Page 56 of Blame
‘Yes, you do know me, you saw me every day at Herbert’s trial so how dare you act as though I don’t exist. You’re to blame for everything. You ruined my life, sent the man I loved to jail with your lies and for that you must be punished. My name is Margaret Tibbs and Iwillbe remembered. My face is the last one you’ll see.’
Frankie’s eyes closed against the spittle that had accompanied the woman’s words.Margaret, the woman from the hardware shop, the one mum mentioned, Dunne’s lover… oh God no, what if he’s here?
‘You’re Dunne’s…?’
‘Yes, I’m the woman he was in love with. We’d have been married and lived happily ever after if he hadn’t gone to prison, if you and your disgusting reprobate friends hadn’t been up to no good that night and now, thanks to you, it’s all ruined.’
Frankie’s skin crawled at the thought of that man. What if he was waiting to finish the job? Oh God, what if he was watching from somewhere, the window, or waiting outside. Panicked, haphazard thoughts zapped into her head, fear oozing from her pores as beads of perspiration dripped from her forehead and stung her eyes. The blade pushed harder. Frankie was afraid to swallow, one slight movement might pierce her skin or cause Margaret to flip. She couldn’t see Belle and Oscar but at least they were quiet, their tormentor occupied.
Think, Frankie, think.‘But he’s out now… and you could still be happy… Is he here with you? Is he part of this?’
When the blade relaxed, Frankie thought she’d got through to Margaret until she recognised the look in her eyes: sheer madness. She’d seen it before, recognised the threat this time, knew what was coming. As Margaret spoke she trailed the blade across Frankie’s neck, gliding the tip slowly back and forth, transfixed by its path.
‘We won’t be happy. We can’t, not now. It’s too late. My poor Herbie is going to die, you see, and because of you we wasted all those years and now I have nothing left, apart from this, my legacy. That’s why you have to take the blame. You must be punished. I will make it right.’
Dear God, she’s mad, totally mad. Frankie could sense time was running out. It was as though Margaret was going somewhere else, lost in her own thoughts but there could still be a chance… ‘Margaret, I’m sorry, I truly am, that you and Dun– Herbie didn’t have your happy ever after. But I don’t deserve to be punished. It’s not my fault he’s dying, is it?’
Margaret paused. ‘No, but the rest is. It was your fault that Abby Mills died, not Herbie’s. That dirty little trollop threw herself into the water out of shame – but you could have saved her and he took the blame. That’s not fair, and you will be punished.’ The blade moved once more, this time downwards, stopping at Frankie’s collarbone, a push, testing the flesh, then upwards to the chin.
Deranged. She’s deranged. Tread carefully. ‘I made one mistake, Margaret, one… and don’t you think I wish I could go back to that night and do it all differently? Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had, replaying it over and over again. Yes, I should have took control, made a noise, let Herbert know we were there but I was a kid, a pissed-up, stoned teenager who had just seen a woman get strangled and her dead body dragged from a car. How was I to know she was still alive?’
Nothing. Margaret remained impassive.
Keep trying, don’t give up.‘It tormented me for years, people tormented me, turned their backs, said I was to blame but there’s only one person who killed Abby Mills and that’s your precious lover. He’s the cause of all this, Margaret, not me, and I wish Abby wasn’t dead and I’d have saved her life but I don’t deserve to die and neither did my friends.’
Blank. Margaret’s eyes reflected nothing, as though she’d switched off.
You fucking bitch, how dare you not listen, how dare you do this to me?No, breathe,be calm, don’t lose it, one more try.‘So it’s your turn, Margaret. Look me in the eye and tell what gives you the right to blame me, to be judge and jury over whether I live or die? Look me in the eye and tell me that you’ve never made a mistake, you’ve never done something you wish you hadn’t, something you can’t undo.’
A flicker, a twitch of her left eyelid, the blade relaxed.
Careful now, watch her eyes. You can do it, Frankie.‘I did one thing, one stupid thing so long ago, I admit it, okay, I admit it. And I’m so sorry for Abby and for you, I truly am, but not for Dunne because all of this, right here right now is his fault, not mine, or Scarlet’s or Bea’s. It’s down to Dunne. Is he worth it Margaret? Is all of this worth it? I’m begging you, think it through, please don’t do this because you can’t take it back. This is one more thing you won’t be able to make right.’
Margaret’s outstretched arm wavered, her eyes glazed as though lost in a trance, somewhere far away, and then she came back. Was she talking to someone? Her lips twitched, moving slowly and in a whisper, a name, barely audible… Sheila.
Then voices, jolting them both and in the second Frankie took her eyes off the ball and followed the sound towards the screen door. Alma and Sacha, calling for the Frenchies, Margaret came right back down to earth as the dogs went crazy again, barking to their little friends.
In return, Margaret sprang into action, grabbing Frankie’s ponytail, pulling it so hard that it strained at the roots, causing her to cry out and in another swift motion Margaret wrapped her knife arm around Frankie’s neck, squeezing, bearing down, forcing her to the floor.
Through the pain and terror Frankie could only hear two sounds, that of her precious Frenchies whining and yapping in their cage and the sing-song voices of two little children calling Belle and Oscar.They won’t come in, they’ll stay at the gate, that’s the rule, please God, don’t let them come in.
‘Kneel, do it now.’ Margaret’s lips pressed against Frankie’s ear, her breath warm, her words dripping acid, burning into skin and heart.
The woman may have been petite but she was strong. Frankie had at least a foot on her and strained against the force that was pushing her downwards. She couldn’t give in, it couldn’t end like this. The tears that pumped from Frankie’s eyes were not for herself but for everyone she was going to leave behind, that this woman would hurt them too.
‘I said kneel, you little bitch.’
It was the sound of children’s voices, innocent, like the two little dogs that yapped and growled, and the horrific images of what would happen to them if the madwoman had her way that made Frankie fight back.No more, no more, no more… I’ll not be a victim, not again, I’ve had enough, I’VE HAD ENOUGH!
While Frankie’s right hand grasped Margaret’s left, trying to prize it from her hair, knowing that at any second the invisible thread of insanity could snap and the cool slice of steel on skin would end her life, she reached out, desperately trying to find the drill. When her fingers connected with something hard, plastic, she grabbed it and a life-dependant moment, and with a screech borne of outrage and suffering, Frankie rammed it upwards and pushed the button, driving the spinning drill bit into tense triceps that held her in a headlock. The wail of agony as spinning steel tore a hole in Margaret’s underarm brought sheer joy to Frankie’s soul, along with the release of pressure around her neck which gave her freedom to fight back.
Blood poured from the wound as Margaret staggered backwards, attempting to stem the blood and keep hold of her knife, wearing horror and pain like a mask she still managed to spout hate. ‘What have you done, you little whore…?’
Before she heard another vile word Frankie attacked again, running like a crazy woman at another, far crazier and deadlier. Margaret didn’t have the opportunity to raise her knife as Frankie’s body barrelled into her, forcing her backwards. As they both lost their balance, toppling, staggering, slipping on blood, Frankie winced. Her leg hurt, then the sound of the knife as it clattered to the floor, then the thud of two bodies crash landing on top of her wooden trolley, smashing it to pieces.
Frankie was winded and her forehead hurt. A shard of wood had caught her skin and blood trickled down her nose and dripped onto the floor, more blood, a lot of blood, then a moan spurred her on, alerted her to the danger.
Margaret was lying on her stomach, stretching to reach the carving knife, her fingers only a centimetre way. Pushing hard with her arms, forcing her body upwards, Frankie managed to stand on legs made from jelly and with one swipe of her foot sent the knife spinning across the kitchen. Then the pain again, and looking down Frankie saw the trail of blood coursing down her leg and the patch of red on her shorts.Not good, that’s not good, Frankie.
