When I Was Invisible

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Look, once they know they weren’t my drugs, the whole thing will blow over and no one will mention it again. Tomorrow’s chip paper, honestly, baby. It’ll be fine, no one will remember you did drugs one time in a club. Especially when we say you’ll be going into rehab. We’ll make a sizeable donation to a drug education foundation and then everyone will forget about you and the coke.’

  It sounded like he’d forgotten about me and the coke – i.e. that it was a lie, that I hadn’t actually been involved with any drugs, ever, let alone last night, let alone so I would need my boyfriend to confiscate them from me. But that was silly, how could he have forgotten? He loved me, and he knew the truth and I knew the truth. Nothing would change the truth. Nothing would change the reality.

  Birmingham, 2016

  ‘Give us a minute,’ DS Brennan says to his colleague. It’s been an odd drive home, almost as though we’ve been travelling alone since none of us have spoken to or even acknowledged each other. The other passenger doesn’t even glance in my direction before he unclips his seatbelt, climbs out of the car and shuts the door behind him. He walks a little way down the street before stopping, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Outside my home some lads are loitering. They’re a lot younger than me, but they have left their teenage years behind. This part of town is hardly ever still; it is very rarely emptied of people and sounds and traffic. At night, the garish street lighting creates islands around which people collect to communicate with each other because they do not want to be properly illuminated. That’s part of the price you pay when you live somewhere where they don’t need very much ID to rent you a room and share a bathroom. The lads clock the policeman standing near the lamp post, slowly smoking and openly watching them, and decide to leave. They don’t want trouble, don’t want to be in the right place at the right time to fit the description of suspects in a new crime. A couple of the cannier lads hang on a little longer, peer into the back of the car to see who’s in there, who’s turned grass, before they wander off, probably calculating how much they will get for such info as they scarper.

  I rub my fingers across my eyes, wait for the policeman to release me back into the wild. He sits still in the front seat, watching me in the rear-view mirror. I wonder if he’s really seeing me, or if I’m irrelevant now he’s done his duty and made sure I have no choice but to go through with testifying given that he’s outed me to all my neighbours.

  ‘Are you going to tell me who you really are, Grace Carter?’ he asks, his gaze still on me via the reflection in the mirror.

  I say nothing. What does he expect me to say? To throw myself on his mercies and tell him whatever came before?

  DS Brennan sighs when he doesn’t get an answer. ‘All right, are you going to go through with this, “Grace Carter”? Are you going to testify if this goes to court?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  I look down at my hands. I’m shaking. I’m sitting in the back seat of this blue car with this police officer in the driver’s seat and I’m trembling. Scared of what I’ve done, terrified of what is to come next.

  London, 2001

  Maybe I should call Mum and Dad. I thought that every time I saw myself – barely able to stand, glassy-eyed, slightly dishevelled – on the front of those papers, those magazines, those websites. I thought it every time a new photo surfaced of the inside of my bag with a little white packet. (It was odd that I never actually remembered leaving my bag long enough to have it photographed by the people I was with, nor did I remember putting any such packet in there.) I thought it whenever there were more photos of Todd looking cross and upset with me, as though my drug habit was ruining his life and reputation. Maybe I should call Mum and Dad. Maybe I should call them and tell them the truth. Tell them that this was all meant to be yesterday’s chip paper, that it hadn’t been intentional that the whole thing – where my noble, clean-living boyfriend stood by me while I worked out my personal demons by sniffing white powder at every given opportunity – would suddenly make me interesting. Would suddenly have a situation where people I’d never met were being anonymous sources for the press and who had seen me snorting the stuff and rowing with my noble, clean-living boyfriend about it. Todd had, apparently, threatened to ditch me so many times if I didn’t stop, and I had promised so many times that I would. I wondered after every one of those pictures appeared of me, usually in sunglasses now (Todd’s idea to hide me better), if I should write Mr and Mrs Harper a note explaining that I would never touch illegal drugs, had never touched illegal drugs ever, and none of it was true. But I couldn’t put the record straight, not even with my parents and siblings, because, even if Todd wouldn’t be absolutely furious with me that I had told someone and had upped our chances of the actual truth coming out, it wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t change anything. They’d never believe me.

  I stood in front of the newspapers and magazines in the corner shop, staring at the woman who had been snapped months and months ago – before drugs and an (allegedly) stormy relationship had made her interesting – with her white knickers, prominent against the dark brown skin of her legs, on show to the world. She’d been about to get out of the back of the chauffer-driven car and had missed a step, her legs had opened for the briefest of moments, and someone had taken that photo. Had probably not been intending to keep it, but now she was infamous, this was a perfect example of how ‘out of it’ the woman was; it was an example of how that woman was probably drug-addled and unsteady on her feet before most nights out and how much her clean-living boyfriend was suffering.

  Maybe I should call Mum and Dad, I thought to myself. I hadn’t even properly read the headline accompanying the photo, I just saw that woman who looked like I would look if I wasn’t the real me I was in my head. Maybe I should call Mum and Dad, tell them everything. But then, what was the point of calling them? They’d never believe me.

  Birmingham, 2016

  ‘Do you know what I think, “Grace Carter”?’ DS Brennan asks me in the silence of the car.

  No, I don’t. I almost say that, but decide not to. I decide to wait for him to enlighten me since I am shaking so much and I am so very, very tired. Right now, I may be able to sleep for the whole night through.

  Slowly, he turns in his seat until his whole upper body is facing me and he leans forward slightly until he fills the space between the seats and he can’t be seen by his friend, who is still smoking, the street light causing him to look mean and irritated. (I don’t blame him: it’s not warm enough to be standing outside smoking and waiting for your colleague to be done threatening a witness.)

  My gaze moves from the outside policeman to the one who is sitting in front of me. ‘I think, “Grace Carter”, that a long time ago someone hurt you very, very badly but no one believed you. So you felt the only choice you had was to run away and become a different person. And I think that because of that, you’re risking your life now so that you can feel like justice is being done and someone will be punished for a crime they commit instead of getting away with it.’ He stares at me again. ‘That’s what I think, “Grace Carter”.’

  ‘You don’t think justice should be done? That’s a pretty odd stance for a police officer.’

  ‘I think justice should be done, but I don’t think a person who has gone to such extraordinary lengths to conceal her identity should be a part of it,’ he replies.

  ‘Well, it’s too late for that now, I’ve done it and I’m going to go through with it.’

  ‘I understand you feel guilty—’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ I cut in. ‘You have no idea at all. If you did, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d let me out of this car and let me go inside to get some sleep so I can go back to the police station tomorrow and answer any other questions your colleagues may have.’

  ‘Grace,’ he says quietly, as though for the first time he believes it is my real name. He’s humouring me, playing along so I will listen to what he has to say, and because of tha
t, Grace doesn’t feel like my name any more. It feels all wrong, like a jumper put through the hottest setting on a tumble dryer – I need to wriggle and wriggle to fit into it again. I move in my seat, trying to make the name fit me again. ‘Grace,’ he repeats, to get my attention, ‘don’t do this.’

  ‘Why not? What have I got to lose? You’ve just driven me through the neighbourhood at a snail’s pace, everyone’s going to know soon enough what I’ve done. Why wouldn’t I go through with it now?’

  ‘Is this really the life you saw for yourself when you were little, Grace? When you were called what you were originally called, is this the life you imagined?’ He points out of the window at the building I live in. ‘Is this the place you see yourself living out your days? Are those the clothes you’ll be wearing for the rest of your life? Is this truly the life you should be living?’

  Of course it is.

  Certainly it isn’t.

  ‘My life is what it is. And I do all right.’

  He is silent now, his turn to contemplate what I have said. I know enough about human behaviour, about people like him, to guess that he is wondering what he has to say, which button he has to press to get me to change my mind.

  He stares at me for a while longer, stares and thinks and then he starts to speak. As he speaks the noise that drove me to the police station rips through me again, and I have to brace myself, hold myself tight to not start screaming to drown it out. With my shoulders hunched up, my face tensed against the noise repeating itself, I listen to the policeman. I listen to his words, his reasonings, what he tells me will happen next and I know he’s right: if I go through with this, everyone I know will be hurt, damaged, hospitalised or worse to get me to shut up. At the end of it, they’ll probably do the same to me. The trembling is suddenly more severe, maybe not to anyone outside of my body, but it feels like all of my organs are vibrating due to the words he’s uttered, the chords he has struck.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ I say to the policeman when he stops talking. ‘I’ve started on this thing and I need to see it through.’

  ‘No, it’s not too late,’ he says. ‘Just go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He lowers his voice, as though now, having said all that other stuff, he thinks someone will hear him and it will be the undoing of him and his career and therefore his life. ‘I will volunteer to come and pick you up tomorrow morning,’ he murmurs. ‘Don’t be here when we arrive.’

  ‘Where should I be?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘Anywhere but here. I doubt you’ll be able to leave the country by then, but leave the city.’

  ‘But won’t your lot come looking for me?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll probably be the one who has to look hardest for you since I’ll be the one who lost you, but that is exactly why you must leave and why you must not come back. Cut all ties to this city and start again somewhere else.’

  ‘I can’t just—’

  ‘Yes, you can. You did it before. Do it again now.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘I’ll take care of all of that. I’ll take care of everyone and everything. But you have to go now.’

  ‘OK,’ I mumble, even though it goes against all I believe in. ‘OK, I’ll go.’

  Without another word, he gets out then opens my door like a gentleman does for a lady. I remember a time in my life when I was regularly getting out of cars opened by professional, expensive-suited drivers, all of them polite, all of them being paid to not see what had been going on in the back seat. My high-heeled feet would step onto red carpet, a sea of cameras would click and flash, voices would shout my name, trying to grab my attention. And I would ignore them all, try to ignore the boiling mass of nausea inside, hating every second of being noticed like that. Todd would clutch my hand with one of his hands, while the other would be raised self-effacingly to wave to his adoring public; he, Todd, would enjoy every spotlit millisecond in the limelight.

  ‘Remember what I said, “Grace Carter”,’ DS Brennan says as I climb out of the car. ‘We’ll be back to pick you up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Be ready.’ His voice, his face, his whole demeanour is back to the cold, emotionless police officer who looked me up and down and groaned inside when I told him I wanted to report an attempted murder. Is he that good an actor, or is he playing me? Does he want me to run so he can pursue me and make sure I pay for whatever crime he thinks I might have committed? Or, my blood slows for a moment in my veins, have I just been played in a shockingly ostentatious way?

  My gaze goes to the man who has smoked three cigarettes in quick succession during his time outside the car and has brought the sweet nicotine fog of them with him as he approaches us. He couldn’t care less if I fall off the face of the world. I return my attention to DS Brennan. He gives nothing away, just stares at me with hard eyes and a fixed, stern mouth. ‘Yes, officer,’ I mumble, then fumble through my pockets for my key to the outer front door. My fingers locate the piece of brass-coloured metal – bare and alone with no keyring fob to give away anything about me – in my right pocket.

  I walk away from the two men and know this: whatever that police officer’s motivation, he has catapulted me towards this road. The road where the next major stop is the one where I end my life as Grace Carter and become Veronika ‘Nika’ Harper all over again.

  Roni

  Coventry, 2016

  It is loudest at night, when the Great Silence begins.

  We are as silent as we can be during the day, and at Divine Office, the official prayers of the Church, I push out as much of the noise inside, coating every word I utter in the sound of chaos that lives inside me. I do this to prepare for the Great Silence, the hours between last prayers and morning prayers where there is no speaking, no noise, absolutely no unnecessary sound.

  When the Great Silence begins, the noise in my head becomes unbearable. The voices, the memories, the music, the words, the flashes of my life ill-lived are there, screaming to be heard, shouting to be let out. I often have to push my hands over my ears, trying to drown out the racket inside.

  It wasn’t always like this. When I came here, the first time and now this second time, it wasn’t like this. I used to be able to hook into the silence, I had peace in my head, tranquillity in my heart, and I was free for a time. My community accepted me for who I was at that moment in time, they didn’t care about the me who walked in through those gates, covered in shame and guilt. They only saw the person they renamed Grace because what I had been, what I had done was a lifetime ago, another person ago. I became this person and I could revel in the near silence that brought to my mind.

  Now, the Great Silence is when I am most scared. When there is silence all around me, the noise inside starts as a hush, slowly building, swelling and growing until I cannot hear, I cannot think, I cannot even entertain sleep.

  Tomorrow night it will be different. I will be in a different bed, in a different city. I will be in a different life. And I will no longer have the Great Silence to worry about.

  The fear flutters up inside again. Is this what you want? I ask myself again. Truly, is this what you want to do?

  It isn’t what I want to do, it is what I have to do. I can’t become a part of the Great Silence any longer – the quietness here scares rather than energises me. I cannot live with this inner life of noise and chaos any longer, not when I know what I can do about it.

  The other ones who have left in recent years, who have stepped outside the convent walls to never return, wanted a husband, children, a life lived within their control. There’s none of that for me. I have to leave because I have finally admitted that I am like Judas. I have done a terrible thing and I have to put it right.

  Tomorrow, I am going to stop being Sister Grace and I will become Veronica ‘Roni’ Harper again.

  Father, forgive me, is the only prayer I can manage tonight. The noise in my head is too much to think anything else except: Father, forgive me.

  2

&nbs
p; Roni

  London, 2016

  The house seems so small. It isn’t, and I never felt like it was when I lived here, either. When I was little, this house seemed large, was large, is large. But I suppose it’s like trying to put on clothes from your childhood – they don’t fit any more because you have outgrown them. Not that I’m saying I’ve outgrown my parents’ house. I would never be so rude.

  ‘Your bedroom isn’t quite how you left it,’ Mum says. She’s still all smiles and nerves, never quite looking at me enough to meet my eye. This is how she used to act when the priest came over for tea, how she would act, I suspect, if the Queen were to drop over for a cuppa. I want to reach out, rest my hands on her shoulders and tell her to relax a bit, to remember it’s just me.

  Every step through the house, on the stairs, peels back a layer of time, changes the wallpaper, the carpet, the furnishings, the very atmosphere, I suspect, and I can almost see how it used to be, I can feel the house become what it once was when I lived here, when it was what I called my home.

  ‘It’s not really my room any more, though,’ I say gently.

  ‘Well, no, but I was simply warning you in case you were expecting everything to be the same as it was. It isn’t.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ I eventually say. It’s good of them to take me in, especially at such short notice, so I don’t want to upset her equilibrium within minutes of walking through the door.

  The stairs still creak just before and just after the turn, the carpet – a deep, soft royal blue – is different, not surprising since it was virtually threadbare the last time I came down these stairs to be driven to the station. I look at all the doors at the top of the first-floor landing, all painted a glossy white, all with brass, push-down handles, all closed, as if determined to keep their secrets hidden from the merest glimpse from the most casual of prying eyes.