Esther sat up in bed and stared at the door, or rather, beyond it to where the presence stood, staring back. She could feel the hate from here. He wanted her, she knew that, in the way that men want women, but there was no love in his desire. His desire was made of anger and pain, and he hated her for it, she knew this, and he hated himself also. He loathed himself more than anything, she thought, but she did not pity him.

She drew a breath and commanded, “Go away.”

Holding the air in her lungs, she heard nothing but her own heart, and one creak as his weight shifted, and then the presence was gone.

In the morning, Esther waited in her room and listened until she was certain the children had left for school and Reverend Clarke had gone to take morning prayers. She carried her bag downstairs and went to the kitchen where Mrs. Clarke washed the breakfast things in the sink.

From the doorway, Esther said, “Before I go . . .”

Mrs. Clarke lifted a tea towel from the dish rack and turned to Esther as she dried her hands. “Yes, love?”

Esther had spent most of the night searching for a way to say what needed to be said and still she had nothing.

“Your husband, Reverend Clarke. He’s not right. He tried to—”

“Well, you look after yourself, love,” Mrs. Clarke said, turning back to the sink and the dishes and the greasy water. Not hearing, Esther’s words closed out, ignored.

“What about Jennifer?” Esther asked. “Your wee girl, she—”

Mrs. Clarke spun around, a small knife in her hand, pointed it at Esther, the blade an accusation, a warning.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”

Hate in her eyes, sparking and flaring.

Esther said no more. She lifted her bag from the floor and left the house.

That was the year before last. Now, nearing four years since her father had torn her world asunder, she had the prospect of a home once more. A bed of her own, a room of her own. A kind man had offered them to her. Those and a small wage. All she had to do was help look after him, his father and his brother. They lived on a farm not quite an hour outside of Belfast. It would be hard work, she realised that, but it would be honest work.

Esther checked the clock on the wall. Ten past ten. Perhaps he wasn’t coming. Maybe it had been a cruel joke. Give her the hope of a better life then take it away from her.

“He will come,” she said aloud.

A chime sounded as the cafe’s door opened. Esther looked in that direction.

Her heart lifted.

9: Mary

9: Mary