by J. A. Baker
‘I love it,’ I whisper, my throat closing up against the acidic effects of the alcohol. I cough and stare at Warren to assure him I am functioning entirely as I should be and am not in the throes of another breakdown. I’m not sure how either of us would cope if that happened again.
‘That’s great,’ he says, his voice softening as he places his hand over mine and stares at me. ‘I’m so pleased you’re happy.’ The relief in his voice is tangible.
My happiness, or rather the lack of it, is a constant burden on him. Poor Warren; having to put up with a wife who is prone to bouts of depression. I feel like one of those wealthy Victorian women who used to fall into a swoon at the first sign of trauma, regardless of how easy and casual their lives were. Except of course, my life has been anything but that. I have every reason to collapse in a heap, and wail and gnash my teeth and tear my hair out in great clumps. However, I don’t. I did once, and it was only the once, which is surprising really when you consider all that I’ve been through. Put like that, I am far stronger than I think I am. Feeling slightly euphoric, I take another swig of wine. And then another.
I am fortunate that Warren isn’t the type of man who is controlling. Not like some of my friends’ husbands who question them about their spending, who they have spoken to, and where they have been. As long as everything is running smoothly, he is happy to let things be. This is good. I’m not up to answering a barrage of questions as to why I am so happy in my new job. It is, after all, an everyday secretarial position with no outstanding or defining features, nothing to set it aside from any other office job. Apart from one thing; that is the one thing that attracted me to it in the first instance. I lean back in my chair and savour the moment, the memory of that day when I realised what it meant I could do, should I get the position. Which I did. I sailed through the interview and got a call offering me the position later that afternoon. My face flushes at the memory. It was my chance. It was then that I knew the hand of fate was at play and I could, at long last, let karma do its thing. I could set things in motion, then stand back and watch it all unfold with an exquisite sense of pleasure.
I look over at Warren. He is on his phone. Only home for a few days and already work is taking over. I watch his demeanour change from untroubled to agitated in less than five seconds. He is beginning to lose his temper with whoever is on the other end of the phone. I feel for them. Warren is a hard taskmaster and not to be messed with when riled. I feel the tap on my shoulder while I am staring at him. I turn around to see her standing there. It takes me a while to register her face. We’ve only spoken a couple of times and her dress code tonight is entirely different, as is her hair. Less formal, sassy even, which takes me by surprise, given her role.
‘How lovely to see you here, Beverley!’ Her smile is broad and she looks more laid back than the last time I saw her when she was dashing down the corridor, clipboard in hand, late for a meeting, hair flying around in wispy strands as she pelted towards the waiting throng in the room at the far end of the building.
‘You too,’ I say a little timidly. I have no idea why, but I feel nervous in her presence, which is silly and more than a little juvenile. This is my time; I can spend it however I choose. I stare over at Warren who waves at me lightly and nods at my acquaintance before turning and becoming engrossed in his conversation once more.
‘This is my husband, Warren,’ I say although the introduction is pointless as he is already turned away from us, gesticulating in the air and becoming a little too animated for my liking. I pity the person on the other end of the phone and picture them beginning to sweat and quake at his escalating temper. He is a different person when he’s at work. This is a side of him I rarely see and feel thankful in that respect.
‘Anyway,’ he smiles, ‘I’ll let you get on with your meal. Enjoy your evening.’ And with that she is gone, striding confidently across the restaurant, weaving through the array of tables that are dotted around with little or no thought to access. Hardly ideal for the staff having to navigate their way through the place with their arms piled high with plates.
I watch as Warren grows more and more disturbed with the poor person on the other end of the receiver. Sweat coats his brow and he purses his lips in anger. I try to catch his eye but he bends away from me, his forehead creased into lines of annoyance. The snippets of conversation I pick up on mean nothing to me. Esoteric phrases about engineering that wash over me and leave me cold with boredom.
It seems to go on for an age until, at last, I hear his voice drift over to me just as I’m beginning to think I should spend the rest of the evening in the ladies’ room powdering my nose.
‘Who was that, then?’ he says nodding over my shoulder at my acquaintance who is seated on the other side of the restaurant.
Warren is suddenly back with me and I am now supposed to snap into action and pick up where we left off. I suddenly feel aggrieved that he has ignored me for the last ten minutes. I try to appear convivial as I speak, even though my mouth is as dry as sand and anger is starting to bubble up inside of me. A hot spring of fury ready to erupt.
‘That was Anthea Pa—’ I begin, but before I have a chance to finish he is answering another call, his attention once again directed away from me.
Suddenly overcome with a flash of fury, I do something I have never done before. Scraping my chair back, I yank my jacket off the back of my chair and, before Warren even registers the fact that I have moved, I am on my feet and scurrying towards the exit, rage exploding inside me at his behaviour. How dare he be so rude? How bloody dare he?
By the time he reaches me I am outside the restaurant, scurrying along the street, my anger highlighted under the glare of the fluorescent lights.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he barks at me, which infuriates me even more. He is the one at fault here.
Striding along the path, I scan the street for a taxi. It’s empty; a Wednesday evening, and most people are at home saving themselves for their weekend night out. I hear Warren’s footsteps trailing behind me, the faint tip-tap of his expensive leather soled shoes; his favourite Loake brogues so shiny you can practically see your face in them. I feel his fingers grab at my arm and before I am able to pull away, he spins me around.
‘Beverley?’ A line of puzzlement sits between his eyes. His lip is curled slightly as he shouts my name. It bounces around the empty street, a tinny echo cutting through the darkness.
I am completely incensed and do something I have never done before. Clutched by fury, I pull my head back slightly and spit in Warren’s face. As soon as I do it I cannot believe my own actions. This isn’t me. Or is it? There are times when I barely know myself. I seem to have thoughts and deeds hidden within me that constantly set me on edge; make me wish I was somebody else. Anybody other than me.
I watch his reaction and find I am holding my breath in anticipation. He raises his hand and reaches into his jacket pocket where he drags a handkerchief out and dabs at his face. Maybe now he will see through me, realise what I am capable of, perhaps even get an idea of what I am planning on doing. I hope not. I like to think I am cleverer than that but there are times, like tonight, when I shock myself, let my guard down and almost reveal the true me. I don’t want Warren to see her, the real Beverley. She is a sour faced individual; bitter and vengeful and best kept out of view, secreted away from all the decent people.
He takes a step towards me and for one awful moment I think he might hit me, lash out at me with his huge fists. He has never done it before but then, I have never spat in his face before. There’s a first time for everything.
Every single noise is accentuated as I wait for the connection that will knock me off my feet, send me reeling on to the tarmac. Warren is over six feet tall and weighs nearly fifteen stone. He could squash me like a fly if he so chooses. Blood thumps through my ears, roaring and gushing, tearing around my body as I watch him lean into me. I wait. Electricity bolts through me as he tilts his bulky body forward towards
mine. I feel his touch on my arm; gentle and reassuring, a whisper on my skin.
‘Beverley.’ His voice is little more than a sigh in the calm of the evening.
I am rocked to my very core by how sedate he is, how composed and unruffled he is while I am in complete turmoil, my stomach in knots, my head feeling as if it is in a vice that is slowly being tightened by a set of invisible fingers clasped around a cold, metal handle turning and turning, crushing the very life out of me.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he says softly, ‘let’s go back inside. I need to pay the bill and then we can leave and go home. That’s if you want to?’
He thinks I’ve gone nuts again. Maybe I have. How would I know? Warren’s face is soft, rounded into a non-threatening gaze with an easy smile and soft, glassy eyes that are coaxing me into submission. Gone is the frown line, the look of bewilderment. He is staring at me as if I am about to be sectioned. A look of pity. Or fear. The last thing Warren wants is to have to nurse me through another breakdown. Can’t say I blame him. It wasn’t an easy time for me or him. I need to get myself out of this situation. I do not want my poor husband to start acting as if I am in need of support. If that happens he will start monitoring me too closely, questioning my every move. He will suffocate me with his love and compassion, allowing me no room for manoeuvre, no space to carry out my next move. I cannot let that happen. I absolutely must pull myself together if I am to see this thing through to its conclusion. I’ve waited too long, spent so many years wanting it and now it has practically fallen in my lap; this chance has presented itself, and if I don’t pull myself together I run the risk of losing it completely. The last time I had a ‘blip,’ I was so isolated and pumped full of drugs, I didn’t know which way was up. Dark days best left unvisited and not a time in my life I would ever want to repeat.
‘Warren, darling, I am so sorry. I’m just a bit tired,’ I say meekly, hoping I manage to get the balance right. Just enough humility to convey my regret at my outrageous behaviour, but enough strength to set aside any concerns he might have about my sanity. I need to assert myself here, let him know I am not on the cusp of losing my mind. ‘Let’s just pay the bill and leave, shall we? I’ve got an early start in the morning.’
He eyes me cautiously, assessing my mental state, seeing if I can hold it together or if I’m about to turn into a blubbering wreck. I link my arm through his, leaning my head on his chest as I speak softly, ‘Honestly, darling, I am fine. I cannot apologise enough. Too much wine.’ I giggle quickly. ‘That’s all it is. No more midweek drinking for me.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’ he says, sounding anything but sure.
I will need to be careful here. Make certain I reassure him. This is the problem with being damaged; people are always looking for cracks to reappear. No matter how stable you think you are, those around you are in a constant state of flux, ready to step in should those cracks start to open again. They are always on the lookout, waiting in the wings to stop those hairline cracks from turning into irreparable gaping holes.
‘I’m sure,’ I say with a smile. I dip my eyes and stare at the ground.
A clatter in the distance alerts me. A woman is standing outside a takeaway. She leans back against the window, illuminated by the green, flashing sign above her, and lights a cigarette. Taking a long drag, she catches my eye and gives me a cursory glance before grabbing her phone out of the rear pocket of her jeans and staring at it intently. A door slams from the shop next door. A man in his twenties starts to wind in the awning that is hanging over the front of the newsagents. Everyone is shutting up shop, heading home for their midweek routine of a ready meal and early evening TV that will wash over them, mesmerise them while they unwind after a hard day’s graft. The woman glares at him as droplets of water from the earlier downpour spray over her as he continues to wind. I watch her mouth something at him, her face screwed up in anger as she wipes herself down, swiping at her wet arms with long, aggressive strokes. He shrugs and continues to rotate the handle regardless. She shouts at him again, telling him he is a fucking idiot! before stubbing out her cigarette and storming off inside.
We walk back to the restaurant and I wait outside while Warren settles the bill with a bewildered looking waitress. By the time we manage to flag down a taxi, I am beyond exhausted and ready for my bed.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ Warren slings his big, strong arm over me as we slink down in the back seat, our bodies snuggled together like a pair of canoodling teenagers.
‘Absolutely certain,’ I reply and lean up to kiss him on the mouth, hoping he can’t see through my act.
Inside I am a complete wreck at the thought of how close I came to ruining the whole thing. I mustn’t let anything like that happen again. I have no idea what did it, whether it was the sight of Anthea that unnerved me or this thing I am about to embark on. Regardless, I have to keep it together because this time in a few short months, I will have it all sorted, and I am not about to let it all slip away from me because of a few minutes of stupidity, a momentary lapse of concentration. This is too important, too crucial to spoil. I’ve waited over half my life for it, lived and breathed it. There is no way I will let this opportunity go. It will not slip through my fingers without a fight.
CHILD B
She was completely exonerated. Not that it made her feel any better. If anything, it made her feel worse. She deserved to be punished. He was dead and she was alive and she didn’t deserve any sort of happiness as long as her tiny brother was in his grave, cold and alone. He was there because she wasn’t. She left him on his own with that monster, a girl who was supposed to be her friend. A girl with a dark secret. How was she to know? How were any of them supposed to have known? She would have done anything to be able to turn the clock back, make everything all right again; bring that little boy back. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to get on with her life. Nothing would ever be the same again. This was all her fault.
She was given complete anonymity and assigned a social worker. Big deal. The anonymity meant nothing, and as for the social worker? Well, she was a waste of space. Nobody could help her. Nobody. The judge had decided that revealing their identity would have a detrimental effect on their mental health having to deal with public opinion and possible vigilantism. They were at a tender age, he had said, and had their lives ahead of them. Suicide bids had already been attempted and nothing would be gained from giving the public their names. Waste of time really, since everyone in the local area already knew who they were. Anybody who felt like carrying out their very own vigilante campaign could go right ahead since they all knew exactly where both girls lived. Keeping their names secret seemed like a pointless exercise to her, but the decision had been made and she had no say in it. And anyway, people pitied her, not hated her. It was the other one they hated. Some said they hoped she would die in prison. Unlikely since she was on suicide watch.
The details of the case were harrowing, to say the least. He had been smothered. She had pressed her hands down over his tiny face and stopped him from breathing. How dare she? How fucking dare she do such a thing? And then she had the audacity to try to slit her wrists with a knife she had managed to smuggle out of the kitchen whilst on remand. All of this from her friend; somebody she thought she knew well. Turns out she didn’t know her at all. They were complete strangers. And now her so-called friend was being given counselling because of her attempted suicide and ‘difficult home life.’ The papers had jumped on that particular aspect giving detailed accounts of her parents’ history of alcohol abuse and violence, saying she had come from a challenging background claiming violence begets violence.
She sat through the court case, listened to it all. Her father tried to stop her, but she couldn’t not go. The police may not have blamed her, but she had caused this. It was all her fault. She barely understood what it was they were all saying, anyway. It was all just words at the end of the day. None of it would bring Greg back. When all the jurors
and police and the judge trudged off home, tired and wearied by it all, horrified by her friend’s actions, disgusted and outraged at what one human can do to another, desperate for a drink or a sleep or whatever it was they did at the end of such gruelling days, Greg would still be in his grave. None of their wise words would help him or inject breath back into his lifeless, desiccated body.
The court case gave her time to think, to reflect on it all. There was nothing she could do, of course, except watch it all and build up a hatred of such gargantuan proportions, it almost killed her. Eating was impossible and sleep evaded her for what felt like months until, eventually, she was referred to a specialist. A therapist who talked to her. That was all they did talk. And for all her scepticism, she felt that in some small way, it helped her. The problem with him was that, although he was kind and gentle and he got her to eat without feeling guilty for having the privilege to do so when she didn’t deserve it, he still didn’t truly understand her predicament. How could he? He didn’t know her. He couldn’t see inside her head. He only knew what she chose to tell him.