When I Was Invisible

by Dorothy Koomson

  It almost broke Nika that her parents didn’t believe her, what did break her, though, was me lying to the police officer and ensuring that he didn’t believe her, either. She was relying on me, she had been my rock in so many ways for so many years, and when I was called upon to stand up for her, I behaved like two of Jesus’s most beloved apostles on the night before the crucifixion: I became Judas first of all and betrayed her; then I became like Peter and turned away when asked to confirm the truth of what she was saying. I betrayed her; I lied about her. I did it because of free will. My free choice to behave in that way directly harmed another. I had my reasons, but as time has gone on, I know those reasons weren’t good enough. Nika’s already-nightmarish life became a living hell because of my free will. I know, because Mr Daneaux told me.

  ‘I can’t promise she’ll believe you,’ I tell Gail. I take her hand. ‘I will promise that I will be with you for as long as you need me to be. I will support you, I will speak for you and with you. And I will help you keep on telling until someone believes you.’

  ‘Really?’ she asks, sniffling back the tears.

  ‘Yes, absolutely, yes. And if you’re not ready to tell, I will still support you. But Gail, I think you should tell. If it’s the choice between your life and believing that staying silent will protect your mum, your life and safety come first every time. Every time.’

  The curtain is whipped back suddenly and we’re confronted by two perplexed and quite angry-looking people: Gail’s mother, who up close really is the older version of her daughter, and her stepfather from the choir, who holds himself like a man who is used to being in charge.

  ‘Who are you?’ Cecile Frost demands. ‘What are you doing with my daughter with the curtain closed?’

  I stand up and release Gail’s hand. Gail’s mother’s eyes dart to where my hands were, then she rapidly, critically, checks me over again. She thinks that danger comes from the outside, from perverts who hang around street corners, trying to snatch children off the street. She doesn’t realise that perverts can also live in your home, sleep in your bed, make love to your body, stand beside you in hospitals. ‘I said, who are you?’

  ‘My name is Veronica Harper, I was a supply teacher at your daughter’s school. You got my number from Gail’s school and called me? It’s me you’ve been leaving messages for the last couple of days, saying Gail wanted to see me?’

  ‘Oh, right, you’re the nun, yes?’

  ‘I’m not a nun any more,’ I almost say but don’t. There are some points that need to be laboured upon but not this one and not at this time. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why did she want me to call you? I mean, who are you to my daughter?’

  The man beside Gail’s mother is switching his gaze between Gail and me. He’s trying to work out what Gail has told me and if he needs to start damage limitation by painting her character as bad, as troublemaking and untrustworthy, while simultaneously implying someone has been planting false memories into her mind. Do to Gail what Mr Daneaux did to Nika.

  ‘Because of my former vocation, I think Gail felt able to confide in me some personal things that she might not want to share at the moment.’ I leave it to Cecile to infer from what I have said that I am bound by the absolute rule of the confidentiality of the confessional.

  ‘What personal things?’ Cecile’s attention flies towards her daughter. She moves to Gail, takes her hand and lowers herself to her level. ‘Are you pregnant?’ she asks her daughter. ‘Is that what this is all about? Because I don’t care about that, I couldn’t stand to lose you over that.’

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ Gail whispers.

  ‘Oh, Gaily, what is it then? Because I’m running out of clues here, and you haven’t said a word to anyone in nearly three days about why you did it. I mean, have you told this woman why? Because I need to know, too. Whatever it is, I’ll still love you; nothing will change how much I love you. You and your brothers, you are the most important things in my life. You can tell me anything, anything, I thought you knew that. Anything, any time.’

  ‘Come on, Cecile, give the girl some space. She’ll tell you in her own time,’ Gail’s stepfather says. Panic. What his wife is saying is not what he wants to hear, it is not what he wants Gail to hear. To carry on getting away with what he has been doing, he needs Gail to believe that her mother is like my mother, like my father, like Nika’s mother, like Nika’s father – unengaged, disinterested, more likely to believe the adult than the child. He needs to show Gail that no one will believe her, no one cares that much about her, that she is isolated and alone.

  ‘Mr Frost, I think we should leave Gail and her mother alone for a while. It can’t be easy for Gail, talking with an audience. How about we step into the corridor for a little while so they can have a chance to speak?’ And I can decide if I’m willing to be arrested for assaulting you or not.

  ‘No, no, I’ll stay. Cecile and Gail both need me to be here.’

  ‘It’s all right, babe, you go,’ Cecile replies. ‘I think this woman’s right, we’ve been crowding her. I need to talk to her one on one to find out what’s going on. That’s what’s important right now. You can support me afterwards like you always do.’

  He glowers at me, glares menacingly at Gail, tries to tell her to keep her mouth shut. Gail is staring at me and can’t see the looks he’s giving her. I smile at her, nod my head slightly. This could be her only chance to do this for a while. I was telling the truth – I will be there with her every step of the way if she wants me to be. All she has to do is speak. But I can’t do that part for her. And if she isn’t ready, she isn’t ready and I’ll wait until she is.

  In the corridor, Gail’s stepfather paces up and down, a caged man trying to get out and back into the arena where he can control what lions of truth are set free. ‘That Gail, she’s a little minx sometimes,’ he says to me. ‘I could throttle her for what she’s putting her mother through.’ He shakes his head, paces a little more, back and forth, back and forth, in front of me. ‘All she does is cause her mother worry. Out all the time, drinking, smoking, taking drugs, probably. I’m sure she’s always running around with boys.’ He stops to gauge how well his character-smearing is going, if I’m buying it. All those things are shocking to anyone, but particularly to a nun. He probably thinks I’m bound to turn against her now, to not believe a word that comes out of her slutty little mouth.

  In response, I say nothing.

  ‘I-I-I-I mean, I know I should be more understanding of her situation, growing up without a father figure, but I believe young people need discipline. They need firm boundaries, someone who is going to keep them on a good moral path. Don’t you think?’

  He begins to pace a bit harder, faster, more frantically when I say nothing at all again. ‘I think it’s good that she’s got someone like you, a woman of God, to guide her back to a purposeful path. I’m an active member of my local church, too. A lot of people have turned away from the Church in recent years but I think it’s an important part of family life. Gail is not that keen on attending with us, but we think it’s important. Maybe you can help advise her on the importance of having God in her life. It will help her to cut down on the lying, the drinking and running around. I think it’ll really help her to have you around.’ He stops, frowns at me approvingly.

  I’m not sure why he thinks I am on his side or why I would be bothered by his approval or lack thereof, but he conveys it to me with his nod and expression. I stand very still and watch him. He is valiantly battling with my silence, the uncertainty of not knowing if his wooing exercise is working or not.

  Will Gail be able to do it? I wonder as the man who has created a hell on Earth for a fourteen-year-old girl, paces back and forth in front of me.

  It is plain what he is doing: with each word, he is prodding at me to try to find a weak spot, something that will move me from where I am – an unknown quantity in this dynamic – to firmly on his side. He desperately needs me to shout down Gail’s mo
ther and Gail when the truth starts to leak out.

  ‘Not much of a talker, are you?’ he says to me.

  I shake my head.

  His face creases into an understanding smile. He is calming down, reassessing this new piece of information and thinking of a new way to access my support. Next tactic: charm. If someone doesn’t talk much, they are more likely to respond to someone calmer, quieter, more self-effacing; I’m more likely to be a support if I like him, see elements of myself in him. He stops the pacing, and leans against the wall opposite, mirroring my pose – legs slightly extended, hands resting between the middle of my lower back and the wall.

  Right on cue: ‘Sorry about before,’ he says, quietly. ‘All that stuff isn’t like me at all. I’m so worried about Gail, and, of course, what all this is doing to her mother. It makes me a little crazy. Sorry.’

  I listen to him talk and wonder what will come after the charm, what tactic he’ll try next. Unfortunately, I’ll never know: Gail’s mother is a blur as she shoots past me towards her husband. He only has time to stand a little way away from the wall before she punches him so hard I’m sure I hear her hand or his jaw or both, crack. I’m so taken aback I can’t respond. He staggers back against the wall, cowering while he clutches his jaw, confusion and shock on his face. He’s shocked because he thought he’d groomed Gail enough not to tell, had groomed her mother enough not to react, had perfected his image enough for no one to believe he is capable of it. Gail’s mother moves in on him again, grabbing his shoulders and bringing her knee up between his legs. This time I do react: I grab her away from him, hold her back while he keels over, a tree felled by one swift chop where it counts.

  She is spitting venom, her body poised to attack again, and I’m finding it hard to grapple with her, to stop her from inflicting more damage. ‘You bastard,’ she hisses. I’m assuming she doesn’t want to disturb and upset the other young patients by screaming at him, although how she manages to restrain herself vocally when she is a fighting bundle of anger, I don’t know. ‘You’re lucky I don’t cut it off. I’ve called the police; they’re on their way. I just wanted to kick the living daylights out of you before they get here. You bastard! She’s my baby, she’s my baby.

  ‘The police better lock you up for a long time because if I get my hands on you again, I will not stop until you are dead. Do you hear me?’

  ‘No, Mrs Frost,’ I say. It’s taking all my strength to hold her back. Part of me doesn’t want to, of course. Part of me wants to let her go, to let her at him to give him everything he deserves. But Gail doesn’t deserve to have her mother in prison, or even taken away from her no matter for how short a time. ‘Stop. Go back to Gail, please. She’s the important one right now. Really, she’s the one who you should be worried about. Go back to her, please. Please.’

  That seems to sink in and she calms down enough to wrench herself away from me. ‘And you,’ she snarls at me. She closes in on me, her face right up against mine. I shrink back. ‘You call yourself a woman of God – she is a child. She. Is. A. Child. You should have told me the second you found out.’

  ‘I was trying to support Gail, let her decide what to do.’

  ‘She’s a child,’ she replies with contempt. ‘You don’t let children make those decisions. You tell someone. You tell me, you tell the police. You don’t just let her walk back into a house where a pervert is abusing her. She could have died. If you had done something, this wouldn’t have happened. We wouldn’t be here now. She could have permanent liver damage from taking those pills. She could have died, all because you were too cowardly to speak up. You’re a disgrace as a human being. I don’t know which God you think you work for, but it isn’t mine.’

  Every word, every syllable, every letter of her contempt is justified and I hang my head in shame. I did wrong, trying to do right. I should have gone straight to Gail’s mother, to the school or to the police. I should have done something. Doing nothing meant that Gail was pushed to this. Her mother, who has snarled at me again, goes back to her daughter. Around me nurses and doctors and orderlies and patients are staring. They have heard every word and are probably judging me, too. I know only God is meant to judge, but how can I not judge myself in this situation? How can I turn it over to the Lord and find forgiveness and understanding in Him? What I did – nothing – is unforgivable.

  The noise in my head is suddenly so loud. So loud. I can barely think, it is so loud. When she has gone, I slam my hands over my ears, even though I know the noise is inside my head. Maybe if I can stop any more noise coming in from the outside, it won’t be as bad on the inside. But no, the noise keeps on coming. I start to walk quickly towards the exit, the noise so loud it’s blinding me as well as deafening me. I need silence. I need to find the silence. I need anything that will make this noise and pain stop.

  I need Nika.

  16

  Roni

  Brighton, 2016

  Nika isn’t answering her door. I’ve been buzzing and buzzing and buzzing her and she won’t answer the door. I am desperate now. From the moment I left the hospital I have had this feeling inside, a desperate, urgent need to speak to her. It has only got worse with time. Trapped inside my chest is a bag of wild, agitated cats fighting each other, fighting to be released. I need to see Nika so I can set everything inside my chest free.

  And she isn’t answering. I came straight here from the hospital and it is late afternoon. I thought she would be here by now and I would be able to see her. I push the buzzer again, knowing that it is buzzing into an empty flat. Or it is buzzing into a flat where the resident is sitting on the sofa, ignoring the desperate, slightly crazed woman standing on the doorstep.

  I swing away from the large doorway, wondering what to do. Should I walk down towards her hotel? What if she takes a different route home from work and I miss her? I’ll have all these emotions, this bag of crazed cats in my chest, for much longer, far longer than I think I can bear. A blonde woman wearing a raincoat approaches the front door and in my desperation, I go towards her. I calm myself, though, don’t want to appear too erratic and unstable for her to speak with.

  ‘Excuse me, do you know Nika?’ I ask her. I even manage a normal smile.

  ‘Yes, why, who are you?’ she asks. I want to take a step back from her: she wears far too much perfume – if I get too close I’ll end up doused in it, too. She also wears far too much make-up, and I wonder for a moment what she has to hide.

  ‘Erm, I’m an old friend. I’ve trying to reach her for a while but she doesn’t seem to be in. I’ve been wondering if you’ve seen her today?’

  This seems to tweak her interest and she moves from being slightly scornful and irritated to all ears. ‘An old friend? Is this about Grace? Grace Carter?’

  I shake my head. ‘Who’s Grace Carter?’ I ask, even more confused. The noise in my head is up near the levels of deafening me from the inside out. I don’t have time for games and talking about Grace Carter, whoever she may be.

  ‘No one, I thought … Never mind,’ the blonde woman says, disappointed and then back to being uninterested in me again. ‘You say Nika isn’t in? Well, sorry, then, I can’t help you really.’

  ‘I thought she’d be home from work by now as she was out so early this morning …’

  ‘Sorry, can’t help you.’

  The woman shoves her key into the lock of the outer door. If she’ll let me in, I can wait outside Nika’s door. Then it occurs to me – of course! Of course! Marshall. Maybe she’s with him. ‘Do you know Marshall?’ I ask.

  The woman stops pushing open the door and turns to me. ‘Yes, I know Marshall,’ she replies, looking at me suspiciously. ‘I know most of the people in the building.’

  ‘Do you know what number he lives in?’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘I thought Nika might be there.’

  ‘Why would Nika be in his flat?’

  ‘Because he’s her …’ Eliza. I am probably talking to Eliza. Of cours
e I’m talking to Eliza. Neither Nika nor Marshall had said anything about her again after mentioning her briefly during their initial conversation, but I know without a doubt that this is her and I should not say anything more, not when I know she is capable of dropping a couple of dollops of crazy on Nika and interfering with their relationship.

  ‘He’s her what?’ she asks.

  ‘Friend? He’s her friend. She mentioned he was her friend the other day.’

  ‘Right. And you think she might be in his flat, since she’s his friend?’

  ‘It was just a thought,’ I say. ‘She also mentioned someone called Eliza, do you know her? She’s another of her friends. If you could tell me where she lives, maybe Nika’s there?’

  She regards me with contempt, her green eyes hard and unconvinced: she has not been fooled at all by my cover-up attempt. ‘I’m Eliza. But obviously she’s not in my flat since I’m out here.’ Eliza stares down her nose at me. ‘But you’re right, she might be in Marshall’s flat. Why don’t we go and check?’

  She is terrifying. In the moments when she realised that I was about to say Marshall was Nika’s boyfriend, a transformation has taken place, moving her from wary stranger to violently jealous ex. Although, I can’t imagine Marshall with her. She seems too … there’s a word for her, it’s there at the back of my mind, on the tip of my tongue to describe the many facets of instability she is displaying but I can’t put my finger on it. She simply does not seem like Marshall’s type. But who is anyone’s type? If you knew me between the ages of twelve and sixteen you would not have thought I was God’s type. Although, God does want sinners to turn to him, so maybe I was always God’s type, I simply didn’t realise it until the nun gave me her book.