The Escape

by C. L. Taylor

  ‘Max!’ I lift Elise into my arms and step through the rubbish, leaving the front door open behind me. ‘Max, are you home?’

  I gasp in horror as I glance into the living room. The plant in front of the fireplace has been tipped over and there’s soil all over the rug. One of Elise’s nappies is on the floor in front of the TV, open and dirty with a Peppa Pig doll face down in the poo. The coffee table is stacked with dirty plates and mugs and the wine bottle I shared with Max is lying on its side, the dregs staining the cream rug red. This isn’t how I left the house. What the hell’s happened?

  ‘Max?’ I tighten my grip on Elise and back out of the room. My voice rings through the house, but no one answers me.

  In the kitchen clothes are spilling out of the washing machine and onto the floor. A tin lies on its side on the work surface, spilling orange beans, and a thick gloop sauce has dripped onto the cupboard below. There are coffee granules, sugar and bread crumbs covering the chopping board. Beyond the food preparation bar, on the kitchen table all the washing I neatly folded and placed into a washing basket has been tipped onto the floor and chairs.

  Paula must have come back.

  I back out of the kitchen and glance up the stairs. I stand very still, barely breathing. Is she still here, standing silently in my bedroom, waiting for me to make my next move? Where’s Max? He said he’d be here. What if he is? What if he was here when she broke in? A cold chill runs through my body and I jolt backwards. My heel catches on something, forcing me off balance, and I tip to the side. Elise screeches as I release one hand to steady myself against the wall. I have to get out of here.

  Chapter 18

  I barrel out of the house with Elise in my arms, slam the door behind me and smack straight into something – or someone – solid.

  ‘Woah!’ An older woman with short, dyed red hair and a wide face lurches away from me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ She hitches her handbag and tote back onto her shoulder. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I want to get as far away from the house as I can but she’s blocking the path, effectively trapping me between the bay window and the low wall that separates our house from Naija’s. Elise screams in my ear and tightens her grip around my neck, making it hard for me to breathe.

  ‘Please.’ I hold up a hand, warning the woman not to get any closer. ‘Please just let me go.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She takes a step back and raises both hands. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Her brow furrows. ‘You are Jo Blackmore, aren’t you? I’m Lorraine Hooper. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

  Relief floods through me as she says her name. I thought she was someone Paula sent round to threaten me. In my haste to get out of the house I completely forgot why I came home in the first place.

  ‘I …’ I set Elise down on her feet and take her hand. ‘I …’

  ‘Would you like to sit down for a second,’ – Lorraine gestures towards the wall – ‘and get your breath back? Then you can tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘The house. The house …’ I fight to control my breathing but the harder I try the more ragged it becomes. My heart’s pounding and I feel like I’m about to pass out.

  ‘What’s wrong with the house?’ She takes a step to her left and approaches the bay window, then stoops to peer inside. The stoic expression on her face morphs into concern.

  ‘It’s a little messy,’ she says, giving me what I’m sure she thinks is an understanding look. ‘But that’s OK. We all let the housework go when we’ve got a lot on our plate. Is your husband at home?’

  ‘I don’t … I don’t …’

  Frustration rages inside me. Why can’t she see what’s happened? My house isn’t ‘a little messy’. It’s been ransacked and my husband is in danger. I need to ring the police but I can’t speak. I can’t fucking speak.

  Sweat dribbles down my back and a strange tinny sound fills my ears. I grit my teeth and breathe through my nose. I need to tell her what’s happened. I need to find my voice.

  ‘Max …’ As I force the word out, my legs give way and I feel myself falling backwards.

  ‘Are you feeling any better?’ Lorraine asks as I sip from the bright-blue sports bottle she’s dug out of her tote bag. The water tastes warm and stale but I sip it gratefully.

  We’re sitting in my car, me on the driver’s side, Lorraine in the passenger seat and Elise in the back. Lorraine lurched forwards as I collapsed, wrapping her arms around me and Elise to stop me from falling, then she gently lowered me onto the low wall. Gradually the black spots disappeared from my eyes but I couldn’t stop shaking. Lorraine thought I was cold and tried to persuade me into the house. Then, when I refused, into my car.

  ‘Are you able to talk to your husband, do you think?’ she asks softly. I’d expected her to be some kind of dragon but she’s more like a kindly aunt. A very strong, sensible aunt.

  ‘Yes.’ I reach for her phone. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Hello?’ Max says the second the mobile touches my ear. All the air leaves my lungs in a rush at the sound of his voice. He’s OK. He’s not hurt. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I’m stuck in traffic. There’s been some kind of accident near Temple Meads. I haven’t moved in over twenty minutes.’

  ‘Max,’ I breathe. ‘When was the last time you came home?’

  ‘Um,’ – he pauses – ‘Thursday, I think. That’s when I slept on the sofa, wasn’t it? Why?’

  ‘I think we’ve been burgled. The house has been ransacked. There’s a bin bag just behind the front door and it’s been ripped open. There’s rubbish all the way down the hall and in the living room and kitchen. I was so scared. I thought you might already be home and you’d been attacked.’

  ‘I’m fine, Jo. I’m OK. I’ve been at work all day.’

  ‘Someone’s been in the house again, Max. We need to ring the police.’

  ‘Let’s just wait until I get home.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you believe me? I’m not overreacting to a bit of mess, Max. Paula’s been in our house again. She’s trashed it.’

  ‘OK, OK. It’s all right, Jo. I believe you.’ He pauses. ‘Can I have a word with the social worker?’

  I glance across at Lorraine who’s watching me intently.

  ‘He wants to speak to you.’

  She nods pleasantly and reaches for the phone. ‘Hello, Max. Lorraine Hooper speaking.’

  Now it’s my turn to watch and listen but all she says over the next couple of minutes is ‘Uh-huh, I see’, ‘OK’, ‘thank you’ and ‘right’.

  ‘Well?’ I ask as she tucks her mobile back into her handbag. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Just a chat.’

  ‘About?’

  She pauses for a split second and she gazes out of the window, as though she’s trying to decide how much to tell me. When she looks back at me she’s all smiles again. ‘He asked if I’d still be here in half an hour.’

  I’m not convinced. ‘I didn’t hear you respond to that question.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, I do have to go.’ She glances into the back of the car where Elise is slapping her palms against the iPad’s screen.

  ‘Not working, Mummy. Beebies not working.’

  ‘Here, sweetheart.’ I reach for the iPad but she’s unwilling to let go it and screams in frustration. I can feel Lorraine silently watching our interaction.

  ‘Jo,’ she says as Elise continues to scream. ‘Do you mind if I have another quick peep through your window, and a quick look through the letter box of your house?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I’m so focused on the tears running down my daughter’s face that I barely register her getting out of the car.

  It takes a couple of minutes before I finally get through to Elise that Mummy is not trying to take the iPad, Mummy is trying to fix it and then, finally, she is all smiles and prod-prod, bleep-bleep again. I slump back in my seat and rub my hands over my face. Lorraine is peering through the window of our house, her hands cupped to th
e side of her head. God knows what the neighbours on the other side of the street are making of all of this.

  It’s nearly over, I tell myself as Lorraine strolls back down the street towards the car. As soon as she goes I’ll call Max to tell him that I’m going to Helen’s for the night. We’ll call the police if I think we should. Let’s see how patronising he is when he gets home and sees the state of the place for himself. I’m not staying here one second longer than I need to.

  ‘Well,’ Lorraine says as she hefts herself back into the car, ‘I saw the state of the hallway.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Do you have a cat?’

  ‘Cat!’ Elise says from the back seat. ‘Tigger cat!’

  ‘My next-door neighbours do,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  ‘Does it ever come into your house?’

  ‘Sometimes. There’s a cat flap in the back door that the previous owners installed. After Tigger came in a couple of times I decided to lock it.’ I glance back at my daughter. ‘But Elise thinks it’s fun to unlock it.’

  ‘Could she have done that before you went away?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘That might explain the torn bin bag and the overturned plant.’ I can hear the smile in Lorraine’s voice.

  A cat? She seriously thinks a cat was responsible for the state of my house? What about the spilled laundry, the soiled nappy or the dirty cups and plates? Did the cat put them there too? No, of course it didn’t. Because Lorraine thinks that was down to me. Does she think I left one of my daughter’s toys in a pile of her own shit too? I’m so angry I don’t trust myself to reply and for several seconds the only sound in the car is the bleep-bleep-bleep of Elise’s game and then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You’re having a bit of a tough time, aren’t you?’ Lorraine says softly.

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘It must be difficult, looking after your home and your daughter whilst holding down a part-time job, nursing a sick parent and coping with your condition.’

  I stiffen and shift away from her touch. How does she know all this?

  ‘We all have different coping mechanisms, Jo, but some are more useful than others.’

  ‘Which coping mechanisms are you referring to? My rabid alcoholism or my out-of-control drug habit?’

  She smiles again, a smile that no longer looks warm and supportive but patronising. ‘No one’s accusing you of anything, Jo.’

  ‘But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because of the police raid. As if I haven’t been through enough already!’

  ‘Jo.’ She glances towards the back seat, where Elise is still playing her game, completely oblivious. ‘You might want to keep your voice down.’

  I know I should do as she says. Logically I know I’m not doing myself any favours by reacting like this but I’m fed up. I’m sick of being looked at with suspicion and doubt when I haven’t done anything wrong. First Max, then the police, now this woman. I feel like I’m in The Truman Show, like strings are being pulled and set pieces arranged just to get a rise out of me. Why can’t anyone else see how ridiculous this whole situation is?

  ‘I was threatened,’ I say. ‘Drugs were planted in my home and then it was ransacked. I am the victim here and yet my ability to mother my child is being called into question? Seriously?’

  Lorraine shifts in her seat. ‘No one’s doing that, Jo. We just want to help you.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘No, you don’t. This is the same bullshit the health visitor tried to pull on me when I had postnatal depression after Elise was born. Do you know what she told me when I said I was getting less than three hours’ sleep a night? Persevere! Persevere, how is that helpful? She didn’t give two shits about me, she just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t about to harm my child.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. Mothers with PND often feel paranoid and defensive and—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I slam my palms against the steering wheel then press my forehead against the back of my palms. I can’t deal with this any more.

  ‘Mummy!’ Elise wails from the car seat, her little voice shrill and fearful.

  ‘It’s OK, Li-Li.’ I twist round to look at her. She stares back at me with big, alarmed eyes. ‘Mummy’s fine. Just a bit cross. But not with you. Never with you.’

  Lorraine reaches into the footwell for her bags and pulls them onto her lap. ‘I think we should probably leave it there for today, Jo.’

  I force myself to meet her gaze but I’m shaking with anger. ‘So we’re done? You’re done?’

  ‘Not quite. We need to reschedule another meeting. I’ll be in touch with you and Max to arrange a date.’

  ‘Mummy,’ says a little voice from the back of the car. ‘Mummy, I did a wee wee. Sorry, mummy.’

  Elise pulls up her skirt and, sure enough, the tops of her tights are stained several shades darker. I completely forgot to put her in a nappy before the journey down from Chester. God knows how long she’s been desperate for the toilet.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Lorraine says. ‘Do you have any clean clothes for her, Jo?’

  It’s all I can do not to swing for her.

  Chapter 19

  Can I have a word? Fiona’s request rings in Max’s ears as he crosses the office and heads for her door. Five seemingly innocuous words but laden with meaning. He reaches for the door handle and tries to think of other five-word sentences that have struck fear into his heart in the past:

  Your dad died last night

  I couldn’t find a heartbeat

  I’m going to divorce Max

  He stands up straighter as he enters Fiona’s office. Whatever she’s about to bollock him about, he can take it. He’s been through worse; much, much worse.

  ‘Max.’ Fiona nods tightly and makes a sweeping gesture with her left hand. ‘Take a seat, please.’

  Max does as he’s told. His boss gives him an appraising look as he settles himself into the chair. He holds her gaze but doesn’t say anything. Let her take the first shot. He’s not about to hand her any ammo.

  ‘So.’ She leans forward on her elbows. ‘It’s been well over a week since our last chat and I thought we should catch up. Tell me, how are things in Maxworld?’

  Maxworld? He fights not to show his disdain on his face. When did Fiona start using saccharine phrases like that? Has she been reading Management Techniques for Dummies? Chapter one: Try and put your employees at ease by talking to them like four-year-olds before you deliver a ruthless bollocking.

  He shrugs. ‘Not great, to be honest, but I don’t think we’re here to talk about Maxworld, are we, Fi?’

  Her smile tightens. ‘OK, Max. I’ll forgo the pleasantries. I asked you in here because you’ve been dropping the ball. Over the last week you’ve been absent multiple times, you’ve delivered late, you’ve made beginner’s errors in your copy and I’ve had several complaints from members of the public about your attitude.’

  ‘What kind of complaints?’

  ‘That you were surly. That you seemed distracted and uninterested when you were interviewing them, that you got their names wrong, that you misquoted them. Should I go on?’

  Max shakes his head.

  ‘Then,’ Fiona continues, ‘you decide to go walkabout at half past three today and you don’t bother to tell anyone where you’re going. It’s not acceptable, Max. I don’t know if you’re resting on your laurels after the success of your loan-shark story or if this is a symptom of some kind of malaise, but it’s not gone unnoticed. Not by your colleagues, not by the public and certainly not by me.’ She leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. Case closed. Now it’s his turn to defend himself.

  Max rubs his palms back and forth on his thighs as he organises his thoughts. He’d hoped he’d done enough to fly under Fiona’s radar but experience had taught him that was unlikely. Not much gets past her, particularly not slacking. It was only a matter of time before she called him in.

  ‘I’m li
stening.’ Fiona pulls her shoulders back. She’s bracing herself for a torrent of bullshit.

  ‘Look.’ He holds his hands out wide – open, honest body language to counteract her closed posture. ‘I’m sorry. My personal life is going to shit. I try to leave it behind when I come into work every day but it’s,’ – he pauses and stares down at the rough beige carpet – ‘it’s difficult.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s my wife.’ He looks up again and meets his boss’s steady gaze. ‘You know she’s not been well for a while.’

  ‘Agoraphobia? Yes, you’ve mentioned it before.’

  ‘Well, it’s getting worse. She’s become really unstable. Paranoid. Volatile. And I’m worried that she’s self-medicating to cope.’

  Fiona listens intently as Max describes how much the altercation with Paula upset his wife, how Jo had shoved someone who was obviously mentally ill and how she’d been arrested for possession of drugs. As he explains why he’d left work early because Social Services had become involved, he catches his boss shaking her head.

  He pauses. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this?’

  He slumps forward in his seat. ‘I was … ashamed, I guess. I didn’t want anyone knowing how bad things had got. I didn’t want to be judged.’

  ‘For supporting your wife?’ His boss’s hard features soften. ‘Who’d judge you for that? Certainly not me.’

  ‘It’s humiliating. Social Services, for God’s sake.’

  Fiona’s chair creaks as she leans back. She’s uncrossed her arms, Max notices. ‘Have you taken her to see anyone? A doctor or a psychiatrist?’

  ‘It’s tricky. I’m not … um … I’m not living at home at the moment. I’ve been staying in the Holiday Inn. Jo wants a divorce.’ He tenses as he makes the admission. Jo confided in Helen about wanting a divorce but still hasn’t mentioned it to him. Not when she rang him to ask him to pick her up from the police station, not when she asked him to sleep on the sofa that night and not when she rang him to tell him about the appointment with Lorraine Cooper.