What Henrietta Saw

Henrietta was still in bed. It was early morning on the Boxing Day. All the birds woke up in the forest, announcing their awakening with a volume and brightness equal to that of New Year's Eve fireworks. She rubbed her eyes from a dream she thought had haunted her last night, but a sharp glance at the bedside table immediately brought back memories. There were several books about nature and the forest under the blue Anglepoise lamp which she read endlessly until the door opened. Beside them lay a few presents carelessly wrapped in plain grey paper, staring curiously at the woman, as did her greyhound, freshly awakened and lured to his mistress’s bed.

The woman got up to make her morning tea when she heard a man whistling from the bathroom. She lived alone, never invited guests, her parents had died long ago, and the only thing she shared her house in the woods with was her dog. On the way to the kitchen, she saw a khaki green Barbour quilted jacket hanging in the hall. A thick navy blue, red, and white Norwegian-style selburose design men’s sweater from the Graham Leggate collection lay casually on a chair next to the hanger, and brown Italian leather Bottega Velasca shoes filled the space next to many women’s boots of the same style, each in immaculate condition, from top to bottom shelf. His still bore traces of artistically splashed mud. The fiercely orange backpack was recklessly buried in various headgear, mostly winter hats, lying on the dresser. Its unfashionable appearance stung the eyes. The sight of these male objects brought to her mind a forest clearing.

Henrietta took the dog out late yesterday evening. She could hear a barn owl hoot from afar, making the atmosphere more ominous. It was almost getting dark, so Ralph's dun fur fairly faded into the oncoming darkness. The dog seemed spooked when they saw him emerging from the shadows, looking like a mountaineer, a Scottish highlander, or someone similarly secretive in his demeanour. He wasn't particularly handsome, his hair receding on top of the head, but something drew her to him and she couldn't figure it out what it really was. In the first words he spoke to her, he told her about his broken car. One of the tyres was punctured with a razor-sharp object lying on a country road. He did not have a spare because he had not had time to replace it after the last time when he had the same issue on the same road. Roadside assistance refused to help him unless he would pay for someone sent. He didn’t have any money in his bank account at the moment as it was the end of the month, so he had to wait until the first one next month. “It’s only a few days, the car can wait.” He said reassuringly. Henrietta met him in the woods, she didn't see the car, so she couldn't be sure if his story was true. And yet she showed him hospitality on account of the holiday season and in a gesture of goodwill. She hadn't expected any surprises.

The first unusual thing arrived in the kitchen, where she left the laundry to be taken care of the next day. On top of a plastic basket placed on the countertop was a plain white men's T-shirt, stained with blood. “There has to be an explanation…” It flashed through her mind. She prepared a cup of cinnamon and vanilla chai, took a few brioche rolls she had bought a few days ago, and, equipped with reading glasses, went upstairs to eat breakfast in the privacy of her bedroom.

When the man finished, he peeked from behind the door, startled but not stumped to see a woman shamelessly showily slurping her tea without any inhibitions.

‘Are you still in your pyjamas, Hen?’ The man looked at her blue cotton attire as though it did not match the image of a woman in bed.

‘Please don’t call me that. The name is Henrietta,’ she protested timidly.

‘Okay. Henrietta. I never had the opportunity to properly thank you for a shelter last night. I left a thank you note on your bedside table. I have absolutely no idea if you would like it, but that was the only thing I could do given my present poor position…’

‘You didn’t have to do anything, but thank you,’ she glimpsed at the gifts from under her spectacles. She wasn’t sure whether to ask him about a T-shirt, yet took a chance.

‘Is that your T-shirt in my laundry basket in the kitchen? It’s a little bit… How should I put it… dirty?’

‘Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you yesterday. When my car broke down, I went into the woods hoping to hunt as I had my gun with me. I haven’t had much luck. The deer I had injured escaped from my lap as I tried to find a harmless way to finish her off. This is where the blood comes from. And on my trousers too.’ He lifted the navy-blue denim pants in the air as if it were a winning trophy.

‘I see…’ Henrietta delved into her books, a gesture that was meant to show her indifference to this matter.

When the man went downstairs to prepare breakfast as she had let him take whatever he wanted, she glanced anxiously at the gifts. She wanted to unpack them quickly, but didn't want to look impatient to him. She smiled softly and pulled a paper knife from the nightstand. She couldn’t believe what she saw. All the gifts gave the impression as if they were prepared for the entire family: warm socks for an elderly person, feminine makeup, and one for a child: a simple wind-up toy, a duck staring at a woman with its large brown eyes.

Henrietta was stunned. She pulled herself together, left her presents open on the bed, and slowly shuffled her feet into the kitchen. The man was eating full English at her kitchen table, munching on beacons and eggs, apparently making himself at home. He even dared to take the last gift from her father – a 50-year-old Macallan – from the buffet.

“How did he find it?” it passed swiftly through her mind as she neared the kitchen counter. The meat cleaver seemed to be the most effective among utensils.

‘I unpacked the presents… They are quite impressive considering…’

The man whose name Henrietta had never known made to stand up, but she was faster. He tried to lunge at her, but she stabbed him in the throat with a meat cleaver. He managed to whisper in his hoarse voice:

‘I admired your Martens… so many… cuts, colours…’ he gasped, struggling to his feet. ‘I haven’t had a real chance to laugh… You’re smart… Respect,’ he whispered in his last breath.

‘I admired your lack of guts…’

Henrietta saw the man’s last breath disappear into the bright morning air.

Then she skilfully cut his body into small pieces as if it were animal meat prepared for dinner, and threw it on the fire. The hearth cracked curiously, choking on parts of the man’s body.

She reminded herself about Joanne in the institution. She has not visited her daughter since last Christmas. She did not dare. The girl wouldn’t recognise her anyway, lost in her own world. Henrietta couldn’t bear to see her own child suffer more than she did. That’s why she tried to forget. But now, with the tears swelling up in her eyes and the memories flooding like waterfalls, she couldn’t bear not seeing her again.

She knew no one was going to look for the guy she murdered. He was unequivocally suggesting his impudent act committed on his whole family. He was, as he mentioned, self-employed repairing parts of expensive watches, but he hadn't had many orders lately, waited for the last drop of money from the last month. That is why he murdered them – out of fear of facing the harsh reality. He also had no friends, a lonely soul like hers, one that no one would look at and no one would look for.

If by some miracle the police had a chance to question her, she could always say that the incident happened in her defence, which was partly true. He pounced on her; she was scared. Even if she wasn’t, she could say it without blinking an eye. Who would care?

The next morning, Henrietta put on a tracksuit given to her by her uncle who lived in the GDR in the 1980s. It was brown, white, and orange. Nothing fancy, but it was important that Joanne could remember it. She was also wearing an orange winter hat to match her tracksuit and a pair of brown climbing sneakers with orange laces. As she walked through the forest, the sun shyly tried to break through the leafless winter braid of the trees. When she appeared in the forest clearing, the sign of forestry work in progress flashed in her eyes, awakening her as if from the deepest dreams. When she saw a group of white horses busy eating nature’s blessings, she knew the children’s hospital was at her feet.

– THE END –

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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It's a sequel to this story.

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