‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll stay for ever.’ I knew when I said that, that I’d taken a step closer to being part of the wonderful, multi-coloured world we lived in.
Nika
Birmingham, 2016
I stand at the bottom of the stone steps that lead into and out of the police station. There are marked and unmarked police cars parked on either side of the entrance and ahead of me there is a low, concrete wall with a wide gap for the pavement and the road in and out for cars.
From my place at the bottom of the steps, I slowly unwind the wires of my player, carefully push each little bud into their corresponding ‘R’ and ‘L’ ears.
It’s a silky, black night, the sky is dusted with stars, a late-winter/early-spring coolness teasing the air. When I walked into the police station darkness was rolling in, inking the sky as it moved. I had walked here from the hospital, thinking about what I was about to do with every step, allowing myself the permission to not go in if I had changed my mind by the time I arrived at my destination. I’d needed that walking time to think and had used every step to remind myself what it would mean for my life, where it would lead to for ‘Grace Carter’.
I have spent so many hours in that building, talking and answering and listening, then talking again. They offered me coffee, they offered me food, they offered water and I had turned it all down. The only thing I had done was go to the toilet to take some time out, to centre myself and remind myself how to be Grace. I have talked so much I have begun to hate the sound of my own voice, to cringe at its intonations and phrasings and crazy, jumbled accent. I have told all that I know and now it’s their turn to check things out, to join up dots, to make connections in all the right places. And to find out who I really am, of course. Who came before Grace ‘Ace’ Carter, as everyone in Birmingham knows me.
With all my concentration, I scrawl through my music player’s screen, searching for the right song. It’s there, I know it is. My fingers work quickly; my brain works slowly as it mentally plays the songs, waiting for the right chords, for the correct words, for exactly what I need to hear right now. There it is. ‘Paris Nights/New York Mornings’, Corinne Bailey Rae. My thumb hits the play button, and the intro begins. In my ears she sings about breakfast at her favourite greasy spoon, wearing her make-up from the night before; through my brain she croons to me with thoughts of: dreaming of the night before in Paris, this morning in New York, remembering the fun she’d had.
Her voice starts to smooth over the raw edges of the last few hours. DS Brennan’s ‘colleagues’ seemed to believe I am Grace Carter. No one asked me about it again, although they must have known she was only born ten or so years ago instead of the thirty-six I am. They were just interested in what I had to say, or so they led me to believe. I’m not stupid. I bet they were allowing me to relax, to talk, hoping I’d give away information about myself while I told them everything I knew.
Nothing is going to happen immediately, which is why I am standing here, with my headphones in, listening to Corinne, allowing myself to believe I could be the woman she is singing about. I could walk down towards Birmingham New Street, to Bernie’s, the greasy spoon that stays open all night, sit in there and pretend I’m the woman from the song – that I’ve just had an amazing night in one city, an excellent day in another, and now I’m kicking back with a coffee and a cigarette.
I’m sure Lou (who runs the place for Bernie) would spot me a cigarette, I’ve enough money in my pocket for a coffee and I’ve enough energy left to get me there. I can rest for a few hours before I crawl home.
All the while I’ve been listening and living out my woman-from-the-song fantasy, I’ve been watching the policeman from earlier, DS Brennan, stare at me from the driver’s seat of his blue Volvo. He is sitting next to someone I assume is another police officer, and they have been studying me since I walked out of the station’s doors. Now he lowers the driver’s window and mouths at me as he leans his head and torso out.
I don’t remove my earbuds right away because I don’t want to know what he’s saying. I’m enjoying being the woman in the song. I’m enjoying being able to forget everything for these precious seconds.
He continues to speak to me, and I can make out a few of the words from the shapes they form on his lips: ‘Drive’. ‘Waiting’. ‘Treat’. I squint at him. ‘Home’. Did he say ‘home’?
Reluctantly I take out my earphones and wait for him to repeat himself. ‘Get in, we’ll drive you home,’ DS Brennan says.
I shake my head. I’m going to come back tomorrow. I’ve started down this road, there is no way for me to back out now, so it isn’t necessary for him to take me home and impress upon me the importance of following through. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a lift. I just want to sleep. I will come back tomorrow – I’ve said I would and I will.’
He opens his car door and climbs out. He then opens his back door. ‘We insist,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I say quietly. ‘Course you do.’
London, 2000
I arrived home to Todd’s flat from one of the technical rehearsals at the theatre up in the West End to low lighting and candles flickering from around various points of the room. The blinds were rolled back and the buildings dotted along the opposite riverbank were twinkling at me. There was the glug of champagne filling and foaming in a glass before he handed it to me. It was a familiar romantic scene, one that Todd liked to set for when I’d been out at work till that bit later, but this time it was different.
The music was different from normal. I recognised it straight away, which ballet it was from. Soft and gentle, it flowed through the room, wrapping itself around the scene he had set like a giant bow. I stood immobile in the doorway. I knew how I should be feeling; I knew I should be grinning, and fizzing inside and longing to slip onto the sofa with him, rest my head on his chest, listen as he told me about his day, about his practice, about what the plans for the team were.
I should have been feeling that but inside I was tangled. Snarled up by dread. This was a scene from one of my recurring nightmares, and not only that, any second now, Todd was going to put himself in my past. He wouldn’t mean to, he wouldn’t even know he was doing it, but that was what he’d do the moment he touched me. There were needles in my veins, pricking holes in the life I’d built for myself away from Chiselwick, the town where I grew up.
‘Do you like it, baby?’ Todd asked, handing me the glass of vintage fizz he had poured for me. He’d taught me a lot about life on the finer side in the past year, and now I’d learnt the smell of the expensive stuff. Our fingers brushed as I took my glass and the needles in my veins, under my skin, ignited themselves.
Smile, I told myself. Smile for the man you love. ‘I love it,’ I lied. I tried not to lie, but to protect him, I had to. ‘Thank you so much.’
Before I’d even had more than two sips of champagne he was taking it away again, grinning at me in that goofy, playful way he had when I had first met him. His hands were all over me, shedding my coat, removing my T-shirt, unbuttoning my trousers. I let him do it, he preferred it that way. Todd liked to be in complete control at times like this and I didn’t know how to tell him I absolutely hated it. That being controlled, especially at times like this, was one of my nightmares. The music seemed to swell, seeping deeper into my skin and fanning the flames of the burning needles.
I can’t do this, I thought as he pushed me gently onto the sofa. I can’t do this, to this music, in this way. ‘I hate you working and coming back so late,’ Todd said as he slowly took his clothes off. ‘I miss you when you’re not here.’
I tried to focus on him, on being in the moment, on not noticing the music morph into the ‘Danse des Petits Cygnes’ from Swan Lake. I used to love this type of music, it would thrill through me, move my body as though it had been written for me, was floating through every cell in me. Slowly, slowly, this type of music stopped being about freedom, and instead, I began to search for ways to curl up
inside the notes and hide.
‘I wish you were here all the time, waiting for me,’ Todd said as he finally climbed on top of me. ‘Instead of the other way around.’
I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him, IlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehim. The words ran together. A ticker tape of intention and a spur to carry on with this. I’d done this, had sex, like this, so many times over the last year. Even when I didn’t particularly enjoy it, didn’t particularly want to, I’d done it because the look on his face, the hurt in his eyes when I said no, was far too upsetting. IlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehim.
The memories the music dragged up fought and foamed, desperate to come out of my throat, spew themselves out into the open. IlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehim. IlovehimIlovehimIlovehim. IlovehimIlovehimIlovehim. IlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehim.
The bouncy, jolly opening of the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ from The Nutcracker began and I couldn’t pretend any more. I couldn’t go elsewhere and let my body carry on as I usually did. ‘Stop,’ I heard myself say. ‘Stop, please, stop.’
‘Not right now, baby,’ Todd murmured with his eyes closed and carried on, pushing himself inside me, starting to move. ‘Not right now.’
‘Please, stop,’ I said again, a little louder.
‘Shhh,’ Todd hushed, covering my mouth with a kiss. ‘Shhhhhh.’ He kept moving, taking his time, being gentle, trying hard not to hurt me, but I wanted him to stop. In my ears the music was so loud, so present, it had set fire to my skin, was burning me up from the inside out.
‘Todd,’ I said loudly, even though my throat felt closed over and closed up. ‘Please! I need you to stop. I need you to stop.’
Todd pulled himself up on to his hands, away from me. I’d had my eyes closed and now they were open, staring up at him. His face was full of upset. He used to look like that when I would say I wasn’t in the mood, and that look would break my heart. I’d feel so horribly guilty I’d pretend to be in the mood, would go through with it, so his expression would go away.
‘I’m sorry, sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t realise you were serious. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ He climbed off me, sat back and stared at me. ‘I love you, I’d never want to hurt you.’ I was in his arms, but this time he was holding me, not trying to have sex with me. ‘Baby, tell me what the matter is. Tell me and I’ll make it all better.’
You can’t make it better, I almost whispered. ‘I just need to tell you something. Something about me and why I need you to stop when I ask you to,’ I confessed instead.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
I looked into his eyes for a second or two, then had to glance away. I couldn’t look at him and tell him. I couldn’t see his face as I tore apart the ideas he had about me. With my gaze firmly fixed on the wall of glass opposite, the night cityscape beyond, I told Todd as much as I could.
I couldn’t tell him the whole tale, not even half of it could come tumbling out, but some of it. A bit of it. Enough of it. Todd listened and listened, and at the end of it, he thanked me for doing him the honour of telling him. He assured me he understood every single word. And he promised he would never ignore my wishes again.
Birmingham, 2016
‘You don’t need to drop me right at my door,’ I say to DS Brennan from the back seat as we get closer to home. I know they have my address, could turn up at any time, but I have to be careful. Yes, I am doing this thing but that doesn’t mean being reckless. ‘A couple of streets away should be fine … Anywhere from here, actually. I can walk the rest.’
DS Brennan’s gaze flicks briefly towards me in the rear-view mirror and then he slows down as though he is about to stop. But doesn’t. He drives on, excruciatingly slowly, this time as though deliberately trying to make sure everyone who is on the streets at this time will see me in the back of a police car. Will start to wonder if I’ve done something completely stupid and dangerous, especially after what had happened less than a week ago.
I lower my gaze to my lap, wondering why he is determined to get me killed.
London, 2001
‘Baby, I just need you to do this one thing for me.’
Pale and shaking, Todd was on his knees in front of me. After a night out like last night (a new nightclub opening), dark, hollowed-out shadows would be scored under Todd’s eyes, his skin would be a mottled beige that would periodically fill up with red, his hair would stand on end from where he’d constantly run his fingers through it. The morning after a night before, he would be sullen and snappy, prickly and pale, and I would do well to keep out of his way. Normally there’d be no way on Earth that he’d be on his knees in front of me asking for help.
He’d been up half the night, pacing the living room floor, keeping me awake with his banging about, snarling at me to go back to sleep if I asked what was wrong. All morning he’d been on the phone, with Murray, I assumed, swinging wildly between snarling and shouting, then weeping and begging. I knew I’d cop the end of it, that he’d hurl his phone at some point and I would be the next target for his upset.
I’d sat on the corner seat of his new sofa, reading as quietly as I could (when he was stressed even reading would be too noisy and would cause him to scream at me), waiting for my share of the rage.
Truly, I hadn’t expected to have him prostrate in front of me, trembling, close to tears. This must have been to do with how quickly Todd had bundled me out of the club last night. As always on these nights out, Todd had ‘worked the room’, talking to all the important people – celebrities and business people – while hissing at me to keep drinking rather than standing there not saying anything. At some point, which was usually when I was too drunk to do much but sit in a corner by myself, he would disappear off as usual, returning some time later with a cigar, a grin and a fuzzy look in his eye. Last night, he’d been gone less than five minutes before he came thundering through the crowd, virtually scooped me out of my seat and practically dragged me out. I was drunk, tired, my feet hurt from the new designer shoes he’d bought me for that night out, so I didn’t really understand what was going on. Usually when he acted like this, he’d accuse me of flirting with another man, but I hadn’t been, I’d been on my own, nursing a double vodka and cola. I’d stumbled on the way out of the club on those shoes, had grabbed his forearm to steady myself on the way out. The sudden flare of camera bulbs had stunned me for a moment and I’d stumbled again, igniting his temper – his hand was painfully tight around mine as he dragged me towards the black car we’d arrived in and then virtually threw me into the back.
The whole way home I’d felt sick. Not only from too much booze, but knowing I would be in for it, for being too drunk, and for showing him up in front of the cameras. But nothing. We’d got in, the door had slammed loudly behind us, and he hadn’t even looked in my direction. I’d waited by the door, expecting him to say something, to sneer his derision at what I had done wrong that night, decide which room to go into while we ‘talked’ out the night. Instead, with barely a look in my direction, he’d pressed a few buttons on his phone and headed off in the direction of the bathroom. I’d stood waiting. This was new. Scary. What was he going to do? Ignore me this time? Punish me with silence? I’d waited and waited and waited until it was clear he wasn’t coming back. I’d listened to his voice in the bathroom, loud and wild. Something huge must have happened, I’d decided. Something so big he didn’t want to talk about it in front of me.
Now he was about to tell me what had happened, and how I could help him by doing this one thing for him. He held on to my hands, gently rubbing his thumbs over their veiny backs. ‘Nikky, I need you right now, more than I’ve ever needed anyone in my life,’ he said. ‘Thing is, baby, I did something really stupid last night. It was a one-off, but it could ruin everything. We could lose all this.’ He moved his head around to encompass the room. ‘I was about to do a couple of lines of charlie at the club last night,’ he continued, ‘but as it wa
s an opening night, there were lots of reporters and photographers there. Before I knew it, someone had snapped me getting it out of my pocket. Baby, I can’t be caught with that stuff.’
‘Oh, God, that’s awful,’ I said. What he wanted me to do about it, I had no idea.
‘Baby, I need you to say they were your drugs,’ he said, staring right into my eyes, pinning me to the spot with his pleading, green-eyed gaze. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but if we play it right, we can say that I took them off you, put them in my pocket and forgot they were there and when I got a light out, they came out too.’
‘But they weren’t my drugs,’ I said.
‘I know, I know, and it’s not fair but if I get found out … Greenbay Park Rangers have a decency clause so they can terminate my contract at any time. If they find out that I made a mistake this one time, it’ll be the end of me. The end of everything I’ve worked so hard for. They could ask for all their money back. We’d have to move out of here, sell the car, no more car service or quality booze.’
I went to say, ‘It doesn’t matter’, that we’d be together so it wouldn’t matter that we didn’t have any money and I would be able to get a job to help support us, but stopped myself. He wouldn’t agree with that, not in a million years. I looked at him properly and could see the suffering on his face. He was scared. Really scared. I had known fear and I didn’t want to wish it on anyone, let alone leave it sitting on the shoulders of someone I loved so deeply. ‘I don’t think anyone will believe that story, though,’ I suggested gently.
When I Was Invisible Page 3