What I Did

by Kate Bradley

  I pulled on it harder, feeling panic rising in my chest. Inches from me, and so angry – like Him! – and I remembered the terror of Him. It’s like he’s here in this kitchen with me, wanting to hurt me again, always so angry about things I don’t understand – have never understood.

  The catch suddenly freed, the window opened outwards too easily under the pressure of my adrenaline, yanking my arm and shoulder with it.

  The hornet bounced along the diamond-leaded window towards me, quick to move towards the rush of air. The buzzing was alarming . . . but then it was gone.

  ‘Wow! Wasn’t it loud?’ The estate agent swiped at the layer of sweat on his top lip.

  Feeling sorry for his embarrassment, I quipped: ‘I bet you get tenants like that.’ I felt pleased when he laughed and looked a little less embarrassed.

  Another door off the hall revealed a small sitting room; Jack and I could be happy here.

  I pictured myself tucked up by a fire, watching the telly whilst Jack was asleep upstairs. Then I realised that’s all I would be doing. I felt a shudder of anxiety: I’d be living as a single parent where there was no park; no flat whites at the local coffee shop and no swimming pool. But even though that was true, I put my anxieties away. Nothing was more important than keeping Jack hidden.

  The estate agent opened a door: ‘A stairs in a cupboard! Isn’t that a stunning character feature?’ and I was charmed enough to agree. The stairs were behind the door; U-shaped and creaky. I followed him up, each riser groaning, to the top of the house where there were two low-ceilinged bedrooms built into the eaves at each end, with a tiny bathroom in the middle. We went to the first bedroom. It had leaded windows and was only just big enough for a double bed.

  ‘This could be the master,’ he said, ‘Or you might prefer the views from the other bedroom – excellent as well, of course.’ I followed him to the other. ‘Both the same size,’ he said, ‘so you have the choice between them and then you’ll have the added benefit of a guest bed or upstairs office.’

  ‘I have a son. This will be his room.’

  ‘Oh! Forgive me, your details said it was for a household of one.’

  His manner, his young certainty, annoyed me for some reason. ‘Jack’s in the car.’

  I was glad to see a shadow of confusion cross his face. ‘Oh, I didn’t see . . .’ but he recovered quickly and smiled. ‘This will be a great bedroom for him, I’m sure.’

  I examined the wardrobes; the bathroom. Every step upstairs creaked and gave a little. ‘Do you think this floor is safe?’

  ‘A surveyor visited just last month – no woodworm and the joists are sound. It’s a character property; adds to the charm.’

  I followed him out onto the drive. ‘I’m going to take it,’ I said, agreeing that I’d come into the office to get the tenancy set up.

  He held his hand out. ‘Great, I’m sure you will be so happy here – you and your son,’ he looked over to see Jack, but Jack’s hand was no longer hanging out of the car and he’d pulled his leg in; I was glad he’d hidden from sight. Since saying it, I’d been regretting mentioning him. I told the estate agent’s office it was just me for a reason and should’ve kept it that way.

  I shook the man’s hand.

  ‘You’ll be checking out local schools this afternoon, I’ll bet. I understand the nearest one is in the village of Cleasong; it’s outstanding and is only four miles that way.’

  I looked in the direction he was pointing, but could see only farmland, and what might possibly be a farmhouse. ‘Thanks, but Jack’s going to be home-educated.’

  I lingered, watching him drive away, my arms, despite the heat, wrapped round me.

  four:

  – now –

  Listening to the screaming, I realise I’m too late to save Jack. I hear the wind-chime again and I realise that I’m wrong – the screaming is only the scream of mating foxes in the dusk.

  Is that true?

  Yes. Their crying sounds like tortured children and it’s always scared me, misplaced city girl that I am. I’m from Brighton. And Bracknell. Now I live here in the countryside with Jack. I’ve been fighting for something but I can’t remember what. It’s hard to think when I feel so tired . . . I shut my eyes or perhaps the world is just greying . . .

  . . . I’m drifting. My thoughts are the flashes of silver-sided eels in a strong, muddy river: brief, elusive, slippery. I can’t be sure of anything . . .

  Then, I’m in a playground I’ve forgotten about. I’m feeling happy: sunshine yellow happy. I haven’t been here for a long time. Jack is on a swing and I’m pushing him. This is real: this has happened.

  Jack is young and is wearing the cutest little short dungarees that show his pudgy legs, the type of baby podge that demands kisses and makes me want to squeeze them harder than I should. I read once that the word to describe this urge is called gigil – an overwhelming reaction to cuteness that the brain tries to shut down with aggression. I don’t know if this is true but I know that the sight of Jack’s squidgy legs makes me want to greedily bite them.

  This is real – this has happened.

  The sun is shining and there’s only the wispiest of clouds in the blue sky. The June weather is lovely – warm but with no press of heat. Everything is green and lovely and fresh. Jack and I have the park nearly to ourselves; I even turn from Winston’s save-me gaze through the railings of the children’s area. I love that dog, but for now just want to concentrate on Jack; I don’t want to have to think about anything else other than my beautiful son.

  In this simple moment I love my baby and my love for Jack is simple and yet molten. Nothing is confused; nothing is complicated; nothing causes concern. He grew in my tummy and he is mine and I love him. The only thing that matters is that today it’s just us and it’s the start of summer and things might be different and things might improve and—

  My lungs inhale suddenly as I lift my head off the kitchen floor and open my eyes again.

  I’m back.

  I see that the old lead-light windows are open and think: The bugs will get in! But the back door is very slightly ajar, swinging in the breeze, and I know that something much nastier than bugs has already got inside.

  Everything instantly both hurts and is clear: Jack’s dad has come for us.

  five:

  – before –

  I remember when I met Jack’s dad. I hadn’t long trained as a nurse when I attended a blue-light evening for nurses, firemen and police. Nick had come in with a woman who he introduced as his boss, a rather thin blonde who I thought was interested in him, but he said he didn’t mix work with pleasure – ‘too messy’. Besides, she had a tinny, high-pitched laugh that didn’t sound authentic.

  He, on the other hand, was so very bloody authentic. He wore his dark blonde hair swept back, but when a wavy lock broke loose I thought he looked like James Dean.

  He wore trousers that showed his muscly legs and shirts with short sleeves that showed off his blue Celtic tattoos. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was good-looking in that square-jawed way that I’m just a sucker for. And when he spoke, boy, he could just talk anyone’s knickers off. It might’ve been the words he used; it might’ve been the intonation, I don’t know because I could never put my finger on it, but he was very sexy. And when he looked at me, I was glad he wasn’t interested in Too Messy.

  As we danced, he told me he was a police constable who had visions of becoming a detective. The music was too loud to talk properly, so we left to go to a nearby pub, where we sat in a dark corner, our hope big, eyes bright and conversation small.

  Eventually, we left and walked to the bus stop. We behaved ourselves, released from the pub into the night, but we felt aware, so aware, of the possibilities. It was as if the electric ions that buzz before a storm were alive for us, pensive but poised. But if he felt it too, we didn’t speak about it. Instead we talked in quiet voices, walked orderly as if to deny the huge amount of wine we’
d drunk and the dark eyes we’d been making at each other all night.

  We almost made it.

  With only ten metres to the bus stop, I thought that it was over. I’d already started to think about how to say goodbye. I started to rehearse lines that suggested I didn’t mind too much we hadn’t made it to the next base. My cheeks started to flame and I felt both desperate and embarrassed that I’d read it all wrong. The pub had seemed a womb of possibility; the cold night the steriliser.

  Then in a snap, it changed.

  In one moment he’d moved me back into the shadows and kissed me lightly against someone’s garden wall. It was that moment that changed the direction of my life.

  At some point I must’ve drawn breath, but it wasn’t for the longest of moments. The intensity of that kiss, mirrored the intensitity of our relationship.

  We’d only been together for two months when Nick asked me to marry him. We were in bed on a Sunday morning; it was still early and we were sleepy but happy. It was one of those perfect days when the sun fell through the sash windows of his flat, and we had nothing planned except rumbles of a possible Sunday lunch at a country pub and a bank holiday on the other side of another night filled with curiously dark, but incredibly erotic, sex.

  I lay on top of him, my arms and legs star-stretched out, my hands finger-laced with his, my feet lying flat against his own.

  It must’ve been summer because we’d lost the duvet somewhere along the way and neither of us looked for it. Instead we just stared and stared into each other’s eyes. I stared at those blue eyes and felt amazed that I could have such an intense connection with another person. I’d never experienced anything like it – I just stared, fascinated, enraptured.

  ‘Lisa,’ he said, his breath moving my hair against my face. I giggled, but his face had changed, become serious.

  ‘Honey?’ he said trying again. ‘I want to ask you something. I know . . . it’s been no time, I know that . . . but even so, what I’m trying to say is . . .’ In his pause, he looked so vulnerable, so afraid. ‘I want to marry you.’ His tone was serious but his words floated like bubbles. ‘What I’m trying to say is – will you marry me? Lisa, will you be my wife?’

  I knew it was crazy to get married so soon, when I didn’t really know him. But I didn’t care. Right then was the happiest moment of my life.

  We loved being together and as soon as we were engaged we started looking at flats. But nothing was the perfect family home I’d dreamed of. By the time we walked into the Victorian flat we were to buy, I was seven months pregnant with Jack. We loved it straightaway. ‘Look at the high ceilings!’ I said in a hushed squeal, as we trailed round after the estate agent. We were a couple with vision. We could see past the peeling wallpaper, the dirty carpet, the dated kitchen and tired bathroom. Together, we opened cupboards, looked up the chimneys and angled our heads out of the bay windows, not caring that the estate agent stood in the hall pointedly looking at his watch and saying: ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ve really got to get going.’

  We knew we could make it beautiful. It would take dedication, sweat and whatever money we had spare, but we could do it.

  ‘Put the offer in,’ I whispered in the kitchen, away from the estate agent’s hearing.

  ‘Now?’ he asked. ‘Before we leave?’

  ‘We don’t want to miss out. What if it goes?’

  ‘We should think it over. It’s all our money. And more – much more.’

  ‘But we can’t risk losing it. It’s the best we’ve seen.’ I patted my stomach. ‘We’ll not find a better one.’ Money was tight; we knew I’d be stopping work soon and we would miss my nurse’s wage. In those days, we still believed that I’d be going back after a few months.

  ‘But . . .’ He rubbed his cheek in the way he always did when unsure and thinking things over. ‘But you said we were only looking at it to get an understanding of the market . . .’

  I loved him in that moment more than I had ever loved him because I knew he was thinking about it only because I wanted him to. Even more than when I told him I was pregnant and he beamed with joy. Even more than when he introduced me to his widowed mother as if I were a princess. We loved each other a lot back then.

  ‘Please, Nick!’ My fingers squeezed his arm, perhaps a little too hard. ‘I really want this flat.’

  He squeezed my hand and nodded.

  *

  Nick was – and is – the love of my life. It was to my joy that we came together and it was to my shame how we parted. Much of what went on in our world was as dark as the shadows that we came together in, but I never could regret it because we had Jack.

  Jack.

  six:

  – now –

  I remember everything now.

  Jack is very nearly eight years old and he is beautiful and he’s in danger.

  Now, every molecule I have is refocused and tuned to save him. I hope he’s upstairs where I finally left him, carefully unpeeling my hand from his, as we do every night when he finally falls asleep. But I’m scared he’s gone.

  I’m scared he’s been taken.

  I know I’m in the cottage I rented a year ago; I think his father has found us.

  The screaming of the foxes is now replaced by silent screaming in my head.

  I know I’ve been hit. I know this is why I am grey and foggy and there’s bright white pain at the back of my head.

  I sit up. The suddenness of my movement makes my shoulders scream. I’m numb. I don’t get more than a few inches without feeling the grey rolling back again, this time with the need to vomit.

  I try again to touch the hurt, but I realise he has tied my hands behind my back.

  Of course he has.

  He. I can’t, won’t, use his name. When he cut me off by not using mine, then I did the same and burnt his name from my lips. Now he’s just Jack’s father. Him. That man. Bastard. Beloved. Breaker of hearts. Darling one. Destructor. Murderer. Mine. It’s all the same.

  What will he do now he has found his son?

  This question beats in my brain like the thrum thrum of my pulse, each beat pulling on my meninges, feeling like the worst hangover ever. This is a question I’ve considered possibly every night since I bundled Jack up and ran. This is the question that has kept us moving, finally seeking refuge here.

  I pull at my wrists, then try to sit up again, feeling sea-lion clumsy. It’s harder than I thought, my balance thrown off with my deadened, so painful, hands and shoulders, but this time I manage it. The world lurches . . .

  . . . Grey . . .

  . . . Nausea . . .

  . . . Fairground roller coaster . . .

  I bring my knees up and rest my face against them, breathing slowly until the nausea passes.

  Panic flares, but I force myself to stay still for a moment, to keep breathing deeply. I want to leap up and save Jack, but I’m worried I’ll pass out again. I turn my head and look at the wall clock. Eight thirty: I’ve been out for half an hour.

  I need a plan. There’s a great possibility, I realise, that they are already miles away, perhaps even out of Herefordshire itself. I imagine him leading Jack through the back door, into the garden, and taking him by the hand across the green fields, all the time pulling him, his large fingers handcuffed tight around Jack’s little wrist.

  No – he would’ve put him in a car. I imagine one hand clamped across a silently screaming Jack’s mouth as he holds his son across one shoulder, dropping him into the car boot. Then I start to imagine something worse – much worse.

  I see it; I see them; I see the dark.

  A vast, jagged iceberg drops into my stomach. I swallow against the cold, cold fear. I know I am close to losing it again. I have to fight this.

  I need to search the cottage. If they are here, I will appeal to him, or fight him or whatever it takes. I know the police won’t help me, I know they will side with him, but I will not lie here on my floor doing nothin
g.

  I pull against my wrists and then move my fingers in an attempt to understand what’s holding them. It’s tight. It burns my skin. I twist round trying to see but I can’t see much over my shoulder. I fight my bonds: whatever it is bites my flesh again and I understand it’s not going to be easy to get free.

  Twisting my legs underneath me, I clamber to my knees. Then I check behind me, fearing a blood puddle: but the tiles are clean. Shuffling nearer the oak cabinets, I decide to use the counter for support. I struggle to stand, but manage it, before flopping against it and then laying my cheek against the cold marble. It makes me feel better.

  I want to understand what happened to me. I came down the narrow cottage stairs just before eight. I remember coming into the kitchen and going to pick up our dinner plates from the table . . . and . . .

  Nothing.

  He must have attacked me then, because I don’t remember getting to the sink. Where are the plates? Not in the sink, not on the floor.

  Then I notice the dishwasher door is ajar. It’s not been left like that by me. I never use the dishwasher, I always wash up by hand. He never used to, even when it was the two of us, before Jack. It was one of the petty arguments we used to have at a time when we still had petty arguments. Inside are two dinner plates: mine and Jack’s.

  He stepped over me and opened the unused dishwasher and slotted in the plates as I lay on the floor by his feet.

  My anger is hot steel, forged by years of his abuse. Sickened that he has brought his violence here, sickened in case Jack witnessed it, furious he would just step over me to purposefully make a mockery of me, I decide I’m going to have it out with him. Yes, he’s bigger, stronger, more vicious, but suddenly I don’t care. I am beyond seething. I don’t even care if my recklessness is because of my head injury. It doesn’t have to make sense: I just feel it.

  I stand up straight and, reaching the kitchen door, I look into the hall and at the door to the stairs. It takes less than a second to decide to get free first. He’ll be expecting me and with my hands tied behind my back, I couldn’t do more than insult him.