The Death of Ruth

Elizabeth Kata

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

A Note on the Author

It seems Aeons since I had awakened with the usual bewilderment of mind which accompanies one's return to consciousness. I had smiled, happy and complacent, knowing that John would be returning from his business trip in several days time. I had smiled, looking forward to the hours we would spend talking about his work and about the everyday happenings of my life whilst he had been away; knowing that when he returned, I would follow my time-honoured habit, hiding the fact that I was always fearful and nervous during his absence, especially since the recent robbery; and then, as always, when night came and we were together in our bed, in the dark, I would restrain myself and follow along with John in our temperate and gentle love-making.

I have never let him know the extent of the love I feel towards him. John, I have always felt, could be repelled by too strong a show of passion. It had always been my pride, my endeavour, to be his perfect wife and helpmate in every way.

It scarcely seems possible now, that I had lain in my bed, allowing my mind to dwell on homely, pleasant things, that I had been seriously thinking about having a dark rinse on my greying hair and hoping, that if I did, John would approve. That is what I had been thinking when the sudden outburst of raised voices had interrupted my thoughts, causing me to burrow beneath the coverlet and cover my ears …

Those raised voices! Those sounds of violence! For eleven years, ever since the Moyston family moved next
door to become our neighbours, I have suffered those disturbing sounds. For eleven long years I have suffered guilt knowing that Ruth Moyston was a sadistic and a cruel woman—a child basher.

Always, I had felt ashamed of my lack of courage, ashamed of my unwillingness to go against John's advice because I knew that he was correct in saying that if I openly accused Ruth of cruelty to her children, she not only could, but most definitely would sue me for defamation of character.

Once, in a state of desperation, I had spoken to a doctor about ‘someone I had heard of' who beat her children and injured them. I had sought his advice on the matter, and he, the doctor, had advised me to let well alone, that is—he had said—unless the mother could be coerced into putting herself under a psychiatrist's care, ‘The mother is the one in need of treatment.
She
is the one in need of help …' he had insisted.

Clearly, he, the doctor, like John, had no desire to be involved.

I had tried to encourage Ruth to seek aid, God knows, but never frankly, never openly and bravely, because I was nervous and afraid of her reactions to my interference. But, I had tried even if to no avail, and the beatings, the punishments had continued. The injuries to the children had been skilfully concealed or explained away with, ‘Jodie is accident prone …'

‘Rob is all boy! What boy doesn't collect bruises, break a bone or two …?'

Ruth took care not to go too far in her treatment towards the children when Ralph, her husband, was present, and John seemed never to be at home when any serious assault took place.

Right from the beginning, Ruth had regarded me as a weakling. In a way, I had become one of her victims, and she had been aware of that, knowing that I suffered greatly,
not as the children suffered but nevertheless painfully and with feelings of guilt.

If I had known of any official organization to approach, I would have written to them anonymously and I would have reported her. I knew about the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals but of no such society for the prevention of cruelty to children.

The ugly business that went on in the Moyston household had been the only blot on the happiness of my life. I had heard, watched and put up with the ugliness for years, so why—why and oh why—now that Rob and Jodie were in their early teens, and able to stand up for themselves, why did I lose control of myself that morning?

Whilst lying in my bed I had been completely overcome with anger and disgust on hearing Ruth's strident voice screaming out obscenities, and on hearing Jodie's voice raised in panic and pain, screaming, ‘No, no, please Mother, no more!
No more…!'

I lay trembling, filled with ever rising fury until eventually I heard Jodie running from the house and along the road on her way to school. Acting on impulse, I sprang from my bed, dragged a house-coat over my nightdress and hurried over to the Moystons' house.

As usual, Ruth's transistor radio was blaring forth on full volume and she, Ruth, was standing at her kitchen sink drinking down a dose of the medicine she used to quieten her nerves, to relieve her acid stomach condition.

‘Ruth,' I exclaimed loudly, ‘I have come to warn you.'

Ruth, with her usual insolence, ignored me and kept her back toward me. Angered by her attitude, I stepped further into the room, raising my voice, crying out, ‘I won't stand for it any longer! You are cruel,
vicious
, and …'

As though she was standing on a swivelling platform, Ruth swung about to face me. Alarmed—very alarmed—because she was obviously about to attack me, I stepped back a pace or two, as she, with her arms raised, lunged
towards me. With all the force I was able to muster I fended her off—pushing her. She slipped, falling backwards on to the tiled floor to lie there, prostrate and silent.

With all anger evaporated, I crouched down beside her, distraught, calling her name again and yet again and I noticed that blood was seeping from a wound in the back of her head.

The sight of that blood unnerved me, made me dizzy. The room seemed to darken, then to become frighteningly light and bright. Steadying my mind I gazed down at Ruth's distorted face and—with horror—I believed that she was dead.

As though frozen, I remained in my crouching position and my mind became kaleidoscopic, a shambles of terrifying visions. Visions of myself, Molly Blake—not only being held responsible for having caused my neighbour's death, but being accused of having killed her with intent.

No, no, no, I reasoned, that could not happen. Not to me! But—maybe it could! Yes, it could, but it would be macabre, too incredible and I would not stand for it! I had every right to protect myself—protect my reputation, my wonderfully happy, orderly life with John.

There was no way that anyone could prove that I had been with Ruth when she died. Ralph had left the house for work. Rob had left the house for school. Jodie had run weeping from the house quite some minutes before my arrival. Surely I had every right to protect myself! Yes. I would go home. Behave as usual. Make an appointment with the hairdresser …

No one could suspect a woman who sat, calmly, having her hair shampooed, tinted and set, of having killed a person earlier on in the day. Killed? Dear God it was not fair, Ruth, not I, had always been the violent one. Ruth had attacked
me
.

But—she was dead! I was responsible for her death and I knew I would have to face up to that terrible fact, and face
up to the notoriety, the scandal. I convinced myself I would face up to it. I would, but I needed time! I would go home, calm down, clear my mind, then call and notify the police from my own home.

It was at that moment, with a shock that I saw Ruth's blood was staining the hem of my floral house-coat and as I leapt to my feet a further shock shattered me completely as the Moystons' telephone bell began to shrill out.

I ran—as though being pursued—from Ruth's kitchen and out into the sunlit brightness of the morning. I ran on through the Moystons' neglected back yard, and with an ease which even in my panic impressed me, I climbed over the low fence that separated our properties, then, I ran on through the cultivated neatness of John's back yard and into the sanctuary of my own home.

Home! Safe! Surrounded by familiar objects, I was enveloped by a remarkable calm.

I felt that there was no tragedy in Ruth being dead but that if I were associated in any way with the cause of her death then it would be tragic, it would cause chaos, and a multitude of painful embarrassments. It could cause John's and my way of life to crumble—be destroyed! I needed, I longed for John, and I had cried out, ‘Oh John if only you were not away.'

Just thinking of my husband brought on a desperate burst of weeping. Always, when John has been away on business trips I have felt like a boat cut adrift from its moorings. Even small problems took on exaggerated proportions and the smooth flow of my life became disrupted.

I knew I should call the police and inform them that a death had occurred, and I knew I would do that. But still, I needed more time, just a little more time.

Taking off my blood stained house-coat I soaked it in cold water, and clad in my nightgown, I went into the bedroom.
I crept into our bed. I lay upon the new mattress which John and I had so recently and proudly purchased and pulling the covers over my head I curled up and, in the warmth and the darkness—as though watching the replay of a film—the events of the morning flashed and flickered before my eyes.

I began to reason that in a macabre way I had done Ruth Moyston a favour. True, she was dead but she had hated her life.

Then, as though I were on a see-saw, I changed my mind, knowing that I must behave with decency and honesty. But—what would John, what would our small circle of friends, think of me? Why should I stain my good reputation? How dreadful if I were to be dragged through an inquest, a …? The mere thought of such things was unendurable to me. I would not call the police. I would go about my day as though nothing unusual had happened.

Unusual? But—Ruth was
dead
.

Then I heard the sound of a motor vehicle driving along the street. I knew that it would be the baker's van. He, the baker, came every second day. So, let
him
discover Ruth's body, Let
him
give the alarm. He always went to the Moystons' first and when he came to my house I would be ready for him. I would be …

Leaping from the bed I felt beneath my pillow for my handkerchief. It was not there. I knew where it would be! I had carried it, crushed in my hand, when I had gone over to speak to Ruth. Had I dropped it on her kitchen floor? That initialled handkerchief could be my undoing.

Once again I was impressed with the speed, with the dexterity I garnered as I ran, climbed, ran again.

When the delivery boy finally arrived, I was home again, in my living room, on my knees, shaking and trembling with my handkerchief retrieved, and with the key of the Moystons' back door cutting into my hand, and when the boy called to me from my back door I answered him, my
voice high, calm and rational, calling, ‘Just leave me one sliced loaf, Ted. Mr Blake is still away you know!'

‘Rightio!' he yelled, ‘Hey, Mrs Blake, did Mrs Moyston tell you how many loaves she wants today?'

‘No,' I called, ‘she didn't.' I added, ‘Isn't she at home?'

‘Well, I'm not sure,' he said, ‘The back door is locked but all the front windows are wide open and her radio is going full blast.'

‘Maybe she is taking a shower,' I called, ‘You may leave her usual order in my kitchen, Ted.'

‘OK,' he yelled cheerily, and I listened as he whistled his way down the side path. I heard his van drive off, then I began to weep. I wept shamefully, hopelessly, longing for John, and the thought of John caused me to weep even more. I could not endure the thought that he would have to know of my irrational actions. I could not bear that thought, and as I wept, another thought crept into my mind. I thought how wonderful it would be if only that body was not lying on that floor.