by Jess Ryder
Better than living with you, she thought, but kept quiet. Her body was responding badly to his presence. Her heart was racing and she had pins and needles all the way down her left arm. It was very peculiar.
He strode past her into the kitchen and she followed, even though she wanted to run into the street and cry for help. But she couldn’t leave him in the house with Abigail.
‘Make us a cuppa, will you? I’ve been wandering around for hours looking for this place.’
She automatically reached for the kettle. ‘How did you find it?’
‘I saw a load of women and kids come out the front door; they looked like a right bunch of man-haters.’ His lip curled; he was deliberately provoking her.
‘So what do you want, Alan?’ she said, calling him by his proper name. No more Foxy, no more Squirrel, no more hubby darling.
‘I told you. I want you to come home. I need you.’
She frowned. ‘I thought you were being evicted. Micky told me,’ she added at his surprised expression.
‘I’ve got another month’s grace, on account of the baby,’ he said. ‘The landlord’s a harsh bastard, but even he couldn’t turf us onto the streets with a newborn just before Christmas. No room at the inn and all that.’
He looked down at her bump and she put her hands against it protectively. So that was why he wanted her back.
‘Changed your tune, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘Last time we spoke, you told me to get rid of it.’
He shrugged, as if he could barely remember the occasion. ‘I was shocked, that’s all, but I’ve got used to the idea now. I love you, Kay. My whole life’s fallen to pieces since you left. I lost my job, I owe money. You’ve got to come back. I need you.’
For what? she thought. To do his cooking and cleaning, washing and ironing? To give him sex on demand? To be his punchbag? She would rather die than go back to that life.
‘I can’t. Sorry.’
‘You what?’
He moved towards her, pushing her against the worktop and putting his hands on her shoulders. Her swollen belly was a buffer between them, but she could still feel his hot breath on her cheeks and smell the minty gum he always chewed. She held onto the edge of the counter as images from the past flashed into her brain.
‘Please don’t hurt the baby,’ she said.
He looked at her as if she was mad. ‘Me? I would never do that. I know I was hard on you sometimes, but it was only because I love you so much. I wanted our life to be perfect. Every time you let me down, it made me angry, because you kept spoiling things.’
His logic was perverse; she understood that completely now, saw through all the self-justifying lies. Why had she put up with it for so long? Well, it was over now, she was a new person. She’d worked hard, made sacrifices. It was a struggle, but she would get there in the end. Right now, she had to protect herself, her daughter and her unborn child.
‘I’m sorry I let you down,’ she lied. ‘I tried, but it just didn’t work out. I think it’s best we go our separate ways.’
He dug his nails into the tops of her shoulders and lowered his voice to a growl. ‘You’re my wife. If I say you’re coming home, you’re coming home.’
He lunged forward and kissed her hard, shoving his tongue into her mouth. She stretched her hand back, feeling blindly with her fingers. The bread knife was on the drainer; if she could just reach it … He had his hands on her breasts now – they hurt madly but she let him manhandle her while she grabbed the knife and slowly brought it round and up until the blade was pointing at the side of his neck. She prodded him with the cold metal tip and he flinched.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Get your hands off me.’
He took a sharp intake of minty breath, then released her. ‘Put the knife down, Kay,’ he said. His tone was almost dismissive. ‘Stop playing silly buggers.’
‘I’m serious. Get out now, or I’ll call the police.’
‘Ha! Call them!’ he said mockingly. ‘Who are they going to believe? I’m not the one holding a knife.’
She waved the blade in his face. ‘I mean it. Go.’
‘All right, all right …’ He backed off. ‘Calm down, will you, or someone’s going to get hurt, and it won’t be me.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
‘What’s got into you? Have you gone mental? I’ve come here to put things right, for the sake of our family. I’m offering to take you back—’
‘Go. Now.’ He took a few steps backwards into the corridor and she followed him, holding the knife out in front of her. Her arm was steady; she’d never felt so powerful and in control. ‘Get out,’ she said, pushing him towards the front door. ‘I never want to see or hear from you ever again.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Stella
Now
‘Stella? … Stella?’
I blink my eyes open, but the light is too strong and I instantly close them again. The outline of a window scars the inside of my eyelids. Where am I? No longer in the shed, I think. I hold my breath, letting my senses do their work. Gone is the smell of damp earth, replaced by something sharper, like disinfectant. The air is warm but still, almost stuffy. I press my back downwards, testing the surface. It’s soft and springy. I’m not lying on the ground, but in a bed. Hospital, perhaps?
Somebody is touching my hand, over and over, rubbing their fingers across my knuckles in nervous, repetitive strokes. I realise that my wrists are no longer tied.
‘Jack?’ I whisper. ‘Is that you?’ There’s no reply, but whoever it is keeps on stroking, to calm themselves as much as me, I think. Please let it be Jack sitting at my side, patiently waiting for me to sit up. My spirits rise. I picture his face, his kind brown eyes and straggly beard, hair flattened by the beanie he always insists on wearing. I’ve missed him so much. But then I remember that the voice I just heard was light and thin, too high-pitched to belong to a man. Not Jack, then … I feel instantly bereft.
Who is holding my hand? A nurse, perhaps. Yes, it must be a nurse.
Some hours, maybe even days ago – I’ve completely lost all sense of time – I dreamt that I was thrown into a handcart and wheeled away on cobbled stones. The uneven ground rattled my bones, made me cry out weakly with pain. Whoever was pushing the cart thought I was dead and I couldn’t make them hear me. They were taking me to be buried in a pit. I was trying to shout at them – ‘I’m alive, still alive!’ – but no sound would come out of my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t a dream; maybe that was me being rescued, pushed on a trolley, loaded into the back of an ambulance …
‘Stella? I’m going to clean you up a bit, okay?’ The voice belongs to an older woman, and for a brief, delirious moment I think it’s my mother talking to me. I’m so confused, I don’t know if I’m asleep or dreaming, dead or alive. She wipes a cold wet cloth over my cheeks, rubs at the corners of my mouth as she used to when I was a child. The cloth smells of aloe vera. Its coldness stings me awake.
‘Open your eyes, love,’ she says gently. I flutter my eyelids and stare into her face. It’s not my mother, of course. Nor is she wearing a nurse’s uniform. I’ve never seen this woman before and yet she is instantly recognisable, an older version of somebody I know. Either I’ve travelled forward in time, or I’ve been lying here like Sleeping Beauty for years.
‘Dawn?’ I croak. My tongue is parched, the roof of my mouth scaly.
‘No,’ she smiles. ‘I’m Kay, her mum. Everyone says we’re carbon copies of each other.’
‘Her mum?’
‘Yes, love. You’re safe now, everything’s going to be all right.’
‘Where am I?’
‘In bed, in your room.’ She screws the baby wipe into a ball and throws it in the bin next to the bed. ‘I’ve cleaned your wound and put a bandage on. I don’t think it’s too bad.’
I slowly lift my hand and prod my forehead. My head is swathed in soft crepe. The stickiness at the back of my skull has gone, but it still feels
unbearably tender.
‘Did Dawn call you?’
‘Yes. I came straight away.’ She sits on the edge of the bed and takes my hand again, rubbing it as if trying to remove a stubborn stain. ‘I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. It never should have happened. But you’ll be all right, you’ll heal. You just need to rest up, take it easy for a few days.’
‘Did you call the police?’
She bites down on her lip before answering. ‘You have to understand … my daughter’s not a well person – Abigail, I mean, not Dawn. She didn’t mean to hurt you; it was an accident.’
I start to shake my head in denial, but pain rolls behind my eyes, making me stop. ‘It wasn’t an accident. She wanted to kill me. She’d already dug my grave.’
‘No … you misunderstood. You challenged her and she struck out. She was frightened and panicked. I’m not excusing what she did. She shouldn’t have tied you up like that, it was really bad of her, but she wasn’t in control of her actions. Dawn tried to stop her, but when Abi’s having one of her—’
‘Where is she?’
‘Upstairs. Dawn’s looking after her. She’s taken her medication and she’s resting now. I won’t let her come anywhere near you, don’t worry.’ She smiles at me again – a sort of anxious, pleading smile that says: Please don’t ask any more questions, please let’s pretend that everything’s fine.
But it’s not fine. It’s anything but fine. I’m grateful to this woman for making her crazy daughter see sense, for rescuing me from the shed and bringing me into the house, for tending to my wounds and taking care of me. But it’s not enough. Something serious happened here; it can’t just be swept away.
‘I should be in hospital,’ I say. ‘My head is really hurting. I probably need stitches or something. I may have concussion.’
‘You’re okay, I checked your pupils. And you’re not bleeding any more. It’s just a small cut. I’ll get you some paracetamol.’ She reaches down for her handbag and starts scrabbling around inside, like a squirrel looking for food. ‘I’ve got some somewhere.’
‘Can you call an ambulance, please,’ I say, feeling my hackles rise.
‘Oh, they won’t come for something as minor as this,’ she replies, taking out a sheet of tablets and pushing two through their foil casing. ‘You’re better off resting. The queues in A and E are horrendous.’
‘If you won’t do it, I will.’ I ease myself onto my elbows and look around for my phone. I can’t remember when I last had it or where I left it. My head swims and I feel sick. ‘Have you seen my mobile?’
‘Sorry, no. Here, take these.’ She puts the tablets onto my palm, then passes me a glass of water. ‘You need to rest.’
Anything is better than nothing, I think, swallowing them down. ‘I need my mobile. I want to call for help.’
‘It’s really not necessary.’
‘Yes, it is. I was attacked by your daughter, I’m lucky to be alive.’
‘Please don’t,’ she says. ‘Please, I’m begging you. They’ll only get the police involved. It was an accident, a stupid mistake; she didn’t mean it. Please don’t call, you don’t understand the trouble it’ll cause. Everything will come out and …’ She starts to break up, like a bad signal. ‘Please, please … don’t.’
But I don’t care. Throwing off the duvet, I drag myself onto my side and sit up. My brain weighs a ton, the pain behind my eyes so strong that I can barely keep them open.
Got to get outside … call for help … Even if I collapse in the street, surely someone will find me.
I heave myself off the bed and try to stand, but my legs buckle under me and I fall back onto the mattress. Groaning, I attempt to get up again, but my head is reeling with nausea. It’s no use. I’m too weak. I won’t even make it as far as the door.
Kay stands over me. ‘Please, just listen to me first. I’ll tell you what happened, from the beginning. I’ll tell you everything. Then you can decide what you want to do.’
‘I know what I want to do. I want to call an ambulance.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let you,’ she says, her tone firming up again. ‘Not until you’ve heard my story. This is all my fault. I’m the one who should take the blame – not Abi, not Dawn.’
I moan, collapsing backwards onto the bed. Why is she torturing me like this? I don’t care about her story; I’m not interested in her excuses. The mattress depresses as she sits down. She tries to take my hand, but I snatch it away, turning onto my side and closing my eyes as her words drift into my brain.
‘I had Abigail when I was just sixteen. It was a one-night stand, a holiday romance.’ She sighs. ‘Not even a romance, really. Just a moment of stupidity. My parents stood by me, but they never forgave me. I was damaged goods, my mum said – no man would ever want me. Then I met Alan Foxton; everyone called him Foxy. He was a right charmer, swept me off my feet, told me I was the most wonderful girl in the world, all that crap. I fell for it, didn’t I? I was a single mum, trapped at home. I thought my life had ended. It made me vulnerable and I suppose he saw that.
‘The violence started soon after we were married. I didn’t understand at first, I thought it was all my fault … I was used to being in the wrong, getting the blame. I tried really hard to be the best wife I could be so he wouldn’t get angry, but nothing I did made anything better. Because I wasn’t the problem, he was.’
‘Foxy …’ I murmur. Alan Foxton. The man I let into my house, who was so supportive of Lori, who brought her sandwiches every day, gave her pretty things for her room. What kind of man does that to his wife? That’s what he said, the hypocrite.
‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ Kay continues. ‘I was too embarrassed, too ashamed. There was no point in going to the police because they didn’t get involved in domestics – it was as if husbands had a right to beat their wives up. I put up with it for a couple of years, not that long compared to what some women endure, but long enough for me. I was pregnant with Dawn, but Alan didn’t want the baby. He hated Abigail, was sick with jealousy. I was scared. I knew that if I stayed much longer, he’d kill me. There was no choice. So we escaped and came to the refuge.’
‘You lived here?’ My senses prickle and I feel my brain stuttering into action. Pieces of the jigsaw are starting to come together. The battered wife, the monstrous husband, two half-sisters caught in the crossfire. And at the centre of the picture is my home, Westhill House.
I uncurl and turn over to face her. ‘When? How long were you here?’
She nods slowly, remembering. ‘We arrived in April 1978 and I left just before Christmas.’
‘What was it like? I’ve always wondered. Tried to imagine … Sometimes it feels like the house is full of ghosts. Good ghosts, not evil ones.’
‘It was a squat back then; we didn’t have any proper funding, lived off donations from the public. It was terribly overcrowded, there weren’t enough toilets – we must have broken all the health and safety rules. But for the first time in my life I felt free. The other women were so generous, so supportive. They came from all backgrounds – some were rough types virtually off the street, but we had wives of professional men there too. Bankers, teachers … everybody mixed in. We’d all been through the same hell, so we understood each other. There was no therapy like there is nowadays, not to speak of. We just lived together and gradually the scars – mental as well as physical – healed.’
‘Sounds incredible … women together.’
‘It was incredible. We had nothing, but we couldn’t give a toss. Because we had our freedom, freedom from control, freedom from violence.’
She pauses, looking down at me. ‘I’m so sorry, Stella. This shouldn’t have happened to you. I know what it’s like to be bruised and beaten, to feel sick with pain.’
‘If you know, why won’t you help me?’ I say.
‘I am helping you. But first you have to listen to me.’
‘Okay. Carry on, then.’
‘It happened on Bonf
ire Night,’ she says. ‘Everyone else had gone to the display, but I was staying in because Abigail had a fever – she was only eight, I couldn’t leave her. There was a knock on the door and I just opened it without thinking, didn’t even put the chain on. Alan was standing on the doorstep, said he’d come to take me home.’
Her voice starts to waver and she twists her fingers in her lap, just as Dawn used to do when she was being Lori. The likeness between them is extraordinary. Not just their physical features, but their gestures and mannerisms – the tilt of the head, the way they unconsciously slip their hair behind their ears; even the rhythm of their speech is the same. Then I think of how different Abigail is. The outsider, the misfit. I can imagine her at eight years old – tall for her age, solid-looking, long dark hair, sallow skin, thick eyebrows, her eyes an impenetrable brown. Intelligent, but a bit of a bull in a china shop, perhaps. Forceful and slightly defiant, yet also vulnerable.
‘What happened?’ I say.
Kay shudders, then takes a long inward breath. And I know that she’s about to speak the unspeakable.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kay
Then
‘Mummy?’
Their eyes swept upwards simultaneously. Abigail was standing at the top of the stairs, barefoot in her pyjamas. Her cheeks were flushed and feverish; black curls stuck to her forehead.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, staring at the knife, which was shaking in Kay’s hand.
‘Go back to bed, sweetheart. You’re not well.’ She lowered the blade and put it behind her back. ‘Back to bed now, there’s a good girl.’
‘Why’s he here?’ Abigail’s finger pointed accusingly.
‘It’s okay, he’s leaving. Go back to bed.’
She hesitated.
‘Hello, Abigail,’ Alan said, going to the foot of the stairs, blocking Kay’s way. ‘I hear you’re a bit poorly.’