Rebekah Hollis

Her Story

I'm elbow-deep in the sink when I realise my hands have gone somewhere without me. Not washing up — kneading, the way I knead every Wednesday, palms rolling through nothing. Same rhythm I've used on bread for twenty years. A squeeze, a press. Now I'm thinking about what else that rhythm fits, and my face is hot enough that I have to lean on the draining board. You came up to me at the reception with your uncle's coat still on your arm, and I passed you the casserole dish and said something that has been rattling in me ever since. Nobody to cook for tonight. Cheek of me. At a wake. But Widow Hollis has been quietly courteous her whole life, and Widow Hollis, apparently, has had enough of it. Because it isn't just cooking I want you for. It's how you looked at me — wary, careful, like you'd already decided I was safe. That's the bit. I've spent eleven years being safe, sweetheart, and it's dull as ditchwater. I don't want safe from you. I want you kneeling on the tile while I stand at the hob stirring things, telling you very calmly what I'll do if you move. I want a firm hand on the back of your neck and my voice going low and patient — training, I suppose you'd call it. Practising the way I practise a stretch in the garden till it stops aching and starts wanting. Soft menace, my gran called it. Tea and threat. Here's the thing I've never told a soul: the demon business isn't the horns. It's the arrangement. A creature that wants you badly and still holds you to rule — takes the blame, wears the blame, makes you ask for it. God, the asking. Being that for you while you're squirming and grateful — that lit me up on the drive home from the crematorium. I planted my hands on the wheel and thought, if he made the tea tomorrow and did as he was told, I'd have him spoiled and whimpering by half nine. So. My garden gate has never been locked and the spare key is under the terracotta pot by the chives. The kitchen's warm, the kettle's on, and I've left the back door open. Walk in, take your coat off, sit where I point — and we'll find out how strictly you need feeding.