Pain exploded across her face as the fist plunged. The clenched hand rose to a wicked crescent that hovered above her head. And it fell, gaining width and girth as it dropped, growing fat like the pregnant moon. Rising and falling until it filled her horizon. And her world had grown so small, the instant so frozen, that she had time to observe the texture of his skin, to contemplate the tiny cracks and crevices, the soft down of hair, and bony prominence of knuckles. Like the mountains of the moon. Large and then small, the waxing and waning moon, it descended over and over again to clip her about the head, neck and shoulders.
She felt warm blood spill, as his ring tore her skin from cheek to chin. The hand that moved away was tinged the colour of blood. A harvest moon. Had enough of the Margaret Simon who graduated with honours from Pembroke College, Oxford remained, she might have noted the irony in the fact it was his wedding band, symbol of their union and her bondage, that sliced into her flesh. But all that was left her under the weighty hand of castigation was the primeval part which crawled and whimpered, and blindly hoped to survive.
The fist glancing off her cheek caused her head to rebound against the wall, and set the room to whirling about her, and strange voices slithered into her head.
Crack!
Margaret crept from the rain of blows. Down the long hall and into the bedroom, he followed her. And she stopped short, realizing belatedly that their argument might wake the baby.
A foot in the ribs. Oomph! And she bit her tongue, lest the moan or sob should escape from her lips. The flat of his hand alongside her head crying retribution for some transgression, she didn’t know what.
Crack!
All comprehension of time had vanished, vacated with the human forebrain. All that was left was mammalian reflex, and this moment, this battery of blows was eternal, as if her mind at this minimal level could understand what her conscious mind could not. That this sort of behaviour, once started, would not stop but could only dissolve into bigger and worse violence. In some dim small part of her mind she could see this happening, year in and year out, until one of them died.
Bang! Crash! A lamp fell over, and she held her breath waiting for Ruth’s thready wail. The fist swung decisively, and she realized it was no time to wait. No time to wonder why. No time to reflect on what had set him off. If she endured the attack, there would be enough time to ponder the events immediately prior, worrying at it like a dog with a bone. Time enough later to question. In extremis, she was beyond blaming. She could neither reprove nor accuse. All she could do was react, holding hands over her head instinctively to ward off the repeated blows.
Later she could recall their whirlwind romance and regret the love that had died under his savagery. The fantasy match, which her friends had all envied, come to this. She had waited long to find the right man. So long, that her mother had started to despair, dropping none-too-veiled hints about grandchildren as yet unborn. Hints, which Margaret chose to ignore. She had been cautious, and she thought that she had chosen wisely.
Nothing in her experience could have prepared her for this. Little had she known of the black seed that grew within. Neither could she comprehend the demon that powered this evil. Although she had been forewarned, witnessing a hair-trigger temper on their second date as he cursed, kicked and spat at a flat tyre. But she had dismissed it, even found the childish display somehow endearing. Laughable, as an adult sniggers at a child who, arising after a spill, hits the offending bicycle in a fit of pique. And she swore then that she would never draw that ire upon herself.
The moon rose and fell. Upraised sickle and plummeting full. No longer a hand, but the colliding of planets inside her skull. Not content to pummel this heap of human flesh, Bob pulled her to her feet, holding her limp body against the wall by her throat. The hand arched round, and sound ceased as the impact caused the tympanic membrane to explode. It left behind a ringing. A high-pitched skreigh that was enough to drive her mad.
Another stroke. Something in her face gave, and if felt like her nose was being driven into her skull. Just as his words, punctuating his passion, drove shards into her brain that she could only understand in context. A king in his castle, man had the right to chastise an unrepentant wife.
His attention waned. Her mewling compliance sickened him and he turned his back – the dark side of the moon – withdrawing in disgust and returning to the living room and his drink. Back to the television where he had been before his attention was drawn away by the growl of the dishwasher.
With his harsh attentions gone, there was time suddenly to rue her marriage. Often she thought, perhaps, her decision to wed had been based on hormones and the silent ticking of the biological clock. The woman shook her head, still unwilling to believe, and the very motion set it to throbbing so that her temples kept time with her heart.
Margaret pulled herself into the bedroom. Inside her head, voices shrieked recrimination for unknown sins, not quite obliterated by the tinnitus of the shattered eardrum. Deserved and deserving, she endured it. For the baby, she would endure it silently.
She dragged herself upright to gaze into the cot. The sounds of London traffic receded beyond the pale of pain, and she sagged flaccidly against the wall, wondering what had gone wrong. When their marriage, so optimistically begun, had changed. And what she had done to deserve it.
The chittering voices supplied the answer in an echoing word: Sin…
Her ears rang and rang, and the voices that seem to have insulated themselves inside her head shrieked derision. T’was a woman’s lot.
Society condoned punishment and pain as retribution for sin. The teachings of the church, unheeded for years, whispered in the back of her brain. For the sins of Eve; the sins of woman ever loving man. The serpent smiles, and a woman dies a thousand tiny deaths each and every day. The moon waxes and wanes, cartilage crunches against bone. Small loss, small pain3 small sacrifice against the millennium of blame. Eden lost.
Margaret gazed out the picture window, her eye drawn away from her immediate surroundings. She hated it here. The Docklands reminded her of some futuristic ghost town, devoid of life and human heart. Their building was virtually empty. It emphasized her isolation. For here, there was no one to hear her cries, and it seemed as though Robert understood this, for his violence had increased lately. And to whom could she turn for help? Not a neighbour. Margaret had none.
She had paid for this home, dearly – her husband taking his ire out upon her person when he learned that the extension to the tube was cancelled and realized his astute investment had gone suddenly awry – and they were trapped in this soulless place.
The wages of sin…
Outside the summer sun sank into the west in a blaze of carnelian and topaz. The Thames below turned to bright crimson and lay like a bloody plaster across the capital. From here, Margaret could see the London skyline beyond the bristle of cranes. On a clear day, she thought she could spot the domed top of St Paul’s. The sight had inspired her once. This evening it left her unmoved.
The baby breathed softly, and Margaret gulped audibly.
Poor child! No daughter should be forced to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Already Margaret knew that the fury must inevitably spill upon the child. Twice, the mother had been beaten as she interposed herself between father and child when the baby’s wails rang too loud. Once she had had to pull Robert off before he had done any real harm.