by Jess Ryder
But there’s no point in going over old ground. I must act. Sam knows I’m here and he’s been asking Chris about me. Maybe he already has my address. Certain people would pay a lot of money to know where I’m living – if Sam’s aware of that, then I’m in enormous danger. I had no idea he’d been in prison for drugs, and now he’s using again, according to Chris. Addicts need constant supplies of cash. How will he resist the temptation?
I’m not safe. I have to pack my stuff and leave Morton tonight. Forget the job I quite like, the friends I’ve sort of made, the twelve-month lease I signed, the slow but sure progress I’m making with counselling and the new life I’ve started to build for myself. I’ll start all over again, somewhere else far from here, a place nobody would choose to live.
The coffee is bitter, each mouthful coating my tongue in sand. I rinse out the mug, then my mouth. Yes, I should go. But where to? And am I up to the task? I’m so exhausted from running and hiding, pretending to be a different person with a fictitious past, trying to concoct a new truth from all my lies. But if I’m not up to starting again, I might as well fill my pockets with stones and jump off the town bridge. The water’s deep there, deep and dark and cold, the riverbed littered with sharp rocks. Better to end it myself than wait to be found. I would never kill myself, though. I’m a terrible coward, always have been.
I go into the bedroom and throw open the tacky wardrobe. Anna’s cheap, conventional clothes sway on their hangers – I hate them, but they’re all I have. I drag my only suitcase out from under the bed and stuff everything in. Then I run into the bathroom and sweep my toiletries into a plastic bag, briefly catching my reflection in the mottled mirror. My skin is as pale as talcum powder, my eyes staring out of their sockets. I look terrified.
There’s no choice. Get out while you can.
There’s a loud knock on the front door and I leap back, clutching my chest.
‘Anna? Anna?’ The letter box bangs open and he shouts through. ‘It’s me, Chris. Are you there?’
Chris. Thank God, it’s only Chris.
I stare at my startled reflection. Now what? Should I answer? What if Sam’s with him? What if it’s a trick to get me to open up?
‘Anna! Please. We need to speak … I’m worried about you.’
His tone sounds genuine. My eyes flick from side to side with indecision. I don’t know what to do.
‘Anna? Are you there? If you don’t want to talk, just send me a text. I need to know you’re okay.’
‘Wait!’ I call out. ‘I’m coming.’
I go into the hallway and draw back the bolts, then release the deadlock. I open the door as far as the chain will let me and peer through the gap at Chris’s anxious face. He seems to be on his own.
‘Please, let’s talk,’ he says, his tone quiet and gentle. I shut the door to slip off the chain, then open it just wide enough for him to slide in.
We go into the kitchen and sit at the small Formica table, its shiny red surface covered in higgledy-piggledy black triangles – a piece of sixties furniture you’d pay hundreds for in a vintage shop in London, even with the cigarette burn in the corner. I don’t know why that thought popped into my head. Nerves, I guess. Reminders of my past.
Chris says no to coffee or tea, but yes to a glass of water.
‘I’m sorry I ran off,’ I say, finally. ‘I just panicked.’
‘It was totally my fault. I was being nosy, that’s all. I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.’ He hesitates. ‘You do know this Sam chap, don’t you?’
I nod.
‘You seem really scared of him.’
‘Yes … and no. I’m more scared of who he might tell.’ I put the glass of water in front of him and sit down at the table.
‘I see.’ Chris lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. ‘And who’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?’
I take a deep breath. ‘My husband … I mean, ex-husband. Sam used to work for him – there’s a chance that they’re still in touch.’
‘I thought it must be something like that.’ Chris’s brown eyes look sympathetically at me. ‘Was he violent, your husband?’
‘It’s a long, complicated story,’ I say, as the memories rise within me. Where would I even start? ‘I don’t want to talk about it – it’s too painful. All I can say is I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Is that okay?’
‘Of course.’ He reaches out and clasps my hands. ‘I’m really sorry, I had no idea. But I don’t think you should worry about Sam. He wasn’t sure it was you, and when I told him your name was Anna, he backed off immediately. So either he thought he’d made a mistake or he realised you were in hiding and wanted to leave you alone.’
‘I’m afraid that’s just wishful thinking, Chris. He knows who I am.’
‘He seems a decent lad, not your usual waster. I don’t think he means you any harm. It’s like he’s lost his way.’
‘I daren’t risk it.’
Chris’s brow crinkles. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t feel safe here. I need to move on.’
‘But Sam doesn’t know where you live. I didn’t give him your mobile number or address or email or anything. We’re very strict about confidentiality at St Saviour’s.’
‘That’s good to hear, thanks, but Morton’s a small place. I still think I should go.’
‘But where to? You mustn’t give up your job; how will you manage financially?’
I shrug. ‘I’ll work something out. I can’t stay here on my own, that’s for sure.’
He leans forward. ‘Come and stay with me.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got a spare room. You’ll have your own space and I won’t charge you rent. We can travel to and from work together every day. I’ll protect you.’
I let out an involuntary laugh. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Chris, but you can’t be my bodyguard twenty-four-seven.’
‘Why not? Look, you’d be doing me a favour. I hate living on my own. Ever since my wife left me, I’ve been so lonely. Nobody to chew over the day with. Never enough plates to fill the dishwasher, you know how it is …’ He catches my perturbed expression and blushes. ‘Not that I mean I want us to be … I’m not trying to … Not that I don’t find you attractive, but …’ He stutters to a halt. ‘Oh dear, I’m making a mess of this. What I’m trying to say is that we would be strictly friends. Flatmates. We’d be helping each other.’
I look down at the table, tracing the black lines of the triangles with my finger. The thought of sharing a home, of being looked after and protected, touches me in a soft place I’d forgotten existed. But I hardly know this man; he’s a virtual stranger.
Chris seems to have read my mind. ‘Honestly, you have nothing to worry about. I’m not interested in casual relationships. I’m a Christian, I go to church every week – I’m studying to be confirmed. You can check with the vicar, he’ll vouch for me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ I wave him away with my hand. ‘I didn’t think for a moment … Anyway, I’m not looking either …’
‘Look,’ says Chris, ‘I feel responsible for this. If I hadn’t persuaded you to volunteer at St Saviour’s, it would never have happened. I want to help you. I feel like it’s my duty.’
‘I know, thank you. I appreciate it, really I do, but I think I should just get out of Morton.’
‘If you run away now, you’ll be running for the rest of your life.’
It’s a cliché, but it’s true. I look away, feeling the tears instantly gathering. I don’t want to run away, but if I stay here, I’ll go out of my mind. I won’t be able to sleep for fear of someone breaking in and attacking me in my bed.
‘Come and stay for a week or so,’ Chris continues. ‘Until the situation calms down. If you want to start looking for a new job elsewhere, that’s fine, I can help you with that. Just don’t rush into things. Stand your ground, trust in …’ He breaks off, not wanting to push it on the God front.
‘Okay,’ I say after a f
ew seconds’ thought. ‘Thanks. Just for a few nights, eh? While I’m getting my head together, deciding what to do.’
‘Yeah, makes perfect sense. See how it goes.’
‘I’ll just pack a bag, if that’s okay with you.’
‘Of course. Bring as much as you like, there’s loads of room.’ His eyes follow me as I stand up and go to the door. ‘Er, Anna?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just one thing. What is your real name? Sam didn’t say.’
I give him a steely look. ‘Does it matter? I’m not that person any more: she’s gone, there’s not a trace of her left, she might as well be dead. I’ve changed completely, first name, surname, everything. It’s all legal. My real name’s Anna now.’
He nods. ‘I understand that, and I promise I’ll never tell anyone else. Not at work, not at the church.’ Our eyes meet and hold for a moment, making a silent compact of trust. ‘But if you’re going to come and stay with me, if I’m going to help you, I think I ought to know.’
I feel the ghost of my old self shudder in my ribcage. ‘It’s Jennifer,’ I say. ‘But everyone used to call me Jen.’
Part II
21
Then
Jennifer
* * *
I fell in love with Nicky when I was eleven years old. I’d just started secondary school, and his sister Hayley was put next to me in class. We hit it off immediately, and within days she asked me to her house for tea.
She lived on the fancy estate of ‘executive homes’ on the outskirts of the village – large detached houses with enormous driveways and pillars on either side of gleaming front doors. Red alarm boxes were fixed to the outside walls, cocking a snook at would-be burglars. There was no litter, no chewing gum stains on the pavements. Everything was shiny and new and in its proper place. About as different from our boring sixties bungalow as you could imagine.
Hayley’s mum rang my dad to make arrangements. She would collect us from school and then drop me back home by seven o’clock. I remember feeling bouncy with excitement, but also anxious, because I knew that at some point I’d have to tell Hayley that I’d never be able to return the invitation. I thought she ought to know this before I went to her house, in case she wanted to change her mind, but I wanted to go so much that I couldn’t bring myself to confess.
I hadn’t carried many friends over from primary school. Not that I was unpopular or antisocial. It was just that my parents couldn’t share lifts to and from all the various activities – ballet, gymnastics, swimming, not to mention the endless birthday parties. My father hated being reliant on other people and didn’t want anyone doing us favours out of pity, so I went straight home after school and stayed in at weekends. I wasn’t angry with him about it; I understood.
My mother suffered from multiple sclerosis and spent most of her time in a wheelchair, spaced out on the marijuana Dad grew secretly in the greenhouse. He worked part-time so that he could look after her, and I was expected to fill in the gaps. That’s how I learnt to cook. It was forced on me to begin with, but I came to enjoy it. I would take recipe books out of the library and try out new dishes. I hardly ever had all the ingredients I needed, so I had to improvise. Soon I was inventing my own meals – strange concoctions some of them, I have to admit. Chicken breasts topped with bananas. Pork chops marinated in marmalade. ‘Can’t we just have sausage and chips for a change?’ Dad would say when I served up yet another of ‘Jenny’s specials’.
Yes, I was a child carer, although I don’t remember ever hearing that label. There’s more help available for kids with disabled parents these days. Social services keep a close eye on families ‘at risk’, and there are charities that offer respite care, support groups and even holidays. But I didn’t feel particularly sorry for myself; it was just the way things were. I loved my mother and hated to see her in so much pain. But as the illness progressed, she grew more and more distant from me. More distant from Dad, too. I put it down to the weed, but looking back, I realise I was just as much to blame. I’d defected to another family.
After that first visit, I quickly realised that Hayley’s parents couldn’t care less whether lifts were shared or invitations returned. Very soon, when I wasn’t at home, cooking, washing, cleaning and seeing to Mum’s increasing physical needs, I was at the Warringtons’. They welcomed me into the bosom of the family, treated me like their third child. Hayley’s mum cooked extra portions of stew and double the quantity of muffins, sending them home with me in Tupperware boxes. She even offered to get her cleaner to take on our ironing, but Dad wasn’t having any of that.
‘If she keeps thrusting her charity down our throats, you’ll have to stop going there,’ he said.
But I didn’t stop. I smuggled in the stews and cakes and pretended I’d cooked them myself. I told Dad that I had to spend time with Hayley because we were doing a homework project together or revising for exams.
By the start of Year 8, our friendship was firmly cemented. We shared the same taste in pop music and fashion, loved and detested the same foods. We wore our hair in the same style and practised doing our make-up on each other’s faces. We both hated football and loved dancing. Hayley made up routines and we practised them in front of her bedroom mirror before running downstairs and performing them to her parents, who always applauded and told us we were fabulously talented. I was completely entrenched in the family. I had my own place at the dinner table, my own mug and a toothbrush in the bathroom.
Some days I had to come straight home from school to look after Mum, but as soon as Dad arrived to relieve me, I escaped to Hayley’s house. I could get the bus by myself by this time, but Hayley’s mum or dad always gave me a lift home. Very occasionally, I was allowed to stay over, but usually I was needed at home in the mornings. It was my job to get Mum up, help her shower and dress, then make her breakfast.
I didn’t see much of Dad. We were like shift workers, only meeting at handover time. I’d leave his meal on the side for him to heat up, and he spent his evenings alone in front of the television. Mum always went to bed very early, but Dad couldn’t go out in case she needed the toilet. Thinking back, he didn’t have much of a life. He never complained, never asked me to stay in so he could go to the pub or watch a game of football on Saturday afternoon.
‘You go and have fun,’ he’d say. I suppose he knew Mum wasn’t going to make old bones; that in a few years it would all be over and he would be free. But I didn’t realise that at the time. I was too busy being a selfish teenager, obsessed with music, clothes and dreams of love. I wasn’t academic, but I was quite good at art. I thought maybe I’d be a fashion designer, or at least work in Topshop. University was out of the question, because even if I got the grades, I wouldn’t be able to leave home. As it turned out, that wasn’t the issue. Mum died when I was seventeen, but by then I was bound to someone else. Nicky.
I knew he liked me from the very beginning because he was always teasing me. Hayley used to get cross with him, but I didn’t mind because I was getting his attention. He’d snatch my homework and make me chase him round the room to get it back, or start hitting me with a pillow, refusing to give up until I picked another one up and attacked him back. The play-fights usually ended in tickling sessions. Nick was an expert in not laughing and it used to infuriate the hell out of me and Hayley.
He was two years older than me, good-looking and brimming with self-confidence. Somehow he managed to avoid that gawky phase most teenage boys go through. All the girls in our year fancied him, and when we turned fourteen, Hayley suddenly became very popular. But there was no way she was going to allow another girl to get anywhere near him. As far as she was concerned, Nicky was already taken.
Hayley loved the fact that Nicky and I became boyfriend and girlfriend; she wasn’t jealous at all. When we started going on dates – long walks by the canal or trips to the cinema, mostly – she helped me decide what to wear and took particular care with my make-up. Afterwards, she pummelled me for all
the gory details. What did he say? What did you do? Did you let him put his hand inside your bra?
Their parents – Jane and Frank – knew we were going out together and seemed to approve. The whole family liked me; I couldn’t put a foot wrong. At first, I’d thought they simply pitied me because of my difficult home situation, but as the years went by, I swept that fear aside. I was already a de facto Warrington. One day, I hoped, it would be official.
Hayley adored her big brother, but she told me she’d always wanted a sister. I felt the same. Mum had suffered a serious relapse when I was born and had been strongly advised not to have any more children.
‘If you marry Nicky, you’ll be my real sister,’ Hayley said. ‘Wouldn’t that be amazing?’
We spent hours secretly planning the wedding – picking colour themes, imagining the perfect venue, deciding on the menu and the flowers. Hayley would be chief bridesmaid, of course, and we would graciously let Nicky choose his best man. In boring lessons, I used to design my wedding dress in the margins of my rough book and practise my future signature – Jennifer Warrington – underlining it with a flourish. I liked the way the two names balanced with each other, both three syllables with an ‘i’ in the middle. It seemed meant to be.
I will never forget losing our virginity together, the date still etched in my memory. Sunday 9 July 1989. The house was empty. Jane and Frank had won tickets to the Wimbledon men’s final, and Hayley was on a school French trip. I was the only girl in my class who hadn’t gone. Mum was very ill by then and Dad was finding it increasingly difficult to cope. Not that I minded missing out; it meant I could see more of Nicky. We’d just finished some important exams and had a lot of time on our hands.
Boris Becker was playing Stefan Edberg that year. Even now, every time I see Boris doing his tennis commentary on the television, I think of that precious day. We did it on the sofa with the telly blaring in the corner, so we could check in case a sudden rainstorm stopped play. Even though it was perfect tennis weather and Wimbledon was over a hundred miles away, I was still terrified his parents were going to walk in and catch us at it. But Nicky liked the thrill of a risk. As I lay under him with my legs in the air, doing my best to conjure reckless passion, I kept glancing at the screen, searching for his mother’s straw hat nodding in the crowd.