In My House

by Alex Hourston

  Coming down, there was that sense of something wrong that people talk about. Not intuition, I don’t think; it was more physical. An adrenal response, a chemical awareness of danger. I didn’t look to my husband; had I done so, his absence would surely have told me something, particularly coupled with Jan’s. Nor did I trust enough in my own instinct to ask. I went along with things until the truth was unignorable.

  And even then, standing in his office, my thoughts crawled. About him and Jan I found I cared very little. I hadn’t known, or even suspected. I wondered when I’d last even looked at him.

  I felt my humiliation in retrospect, though, as I worked out how it must have played. Jan leaving me in the garden, going straight through to my husband. Pulling him away from our guests with a look or a proprietary hand.

  Unless she started it there, in front of them? Perhaps they’d all known for months, talked it through, decided on their allegiances. Chris saw some of this on my face and moved to close it: ‘Don’t start, Maggie. I’ll make sure you’re OK, I will. If you behave. But you do need to behave. There will be terms. There is a baby to consider now after all.’

  There was a question in that, I saw it straight away. A window of doubt that I could have prised open, if I so chose. Our sex life was infrequent and at my behest, but it was not dead; a shame for Jan, but there you go. The dates were ambiguous and I could have made them work. I could have called it his, but I would need to track back, make the weeks tally, offer some kind of surety. He would have made his own calculations, though his face gave nothing away, and he wouldn’t get it wrong, or broker doubt.

  I took a deep breath and tried to count. In the meantime, conjure offence, audacity, hauteur. But my mind was dull and sticky. The moment stretched and snapped. I abandoned all effort and watched him fill up with disdain.

  ‘That’s that then,’ he said, and went, trailing Jan.

  He stopped at the door.

  ‘One last thing, Maggie. We’re going to have to talk about Bella.’

  He told me he’d be back the next day.

  28

  A productive morning, not that I worked. I’d taken a break from all that – Nancy was fine, there were plenty of transcriptionists. I had been trying to understand Anja’s case. Researching things. Seeing if I could help.

  There is a process, but it is not simple. At the moment of her escape, Anja became a Potential Victim of Trafficking. She told them what had happened to her – I knew that much from the policewoman – but they could not take her at her word. Her goal was to be acknowledged as a fully-fledged victim. The moment she spoke up, a countdown to that decision began.

  This first stage is named Reasonable Grounds. Five days in which to determine if her story was credible, plausible. That they thought, but could not prove, that all she said was true. There was space for conjecture, gut feel; imagination even. What a job. What a week. We had long since passed that milestone.

  The next stretch was hers for ‘recovery and reflection’, that thing she said to me the first day that we met. This was how she seemed to use it. A couple of days on, and the man on the bus was forgotten. Her balance was back and like a child she found delight all over – a funny in the paper, something nice to eat. She floated free of this drama, or so it appeared, all the serious work taking place elsewhere, someone else determining her future. Her outlook made no sense to me; I did not see how she could live with the unknowing. If it were me, it would be different. Everything would taste bitter. I found that I was souring on her behalf.

  All working towards a Conclusive Decision. If they found in her favour, they believed it more likely than not, that she, Anja, had been a victim of trafficking. The language was snaky and congealed. I wondered how it worked in practice. She would be granted leave of one year, while she helped the police, to be extended if required. The target for this decision was forty-five days.

  I reached for my diary – in name only, its pages went unfilled. She had been here two months; more. That milestone was long passed. Why had she not said?

  I read on. My world listed. When the court case was over, regardless of outcome, she had no right to remain. It became a question of asylum, then, which hinged on risk. The degree to which a woman was seen to be in danger; of reprisal, discrimination, of violence or of re-trafficking should she go back to where she once called home. This process was ongoing. Her case was complicated but she could hear news any day.

  It made my head spin. How could she be so passive? So ill prepared? We should have told the police about the man, the threat; that much was clear. Perhaps it would all fall to me.

  I had missed lunch by then; would have done better, perhaps, to name this sensation – an anxiety cut with something sharper, blood thrumming in my ears – as hunger. But I did not. Instead I paced the house, trailing the poor dog, stuck as ever with some version of my mood. It did not suit him – he is naturally disposed to caution – but it is the fate of all dogs to share the burden of their owner’s emotion. He clamped his ears to his head, nosing frantically to distract himself, trying to throw me off his back.

  I went to my notes written in a fresh pad from the drawer and the pages that I had printed, having finally unjammed the thing only to find it inexplicably switched to photocopy.

  There were helplines and guidelines, offices to visit and numbers to call and I tried one, but after ten minutes holding, lost patience. I slammed the phone into its cradle which made a plasticky snap and I thought for a second that I’d broken it, but the impact had merely opened a seam along the mid-line where the batteries go. It snapped back flush with a click.

  Buster was whining for a wee and I thought of his walk and the others, my friends, who would be wondering, soon, what was up. Which led me to Peter, who had started in the Law, and his pro bono work and the shame he felt in abandoning it when the pressure became too great. Peter, of course; he would know what to do.

  They would be at home now, the two of them, having eaten something wholesome at their reclaimed table. Paul would get up to air the dogs and Peter go back to his work; I knew the shape of their routine. It would breach the terms of our friendship to arrive uninvited, but I found that I didn’t care.

  I put Buster in the garden, perplexed but compliant, and went out. The temperature had dropped and the air swiped the breath from me. My eyes sprung tears. I broke into a jog of sorts – I was cold, had thrown a coat over my shirt as I left – and arrived at theirs panting; tight-chested and chilly with sweat. My knock was hectic and uneven.

  Peter came to the door.

  ‘Maggie! What a surprise. Come in. Paul’s not here though.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. I wanted to see you, actually.’

  He took my coat off somewhere, and gestured that I walk through.

  The hall opened into a huge room at the back that Peter had designed himself. It was all glass out to the garden where the lawn had been replaced with a rough grey slate. There was a smooth curved stone something set to one side, water turning over its surface and, as I watched, a bird swooped down and took brief sips from the deepest point – a knot of current where two fast streams met.

  He took a while. I wondered if he was phoning for Paul.

  There was plenty of seating, though no obvious place to sit. A row of high plastic stools were tucked under a bar-like stretch that signified the border of the kitchen. A bench ran the length of their table that I would struggle to get into, or out of. He must have come to the front door from elsewhere, for it was dark in here, an unlit winter afternoon squeezing out the edges of the room. Then he was back and pressed a button on a panel in the wall. Light rose in another portion of the space and a sofa was revealed, uplit by a stream of small bulbs set flush into the floor. I took myself towards it.

  ‘I’ve come to ask a favour,’ I said, before I sat down, and he had the chance to ask.

  ‘OK,’ he replied, though his tone was more of a maybe.

  ‘Well, it’s for Anja really,
not me’ – a lie, I saw, as soon as I had said it.

  ‘It’s about her case. I think she needs help. Better representation. Or at least some more advice. I’m not sure she’s quite. Getting to grips with things.’

  ‘And she’s asked you to do this, Maggie?’ Peter said.

  He was drumming the pad of his thumb with his first finger, an exposure of nerves.

  ‘Well, no. I thought I’d speak to you first. I didn’t want her to get her hopes up or anything.’

  ‘I mention it only because I’ve already offered. And she told me no. Quite clearly.’

  When did they talk, she and Peter? I thought she only worked an hour or two here, once a week. And Paul said he stuck in his office all day. Could it be that she stayed on afterwards, as she did at mine? Drank tea? Lifted her legs and laid her head down on this sofa?

  I looked down and next to one of my old hands lay a single coarse hair, deep red until the last half inch of black. I reached out and edged it with a nail. It jumped out of reach at my touch.

  ‘Oh right. I see.’

  He watched me, saying nothing. I pulled at a thread of burnt orange, an expensive thick-weave linen.

  ‘Mags, is that OK? You see my position?’ he asked.

  His voice was kind and he seemed unembarrassed to say no. This reassured me. It allowed me to go on.

  I said, ‘Peter, I want you to do it anyway.’

  He frowned.

  ‘I’m not sure, Maggie. That doesn’t feel quite. Ethical.’

  ‘Ethical?’ It came out as I’d thought it, incredulous, dismissive. ‘Don’t look at it like that. She’s a teenager. Think of yourself at that age. She doesn’t know what’s for the best. She doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Well, yes. That’s possible,’ he said.

  ‘And I think she’s hiding from it actually, from what happened and from what might happen next. As friends we need to help her, Peter. It’s our responsibility.’

  Did I believe this? I felt conviction as I spoke but would have said what was needed to get him to agree. I was ready to expose her child; that would have come next, if required.

  ‘Don’t you see? She has lost her trust in others, in everyone, given what she’s been through. We need to act for her,’ I said.

  I saw in his silence that I had gone just far enough.

  ‘What’s to be lost in asking someone, Peter? We don’t even have to tell her, if we don’t want. Or depending on what we find out. But at least we’ll have a clearer idea of how things stand.’

  ‘Yes. All right. I have someone I can call. Leave it with me.’

  A decent man, Peter. I admired his decisiveness and the ease with which he could change his mind.

  ‘I’ll let you know what she says, Mags, but I want you to be careful. You’re thinking like a mother here. Which I do understand. But keep yourself safe, OK?’

  I kissed him on the cheek. Just once; my way.

  ‘Thanks, Peter. Let’s see what your friend recommends,’ I said.

  ‘OK. We’ll talk.’

  He stood. ‘I need to get back to work now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I pushed myself up.

  ‘One thing though,’ I said to him, at the door.

  ‘Would you not tell Paul? I mean it’s not a big deal, and if you’re uncomfortable please forget I said anything. It’s just that I’d hate for him to worry on my behalf. That’s all.’

  An irrational request that I did not know why I made. I felt a disproportionate pleasure when he agreed.

  On my way home I succumbed to a daydream. One minute I was walking, fast, the wind slapping my face, hair trapped in my lashes. The lack of dog a presence in itself, a ghost limb, my hand flexing for the lead. A general sense of purpose, I suppose; a mood of qualified optimism.

  Then a change. A soaring of the heart. That is accurate. It was new to me.

  For the first instance, I could not place its source, until I saw us together, Anja and me, in something like a vision. We were doing what we always do but there was a permanence to it. Someone to take meals with, hold on to a story for. Nothing dramatic.

  It burnt out soon, this emotion, snuffed by logic. Implausible. Stupid, even. It was the strangest thing. But a warmth remained.

  I felt it still, when I got home, opened the door, expecting her off-tune whistling, the natter of the radio. When there was silence, a sorrow began, deep in my chest, but I knew the ways to keep it down.

  And it was not as if I was alone any more. The past was back, pushed up against me.

  I sat in front of the television and it reached across; ate from my plate. There was something in my bed now, where once there was just space. It was not company, on that much I was clear. I wished that I could kill it, but I had forgotten how.

  29

  I had told myself caution, caution, but when Friday came and I heard her in the house, I knew that I would speak. I clicked the dog off his lead and he ran to the kitchen for a drink. His laps were huge and noisy and he came back through to me dripping from his chops. I slid my shoes under the rack and called up into the stairwell.

  ‘Hi there, Anja, is that you? Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mags. I’ve only just started. Later would be great,’ she said, still out of sight.

  From her voice, I thought I placed her in my room.

  But I couldn’t wait.

  I went on up and she passed me outside the bathroom, mouthed a brief greeting. I stood there a moment trying to find the words, and walked through to my study, saw its unusual disarray. I heard her behind me.

  ‘Everything OK, Mags? I guess you left in a hurry!’ she said, pointing at my desk.

  ‘Oh! Just wanted to get him out before it got too late. I’m fine. Everything’s fine, thanks.’

  I looked down and bothered some papers.

  ‘And how about you? How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah, good,’ she said and I knew if I didn’t start she would be off, putting right my mess.

  ‘It’s just. I’ve been meaning to talk to you,’ I said.

  I heaved my bottom onto the edge of the desk. She paused in the doorway and threw her damp cloth cleanly into the bathroom. I found it later, stuck dried onto the basin. Her face was clear but careful.

  ‘I’ve been wondering, Anja, how is it going with your case?’ I said.

  Straight away I knew my tone was off; too measured, leaking concern. I remembered this from dealings with my daughter. Girls sense these things and they do not like them.

  Her eyebrows, dark and pencilled, dipped towards her nose in a deep dissatisfaction. She held herself still, and ready.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘Well, the referral process. I suppose the decision has been made by now? And your asylum claim. I mean I really think we could put some work in there.’

  The words fell, too practised, between us.

  ‘How do you know about all this, Maggie?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh I don’t really. I was just on the computer and I had a bit of a look. I want to help, that’s all. No big deal,’ I said.

  Under my hand lay a sheet headed ‘UK Border Agency’ in red, white and blue, but I didn’t dare move.

  ‘I have a solicitor,’ she said.

  ‘Oh really? Because I thought that you only got legal help for the asylum bit? So I assume you’ve got conclusive grounds –’

  But she had started towards the stairs. I raised my voice.

  ‘We should have mentioned Goran’s man. And the pregnancy. I’ve been meaning to bring that up –’

  She stopped, took an exaggerated pause and spoke into the empty air ahead of her.

  ‘It’s OK, Maggie. I’m dealing with it. I don’t want to talk about this any more now, thank you.’

  I said nothing and she corkscrewed at the waist. Her eye, the one I could see, was a single dark tone, and then she moved and its surface was broken, a sharp cube of silver, a flash of outside refract
ed through the skylight.

  I saw an immobility there that must have driven her mother mad. Rose had worn a version of that face, leached of feeling, denying me access, but she would run when it happened, dip her head and take off to her bedroom where she knew I wouldn’t follow. I had been glad to let her go.

  Anja, though, was different. She held her position; let the silence stretch until there could be no mistaking her invitation. I felt the pull of the fight; a rolling, like lust, in the hollow of my stomach. How pleasing, I thought, to hold up her belligerence, her ignorance; to list its implications. My argument unfurled, lucid in my head, and I knew that I could win, and felt a brief taste of that satisfaction.

  A heat started in me, dangerous and spreading. It raced down corridors, certain of its route. I left Anja, in pursuit of it; closed my eyes as I barrelled towards its source.

  I knew her before we got there; Helen of course, my mother. Hands gripping her skirts, eyes on fire, transported. She was articulate in her fury; a glamour to her – her only glamour. Never more compelling than in the arms of a rage. She would have come for me then, with a slap or a yank, more welcome than the cut of her tongue.

  Anja registered the break in our connection and took it as retreat. She moved down the steps bouncily and I watched her vanish in slices. I followed; shocked, contrite, and nearly lost my footing in socks.

  ‘Anja. I’m only trying to help. Please,’ I called.

  She had gone through to the sitting room, and stood at the shelves. She picked up my stuff and used the tea towel that she carried over her shoulder to flick at the dust. She knocked the shepherdess, but caught it deftly.

  ‘Can you not let me help you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Maggie. What do you know?’ Easily, smilingly.

  ‘Well. How these things work,’ I said.

  ‘What things?’