by Jess Ryder
‘I can’t go out,’ she mumbles into the pillow. ‘Too scared.’
I lower myself onto the airbed and put my hand very gently on her back. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Feel a bit sick,’ she says. ‘Can’t believe I’ve actually left him.’
‘Do you want to tell me what happened last night?’
She slowly uncurls herself. ‘What’s there to tell? I thought he was going to kill me.’
‘What’s your husband’s name?’
‘Darren.’
‘How long have you been together?’
She rolls onto her back, then lifts herself onto her elbows. ‘Dunno … about ten years.’
‘Has he been beating you all that time?’
‘On and off.’
‘I can’t imagine how … I mean, it must have been so awful for you … But you’re out of it now, that’s really important. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘I suppose so … Still not sure I’ve done the right thing. He’s going to be so angry.’
‘That’s why you need to stay somewhere safe. You must have been thinking about leaving him for a while.’ She gives me a blank look. ‘I mean, you had that leaflet. For the helpline.’
‘Oh … oh yeah,’ she says. ‘I called them weeks ago. They were really nice to me, told me I could come here any time of the day or night and it would be okay. I should have done it straight away, but I didn’t have the guts.’
‘I’m really, really glad you managed it in the end. Whatever happens, you can’t go back to him.’
‘That’s easy to say.’ Her eyes lower. ‘But it’s not as simple as that.’
There’s a heavy pause.
‘I need to pop out and get some supplies,’ I say, changing the tone. ‘Sure you don’t want to come for some fresh air?’
‘I daren’t. Darren could be out there waiting for me.’
I frown. ‘That’s not very likely. He doesn’t know where you are, does he?’
‘No, but … He might be driving around.’
‘I suppose so, but the chances of him—’
‘I’ve got a splitting headache.’ She lies down again. ‘I need to sleep.’
‘Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to push – it was just an idea.’
She wraps her arms across her chest and closes her eyes, as if to say: that’s the end of the conversation. What can I do? I can’t force her.
Wrapping up warmly, I stuff a couple of plastic carrier bags into my pockets and leave the house, looking about nervously and making sure the door is shut tight. Lori’s paranoia seems to be infectious. My pulse races when I spot a figure sitting on one of the benches on the other side of the road. It’s too cold for sitting around. Could that be Darren? I cross over and crouch down by the path, pretending to lace up my boots, and sneak a glimpse of him beneath my fringe. Then I realise it’s a woman sitting there. She’s wearing a long coat and has a black hat pulled tightly over her head, covering her hair. I watch her for a few moments as she taps away on her phone, glancing up every now and then to look at the sea.
I straighten up and set off down the hill. I know it’s silly, but I can’t stop sneaking glances down every side entrance, or staring into parked cars. This is ridiculous – how would I know it was Darren anyway? I have no idea what he looks like or what vehicle he drives. It’s extremely unlikely that he followed her here last night. And yet … and yet … why do I feel that I’m being watched?
A few hungry seagulls are screeching in the sky and the sea is roaring towards the shore, drowning out all other noises. Everything seems so bleak and heartless. There’s nobody else about. I walk on, my discomfort increasing as I think about the poor woman hiding in my house. I keep imagining Darren swinging his fist into her face. What kind of man behaves like that? It’s disgusting. I feel a surge of anger rising within me as I stomp down the hill.
There’s a strong, pungent breeze coming off the sea; it smells like diesel and seaweed. I pull my woolly hat further over my ears and carry on towards the pier, where the amusement arcades jangle and tacky pop songs play. I don’t want to be on my own, I want to be in the thick of things, safe among the crowd. I feel too vulnerable out here, too exposed. I can’t stop thinking about Lori’s injuries, the terrible state of her face. Her words last night come back to me on the wind. He’ll be out there looking for me. What if he really is out here, watching his prey? Even though I can’t hear footsteps, I sense that I’m being followed. Daren’t look behind me. I speed up, eyes front, the hairs on the back of my neck bristling.
Calm down, Stella, it’s okay. Why would Darren be following you anyway? It’s Lori he wants, not you.
I stop suddenly and turn around. Of course, there’s nobody there. I was imagining it.
But the danger for Lori is real. You only have to look at her cuts and bruises to understand that. If she leaves Westhill House with nowhere to go, she’ll end up back at home with him. Who knows what might happen the next time? I can’t let her go back to that vile lowlife. I can’t turn her away. I have to help, no matter what Jack thinks.
As I stride purposefully around the Co-op, throwing comforting cartons of soup, packets of biscuits and large bars of chocolate into a basket, a plan starts to form in my head.
* * *
When I get home, I put the soup in the microwave, then knock on Lori’s door.
‘Hi, I’m back. I’m making some lunch if you’re interested.’
She’s in the middle of a text and looks up, guiltily. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Tomato and lentil soup. Want some?’
‘Please. Soup’s good, better for my mouth than toast.’ She follows me into the kitchen and sits at the table while I pour the soup into two bowls.
I sit down opposite her. ‘Help yourself. There’s cheese, ham, hummus …’
‘Thanks.’ She picks up her spoon and stirs it about in the steaming liquid. ‘I’ve never had lentils before.’
We eat in silence for a few seconds. ‘I rang some helplines this morning,’ I say, tearing off a hunk of bread and cutting a slice of Brie. ‘I’m surprised they told you to turn up here – not just because it’s not actually a refuge any more, but because they’re all full up. They’re only taking women whose lives are in danger.’
‘But my life is in danger,’ she replies softly.
‘I know, but I was told—’
‘I’m not lying, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘It’s okay, I believe you, Lori. I just wish you could remember the name of the helpline, because their volunteers are clearly not doing their job properly.’
She takes another mouthful, then pushes her bowl away. ‘Sorry. I’m not very hungry … Feel a bit churned up, you know? Like I could burst into tears at any moment.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply … It’s just that—’
‘I’m in a shit state,’ she says, talking over me. ‘I’ve never walked out before. I’ve left everything behind. Everything. Most of my clothes, all my things, my whole life. I’ve got nothing.’
I put my spoon down. ‘You’ve been incredibly brave.’
‘Or incredibly stupid.’ She puts her elbows on the table and buries her head in her hands. ‘What am I going to do now? I can’t go to my mum’s or any of my friends – he’ll hunt me down, he’ll hurt them for protecting me. I’m going to end up on the streets.’
‘No you’re not! No way.’ I take her hands and gently peel them off her face. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ My mouth dries as I summon up the words I’m about to say. I’m taking a risk here, but there doesn’t seem to be any choice. ‘You can stay here a bit longer.’
Tears flood her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, of course. The only slight problem is Jack. It’s not that he doesn’t sympathise or want to help, but he doesn’t want me to get involved. He thinks you should go to the police and let them deal with Darren. Now I know you don’t want to do that and I’m sure you’ve got your reasons and
I respect your decision, but Jack is …’ I run out of words.
‘A man?’ she says bitterly.
‘I don’t think it’s that. He’s just … Oh, I can’t explain it. But it’s okay, he doesn’t have to know you’re here. He’s out at work virtually all day; he leaves early and doesn’t get back till late. If I put you in one of the attic rooms, do you think you could keep quiet overnight? You’d have to creep around, not flush the loo, put your phone on silent, that kind of thing.’
‘Well, yeah, I could, of course … I mean, that would be brilliant, but won’t you get in trouble if he finds out?’
‘He won’t find out,’ I say confidently. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to be gone by the weekend. At least you’ll have a chance to rest, and hopefully by Friday, you’ll have sorted something out, maybe even found a proper refuge to go to.’
Lori stares at me, dumbfounded. ‘I don’t know what to say. You’re prepared to go against him – for me?’
‘I’m not going against him, I’m just …’ I break off, searching for the right word. I am going against him, I suppose, but I don’t want to think of it like that. ‘It’s not a big thing, honestly. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Well, if you’re sure … That would be amazing. It would make all the difference.’ She breathes out. ‘Thank you.’
‘Great, that’s sorted then. Just don’t make a sound between about eight p.m. and seven in the morning.’
‘I’ll be like a ninja, promise.’
‘Right then. Shall we move this mattress upstairs?’
* * *
The attic is dusty and smells like damp earth. The wallpaper is peeling and there are a few brown patches in the top corners where the roof must be leaking. We choose the front room because it has the best view, looking out to sea. It has a large floor area but low, sloping ceilings and beams. The tatty green carpet, curling at the edges, spells out its history in stains.
Lori shoves open the window and a gust of cold air sweeps in. I turn the ancient radiator on and listen hopefully for the sound of hot water gurgling in the pipes.
‘I’ll bring you some extra blankets,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ We park the airbed by the wall and Lori lays out the sleeping bag, resting her tiny suitcase and handbag on top. There’s no other furniture in the room, and it looks very stark and unwelcoming. She needs a bedside lamp and a chair, or at least some cushions, but if I bring anything up, Jack might notice they’ve gone.
* * *
He arrives home late, in a prickly mood, cursing cancellations and overcrowding on the trains. Grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge and twisting off the lid, he pours most of it down his throat in one go.
‘You managed to get rid of the battered wife, then,’ he says, frowning at a frozen quiche.
‘Her name’s Lori, and she’s a person, not a piece of fish.’
‘You have to admit, it was weird, her turning up like that.’
‘It wasn’t her fault; the helpline sent her here.’
‘I’m glad she’s gone, anyway,’ he says. ‘Something about her was a bit fake, don’t you think?’
I feel my hackles rise. ‘How can you say that? She was covered in cuts and bruises!’
He shrugs. ‘Dunno, it all felt a bit … rehearsed. And why wouldn’t she let us call the police? Didn’t make any sense. She was lying, I’m sure of it … Hmm, there’s nothing in there I fancy. We’ll have to get a delivery.’ He slams the freezer door shut.
I flinch at the sound, as if it came from upstairs. I hope Lori remembers to take her shoes off. Did I tell her to put her phone on silent? What if the floorboards creak? What if a door slams in the wind?
‘Let’s eat out,’ I say, trying to hide the desperation in my voice.
‘Not tonight, Stel. I’ve only just got home. I’m knackered.’
‘Go on … please? I’ve been stuck inside all day.’ It’s a lie, but I don’t care. Anything, I think, anything to get him out of the house.
I drag him along the Esplanade, head down, hands stuffed sulkily in his pockets. It’s bitterly cold and I can’t help thinking that without my help, Lori would have had to spend the night on the streets. The thought strengthens my resolve. I hate deceiving Jack, but it’s in a very good cause. Molly’s words echo comfortingly in my head: Looking after other people can be very healing.
Once he’s got a beef madras and a large Cobra beer inside him, Jack starts to calm down and it almost turns into a normal Tuesday evening. I witter on about the rewiring and whether to go for engineered flooring, and he unloads a problem he’s having with his new boss at work. I listen and make sympathetic noises. Neither of us mentions Lori again.
An hour later, we leave the restaurant and walk back up the hill arm in arm, not talking much, but listening to the sea as it smashes into the groins and churns over the pebbles.
When we get home, the house is dark and silent, complicit in my secret. I know it won’t give me away. It will hold its breath until morning and not make a sound.
Chapter Six
Stella
Now
The next morning, I’m feeling groggy from lack of sleep. My senses have been on high alert since the alarm clock went off, worrying that Jack will hear noises coming from upstairs and go to investigate. As soon as the front door closes behind him, I get up, relieved to have got through the night undetected.
Lori comes into the kitchen just after eight o’clock. It’s a little unsettling to see her wearing my clothes.
‘All right if I make some tea?’ she asks. My mouth is full of muesli, so I nod and wave in the direction of the kettle.
‘Did you get some sleep?’
‘Not much.’ She sighs. ‘Darren was texting me all night. One minute he’s begging me to come back, the next he’s telling me I’m a fucking whore. Same old, same old …’ She takes a tea bag from the box. ‘Want one?’
‘Please … Why didn’t you turn the phone off?’
She lets out a wry laugh. ‘I couldn’t, love. He said if I didn’t reply he’d go around to Mum’s and force her to tell him where I was.’
My heart does a quick gallop. ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’
‘You must be kidding! Nobody knows. Just you. And your builder, of course. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Dunno, he’s usually here by now.’
‘I’ll make him a cup anyway.’
Alan arrives a few minutes later, bearing two foil packets of sandwiches.
‘Ham and tomato,’ he says, handing one to Lori. ‘Made ’em myself.’
She blushes. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have! Thanks.’
‘There’s food here,’ I say. ‘You know you can help yourself to anything.’
Lori hugs the foil packet to her chest. ‘You’re both so kind.’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s nothing,’ Alan grins. ‘Is one of those teas for me?’
Not to be outdone, I make some toast and put a jar of my mother’s damson jam on the table. The sight of her small, neat handwriting on the label tugs at me. I had no idea that jam-making was her passion. After she died, I found nearly thirty jars in the pantry. My aunt took several, and we gave some to neighbours and friends, but I kept a few. This is the last one, and it’s almost finished. I’ve been eking it out for weeks, not wanting to get to the end.
We make a strange trio at the breakfast table: Alan in his paint-spattered overalls, Lori with her bruises and me still in my pyjamas. It’s my house and yet I seem to be the least comfortable here. Alan and Lori are very easy with each other – their accents are the same and they call each other ‘love’ all the time. I watch them spread butter extravagantly on their toast and dip their dirty knives into my mother’s jam. If she’s watching us from heaven, she’ll be tutting now, I think.
A memory of her trying to teach the foster kids jam-jar etiquette springs into my mind – she never had much success with that particular campaign. Either they’d eat raveno
usly or would be so traumatised they couldn’t be persuaded to lift a spoon. Some of the kids stayed with us for several months and gradually learned the rules of the house, but my parents also took a lot of short-stay emergency cases. They often arrived while I was asleep, and I wouldn’t know anything about it until I met the new faces at the breakfast table.
‘Right, can’t sit here all day, much as I’d like to,’ says Alan, rising to his feet.
Lori looks up. ‘Can I help? I don’t mind what I do. Passing tools, holding things steady … I could strip some wallpaper if you like. Or do some painting.’
Alan hesitates. ‘I’m better off working by myself …’
‘And you need to rest,’ I say.
‘But I’d rather be doing something, take my mind off it,’ Lori says. ‘And it’s a way of paying you back.’
‘I don’t need paying back.’
‘I know, but I’d like to.’ She twists a strand of hair between her nail-bitten fingers. ‘I’m not a sponger, you know. I’m a good worker.’
Alan shrugs. ‘You could do some wallpaper stripping in one of the back bedrooms, I suppose.’
‘I won’t get in your way, promise.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want to do, but only if you feel up to it.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She gives me a swollen, lopsided smile. ‘Be up in a minute.’ She gathers the dirty plates and mugs and fills the washing-up bowl with soapy water.
Alan plods upstairs, singing an old Queen song: ‘Don’t. Stop. Me NOW!’ I put the pot of jam away, even though it’s empty.
Back in the slightly more comfortable surroundings of the bedroom, I power up my laptop to do some more research into support for victims of domestic violence. At the moment, it’s okay. Lori is safe and Jack’s none the wiser. But she can’t stay here indefinitely. Hiding her from him is hard enough during the week, but the weekend would be impossible. She has to be gone by Friday evening. If she won’t go to the police, she should at least try Social Services or one of those charities for domestic abuse survivors. There are some fantastic organisations out there that offer help. I’m sure they’ll do everything they can to find her somewhere else to live. But she has to ask.