Whom the Gods Destroy

Prologue

Another thread snaps in her mind. It stings the flesh around her temples causing the skin between her ears and pale, gaunt cheekbones to throb and twitch with pain. Nothing else disturbs her features as she keeps a vigil at the bedside of her husband and there is about her person the same, deliberate intent of a feline that has mesmerized its prey.

Standing up, she begins to circle the room. Still watching him as a cat will watch a bird, Artemis Colley sidles through the shadows of the wall and, moving carefully towards the blind side of the bed, she creeps closer to her husband.

She is listening for the echo of his vile profanities, which for over forty years he’s spat on her until his filth has seeped into her pores.

Except for a sickly breathing the air is deathly quiet.

Swiftly covering the space still left between them, she arrives at the upright railings to surprise him from behind the iron bed-head. Poised and lynx-eyed, she leans across the frame and strikes him in the face. Then with a vengeful retribution she hits him hard again.

Retracing her way back through the room, Artemis engages the heavy drapery, brushing her fingers along the richly polished sheen. Newly hung and tightly drawn across the windows, their extravagantly bold colours are incongruous with the modest outside of the cottage and it is this conflicting eloquence of pampering and neglect that has aroused one neighbour’s curiosity.

Now tweezering apart the central drop, Artemis opens a tiny sliver and peeps between the slit.

The old woman across the road is at the window. Always watching. With the bedside light behind her, the mammoth shape of Alma Gane appears as lifeless as a cut-out cardboard image. Or a cat scare hung inside a window frame. Artemis knows better. The neighbour is very much alive and she feels the woman’s eyes sizing her up as objectively as meat.

Sealing the curtains, she plaits one edge into the other.

Safe from the woman’s gaze, Artemis is hidden in her hunter’s one-way blind with her quarry trapped inside.

She laughs aloud. Secure in the knowledge that no neighbour will respond to any sound within this house, she allows the noise to labour. Hadn’t they listened to her cries whilst minding their own business? Or else turned up the volume on their radios to dispel the hope of empathy for victims who endured her type of suffering? She’d borne it for so long.

Now her eyes flit to the bed where several times they trip the length of the man’s body before uneasily returning to his face. Like a slate, it is wiped clean. Or that’s what he’s tried to make her think. But not so easily sponged away is the chalking on his soul.

PART ONE

1

Alma Gane sat at the window, drumming her fingers on the armrest of the wheelchair. Outside the rain splattered the road, bouncing up in sprays of liquid buckshot. Rivulets flowed down the camber and vanished into storm drains. But it was not the weather that held Alma’s interest. It was her neighbour’s rusted guttering, banked with water and twisted into acrobatic feats, which absorbed the septuagenarian and the fatty spread under her neck began to wobble as she saw the overflow pouring from the corners of the house.

So. She can’t afford a plumber on the place. But she can splurge on fancy curtains!

Then, ferried by the movement of her head, Alma’s attention refocused on the neighbour’s bedroom window. Revealed in her steady gaze was a frustrated curiosity that the brightly coloured curtains were tightly closed.

The door behind the old woman opened quietly.

Standing inside the room, Edna Barwick was noticing the intensity of her mother’s observation. If anyone had twigged to the riddle of this woman it was her daughter Edna, who now crossed the floor and put the tray she carried onto the bedside table.

What are you up to now?

Alma remained silent. Peeved by the distraction, she sat intractable as a post.

I said, what are you doing, Mum? Exasperation sharpened Edna’s tone. It conveyed the privileged suspicion of someone who could no longer be surprised, yet hoped through sharp attention to stop the closet rattling with skeletons that might be heard outside.

Turning sideways in the wheelchair, Alma scraped her little pinkie around the inside of her nose and, affecting an air of innocent inspection, held the glob up to the light.

The younger woman calmly stood her ground. She was used to these vulgarities; their significance was that her mother wished for a subject to be closed. But Edna was not distracted and, scanning beyond the window, she saw nothing to account for Alma’s eager concentration.

OK Mum. What is it? What can you see that I can’t?

She’s out.

Who’s out?

The Greek.

What’s that got to do with you? You stay out of their business, Mum. I’m warning you. You’re a mischief maker, you are, and I don’t want any trouble. I mean it. You leave those Colleys well alone.

Edna moved behind the chair and wheeled her mother over to the tea tray.

Alma was twisting on the seat, trying to peer up at her daughter, What’s today?

Friday

"I know that …"

Ninth … I think. From under her arm Edna took the morning paper and read the date. Friday. August 9. 1996. Yes. The ninth. Why do you want to know?

Jest trying to figure when they bought the old man home.

Alma was referring to Mr Colley and frankly Edna wished she wouldn’t since her mother’s interest seemed belligerent.

April fifth it was. Our twenty-fourth anniversary. Jack and me went to the pictures and after that we went to supper. It was nice.

Picking her thoughts up where she’d left them Alma continued, "Hardly credit he’s been over there four months and not a cheep. So what’s he do in there all day? And what’s she up to? If you asks me there’s something funny …"

Edna interrupted, No one’s asking you. So keep it to yourself. With that she laid the paper on the bed. I’m off now to meet Betty in the city. She’s going straight from school. That’s why it’s early tea. Just sausages and egg and a cuppa with some bun.

Alma grunted.

Sharp lines around Edna’s mouth furrowed as she pursed her lips and said, They’re the bratwurst ones, you like them.

Edna switched to the arrangements made this morning with her daughter. I’m meeting Betty at five o’clock to do a bit of shopping. We’ll have something to eat in town and leave about eight. Or however long it takes. But Jack’s home soon and he’ll hear you if you need him.

Who’s ever needed Jack? It’d be long odds if I ever wanted him.

Edna flapped the folded napkin and, after tying the ends around her mother’s neck, she pushed the meal in closer.

Alma’s eyes scavenged the plate. She should be home now gettin’ hubby’s tea. But got her pluck up since he can’t do no more damage and please herself just what she do or what she don’t do.

Edna glanced back through the window to the house across the road. Give it a break, why don’t you, Mum!

I seen her goin’ up the street this mornin’ and she’s not back yet ’cause I bin watching for her. Not like the old days, hey? Just a toddle up the way to get the shoppin’ and back home for the regular Punch and Judy. Boy! He used to thwack it to her somethin’.

The way Edna looked down at her mother was as though she’d stepped in something nasty and the smell still hung around.

Ya won’t remember, Alma said. But ya father said that wimmin’s jest like chestnuts and comes on better with a beatin’. It never hurt me none. Mind you, I didn’t stand there beggin’ to be hit and there’s times I give it back as good as it was dished.

As if Edna could forget! It was stored up in a toy-box of her memory. Still reeking of the animals he slaughtered at the abattoir, her father had always come in through the kitchen door and she’d listened for its slam as tensely as a soldier waits for battle call. Her mother’s sweaty face was sacrificed to paint and stained a tan-beige hue, while the lips, a bluish-purple, matched the thunderous shade around her eyes. A few beers on for both of them, and the antics would begin. She remembered it as a terrifying pantomime. Puppets yelling as they’d whacked each other with anything at hand. Dishes thrown and smashed. Hot food dumped on the floor. Her mother’s pencilled eyebrows, winging on her forehead as if a moving target, were hit and smashed, and hit again while absurdly she’d kept laughing; urging her husband to wilder, stronger efforts. No. Alma hadn’t begged. She’d stood there and demanded.

You liked to hear Mrs Colley getting bashed. I mean, you really liked it, Mum.

Don’t talk that bloody rubbish. It weren’t my fault he clouted her now and then. Some chewed-up sausage surfaced. Besides, he can’t do nothin’ now. It’s that car crash wot’s done for him. Up the shops they says when they got him to the hospital he was still as drunk as a bleedin’ lord and they couldn’t get no sense from him ’cause he hadn’t got none left. Jest an ole skinned rabbit waitin’ for the pot, wiff no meat on him to feed a decen’ wake.

Edna shivered, hearing the brittle snap of Alma chewing on his bones. That’s not funny, Mum. It’s sick. She looked uneasily at Alma. I’d give a quid to know what goes on in your head. Why do you watch her all the time? What’s it to you if she goes in or out? You’re not a friend. Then moving down that path where ideas branch off one another, she softly asked, Or are you?

The old eyes slyly narrowed as Alma weaved around the question. I might be or I mightn’t. What’s it to you? P’raps I met her when yous not around. Out on a stroll I mighta been, you don’t know everythin’. The hooded lids fluttered with the coquetry of youth.

The younger woman’s laugh was far too loud. Then as sudden as a guillotine, she dropped her voice and whispered, I know enough to make me sick. And I also know you’ve not been out for weeks and I’d just as soon you didn’t. I feel better knowing where you are. It’s you, not Artemis Colley, who needs watching.

Alma’s fingers gripped the knife, her knuckles whitening as she sliced the sausage with the force of someone boning meat. Her face registered nothing.

Edna, who’d been leaning over the timber bed-end, palms pressed on the quilt, now straightened with resolve. Walking around to face her mother, she saw the stalactite spills of yellowed, congealed egg hanging loosely from the old woman’s chin.

Where have you put them, Mum? I know you keep them squashed between the mattress and the spring, but when I changed your bed this morning they were gone. I’d rather have them there than lying around.

I don’t know what yous on about. But the cracked voice falsely quavered with the indignity of guilt. There’s nothing in my bed. Her rejoinder was too quick. But there’s something flyin’ round inside your belfry, and Alma’s laugh, like tumbling gravel, rattled from the geriatric throat.

Look, Mum, I don’t want Betty catching you. And I don’t want her to see them. I could’ve burnt them when I had the chance but you’d only get some more, and what’s the newsman think of us? You buying stuff like that.

You’d better see a doctor, Edna Barwick. You’re ’allucinatin’, girl. Yous stay out of my room an’ you’ll be right. An’ keep Betty’s snoopin’ nose away as well.

Now listen, Mum, she didn’t find them. I did. Two clownish spots of red flushed Edna’s face. I’ve had enough of your bad mouthing and we’ll see who’s dreaming when I tell my Jack. Not just about these magazines but about the filthy rest. He just might wring your neck.

What’s that s’posed to mean?

All right. The daughter paused because she was distressed by what she had to say. It’s supposed to mean, Mum, that I hear you. You stand outside our room and … you know what I mean. A blush bruised both her cheeks. She was embarrassed by this hateful confrontation and waited for her mother to reply.

Alma’s head wagged slowly from side to side. The jaw kept masticating while her eyes stayed glued on her wretched daughter.

Say something, Mum. Admit it. At first I can’t believe that of my mother, but I’ve heard you. The same way you hear somebody hiding. Not with your ears but with goose-bumps on your neck. So now I listen for you sneaking down the hall. I swear last night you stood outside our door. I saw your feet shadowed in the passage because the light was on behind you. How could you do that to us?

Yous keep yer trap shut, girl. Yer mad. I’ve had ya up to here. Ya don’t speak to me like that, unless ya get me tellin’ tales on Betty. It’s her who wants to know yer dirty goins on. Yous look to yer own kid. I’ve better things to do than hear Jack get his old boy up.

The colour drained from Edna’s face. It was useless to argue with this woman, whose sickness was becoming more apparent and more obscenely emphasised with her advancing years. Edna moaned with the sadness of a woman who’s been delivered of a monster, while Alma Gane drew breath.

Whose was its flesh and blood who talked me into selling up my home to live with you, I asks? And who gets that nest-egg when I go? Her voice had now contrived a wheedling note. Why does you think them awful things about me, luv? What you and Jack get up to is your business and I got no magazines. Yous dreamed them.

But Edna was noticing how her mother’s eyes passed over the old black-and-white TV and then the walking frame, settling just too long on a hat box, queerly out of shape and pushed under the washstand. Moving quickly, Edna seized the box, took off the lid and hurled it. It hit the lathe-and-plaster wall and fell into the corner. Striding towards the bed she tipped the contents out onto the coverlet. The glossy pages opened and the pictures were exposed. Enormous breasts spread eagled on the page and female thighs were opened to reveal their hustling wares. In lurid colour huge scrotums, monstrous phallus depicted carnal passion.

In one action Edna swept them to the floor. Without a word she left the room.

Reaching over towards the mug, Alma dunked her bun into the tea and sucked it through her teeth. Good riddance. That’s what I say to the lot. And I hate them spicy sausages, they make me fart all night.

Turning the wheelchair on its axis, she swivelled to face the window. Behind the bulbous forehead there was something offensive in her shameless curiosity as she stared at her neighbours’ house across the road.

So what was going on in there, she’d like to know?

Alma hated change. She wanted things exactly as they’d been. But everything was different since he’d smashed himself to pieces and the Greek had hung those curtains and shut Alma from her life. Disappointment was too passive for how she felt. She was filled with the anger of a child so accustomed to getting what it wants that any obstacle makes her even more demanding.

What Alma wanted was the old days back again. When the Colleys were her main source of amusement and like a fixture she had sat beside her window, watching and waiting for Mr Colley’s late arrival. Usually as noisy as an elephant, just occasionally he was as silent as a panther. It was those times when Mr Colley was more dangerous.

Stalking the house and climbing the front steps just as quietly, he’d softly close the front door of his home. Then from behind the flimsy curtains the bedroom suddenly exploded into light and without any further fanfare the entertainment would begin.

Like a serial it was, with every night another episode.

Yet the action, was not confined to the interior. Sometimes he’d drag her from the house and, like a demented little hen with a huge dog in pursuit, she’d zigzagged around the yard, scattering her frenzy from the back fence to the front, trying to out run him and get away. She never did.

It was the highlight of Alma’s day and the excitement of the chase was in the way of a transfusion; it re-energised her blood and kept it pumping.

Then the show had stopped abruptly. Not grinding to a halt but in the immediacy of a moment. The curtain had been drawn on Alma’s private theatre and, with no encore to distract and relieve her boredom, her obsession with the couple had not diminished, but grown in measure with her resentment towards the screen that blocked and thwarted every sign and sight of them. The fricken Greek had seen to that.

Where was she now?

Sometime mid-morning Mrs Colley had left the house and still had not returned. Alma would sit up and wait for her.

2

Her hands were shaking as she pressed her fingers tightly to her forehead and, sinking deeper into the armchair, she kept watch beside her husband. Within this subfusc, dreary room, Artemis shut her eyes to brood.

For more than forty years, she’d known it was her own fault. There was no one she could blame except herself. She’d been fifteen years of age when she’d first seen Michael Colley from the bus stop outside school. He was new on the construction site adjacent to the Convent, and she and the other girls had watched him swing and leap across the scaffolding, slim and muscular and aware of his attraction. Some older girls had urged him on by clapping while others had vied for his attention by lifting their skirts above their knees. From thereon when the girls streamed through the gates he’d been waiting at the fence. On ‘smoko-break’ he’d said.

Yet on the perimeter of the circle and dislocated from the group, it was Artemis he’d singled out and quite deliberately, when returning to the job, he’d made the circuitous trip to where she stood and pursed his lips at her. The first time she’d been so startled she’d almost missed the bus. Next time she had been waiting; hoping that the other girls would notice. The watching and the waiting formed a pattern of which he’d been aware. But one day he wasn’t there and Artemis had purposely let the bus drive off while searching along the building for a glimpse. Suddenly he’d appeared from the site office and called her to the fence. She should’ve turned and run, instead of which she joined him and, almost bursting with excitement, had willingly colluded to meet him for a picnic in the country. Next day at school, she’d kept her giddy secret to herself in spite of dropping hints among her peers. He was nine years older than herself and a nimbus in her eyes.

The following Sunday she’d left home in a mouse-grey skirt teamed with a dark-blue blouse. The pretext had been taking extra English with Sister Dominic. The tuition (she lied) would go all day but she’d promised to be home at four o’clock. However, her valise held a pretty frock, white voile with lace and ribbons and orange blossoms stitched around the neckline. Inside a public lavatory she’d transformed, and hurried off to meet him at the station. Alighting at a country railway siding, they’d walked together down lanes that were familiar to him, as he turned to left or right or, walking backwards, mesmerised her with his changing, opal eyes. Her hand he’d held and stroked in a manner she had never known. He’d teased her hair and touched her face and her fifteen years of youth were flattered as he’d fanned his brilliant peacock’s tail. She’d marvelled at his strong lean arms, muscled legs and the very maleness he revealed through his opened shirt, of hair bleached blond on his flat and freckled chest. She’d been thrilled with his unGreekness.

He’d bantered with a careless cheek that emboldened her to answer back and her girlish chirp had egged him on to laughing innuendo. They’d passed no one as they’d walked and weaved down bush tracks towards a bank of gums beside a stream. Then, opening up his Gladstone bag, he’d spread a blanket on the ground and taken the beer and placed it at the water’s edge. He’d pulled out paper bags that held thick workmen’s sandwiches. When she’d filled a cup of water from the stream, he moved the blanket under the shade of the trees. He stripped off his shirt and lay back on the ground, and she beside him revelled in this dear conspiracy. He put his arms around her and his fingers laced and twisted through her hair.

Yet he spoiled the lovely moment when he asked her if she got the monthly bleed. Embarrassment made her deny her menses. Still he teased and joked and worried her with questions, until tears of torment welled into her eyes and she’d begged him to stop or take her home. With arms long used to handling bricks, he pulled her roughly to him and his mouth enveloped hers. His tongue, alive and darting, forced itself between her lips and his spittle, draining, had disgusted her. She’d tried to turn her head but his grip on her hair was tight and fierce. His teeth against her tongue pierced as sharp as whetted scissors. She’d struggled to break free. But he held her on the ground and his body moved on top of hers and his powerful legs and thighs gripped and squeezed her under him.

She’d realised fear and pummelled him about the head and shoulders while his hand moved towards her neck and, tearing at her dress, he split away her bodice and rubbed her breast and pinched like clumsy shears her nipple and aureole. She’d tried to scream but couldn’t find a voice. He ripped her pants away, then fumbled with his own, while all the time his torso had kept pumping on her stomach. He shoved his knee between her legs and forced himself between them. Her eyes were frantic as his fingers probed her jet-black pelt and they found the secret mound and hidden lips and the thing, as hard and straight as a new-dug carrot, stabbed and stabbed her while she’d gasped in pain. His hands, clenched around her buttocks, worked urgently while his breath was beer-stale in her face. Then he fell off like a stone and rolled away.

Artemis’s white voile dress was bunched around her waist with its show of blood a pomegranate red. Between her legs, the smudged high flush of colour was rouged into her thighs, while tangled in the pure black thatch the light picked out his mongrel ginger hairs. She’d drawn onto her knees and crawled away. Standing, she’d limped down to the water and washed away the sticky milk. More frightened now of what had happened to her than of the man who’d done it. Changing back into the uniform of subterfuge that had enabled her to keep this tryst, she’d scraped away some dirt and leaves and hidden the ruined dress.

*

Her menses stopped. Her breasts bloomed as large as sunflowers. Her waist thickened like a sack of wheat. Fear sank circles round her eyes as each day brought new tell-tale signs. It didn’t taken long for her grandmother to guess the cause and the old Greek cursed her for her filthy fornication. Her father, Yiannis Pappas, now privy to the family’s shame, had been deaf to sense or pity and kicked her in the belly and dragged her by the hair across the room. But the child inside her womb was protected by the strong, resilient membrane holding firm. The conception was a testament to violence and the foetus was its heir.

Charging as blindly as a wild pig, her father had stormed the building site and threatened Michael Colley with a suit of carnal knowledge, or reprieve in Holy Wedlock. This was 1947 and the rule of