‘It’s so awful.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘I just can’t. I just can’t. I’m sorry, this was a mistake …’
‘Awful ’cause you’re embarrassed?’
‘Oh, I’m way past embarrassed.’
‘Ashamed, then?’
‘Yeah. Oh yeah.’
‘Let’s see, then – ashamed about something you did, or somebody else did?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Oh, love, isn’t it always? Might feel better if you got it out.’
‘I don’t see why. It’d still be true.’
‘Yes, it would. We can’t change it, whatever it is. Might help you see it different, though.’
‘I just don’t know if I can.’
‘D’you mind my asking, d’you work nights?’
‘No? Why?’
‘So you’re at home, then.’
‘If you can call it that. I just can’t sleep.’
‘Mm-hmm. And are you on your own.’
‘Yeah.’
‘All right, I’m going to make a suggestion. We’re really not supposed to give advice, so this is me officially breaking the rules. You ready?’
‘What?’
‘Go and make a cup of tea.’
‘You what?’
‘I’m serious. It’s three o’clock in the morning, and you’re just about to spill your guts to a total stranger. You need a cup of tea in your hand for that kind of thing. It’s like medicine, innit. Don’t hang up, mind. Just leave the phone, and go and get your tea. I’ll be here when you come back. Go on. I mean it.’
‘… Okay.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Hello?’
‘I’m here. Got your tea? Milk and two sugars?’
‘One, actually. Oh, oh, oh.’
‘What?’
‘You’re being so nice to me but you won’t be when you know what it is.’
‘You know what, love? Whatever you tell me, whatever it is – I absolutely guarantee you that I’ve heard worse. Probably done worse myself, for that matter.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. This isn’t dial-a-saint, you know. It’s just people helping each other out. Now: deep breath, sip of tea, and tell me what’s up.’
‘Well. It’s about a bloke.’
‘You amaze me …’
‘Oh, don’t make me laugh! I’ll start crying again, or the tea’ll come out of my nose or something.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, I used to be married. And I thought it was all right, you know? And we had two kids; we were just, like, a family? A normal family. But he met someone, and he left. And he was good about the money and all that, but he was gone, and it was just me and the kids. And Aidan was about – fifteen, then? And Marie was twelve. And I was really lonely. Least, I thought I was. It was nothing compared to this. Just – laughable, compared to this. Ridiculous, compared to this. I didn’t know I was born!’
‘Doesn’t sound ridiculous to me. Go on: you were lonely …’
‘Well – my friends said, you should get out there; enjoy yourself; meet someone new; you’re not that old. So I joined this computer dating thing, and – there was, like, a selection of weirdos and disasters, and I would have thrown the towel in, but then I met
– Andy.’
‘Andy.’ ‘Yes. And he was … really different from the others. He was so sure of himself. He said things like he was sure they were going to happen – and then they did, usually. He was, like, really calm, all the time? And he smiled a lot.’
‘Was he good-looking?’
‘I thought so. I mean, then. But, you know, I really don’t know? Maybe it was all the smile and the confidence. He was really well dressed too. Now I think, shouldn’t I have been seeing danger signs? But I didn’t.’
‘Well, you don’t really look for them till something goes wrong, do you?’
‘No. And it felt like it was going right? I was just really pleased that someone seemed to want me. My confidence wasn’t so great just then and this, this was like the sun coming out. So I didn’t really notice how fast everything happened. How fast he made things happen.’
‘But you’ve been thinking about it lately.’
‘I’ve been over it and over it. Because I know I should have seen something. Asked more questions. Something! But I didn’t. I brought him round, and he was … charming, that’s the word. He charmed me, and he charmed Marie, he was really clever about it, and he tried to charm Aidan, but it didn’t work, Aidan was the only one of us who didn’t take to him at all, not even at the beginning. I think he must have smelled something wrong. But I just thought, you know, old dog/young dog, you’re just upset ’cause it’s not your dad, you don’t like having a man about the place, you’re a teenage boy and you’re having a bit of a squirm about your mum having a boyfriend. I thought it would die down when he got used to him. When he moved in. But it got worse. And Aidan sulking – you know, grunting at Andy over the cornflakes; teenage-boy stuff – it didn’t make me sympathise with him, or think, this must be really hard for you, or, what doesn’t he like, then? None of that. It made me cross. A tiny bit first, then more. And Andy saw it, and he sort of worked on it, and it always sounded like sympathy, and I got angrier and angrier. Always me against Aidan. Andy stayed in the background. You know, oh you poor love – to me; and to Aidan this kind of quiet, couldn’t you try to be nicer to your mum? Oh my, you’re really upsetting her. Well, that I heard, anyway. Who knows what he was dripping in Aidan’s ear when I wasn’t around. So then we had an enormous row, like earthquake-size: and Aidan walked out. Went to live with his dad. Fact his dad rang up; he said, “Angela, what’s going on? Aidan’s telling me some weird stuff. Are you all right?” But I just told him to mind his own business. Didn’t I have a right to a bit of happiness? – that kind of thing. And then it was just me and Marie and Andy. He said, we don’t need anyone else. We’ll be a little family, just the three of us.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I thought he might want to try for a baby. I was young enough. But he didn’t want to; he closed that idea right down. Now I know why. I didn’t then. Oh, do I have to tell you the next bit? Come on, you know where this is going, don’t you?’
‘I can guess, love. But tell me anyway.’
‘…’
‘Go on, get it out of you. Blow your nose and tell me. You can do it.’
‘Well. Well. The next thing was, Marie had her thirteenth birthday, and Andy took her out and paid for her to have her ears pierced, which she’d been on and on at us to do, and got her these little gold sleepers – real gold, really expensive. Without talking to me. I was quite put out. He said, like it was a joke, don’t be jealous, love, I just wanted to show her that she’s a very special young lady. And then from then on, he was always talking like that, always, like, hinting that if I minded the way he behaved round her, it was because I was jealous. Or grudging. Or suspicious. Or something like that. And she did start to behave weirdly. She’d always been, you know, one of the good girls at school. Homework in on time, hair always brushed, coloured biros all in a row. Oh God, I miss her. Oh God, I let her down. Oh—’
‘Hang on to yourself, love, if you can. Don’t get stuck here. Get it all out. Tell me faster, if it helps.’
‘Well, he was interfering with her, wasn’t he, Andy. Of course. Obviously. Anyone could guess that, couldn’t they; except thicko here, I didn’t. But that’s not the awful thing. I mean, yes it was, what he did to Marie is the most awful thing, and I hope he burns in hell for it, and I don’t know if she’ll ever be all right. But. But …’
‘But it’s not the thing you can’t forgive yourself for.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘So what’s that, Angela?’
‘It’s that I didn’t do anything. Not when she started bunking off school. Not when she started cutting herself. Andy made it seem like it was all … irrit
ating, you know; all, like, something I ought to be annoyed by. You know, “Oh, madam’s in a strop this morning”, that kind of thing. Always egging me on to be angry not sympathetic.’
‘Did she try to talk to you?’
‘A couple of times, yes. But I just flared up. She was like, “Mum, I wish it was just us again”, and I’d be, “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m entitled to a life too”; or later, she went all, kind of, apathetic? Like, limp and depressed, and I’m not surprised, poor scrap, but she refused to wash, and I kept getting rung up by the school, because she was missing again, and it played hell with my work; and I just said – no, I shouted it – “Pull yourself together, girl!” And Andy hung about, smiling and smiling. And now I can see it was so’s we wouldn’t get the chance to talk to each other. But there were chances. I just didn’t take them. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t notice because I didn’t want to notice. I didn’t save her, or help her. I just shouted at her. For being difficult!’
‘So you didn’t stop it.’
‘No.’
‘Then how did it end? It did end, didn’t it, Angela? This isn’t something that’s still going on?’
‘No, no, it’s over.’
‘What happened?’
‘The police turned up out of the blue, and arrested him for something he’d done before. Well, the same thing, in another family where he’d cuckooed his way in. And the WPC who was with them asked me, did he get up to anything like that here, and I said, no, no, of course not; and Marie said in this really strange quiet voice, yes he did Mum, and then again louder, yes he fucking did Mum, and then like screaming it, like it was tearing out of her throat, YES HE FUCKING DID MUM. And the police looked at me like they couldn’t believe me; like I was dirt.’
‘And then it all came out?’
‘Yeah. And then they took Marie off to the station to do the rape kit on her; and I said, I’ll get my coat and come with you, and she said, no Mum, and she asked the WPC, would you call my dad, please?’
‘Oh, love.’
‘And basically she never came back. She went to her dad’s. And I rang up to say, how’s she doing, and could I speak to her, to say how sorry I was, and her dad just went, are you joking? Are you joking? Do you think I am ever going to let you anywhere near her, after this? I’ve written her letters, and she never writes back, and I rang, when I couldn’t bear it any more, and they’d changed the phone number.’
‘Oh, love.’
‘And I can’t take it back and I can’t stop thinking about it, and it just goes on and on and on. Ah, ah, aarh aarh aarh!’
‘Are you hitting your head, love? C’mon, don’t do that. C’mon, Angela. Don’t do that.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because you should look after yourself, love.’
‘Why? What’s the point? They’re gone. It’s all gone.’
‘Yes, love.’
‘And now I know this terrible thing about myself.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That I’m the kind of person who’d let … that happen under her nose to her own daughter. I just am. They’re right to hate me. I hate me. Now you hate me too.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. You’ve been trained to be all nice about anything anyone says, that’s all, but underneath you hate me too.’
‘I really don’t, love.’
‘You must do. I did a disgusting thing.’
‘Yeah, but you can do a disgusting thing without being a disgusting person, can’t you?’
‘I don’t know what that even means.’
‘Well …’
‘Look, thank you, you’ve been very kind, but I don’t think you can really help because I don’t think you get what this feels like. I don’t think anyone can. Good—’
‘Angela!’
‘What?’
‘I do get it, ’cause as it happens, I’ve been there. Or somewhere very like it.’
‘What did you do, then?’
‘No, love, this isn’t about me; this is about you. I just want you to know that you’re not alone, you’re not the only person who has to live with something really bad.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re just making it up to make me feel better.’
‘I’m not.’
‘If it was true you’d tell me.’
‘Angela, that’s not what this call is for.’
‘I spilled my guts to you. I told you the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.’
Pause.
‘Well, it was about a bloke—’
‘You amaze me …’
‘Hey, I made you laugh. That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘No, but go on. Please. It does help.’
‘We’re not supposed to.’
‘Please.’
Pause.
Something white flutters in front of Val. Father Tim, the other person on the Samaritans night shift in the crypt of St Saviour’s, is leaning over the hardboard partition of the cubicle holding out a piece of paper. ARE YOU OK? is written on it in marker pen. She considers, and nods. Really? he asks, in dumbshow, with hands and eyebrows. She nods again. Really.
‘All right. Angela? I was married to a violent man. He liked to hurt people. Not me, though. Men. Other men. He scared the hell out of me, and he kept me under his thumb, but I kind of adored him. He was beautiful. Stupid, mind you; very stupid; and scary; but gorgeous. I knew he was dangerous, and I sort of tried to manage it, and to point him where he wouldn’t do too much harm; but mostly, I just let it happen. And then one day he murdered somebody in front of me.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Yeah; and I didn’t stop it. Just this poor harmless student from Pakistan whose car had broken down, so he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Oh my God. That’s horrible.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mike got sent down for murder, and I did six months as an accessory.’
‘You were in prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Did you divorce him when you got out, then?’
‘No. No, I didn’t. I was still thinking about it, and he just dropped dead suddenly in prison. It turned out he had this, like, dodgy vein in his brain? And it popped, and he was gone. So I never really said no to him, you see, right to the end. I can’t say I ever drew a line. And that’s why I really do understand where you are now.’
‘You’re, like, a murderer!’
‘Nearly. Yes.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t have to say anything, love.’
‘…’
‘Angela? Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have I shocked you?’
‘Yes, you have a bit.’
‘There’s people who’ve done bad stuff all over the place, love. We walk past each other in the street, and we all say, I’m the worst person in the world, no one gets it, I’m all alone. All of us. And it’s not true.’
‘How d’you cope? What d’you do with it? I mean, you sound all right, you sound sorted out. I wouldn’t ever have guessed.’
‘Well, it was a long time ago for me, love. And it does take time. You just have to keep … getting up in the morning, I suppose. And you don’t try to feel better by telling yourself lies, ’cause that doesn’t work. And you’re patient. And you try to be hopeful, even though you don’t know what you’re hoping for. And even though you can’t make it up to the people you’ve hurt, you look out for little chances of being kind. ’Cause being kind to anyone at all helps bring on the lights a little bit, if you know what I mean. And you wait, and you hope, and you see what happens next.’
‘Andy’s written and asked me to come and visit him in jail.’
‘Don’t do it.’
‘I won’t. Better to have nothing than have that, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, you’v
e been kind to me. Thank you?’
‘You’re welcome. What are you going to do now, Angela?’
‘I’m going to go to bed. What about you?’
‘I’m going to blow my nose, and answer the next call, I expect.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Angela.’
There are next calls, of course. A Chinese kid from Hong Kong who has stayed awake for three nights straight, panicking about his college exams. Remedy: go to sleep. And a dawn example of the traditional helpline wanker. (‘Put away your Kleenex, love, that’s not what we’re here for. I’m going to hang up now, but remember you’re always welcome to ring back if there’s something you’re genuinely desperate about. Bye!’)
But at seven the next pair of volunteers arrive, and she is out smoking a ciggy on the steps of St Saviour’s while the light mounts in a petrol-coloured sky over towards Dartford, and a cold breeze blows the litter about. It is Saturday morning. Father Tim comes out and sits down next to her.
‘Ooh,’ he says, hugging his arms round himself, ‘is that a packet of Rothmans I see? Can I cadge a Rothie, please?’
‘Course you can,’ she says. He lights up, inhales, and combines the exhale with a stretch and a yawn and a sprawl, ending up leaning back on his elbows and gazing at her smokily from under his fringe. He has one of those posh male faces that stays boyish even when its owner is thirty-something or forty-something, and makes it hard to guess its owner’s age. Father Tim looks tired now, after an all-nighter on the phones, but he also, in some essential way, looks untouched: someone, you’d think, swanning their way gracefully through Bexford, and through the years. And yet he and Father Louis, who he shares the vicaring with, and shares the vicarage with too, are known to be people you can call, day or night. Trouble with a rent officer, son under arrest, school exclusion, court appearance, sudden death: any situation where a calm middle-class voice would help, and one of them will turn out uncomplainingly, looking poised in a midnight police station, whether you are in their congregation or not. Mike would have hated both of them, of course. But then Mike’s hatred – she worked this one out long ago – would partly have been envy. Father Tim liking men was presumably as much against his church’s rules, what little she knew about them, as Mike’s desire had been against the rules for a Bexford mod, a Bexford skin, a South London Nazi. And yet Father Tim seems to manage it without violence, without having to be attacking male bodies to get close to them, kicking and clawing and breaking them when he only really wanted to be pushing and nuzzling at them. When he only wanted to fuck them, she thinks – and is surprised by how easily that thought comes, now. Poor Mike. Poor me.
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