by Jess Ryder
‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounds,’ I say. ‘Lori wasn’t sure it was Darren, she just panicked.’ But he stares at me like he no longer knows who I am.
‘This is crazy. You’re both crazy.’ He takes his mobile from his back pocket. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘No! Please don’t!’ Lori rushes forward, eyes wide with alarm.
‘But there’s a maniac prowling about outside my house …’
I put my hand on his arm. ‘There’s no evidence for that. She hasn’t told anyone where she is, have you, Lori?’
‘No, I promise.’
‘Stella!’ He shakes me off angrily. ‘Get a grip. This is serious. We have to call the police – for our own sakes.’ His finger swipes into the call screen.
Lori’s hands go up in surrender. ‘Please, please don’t! I’ll leave right now, okay? Just don’t call them, I’m begging you.’
‘Jack – please just hold back for a moment. This is getting out of control. We all need to calm down.’
‘I need to calm down?’ He paces up and down. ‘This is insane.’
I turn to Lori. ‘I don’t want you to leave, but you have to tell us why you don’t want the police involved.’
‘Are you on the run or something?’ says Jack. She shakes her head.
‘Is it because you’re frightened of Darren?’ I try.
‘Yes, but it’s not that. If the police find out, it’ll ruin everything.’ She presses her eyes to push back the tears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you just don’t understand.’
I go up to her, putting my arm on her shoulders and peering into her swollen face. The bruises are already turning green and yellow at the edges. ‘We can’t understand if you don’t explain. Let’s sit down in the other room and talk, eh? The three of us. You tell us what the problem is and then we’ll decide the best thing to do about it.’ I look up at Jack. ‘Is that okay?’
He sighs wearily, putting his phone away. ‘All right. I think you’re mad, but yeah.’
I steer Lori into the front room and Jack follows. I lower her onto the bed, then sit cross-legged on the rug in front of her. Jack drags the swivel office chair forwards and perches awkwardly on its seat.
‘Just tell us the truth, Lori,’ I say, clasping my hands together.
She rolls her eyes upwards. ‘Where do I start? Darren’s got problems. He’s always on a short fuse; you never know when he’s going to blow. I try my best not to aggravate him, but he can’t control himself … It was starting to have a bad effect on the kids.’
‘You’ve got kids?’ I interrupt. ‘You never told me.’
‘A boy and a girl. Jamie’s eight and Casey’s six. I’m sorry. It’s a complicated story, I didn’t want to get into it. I feel so ashamed.’
‘Honestly, Lori, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Has she, Jack?’ I look to him for confirmation and he shakes his head slightly. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Jamie was having problems at school – being really aggressive towards the teachers, fighting in the playground. The school’s involved in this family therapy scheme, and they offered us counselling. They had a good idea about what was going on at home, but there was no proof and I didn’t want to get the police involved.’
‘I still don’t understand why not,’ says Jack. ‘Sounds like your husband needs to be behind bars.’
‘The most Darren would have got was six months, and he’d have been out in three. I’d have got the blame and it would have just made things worse. He thinks the world of the kids, never lays a finger on them. It’s only me he hurts.’
‘I’m sorry, I still don’t get it,’ Jack says. ‘Why stay with the bastard?’
I lean forward. ‘So where are your children now? At home with Darren?’
‘No … I started having these therapy sessions, and when I admitted what was going on, they informed Social Services. They decided it wasn’t a safe environment for the kids so they took them away.’ She starts to cry. I snatch a tissue from the box and pass it to her.
‘You mean they’re in foster care now?’
‘Yeah.’ She sniffs. ‘Darren’s not allowed any contact yet but I get to see them once a fortnight. It breaks my heart every time. They’re really confused and unhappy; they don’t understand why they can’t come home.’
‘I’m sure they’re being well looked after,’ I say. ‘My parents were foster carers. I grew up with kids like yours.’
A host of childhood memories come flooding back. Traumatised kids huddled beneath their duvets, determined not to wash or get dressed, pushing away the plates of nourishing food my mother had cooked, refusing to speak. Some of them settled down after a few days, but others never accepted the situation, no matter how abusive their previous home life had been or how generous and patient my parents were. At the time, I knew nothing about the circumstances that had brought them to our house; all I was told was that I had to be kind to them and treat them as part of the family.
‘Sorry if I’m being thick here,’ says Jack, ‘but surely all you have to do is leave Darren and then you’ll get the kids back and you can have a much better life.’
She shakes her head vehemently. ‘No, no, it’s not that simple. Like I said, Darren loves the kids and they love him. I want us to be a family. I was brought up without a dad and I missed out.’
‘But Jack’s right. He’s abusing you, Lori – you can’t have that.’
‘He’s trying to sort himself out. He’s doing this course at weekends. If he gets the certificate and proves to Social Services he’s changed, then we’ll get the kids back and we can have a fresh start.’
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. ‘But he hasn’t changed, has he? I mean, look what he did to you.’
‘I know, but he’s really sorry. He’s begging me for forgiveness. If I go to the police, there’s not a chance in hell we’ll ever get the kids back and I don’t know what Darren will do. He’ll go mad. He’ll blame me for everything. I’m frightened he’ll kill me.’
Jack swivels impatiently in his chair, clasping his hands together. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Lori. None of this is your fault. You should go to the police, tell them the truth, get Social Services to help you and the kids get away from him for ever.’
‘But it won’t work. He’ll track us down.’
‘So what’s the plan, Lori?’ I say, feeling the frustration rise. ‘You’re going to go back to him, put up with the beatings, lie to Social Services, get the kids back under false pretences … Is that what you want for them?’
‘He’s a good father.’
‘No, he’s a violent abuser.’
‘Only to me.’ She pushes a strand of hair away from her face, unconsciously revealing the cut on her cheek, the flesh not quite knitted together. ‘I had to get away from him, for his own sake. He needs some time to cool off and come to his senses. Once he’s done this course and got the certificate—’
‘Oh Lori, Lori,’ I cry. ‘Can’t you see this is never going to work?’
‘But it might,’ she replies, eyes shining with tears. ‘It might. I just need a few weeks away from him, somewhere safe, where he can’t find me. I would have gone to a hotel but I don’t have any money. The bank took all my credit cards off me.’
She pauses to blow her nose. Jack and I exchange a private glance. Finally it feels like we’re on the same side, even if it’s one of astonishment and disbelief that anyone could be so stupid.
‘So how come you knew about Westhill House?’ Jack asks.
‘The helpline—’ she begins.
‘Don’t give me that bullshit. It hasn’t been a refuge for at least three years; all the helplines must know that.’
‘I rang them all, Lori,’ I add, ‘and every one of them insisted their database was up to date.’
‘I didn’t want to lie,’ she mumbles, ‘I thought if I said a charity had sent me here, you’d be more likely to take me in.’
‘Then who told you it was a refuge?’
<
br /> She shrugs. ‘Oh, just some woman who stayed here a long time ago. She saw my bruises and knew what I was going through. She told me there was this big house in Nevansey on top of the hill, overlooking the beach. They took women in and looked after them, no questions asked. It was where she found her freedom, she said. When I decided to run away, it was the first place I thought of.’
I get to my knees and grab Lori’s hands. ‘Why didn’t you tell us the truth from the beginning?’
‘Because the truth usually gets me into trouble.’
Jack stands up. ‘Lori? Would you mind giving me and Stella a few moments to talk?’
She nods. I let her go and she rises quickly, almost losing her balance. ‘Please, let me stay a bit longer. I won’t be any bother. I’ll help out with the building, I’m a good worker. I’ve got a few quid in my purse – you can have it towards my keep. I won’t eat much. Alan’s been making me sandwiches and—’
‘I don’t know, Lori, we need to discuss it,’ I say gently.
‘Just a week or two,’ she pleads. ‘Until Darren’s calmed down. Then I’ll go home and I promise you’ll never hear from me again.’
Chapter Eleven
Kay
Then
Kay spooned liquid fat from the roasting tray over the chicken. It smelt good, almost like one of her mother’s Sunday dinners. She put the chicken back in the oven. The potatoes were browning nicely and soon it would be time to put on the vegetables – Foxy only liked thinly sliced carrots and frozen peas. She crumbled an Oxo cube into a Pyrex jug, listening to the conversation coming from the lounge. Micky was there. All the brothers ever talked about was football; it bored her stiff. But at least cooking the lunch gave her something to do.
They’d been married for six months, and by and large all was going well. He was still incredibly romantic – scarcely a week went by without him buying her a bunch of flowers, a small box of chocolates or a copy of her favourite magazine.
‘I spoil you,’ he said, kissing her on the top of her head like she was a child.
Her friends told her she was very lucky. ‘He’s so devoted. When you’re out with him, he never takes his eyes off you.’ They thought it was brilliant that he bought clothes for her – dresses, tops, skirts, even lingerie – and admired his taste. It wasn’t often her taste, though. She wasn’t a fan of baby pink, or blouses with frilly edges that made her neck itch. He didn’t like her showing her cleavage, and last summer he’d made her wear a one-piece swimsuit on the beach, even though it was the hottest July on record. She’d felt so self-conscious when other girls were wearing scanty bikinis. A few had even gone topless.
‘There’s no way I’d ever let you do that,’ he’d said, and she’d felt herself bristle inside. Not that she particularly wanted to bare her breasts to the world, but they were her breasts and she would have liked a say.
She opened the freezer compartment and took out the bag of peas, her forearm scraping the frosty bed of ice. She never mentioned the nasty pinch he’d given her at the wedding. The mark had quickly faded, but the nip of pain had lodged itself under her skin and refused to go away. She shut the fridge door. He was just drunk, she told herself for the thousandth time. He didn’t mean to hurt me. And maybe she had been a little flirty with Ruth’s boyfriend, although she hadn’t meant anything by it – it had been fun to be the centre of attention for one day. Foxy seemed to have completely forgotten about the incident; why couldn’t she do so too?
The conversation in the lounge was getting louder. ‘Trevor Brooking is who you want midfield, he’s got class,’ Foxy was saying.
‘Nah, he’s a poncey git, mate.’
‘You’re talking crap.’
She heard the hiss of another beer can being opened. They’d already been to the pub earlier; why did they need more booze? She poured water over the sliced carrots and turned on the ring. At home – no, this was home now – they had a gas cooker. She wasn’t used to the electric rings; they took ages to heat up, and she’d burnt herself a few times wiping them clean before they’d properly cooled down.
‘When’s dinner, Squirrel? We’re starving to death,’ Foxy said, coming into the kitchen and putting his arms around her waist from behind.
‘Won’t be long now.’ She stared down at the carrot water, willing it to come to the boil. He nuzzled into her neck like an animal, his lips reaching for her ear.
‘Stop it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m cooking.’
‘Spoilsport.’ He gave her left breast a sharp squeeze, then pulled away, going back to the lounge.
She rubbed herself to disperse the pain. The honeymoon period was showing little sign of coming to an end, certainly not in the bedroom department. He was still very attracted to her – a bit too much, if she was honest. They had sex nearly every night. The one time she’d refused, due to a terrible cold, he’d sulked for days, and there were no presents that week. It wasn’t that he was unkind; he just didn’t seem to notice when she was ill or tired. In his mind, she was always happy and smiling, eagerly waiting to see him at the end of the day. She hated disappointing him. Even if she felt exhausted, she still refreshed her make-up before he came through the door.
‘You’re the perfect wife, Mrs Foxton,’ he said. ‘Always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’
But being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed all the time was becoming a strain. If she ever dared to moan about work, he said things like ‘It’s easy for you, you’re only part-time’ or ‘Standing around in a card shop isn’t a proper job. Not compared to what I do.’ He was right, she supposed; selling insurance demanded financial skills and strong powers of persuasion. It was a responsible position. But she had responsibilities too. There was little Abigail to look after, not to mention all the cleaning, cooking and shopping to fit in. When you added it together, she worked longer hours than him, but they didn’t count because they weren’t paid.
What was Abigail doing, come to think of it? She was supposedly upstairs, playing in her bedroom, but they hadn’t heard a squeak out of her for hours. Kay turned the carrots down to a simmer and went to the foot of the stairs.
‘Abigail!’ she shouted. ‘Time for lunch! Go to the toilet and wash your hands!’
Her daughter’s voice tinkled down the stairs. ‘Coming, Mummy!’
‘Good girl!’ She popped her head around the doorway of the lounge. ‘I’ll be dishing up in five minutes.’
‘Nice one,’ said Micky, lifting his can in a toast.
Foxy rolled his eyes. ‘About bloody time.’ Neither man got up or asked if they could help.
Kay went back to the kitchen, put on her oven gloves and took the chicken out to let it rest. What next? Put the peas on, make the gravy, carve the meat, strain the carrots, take the potatoes out, dish up. Timing was everything for the perfect Sunday roast. She switched off the oven and put the plates in to warm. He hated her serving hot food on cold plates. It was one of the many things he insisted on.
Foxy believed that as the man of the house and the main breadwinner, he should be in charge. Kay was no women’s libber, but secretly she thought his views were very old-fashioned. She wanted to challenge him, but it was difficult because he always made her feel she was on the back foot in the marriage, her debts still chalked on the slate. Abigail was the problem. Not the child herself, who was a darling, but the simple existence of her.
From day one, Kay had encouraged her to call Foxy ‘Daddy’. ‘Ask Daddy if he wants a biscuit’; ‘Let Daddy put your shoes on’; ‘Sit between me and Daddy and have a hug.’ The little girl showed willing at first – most of her friends had daddies, and she’d asked before why she didn’t have one. But ‘Daddy’ never came to school events, or answered if Abigail called to him, and when the three of them were out in public, he walked ahead on his own, like they were nothing to do with him.
‘It’s blindingly obvious she’s the daughter of some greasy dago,’ he complained.
‘He wasn’t a greasy dago; he was Spanish,’
Kay wanted to say. ‘And actually, he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever met.’ But of course she never dared.
How long would this go on? she wondered. This continual punishment for that one reckless act when she was only fifteen years old. Her parents were the same, always going on about how lucky she was to have found someone prepared to take on another man’s child. Kay wasn’t proud of her mistake, but she was proud of Abigail. She was such a clever little girl, well behaved at school, popular with friends. They were a family now. What did it matter that she hadn’t been made by his sperm? Kay darted between husband and daughter in a constant game of piggy in the middle, catching his filthy looks and nasty digs and secreting them in her heart.
‘You can’t expect him to love her like we do,’ her mother said. ‘What he needs is a child of his own – that’ll set everything to rights.’
Abigail ran into the kitchen wearing her princess costume – lavender satin decked with yellow ballet net. Grandma had made it for a fancy-dress competition at last year’s school fair, and she’d all but grown out of it.
‘Mummy, can I sit next to you?’ she whispered, glancing anxiously towards the lounge.
‘If you like. Show me your hands.’ Abigail solemnly held them out for inspection. They were covered in scribbles of pink felt pen and tiny specks of glitter. ‘Hmm, did you wash them with soap?’
‘Yes! Promise!’
‘Try again. Use the nail brush.’ Kay sent her scampering back upstairs.
She tore off the chicken legs and started to attack the breast with a knife. At her parents’ house, her father always carved the joint with a tiny electric saw. Her thoughts drifted back to her mother’s advice. For once, she agreed with her. If she and Foxy had a child of their own, all the separate ribbons of their lives could be tied into a beautiful bow. She would love a brother or sister for Abigail, but she knew Foxy wasn’t ready for fatherhood yet. On the few occasions she’d broached the subject, he’d brushed her off, saying, ‘It’s bad enough sharing you with the gypsy girl. I don’t want anyone else getting in the way.’