Quaranteam - Hebridean Hame

***WARNING*** This chapter contains depictions of both emotional and physical domestic abuse by a person in a position of authority. I've tried not to be gratuitous with these depictions; however, some readers may find them disturbing or triggering and I wouldn't want anyone to stumble across such topics unprepared.

This is a story set in CorruptingPower's Quaranteam Universe. Despite my inexperience, I have been granted permission to write in the setting!

Thanks to AgathonWrites and The_Licentious_Laureate for their editing and story input. As well as to the other QT authors who contributed to editing and whose work I would recommend you check out:

BreakTheBar, AgathonWrites, BronanTheLibrarian, OtterlyMindblowing, SilverRyden, RonanJWilkerson, BirchesLoveBooks, The_Licentious_Laureate, DisquietCertitude, 32inch, Ranthoron, Percheron and EldritchMuppet.

This story, based in Scotland during the Duo Halo/Covid pandemic, is a slower burn story than most of the other QT stories. I've written without much use of the Scots language for easy reading. No sex scenes in this chapter - they are coming! Honest!

Readers should note that the Scottish term 'Jag' is the same as 'Jab', meaning a medical injection. 'Hen' is a polite term of endearment.

Constructive feedback is always welcome! I do read all comments, and I'm appreciative of those who have been so positive about a (very) differently paced QT story.

---IV---

Quaranteam -- Hebridean Hame, Chapter 4

Monday, 28th September 2020

Renfrew, Glasgow, Scotland

Groggily, she carefully and slowly opened her eyes. Or she tried to, at least. Her left eye was swollen and sore. From her position on the living room floor, she could see across the open-plan flat to the kitchen. One of the armchairs had been tipped onto its back at some point during the previous night. Other detritus lay scattered around. The coffee table was broken. She had vague memories of hitting it on her way to the floor after she had been punched. It also looked like he'd scattered its remains aside while creating space to kick her.

Pain radiated through her whole body, both due to her new injuries and due to sleeping on the floor. She'd been lying there for hours and had vague memories of falling asleep while waiting to see if he would return.

But despite this morning's discomfort, she lay as still as possible, listening carefully.

Her ears straining as she remained curled up and unmoving. Experience had taught her only to get up if he had gone. Getting up if he were around would result in her being knocked down again. Another painful lesson she'd learnt.

However, this morning, she could hear snoring from the bedroom. The fear she lived with constantly reduced a notch. She figured he'd been so drunk the previous night that he should stay asleep for a few hours. Or she hoped that would be the case.

But woe betide her if she should make a noise that would wake him. He tended to be less violent when he wasn't drunk. But he was perfectly capable of hurting her in other ways. For example, he was happy to point out what a 'freak' she was because of her height, how she 'disgusted him'. She 'was fat', he'd say, preventing her from eating. She was 'ugly'. Too lanky. Too untidy. Too lazy. A slut, a whore, a bitch, a cunt, a slag. She was his biggest mistake, he'd declare. No one loved her; he would spit. He 'fucking hated her', wished she would die, detested her, despised her. She was so stupid, so slow, so weak.

She 'would never see her parents again' was a phrase used frequently over the last few months, as he knew that hurt her deeply. He also knew it hurt her more when he gloated about how he'd instructed the solicitor to sell everything.

She'd learned the news of her parent's death from him back in May. He'd told her that a solicitor had tried to contact her, unashamed at the fact he controlled all her communication. She'd known something was wrong when he came home with flowers and a 'special meal'. Midway through eating, he'd told her the 'good news' about how she no longer had to worry about her parents.

Another thread of hope had been cut.

Once she had calmed down from her initial shock and grief, he'd made a point of telling her they had died in the Golden Jubilee National Hospital - just slightly over two and a half miles from their flat. She'd sunk into such a depression afterwards he'd removed any bladed implements and medication from the flat while he was at work, mainly because it would reflect poorly on him if she were to commit suicide. He hadn't actually cared about her.

Later, one of the sources of his anger at her came from the solicitors' failure to respond to emails he'd sent from her account. When he got onto this line of thinking, often when he was drunk, he would accuse her of stopping him from getting 'his' money by conspiring with the solicitor. Typically, this would result in her sleeping on the floor and waking with new bruises. If he were sober, the cycle of name-calling and belittlement would start again.

And since just after lockdown, he'd come home drunk more often than not. Stinking of cigarettes, beer and another woman's perfume. She could see that the drinking was taking its toll on him. His behaviour was getting more and more erratic. He now had a redness to his nose and cheeks, which was made more visible by his puffy and jaundiced appearance. He'd often go to work still smelling of booze, and she had suspicions that not all his drinking was done after his shift had finished.

She hoped it was killing him.

She really hoped it killed him before he killed her.

Not that the nights he would return sober were much better. He'd often not say a word to her, acting as if she were invisible. Having spent all day alone, with no one to talk to, those nights were a different type of torture. She would be torn between being grateful for the silence and desperately wanting at least some interaction with another human.

But overall, not knowing, never knowing, how he would behave when he got home - or even what time he would get home - was also a source of torture. It caused a constant low level of stress that eroded her will and led to her jumping at every noise in the flat, watching the clock constantly and being afraid to do anything in case he arrived and was upset she wasn't waiting in her designated place on the sofa.

She had to spend her days locked in as he would take the keys, as he correctly guessed she'd run if given the opportunity. All she could do to fill her time was cleaning their flat and doing other chores he deemed 'suitable', accompanied only by the background drone of daytime TV. But his willingness to find fault with anything and everything she did almost made her efforts pointless. She had spent the nearly eight years since they married trying desperately not to do or say anything that would upset him. But regardless, he would find cause. Something wasn't where he wanted it. Something wasn't cooked right. There was a hair, thread, or a bit of fluff that was impossible for anyone to see but him, which he believed indicated things had not been cleaned. Then, the verbal abuse would start.

Back before lockdown, it had 'only' been emotional and verbal abuse, which had been increasing in frequency and intensity for years. The insults and the silent treatments, his rapidly changing emotional state, all constant knocks to her confidence that left her scrambling to meet his impossible expectations. He had gradually taken control of everything in her life. Her mobile phone was first monitored and later locked away. He 'managed' her finances, her mail, and her emails. Her social media accounts were deleted.

She'd been employed during the first few years of their marriage, making use of her hospitality degree by working in a hotel in the city centre. But his behaviour towards her and around her place of work had made this almost impossible. He became especially obsessed with the fact she had male colleagues, accusing her of sleeping with them constantly. She couldn't be a minute late returning home, or else he was aggressively claiming she was having an affair. And he continually bombarded her throughout her shifts with calls and texts where she had to prove where she was and who she was with. He even started turning up outside her work when he was on duty. Her male colleagues started getting harassed, not just by him, but by others too, on their trips to and from work.

He had systematically chopped and cut at every aspect of her life that linked her to anyone but him. And he had deliberately worked to destroy her connections to anyone else 'til he had isolated her completely.

She was powerless and alone, and he kept her that way.

***

Judging she was alone in the room from the distant snoring, she carefully and quietly uncurled herself from the foetal position she'd fallen asleep in. Sharper pain radiated from specific points as she moved, making her reasonably sure that two fingers on her right hand were damaged from when she had tried to cushion the impact of something, kicks, maybe. Her right arm, elbow and shoulder also hurt - he would often use physical restraint techniques on her, drawing on his training. Pain in her ribs and hip suggested at least significant bruising there. Kicks or the coffee table, she suspected.

She remembered the punch to her face. They had no food, and he wouldn't allow her access to any electronic device to order a delivery. He'd also locked the door when he left, and she had no keys. When he'd gotten home late that evening, she'd mistakenly asked if he'd brought anything to eat as he was carrying a shopping bag. His response was to tell her she was a fat cow who needed to lose weight anyway.

A little later, while he stood in the kitchen drinking the cans of beer he had brought home, he'd demanded she make him something to eat. When she tried to explain that they had no food, he accused her of being a 'fat fuck, a pig' and having eaten it all. She was grabbed, shaken, pushed, and then punched.

His face had been set in the usual rictus of anger and disgust, teeth bared, skin flushed and red. His breath stank of alcohol and cigarettes. He had his usual snarl on his lips as he'd attacked her, then the smug look of satisfaction when he knew that he'd hurt her. When he considered he'd 'put her in her place'.

Now, in the cold morning light, she managed to carefully and quietly raise herself to a seated position on the sofa's edge despite the various stabs of pain. A wave of exhaustion and hopelessness came over her, her constant companions of late. She clasped her left hand tightly over her mouth as a sob accompanied those feelings.

The sob caused her head and ribs to hurt. But no tears came. Those chest-wracking sobs continued for a few minutes. She would have cried if she hadn't already cried every tear she could in the previous three months. She was beyond that point now.

The grumble of her empty stomach added to her discomfort. She'd not eaten in more than twenty-four hours. Despite his constant insults that she was fat, she was thinner now than she had ever been. But it was weight loss caused by ongoing stress, fear and lack of food rather than any healthy alternative.

As quietly as possible, she began to tidy up. She put the armchair back upright, collected the bits of the cheap Ikea coffee table into one pile to fix or bin later, and tidied away the other wreckage wrought by his anger.

She stopped as she came across a photo frame, face down on the floor. It was one of his favourite things to throw at her, but this morning, it looked like it had merely been knocked over. Flinching and letting out a slight groan of pain as she knelt to pick it up, she had to bite back another involuntary sob as she examined the picture. The glass had long since been broken and removed, but the image of her standing between her parents, the three smiling, remained.

Sarah brushed her fingers over her parents' faces before placing the photo frame back on its shelf.

***

It was almost lunchtime before he got out of bed. Sarah had done her best to clean herself and the flat and sat quietly on the sofa, her designated place, which was suitably out of his way, but that left her ready to attend to whatever he demanded.

Thankfully, of late, those demands hadn't included sex. He had tried a few times over the weeks after he'd left her sprawled on the floor from a beating. But he'd had 'performance issues' which resulted in him hitting her more in his frustration. But it had prevented her from being raped. These issues hadn't improved his opinion of her, as he blamed Sarah for his failures.

Anyway, from the stink of the other woman's perfume on him when he came home, she was sure he was finding sex elsewhere. He had undoubtedly hinted at that when screaming abuse at Sarah but had never outright said it.

How she wished he would leave her for the other woman.

She knew he was awake when she heard cursing from the bedroom, and then he had gone thumping and grunting to the toilet, pissing noisily with the door open.

That door remained open most of the time, as she wasn't allowed to close it when she used the bathroom, and he rarely bothered to close it behind himself. He turned the shower on, and she listened to him moving around, her nerves jangling as they always did when he was in the flat. His anger was so unpredictable that the situation could change from one minute to the next.

She jumped slightly as he appeared naked in the toilet doorway with his toothbrush in hand.

He pointed the toothbrush at her as he sneered across the room.

"Get yourself cleaned up and ready. We're going out. It's a special day."

He grinned at her, and the grin was more than slightly malevolent. There was no warmth there, just his predatory showing of teeth. A shiver ran through her as she remembered what his last surprise had been about.

"You'll need a face mask and shades. I've left your clothes on the bed. Be ready by the time I'm out of the shower. Do what you can to hide those ugly fucking marks. Even better, try to make yourself a little presentable. The least of your ugly fucking face anyone has to look at, the better."

She nodded, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. She could feel him stare at her, knowing he was waiting for her to ask him where or why they were going out. She'd not left the flat for months; lockdown was still in effect. But she knew if she asked, he'd get annoyed.

And despite everything, a part of her still resisted him. A part that took whatever chance it could to fight against the power he tried to exert over her. No matter how petty, she took comfort from the small battles he didn't seem to know they had fought. Today, that small, deliberate, rebellious victory was going to be not to show any curiosity about his announcement. She knew he wanted her to ask, to say something about his unusual statement. She could tell by the way he was standing, poised, that he had a 'clever' insult or put-down lined up.

So she sat quietly, passive and agreeable, not giving him the opening he wanted and expected.

With a huff and muttered remark about her lack of intelligence, he eventually went back into the bathroom. She could hear him in there, thumping around and getting under the shower as she rose slowly, cringing due to the pain, and quietly moved to the bedroom.

He'd left out a pile of formless clothing that would best be described as 'baggy' for her: an ankle-length grey skirt, flat brown shoes, a baggy black and grey Orkney-style woollen jumper with a high neck. No socks. No bra or panties.

She changed as quickly as her aches and pains would allow, removing her current undergarments before she dressed. She knew this was another trap, as he'd told her to wear what he had placed on the bed, and he had not put out replacement underwear.

If she left her underwear on, she would anger him because she hadn't followed his instructions. And by not wearing them, he left himself the option of insulting her intelligence, making fun of her for not taking any initiative. Or being angry at her for being 'a slut, a whore, a fucking cumrag' for going out in public without underwear on.

The woollen jumper was rough on her skin but bearable. The looseness of the clothing hid her lack of a bra to some extent. Her large breasts had sagged slightly as she had entered her thirties, but they still stood proud, a good size for her height. When she cared about such things, she'd believed her breasts were her best feature. Now, it was all she could do to cover them quickly in case they gave Steven any ideas.

After dressing, she quickly found a facemask and some old sunglasses before returning to the sofa. She hastily dug out her makeup bag, finding the bits she needed to hide the bruises visible on her skin. In her compact mirror, she could see that the area around her eye was badly bruised and that the eye itself looked a little bloodshot. She checked that the sunglasses would cover enough area to hide the bruising, adding makeup around the edges.

He emerged from the bathroom moments later, trying to catch her out by being quicker than she might expect, but still smirking as he saw her sitting on the sofa in the clothes he had picked. Seeing her working with her makeup, he'd snorted in derision.

"Like putting fucking makeup on a fucking pig." He'd muttered, loud enough so she could hear it. But that had been his intention.

Ten minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom wearing his police uniform: black boots and trousers, a utility belt with various equipment and pouches, a black short-sleeved top, and body armour worn under a high-visibility utility vest. Before the lockdown, much of this equipment would have been kept at the station, but officers had started getting ready at home to avoid crowded changing rooms.

He checked his appearance in one of the few wall-mounted mirrors in the flat, then dipped first one shoulder and then the other, checking the recently acquired Sergeant stripes on his shoulder epaulettes, giving them a quick dusting and looking smugly at his reflection.

Sarah remained perched on the sofa, only risking a quick look in his direction but trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. She should have felt excited about getting to leave the flat. Maybe even seeing other people.

But instead, she just felt fear.

And a deep, seething hatred. She had carefully packed away that emotion deeply in her mind, so that he would never accidentally glimpse that emotion. If he did, her life would be in danger.

After all, there stood Sergeant Steven Campbell of Police Scotland's Domestic Abuse Task Force. As far as anyone else knew, her loving and doting husband. A man who was a consummate professional and a 'good cop'. A popular leader who'd risen through the ranks quickly in recent months as Police Scotland tried to re-organise in the face so many staff being off sick.

A man who knew where the Police would never look for a body.

***

His job, as perverse as his posting was, had significantly added to her feeling of helplessness.

Early on in lockdown, when the physical abuse had started, a concerned neighbour had called the police on several occasions. Each time the attending officers arrived, they were met by 'one of their own' in the doorway, who assured them it was all a misunderstanding. He would tell them that Sarah had mental health issues, that she was stressed due to the lockdown, and the noises reported were her taking out her frustration on the furniture.

Most of the time, the responding officers left after briefly chatting with Steven.

Only on one occasion did a female officer insist on checking with Sarah that she was okay. But what could Sarah say under Steven's steely gaze, his fist clenching and unclenching out of the policewoman's sight? Sarah had frozen up, unable to tell the truth, unwilling to lie. In the end, Sarah had just agreed she was stressed.