With heartfelt thanks to my friend and editor, EvansLily, for spending her valuable time showing me how to turn my scribble into a readable story, and for her patience in trying to teach me to be a better writer.
CHAPTER 1
"I mean it, Dave!" Ben was unusually irritated. "Winning the bloody lottery wasn't so great."
"Come on." Dave looked incredulous. "No more work, gorgeous women throwing themselves at you, holidays wherever and whenever you like, fancy new cars, no mortgage. Oh yes, I can see how that would be terrible."
"But suddenly everyone wants to know me; they never did before."
"So you have a whole new load of friends."
"Why? Why do they want to be friends now? Just because I have money? Would they want to be friends if I was broke? I don't think so. Maybe some of them, but how can I tell?" Ben was frustrated -- Dave just didn't understand. "And as for women..."
"You must be getting all the sex you can handle," said Dave with a leer.
"I don't want just sex. I was hoping to have a proper relationship. You remember what it was like at school?"
Dave's sympathetic look showed he did remember. Ben's lack of success with girls had been legendary, the source of much taunting. Girls he'd asked out had delighted in humiliating him; telling their classmates about his timid approaches.
"Yes," his friend conceded.
They sat, silent, looking at the pints of beer in front of them. The other customers began drifting away at the end of their lunch breaks.
Dave started to fidget, he also had to return to work. "I'm going to have to make a move, Ben."
"I know," he said sadly. "It's stupid, but now I don't have to work, I miss it."
"Why not find another job?" Dave suggested.
"Doing what?"
"Whatever you like. You wouldn't be doing it for the money."
Ben's face brightened as he considered the idea. "I could do something to help other people maybe."
"That's the spirit." Dave was looking at his watch. "I have to go -- now. I'll see you later."
"Yeah, Bye Dave," Ben responded, his thoughts already elsewhere as he considered a new direction for his life.
He spent the afternoon looking in the windows of employment agencies -- a change from the usual shop windows where he sought ways to spend his money. As the afternoon drew on, a card caught his eye:
Home Care Assistant's 37.5 hour week, £6.50/hr.
Amused by the incorrect apostrophe, he read the card again. It was a job he could do: washing, cleaning and cooking for sick and elderly people in their own homes.
Sitting at the desk, facing the young woman in the agency, he paused to wonder for the first time if it was such a good idea. He had nothing to lose though, it wasn't as if he needed the job.
*
Being a home care assistant could be a very demanding job as Sheila was discovering in a house several miles away.
"However much they pay you stupid women, it's too much!" Cathy's reputation for intolerance was well-deserved. "What's the point in turning up this late? What the hell do you think that you can do now? The damn nurses have been and done it all for you."
"I'm sorry Cathy, Mrs Dunbar took bad during her lunch and I had to get the doctor and ambulance to her."
"I'm not interested in your excuses."
"I'll just clean up in the kitchen and put some washing on,"
"If you're sure you have time," was her sarcastic reply. This one was like the rest, a fawning, servile woman, she thought. Still, they never lasted very long.
Lying in bed, Cathy continued muttering to herself. She could hear the clink of crockery being washed and returned to the cupboards. Picking up the laptop from the bed beside her, she resumed typing, silently cursing the woman in her kitchen.
Sheila was the fifth different care assistant they'd sent in six weeks; God knew why they couldn't find someone permanent. The nurses couldn't explain it either. Apparently most other patients had the same assistant all the time, whoever organised the service seemed totally incompetent.
Cathy knew they were repulsed by her appearance, she could see it in their faces when they looked at her. Even the ones clever enough to hide it at first, eventually looked at her with disgust. If her damaged legs hadn't trapped her in bed, she could have looked after herself.
She read through the story she was writing. Who actually enjoyed this stuff anyway? What sort of sad characters went on to the Internet to read bitter, angry tales of lust, perversion and death? Perverts, all of them, she hated them. Her greatest pleasure was in receiving the messages they sent, especially when they didn't like what she'd written. She took good note of what made them angry and ensured she included it in the next story.
Feedback from the last story had been just what she hoped.
'You evil bitch, I hope you rot and fester in hell'
was one of her favourites. None of them could hate her any more than she hated herself.
She'd been typing for a while when she heard the gentle tap on the bedroom door.
"What?" she shouted.
"I'm just off now," said Sheila, timidly peering round the half-open door.
"Don't let me keep you." Cathy enjoyed the hurt expression on the woman's face.
"Bye now."
Cathy said nothing and returned to her typing the laptop eventually sliding on to the bed as she fell asleep.
The nightmare woke her, it usually did. She was driving home with Sean and little Jack on a warm summer evening. Everything was serene. She was driving the new Audi, so proud to be able to show off the symbol of Sean's success. It was just before Jack's fourth birthday. She always woke up as the lorry hit them.
*
Five weeks later, the background and police criminal records completed, Ben was told to report to the home care company. His first week was spent with Betty, an ample lady full of mirth and good humour. Together they visited clients, doing cooking, washing and in some cases bathing -- Ben would only bathe male clients, they said -- and generally dispensing goodwill.
His cooking and cleaning skills honed over ten years of caring for his late parents, he soon had his own set of regular clients. Then came the fateful morning. It had been two months; he was enjoying the work and was feeling more at ease. A telephone call from the office asking him to drop by was not unusual.
Gerald, the owner and administrator of the business, looked uneasy. Sitting at his desk, fiddling with a pen, he seemed unwilling to look Ben in the face. "Ben, I'm afraid your client Mr. Perkins has passed away."
"I'm sorry," said Ben. And he was, he'd miss the old boy but it didn't explain why Gerald looked so nervous.
"I have a new client for you."
"OK. Can I have the file?"
"Sit down a minute." Gerald indicated the chair by his desk. "This client is a bit more unusual."
"In what way?" Ben was intrigued. What could possibly account for the way Gerald was acting?
"She's -- er -- well I suppose you could say -- difficult."
Ben had never heard Gerald speak so hesitantly. "Difficult?"
"She's had nine different care assistants in six months. They all refuse to work with her eventually. Look, between you and me, she's rude, aggressive and seems to hate everyone. I'm sorry to have to give her to you but you're the only one left. She has regular nursing visits so you'll just do cleaning, laundry and cooking."
"What's the matter with her?"
"She was seriously hurt in a car crash. Her husband and son were killed, she has severe facial damage and her legs were badly injured. Apparently she refused surgery although the nurses say if she really wanted to she could probably get about with crutches now. But she's depressed and hides behind her aggression, refuses to even try to leave her bed." Gerald sighed, giving Ben a beseeching look. "I really am sorry about this, but could you please help me out?"
"OK," said Ben, rather amused to see the relief on his boss's face. The woman couldn't be
that
bad.
*
Cathy heard the front door open. That damn home care woman again. Hadn't she had enough the previous day? The obsequious bovine was as submissive as the men in her stories, she thought.
The knock came at her bedroom door as always.
"YES! I'm still here, I'm not going anywhere," she shouted before adding under her breath, "you fat old cow."
But when the door opened she stared. "What the fuck...? Who the hell are you?"
"Hello, I'm Ben Fielding. I'm your new home care assistant."
Cathy glared at him. "Have those soft-headed morons lost it completely? A man? Jesus Christ."
"Would you like some lunch?" he asked pleasantly.
Though his voice was soft, he wasn't particularly remarkable, she thought. Not tall, slim build -- if a little plump around his stomach -- mousy brown hair, the sort of looks you forgot in a moment. And surely a wimp to boot -- what kind of man became a home care assistant? "Lunch?" she echoed. "What are YOU going to cook? A boiled egg? If that's not
too
complicated?"
"What would you like?"
Did this asshole have to sound so pleasant all the time? Well, fuck him. "How about a cheese soufflé?" she sneered.
"OK."
And to Cathy's delight, he left without another word. That'd fix him, she thought, wondering what he'd bring for lunch now. A cheese omelette probably. Christ, he wouldn't know a soufflé if it jumped up and bit him.
*
Ben shut the door gently, hoping she hadn't seen his reaction to her face. The damage was terrible, one cheek looked lower than the other, of the several scars, the worst ran from the corner of her left eye to her top lip; her nose had been broken and her lips no longer seemed to meet on one side. He felt a lump in his throat as he tried to imagine what she had been through.
In the modern kitchen, all the appliances seemed new, the cupboards filled with the pots, pans and dishes sufficient to cook anything. It had been a long time since he'd made a soufflé.
He didn't have all the right ingredients but he could probably make do. Parmesan could substitute for Gruyere, ordinary plain flour, wholegrain mustard: yes it was possible.
Forty-five minutes later he returned to her bedroom with a tray. The soufflé had not collapsed and he was quite pleased with it. He knocked on the door.
"At last," she shouted. "Three quarters of an hour to make a cheese omelette?"
Ben assumed this meant she wanted him to come in and he took the tray to the bed.
"What the fuck's that?" she demanded, looking at the white porcelain dish.
"A cheese soufflé."
