Grace Monroe - Broken Hearts

‘Kelly, Kelly, Kelly,’ he whispered seductively as he moved towards her and sat down on the bed. She smiled at him, waiting for the words that would make her feel worthwhile, words that would recognize just how perfect and special she was. Graham Marshall paused, then bent down to tie his handmade shoes as he sat up and looked at Kelly, leaning forwards to face her. ‘This, this my darling…’ He twirled her hair around his fingers as she gazed at him. ‘This…is the last time I’ll be seeing you.’

Kelly jumped out of bed almost at the same time as he stood up, a stunned expression on her usually confident, unremarkable but mirror-perfect face. ‘You are joking. You are joking! Tell me you’re joking, Graham?’ she said, her voice cracking.

‘Why would I be?’ he asked, casually.

‘Because…because…well, why would you not see me again? What’s wrong with me? Why wouldn’t you want me? I just don’t understand,’ she whined.

He stopped halfway through fixing his tie and stared at her. ‘No. You probably don’t. But you see, Kelly, you do nothing for me. You look like a hundred other stupid tarts. You have no brain to speak of. You lie there like a dead fish when we’re in bed, only showing some sign of life when you remember that you have to pretend to be enjoying it. You’ve been convenient, I’ll give you that–but what are you exactly, Kelly? What are you?’ Marshall kept his back to her so she would not see his grin as he finished his speech.

‘What do you expect me to say? I don’t know what you want me to tell you,’ she said, pulling at her hair and pacing the room. He half turned and stared into her eyes, enjoying the play of emotions on her face. ‘Okay Let me give you something–your little eyes lit up there, didn’t they? You’re not bad to look at in an overdone, fake sort of way, and you have never asked for much really, but…’ he tapped his forefinger off his temple as he spoke, ‘…you’re stupid, stupid, stupid.’

Kelly’s mouth fell open. She glared at him for a moment before her jaw tightened with anger. ‘You bastard! You think you can use me, and then just decide it’s over?’ she spat, anger flushing her skin again. ‘I’ll tell your wife. I’m going to phone her now. Watch me.’ She reached into her handbag for her mobile. His laughter filled the room as he picked up his briefcase. ‘Why don’t you care? Why don’t you care, Graham? You’re joking…tell me you’re joking!’ Her fury passed swiftly, and there was a pleading note in her voice.

He shook his head. ‘Actually, I never joke.’

The smile slipped from his lips and he looked at her in a way that she’d seen before but always tried to ignore. This time it frightened Kelly and she stepped back and fell into the headboard. Graham Marshall prowled round the divan until he was standing over her. He studied her impassively for a second, in the manner of a lab technician observing an experiment. Suddenly, he grasped her ankle and painfully twisted her leg until she was face down on the wrinkled sheets. He took a moment to admire the length of her neck and the curve of her shoulder as she cried out in agony. He ran his free hand through her long black hair, and then he pulled it so hard that a clump came out in his hand, exposing a small patch of bleeding scalp. Her body trembled as he flipped her over onto her back again, still holding her leg.

‘I will only say this once.’ He spoke to her slowly, as if she was incapable of taking in anything but the most simple of messages. ‘You will never phone my wife.’ He yanked her hair again. ‘What will you never do?’ he asked. The smile had returned to his lips.

‘Phone your wife,’ she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice, hoping that he’d just hear obedience. ‘I will never phone your wife.’

He caressed her cheek with his forefinger. ‘Be a good girl and tell me why you will not contact my wife.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating every syllable. He twisted her ankle again; she winced in pain as the tears streamed down her face.

‘I won’t phone…I promise I won’t phone.’ It was hard for Kelly to speak as she was sobbing so loudly.

‘You didn’t listen to me,’ he whispered, squeezing the fingers on her left hand now that he had let go of her leg.

‘I won’t phone!’

‘Tell me why.’ His voice was soft and understanding.

‘I’m a good girl and you told me not to.’ Kelly tried to smile as the excruciating pain coming from her fingers threatened to make her lose consciousness. Had he broken them? ‘I always do what you want…please stop hurting me.’

He let go of her and kissed her–gently–on the forehead.

‘Not bad,’ he smiled. ‘But a smarter reply would be that you won’t do anything to piss me off because I can hurt you–really, really hurt you.’ He crouched down beside Kelly and opened his briefcase. He paused for a moment, his back to the shaking woman, before taking out a scalpel. The blade shone so that he could see his own reflection in it. He placed the tip of the blade to his own cheek and closed his eyes at the coldness of it. ‘Really, really hurt you,’ he repeated, never taking his eyes off her as he put the scalpel back in his briefcase and walked away from the bed. Kelly wrapped herself in the duvet, trembling. He watched her reflection in the hotel window as he adjusted his tie. Could he convince her that this had all been a sick joke? Would she open her legs for him again? There was no doubt she would–she was dim to the core and she was crazy about him. These thoughts caused him to grin, and for a moment he played with the image of Kelly grateful to have him back because he was right–she was stupid.

‘You know, the room is paid for…you should rest, stay till the morning if you wish,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kelly cried. ‘Please come back after your consultation! Please! I’ll be good, I promise!’ she pleaded, but he was already on his way down the corridor.

The cold air hit him as soon as he left the hotel. The sky looked threatening, dark grey snow clouds rolling in over the Firth of Forth. He turned off the alarm on his black Porsche. Maybe one day he would do something for Kelly. Something delicious, a reminder, a keepsake. He drove off, smirking with expectation.

Maybe she was a good girl after all.

Dr Graham Marshall drove down Lothian Road where, on his left, Edinburgh Castle, shining black with rain, dominated the landscape. The miserable November weather was keeping the shoppers at home and off Princes Street, but a busload of Japanese tourists was decanting at the Caledonian Hotel. Waiting at the traffic lights, he could smell the sugar from the doughnut kiosk. His lips crumpled in distaste as a fat scaffolder stuffed fried dough into his mouth. Graham hated obesity. It was just one more thing on his list of likes and dislikes; a long list. The lights changed just as the radio reporter began the lead story on the two o’clock news; he turned left and headed towards Haymarket.

‘This is Tony Baxter at Edinburgh High Court speaking with Brodie McLennan, defence agent for Kenny Cameron, who has just been acquitted of murdering his wife…Miss McLennan, why do you think the jury accepted the defence of battered husband syndrome with regard to Kenny Cameron?’

‘The jury returned a not guilty verdict simply because they heard the evidence…’ said a clear, educated Scottish voice. ‘Mr Cameron was hospitalized four times by his wife’s temper. A battered wife rightly gets a great deal of sympathy but there are a significant number of men who are subject to domestic violence.’

‘If that’s the case, why don’t we hear more of it?’ asked the reporter.