In the cottage, Margo was dressed, her long red hair tied back into the ponytail that Oscar preferred. She viewed her face critically in the mirror, make-up and arnica barely disguising the darkening bruise despite layers of foundation. She pursed her lips, applying bright red lipstick as a distraction, a ruse to focus attention away from her eyes. The sheets would need to be washed; she’d bled during the night. Margo stripped the bed, efficient in her movements even though she held herself awkwardly, body stiff on one side where pain gnawed at her ribs. A new sheet pulled from the chest of drawers, fresh pillowcase, all in white and scented with a hint of coconut from the gorse blossoms she’d collected, imprisoned in a muslin bag.

She held the bag in her hands, pulling it tight towards her face to drink in the perfume. She felt imprisoned too. Trapped in this loveless relationship, captive in this isolated cottage, yet she was the jailor as well as the captive. If only… Margo stopped it there, she could no longer countenance any repeat of that mantra, no exploration of what might have been. If only! The words rang hollow, repeating in her mind despite her willing them to stop. “You’ve made your bed and now must lie in it.” Her mother’s voice: judgemental, strong with the certainty of religious fervour. Hateful. Margo’s inability to blindly follow that same narrow path of righteousness her parents trod had driven her to this, unloved, discarded, unfit for the kingdom of heaven. Was it any wonder she had ended up like this? Knocked up, knocked about – just another piece of human garbage nobody cared about.

The day stretched in front of her like a forbidden prize; hours without Oscar and his vicious quips, his punishing fists. This time would end too soon. The sound of the quad bike heralding his return would start her shivering with fear, painfully aware that any wrong move, any misplaced step, comment or perceived inadequacy would be sufficient cause for him to lash out. She started with the kitchen, scrubbing the floor clean of her blood where she’d fallen last evening, rearranging the furniture, righting fallen chairs. Her eyes fell on the knife rack, a housewarming present from one of the few women still willing to accept her as one of their own. In her darker moments she’d imagined uses for those knives. A swift end to her own misery, a long deep cut up the arm to expose the maximum arterial vein, blood fountaining out in reducing pulses. Or him. Taking a knife to him. She’d imagined it often enough, but it would have to be deep, and accurate – otherwise he’d finish her in a moment.

The child inside her, though. What could she do? She couldn’t stay with him, yet she had nowhere else to go. The only way out of the glen was along the track and it would have to be by foot. He had the only transport. He’d see her for sure, watch her as she stumbled along the rough track, waiting to ambush her and deal with her as he wanted. He didn’t want the child and she knew he wouldn’t hold back from punching her in the stomach in an effort to loosen the foetus’s tenuous hold on life. Her hands instinctively cradled her womb, eyes wide with fright as she realised how trapped she was, how trapped they both were.