Trying Not to Love You - Part Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Back at the farm her father, giggling like a teenager was a nightmare, for a moment Martha had a snapshot of the future and Ethan as a drunken teenager. Eventually her Dad was in his bed and snoring, she made for the kitchen, not really wanting to be up when Sonny came back...if he came back, he’d been getting on with Jade.

And that’s what killed you, a voice told her somewhere deep inside her head. He hinted that he wanted you, and then he’s wrapped around someone else. She brushed the hint of jealousy away. The real reason she was angry was her father, he was recovering, he didn’t need the effects of excess alcohol on his body. That was her ONLY concern. Honestly.

Her Aunt was in bed, the house quiet, so she poured herself a glass of wine, turned on the radio and reached for today’s newspaper. But for SO many reasons she was finding it difficult to relax. Not just because of her inner turmoil, there was something in the air, Tessa and baby Mickey were jumpy, barking at every little noise, and the horses seemed jittery. Then it started. The storm clouds darkened the sky and claps of thunder accompanied flashes of lightening.

She’d never been scared of storms, but wasn’t the greatest fan, and from the kitchen she could hear the animals becoming more distressed. She couldn’t leave the puppy outside, that wasn’t fair.

In the feed room she found the two dogs cowering together under one of the cupboards, with a groan of sympathy she called them out, then carried their basket into the warmth and security of the kitchen. The two animals dived into it gratefully and she turned the radio up to block out some of the sounds of the storm.

As she was about to lock up she heard a noise outside, a crash, and what sounded like a car revving. The saboteur was back. Tonight of all nights.

Without really thinking things through, she grabbed her rain jacket from the back of the door and a stick, a two foot long piece of broom handle that her Aunt used as a rolling pin when she bothered to cook, then rushed out into the now driving rain.

There was a light, maybe a torch in the distance, but with the thick rain it was hard to see. As she ran across the yard, someone grabbed her from the left. Presuming it was Sonny, she turned with a scowl, and came face to face with Scott Oldbury, the heavy rain had soaked him and water ran in rivers off his face, anger in every inch of his expression. She glanced between him and the light in the distance, trying to work out what was happening, tried to pull away from the grip around her arm, and that slight distraction gave Scott the chance to push her up against the Land Rover, hurtling her backwards into the unyielding metal.

                “You didn’t sell.” His snarling mouth was inches from her face and she could feel his breath on her face. “I told you to.”

She’d had more visitors looking to develop the land repeatedly since he’d warned her, and she’d stood her ground. “I’m not going to!”

He laughed evilly and she could smell the alcohol on his breath, a drunken Scott was more fearful than a sober one, “mistake two! One was leaving me in the first place.”

With one hand he reached for her hair and grabbing a fistful pulled it, tugging her head backwards so that the rain blinded her. The other dragged her coat open and clawed at her shirt.

                “When will you ever learn bitch? No one, NO ONE makes me look stupid.”

Sonny hated storms; it reminded him of far too many lonely nights in various care homes, scared and alone - in a time when he was scared of things. He’d rushed to get home before it, after his non event with Jade. After seeing Martha all passion and anger stood over him in the pub, his own passion for anything else had vanished. He was tempted to stay out all night, as he knew he’d not sleep, there was no chance of that, but the thought of wandering the streets in a storm was less appealing. So he’d come back to the farm and snuck into his old room in the coach house.  Quiet, safe and away from everyone else. But all he was managing to do was to stare at the ceiling.

Jumping up he started to pace the room, hoping that he’d get rid of some of this tension, this anxiety. It was no use, maybe he should go to the house, apologise, sleep in his own bed? It was the mature thing to do. It was then a light flashed against his window, a torch? Who’d be outside in this weather? There was only one person that crazy. Martha. Bloody hell, he swore under his breath, for a clever woman she had no bloody common sense, he could imagine her trying to check on the startled horses amongst thunder and lightning. Always looking out for everyone and everything with little regard for her own safety.

Pulling on his shoes, he rushed down the stairs to the coach house, there was an old oilskin jacket there which he pulled on, it was REALLY raining hard and he didn’t relish getting soaked.

The rain was dense, almost obstructive he could barely see through it. The torchlight seemed to be coming from the field that held Carl’s horses. With a groan he turned towards it and was about to jog across to her, find out what she was doing when he heard a grunt from his left. Looking back towards the house he couldn’t see much, what the dark didn’t hide, the rain did. But again he heard a grunt. Across the yard stood Carl’s Land Rover and he could just make out something behind it. His first instinct that someone was trying to steal it, though why someone would thieve that cumbersome and unyielding piece of junk he didn’t know.

As he strode through the puddles he could hear more grunting, and thuds, then he realised that it wasn’t being stolen, someone was fighting. At a sprint he ran around the car, a shaft of light from the kitchen illuminated the two dark figures, as he got close he realised that the person backed up against the vehicle being pinned down was trying to shout, but the other one...

SHIT! For a moment time stood still as he took in the scene, Martha was trying to wrestle herself free from the unknown assailant, she was exposed to both the elements and anyone who happened to be watching, her coat was open , shirt ripped, then he realised her face was bruised. Martha!

Not caring who it was, he pulled the man off her, catching him unawares he had the opportunity to hit him, and it sent him staggering.

“Get your hands off her,” he shouted, as he glanced at her, trying to grip her sodden torn shirt closed, blood mixing with the rain that poured down her face.

Someone was trying to hurt her, and more. It hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, and in retaliation he sent a barrage of punches onto any aspect of the man that he could find, and it wasn’t until he hit the floor groaning and rolled onto his back that Sonny logged the face staring up at him. Scott Oldbury!

Booting him in the ribs he glared at him, “WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?” Another boot brought a groan from the prostrate man. “GET UP!” He dragged at his hair pulling him to his knees. “Too scared to try that with me? IS THAT IT?”

                “Leave him,” a voice whispered to his right. In his anger he’d forgotten all about the woman whose honour he was avenging. He had to remind himself that this was about her, not him, this was not his argument.

Giving him a final glare, he looked back at Martha, “you ok?”

She shrugged, “leave him, come inside.”

Torn he looked between the two of them for a moment, then he turned back to Oldbury, “get up and get off this farm, YOU HEAR ME?”

As Martha pulled at his arm, dragging him toward the house, he kicked at him once more. A final shot.

Martha was shaking for a moment she thought Sonny might kill Scott, as bad as it had been being attacked by him, he didn’t deserve to die, and even more so she couldn’t bear to see Sonny locked up for that. But now that she was inside, out of the rain, the shaking was for lots of reasons. As she could hear Sonny locking all the doors and windows, she moved into the warm utility room, retrieving some dry clothes from the airer.

Looking down at the transparent and torn shirt that she wasn’t even aware of clutching closed, she realised just how close Scott had got to forcing himself on her, then there was the anger and concern for Sonny, and what damage was the owner of the torch doing to the horses’ field.

Pulling off the torn shirt she grabbed a t-shirt and dragged it on, then replaced her soaking, muddy trousers in the same way. As she reached for a towel she spotted Sonny in her peripheral vision, turning she glared at him, “getting an eyeful?”

Shaking his head in an annoyed manner he said, “I was actually about to offer to go back out and check on the animals if you want.”

                “No!” She gasped. “Don’t.”

And at that moment she didn’t know whether she was worried about him leaving her alone, or about what would happen to him outside.

Staring at her, he shook his head in a stunned way, “your eye...”

She reached up to feel her face and realised that her right eye hurt, and her hand revealed that the damp feeling wasn’t just the rain, she was bleeding.

Snatching the towel from her hands, uncaring of how wet he was he padded her face gently until he’d stemmed the flow of blood. She tried to flinch, move out of his control, but his hands were firm either side of her jaw.

                “What were you doing out there? There’s a storm raging.”

Sonny moved to the freezer and scooped some ice cubes into a damp cloth. Martha was backing away from him, but he ignored that, instead he penned her in the corner and applied the ice pack to her eye. All the time his eyes didn’t leave hers.

She sighed, “duh! Same reason as you. I saw something outside; I was just seeing what it was...You shouldn’t have beaten him like that. You know Scott; we’re even more of a target now.”

                “Shouldn’t have hit him? He has given you a bloody hammering and he almost...” he shook his head, “if I hadn’t found you...he’d have...” HE grabbed her arms, forcing her to look at him, “if I hadn’t turned up...”

Martha stared up at him, “don’t! Ok? Don’t!”

He laughed, “don’t? Don’t what? Talk about how that bastard almost raped you, cos that’s what he was planning, wasn’t it? He wanted to force himself on you. Do you understand that?”

                “You’re dripping onto the floor. You must be freezing.”

He threw out a hand and punched the work surface with frustration, “I don’t give a shit, do you realise that if I hadn’t turned up he’d have wrestled you to the floor and raped you, forced himself on you with god only knows what consequence! We should call the police...”

She shook her head, “No. No way.”

                “You’re going to let him get away with it? Bullying you? Trying to force you...”

When she spoke again Martha was eerily calm and quiet, “I’m not scared of Scott hurting ME, I’m scared of him hurting everyone else in my life, and the risk of that has multiplied tenfold after your antics.”

                “I saved you, rescued you from a mauling by that pig, and that’s the thanks I get?”

She laughed, “Scott has spent his life bullying and forcing people to do the things he wants, none of this is new Carter, none of this is unexpected. But what is a problem is the fact that he’ll want to avenge you kicking him into the dirt.”

                “So I’ll let you rape him next time, is that it?”

She moved away from him dropping the ice into the sink, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s ever done to me.”

And on those words she disappeared.

Sonny punched a wall, then a door, then downed half a bottle of vodka. Nothing helped, the image of Martha, petrified, half naked, water sluicing down her face came into his head. The fear he saw there reminded him of the look on a nine year old boy’s face as it stared back at him from a broken mirror. A boy who knew that fear, knew similar threats.