Beyond the Pale: How far would you go for love? Read online

  BEYOND THE PALE

  EJ Wood was born in Chichester, United Kingdom and emigrated to Spain at eleven years of age. At eighteen, she moved to Australia to continue her education. Returning to Spain two years later and working odd jobs, E J Wood decided to pursue building one of Costa Blanca's leading paintwork specialists with her partner offering classic car re-builds, custom paintwork and prestigious car paint repairs.

  BEYOND

  THE

  PALE

  E J Wood

  BEYOND THE PALE

  © 2018 by E J Wood

  The right of E J Wood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination, coincidence or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher E J Wood except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  For Clifford Jones

  PROLOGUE

  A needle sensation pricks at my skin and wakes me. The stench of desperation creeping over me as the cold penetrates my body to the very marrow of my bones. Fear cripples me, freezing every muscle of my body even though I tremble on the outside. Sweat drips down my face like ice cream melting. The pungent odour of something unpleasant permeates the air beneath my nose torturing my sense of smell. My peripheral vision is decreased as my heavy eye lids force themselves apart to allow light in. Where am I? I can’t move, my arms tied above me by rusty old fashioned metallic bands, shackles delving into my wrists, bruising my skin. My feet bound together, the rope slicing away flesh and warm blood is trickling down the sides of my feet. I gasp.

  My face feels swollen and sore, my lips also are painfully large and bleeding. My right eye swollen to the size of a golf ball is making it difficult to see, but the room is dark and depicts an essence of evil, depression and the presence of shadows unseen to the naked eye. The smell of mildew and decomposition had been a familiar smell and I remember it didn’t depict a sense of well being. We have been raised to fear the dark, for according to many religious texts, darkness as seen in the Bible was the second to last plague. (Exodus 10:21) and the Qur’an has been interpreted to say that “those who transgress the bounds of what is right are doomed to burning despair and ice-cold darkness.” I remain seated, quiet but fully alert. Shush Amelia, don’t make a sound, my subconscious well advises.

  As I sit with every passing torturing minute, I am racked with thought, for what is darkness but the absence of light and what is light but the absence of darkness? This paradox often used in Chinese philosophy can only become apparent when placed in such situations as to engage the brain to not fear what we instinctively have learned. Is the dark truly the thing children fear, or is it something else? I believe that the true darkness is in the mind, thus the only thing to fear would be oneself. If the darkness is inside your mind, you are truly the only person who can overcome the fear. No matter how I analyse the situation I am scared shitless and babbling far too much. I try to scream but no words come. Instead, tears descend like a scalpel on my cheeks. I look around the cave-like environment and can see no recognition of my whereabouts. I drop my head in pain, and listen to the uncontrollable beating of my heart within my chest like the thrumming wings of a caged bird. Noises, squeaking, rustling, little feet scurrying close by. Furry vermin, disease ridden flesh eating, did I mention before I hate rats!

  I bend my head towards my chest, my clothing has been removed and my breasts hang, exposed. Sheens of light escaping through a tiny hole on the opposite wall beam onto my chest; I can see sweat beads and dried blood. I have been here a while, naked, cold, scared and feeling drunk. My hair is sticking to the sides of my face, covered in blood no doubt. Where am I?

  I try to remember the last thing I saw; it’s difficult with my head pounding like a sledgehammer. However something, something comes to me. The bruises on my arms feeling like daggers distract me. Through the nausea and dizziness, a flash appears; rope and un-manicured nails. ‘NO,’ I shout. I scream and this time a high pitched tone echoes. As I cry out in pain the sound bounces from the cobblestone walls that confine me. Closing my eyes remembering that “fear is a darkroom where negatives develop,” a famous quote by Usman. B Asif. The light grows brighter and I try to make out the room, a flicker of light flashes.

  ‘Hello?’ I beg, but silence. The warm candlelight brightens the room more as my pupils adapt, shackles hang on every cobblestone wall and are covered in moss exuding from all crevices. My nose is assaulted by the damp mildew odour combined with the smell of sweet rotting vegetation in the stagnant puddles. This causes me to gag and I dry retch. The walls are stripped with crimson that has encrusted into the stone, indicating they've been unused for a while. The dank air leaves a bitter taste in the back of my mouth and I feel I am isolated from any civilisation.

  As I draw breath I can hear it, a grey, brown skittering creature drawing near, pestilence spreading scavenging wild vermin, its huge, keep still Amelia, don’t make a move, it’s drawing near, only inches away from my face as it closes in from a beam that hangs close towards me. Vicious claws poised. Stay still Amelia, my subconscious advises as the most pernicious form of wild vermin to crawl the earth scurries towards me. My breathing excels, my eyes widen and I mumble.

  ‘“Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies, a tissue, a tissue, we all fall down.”’

  I can hear my breath coming out in short gasping pants and it becomes harder to breathe with every breath loud and forced. Then fear lodges itself firmly in my throat as if tightening its hold around my neck. My voice is hoarse and strangled and releases an ear splitting scream as loud as a blood curdling scream could be and I close my eyes screeching again as the rat draws nearer.

  I open one eye. The rat has gone and music kills the deathly silence. Violin and piano music, I’ve heard this before “Fractals with Chi Mai” by “Ennio Morricone.” As the music’s volume increases, tears descend my face, my heart leaping, thundering against my chest like a startled caged bird. As the light graces the side of my face the dulcet melody of strings sing in my ears and my heart fills with wondrous emotions impossible to have at a moment like this. The bow graciously glides across the strings, more than just music but the harmonious singing of a mockingbird. The auditory signal used for him to express his ballad of love. Each and every note to me and I sigh at the marvellous sound as the flood gates open again. It is a hurting tune if not perfectly fitting. Misty tears and stoic tightening of the throat kicks in as the music evokes sadness. Imitating my wails and quavering voice I begin to cry with the melodious lines falling in pitch mimicking my despair.

  My lips part slowly as a rustle interrupts the music and a voice emerges from the other side of the room. My heart flutters and breathing becomes more difficult in the thick chilled air. Should I scream again? My heart beats furiously and it pains my chest like it will explode any second, but slowly I
try to observe the figure that dons in front of me. My eyes are tearing up from the fright that is so overwhelming it makes this a difficult task. Who is this man? What does he want with me? And then, no! No! Please no, an even more frightening thought comes to mind. Is he going to kill me? I stare at the blackness wild with fear as my stomach turns to ice, and terror holds me in a vice-like grip. The torture of my indecision threatens to crush me as I am devoid of all emotion and the cold breath of every gasp is grave, cutting my very soul silencing me as I shudder but stare with fascination.

  ‘My silence is just another word for my pain,’ a voice solemnly whispers, gentle and placating. He stands irresolutely and the muscles of my heart tighten with incredible force as I try to stifle a whimper. When I see him in the great emptiness, I cry out to him.

  ‘“Have pity on me, whoever you are, whether a man, in truth or a shadow,”’ and at that he answers.

  ‘“Not a man: but a man I once was, and my parents were Lombards and both of them, by their native place, Mantuans.”’

  I instinctively knew from his allegorical expression who it was.

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘We should celebrate.’

  I’m not really surprised at the vehement declaration of my housemate; Claire Worthing found reason to celebrate no matter how paramount or insignificant the news was.

  ‘I haven’t formally got the promotion just yet Claire.’

  ‘Don’t be such a bore Amelia.’

  Claire stares with her freckly complexion and alabaster skin. Claire was the sort no matter what the time of day; she always looked adorable, sweet and innocent, yet a real party goer. If I wasn’t me, I probably would begrudge her that, but she is more a smiling fledgling and my best friend than someone to be jealous of.

  ‘OK, but I don’t want to be out long.’ I succumb.

  ‘Just a glass of wine or two and if we get there by nine, drinks will be half price.’

  Her careful timely analysis makes me laugh and I fully expect she will be dressed to the nines for a Sunday night out. Heaven knows what I will wear; the thought depresses me and I practically pee myself with apprehension.

  The sun has settled and evening creeps in. I embrace the smells of Washington, D.C. closing the door behind us ready to “Paint the town red.” The bustling town of deranged drunkards isn’t really my scene but, at twenty something years old, I humour Claire and her whirl of feverish behaviour because if it was not for Claire and her affluent background, I wouldn’t be able to sustain living in one of Washington, D.C.’s most prestigious cul-de-sacs that costs more in a month than most earn in a year. I haven’t been living with Claire for long and still feel like a fraudulent resident; I have the opulent lifestyle and the job but still feel like everyone’s patsy, no matter how much I try to copy Claire’s wide eyed and approachable style. I just find it exasperating.

  ‘Relax,’ she smiles, holding my hand, yet the whole scene is exhausting as howlers scream and shout amongst the music – the frenetic energy buzzing unlike anything I had ever experienced. Night life in Washington D.C. is most certainly awe inspiring and I sigh, knowing that we aren’t going to be home before midnight.

  As the hours tick by I learn that D.C boasts several areas with excellent nightlife and, if dancing is your thing, then MCCXXIII near DuPont is the place to be. This I discovered by dropping in to The 1720 Club and rubbing shoulders with the occasional politician. If I am to become a real D.C. settler then I have to become accustomed to this lifestyle like a favourite pair of shoes. This isn’t a fling, D.C and I have a new romantic liaison which is here to stay.

  I sit at the bar, single and alone, watching Claire make acquaintances with eligible bachelors of D.C. Yet for me, my career is top of the priority list and, as far as my job is concerned, I had pretty much landed on my feet. I have always wanted to earn a living off my own merits and that means no boys. Tomorrow is day one and I become Dr Thomas Cross’s right hand man or woman so to speak at the Smithsonian Institution, which is a group of museums and research centres administered by the United States. My Aunt Gladys had been irritated at the idea of Medical school. “Why couldn’t you be a normal child?” she asked on a daily basis and if I had been more of a normal child I wouldn’t have had to move away. She had grown painfully protective of me and now as an adult I can see why.

  “You are a stubborn young lady Amelia,” she said. But, I had something to prove, to prove that I wouldn’t end up like my mother. “And how do you expect to pay off this loan?” She would croak.

  I remember this day distinctively, a huge fight broke out and her dogs absconded quicker than you could say run. Hell, Aunt Gladys is a good woman but leads not the life I’d choose for myself. We never mentioned my mother not in all the years we spent together and I never waved the determination she had to take her place. It is futile to revel in old discrepancies and I shrug sipping on my chardonnay refocusing my mind as quickly as possible on work.

  ‘I’m going to head home Claire,’ I mouth as I grab my purse; she returns the smile and gestures she makes her own way back. I need not worry about Claire, she was born and bred in this town and anyone who knows anyone knows Claire. I time the journey from the club, I forget the name; not that it is of any importance and cross the Smithsonian building, a seriously magnificent construction. I recall my first visit briefly, I was awe struck, it made me feel so small in the grand scheme of things. There is just so much to discover. I cannot wait for tomorrow and just hope Cross can keep his distance.

  ***

  I am woken by the obnoxious sound of my alarm clock beside me – give in, my subconscious screams, silence that drill sergeant! My hand reaches to my bedside table and slams hard onto the alarm flashing 6.30am; as I give a drawn out groan having had my dreams haltered. Silence is eerie but soon the birds outside commence their cheery songs after a short interruption from Sergeant Buzz. Sunshine gleams through the windows in front of me onto the patchwork quilt of my double bed notifying me it is morning and I’m definitely not a morning person! I stretch and unfold all my muscles that are tight from the night before, and I twinkle my toes to make sure I’m still fully functioning. A deep sigh and I’m out of bed shambling into the bathroom. I face the ghoul before me, my long dark hair rustled from night time twists and large blue eyes too big for my face, sure to look more like piss holes in the snow. I’m annoyed with myself from last night’s shenanigans – a usual night out with Claire, great vibes, laughter all around me but I feel I don’t fit that scene. Unfortunately, and rather embarrassingly, my mirror image reflecting the frightful facts. I squint closer to the mirror, is that drool on my cheek? I wipe as I lean in closer to observe.

  A quick twist of the faucet and the warm water trickles from the shower head as I step inside ready to start the day. I can hear the shrill ringing of the phone in the background, who would be ringing at 6.40am? As I ignore the phone and step inside, the response is immediate as the metallic head that hangs loosely above me spreads water unto my body and the sudden shock of water makes me tense my muscles. As the warm water warms my body and soothes the ache that claws at my limbs, I wish for a better day and tears jerk at my eyes with mixed feelings as I pour shampoo into my hands. My fingers meet my long dark hair and they dance into the mess of last night, ridding the knots. Pull yourself together Amelia, my subconscious awakes, Good morning! She is right, I have to or my confidence will shatter. With a coarse sponge I stroke my skin, the action soothing and tears escape my eyes followed closely by my fist against the tiled wall. I hate having to pretend, god damn it, why does it have to be like this? My eyes roll to the back of my skull, where has my confidence disappeared to? I thought I could face it, it’s not long now. Long drawn out days, desk bound, this is not what I studied so damn hard for. As my legs cave beneath me I drop to the floor and let the water continue caressing, stroking and soothing me, as I break down and weep for a few minutes, my minutes, my precious few minutes before my life is not my own and Dr Cross steals them
away from me within those enclosed walls at the laboratory.

  In no more than half an hour I’m dressed, my hair is wet and I adorn very little if any makeup, but it will do. One missed call from Claire; great what does she want at this hour? She must have left the house already; I press recall and the phone rings.

  ‘AMELIA I’ve got news,’ she screams down the phone.

  ‘Claire what on earth can be so important at this ungodly hour?’ I scowl.

  ‘I’ve met someone,’ she whispers excitedly.

  ‘That’s wonderful, we can discuss it later tonight but now, I’ve really got to go to work. I’ll call you later,’ I exclaim, pulling knots from my tangled hair.

  ‘I can’t wait to tell you, after you left last night…’ she begins and I interrupt, given the chance Claire could be on the phone for hours.

  ‘Claire, I will speak to you later,’ at which I hang up. My throat’s parched; coffee ugh but I need something stronger than tea today, it’s Monday morning! I will grab one on the way. As I close the front door and look at my car I pause, I have owned a couple of cars in my life and generally driven miles trouble free, yet cannot fathom why everyone really hates it. I admit, it is ugly but why the negative reaction? The hatchback body provides all the cargo capacity a girl could need as I open the boot and drop my briefcase in and the seats give ample space for passengers. I bounce up and down the driver’s seat positioning my buttocks firmly.

  ‘Well beauty is in the eye of the beholder I guess but I really did love you when I bought you.’ I murmur, ‘please don’t break down.’ There have been many repellent, revolting and unnecessarily misshaped vehicles over the years, it’s really not that bad. You are fooling yourself Amelia, it is the polliwog of green piety, get a car with more efficiency that is not reduced down to the point of an ennui.