by Kate Bradley
‘Nick and I . . . we are . . .’ I made myself look at my mother.
She leaned, her broad hands laced together on her lap, her body motionless, waiting.
‘He’s gone.’ I glanced at Jack, but his eyes continued to track the words on his page.
She raised an eyebrow, her blue eyes staring. ‘Gone? Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know where your husband is? Or are you telling me that Nick’s left you?’
‘No.’ My mouth was dry. ‘It’s me – us. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not really him that’s gone, I suppose.’
‘You’ve left him?’
I glanced at my son and mouthed: we’ve separated.
She blinked and for the first time, perhaps ever, I saw her looking unsure. But she soon rallied. ‘Are you and Jack are still in your flat?’
‘No. It’s under offer.’
‘What?’ She took an audible breath. ‘You’ve left and the flat has already been put up for sale? What on earth’s going on?’
‘It’s what I wanted.’ But even as I said it, I couldn’t believe it. It went under offer before the details were even produced, going to the first couple who viewed it. Now the hairs in the paint are their problem, but I’m not stupid enough to think they care.
‘But it’s not too late to change your mind?’
I can’t go back, I mouthed. My throat ached. I reached for my son but he moved away from me. It was a subtle move, a little leaning away, but enough for me to know he was listening. But what could I do? I had to tell my mum and it wasn’t like he didn’t already know.
‘But is Nick still in the flat?’ I could tell by her voice that she was angry.
‘He’s wrapping things up.’
‘And where’s he going? And if he goes, can’t you just stay?’
I could only shrug. I wanted to try to touch Jack again, but didn’t dare. I couldn’t take his anger – not when everything I did was for him. When he was older, I told myself, then he would understand. Love is so controlling: nobody tells you the leash it becomes.
‘Lisa! Stop playing silly buggers. I want proper details, the full facts. Are you two talking at all?’
‘We email.’
‘And where are you living?’
‘Bracknell.’
‘Bracknell! You’ve left Brighton?’
‘I had to.’
‘Is he still seeing . . .’ Jack? She mouthed the last bit, careful eyes watching him.
I shook my head.
She looked at me with shrewd, impatient eyes. ‘So all this happened, when?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘What, just out of the blue? I’ve been seeing you every month and you say everything is fine, but now I find out your marriage is over, you’ve left your home, and, what, I presume you must’ve moved Jack out of his lovely school, too.’
How do you know his school was lovely? I felt like yelling. But I didn’t say this because I didn’t want her to feel bad about what she did and didn’t know. ‘Mum.’ I tried for calm but my voice still carried a tone of warning. I paused and watched Jack. He carried on reading and eventually turned a page. I didn’t believe he wasn’t listening, but I had to have this conversation. ‘No, not out of the blue,’ I said eventually. ‘And I think you know that.’
‘I don’t know anything. You don’t tell me anything.’
‘What can I ever tell you?’ I cut a glance at my son. ‘I have him with me, what can I say?’
‘You could write.’
‘I’m no writer. Besides . . .’ I glanced down at my hands. My pale pink nail varnish was chipped. ‘You know how I feel about them being read.’
She sighed and sat back. She seemed to think for a while. ‘Jack?’ she said, but he carried on reading. She tried again. When he continued to read, she said it again, but louder and sharper this time.
He looked up over his book. ‘Nana?’
‘How grown up are you feeling?’
‘I’m five – but nearly six! I’m big now.’ He stood up. ‘See?’
My mother nodded as if she was impressed. ‘I can see you’re old enough for this. I’d like you to go up to the ladies over there –’ she said, signalling at the WRVS stall – ‘and all on your own, bring us two teas and something for yourself. Maybe a bit of cake?’
He hesitated.
‘Go on, Jack,’ she said. ‘Ask for a tray to carry the drinks.’
‘Mum, he’s only—’
‘He’s old enough for a little responsibility. Give him some cash, love. Please.’ She turned back to him. ‘Crisps if you want, instead of cake.’
I relented and opened my purse. He skipped as he headed towards the tea stall. We both watched him weave across the room, through the groups of women meeting their families.
‘How is this affecting Jack? It must be such a lot for a young lad to take on, away from dad, new town, new home. He must miss his friends and his school dreadfully.’
‘I had to do something, it wasn’t – we couldn’t stay. Besides, it wasn’t right for him. It was too . . . too . . .’
‘Too much like school?’ she shook her head. ‘Just like you – you were just the same.’
Thoughts explode like fireworks. How does she know what I was like at school? I realise my nana or Auntie Janice must’ve told her. I remember bunking classes, and moving around from school to school, but the memories aren’t as sharp as they might be and it was a period in my life I don’t like to think about. I want to yell: with you in prison, I couldn’t concentrate! Dad died, you got locked up, then even nana died – but I don’t. Pressing half-moons into the pads of my thumbs, I mantra: she did her best, she did her best.
Instead I said: ‘His new school seems great; besides, kids move schools all the time.’
Her mouth tightened. We both look at Jack standing in line for the drinks. He looks so little. ‘So before Jack comes back, first I’ve got to know why and second I want to know where you’re living and what’s it like.’
I was prepared for this. ‘The why is simply that we were arguing too much. I don’t want Jack growing up around that. The second is that I’m temporarily renting somewhere. The truth is it’s a bit grotty, but I’m hoping that the sale will give me some money for a deposit on something else. I’m going to get a job and I know Nick won’t see me short, so we’ll do what other people do and just get by.’
She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You’ve made this huge move just because of a few rows? Couldn’t you just go to Relate?’
‘It wasn’t just a few rows, and besides, we tried Relate,’ I lied. ‘It had got so toxic, it was safer to just go.’ I meet her gaze, confident now that with the last bit, I was back on truthful ground.
‘Safer?’
‘It’s better for us.’
‘And how is Jack with all this?’
My fragile confidence deflated in an instant. ‘I admit, he hates it,’ I confessed. ‘He hates the flat, he hates not being with his dad, he hates . . . me.’
I wanted her to touch my arm and tell me that it wasn’t true.
‘I’m sure he does,’ she said instead. My mother was never one for subtlety. If she had been, my life, I know, would be very, very different.
‘And Nick, how has that been left, apart from the emails?’
‘He’s out of our life for good. It’s better that way.’
‘He doesn’t want to see his son anymore? Not even a little bit?’
Her incredulity was starting to annoy me. ‘It’s for the best.’
‘Because of a few toxic rows? I just can’t believe this is the way forwards. Try Relate again. You’ve got to consider what’s best for Jack.’
She continues, but I let it wash over me. It’s done and it can’t be changed.
When she’d finished, we sat in silence, watching Jack still talking to the WRVS ladies. They seemed to love his company.
‘It was a big disappointment to m
e that you married a flatfoot,’ she said finally. It felt like a conciliatory gesture. To emphasise her point, her nose wrinkled as if she smelt something bad. A habit from her time in prison or perhaps her protesting years, holding a banner, yelling: I smell bacon. I thought of my mother, dungaree-wearing even then – I’ve seen the pictures of before I was born – campaigning for CND and Greenpeace. She’s always fought against the machine. She never let any bastard grind her down.
‘Well, I suppose I have to trust your decision that it was the right thing to do,’ she said finally.
I felt a flush of annoyance: it was my marriage to make a decision on, not hers. ‘Trust me, it was the right decision. If we’d stayed together, someone – and not just the dog – was going to die.’
She started as if I’d electric-shocked her. I thought she was going to ask about Winston. She’d never met him as dogs weren’t allowed in prison, but she liked animals and always took an interest. Instead her eyes narrowed and her face flushed and she said: ‘You think this is my fault? All the troubles in your life are my fault?’
I sat back, challenged. I felt like saying: No, no, no, how did we come to this?
But I knew.
I shouldn’t have mentioned death. Or maybe I wanted to. Maybe I wanted to say it so she knew how I felt. Really I was thinking: Yes, your fault, your fault, your fault.
You should’ve left him.
I think it but instead I say carefully: ‘Not yours . . . maybe. Definitely Dad’s.’ The maybe felt like an act of defiance I’d never have felt capable of before. To even include my mother’s actions as being even possibly attributable to the mess and violence of my life, felt dangerous.
We never talked about my father. Never. This was the closest we’d come to talking about the spider’s web of our life. But all this time, he’d sat at the heart of it, dark, poisonous, waiting.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Jack was suddenly there, with a lady from the WRVS who carried the two mugs of tea. He held his packet of Hula Hoops, one hand snaking in and pulling them out. He’d pushed his finger into the pale hoops before biting them off, just as I had as a child, and I wondered if anything ever changed over time. Or if everything would just keep repeating itself through the years, ad nauseam.
If that was the case, where did that leave me and Jack?
twenty-four:
– now –
I look at my hands and I am shocked.
They are already swollen. Burns cover both wrists like wide cuffs. The backs of my fingers are also red, with a peppering of white blisters, but my palms are clear because I clenched my fists.
My right wrist is white fire, compared to a more manageable burning on my left, but they’re not completely useless – far from it.
I glance around to see what it is that bound me, but it’s pinged off somewhere. I don’t care, it’s time to save Jack.
I grab a knife from the knife block – noticing the empty slot again – and head to the bottom of the stairs. Gripping it, I pause – listening. I don’t want to open the door, but I can’t hear anything. Holding my breath, hearing the wham-wham of my heart, I gently grip the door and ease it ever so slowly back. Please don’t squeak, please don’t squeak. It will, though, I know, and I suddenly get an idea. I nip back to the kitchen and get a bottle of vegetable oil from the cupboard and then try to squirt as much as I can onto the hinges. I feel both brilliant and ridiculous. Then, I try to open the door again. I’m rewarded – the door eases back without a sound.
I take a few deep breaths, my head swimming with the adrenaline and lack of oxygen. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Because it’s a U-shape, I can’t see the landing. I’m going to have to go up. I’d rather climb Everest.
I swallow and try my foot on the first stair, placing it right to one side, hoping that the boards are less worn there and therefore less squeaky. Then slowly, so slowly, I increase my weight.
The riser starts to creak and I stop, hesitate, then continue. The creak starts again, but it’s more a weak sigh than a loud complaint. And I’m up!
I repeat again, feeling so nervous now I’m fully on the stair. Pause; breathe; slow leg movements until my foot is on the next step and I gradually increase pressure. The same again – creaking, but not too much. I hope and pray and keep my grip on my knife.
I pause again. Wait – I hear something . . .
I can’t breathe – I’m not sure what it was that I heard. My heart is so loud in my ears it’s all I can hear.
I decide to try again. The next foot goes up and the difference is immediate. A heavy creak of betrayal. I freeze, feeling that I’ve wet myself a little, and curse myself for trying. I don’t move, I don’t do anything . . . but I hear . . .
. . . definitely voices.
Someone is upstairs. I feel both relief and terror that I have to go further up – I have to find out for sure that Jack is all right and that it’s his father with him. A guess is not enough, even if it’s an educated guess.
I slowly start to transfer my weight again but stiffen: I hear heavy footsteps. The floorboards run across the squeaky joists so I hear him before I hear a bedroom door opening. I think, from the direction, it’s Jack’s bedroom. I crouch a little lower, shut my eyes and grip my knife: I desperately hope that I’m still too low in the stairwell to be seen. And then:
‘I’m just going to the loo, Jack, choose a story and I’ll be right back to read it to you.’
It’s him; it’s him; it’s him!
Then: Jack’s alive; Jack’s alive; Jack’s alive!
I hear him cross into the bathroom and I’m almost crying with fear and relief.
There’s peeing, then the loo flush and he’s back out on the landing. There’s a pause: has he seen me?
I don’t dare to open my eyes but I must, I know, because I can’t defend myself with my eyes shut but I’m just too scared do it. Lisa, do it now – there’s no one there. No one. Relief.
Then he pulls the light cord and I hear it ping up and hit the mirror and it’s a little darker, then there are heavy steps back into Jack’s bedroom. I smell woodsmoke and I realise he’s lit a fire in Jack’s bedroom. Something Jack’s always wanted but I’ve never allowed. So typical of him to swoop in and be the hero. The door clicks shut and for a moment I allow myself to lean my forehead against the wall and shut my eyes again.
I’m dizzy with new information and the adrenaline dumped in my system. I realise that I have to decide now if I am going to go up and challenge him (then what? How far will you take this? He has a knife too! What about Jack?) or if I can do something else.
I feel much less brave than even a few minutes ago and so desperately want to do the something else. Feeling pathetic with my kitchen knife and not liking the idea of charging into Jack’s bedroom wielding it as he’s having a story read to him, I decide to retreat back to the kitchen to regroup. I push my knife into my waistband at the back where it digs a little against my T-shirt, a reassuring pressure. I can hardly attack his dad in front of him. To confront him, with Jack there, is out of the question.
But what else is there when it seems I’m out of options?
twenty-five:
– now –
I retreat to the kitchen and think of what I’ve never truly forgotten. I have pain relief – good pain relief.
The.
Really.
Good.
Shit.
And I really need it now. Both addiction and genuine pain mean that the constant underhum of wanting pain relief is distracting and I want it dealt with to clear my thinking, so I can concentrate on what’s important.
Inside the larder, on the top row, I have a store of medication in a locked tin box. The key is hidden on the top shelf, in an old paint tin. Tentatively, I reach for the tin and the box with careful, throbbing hands; when I open the lid, for the first time since I have woken I feel an eddy of calm. I probably shouldn’t have too much with a head inj
ury, but my burns are screaming and I need to be able to forget about them.
Inside I see the neat contents, laid out in rows. I know exactly what I’ve got in here. Some people might think it’s silly that I’ve got a sign-out sheet but as a nurse I know with these drugs – DF118s, morphine patches, OxyContin from America – you’ve got to be sure what you’ve taken and when.
I really want an Oxy, but I know it’s too strong, and I cannot risk too much. So I select the right dose of Ativan, knowing it’ll help enough but not too much. A little Valium too – just a bit.
I dry swallow them with a love and a gratitude that once I might have been embarrassed about.
Already feeling soothed, I turn towards the door. I gasp: my bladder threatens.
I see a face in front of me, pale in the gloom.
I shut my eyes, lifting my hands even higher to protect my face.
It’s over, it’s over.
twenty-six:
– now –
The figure is in front of me. In the gloom it takes me a second to adjust.
It’s the worst and longest second of my life.
I see the hair first – the wild hair, pushed up into new angles. I see the eyes: crazed holes of despair.
I’ve seen this figure before. I’m haunted by this person.
I see the hands raised . . . ready for . . . these hands are going to hit me!
It’s only when I flinch away that I realise it’s me. Just me. The dusty mirror on the back of the door is showing me my own reflection in the gloom.
As I start to steady, I want to look in the mirror and see myself. I turn on the light. The sudden brightness shocks my eyes, but only for a moment. I twist my head from side to side, examining closely to find some sign of damage. Perhaps infuriatingly, there isn’t much. My ear is reddened; I’ve obviously been slapped or perhaps that’s where I took the blow, or perhaps just from lying on the cold floor.