by Deborah Bee
‘If you police officers are so damn clever, why do you consult with experts?’
‘I often ask myself the very same thing.’
‘Jesus, Sue, you’re on massively good form tonight. What happened? One of the cats run away?’
‘More generalising, Dr Ridley?’
‘Look, Sue, all I’ll say is this: keep an eye on her. Or get someone else to. Any lethal means in the vicinity – you know the drill. No sharp objects, lighters, matches, hazardous liquids – any means of deliberate self-harm.’
‘She may have had enough hazardous liquids for one lifetime. And matches.’
‘Hmmmm.’
‘What’s “hmmmm” mean?’
‘We’ll see about that. Meanwhile, make sure she’s not self-administering her meds – and keep her out of the kitchen/laundry.’
‘OK.’
‘And I hope the cats are all OK . . .’
Nineteen
Clare
I don’t know why there has to be so much talking.
I’ve decided to move back to New York.
Police.
Caseworkers.
Doctors.
Nurses.
More police.
Therapists.
And now apparently, a room-mate.
Why can’t they all just leave me alone?
I’ve been invited to sing at Carnegie Hall Festival.
Oh my God. Now there’s someone shouting through the door.
‘Hi, Clare. It’s just Mrs Henry. I’ve got a man here to look in some cupboards. Pest Control.’
I open it.
She has the key in her hand. Don’t know why they didn’t just come in.
‘This is Mr Spencer, my dear, from Pest Control. He’s come to put out some lovely bait,’ she says.
All jolly hockey sticks. As though she’s talking about Crufts or something.
‘How about you come downstairs and have a look through the garment wardrobe?’
‘No thanks.’
‘How about a coffee then?’
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
‘Diet Coke?’
‘I’m not thirsty. Really.’
‘Clare, can you please come downstairs with me for five minutes while Mr Spencer checks for rats?’ she says, getting edgy.
She could’ve just said.
I pick up my key.
Put it in the pocket of my dressing gown.
Bathrobe.
Loads of artists made their name at Carnegie.
Judy Garland.
Benny Goodman.
You’ve never heard of Benny Goodman!
You’re so dumb.
‘I’d really like you to meet your room-mate but she’s in a meeting. How about we just have a quick look at the garment wardrobe?’
Already met her.
What’s the point?
I shrug.
‘If the police were doing their job properly, I could go home today,’ I say.
‘Celia will be here shortly. Your caseworker from Camden. She also works here so she can continue looking out for you. Are you happy with that?’
‘What for?’ I say.
I mean, what are they making such a big deal for. Once they’ve got him, I can go home.
You can loan me the ticket, right?
It’s only like a thousand bucks.
That’s not even First class.
Business.
‘Hi, Clare!’
Celia’s back.
Again.
‘We’ve got a meeting booked in now. Is that OK? I would have called to check but . . .’
I nod.
She’s annoying.
But I guess it goes with the job.
‘We need to go over a range of practical issues that I can support you with,’ she says.
I nod again.
‘Shall we go into Cerise?’
All the rooms have pink names – Cerise, Rose, Magenta, Fuchsia . . .
I hate pink.
Didn’t used to.
Pink and red.
The nice policewoman is still here.
Susan.
She is nice.
Genuinely.
Even if she doesn’t believe me about the hospital.
She’s talking to someone in the kitchen at the end of the corridor, drinking out of a Frozen mug. I can see Elsa from here.
Wouldn’t have had her down as the type.
Not for fairy tales.
Celia drags out a ripped black plastic chair for me opposite her ripped black plastic chair, then firmly closes the door.
The walls are lined with grey spongy tiles; vile, half picked-away grey spongy tiles.
‘They cut down on sound,’ she says, nodding at the walls and smiling like they all do. ‘We like our ladies to be able to speak freely.’
Ladies!
I nod.
‘I’m preparing a welcome pack for you. Just the basics, you know, tea, coffee, soap. If there’s anything you want, in particular, we can put a request in!’
She raises her eyebrows and smiles.
Mock excitement.
At least the policewoman is real.
‘Is there anything you can think of that you need?’
‘No,’ I say.
She’s reading from a ring binder.
Not as modern as at the police station.
It’s got lots of loose sheets of paper in.
A report.
‘We’re still waiting for more information from the hospital. The police doctor suggests that you set up a regular appointment with your GP. But she’s going to follow-up, said she’d pop in on her way home just to make sure that the blistering doesn’t go septic and the thermal burns may need re-dressing. And we have to have a talk about your weight. ‘Do you have a GP in the area, Clare?’ she says, looking up.
I shake my head.
‘No?’ she says.
Like I’m lying.
‘But you used to live around here, right?’
‘I still live around here,’ I say.
Why would I lie?
‘Of course, you do,’ she says, blushing.
‘I used to have a GP but I haven’t been in ages. The only doctor I’ve seen is one in Harley Street, but that was just for vitamin shots.’
She nods and writes something down.
‘Have you found him yet?’ I say.
‘Who?’ she says.
Genuinely. She said who.
Who else am I going to be talking about?
I think that.
I don’t say that.
‘The police are getting on with it,’ she says.
She must have just read my face.
‘Why don’t you get on with it too, then?’ I say, quietly. ‘Why don’t you stop wasting your time talking to me about tea and coffee?’
I’m not having a go or anything. I don’t even like tea and coffee . . .
‘I’m a caseworker, Clare. I don’t go around hunting for criminals. I support victims.’
‘I don’t need your support, Celia. I just want to go home.’
Please go and find the bastard so I can go home.
‘As I say,’ she says, taking a deep breath,’ I’m here to support you with a range of practical issues . . .’
I stop listening.
I need to think.
She’s saying something about registering with a GP. Getting welfare benefits. Contacting a solicitor. Counselling. Weight-gaining shakes.
I nod occasionally.
And if that gets a confused response, I shake my head. You can usually tell what someone wants you to say.
He’s never left the side gate open before.
He often unlocks the laundry room when he’s totally hammered and tries to get me to go in the house with him.
But he never left the side gate open before.
I never hit you.
You just get pissed and fall over.
That’s what I tell anyone
.
Not that anyone cares.
It’s just you and me, babe.
He’s always sorry at that point.
I usually pretend to be asleep.
Going inside with him mostly ends up being worse than staying outside . . .
‘I understand what you’ve been through,’ says Celia, passing me a tissue.
I doubt it.
I’m not being unkind.
I’m just doubt it.
For example.
Hey, Coco, I got this great game off the internet. Wanna play? It’s got all the instructions.
The Matches Game.
Let me read it to you . . .
Method:
First of all, overpower the victim.
Tie the victim’s wrists together and secure them to the handle of a low cupboard or drawer.
Take one bottle of Paraffin, 250ml available from most hardware stores.
Do not be tempted to use petrol.
Paraffin is a less volatile combustible hydrocarbon liquid that takes time to catch.
Once the victim is secured, pour paraffin over the victim’s head.
Slowly is better if you want to really put the shits up them.
Limit head movement so that paraffin goes in eyes.
Dispense enough paraffin for the victim to be sitting in a pool of it, yet not enough to run out of control across the floor.
Sit opposite victim.
Support your lower back against kitchen cupboard, for comfort.
Ensure source of beer/wine/whisky is accessible. Add ice to beer/wine/whisky to prolong personal consciousness.
Take one box of matches, large family-sized, making sure not to get the box damp. Lie box of matches on its side, strike side up, between knees to prevent slippage. With the tip of index finger of left hand, hold match perpendicular to the box, head down against strike, then, with your right hand, tuck your index finger under your thumb, then flick the side of the match.
Flick with meaning.
Half-hearted flicks will not ignite.
Observations:
Babe? Are you listening?
Going low on the match will attain maximum uplift, targeting hair, face, breasts, shoulders.
Going high on the match will attain minimum uplift targeting feet, legs, pubic hair, labia.
Conclusion:
The matches game is an effective and compelling way to strip a victim of pride and dignity, forcing the victim to feel inferior. It is a profoundly violent and disturbing act that leaves the victim with long-term psychological wounds.
Do you have any pride and dignity, Coco?
Shall we see?
What do you mean you don’t want to play?
‘Clare. Clare, are you OK?’
Celia is still here, mumbling on.
Focus.
‘All of the women here have experienced some form of domestic abuse. It might be psychological, physical, emotional, or all of those. A refuge is not an institution. It’s a house where women should feel safe.’
Celia is still on script.
‘It can be difficult leaving your home and adjusting to life in a new environment. But other women . . .’
‘Look. Can I stop you, Celia?’ I say. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Clare, yes of course.’ She smiles brightly, aware that she’s finally got my full attention. ‘Did you want to ask a question?
‘Can I go now? I want to sleep.’
‘Um yes, of course. We can pick this up later.’
I get up and walk out.
Sally has her back to me when I walk into our sitting room.
She doesn’t even look round even though she must have heard me come in.
Staring out the window at the railway tracks.
Eight tracks.
Eight tracks out of here.
The room is hot.
‘Can you open the damn window?’ I say.
‘I tried. They’re painted shut. I’ll get a screwdriver,’ she says, quietly, without moving her head.
No way out of here.
I wonder if she’s thinking what I was thinking earlier.
There’s a crisp brown bag on the coffee table.
It’s the size of five doughnuts, in a line.
But I don’t want to eat.
I don’t want anything or anyone.
I move towards my bedroom door.
She still doesn’t move.
Like she is stuck in a dream.
She’s quite nice, Sally. Not pushy like the rest of them.
‘You all right?’ I say.
‘Fine,’ she says.
Like I would say fine.
Which means, why don’t you just leave me alone.
Someone’s put a duvet on my bed.
And a pillow.
Sally, probably.
There’s a sheet now covering the stained mattress. And a folded nightie like the sort my gran used to wear.
I don’t bother with that.
Just sleep in my clothes.
It’s two hours later when I wake up.
It’s after lunch.
I still haven’t eaten anything.
Someone’s knocking on the door.
‘Need to check the baiting stations!’ says a man’s voice.
‘Come back later,’ I shout.
‘It’s Mr Spencer, from Pest Control. I—’
‘Come back later,’ I say again.
‘I’m not here later, Miss,’ he says. ‘I’ll be five minutes. Promise.’
The lad can’t be more than seventeen.
Seriously.
Bet he wishes he’d listened in class, done his homework, sat his GCSEs.
Instead of having to deal with rats all day long.
I shiver.
‘Don’t you worry yourself. They can’t get through to here now. Blocked up the ’oles,’ he says. ‘Worst you’ll get is a bad smell of dead mouse.’
‘Mice,’ I correct him.
‘Well, yes, there is more than one,’ he says, his skin turning the same colour as his spots.
If you won’t loan it to me, how about you just take some cash out of your savings.
I mean, that’s what it’s there for right?
Twenty
Sally
Mrs H has bought me a selection of meals for one, and all I can think is, bloody hell, how depressing is that? I’ve always avoided meals for one. People who buy meals for one have obviously come to terms with being alone – I haven’t, not me.
I’m toying with a macaroni cheese that I microwaved, put out onto a plate because, who eats out of plastic containers, right, then noticed the plate is covered in bits of old food, so now I’m wishing I had eaten it out of the plastic container. I don’t know why I care that it looks cheap, it’s not like the manners police are out on the loose. I wouldn’t do it at home, eat out of a container, I mean, I’d have it off a plate at home.
When you’re in here, you can’t let your standards slip, feel sorry for yourself and let things go. Things like don’t forget to wash your hair, or clean your teeth, don’t put your micro-meal on a proper plate. I think everybody looks at everybody else and wonders, ‘how come I ended up here?’ and ‘I’m better than all this’. To start with they do. But we’re none of us better than this. Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder where on earth I got to, at what point did I leave the room and this old person came in.
There is nothing to hold on to here, nothing normal, you know. S’like being in a rowing boat in the middle of an ocean in a storm, looking for land, with waves and rain and you know, killer sharks and stuff, and no oars.
Clare is asleep, still. I made up her bed, you know, put out a nightie for her, made her laugh more than anything. Winceyette. Do you remember winceyette, all furry on the outside, and furry on the inside?
‘Thanks for doing that washing,’ says Mrs H, sitting down opposite me in the dining room. I’d sat close to the back in the hope of avoiding people, by the window o
verlooking the garden. Two little Indian girls are digging in the flower bed, and they’ve got anoraks over coral pink leggings and pink wellington boots, and they’re chattering between them, like they haven’t got a care in the world.
‘Those are Prashi’s girls,’ goes Mrs H. ‘She arrived last week. She could use a friend.’
Oh God, here she goes.
‘Goes without saying, we could all use a friend, Mrs H,’ I say, ‘but the thing is, there’s not a lot of point, is there?’
‘You know the score around here,’ she says. ‘You’re an old hand.’
‘Thanks. Not for years and not this one specifically,’ I say sarcastically, thinking thanks very much – charming, that is.
‘Will you come to the house meeting later?’
Oh my good gawd, a house meeting.
‘What for?’ I say. ‘I’m not even here that long.’
‘Everyone says that,’ she says, biting on a broken nail, then picking at it to break it off, and chewing on it.
‘You know my circumstances. I’m different,’ I say.
‘Everyone says that too,’ she says. ‘You could really help.’
And now I’m staff all of a sudden.
‘I seem to be doing a lot of helping here,’ I say.
She gives me a look. A ‘get a life’ kind of a look.
‘OK, fine, I’ll come to the meeting,’ I say. ‘But I’m not saying anything.’
‘Great attitude.’
‘Look, Mrs H, I’m not here to have a great attitude, that’s what you’ve chosen to do with your life. It’s not what I’ve chosen to do with my life. I’m here to avoid being attacked by a psychopath. Just because I’m not twenty doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly turned into Mother Teresa.’
‘Have you met with your support worker yet?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘I think you’re on Lucy Walker’s list, she’s one of our best support workers. She might be able to get you some counselling or get you on a mindfulness course. You’ll like her.’
‘Right,’ I say. But I don’t mean right. And because, just this once, I don’t want to piss on her firework I’m not going to give Mrs H any attitude.
Counselling! Like a) I haven’t got time for counselling and b) it ain’t me that needs it, it’s my ex-husband. He’s the psycho.