Ruby & The Rose (lesbian stories)

Chapter 6

6

The sun was deceptively bright when Rose awoke; it was startlingly yellow, while the air was still icy. She pushed away the blanket laid across her shoulders and rubbed sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her entire body seemed to throb in a dull ache.

“You didn’t sleep very well,” Ruby said from her bed, answering the query Rose had never said out loud. “Tossing and turning… You mumbled quite a bit as well.”

Rose felt a blush creep hotly across her olive cheeks. Her nightmares had become less and less frequent, but never went away completely. “Sorry,” she said. Ruby shrugged.

“It’s no problem. I’ve slept at the side of the road before- and a couple of times on a train platform. And my dad used to snore like anything.”

Rose got out of bed, and smoothed down her rumpled clothes.

“Do you want to go out for breakfast?” she offered. “I’m free until about midday.”

“That would be nice,” said Ruby. She had changed her clothes. It was an old trick she’d obviously picked up very quickly from the street- stealing from the laundry. Rose had partaken in such activities countless times. Her old stained dress and tights were replaced with a large jumper and distressed jeans. On her feet were a pair of brown boots, and her hair was tied back in a tartan scarf. She looked so different, but more comfortable. More herself. Rose was happy for it.

The pair ate greasy bacon sandwiches on the high street, perched on a large concrete flower pot, all its floras drooping or dead. Ruby swung her dangling feet in floating circles. They chatted aimlessly about everything and nothing, until the sandwiches were eaten and a little golden sunlight began to seep through the clouds.

The next hour they spent people watching, before taking a slow stroll through the town. It was a small place with few shops, but bustling with life. Loud children sped past- on foot or bicycle- and dogs with matted fur barked and yapped on every doorstep. The houses themselves were frankly decrepit; the doors hung loose on their rusting hinges, smashed windows were boarded up, and many roof tiles were missing or cracked. Housewives in faded aprons and holey slippers scuffled around. Some held overflowing armfuls of laundry which they pegged hurriedly to the clotheslines that criss-crossed the streets. Others tugged tin baths out to the stinking drains to empty them of dirty wash water. Rose could once again see for herself how badly the north had been hit by the past ten years. Southern England may be teeming with the homeless, hookers and drug dealers, but atleast they had decent plumbing.

At twelve exactly, they returned to the B&B. The same young man sat behind the reception desk, his novel lying open in his lap; but his eyes were closed, and he emitted soft snores.

Ruby sat cross-legged on the bed, sipping from a mug of sweet coffee, as Rose sorted her things. The moleskin diary had two entries on its open page, written in black ink and a neat round hand.

12:30- Jemima Foxx

46 Queen’s Square

Poison

18:00- Rev. Macaulay Roberts-Lee

The Rectory

17 Church Street

Rifle

The vicar would be an easy enough job. The client had given her plenty of information- on the layout of the house, on suitable hiding places along the street, how he was a man of routine and would therefore be in his sitting room drinking tea at six o’clock. Miss Foxx, on the other hand, may have proven to be a challenge. Rose was glad. She needed a break from the monotonous, and a good poisoning was always fun.