Author's Note: Due to complains about it being rushed, I've rewritten chapter two – and looked over Chapter 1 as well – so perhaps you'll like it better now. :D
Sorry for the delay in producing this chapter, but I had something else to complete and it took priory. However with that done, I hurried back to this story as I know that there may possibly still be one or two people waiting for a new chapter, which is more than you can say for any of the other stories I write...
For this chapter, evil little me has decided to play with the timelines. Have fun reading! ;)
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Chapter 3"Rebecca," the furious woman yelled, "I don't care! I want out!"
There were occasions when Mrs Berrisford seriously began to question the other woman's sanity. "Joann…"
Joann growled and rose off her bed. Her fingers curled into fists. "Don't you 'Joann' me!" she roared, "I'm serious this time Rebecca! I want out!"
Rebecca rose from her own seat. Her eyes stern like a schoolmistress faced with an unruly girl. "If you really want to leave the refuge, Joann, nobody's stopping you," she avowed, "But before you go running back to him – think of all you've suffered! Think of your two beautiful girls! Do you really want to risk sending them back to that life?"
An almost insane cackle spat through Joann's bloodshot lips. "My two beautiful girls, whom you're trying to take away from me!" she yelled, her fists beginning to shake.
Rebecca's eyes opened wide in apparent surprise. "Nobody's trying to do anything of the kind!" she soothed, shaking her head reassuringly, "Nobody's trying to take your girls away, Joann! No one…"
Joann's cold eyes were boring daggers into her, but just as she opened her mouth to speak again there was a slight movement at the door.
The two women spun around to see the waif-like face of Joann's eldest, Lucy. Her skin was still the same extremely pale sallow shade it had always been, which contrasted sharply with her long strait brown hair and dark eyes with their long curling lashes. Although the child had started to gain weight, she was still painfully slim, making her resemble a beanpole in shape. Too tall and too thin.
"Mum?" her soft voice begged, slowly the slender hands pushed the door inwards and the ungainly long body followed the head into the room. It was covered by a pair of torn jeans and a long t-shirt that (despite her height) reached almost too her knees. A pair of think stripy home-knitted socks separated the growing feet from the carpet.
"Mum?" she asked again.
Finally Joann reacted, "Lucy…" she sighed holding out her arms. Instantly the girl rushed forward, burying herself against her mother's front. The child turned gently in the embrace, so that she finally stood leaning into her mother with her head resting on one of her parent's arms and the other held over her stomach by her own slender little fingers, staring up at Rebecca with those penetrating brown eyes.
Rebecca stood still watching the pair. Somehow she refused to believe that Joann would willingly risk sending her daughter back to a man who would abuse her, both physically and, as they had discovered recently – to her mother's tearful horror – also sexually as well.
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"I don't know Robert…" Rebecca sighed, running her hand over the bright blue material that made up the evening dress she was wearing. The last rays of the evening light trickled through the large French-windows of the lounge and sparkled in the crystal of the wine glass she was holding, "I think if I work with that family any longer, they will drive me to doing something desperate! She was going on about returning to her husband again today…"
There was a pause as Rebecca settled further back in her black leather easy chair. A small moan escaped her lips. "Honestly," she snapped, "How these women can constantly have such utter loyalty to such disgusting choices of matrimonial partners is beyond me! I mean it's perfectly obvious to any normal person that these 'dear men' haven't changed one iota. Once a bastard. Always a bastard. But no – they keep buying the ridiculous promise that their 'beloved husbands' have changed and run back home to be beaten up again… Well, I guess there's no helping some people…" She sighed and took a sip of her wine.
Her husband gave a small chuckle. "Quite," he agreed, "It is amazing, the sheer level of stupidity some people display."
Robert Berrisford was a broad man, who, now in his forties, was beginning to fill out around the stomach area. Two lively blue eyes sparkled in the middle of his round kind-features. His sandy-brown hair still had most of its original colour, even if it had started to recede a little around the crown. With an almost weary sigh, he slowly placed his glass of wine down on the elegant glass centre table that filled the space between them.
"Although…sweetheart…" he began, edgily twisting his fingers in his lap, "It would perhaps be better, if you didn't squander quite so much of our resources on charity work, now that times have become a little more tricky..."
She glanced up at him. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. I enjoy my work!"
He shrugged, sighing, "Oh, alright…"
The 'tricky times' they were referring to happened to be the widespread economic chaos that followed an electromagnetic bomb wiping all the computer systems in most of the USA, sending the country into financial ruin and causing general riots and major shortages of basic amenities like food, water and shelter... Not that really mattered.
As it had occurred just as she was evacuating the Barretts, it had caused Mrs Berrisford a slight inconvenience, as she found that the car radio wasn't working and so she had been forced to do without it as a tool with which to keep her agitated passengers calm and relaxed on the long drive back to Seattle. Oh – and of course there had been the extremely vexing month they had been forced to endure without any power, while there was that scandalous fuss over getting the power back on. Following, which just to top the lot, when they finally had got the electricity restored, they found that half their household appliances - including Mr Berrisford's brand-new $10 000 laptop - had all been affected by the pulse and had to be replaced. That had swallowed up a substantial part of that year's income! There was no chance now of their family topping the Christmas party the McKleins threw last year.
The woman's refuge, that Mrs Berrisford worked in, had suffered slightly worse admittedly. They still had no power, food supplies – amongst others – were at best erratic and all water now had to be fetched from a communal pump in the city centre, which was always beset with those frightful food riots and near-constant warfare between protesters and police. That was probably the reason so many of the women were trying to leave the Seattle shelter at the moment.
Rebecca put her empty glass beside her husband's and stood up. "Another glass, my love?"
He glanced up. "Oh – yes dear!" he smiled and nodded, "Why not? It is a special occasion after all." He winked slightly at his spouse.
She smiled back, rolling her eyes. "Yes – I can barely believe it! Rachel's ninth birthday! How time flies, eh?" She giggled slightly and filled the two glasses with more of the expensive 1960s vintage.
Her husband guffawed loudly, seizing his glass. "I know! Seems like only yesterday she was crawling around in nappies – now look at her! A little beauty! Maybe tomorrow I'll be reaching for my gun to fend off unsuitable boyfriends!" He chuckled, throwing his wife an affectionate smirk.
"Aww… I hope we'll have a little while yet before it gets to that," she giggled, taking a sip of her wine. "Umph!" she put it straight back down again, suddenly excited as a thought struck her, "That reminds me – I've been meaning to tell you! You'll never believe what some of those 'parents' I work with get up to. One of the girls – hardly any older than our Rachel – actually has a proper tattoo!"
Robert Berrisford's eyebrow's shot up. "You're joking!? What a nine year old?"
His wife nodded vigorously. "I know I could barely believe it! I asked her about it once – she said she'd 'always' had it! Can you imagine the nerve of her parents? Actually putting a young child through something like that?"
"Terrible! Terrible thing…" her husband muttered, shaking his head in disgust, "Must have been so traumatic for the child as well…"
"I know," his wife agreed, "Especially considering how young she must have been if she can't even remember it!"
"Parents should have been locked up!" Mr Berrisford exclaimed, "They don't deserve children!"
His wife sighed, finally taking that sip out of her wine. "I think she's actually been adopted, so…"
"Hardly surprising," her husband muttered, his fingers fiddling with the end of the armrest of the leather sofa, "It's disgusting! And now – that poor child is stuck with some stupid butterfly or 'I love Mum' heart seared into its body for the rest of its life!"
Mrs Berrisford frowned a moment. She put her glass back down on the table. "Actually that's the strangest thing," she confided, leaning in closer, "What they picked! It's so strange – hardly makes any sense… but then I guess it wouldn't with lunatics like that…" She shrugged and, lifting the glass of the table, turned away to her own silent reflections.
Her husband frowned, intrigued. Sighing, he drummed on the arm of the sofa. "Rebecca?" he growled.
"Huh?" she glanced over her shoulder, startled out of her musing.
"What was the tattoo of?" her spouse sighed.
"Oh?" Rebecca exclaimed. She rested her head on the palm of her hand, "Didn't I say? It's just … a barcode of all things."
Suddenly there was a smash behind her. Rebecca jumped bolt upright, to see a dark crimson stain forming in her expensive hand-woven Persian rug around the crystal that had been her husband's wineglass.
She frowned, and then caught sight of his face. Her frown intensified – she didn't think she'd ever seen anyone so pale before. His eyes were as round as saucepans. His lips were quivering. His hands were shaking.
"Darling?" she whispered tentatively.
Slowly his lips began to move. They faltered a couple of times, forming the shape of words, but without releasing any actual sound. Then suddenly Rebecca heard his voice very faintly, as if it was very war away, mutter the words, "A barcode…"
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Author's Note: May I categorically state the sheer courage I believe to be displayed by women who manage to walk out of abusive relationships. The views stated in this chapter are those of Rebecca Berrisford – and not necessarily my own. They are merely here to illustrate the class difference between herself and the Barretts.
With that clear – I don't mean to be begging, cuz I know it's annoying, but you see that little purple button right? Mind pressing it and leaving me a line or two to tell me how bad this chapter was…?
