Page 2 of Disgrace

“Blood…lots and lots of blood.” I don’t recognise the chill in my own voice, and Mr Brown turns to look at me as if for the first time. He doesn’t respond to my macabre declaration. Well, he might have, but I don’t hear him. As much as I fight it, the flashback hits me like the first strike of a palm across my cheek, and I recoil as I stand just as I did back then.

Sam aged seventeen

“You filthy little slut!” His voice is menacingly low and he draws his hand back to strike me again.

“Richard, please!” I cry holding the heat in my cheek from his hand. It doesn’t hurt. I’ve had worse from him. Even his words don’t slice me like they used to, but the fury today distorts his face. Harsh lines twisted into an ugly scowl, thin lips pursed and pulled tight into a hate-filled grimace. He doesn’t look like my boyfriend. He looks like a monster. Clenching his fist this time, he swings and cracks my jaw so hard I feel it like a blade behind my eyes. An unbelievable pain that knocks me to my knees.

“You spread your legs for me quick enough. How do I know the little bastard is mine, hmm?” He sneers at me, down his too straight nose, his blue eyes wild with anger, spit now dripping from his lips.

“Richard, please. I’m sorry. It’s was an accident. That one time maybe, when you…you didn’t wear the condom.” His eyes widen, and I shrink rushing quickly to rectify my mistake. It’s too late he hauls me up by grabbing a fistful of my hair and throws me against the wall like a rag doll. Strange, I never thought him to be that strong, with his slight build. But he is taller than me, and obviously, with the pure hatred running through his veins, his strength is no match for me. “Richard, I didn’t mean it was your fault. You know my mother…I can’t risk taking birth control. She would kill me if she knew what we’d done.” I plead into vacant eyes.

He strides over to me and again grabs my hair, my scalp tender from hairs being torn from their roots. I grab his forearms to try and support my weight.

“Yes…let’s not forget your social-climbing mother in all this. She really believed me when I said I was going to marry you. Christ! To think I would have someone like her inmyfamily…someone likeyou. A half-bred slut, who’s probably fucked every boy in the village while I was at boarding school,” he mocks.

“Richard, don’t…that’s not true. I love you.” My voice is horse from crying, and I choke back the words when his large hand reaches around my neck.

“Say that again… whore!” He squeezes and I gasp for air. His eyes darken, and I feel him harden against my stomach. Jesus, how can he get off on my terror? The thin cotton dress is no barrier at all. I panic because this doesn’t feel like the times he has abused me in the past. Something has changed in him. He looks unhinged. He needs to calm down or he’s going to really hurt me. I soften my voice.

“Richard, my love, of course I love you. There is only you…youknowthat.” I struggle to swallow against his grip. He loosens a little, and I let out a breath and try to smile. It catches when I realise, too late and with utter horror, his intention. He pulls his arm right back and levels a punch directly into my stomach. I collapse gasping for air that won’t come, winded and in agony I roll onto the floor. My arms wrap tight across my tummy trying to protect what’s inside.

I flash a glance at the monster before me just in time to see him let his heavily weighted boot swing forward. Easily crashing through my arms, again and again. Pounding his full force and weight into my abdomen. I try to curl in on myself tighter, but he grabs my head and stretches me out. I limply take punch after punch to my face. The pain is everywhere but the only noise I can distinguish is his heavy breathing and the sound of softly crunching tissue and sometimes bone. I can’t seem to scream…cry…I can’t find my voice at all.

“Who makes you happy, sweetheart?” His demonic chant rings in my ears. He always asks the same damn question, every time he hurts me the most. He repeats but emphasises each word this time with a carefully placed brutal kick to my stomach. “Who. Makes. You. Happy. Sweetheart.”

I try to answer because I know from experience he won’t stop until I do. But large floaty black spots seep across my glazed vision, tempting me into the darkness when an almighty cramp shocks me enough to sit bolt upright. Richard steps back and we both look at the large dark mass of liquid running between my legs. My white dress quickly unable to absorb any more of the blood as it drips, drips onto the floor.

“Richard, please.” I cry and hold my hand for him to help. The confusion in his face must mirror mine. Why won’t he help me? Can’t he see what’s happening? Can’t he see I need help?Can’t he see I’m going to lose the baby?

“It looks like we’re about done here, don’t you think?” He pulls his cuffs down and brushes at the specks of my blood that now pepper his sleeves. Little streaks and smears cover the pristine white material. “What’s good for getting blood out of cotton?” He inspects the material like it is the only thing remotely significant. I’m haemorrhaging badly, and the agony is barely masking my utter devastation. I drag myself toward the door just as it opens. My mother steps into the room and gasps. Not because she has seen me or the blood, but because having Richard in my room is strictly forbidden.

“Mr Brookes-Hamilton, I know you intend to marry my daughter, but please do not take liberties with my kind nature.” She gushes with her false reprimand, but her colour drains when he pushes the door a little wider to reveal me in a crumbled heap, losing more blood than I can spare.

“Mother…please.” I manage to cry before I sink back into myself.

“Oh, Grace, what have you done?” Her grave words are laced with accusation and venom. “Mr Brookes—”she pleads as Richard moves to her side. “—Richard please don’t go. I am sure there is a very good explanation.” She reaches for his arm to stop him from leaving but his thunderous scowl prevents her actually making contact.

“Oh, there is, Mrs Cartwright, there is…Your daughter is a whore.” I hear her suck in a sharp breath as his footsteps recede quickly or maybe my level of consciousness fails to distinguish the sound of him walking away and he is still there. I don’t care anymore, I just need help.

“Mother, please, you need to call an ambulance.” I reach for a hand that isn’t offered and freeze when I recognise that expression of stone and hatred settle on her implacable face. Her beady blue eyes narrow and her cheeks burn with anger. She looks like she is desperate to once more spew all her hatred and bile. But not today it seems. I know that everything bad that has ever happened in her life ismyfault. She’s drilled it into me since I could talk, and now I have just ruined her chance at a life she believes she deserves.

My hand falls to the floor, skidding in the sticky mess and I slump down, flat on the boards. I manage to turn my head and meet her gaze…She could freeze ice with the warmth of her compassion for me. She’s not going to help my baby…she’s not going to help me. She steps back through the door and leaves me in an ever-increasing circle of my own blood. She leaves my baby to die and I don’t doubt for a moment she hopes I will too. I pass out to the sound of a solid click of the door closing and the turn of the iron lock.

“Miss, are you all right? You don’t seem to have heard what I just said.” I feel the cold chill as the sweat from the flashback that instantly coated my skin, just as quickly dries. I shake my head even if the residual image is too fresh to ignore. My heart is still racing, but I hold my arm out as steadily as I can.

Mr Brown is a portly man, and that is being kind. He is most likely in his early sixties with thinning grey hair and tiny, wire-rimmed glasses. His beady eyes comically widen when he really sees me for the first time. I get this a lot. Even living in a cosmopolitan, vibrant city like London I know I stand out, but in a sleepy village such as this, I must look like an extra from Underworld in a Miss Marple Sunday afternoon special. My choice of wardrobe was very deliberate today, though. It’s my armour. I offer my hand, and I swear he bends as if to kiss the back of it. I raise a brow and he stiffens with embarrassment. He shouldn’t be embarrassed; under any other circumstance it would be charming. In certain situations it would be expected. He opts now for a light shake and I offer him a warm smile.

“Grace Cartwright, I presume.” He is slightly breathless and I think there might be a little drool on his chin. I pull my hand sharply from his hold and straighten my back. His expression flashes from gentil to guarded.

“I legally changed my name when I was eighteen, Mr Brown. I’m Sam Bonfleur. I took my grandfather’s surname.” I correct.

“And Sam?” He nods but starts leafing through the pages of papers he has clutched to his chest.

“After a drink.” I gave it no more thought at the time other than I didn’t want to be called Grace ever again.

He chuckles as if I were joking. I wasn’t.

His sudden frown causes more deep-set wrinkles to form. “I’m glad you could come today. Your mother had many antique pieces I am sure you will—”

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