her head propped up on her angled wrist as she raked his back with painted nails.

Kathryn felt an instant ache of regret at having come; she was intruding and wished that she had stayed at home. This was no place for parents or teachers; she was an outsider. Intuition told her she was unwanted before she had uttered a single syllable. If she could have reversed unseen and slunk back into the shadows, she would have.

She looked back to examine the route that she had taken, trying to plot a quick escape. So many obstacles and people littered her view, she couldn’t easily decipher a path. There was a split second when she wondered if she could turn on her heel and slip away unnoticed, back into the crowd.

‘Hey! It’s your mummy, Dom Dom!’

Kathryn wasn’t sure who had spoken, but recognised the tone.

‘Yes it is,’ she offered brightly. ‘Hello, Dom! Hello, everyone!’

Dominic flicked his head around and groaned as he surveyed his mother in her floral cotton apron.

‘Hello, Mrs Brooker!’

It was Luca who had been so very polite.

‘Hello, Mrs Bedmaker!’

Again, she couldn’t determine who had spoken, but presumed it was one of the lower sixth whose face was buried in a white slipover. Kathryn felt her cheeks turn crimson as heads snickered into hands and bodies shook with the exertion of trying not to burst out in guffaws. It was an absolutely hilarious situation. Her breath came in huge gulps and she felt rooted to the spot. Even Dominic laughed, but tried to bury his face into the blanket to conceal his amusement.

‘I just… I… well…’ She pleaded with herself, Don’t cry, Kathryn, not here, not now, not in front of them. Mustering what little dignity she could, she smiled at the group and announced in a loud voice with her head held high, ‘Just came to check on the score. I’ll be off then. Have fun, everyone!’

Clutching her basket, embarrassed by its contents and her earlier intentions, she turned a little too quickly and stumbled on a divot. The bottle of juice rolled onto the floor. She bent to retrieve it before scurrying away. She could hear the ripple of laughter that chased her steps.

Why is it okay to laugh at me? What have I done to deserve this? I am a person, I am not invisible. These thoughts rattled around her head.

A conversation that she had once had with Natasha came to mind. The subject had been sprung on her unawares as they walked in the grounds one autumn day.

‘Do you know that your nickname is Mrs Bedmaker?’

Kathryn had answered carefully. ‘Yes. Yes, I do know. The kids say it to me when they think that they can get away with it. It’s almost like an initiation, a positioning on the bravado scale. They always do get away with it of course, because I let them!’

‘Why is that, Kate?’ Natasha held her arm.

‘Well, because they are only children and most of them are actually very sweet indeed and they are far from home. I have known them all for a long time and I think it would be more harmful or awkward to pick them up on it. I mean, it’s only a bit of harmless fun and I know that they don’t mean anything by it.’

‘No, Kate, you misunderstood me.’ Natasha shook her head. ‘I mean, why is it that they call you Mrs Bedmaker? Why do you wash your bed linen so frequently? I know it’s none of my business, but it is a little… odd.’ She twisted her mouth into a comic grimace, trying to make light of the situation.

Kathryn had looked into the face of her friend. A little voice in her head had said, Tell her, Kathryn, tell her now, she cares and she can help you! Tell her what he does to you, tell her what he has always done to you, tell her how you are trapped, tell her how you have to stay or you would lose your children and the thought of that is even more unbearable than the life that you are forced to lead.

Instead, she opened her mouth and a sound popped out that would change the parameters of their relationship for a very long time. It was the sound of a very heavy door shutting, the sound of a barrier closing, the sound of a boundary being put in place, a limit, a threshold, a constraint. It was these ten words: ‘You are quite right, it is none of your business.’

She often thought about that conversation and the missed opportunity. What did it matter now? Natasha was teaching at the other end of the country. Kathryn doubted she would see her again, more’s the pity. The two had shared a wonderful friendship.

Kathryn thought about Dominic and Lydia’s behaviour. She had tried their whole lives to make them into decent human beings, showing them the importance of having respect for themselves and other people. This sounded ironic even inside her own head: how could she teach or show them how to have respect for themselves when she had no respect for herself? She was a sham. Her whole life was a horrible pretence.

She knew that at some level her battle to make them into rounded and likeable people was futile. How could they ever grow up with any sense of ‘normal’ when what went on under their roof every night was so very far from normal, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise?

They were embroiled in a battle that they did not even know they were fighting, playing a game in which over half of the rules and players were hidden. It was unfair on all of them.

Kathryn breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she walked up the back path that wound its way between the playing field and their private garden. Here she could hide until the match had finished.

She spied Mark’s head, bent over a garden chore on the other side of the hedge. He was wearing his gardening hat. He insisted it was a panama, but to Kathryn it looked more like a Stetson, which made her chuckle on the inside.

Kathryn paused and looked beyond the gate into the garden. At first she couldn’t identify the strange haze that loitered over the top of the roses, the shimmering distortion of the grass and flowers. The house bricks flickered and the air seemed to flex. Then she realised that she was looking at the house through a wall of heat. Something was burning.

She sniffed the air and recognised the distinctive smell of a bonfire. The bitter, intoxicating smell transported her to her childhood, her dad in his black wellington boots, holding a garden fork as he skewered leaves and wrappings onto the burning pyre. His ‘bonfire’ was a permanent fixture: within a wheelbarrow’s leap of the compost heap, he had constructed a ramshackle box out of chicken wire and an old metal gate. The whole thing was supported by two bricks at each corner. He would always make out that it was an arduous task, but she and Francesca knew it was one of his greatest pleasures. In fact it seemed that most men loved the almost primal task of starting a fire and watching the heat of the flames destroy things.

Kathryn stepped inside the gate. She watched Mark as he bundled up paper and cardboard then threw the pile onto the fire and stood back, hands on hips, to admire his handiwork. Unlike her dad, Mark would be burning things out of necessity, to clear away mess; he would not have secreted a handful of foil-wrapped spuds at its core, for retrieval and eating with butter at dusk. She thought back fondly to her and Francesca in their frog-eyed wellies and hand-knitted Aran jerseys, sitting with their father on upturned milk crates, with buttery chins, burning tongues and cold, prune-like toes… Happy, happy days.

She walked down the path towards the house. The black smoke swept across the garden with ferocity and she was thankful that she had taken in the washing earlier.

‘Ah, Kathryn, there you are.’

He smiled at her. He probably required something: a cold drink, sandwich, chair, punch bag, who knew.

She said nothing, but smiled back, nodding her head slightly to indicate that yes, there she was.

Kathryn moved closer to the fire, enjoying the warmth it radiated despite the summery temperature. She quickly became transfixed by the flames. She was fascinated by the colour palette within the blaze: yellow and orange flickered to purple and green with the brightest blue leaping at certain points; it was beautiful and captivating. Kathryn not only loved the sight and scent of a fire, but also the noise. It was distinct and evocative of cosy nights in, romance and snuggling under blankets on a cold winter’s evening; it was a good book and lamplight; it was comfort for aching bones.

She stood silently for some minutes as Mark jabbed at the flames with a long branch. As she focussed, she could make out an empty tissue box, the front cover of an old cardboard file and some peanut shells. As she continued to stare, her eye was drawn to some lettering that jumped out at her from the burning matter and punctured her vision. It was just a few letters that weren’t immediately decipherable: g… u… d… i… gudi.

Kathryn knew at once to what those four letters referred: Tales from Malgudi! Oh no! Oh no! Her breath quickened as her heart thudded inside her rib cage. She began to shake. She screwed her eyes into slits to better withstand the acrid smoke, and, taking one step closer, she looked deep inside the flames.

They were all there: Tom Jones, Portrait in Sepia, The God of Small Things. All of them. She pictured her husband tearing through the house, a whirling dervish in search of all her concealed treasures, saw him gathering them into his crooked arms and tearing down the stairs in his haste to throw them onto the flames. Would it have brought him joy to know that he was destroying her secrets? Yes, yes, she knew that it would.

Her mouth hung open. Putting her hand to her forehead, she looked at Mark, who returned her gaze with an unwavering, expressionless stare.

All of her books that she had hidden about the house – her friends, her distractions, her joy. He had found them and he was burning them. The discovery may not have been made today; he may have known about them for some time and had simply been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to execute his plan.

That moment was clearly now and her books were nearly gone; seconds of life remained in one or two untouched words. He was burning her novels. Burning her books… Burning her books… It didn’t matter how many times she repeated the horror inside her head, it didn’t make it any less distressing.

Kathryn dropped her basket, indifferent to the lemon drizzle cake that spilled onto the grass and the bottle of juice that skittered off the path, coming to rest under a shrub. She sank to her knees, unaware that dirt and soil were seeping through her skirt and discolouring her knees. She looked again at her husband, but no words came. There were no words, nothing to adequately convey what she was feeling or that would make him understand. She wanted to use words like bereft, anguish, sorrow and heartache. She knew, however, that to him they would feel like an exaggeration, a taunt, and so she could not speak them, not with it being only a couple of hours until bedtime.

It was while she sat mourning the loss of her books and her only means of escape that something else caught her eye. Sticking out from the corner of the fire was a rounded wooden knob. It was about a centimetre in diameter. Once her eyes had identified it, she quickly spotted the split legs of another and the head of another and another…

Kathryn slumped forward until her head was on the soil. She beat the ground with clenched fists, then ripped at the grass with her fingers. The sound she emitted was part cat mewl and part wail, animalistic and desperate.

‘No! No! No! Please, no!’

He had burnt her grandmother’s pegs, severing the last tangible link she had with her mother and grandmother. He had destroyed part of her history and part of Lydia’s future, removing the only things that made her whole pitiful laundry routine bearable. These little dolly shapes were her one diversion from the abuse she suffered. Whilst pegging out her bed linen, these little wooden objects enabled her to think of her grandma and of summer days in childhood, of homemade cakes and garden picnics and not the fact that she had once again been forced to remove the evidence of her husband’s torture.

Tears slid from her eyes and down into her open mouth. She sobbed without restraint. Kathryn had mastered the art of crying silently and discreetly and could even cry on the inside, allowing tears to slip down the back of her nose and throat without breaking her smile. Today this was not possible; her distress was overwhelming and all consuming.

She cried loudly as she fought for breath. Burying her dirt-covered face in her hands, she sobbed and sobbed. Every time she peeked between her fingers and glimpsed the glowing, charred remains of the little wooden splints, her tears would flow again. He had burnt her grandmother’s pegs…

She continued to sit statue-like on the dewy grass long after the flames had disappeared. In their place was a pile of smoking charcoal. Occasionally a small defiant flame would fizz and flare, but this display was always short-lived and feeble.

Kathryn became aware that it was growing dark and that she was dreadfully uncomfortable, damp, aching and covered in dirt. It hadn’t occurred to her to finish off supper or attend to her chores; she could only focus on her distress. Standing slowly, she looked into the kitchen window and into the face of her husband, who stood on the other side of the pane with a glass of wine in his hand.

Her soot-smeared face was streaked with the paths of tears that had long since dried, leaving only tracks of salty residue. Slowly Mark’s mouth twisted into a smile and his eyes creased accordingly. He was smiling at her, but she couldn’t even pretend. She couldn’t find her happy face or her happy voice. She felt broken, broken and beyond repair.

Hey, little girl,

Comb your hair, fix your make-up.

Soon he will open the door.

Don’t think because

There’s a ring on your finger,

You needn’t try any more

* * *

Next morning, Kathryn felt surprisingly numb. Each time she closed her eyes, the nightmare of her burnt pegs leapt into focus. She could picture nothing else; the images consumed her every thought. She felt strangely disconnected from her surroundings and stacked the breakfast things into the dishwasher slowly.

‘You okay, Mum?’ Her son’s tone was one of concern.

Kathryn couldn’t find any words of response or her happy smile, so she simply nodded.



The chapel was busy; each boarding house occupied its usual pew. Invited parents in their finery crammed into the narrow seats, each mummy trying to out-yummy the next. Pinstriped dads shook hands and slapped each other’s backs in congratulations at all that they had achieved: a smart suit, flash car, expensive watch and gorgeous wife. Game, set and match.

Governors and staff were dotted among the congregation, wearing their dusty graduation gowns and university colours with pride. The organ music boomed and invigorated, giving everyone who sat staring at the ornate domed ceiling a feeling of self-importance and belonging: our history, our tradition, our money well spent.

Kathryn felt all eyes scan the headmaster and his wife as they settled into their seats. She had to resist the temptation to stand and shout at the appraising eyes, ‘Yes, I know I am wearing the blue jersey and pleated skirt again, but truth be known it’s my “chapel outfit” and you will all be seeing it for at least this year and probably the greater part of next.’ She was wrong; no one at chapel that day would see this outfit again.

Kathryn glanced over at the masters sitting with jutting chins and narrowed eyes in their allocated seats. She knew that at least three of them would be dozing within minutes, using the ruse of deep prayer and concentration with eyes closed to catch up on sleep. They fooled no one, least of all the children, who would point and nudge at the lolling heads.

Kathryn had almost given up on the God to whom they all paid homage, but it was important that she attended nonetheless. Not to do so would be bad manners and she did enjoy the beautiful surroundings, the singing and the sight of her children, whom she watched surreptitiously from across the aisle. She wondered if every mother felt the same swell of love and pride when they studied the perfect faces of the humans they had created.

Unaware that they were being scrutinised, Lydia and Dominic looked relaxed and natural. Dominic twitched his nose involuntarily; a tiny act that transported Kathryn back to when he was a baby. It amazed her that this boy-man was only ever a minor flinch away from the baby she had held in her arms. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could still invoke his newborn scent, a unique and intoxicating combination of baked bread and new human. Lydia had smelt quite different: fresher, with an almost citrusy tang, like a warm lemon muffin.

Kathryn watched Lydia put the nail of her index finger into her mouth and start nibbling. It made her wince. Lydia had the beautiful hands of an artist: long, tapering fingers and almond-shaped nails. It was a long-standing family joke that if she sat on her hands she would be unable to communicate; she was so expressive with them, using her palms and fingers to illustrate and emphasise every point.

Dominic sat with his fingers interlaced in his lap. His gaze was steady in the direction of the chaplain. A casual observer might think that he was transfixed by the words being dispensed from the lectern, but Kathryn knew different. From her privileged vantage point she could see that Emily Grant was sitting slightly to the right of the chaplain and was busy returning her boyfriend’s gaze with not so subtle nods, gestures and raised eyebrows. Kathryn smiled to herself, feeling like a secret had inadvertently been shared with her.

The chaplain, Tim Cattermole, was warming to his theme. He grasped both sides of the lectern, as if to add extra gravitas to his words.

‘“I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Boys and girls, staff and parents, I would like you to think about that quote from the Bible while I give my address today, the theme of which is “protection”. I want to talk about our duty to protect all that is precious and important to us, including our wonderful school and all that is in it, but also the need to protect each other, to keep each other safe from harm…’

He spoke at length about how bullies and people that harm others were the opposite of protectors, how they were in fact ‘destroyers’ of all that was good and worth protecting. Most of it went over Kathryn’s head, for she was greatly distracted by a single thought that rang out like a clear note, high and visible above everything else – that the right thing to do was ‘to prosper you and not to harm you’. Tim Cattermole was spot on: she should not be harmed, she should not be harmed any more; this was not why she had been created, not what her parents had raised her for, not why she had been blessed with children. Enough was enough. Kathryn Brooker did not want to be harmed any more.

She closed her eyes as the chaplain’s words rose up and danced about the keystones of the arches, waking the slumbering carvings and gargoyles. For the first time in a very long time, she prayed. ‘Help me, please help me. I am so lonely, I am alone. I am lonely and alone amongst all of these people; I am always alone. Wherever I am and whoever I am with, I am always alone. I am asking for strength because I want to give up. I don’t think that I can do this any more. Help me, please help me…’

In a moment of epiphany, Tim Cattermole’s words pierced her prayer and spoke directly to her. He was quoting the answer, he was giving her the solution, he was answering her prayer:

‘Thou shalt not consent unto him, nor hearken unto him; neither shall thine eye pity him, neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal him: But thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death.’

The words replayed in her head until she had little choice but to give them consideration.



After chapel, the great and the good gathered in the refectory for drinks. Kathryn was in no mood for jovial interaction with strangers, but as usual she had little choice. Mark was chatting to Dom and a group of his peers, holding court, making friends. Kathryn caught the tail end of Luca’s story.

‘… the nasty little poof.’

She correctly concluded that the boy under discussion was Jack Hollister, who had recently left school after being outed on the web by his tutor group. She had found the whole episode disgusting.

‘I don’t think you should be talking about anyone in those terms, Luca. It isn’t very nice.’

The group stared in surprise at the unusually opinionated Mrs Bedmaker.

When the last of the assembled parents and masters had scoffed enough plonk and vol-au-vents, Kathryn and Mark found themselves alone.

‘Thank you for your valuable input on the Hollister boy incident earlier, darling. Your insights will I’m sure prove most enlightening to the boys as they venture forth into the world. I find it odd that you felt the need to comment at all. It can’t be news to you that the world is indeed “not very nice” and my personal view is that he is better away from a school of this calibre. We have no need of his sort here.’

‘His sort?’ Kathryn could not keep the horror from her voice.

‘Yes, his sort. Do I need to remind you that I am an educator and therefore fully aware of exactly what a subversive influence in a small group can do? For future reference, if I need advice on what polish to use or the best way to get the dishes really clean, I’ll ask you, but in the meantime kindly don’t offer your views on matters about which you have absolutely no knowledge and that I or anyone else have absolutely no interest in hearing. Is that clear?’

Mark smiled throughout his lecture, but the tone in which it was delivered left Kathryn in little doubt that she was in deep trouble. Before she had a chance to respond, the kids popped their heads around the refectory door.

‘Can we please go home? Some of us have lives outside of school!’

‘God, kids, can’t we have a little smooch without being hounded by you two?’

‘Oh, gross, Dad!’ Dominic shook his head.

Kathryn stared at her husband. His capacity to lie and smirk in unison knew no bounds.

Once the chaplain had been congratulated, the choir thanked and the pupils dismissed, the Brookers walked along the path back to their house. Dominic and Lydia strode ahead, loosening their chapel-smart ties and rolling down their socks, impatient to shake off ‘geek’ and become ‘cool’.

Kathryn watched Mark saunter along the path with his hands clamped behind his back. His gown billowed behind, giving him a bat-like quality.

‘I thought it went rather well this morning,’ he said. ‘I think people found my address interesting; some were clearly captivated.’

‘If you substitute “long” for “interesting” and “bored” for “captivated” then I couldn’t agree more, Dad!’ Dominic shouted back along the path.

Kathryn watched her husband laugh loudly as he tipped his head back. It was incredible how he allowed – appreciated, even – such frankness and deprecation from the children and yet reacted with such wrath to even the slightest transgression from her.

‘I agree with Dom,’ Lydia interjected. ‘You go and on and on, Dad. Blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening after the welcome bit.’

‘Right, I get it. My children are finally learning the power of combined effort. Well done, kids. Two is definitely better than one when it comes to brain power.’

Dominic and Lydia high-fived each other in a rare moment of camaraderie.

‘Hang on a mo though, kids. Your celebrations may be a little premature. You seem to have overlooked the fact that I am not necessarily outnumbered here. I do have my good lady wife on hand to boost my team numbers.’

‘Actually, Dad, sorry to disappoint you, but I have to say that I saw Mum’s face during your performance today and she looked bored shitless like the rest of us!’

‘Is that right?’

Mark stopped walking and turned to face his wife.

‘Come on, Kathryn, enlighten us. Which were you? Captivated or bored shitless, as our offspring so succinctly put it?’

The three stood facing her. Her children’s faces were open and smiling, but Mark’s eyes were thunderous, his mouth set.

‘Yeah, come on, Mum. Bored shitless or captivated?’

Kathryn studied the trio around whom her world revolved. She practised the correct phrase in her head, mentally forming the words that would placate her spouse and disappoint her children.

It was a split-second lapse of concentration. The briefest of moments when her words leapt from her mouth unfiltered and uncensored. It was done in error.

‘I was absolutely bored shitless.’

Dominic and Lydia doubled over, each laughing hysterically at this unexpected turn of events and delighted that at last their mum was joining in the fun. Dom wiped the tears from his eyes as he put his arm across his mother’s shoulders.

‘That is classic! Bloody classic!’

Lydia put her arm around Mark’s waist, evening out the teams.

Kathryn held her husband’s gaze, which was unwavering despite the physical distraction of the kids.

‘Is that right, Kathryn? Bored shitless, eh?’

Mark narrowed his eyes, trying to better understand his wife’s dissent. He stared as if trying to fathom where this new-found confidence had come from, what had shifted in their universe that meant she felt able to openly go against him. He wasn’t accustomed to being disagreed with and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

She sought words of solace, tried to find the right words of retraction that would prevent severe punishment later. Try as she might, they remained obstinately hidden, as though a greater force than she was controlling her tongue.

‘Looks like you’re finally outnumbered, Dad!’

Dominic was delighted with the small victory.

‘It would appear so!’

Mark laughed as he released his daughter’s grip. The family continued along the path.

Kathryn felt an overpowering rush of longing for her children. It felt wonderful to be on the same side. She surged forward and put her arms around her children’s backs, clutching at them with outstretched arms and splayed fingers. They chorused in unison, ‘Get off, Mum!’ and ‘What are you doing?’ She didn’t care. The trio stood on the path.

‘I love you both so very much. I am so proud of who you are and I am proud of all the things that I know you will achieve. You are both amazing, my amazing kids! Promise me you will always make good choices.’

Dominic shrugged himself free of his mother’s arm.

‘Sure, crazy lady.’

He did, however, peck her on the cheek before jogging ahead and home. Lydia took her mother’s hand and the two continued along the path, with Mark not far behind.

‘I love you too, Mum.’

Kathryn beamed. ‘Thank you, darling.’

‘Do you remember, Mum, when you asked me a while ago if I would like your life and I said no?’

‘Yes, yes I do.’

‘Well, I should have added that even though I wouldn’t like your life exactly, I would like to be like you. You know, sweet and kind and lovely all the time. I really would like to be like that.’

A single tear rolled down Kathryn’s face.

‘Thank you, Lydia. Thank you.’

Mark opened the gate and stepped back to allow his wife into their garden; ever the gentleman. Kathryn slowed as she walked past him, her eyes cast downward. The earlier moment of euphoria had passed quickly.

‘I will kill you.’

His expression belied the fact that he had spoken. It had been little more than a whisper and was so softly offered that she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it. Maybe she had.



Kathryn tied her floral apron about her neck and waist and put the kettle on to boil. She tried not to focus on the invisible gap on the shelf between Jamie’s Italy and Jamie Does …, where until yesterday her secret copy of Tales from Malgudi had rested, awaiting a snatched moment while the kettle boiled or the dishwasher whirred through its last cycle. Her precious books were all gone, burned. She still couldn’t think about the bonfire without a lump forming in her throat. She tried to soothe herself with the mantra that ‘they were only things, objects. None of it matters…’, but the truth was that it did matter, it mattered a great deal.

In the seconds that it took her to fill the kettle with fresh water and plug it in, the children had changed and were now thundering down the stairs.

‘Bye!’ they yelled in unison.

‘Where are you going, kids? When will you be back? Are you here for supper?’

Dominic paused in the doorway and flicked his long hair from his eyes.

‘Which one should I answer first?’

‘Erm… I’ll take them in order please.’

She smiled at her boy, her smart, sarcastic, funny boy.

‘Barbecue at Amy’s. Late. No.’

‘Have fun and be safe!’

‘Which one?’

‘Which one?’

‘Yes, Ma, you can’t have both.’

‘In that case I will go for safety.’

‘Boring.’

‘That’s me, Dom. Regular, boring old mum!’

Dominic let go of the door handle and walked back into the kitchen. He strode over to his mother, took her in his arms and hugged her tightly.

‘Yes you are, but you are my regular, boring old mum and I love you.’

With the embarrassment of youth, he quickly released her and ran from the house. That one embrace with its sincere sentiment was something Kathryn would ponder time and again. Neither could have anticipated its significance.

With the early start of chapel and all the preparations that it required, Kathryn had neglected to make the bed that morning. She selected a clean set of white sheets from the linen cupboard and made her way to the bedroom. She half unfolded the sheet, placed it over the bed, and shook it open. As she watched the white rectangle billow in front of her, she heard a small thud. There, lying on the bare mattress, was one of her grandmother’s pegs. Correction, the last of her grandmother’s pegs, and not just any peg; it was Peggy.

She allowed the fabric to fall and scooped the wooden splint with its felt-tipped eyes into her hand. As she sat on the edge of the bed and held the precious talisman tight, relief flooded through her. She caressed it, her most cherished peg, rolled it between her palms and sighed.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered into the ether.

‘Who are you talking to?’

Mark had suddenly materialised in the doorway.

‘No one.’

‘I see. Were you delivering one of your insightful speeches on raving homosexuality and niceness?’

She shook her head. Any previous confidence had now evaporated, as it always did within the four walls of their home.

Mark lunged forward quite suddenly and with his open palm hit her across the side of the head. He used such force that Kathryn tumbled off the edge of the bed like a discarded rag doll and landed in a heap on the floor. Her right ear rang and her face hurt. She opened her eyes wide and blinked, trying to restore her vision and balance.

‘You see what you made me do? Do you think I like having to control you, Kathryn?’

This she knew was a trick question, because yes, he clearly did like having to control her.

‘Get back on the bed.’

She obeyed his instruction, hauling herself back on to the mattress.

Mark took a step towards the tallboy, where his weapon of choice was neatly wrapped in its waxed paper. He stopped abruptly and turned back to his wife. He was smiling.

‘What is that in your hands?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she whispered.

He smiled again and a small laugh escaped his lips.

‘You have given me two interesting answers, Kathryn. “No one” and “nothing” – a thought-provoking combination. I am a teacher, Kathryn, an educator of young minds. Do you think that you are the first person to utter those two words to me in an effort to conceal and deceive?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Mark.’

‘You would be right, Kathryn. You are clearly not as thick as you look.’

Kathryn felt her body tremble as he approached her, not through fear of what he would do to her, but because she did not want to give up the precious thing that she had found, the one item she owned that had belonged to her grandmother and that her own mother’s hands had touched.

He stroked her hair, rubbing the silky tendrils between his fingers.

‘You will not leave this room until the children get home and need feeding, do you understand me?’

Her response was delayed as her mind processed her options. What could she do to conceal Peggy?

The next time he spoke to her it was through a clenched jaw, with a snarl.

‘I said, the next time you will leave this room will be when the children get home and need feeding. Do you understand me, Kathryn?’

His hand went from stroking her hair to slowly winding his fingers into her roots. With a firm grip, he yanked a hank of hair from her scalp. She flinched at the intense pain but made barely a sound.

‘Yes, Mark, I understand.’

‘You understand what?’

She looked him in the eyes.

‘I understand that I will not leave this room until the children get home and need feeding. I promise.’

‘Good. Now give me what is in your hand.’

‘Please, Mark, I—’

‘Do not ever use the word “please”. It is akin to begging and is therefore degrading to us both. Have some pride, have some dignity. Now, give me what is in your hand or I shall break your wrist and take it myself.’

His threat echoed around the room. She knew in fact that it wasn’t a threat; it was a promise. She unfurled her fingers and revealed the dolly peg lying flat against her palm. He slowly reached out and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Well, well, well, I must have missed one. These make truly excellent kindling!’

He stood in front of her as she sat shaking on the edge of the bed. He held the splayed legs of the peg and began pushing the tips of his thumbs up under each splint.

‘Look, Kathryn. Watch.’

It was a command. She raised her eyes and watched. Mark held the peg just inches from her face and continued to apply pressure to its base. Kathryn’s bottom lip trembled and her tears flowed. A small creak was followed by a hairline fracture, which quickly became a larger split.

The crack of her grandmother’s peg finally breaking in two tore through Kathryn. Shaking uncontrollably, she gripped her apron pocket to try and stem the tremors. Her fingertips bumped against something hard – her paring knife, left in there from yesterday. Quick as a flash she withdrew the knife and plunged it hard and deep into Mark’s soft belly. Mark bellowed as the blade punctured his spleen and lacerated his liver. He sank to his knees at the foot of the bed and crumpled over in the exact same spot where Kathryn had cowered under his command, night after night.

In her head, Kathryn heard the words that the chaplain had spoken earlier that morning. ‘Thou shalt not consent unto him, nor hearken unto him; neither shall thine eye pity him, neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal him: But thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death.’

Suddenly she knew that this was the answer: her path to freedom, her salvation. It was instant and obvious. ‘Thou shalt surely kill him…’

Kathryn rose from the bed and calmly gathered up the two pieces of peg from the floor.

‘I think I can fix this,’ she said.

She pondered the broken splints, rotating them to see if there were any joins that wouldn’t marry up. Her husband’s gasping made her look up. She placed the peg on her dressing table and turned her attention to Mark.

‘Come on, let’s get you up onto the bed.’ She spoke with a sing-song quality to her voice, like a well-trained nurse.

She put her hands under his armpits and yanked him upwards. He screamed.

‘Ssshh! Goodness, Mark, is there really need for such a noise!’

She dragged him onto the mattress. The linen sheet was bunched up beneath him and his head lay at an odd angle on the pillow. She casually reached over and pulled the knife from his stomach. Again he yelped. She tutted. Removing the knife had uncorked the incision and Mark’s blood now spewed out in pulses. It ran through his fingers as he instinctively tried to hold his wound together. It ran over his legs and stomach, staining everything scarlet and giving off its familiar metallic scent.

‘Golly, Mark, that is very deep. How many points do you think warranted an incision like that?’

He tried to whisper something.

‘I can’t quite hear you so I am going to have to guess. I would say thousands and thousands of points.’

She watched his complexion start to lose its handsome blush and turn ashen.

‘God, you look awful. And look at the mess on those sheets – they will be ruined!’

‘Please…’

His breath was laboured and his voice only audible because of the supreme effort that he put into trying to say something.

She breathed in sharply and put her palm to her breastbone.

‘Mark Brooker! Did you say “please”? Do not ever use the word “please”. It is akin to begging and is therefore degrading to us both. Have some pride, have some dignity. Have some dignity in death, Mark. Anything else would be most unbecoming.’

‘Get… help…’ he murmured.

‘Now, Mark, how long have you known me? Don’t try and answer. I will tell you. Nearly twenty years. And the one thing that you should have learned about me in all that time is that I never, ever break a promise. Never. What did I promise you, Mark? Again, don’t try and answer that. I will tell you. I promised you that I would not leave this room until the children got home and needed feeding – and, Mark, a promise is a promise.’

Kathryn pulled the ladder-backed chair to the side of the bed, walked to the wardrobe and opened its doors wide. She tore clothes from hangers and left them in a careless pile on the floor. When she had made an adequate gap, she reached into the wardrobe and grabbed from the top shelf a book that had been concealed by several jerseys. It was Louis de Bernières’ Birds Without Wings. She smiled at her husband.

‘You must have missed this one.’

She cracked open the spine of the book and cast her eyes over the first chapter.

It seems that age folds the heart in on itself. Some of us walk detached, dreaming on the past, and some of us realise that we have lost the trick of standing in the sun. For many of us the thought of the future is a cause for irritation rather than optimism, as if we have had enough of new things, and wish only for the long sleep that rounds the edges of our lives.

She paused from her scanning.

‘I was just thinking, Mark, that this is probably a good opportunity for me to ask you some questions, to tell you how I feel, to tell you how you have made me feel. In fact my only opportunity, my last opportunity. What I want to say to you is this: I think that you are quite mad, Mark. I think the real you is the one that I get to see every night and the charade is what you present to the rest of the world, the smiles and the joviality. You may have fooled the rest of the world, but not me, not for one second; maybe I’m not as thick as I look. Did your treatment of me bring you joy or sadness? It has brought me sadness, Mark; it has brought me great sadness. You have taken the person that I was and you have slowly dismantled me over the years until I have become almost invisible. Why me, Mark? Why did you pick me? I had so much to offer, I had so much to give. I had a life. You took my life, slowly and piece by piece, and so now I am taking your life, do you understand?’

He nodded with eyes wide.

‘I want you to know that I will reclaim myself, Mark. I will gather up all the little pieces that you have chipped away, hidden in drawers, swept under the carpet and shoved behind cushions and I will rebuild myself. I will become all of the things that I thought I might. All the dreams I considered before you broke me, I will chase them all and you will be but a distant, sad reflection. It is important for me that you know that. Important for me that you know you did not win.’

The blood flow seemed to have slowed, either due to clotting or some other reason, she didn’t care. She sat and read through the afternoon, occasionally glancing at the vacant face of her husband. His skin was grey and he seemed sleepy.

‘Are you still with us, Mr Sleepyhead?’ she asked once.

It was some time later that her reading was disrupted by the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs. It seemed to rouse her husband from his stupor. He tried to reach out his hand, beckoning to his children through the wall.

‘That is pointless, Mark. Take it from one who knows: wishing for help, reaching for help, praying for escape – that doesn’t work. But don’t you worry, Mark, I’ve got it.’

She rose from her chair, turned down the corner of the page she was reading and carefully closed her book. She padded across the carpet, opened the bedroom door a crack and popped her head through the gap.

‘Hi, kids!’ she shouted.

‘Hi!’ came at least one response.

‘Dad and I are having an early night, but I am happy to come out and feed you. Are you guys hungry?’

‘No.’ This time Lydia’s voice was distinct. ‘We ate at Amy’s.’

‘What about Dom, is he hungry?’

‘No, Mum, I told you, we both ate at Amy’s!’

‘So no one needs feeding?’

‘No! For God’s sake stop fussing.’

‘Righto, if you are sure. Goodnight, Lyds.’

‘Goodnight, Mum.’

‘Goodnight, Dom!’

‘Goodnight, Mum – you lightweight, it’s only half past seven!’

She closed the door and walked back across the carpet to where her husband lay centrally on their marital bed.

‘Well, looks like they don’t need feeding, Mark, and a promise is a promise. I will not leave this room.’

She lifted a glass of water from the bedside table and raised it to her lips, sipping slowly. Mark eyed the glass.

‘Are you thirsty? Would you like a drink, Mark?’

He just about managed a slight nod. She smiled at him.

‘Oh, I bet you would, but no drinking for you tonight, mister.’

The memory of her sock-stuffed mouth and swollen lips came to mind. She replaced the glass on the bedside table and let out a deep sigh before returning to her novel.



Kathryn must have nodded off. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, but was suddenly conscious of waking. She had been disturbed by her husband’s breathing, which sounded rattly and loud, almost gurgling. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was 2 a.m.

‘Well now, is this it, Mark? Are you off? Off to be judged, if you believe in such things. Off to a dark place whence there is no return? I think so, I think it is time. Are you afraid? Are you scared of what might come next?’

The staring, widened eyes told her that he was. She smiled and bent low over his face.

‘You should be.’

‘I haven’t got long.’

His voice was a waning whisper. His final words coasted on fragmented last breaths.

‘Too slow, painful. You’ll pay.’

She mentally erased the words before he finished. She would not share, recount or remember them.

‘Oh, Mark, I have already paid.’

Bending low, with her face inches from his, she breathed the fetid air that he exhaled, sharing the small space where life lingered until the very end.

Kathryn watched the life slip from him, convinced she saw the black spirit snake out of his body and disappear immediately through the floor, spiralling down and down. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. She had expected euphoria or at the very least relief. What she couldn’t have predicted was the numbness that now gripped her.

She had expected to feel more.

Having changed into jeans and a jersey, Kathryn calmly stood by the side of the bed where her husband’s pale corpse lay. With great deliberation and for the first time in her life, she dialled 999.