The Pornographer's Wife

  The Pornographer's Wife

  Title Page

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  The Pornographer's Wife

  by Amy Cross

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by Dark Season Books

  First published: December 2014

  This edition first published: May 2016

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  The Pornographer's Wife

  PART ONE

  TODAY

  How many times can one woman have the same dream before it drives her insane?

  “Sarah!”

  Sitting up with a gasp, Mary instinctively turned to look at the empty spot next to her. Even after all these months, she still expected to see Donald in his customary position: sleeping on one side with the duvet pulled up almost over his snoring face. Instead, all she saw was his untouched pillow, and the bedside clock with its bright red digits telling the time: half past four in the morning. She turned to look at the window, where moonlight was making shadows of the beech tree that Donald had planted all those years ago.

  She waited.

  Sarah.

  Why did that girl have to haunt her dreams?

  Blinking a couple of times, still half-asleep, she finally realized that it had happened again: the air in the bedroom felt terribly, suffocatingly still, as if every atom had stopped moving and she could barely fill her lungs. She knew she'd just end up panicking if she tried to get back to sleep, and at half four in the morning there really wasn't much point trying. More and more, as she approached her fifty-second birthday, she found herself needing very little sleep, which she felt was somewhat ironic since she already struggled so terribly to fill her days.

  “Silly old fool,” she muttered to herself as she climbed out of bed, stepped into her slippers, and made her way to the door. She didn't particularly want to go downstairs, but she needed to breathe the air in the rest of the house, to get away from the stillness of the bedroom. When Donald was alive, there had been two sets of lungs to move the air around in the house; now it was just her, she felt she wasn't strong enough.

  Half past four.

  Suddenly she remembered, and she felt a pang of genuine joy in her chest:

  Sophie would be arriving in just a few hours.

  Stopping at the top of the stairs, she glanced back at the bedroom door. For a moment, the dream fluttered into her thoughts again, but she quickly blinked it away and then began to make her way down to the kitchen. At least there, in the silence, she'd be able to control her thoughts, and she wouldn't have to relive that awful day all over again like some fevered nightmare. Besides, she needed to get ready for Sophie.

  Living alone was hard. Mary still didn't have it quite worked out, but keeping busy was a good start. If she didn't keep busy, the old days would drift back into her mind and she'd start thinking about Sarah again.

  ***

  “Hey Mum!” Sophie called out with a smile as she slammed the car door shut a few hours later. “This is Tom!”

  “I'm sorry?” Mary replied, watching with shock as a straggly-haired young man climbed out of the car and hauled a backpack onto his left shoulder. He looked friendly enough, albeit a little bohemian, but Mary couldn't help flinching at the realization that a pleasant weekend alone with her daughter was suddenly going to be interrupted by something as horrid and unexpected as a boy.

  “Sorry I didn't call ahead,” Sophie continued, opening the garden gate and immediately wrapping Mary in a hug that knocked her back against the fence post. “At the last minute Tom offered to come to help keep me awake on the drive, and I figured it'd be a good chance for you to meet him.” She leaned closer to her mother's ear and lowered her voice to a whisper: “Be nice!”

  “I'm always nice!”

  “Still...”

  “I see,” Mary replied, still staring in shock at the intruder as he made his way through the gate.

  “Mum, meet Tom,” Sophie continued, taking a step back and putting her arm around the young man's waist. “Tom, this is my mother, Lady Heaton of Alesham House.”

  “Oh, please,” Mary replied, blushing at the formality, “you know I don't use that title since your father passed away. It was always his thing more than mine.” She extended a hand to greet Tom, just as she'd been taught to do at finishing school when she was young. “I'm very pleased to finally meet you, Tom. I've heard a great deal about you.”

  Shaking her hand, Tom smiled politely and muttered something that Mary couldn't quite make out.

  “I'm sorry?” she asked.

  “I said it's nice to meet you,” he mumbled.

  “I thought I'd show Tom the village,” Sophie continued. “I've told him all the stories, but it's still better if he sees it for himself, right?” She nudged Tom playfully with her hips. “People from down south tend to think this place isn't real after I tell them all about it. The whole village is like a bubble, I swear everyone at uni thought I was making up all the stories, but the village really is like something out of the past, isn't it? Nothing changes round here, it's like going back in time to an era when England was still stiff-upped-lipped and everyone sang God Save the Queen before dinner. Without irony!”

  “I'm not sure we're quite that bad,” Mary replied, feeling totally discombobulated. “So Tom, are you at the same university as Sophie?”

  “Yeah,” he said, seeming almost shy.

  Mary waited for a little elaboration, but finally she realized that none would be forthcoming.

  “And what are you studying? English, like Sophie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you in the same year?”

  “Er... Yeah.”

  She paused as she realized that he seemed to be a man of very few words.

  “Well why don't you two go inside?” she said finally. “Sophie, I made your room up for you, but you'll need to work out the sleeping arrangements now that you have a visitor. I could get the guest room ready for -”

  “We'll be fine,” Sophie replied, taking Tom's hand and leading him past Mary and over to the front door. “We'll share!”

  “Of course you will,” Mary muttered, turning to watch them go. “I'll... I'll just check the post, I'll be through in a moment. Perhaps we can have some tea, and I can get to know Tom a little better?”

  Too late. Sophie and Tom were already in the house, bounding up the stairs, leaving Mary standing in the front garden feeling quite at a loss. Turning back to look out at the village green, she watched as the neighbour's cat stretched leisurely on the grass by the war memorial. Sometimes, Mary thought it would be preferable to be a cat, since their days were so carefree and pleasant, and they seemed free to please themselves entirely. She simply couldn't imagine how it felt to be so free. She wanted to go and find someone to talk to, so she could complain about not getting the long-awaited weekend alone with her daughter, but she felt she'd just sound childish and greedy.

  Making her way to the mailbox by the gate, she opened the top and reached in, only to find that there was a single envelope waiting for her. Pulling it out, she saw that her name was written by hand on the front, and that the postmark was from Dalston, the next village over, a place where she knew absolutely no-one.

  “Morning, Mary!”

  Turning, she saw Pat Rice cycling past with her usual cheery, rose-red cheeks.

  “Good morning,” Mary replied courteously, before turning and making he
r way along the path, absent-mindedly opening the envelope as she stepped into the house and pushed the front door shut.

  From upstairs, there was the sound of laughter, and two voices chattering away excitedly to one another. Tom seemed to have suddenly found some words now that he was alone with Sophie, and he could be heard babbling away twenty to the dozen.

  Still, at least the house sounded busy again.

  “Come down for a cup of tea when you're ready!” Mary called up to them, before realizing that there was no point: they couldn't hear her, and even if they could, they were a young couple in love and they'd obviously do whatever they damn well liked. Making her way through to the kitchen, she finished opening the envelope and pulled out a single folded sheet of A4 paper, which she opened to find a typed message. Taking her reading glasses from the table, she slipped them on and began to read:

  Dear Mary the slut.

  You think you can hide the past but you're wrong. I know the truth about you, Mary Heaton, and I won't let it stay hidden any longer. Scared? You should be.

  Instinctively, she lowered the letter. Staring straight ahead for a moment, she didn't take look again until, finally, she realized she had no choice:

  You and your husband are filthy, disgusting, depraved people who deserve to be called out and humiliated in front of the entire nation. Do you think you can hide the truth forever? Do you think hideous people can profit from such monstrous behaviour and live happily ever after?

  The time has come for you to pay for your barbarity. What about that poor little cow Sarah? Confess your sins to the whole world, let everyone know what sick, perverted freaks you are, or I'll do the job for you. You are a bitch, and your husband was a fucking monster.

  Start planning your confession, whore. I'll be in touch again soon, and don't worry, I'll make sure everyone in the whole fucking world knows the truth about you and your husband.

  She stared at the sheet of paper, reading the text over and over again, convinced that somehow she must have misunderstood. As she continued to read, her hand began to tremble, until she could barely make out the words at all. By that point, however, the message had already seared itself into her mind.

  Upstairs, there was a heavy bumping sound, as if Sophie and Tom were wrestling.

  “I...”

  Mary paused, reading the letter yet again. Her mind was racing, and her hand was now trembling so much that she had to drop the letter onto the kitchen table. Turning to look across the room, she saw her husband's citations hanging on the wall, along with a framed photo of him standing on the steps of Buckingham Palace. Every day since his death, she had looked at that photo and felt nothing but pride. Now, however, the same image had suddenly taken on a completely new meaning and seemed like a sinister reminder of a time long ago when everything had been different.

  “A bitch,” she whispered to herself, her voice shaking with fear, “and a whore.”

  She had known for many years that this day would finally arrive. It had been coming ever since that very first party when the whole damn mess had begun three decade ago. The worst part was that even at the time, she'd known what a terrible mistake she was making.

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  A huge cheer erupted from the terrace as the party-goers looked up into the night sky. The Tellarus comet could just about be seen above, streaking across the sky for a few seconds before disappearing back into the darkness.

  “Bloody hell,” said Donald as he leaned against the railing. “Was that it? We waited all night for a quick flash in the sky? I was expecting flames and all sorts.”

  “Think about it,” Mary said, turning to him. “That chunk of rock is off on another tour of the sun. We won't get to see it again for decades.”

  “Yeah, still...” He took a swig of beer. “All right, I guess it was impressive enough. Good excuse for a party, anyway.”

  All around them, the rest of the party-goers were filing back into the house as a cold wind whipped in from across the rooftops. The night was still young and fresh shots were already being lined up inside.

  “You not having a good time?” Donald asked after a moment, stepping up behind Mary and putting his arms around her. “Don't tell me a bloody comet has made you all mopey.”

  “Of course I'm having a good time,” she told him, forcing a faint smile. “It's a party, isn't it? I just...” She paused, still looking up at the sky. “Did you make a wish?”

  “Are you supposed to?” he replied. “I thought that was only shooting stars, or are they the same thing? You know what, I think they are the same thing.”

  “I made a wish,” she said, turning to him. “I made a wish that this will be the year when you finally get selected to run for parliament.”

  “And you believe wishes come true, do you?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Let's find out.”

  “That's why I love you,” he continued, leaning close to her. “You're so bloody optimistic.” With that, he kissed her gently on the lips, before pulling back. “Now enough of the mushy stuff. Let's go inside and get thoroughly drunk.”

  ***

  “Look!” Donald shouted, putting an arm around Mary's shoulder and pulling her closer as loud music thumped through the flat. “Andy's got a bloody Rolex!”

  “They're not that expensive,” Andy replied, grinning as he held up his wrist so they could admire his new watch. “It only cost a few grand.”

  “Oh, only a few grand?” Donald muttered, turning to Mary with a smile. “Welcome to Thatcher's Britain, eh? Guys like Andy are spending a few grand on a watch, while the rest of us can't even get a mortgage.”

  “You must have sold a lot of used cars to buy that thing,” Mary told Andy, with a polite smile. She knew she wasn't drunk enough for the party, but she didn't really feel like being there anyway. She had a glass of wine in her hand but it had gone un-sipped for hours.

  “Used cars?” Andy laughed. “You've got to be kidding, I got out of that mug's game ages ago.”

  “So what are you doing?” Donald asked.

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “Like?”

  “It's not really...” Glancing over his shoulder, Andy seemed worried for a moment, as if he didn't want anyone to overhear them. “You know, it's just... bits and bobs here and there.”

  “Well now you've got to tell us,” Donald replied. “It's nothing dodgy, is it?”

  “Of course not! What do you take me for?”

  “Then what are you doing? Come on, those of us on the breadline wouldn't mind knowing how a prat like you manages to afford a bloody Rolex!”

  “Just leave him be,” Mary said, nudging Donald's arm. “If he wanted to tell you, he would.”

  “He does want to tell us,” Donald replied, “otherwise he wouldn't be flashing that thing in our faces. He just wants us to beg him a bit first. He wants to act all nonchalant, like we're twisting his arm, but really he's gagging to spill the beans.”

  “Over here,” Andy said, gesturing for them to follow him through to the kitchen, where there was no-one else apart from a far-too-drunk girl who'd passed out at the table. The music wasn't so loud now, although the kitchen looked as if a bomb had gone off, with empty beer cans and wine bottles everywhere, as well as scraps of food that had been left spilling off the counters and onto the floor. As Mary shut the door behind them, the drunk girl's arm slipped off the side of the table and hung down.

  “Are you sure it's not dodgy?” Donald asked, lighting a cigarette and taking a puff. “Mate, you know I'm not judgemental, but I really can't think of a way for someone like you to suddenly start pulling in the big money.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Andy pulled out an A5 envelope.

  “Sample merchandise,” he said cautiously, with a nervous smile. “Before I show you this, I want you to know that I only intended to dabble. I had no idea how much money I could make doing this stuff, but it's totally ballooned beyond my wildest expectations. The floodgates are well and truly open.�
��

  “What's in there?” Donald asked, peering at the envelope.

  “It's not drugs, is it?” Mary added, clearly alarmed. “We don't want anything to do with drugs, we can't afford to be caught near that sort of thing!”

  “It's photos,” Andy replied.

  “Of?” Donald asked.

  “You know...”

  “What, are you blackmailing someone?”

  “Hell, no! Jesus, you've really got a high opinion of me, haven't you? Drugs, blackmail...” Again, Andy seemed a little hesitant. “Mary, maybe you shouldn't see these, they're not... I mean, you're more...”

  “More what?” Mary asked.

  “You're a lady. Maybe you should wait outside.”

  “I'm not very easily shocked,” she told him. “If you can show Don, you can certainly show me.”

  “Yeah, but they're... rude photos.”

  “Of you?” Donald asked. “I don't want to see anything like that!”

  “No, not of me! Of girls!”

  “Well that's better,” Donald replied, trying to grab the envelope before Andy moved it out of his reach. “Come on, sounds good.”

  “It's more complicated than that,” Andy told him.

  “What the hell are you on about?” Donald continued, reaching out again and this time managing to grab the envelope from his friend's hands and slipping the photos out. “What -”

  His eyes almost popped out on stalks as he saw the first image: a twenty-something blonde girl was sitting on the edge of a bed, completely naked and with her legs wide open to reveal her crotch in all its glory. Turning to the next photo, he found an image of the same girl touching herself, and the next image showed the girl giving oral sex to a huge penis that was being thrust into shot from the right-hand side.