Rita busied herself in Connie's house. She had set about stripping the bedding from Connie's bed. She had pulled the duvet cover from the duvet and checked that the faint blood spots on the cover hadn't marked the duvet itself, and she had tossed them into the same pile as the sheet she had removed last night.
Then, with her arms full of white sheets, she carried them into the en suite, guessing correctly that Connie had pushed the clothes she had worn the previous evening into the wash bin, and it was only when she saw them there that she hesitated, unsure as to whether Connie would welcome Rita rooting about in her house, changing sheets and tidying up...
She drew in a breath and looked again at the blood stained pyjamas in the wash bin. She couldn't let Connie see to them herself, she decided, and pushing any further worry from her mind she reached in and bought up the clothes, piling them all together before making her way back down to the kitchen.
She dropped everything she was holding onto the floor by the washing machine and picked out the pyjama bottoms that Connie had screwed up into a tight ball. The blood was still tacky, and when she unrolled the fabric it was warm to the touch. It made Rita shudder to see the smudgy red marks on her own hands as she filled the sink with cold water and dropped the pyjamas in to soak whilst she searched for the salt.
She opened cupboard after cupboard, each arranged and filled with something different, cleaning products arranged with their labels facing outwards, to brown paper packages of flour, organic loose leaf tea and small sacks of coffee beans that she smelled as soon as she opened the cupboard door.
Then to the next, where a row of preserves faced her, raspberry jam, and a larger than average jar of Marmite stood facing her, and Rita exhaled a smile. It seemed so odd that Connie would like something as normal as Marmite. Without a second thought she reached up and removed the jar, placing it down on the work top. She would have some on toast when she was done, she decided.
And finally she located a small cupboard above the work surface where Connie had rows of ornate glass jars filled with various herbs and spices, and on the top shelf, next to a long black pepper mill stood a green glass salt pig full of coarse white crystals that shimmered as she pushed her fingers in to take a handful. She smiled again, of course Connie wouldn't have your average supermarket salt...of course she would have sea salt...
She mixed the salt up with a little bit of water so that it formed a thick paste that stung a small cut in her finger that she hadn't known had been there. She worked the paste into the fabric, rubbing with her fingertips, and then the palm of her hand until the water began to turn a muddy orange colour, and the blood began to lift from the fabric.
Every now and then she would bring the fabric up from the water to check it. The stains were virtually gone, but if she looked closer, and she knew that Connie would, she could still see the faint red blood trapped in the thread of the seams. She pushed the pyjama bottoms back into the water and rubbed harder, so hard that her skin began to shrivel and burn from the salt and the friction. Finally her efforts paid off, and when she removed them for the last time, she could no longer find any traces of blood.
She did the same for the sheets, and for the one spot of blood on the corner of the pyjama top. Her hands were red and sore, and she winced as she scrubbed the blood from the under sheet. The water turned a dark scarlet that lapped against the edges of the white ceramic sink. Shockingly dark and alive as she plunged her hands back down into it. But she would not think, she vowed, she wouldn't think about the blood, or how much Connie must be hurting...
When she was done, she pushed everything into the washing machine, located the powder and softener in the little cupboard next to the machine, and turned it on, before rinsing her hands and drying them on the jumper she wore.
She glanced down at herself. The clothes she wore were so alarmingly 'Connie', that she felt as though she were looking down at the other woman's body instead of her own. She had never worn such well cared for, expensive clothes in her life, and suddenly she felt guilty that she had made the cuffs of the jumper wet.
She pushed up her sleeves. Tea, she thought. She would make a cup of tea, and she smiled as she made her way to the kettle. There next to it was one of the white mugs that she had had her coffee in the night before. But this time Connie had dropped a tea bag into the mug before she had left. Such a simple gesture made her chest ache. She could picture Connie, hurrying to get ready, and yet still pausing to set out a cup and a tea bag, as though she had known what Rita would prefer.
Meanwhile Connie stood in her office, her back to the door, the sleeve of her white shirt rolled up as far as it would go, and with her other hand she pushed the needle she held into the vein at her elbow.
She pulled back the syringe and watched as the clear plastic tube filled full of her own blood. She pursed her lips against the pinch, she thought of the night before. Inside her, there was the dull ache of internal bruising, and between her legs the skin was raw and sore to the touch, though she had still opted for a pair of tight black trousers. Somehow the pain caused by each step she took was comforting, when the stiff fabric pulled against her and she winced with a light headed nausea, she felt oddly satisfied, as though this were somehow her punishment for being unable to fight them off.
Slowly she detached the vial of blood and capped it, setting it on the desk, before attaching the second, until she had a neat row of her own blood. She labelled each one carefully, C. Chase. She used her maiden name, a thinly veiled attempt at secrecy which she knew nobody would question. It was not uncommon for her to have results fast tracked to her office. Her own would be no exception.
There was a tap at the door. She slipped the tubes of blood into a brown envelope before she called to whomever was on the other side of the door to enter.
"Charlie."
She turned to face him, her voice was level and she smiled at him, as if nothing at all was on her mind.
He seemed to frown and smile at the same time. He looked confused, and he bought his hand to the back of his head, running his hand over the short white hairs behind his ears.
"The police are in reception, they've got your phone?"
He watched her carefully, and if he had blinked he would have missed the nervous flicker at the corner of her eye, or the way her eyes widened and she pursed her lips to stop them from trembling.
"Thank you, Charlie."
She spoke quietly.
He narrowed his eyes, and looked pointedly to her arm. Her sleeve was still rolled up, and about her wrist was the purple-yellow bloom of a bruise that crept up her forearm, the faint outline of the hand that had held her there on her skin, giving her away.
"Is everything OK...?"
He asked slowly, looking again to the bruises as she tugged down her sleeve, pulling it all the way to her wrist where she buttoned the cuff back up tightly.
She nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze.
"Fine. Thank you."
She glanced to the floor, cursing herself for not being able to meet his eyes. If it had been anyone else, she would have been able to lie.
"Connie...your phone is in bits, the bruises on your arm..."
"Charlie!"
She spoke louder than she had meant to and she touched her fingers to her lips before she spoke again.
"Not now."
She said, her voice low, and she made to move to the door, but as she approached she mistook Charlie's advance to open the door for her as a touch to her body and she shied away from him without meaning to. She stumbled backwards on her heels so that Charlie had to grab her arm to steady her, and when she pushed her hair from her face he saw the shake of her hand and the wild look within her eyes that he had seen in patients all too many times before.
"I think now is as good a time as any."
He said quietly.
Thank you for all of the lovely reviews! As Lollyblanco454 asked, yes I will have a chapter in which Connie finally breaks down and speaks to Rita. This story will probably be one of my long ones again (like the others, over 100 pages...) but I can shuffle things about a bit and have Connie speak to Rita sooner rather than later if that's what people would like ? :) xxx