Authors: Iris Gower
‘But what did he say?’ Boyo persisted.
Catherine sighed. ‘How ill luck has dogged my heels since I took up with you. He made a list, like Dad dying; oh, you know, things like that.’
‘But that’s foolish, your father was a sick man, he would have died if you had never seen me again.’
‘I know, I told you it was silly.’ Catherine rubbed at her eyes. ‘I just have a bad feeling, I can’t explain it, Boyo.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps we should call it off, we can speak to Bethan some other time.’
‘No, let’s just get on with it, the sooner we get this meeting over and done with, the better for all of us.’ Boyo moved towards the door and after a moment, Catherine followed him, knowing it was the last thing she wanted to do.
When they arrived at Ty Craig the place was shrouded in mist, the grey walls appearing black in the strange light. A window, revealed by the ghostly vapour, shone dully, blank like a dead eye. Catherine shuddered, perhaps she was being absurd and fanciful but there was something evil about the house, she could feel it. She almost turned away but Boyo’s hand was on her arm, guiding her towards the arched doorway.
Bethan opened the door herself and Catherine had the distinct feeling that Boyo’s wife had been watching and waiting for them to arrive.
‘Come in, do.’ Her cool voice enunciated the words with precision, she was a woman held in check, the knuckles of her hands gleamed white as she clutched her skirt.
Catherine glanced up at Boyo for reassurance, he was a big man, and yet she sensed an uncertainty in him. But that was foolish, nothing could go wrong so long as they were together.
Bethan led the way into the sitting-room, a fire burned in the grate and yet the room was chilly. There was a pungent smell in the air that Catherine identified as lamp oil. She glanced towards the fireplace again and saw a flame burn on the ornate bars of the grate. In spite of the fire, there was no warmth in the room.
Bethan had opened the door herself, it seemed there were no servants in the house and somehow that fact made Catherine more nervous than she was already.
‘Please, sit down, I’ve put a tray of porter ready to welcome you, might as well make this meeting as civilized as possible, don’t you agree?’ She ignored Catherine and looked directly at Boyo.
‘If you say so, Bethan.’ He sounded noncommittal as he took a seat and waited for her to hand round the drinks. Catherine saw him shake his head slightly as she took a glass from the tray and, pointedly, he placed his own glass, untouched, on the table beside him.
Catherine’s fear of Bethan was heightened; if Boyo did not trust his wife enough to drink from the glass she had handed him then he must believe her dangerous indeed.
‘I want to know that you will make my husband happy.’ Bethan addressed Catherine for the first time. ‘I take it you are not just looking for rich pickings, or are you?’
Catherine sighed heavily. ‘I think you are insulting me on purpose, Mrs Hopkins. Is this what you call a “civilized discussion”?’
Boyo made a move to rise but Bethan raised her hand. ‘I’m sorry, I apologize, it’s just that other women have made a play for Mr Hopkins, you see,’ she smiled at Boyo indulgently, ‘and I don’t blame them, not any of them. I do realize that men, all red-blooded men at any rate, have needs that a wife may not entirely fulfil. Shall we say “habits” that women of a lower order will not only tolerate but will enjoy; this is something I quite understand while I do not applaud it. Still, I have not heard you say anything yet. I apologize for talking so much, please, go ahead, state your case, Miss O’Conner.’
Catherine shook her head and looked towards Boyo. ‘This is hopeless, I knew we shouldn’t have come, she is just taunting us, well, me at least. She wants to see me humiliated.’
Boyo rose to his feet. ‘Will you get to the point of this meeting, Bethan?’
‘Very well,’ Bethan was white-faced, completely calm but her eyes gleaming like those of a wounded animal. ‘Boyo, I want to give you one last chance, will you give up this … this rubbish and come back to me?’
‘Shut up, Bethan!’ Boyo was flushed with anger, Catherine watched as he moved towards his wife and grasped her wrists. ‘I was a fool to come here, you will never listen to reason, you are beyond reason, mad, insane. I do not love you, I never loved you, is that clear enough for you?’
Catherine remembered, quite suddenly, the way Boyo had held her by force, taking her on the floor like a harlot and she was frightened. Was she making the biggest mistake of her life?
‘Please, let me go,’ Bethan said quietly. Boyo released her at once. Catherine watched as Bethan moved carefully towards the ornate sideboard. She rummaged in a drawer, sniffing a little, as if she was crying. Catherine felt pity tug at her.
Bethan turned, she was pointing a gun at Catherine. ‘If I can’t have him then no-one shall have him.’
Catherine saw, with horror, Bethan’s finger tighten around the trigger, and then she was hurled backwards as if struck by a giant blow. She was on the floor, head resting against the fireplace. She was conscious, she smelt the paraffin close to her face and heard the dull crackle of the fire.
‘Oh, my God, what have I done!’ Bethan’s voice seemed far away. ‘You must get a doctor. I’m sorry, Boyo, I didn’t mean to shoot, I just wanted to frighten her. The gun went off by accident, I swear it.’
‘For God’s sake, Bethan, send for the carriage, I’ll take her to the hospital.’
‘There is no-one here, no carriage, no groom, no animals. Take your own horse and ride into town; bring the doctor as quickly as you can, before she bleeds to death.’
Bethan’s voice was closer, stronger. There was a creak as a door opened with a blast of air, cold and clammy, and it was then the pain struck. She bit her lip and in spite of herself, heard the moan that escaped from between her teeth.
Blades of fire were being thrust into her back and shoulder, she wanted it to stop and then, mercifully, she was tumbling downwards into darkness.
Bethan felt a deep satisfaction spread through her being, warming her heart, bringing a sense of power that cheered her. She concealed her feelings as she looked at Boyo. ‘Don’t stand there like a frightened child, go on, ride as fast as you can, into town. I’ll take care of her. You must go, what other choice is there?’
She saw him hesitate. ‘I could take her on the saddle with me.’
‘She would never make it, there would be too much pain and too much loss of blood.’
‘Blast you, Bethan! You make sure she does not die or by God I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’
He hurried from the house and Bethan watched him ride away at breakneck speed along the drive. Ignoring the slumped figure in the sitting-room, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom. She felt cold, suddenly uncertain. It was all such a mess, she had meant to kill Catherine with the first shot and claim it had been an accident. She would have been believed, of course she would, whoever would think Bethan Hopkins, a frail, pregnant woman, could be capable of violence?
‘I wish you had never been born, Catherine O’Conner,’ Bethan said bitterly. She placed some coals across the dying embers but that only seemed to dampen the faint glow into nothingness.
‘Blast!’ Bethan took up one of the oil-lamps and carried it towards the fireplace, removing the chimney and the wick, she tipped some of the paraffin into the fire.
The flame shot upwards, taking her unawares. The lamp became a fireball in seconds and with a shriek of pain, Bethan dropped it onto the carpet. The paraffin spread outwards, leaking towards where she stood, carrying with it a channel of fire. Backing away, her eyes on the sudden blaze, Bethan grasped the doorknob, it resisted, her hands were slipping, perhaps because of the paraffin on her fingers. She must get out! She jerked the handle hard and it came off in her hand. The curtains were alight now, she kicked at the door in fear and rage. She heard herself swear and curse like a sailor as the roaring behind her grew in intensity. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide. The rug in front of the hearth was licked with flames. Bethan began to cough as the smoke reached her lungs.
‘Elizabeth!’ She thought she called the name but it was a mere croak. She saw her then, Elizabeth, from the rocks beyond the window, beckoning her, smiling at her, urging her to come with her so that they could be together for ever.
She flung open the window, feeling the heat from the blazing curtains, and stepped out onto the ledge. Elizabeth was on the rock outside, urging her onwards. Bethan did not dare to look down into the darkness below, she would need all her courage for what she must do. She hesitated only for a second.
‘You will never have my husband, Catherine O’Conner!’ she screamed. She reached out, took Elizabeth’s hand and stepped into the abyss.
Liam had stared at the boat drawing away from the harbour and cursed himself for a fool. Why had he not boarded, why not shake the dust of this place from his feet for ever? And yet he could not rid himself of the feeling that Catherine needed him, that she was in danger. He knew she was going to see that Hopkins woman, the mad, crazy woman who might do anything to get her revenge. However foolish the idea, he had to find out for himself if Catherine was all right before he turned his back on her for ever.
Once back in Swansea, he had set out for the grey house nestling in the folds of the hills. The place was difficult to find and he wasted valuable time, retracing his steps and asking directions of a lone shepherd who, having found an unexpected captive audience, wanted to talk.
At last, rounding a bend in the road, he saw Ty Craig looming up at him out of the mist. Liam stopped in his tracks, fear clutching at him as he saw flames leaping from one of the front windows. Even as he watched, a pane of glass shattered outwards with an almighty crash.
Liam’s steps crunched on the gravel of the drive as he pounded towards the front door. He pushed it open and flames belched towards him. He slammed it shut and hurried around the back. Somehow, he knew that Catherine was inside the house and he knew he must find her before it was too late.
‘Catherine, for God’s sake wake up!’ She opened her eyes and saw Boyo leaning over her, his face white and tense. ‘Thank God I had second thoughts about leaving you and turned back! We have to get out of here, the house is on fire.’
She felt him lift her in his arms, felt the pain shudder through her as he carried her towards the hall. There was smoke everywhere, the west wing of the house was well alight, Catherine could feel the scorching heat on her face as Boyo negotiated the passage leading to the back of the house.
Her arm was numb, her clothing soaked with blood but at least she was still alive.
‘Boyo,’ she tried to speak but there was no strength in her voice.
‘Don’t try to talk.’ He made his way through the hall and towards the back of the house along a dark passageway. The thick back door was locked, there was no key.
‘The window,’ Catherine whispered, ‘there in the pantry, if you can break the glass you might be able to get us out.’
It was a slender hope but Boyo seized on the idea. He lowered Catherine gently to the floor and began to place boxes beneath the high window. The structure was frail, unstable, but Boyo did not seem to notice as he looked around for something to break the glass.
Catherine saw him tuck an iron bar into his belt and then he was clambering over the boxes and up towards the window. He was still a short distance away from the glass but by reaching upwards with the iron bar, he was able to smash through the small panes. The frame was rotten with damp and Boyo set about it with desperate strength. It broke easily, the timber was old, but the opening was still too small for them to get through. Boyo began to dig out the mortar between the stones surrounding the window.
Catherine saw a small trail of smoke appear beneath the door of the passage and snake its way towards where she lay. She began to cough.
Boyo glanced down at her and then renewed his efforts, hacking away with frenzied blows at the wall. One stone became dislodged and rolled downwards, crashing against the floor. And then the hole was suddenly yawning open, big enough for a man to climb through with ease.
He returned to where Catherine lay. ‘I’m going to have to pick you up, I’ll try not to hurt you but it’s our only chance.’
She suppressed a moan as Boyo lifted her in his arms but as soon as he began to climb up on the boxes, they shifted beneath the extra weight.
Boyo paused and looked up, his face strained. Catherine saw behind his shoulder, as if in a dream, that Liam was there, leaning into the opening, his big hands reaching towards her. ‘Give her to me, for God’s sake,’ he said.
Catherine felt herself being lifted through the broken window, the pain in her upper body was so intense that she almost lost consciousness. Liam was holding her in his arms, the cool night air was on her face. ‘Liam.’ She wanted to tell him how happy she was to be held close to him in this way, that if she died in his arms she would be content, but she could not speak. Liam was looking at her wound, touching her shoulder tentatively.
‘It’s not too bad, my darlin’, it will mend.’ She must have lost consciousness then because when she opened her eyes she was lying against the damp grass, the scent of it clean and fresh in her nostrils.
She stared up at the darkness of the sky and saw the stars bright and clear and the acrid smell of smoke and the loud roar of flames encompassed her.
She lifted her head and saw Liam easing himself into the gaping wound in the wall where the window had been. Smoke billowed around him, enveloping him and she tried to call his name but her throat was on fire.
The back door of the house began to burn, the small licking flames quickly turning into a fierce blaze as the old timber caught light.
There was a crashing sound from within the house and Catherine realized the ceilings were caving in.
‘Liam!’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She crawled forward, inch by inch, pain engulfing her. ‘Liam, come back, it’s no use.’ Her words were lost as a burst of fresh flames engulfed the house.