Free Molly's War by Maggie Hope

grabbed her again, practically throwing her on the bed with him on top of her. The breath was knocked out of Molly. He wasn’t very big but strong enough to hold her slight form down, her arms pinned. One of his hands was clutching at her hair, the other scrabbling at her breast. His face was close to hers. A drop of spittle fell on to her chin. She felt as though her hair was being torn out at the roots, the pain agonising.
    ‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’ he said hoarsely. ‘This is what you’ve been angling for ever since Betty went to hospital – wiggling your arse at me every time you went past me, looking at me with those big come-to-bed eyes. Well, now you’re going to get it, slut! Now …’
    In a desperate burst of energy Molly heaved and managed to catch him off balance. He fell off her, teetering on the edge of the bed for a second and falling heavily on to the floor. As he fell his fingers dug into her breast and she cried out with the pain.
    ‘Stop that flaming noise!’ someone was shouting. There was a banging on the wall. Molly heard it as from a distance. She was too busy scrambling off the bed, grabbing her coat from the hook and covering herself. She stood at the doorway, poised for flight, then realised Mr Jones was saying nothing, lying on the floor beside the bed. Oh, God, had she killed him? Had he hit his head on the fender? No, he was moving, sitting up, groaning. He put a hand to his head and held it there for a moment before getting heavily to his feet.
    Molly took a step through the door, the linoleum cold under her bare feet. She was wary of him but he did not look at her as he walked past her, nightshirt billowing round skinny ankles. At his own bedroom door he turned.
    ‘Get out of here, you slut! Take your things and get out. Never mind the rent, I want shot of you.’
    ‘It’s the middle of the night!’ gasped Molly.
    ‘I don’t care what time it is. You can sleep on the street for all I care. Get your things together now or get out without them. Either way, if you’re not out of here in ten minutes, I’ll throw you out.’
    He stood there, holding his head and trying to look dignified, succeeding only in looking ludicrous so that Molly felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in her in spite of her predicament. Hurriedly she went back into her bedroom and closed the door, leaning on it and hiccuping with laughter. But it died almost immediately and tears took its place.
    She dashed them away angrily and dressed before gathering her things together. She could only take her case, she thought. What about the bits and pieces she had brought from Eden Hope? Dumbly she put the parcel she’d received that morning, the one which had brought her such happiness as she hadn’t known for months, in her suitcase. It stuck up a bit, the case wouldn’t close properly. She’d have to be careful with it, she told herself. She’d have to leave her other things, her sewing basket and such. She carried the case to the door, paused and looked back. She had no idea where she was going, she realised. Could she turn up on Cathy’s doorstep in the middle of the night? No, she rejected the idea. After all, they had only just met.
    Going back into the room, she picked up the marble clock from the mantelshelf. She couldn’t leave that. With the clock tucked under one arm and her suitcase, which felt as heavy as lead, in her other hand, she went downstairs. Mr Jones was waiting at the door.
    ‘I’ll come back for my other things.’
    ‘You will not,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get them myself and put them outside. If they’re not gone by morning I’ll take them to the tip.’
    ‘You can’t! I’ll get the polis …’
    ‘You’ll not, lass. It’ll be me that gets the polis,’ he said grimly, and gave her a push out of the door and on to the pavement. Molly dropped her case and grasped at the clock to stop it falling. The case burst open. She must not have closed it properly.
    A