[No one ever said it would be] This Hard
Trigger Warning: Most things! Please proceed with caution if you find any themes triggering. I will include specific trigger warnings for each chapter but to be more explicit at the start would be too spoilery. For this chapter: Immediate aftermath of rape, implied references to child abuse, mentions of suicidal thoughts...
A/N: I finally got up the courage to post this. I hope it will be well-received. I was initially unwilling to post until I'd finished writing it, but I know exactly where I'm going with it and I feel that feedback from the fandom will motivate me to keep writing it – so here we go. This is a fic that I have been writing for a very long time and it deals with the events of Series 4 Episode 3 and 4 in more depth than the show did, before diverging quite drastically from canon in order to explore an alternative direction that the storyline could have taken.
Like many in this beautiful fandom, I had very mixed feelings about Series 4. On the one hand I thought it was a brave decision to address a vitally important and horrifying issue that is too often ignored in the media. I felt that Joanne Froggatt (and Brendan Coyle and the others) handled the plotline with insight, empathy and an extreme emotional connection to what they were depicting (the proof of this is in the overwhelming response Jo Fro received from survivors who valued her understanding representation of their experiences and felt that she had publically validated what they and others had been through).
However, I am of the opinion that Fellowes himself grossly mishandled the storyline. Although I can find many harsh truths about and reflections of society in the way in which after the events downstairs in Episode 3 the show cut back to the aristocratic gambling going on upstairs, I have a sinking certainty that this was not Fellowes' intention and he actually misguidedly believed that anyone still cared about anything else happening in that episode that did not revolve solely around the atrocity we had just borne shell-shocked witness too.
I hated that the events with Tom and Edna occurred in the same episode, as the contrast between two very different types of sexual assault seemed to me to inadvertently undermine, to some extent, the fact that what happened to him was also not consensual, while simultaneously once again taking the focus off Anna.
I also detested how Mrs Hughes (who, don't get me wrong, I adore and have huge admiration for – and I understand that she was under a lot of pressure and handling numerous very different and extremely difficult, distressing situations, which she had no precedent for how to manage, as best she could; nonetheless….) dealt with Edna in the subsequent episode. I don't know if it struck anyone else, but the way in which she threatened her (please check the episode if you don't know what I mean) – which would have been shocking at any time – was horrifyingly callous in light of what had just happened to Anna. I also detested (and the more I think about it the more strongly I feel) that she told John what had happened. I know that she acted with Anna's best interests at heart, I know that she had to make a judgement call in a bleak situation and chose what she thought to be the lesser of two evils, I don't blame her really, but she took away Anna's control: Anna's right to choose what to tell the person she loved most and if and when to do so. John would never have left really – Mrs Hughes would only have had to tell him the first bit of what she said (that Anna loved him very much and to come home and find him gone might finish her) and he would have stayed without question.
Most of all – and this does not seem to be a commonly held opinion, so I will explain my reasoning – I loathed that Green died. Because it seemed to me like Fellowes backing out of his own challenging, important storyline. It was a convenient solution that enabled him to distract us all with another murder mystery and apparently alleviate himself of the responsibility of tackling the long-term psychological implications of what had happened or dealing with the painful mess of healing. It confirmed my belief that, however much Jo Fro and Brendan's acting redeemed this, he had used rape as a 'dramatic' plot device. And finally, it made it about Green not Anna. It shifted the focus onto the wrong person and it wasn't fair.
The point of this fic is to address these issues, especially to develop the impacts Episode 3 had on Anna and John, and also to look at a 'what if' scenario that has bothered me for ages. I am not, by any means, the first person to write a fic like this. Mine will certainly not be as good as others I have read. I have read everything I can about Banna (especially fics that focus on post Episode 3 stuff) so if you recognise something from somewhere else or you think I have stolen something from one of your fics: I am so sorry! It is not intentional. Please be flattered that I was affected so much by your writing that it inspired me subconsciously. :)
I am writing about a sensitive subject matter of which I have absolutely no personal experience. I have done a huge amount of research and desperately want to handle this with the respect and compassion it needs and deserves. If you have any more understanding than me or feel I have misrepresented something or glossed over some aspect, please let me know.
I started writing this a while ago now so I apologise if the quality of some of what I've written is not great. I don't edit because I feel it loses its rawness and becomes too contrived.
I am so sorry for the outrageously long A/N, it will never happen again, I promise. This will be multi-chaptered and a prequel is in the works.
This fic is dedicated to: Elizabeth's Echo as a thanks for her endless patience with my mad ranting about this fic which she has endured for months without complaint; James Luver, because they are probably one of my favourite writers ever and made my New Year by reviewing one of my fics; silly-beggar because they always leave such kind, encouraging reviews and contribute wonderful things to the Banna fandom; me-and-mister-bates, my lovely lovely beta for the prequel to this, for putting up with my inability to stick to anything like a schedule and being so kind and encouraging; and anyone who identifies with anything in this fic.
Chapter 1 – When you lose something you can't replace
'Tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace…'
Anna tried to slip out of Mrs Hughes' sitting room as discretely as possible but she was still trembling so hard that her legs barely supported her. When John suddenly appeared in front of her they almost gave way and she only managed to steady herself by desperately grabbing the wall behind her.
"What happened to you?!" The shock was evident in his voice and Anna fleetingly glanced up into his bewildered, concerned face, before dropping her eyes again; the knot of nausea twisting ever tighter in her stomach as she struggled to compose herself enough to lie to him. He would see through her instantly. There was no hope of convincing anyone of anything while still in such a state…least of all John; because however much he trusted her, he also knew her – he could read her more easily than one of his battered books – and he could sense intuitively both when she was lying and when she was hurt; and right now she was both, in the extreme…But she couldn't tell him what had happened.
"I was drinking a powder…when I suddenly felt dizzy. I must have fainted. I think I hit my head on the edge of the sink on the way down…'s stupid…" The words stuck in her throat and not only did her voice shake, it was so small as to be almost a whimper.
Risking another glance, Anna saw that John looked both slightly doubtful and, if anything, more worried.
"You've changed your dress…?" He observed anxiously. Trust John to notice – what other man would have realised that one black dress had been exchanged for another? She cursed his keen, valet's perceptiveness.
"Yes…it's badly marked…" Don't think about it don't think about it don't "I've put it into soak, but I'm not sure I can save it…Mrs Hughes lent me this." Anna stammered – stumbling hopelessly over the words.
John looked as though he was about to say something else, when suddenly a horrendously familiar voice called out to them from the other end of the corridor. Anna shrank back into the hopeless lack of shadows, back hitting the wall as her breathing hitched. As her body fought not to retch at the wave of terror and revulsion swelling like bile, the shaking, that had not yet abated, intensified. John hadn't noticed, turning to the sound of his voice.
"Goodnight Mr. Bates, Mrs Bates; and thank you, for looking after me while I've been here." Was it only Anna's twisted fancy that there was mocking in his voice when he uttered her name? John seemed to notice nothing specifically untoward.
"Goodnight Mr. Gillingham," he replied tersely, turning back to Anna expectantly. His eyes widened at the sight of her poorly disguised cowering. Grappling to get it together – battling to not let the scant remnants of a semblance of composure slip away – Anna choked out "Goodnight Mr. Gillingham." She seemed to have swallowed her tongue.
She didn't dare look up lest she caught sight of him – certain it would topple her irretrievably into the depths of the chasm she was teetering so precariously on the edge of, keeping her footing only through refusing to acknowledge the drop…like one of those dreams when she was flying and it was only when she remembered she couldn't fly that she started falling...
Anna couldn't look at the smug, arrogant, self-satisfied smirk on his face – the one that teased and mocked and twisted without warning into something ugly and vicious - again; nor see those dark, hard eyes, lit with that feral predatory hunger, roving possessively over her body as though it were prey…
John reached out to caress her face gently, obviously anxious and alarmed by her strange behaviour; but an explosion of molten panic scorched through Anna's veins like venom at the tender gesture, because suddenly the man she trusted and loved more than anyone on earth was gone and all she could see and feel was him; and she flinched away violently, stumbling backwards – shuddering involuntarily as blind panic clouded her vision at the feeling of hair being yanked and body being dragged like a ragdoll and dress being ripped open and the smell of whiskey, sweat, her own fear, acrid in her mouth -
The metal corner digging into the backs of her legs brought John back into focus. She had backed up into the coat rack. Her body wasn't being touched; skull throbbing but hair restored; this dress intact. The smell remained, a sour taste heavy in her mouth. Mrs Hughes had given her soap; but the stench of him coated her skin, in the pores, seeped into her blood, burned her eyes.
Realising how suspicious and off the stumble must have seemed, she attempted to cover it up with what was intended as a smile – but emerged as more of a tiny silent sob.
John, looking horrified at the possibility that he'd upset her – that he'd scared her – asked urgently, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Feeble lie, her voice high and wobbly even in her own ears.
This clearly hadn't assuaged his concern. He looked frantic. Anna ducked her head – unable to look at him anymore; not with his eyes full of fear and confusion and the softness he reserved only for her, none of which she deserved now.
She was tugging down a skirt that was even longer than her usual one. It must look, at best, peculiar, at worst, suspicious. She forced her hands to still.
Lifting her coat down, Anna shrugged it on, grateful for the added layer of protection – the extra line of defence. It made her feel marginally less vulnerable and exposed. With relief, she realised her hat now shadowed her face, making it less likely that John would notice the tears starting again. Despite her best efforts to bite them back and keep it locked behind her tightly pressed lips, they welled irrepressibly in her eyes. Boiling droplets of brine trickled down her cheeks, scalding trails leaving brands of shame and pain etched across the puffy, bruised skin of her face.
John was still looking at her expectantly – appearing thoroughly disconcerted – waiting for her to elaborate on the pathetic answer she had given.
"I just feel like walking on my own, that's all." She struggled for the words that fell as blatantly hollow untruths on her own ears; then drew away, seeking the comparative seclusion offered to her by the shadows as a sob rose inside her, pressing against her windpipe and aching in her jaw, closing up her throat so that she felt she would choke.
Gagging on the effort it took not to release the sound, Anna fumbled with the door handle and wrenched it open, her wrist, which was ringed with stark purpling bruises she had been forced to pull her sleeve over, protesting the strain. She stumbled clumsily outside into the cold night air, her legs weak and shaky under her, blinded by the haze of tears obscuring her vision. The chill seemed unseasonable but echoed the clamminess clutching at Anna's insides, where it felt like there was cold sweat accumulating under her skin. The bitterness froze the tears now coursing unstoppably down her cheeks and with every step pain jarred harshly through her body: jagged stabbing in her ribs where several had probably broken; her head pounding with the same headache that had caused all…this…the horror of tonight…now hugely heightened by crying and the loud white pain radiating from where he had smashed her skull against the table to subdue her –Don't think about it don't think about it. Every inch of her battered frame ached dully; and all of that was nothing compared to down there, where she knew with sick certainty something had torn. There was blood - dry and sticky – against the inside of her thigh, staining the borrowed under garments Mrs Hughes had found for her. Anna swallowed a wave of roiling nausea.
She heard the door open behind her and John calling her name, but did not look around. She was weeping hopelessly, but the silent tears somehow wouldn't escalate into sobs – refusing to relieve the intense pressure constricting her airways. She stumbled onwards into the enveloping darkness, compulsively clutching her stomach as though she could force what had happened away from her body, out from inside her, by the sheer pressure being exerted.
This was an awful mistake. Even her own touch was terrifying. Rationally, Anna was aware of the feel of the fabric of the borrowed dress under her own fingers, but her subconscious flared into utter panic at the mere sensation of physical contact. On some level, she was aware that she was starting to hyperventilate, but she was still unable to do anything to regain control of her body. The bitter taste of helplessness flooded her nose and mouth like water filling the lungs of someone drowning and it was only with supreme force of will that she didn't retch.
Staggering onwards, she sagged against a tree, fighting to convince her lungs to continue to take in oxygen. She succeeded only because her involuntary physical reaction was overridden by the terrifying prospect of losing consciousness alone in the smothering darkness of rural Yorkshire.
Anna continued leaning against the broad trunk of the tree – which was all that was holding her upright – even after her respiratory system had fallen back into a more normal pattern. The abrasive bark should have been acutely painful digging into her battered body, but Anna was only half-aware of the physical discomfort. Ripping from beneath her ribs and down through the aching bones of her face and upwards from all the places he should never have been, a raw scream forced her mouth open. Her knuckles pressed against her teeth but there was no need for the muffling attempt – her cry emerged totally silent…and after all, no one would have heard her either way.
If she did not move soon then John would be along and find her like this. She forced her legs, in which the muscle and bone and tendons had been replaced with aching shaking water, to take her weight and continued to struggled back towards the cottage.
She hesitated on the threshold – her key in the lock, agonising pointlessly over entering. The second she did so their sanctuary would be contaminated – as she was – by the events of tonight. She didn't want to taint their beloved home with the poison that had taken root in the churning pit of her stomach, spreading tendrils of terror and revulsion and burning shame throughout her body. It had been her safe-place and, until she opened the door, it was almost possible to pretend to herself that that could remain unchanged; that in their home she could wake up from the nightmare.
Harsh practicalities turned the key and pulled her across the threshold into the threateningly shadowy sitting room, where she scrabbled in the darkness for the matches they kept on the mantelpiece. Her breathing once again climbed into her mouth and stayed there, refusing to return to her lungs and ripped ragged by the teeth digging into her lip, as she struggled to find them and then to light one. The gentle glow of gaslight when she succeeded illuminated enough of the room to momentarily allow a shaky exhale, before noticing that it had also thrown into stark relief the marks on her wrist which the sleeve of the borrowed dress had fallen back to reveal. Bruises form where crushingly strong hands had tightened ruthlessly around her fragile wrists and yanked her arms up over her head – so she couldn't fight or cover herself or get away –
Anna only just made it to the sink in the adjoining kitchen in time to throw up. She had brought up the contents of her stomach earlier that night in Mrs Hughes' waste paper basket, doubled over and wracked with sobs in between heaves – crying until she was sick as illness had never made her, gagging on visceral terror and shock; so that now all her body expelled was acidic bile, burning her throat as her empty guts continued to vomit nothing. The violent convulsions made her ribs throb with the remembered pain of being thrown against a table.
When it was over her knees gave out, bringing her crashing down onto the cold flagstoned floor of the little kitchen. In that moment, crumpled and drained in a pathetic heap on the floor, knees on fire and heels of her hands smarting as pain jarred up her wrists, Anna wanted to die; to die and not have to feel anything anymore ever again. Weren't people supposed to feel numb or shutdown or something after…things like this? She envied them, if that was the case. She would have given almost anything, certainly not excluding her life, to feel nothing. It was a cowardly thought and she loathed herself for even allowing it to cross her mind.
She had not wished to die even when John was sentenced because, although it was impossible to fathom living without him, she had been sustained by the fire of determination burning in her bones: the need to prove that he was innocent so that, even if they really did go ahead with the worst, the world would be left in no doubt about John Bates' character. That alone had kept her going, whole soul fired up with rage and devoted conviction but now…now she felt much as she had at the age of twelve – alone and locked inside herself in Liverpool… now she was hollow and devoid of any of her usual persistent will to fight. Her life had been smashed into adversity so many times and she had dragged herself through it so many times but what if this was the breaking point? Earlier, when he had been…don't think about it don't think don't – At one point she had truly thought he would kill her – and the most terrifying thing was that didn't scare her; by that point she wished he would, wished to die rather than live through what he was doing. Of course, he had had no such mercy and had left, ripping away her soul but not her life; taking all of Anna Bates and leaving behind nothing more than the irrevocably tainted shell of the stricken child whose surname was Smith and who Anna should have known was all she would ever be.
She had thought she had blocked out that part of her life, locking it away in the darkest recesses of her mind, a cellar under the self she had rebuilt, the life she had painstakingly crafted and cherished so much – a life that now lay desecrated in ruins around her. Now her past and present seemed to have fused into one horrifying mess that the ex-housemaid could see no way to clean up. She had been razed to the ground in a matter of minutes; and was beyond even tears now.
Suddenly an image burst into Anna's mind – as razor sharp as if a photograph had been pasted to the inside of her eyelids. John.
She had not died and therefore she could not. To kill herself would be unthinkably selfish. She knew what it had felt like to think John would die, that she would lose him; the memory of the feeling - like someone had removed her internal organs and filled the space with shards of glass dipped in poison – still woke her up sobbing wrenchingly in the night sometimes. She would not put John through that.
Nothing could be the same between them though – not ever again. She was soiled – dirty and spoiled – and she mustn't risk contaminating John by letting him near her. The idea of having him touch her was terrifying now; she couldn't bear it…But she had seen the look in his eyes earlier when she had flinched away: the devastation and shock that she had reacted as though expecting violence, aghast that she could ever imagine he would hurt her. Anna knew – of course she knew – that John would rather die than harm her; but it wasn't as simple as that. He seemed to have violated her mind too, so that all her subconscious understood how to react with was panic and fear. Touch was horrifying and inevitably brought pain and shame: this was a lesson that Anna had learnt as a little girl. It was one she had managed to unlearn in adult life, but now she had been brutally reminded. She hated this – hated that something which happened twenty-five years ago and mere minutes spent at the mercy of a stranger, were outweighing ten years of mutual trust, care and overwhelming love between her and John – but the fact remained: Anna was scared.
That look in his eyes when she cringed from his touch: a searing combination of bewildered hurt and boiling self-hatred and doubt, she was to blame for it. She hated lying to him– not least because he could see through her so easily that he knew he was being lied to. Apparently, however, she was not so transparent that he could read the truth. A part of her almost wished he could – No! If John knew what that man had done, he would kill him. And then they would hang him. Anna couldn't let that happen and if he ever found out it was surely the only possible outcome; she knew her John too well. Not my John, anymore, she mentally corrected herself. To keep him safe, he could never be 'her John' again. She would have to tell lie after lie – and he would know they were lies. Her filthy, shameful secret would tear them apart and he could never know why. It would break his heart. She would break his heart. Secrets and lies – wasn't that just like Vera? She would be doing to him what Vera had…she didn't know what to do…
Anna shook herself – literally – and the pain pulled her back just enough from the brink. With sheer force of will she marshalled her thoughts. She had to pull herself together in order to put up a front of normality for John, at least for now – until she worked out how to proceed – and she couldn't do that with her cheek pressed against the floor. She willed herself to stand up. The only problem was that her throbbing body, in the time spent lying on the chilled flagstones, seemed to have been filled with cold burning lead. Gritting her teeth against the jolting pain, Anna gave her body basic commands: Sit up. Stand up. Rinse out the sink. For John. For John. For John. She would lie and deceive and break his heart but it would be to protect him – all she had ever wanted to do was protect him, save him – her husband who had suffered so much. Better a broken heart than a broken neck. That would be her mantra when perpetuating this deception became unbearable. She would endure anything to save John from the repercussions, and even the simple knowledge, of her failure as a wife and a woman, of the way she had betrayed him and their vows…
Struggling with the tap as she swilled away the bile in the deep basin, Anna realised for the first time since rushing into the room that the kitchen was dark. The half-light by which she was performing the grim task came from the moon, streaming through the tiny window. It made her hands look ghostly – almost wraith like. It seemed bitterly appropriate.
The beauty and perfection and wholeness of the pure glow, a constant suspended in mid-flight, waiting patiently in the darkness, seemed to mock Anna, but she was grateful for its presence nonetheless. A desperate fear of the dark, which had haunted her childhood with the monsters that came at night, was prickling through her muscles. It had taken many years into her service at Downton, and the support of a bemused Gwen, before Anna could fall asleep without a light source and even now she preferred to make love with John with the lamps lit. A preference he never mentioned despite the fact that she never offered an explanation for her insistence. Anna had been deeply relieved to all but get over her crippling, debilitating fear in the last decade and a half, but it seemed that it had now returned full force. Furious with herself, she clamped her lips together and pressed the childish impulse to cry back down into her stomach.
Flinging the door, that had slammed behind her initial dash, open Anna allowed the light from the gas lamps she had lit in the other room to flood blindingly into the gloomy little kitchen-cum-scullery. Instead of releasing the tension in her body that was the only thing preventing her dissolving into a scared little girl, her eyes slammed reflexively shut. It didn't matter that the would-be calming ambience of flickering gas light was nothing like the glare of electricity, he was there, hauling her about and holding her down, forced onto the table beneath the bare electric bulb, his hands ripping her skirt, scratching her delicate flesh, hers scrabbling frantically, uselessly, for a purchase on the smooth table, raking her nails across his hand, the answering blow, the echoing finality of the door he had ripped open slamming shut, the echoing helplessness of her own unanswered screams…She surfaced gasping.
She was scared of the dark. She was scared of the light. She was so scared.
Digging her ragged fingernails into her palms until she felt herself draw blood, Anna wanted John. She ached to be held and comforted and just for a moment to let him take it all away and make her feel safe. But she didn't deserve comfort – she had made this happen. Somehow she had done something that had made him think she wanted this. It was her fault. She wasn't worthy of John. Not now. Besides, the thought of being touched made her feel physically sick with paralysing terror.
John could come home any time now and she needed to have some sort of façade in place. She also needed to dispel any delusions he may have that she was upset with him. The purpose, the achievable tasks, focused her mind and muffled the roar of her own pulse in her head, the pounding of her guilt.
Really the fire needed stoking, but the coal scuttle was nearly empty and the prospect of leaving the cottage to refill it was beyond her. So she merely relit the remaining lump of coal and heap of cinders from the previous night, to drive out the unseasonable chill that she was fairly sure had settled in the air and not only through her bones. Bending to coax the fire into life hurt. She ignored it. Dragging herself up the narrow staircase with a kettle of water for the washstand, that should at least still be warm by the time John used it, Anna was convinced she would fall. In some ways heightening the physical pain to the point where it blurred her vision was a relief – it anchored her to the present.
Her limbs were shaking by the time she stumbled half-blindly back downstairs again, needing to get herself ready for at least a pretense of going to sleep before John got home. A part of Anna craved a bath: the chance to let her screaming muscles unwind and maybe attempt to get the stench of him – like a signature of ownership on her skin, the fingerprints of a thief – off her. But another, far more dominant part of her never wanted to remove the illusion of security her layers of clothing provided ever again; she still hadn't taken her coat off. Also the possibility of John returning before she was finished could not be risked. She would never be able to convince him of her already weak lie about what had happened if he witnessed the state of her battered body – something she was unsure she could handle seeing either.
With that in mind, she quickly splashed cold water onto her face, which felt tender and sore under her fingers, while trying hard to avoid catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror that hung over the kitchen sink. Needing the security of a closed door, she retreated upstairs to their bedroom. Gathering herself for a second, she pressed her slightly feverish forehead against the cool wood of the door. Her heart was thudding madly in her chest and her breathing was ragged as she ruthlessly forced herself to change. Still trying not to be sick yet again, she clumsily fumbled to do up the top button of her thickest winter nightgown, totally gratuitous for the time of year, with shaking fingers. Anna felt limp and drained and so very, very tired.
Staring at their bed, she bit her lip and tasted rust. She couldn't mar their marital bed with her dirtiness – couldn't bring him into the place where her and John made clumsy, passionate love after the mutual frustration of a long day of chaste touches and subtle looks; or moved gently together, bathed in the dawn, when they should have already begun the journey to the Abbey. Had made. Had moved.
She needed to be calm enough to be convincingly feigning sleep by the time he came home. John's neck was more important than the fanciful sanctity of their shared bed. She heard his key turning in the lock not five minutes after huddling under blankets she had no right to touch, and realised with a jolt, too late, that her paranoid locking of the front door before coming upstairs would only have added to his suspicion.
He called her name a couple of times and it took all her self-restraint to bite her tongue and not respond – hoping he would believe she was asleep. Anna lay very still, listening to the reassuring, painfully normal sounds of him pottering around downstairs, going through the ordinary rituals of his nightly routine. He came into the room and she stiffened, trying with all her might to slow her breathing as he took off his starched and uncomfortable uniform, hanging it carefully over the back of the chair – as usual. The light of the candle he had brought upstairs to illuminate his tasks flickered in front of her screwed up eyelids as she squeezed her stinging eyes more tightly shut – willing herself not to visibly panic as he slid quietly into bed next to her, easing the covers back as little as possible in his effort not to wake her.
Feeling his warm weight on the mattress next to her, Anna desired nothing more than to be able to break down and confess everything and let his soothing presence wash away all her shame and pain and fear. The emotional agony was so sharp it was physical, a stabbing weight in her lungs. She clenched her fists so that her nails dug into the grooves they had made in her palms earlier in the evening and prayed to a god she was no longer sure she believed in to make her strong enough to bear this for John.
Anna was rigid in the bed next to him, but he could feel her suppressed shivering through the tremors it caused in the mattress. It wasn't that cold – was this symptomatic of her being ill, as she had professed to feeling earlier?
Tentatively, mindful of how badly she had reacted last time, he gently reached out with the intention of stroking her hair comfortingly. It was something that usually soothed her when she was unwell or upset.
She flinched from his touch. Her suppressed whimper – of pain or fear, he wasn't sure – cut him like a knife. "Anna?" She didn't respond. Did not, by word or gesture, give any indication she had heard him at all. She was cringing at the very edge of the mattress – cringing away from him? – and seemed to be trying to make herself as small as possible. John could sense her trembling.
"Anna" he tried one more time – acutely aware that she was awake – but then cut himself off. If she needed him to pretend that she was asleep – in spite of what had just occurred – then he would do so. John didn't understand what had happened, but he knew something was wrong – very wrong indeed. He was scared and confused by the sudden change wrought in his wife and desperately needed an explanation, but Anna had to be the priority. Everything else could wait; he would do whatever was need to make her feel better, more comfortable. And if, at this moment, that was playing along with her pretense, that was what he would do.
He blew out the candle and, lying far enough away from Anna that there was no chance of them accidentally touching and eliciting that kind of distressed reaction from her again, but facing her so that she knew she was welcome to come to him at any point if she wanted to, he whispered tenderly "Goodnight my darling. I love you." And then added, asserting his devotion - feeling she needed the reassurance, "However, whatever, whenever."
They lay there in the pitch darkness for several moments before he noticed the catch in her breathing. An iron fist clenched around John's heart. Anna was crying. Crying silently, trying to stifle it in the pillow, but lying next to him shuddering with sobs. His resolve to go along with her attempt to pretend she was asleep weakened as his concern heightened. Anna had not, to his knowledge, cried since the night Mr. Matthew died.
Something terrible had happened to her. Something that she apparently felt unable to tell him about, that had caused her such distress it had brought her to tears. The mere thought of something upsetting strong, resilient, brave, bright, beautiful, unfailingly optimistic Anna made John feel sick with the pain in his heart.
"Anna- "he tried again, whispering into the darkness that surrounded them: trying to reach her. There was no response save for an increase in the tension her locked muscles seemed to radiate. Scared to make things worse and at a loss for how to help, John simply reiterated, "I love you."
He lay there in the smothering blackness for what felt like hours – enduring the unbearable sound of Anna's muffled weeping and dwelling endlessly, fruitlessly on the question chasing itself around his brain. What could possibly have happened to cause this? Eventually physical exhaustion won out and he dropped into a fitful slumber.
Anna's frame continued to shudder with the echoes of sobs long after her tear ducts had run dry. John had lain next to her in wakeful silence for hours – the tension between them so thick it would have taken a carving knife to slice it. When at last his breathing evened out, becoming slow and deep, the familiar sound brought with it a strange mixture of relief at the dissipating tension and an aching loneliness and isolation. She was lying so near to her husband that she could have reached out and touched him, had she dared, but the distance between them had never been greater. When he was in prison she had felt closer to him than this.
This – what he had done – had taken the truth from between them. That was perhaps the worst thing of all: lying to John. It was only going to get harder too – she knew that. Every second of their life, from now and as far as into the future as she could see, there would be falsehoods between them and it was entirely her fault. It would be to protect him – only ever to protect him – but that didn't prevent the suffocating self-hatred that came with not being honest with John. At the back of her mind, a niggling voice persisted in whispering that she was just like Vera. After all, this was why John's first marriage had broken down. Vera had been unfaithful – been with another man – and the lies had sprung up between them to maintain her secrets…
Unable to stand it, Anna scrambled out of bed and fled the room – almost tripping on the stairs in her haste; needing to get away from John so that she did not risk marking him with the filth she would never be free of – a taint fouler than the Manchester streets of her childhood, coating her skin and running through her blood, matting her hair and spilling from her eyes.
Curled up in the chair he favoured, a poor substitute for his arms, wishing that if she made her ruined shell of a body small enough she could disappear entirely, Anna stared at the dying embers in the grate. Randomly, she regretted that she had read such a lot of the poetry John loved so much, because the dwindling fire now seemed to symbolise the wreckage of her life as it flickered and went out – guttering like the 'brief candle' in Macbeth and leaving only ashes in its wake.
With her arms wrapped around her knees, shivering with the cold in her bones and failing to comfort herself with her own embrace, Anna sat huddled in John's chair all night. Her red-rimmed eyes were swollen but dry with staring unseeingly. Now she had no more tears. Her face must be blotchy and was still throbbing from his blows. Her mouth tasted sour, scalp still tender and smarting where he had yanked clumps of her hair. Staring at her white-knuckled hands, Anna noticed for the first time that how her nails were ragged and bloody. Trying very hard not to think about why, she remained, counting the minutes until she could reasonably distract herself with physical labour and hopefully numbing menial tasks.
Anna breathed shallowly through her mouth – hating that the comforting, heartbreakingly familiar scent of John: peppermint, pomade, mothballs, old books and strong tea, was spoiled by both the stench of him that still cloyed to her clammy skin and the undertones of boot polish in John's smell – but too bone weary to move from her refuge.
If people want me to, I will aim to post Chapter 2 next week.