Gone Without a Trace

by Mary Torjussen

  ‘So you are saying she would regularly hit you?’ asked the prosecuting barrister.

  Matt nodded and was prompted to say ‘Yes’ for the transcriber. His voice shook as he did.

  ‘And when did this start?’

  ‘I’d known her a couple of years when she first did it.’ He looked steadfastly away from me. Of course I was staring at him and I think he could tell, the way your face smarts when someone’s looking at you. ‘She’d always had a temper, but she’d never taken it out on me before then.’

  It was cold in the courtroom and my hands were inside the sleeves of my sweater, partly to keep them warm but also to stop them shaking. Or to stop people seeing them shake. As he spoke, my fingers found the marks on my arms where I’d taken my anger out on myself, late at night as I lay in my tiny cell, thinking about my home and about Matt and Katie. About what I’d missed.

  The prosecutor’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘And how often would these attacks occur?’

  Attacks? I hadn’t thought of them like that. I saw the jury staring at me, agog. I knew that, despite the rules, they’d be talking about me that night.

  ‘Whenever we argued,’ he said. ‘Perhaps once a month. Sometimes a few months could go by without a row, but I’d always be on edge. It was like walking on eggshells, just waiting for it to start.’ He’d hesitated. ‘I used to think it was an excuse. I think she just wanted to hit me and she’d start the row so that she had a reason for it.’

  I forced myself to keep a neutral face, knowing that everyone there wanted a response from me. He was such a liar. Yes, we would row. Every couple had rows. He’d do something to annoy me, something he knew would drive me crazy, and then yes, of course I’d respond. Who wouldn’t? It smarted to think that everyone believed him and not me.

  ‘Can you give us an example of when these attacks would occur?’

  ‘I never knew when they were coming,’ he said. ‘One night I might be a bit late coming home and she’d make me a drink and chat about her day. Another night she might go for me. Hit me. Punch me.’

  I winced. It did sound bad when I heard it like that, but he just didn’t understand how infuriating he was to live with at times.

  ‘And sometimes . . .’ he continued, clearly getting into his stride.

  That’s enough, I thought. They only wanted one example.

  ‘. . . sometimes she thought a woman from work was getting too close for comfort. She was always checking my phone, reading my messages. She used to check the milometer on my car, too, if she thought I was lying about where I was. And then she’d hit me.’

  That was a complete exaggeration. Of course I checked his phone every now and then. Everybody does that! Nobody wants their partner to make a fool of them, do they? It didn’t mean I was being irrational. After all, if I’d checked his phone in the few months before he left, I would have seen he was having an affair with Katie, wouldn’t I? Unless he’d had another phone . . . I’d never found out whether he had or not; it hadn’t come up in court and I could hardly ask him myself.

  I was thinking all this when the next question was asked and I suddenly became alert.

  ‘Can you tell us why you stayed in the relationship, Mr Stone? Why didn’t you leave earlier if things were so bad?’

  There was a long pause. Everyone’s gaze swivelled to Matt then, as though he and I were playing in the Wimbledon finals and they wanted to follow each shot. He’d closed his eyes, and suddenly my own eyes stung with tears.

  ‘I loved her,’ he said. ‘She was great fun most of the time. Very loving. And she’d always apologise afterwards and we’d make up.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see James sitting on the other side of the court, looking at me. I flushed and averted my eyes.

  ‘She always said she’d get help. She knew she was in the wrong. And . . . and I loved her. That’s why I stayed.’

  ‘But then you decided to leave and this triggered the events that occurred on the eighteenth of July. Can you tell us why you left?’

  ‘We’d had an argument at New Year and she hit me. It was worse than usual and it frightened me.’

  ‘Did you go to hospital?’

  He shook his head. ‘I never went to hospital. No matter what happened.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would have meant telling people my girlfriend was hitting me,’ he said. His voice broke. ‘How could I do that?’

  There was a bit of a commotion then. His mum started to cry, and then Matt did too. I was already crying. The judge banged on the table and ordered a recess, and within seconds I was taken out of the courtroom.

  Now I turned to look at Janine, careful not to let her see how much that memory had affected me.

  ‘I don’t blame him,’ I said. ‘He was right. I did need help.’

  ‘And you’ve been taking anger management classes here? Have they helped?’

  ‘Very much. I’ve learned how to control my temper and how to walk away rather than confront someone if I’m angry.’

  ‘Have you tried to have any contact with Mr Stone?’

  ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I haven’t.’

  She looked through the file again and I wondered whether there was a list of letters I’d written, phone calls I’d made, and whether she was checking to see if his name was there. She needn’t have worried, though. My mum had written to me to say she’d heard from James that Matt had moved yet again. I hadn’t made any response to that. I didn’t know what I was expected to say.

  ‘And tomorrow,’ Janine continued, ‘you’ll be going to temporary accommodation? I can see you’ve discussed this at length with Vicky.’ She read out the address.

  She’d said ‘temporary accommodation’ as though it was a night shelter. My mum had rented an apartment for me in another part of the Wirral, a place where I knew nobody. Somewhere I could go out without being recognised. I longed to go for walks, for a run or a swim. I’d felt as confined as if I was in a coffin while I was in prison. The yard where we exercised was too small to do much in, and it was always crowded with groups of women hanging around chatting, so I’d end up pacing the cell, trying to burn off energy. It hadn’t worked. Each night I’d be restless, unable to sleep.

  ‘How will you get there?’

  ‘I’m getting a taxi,’ I said. ‘My mum will be there.’

  ‘You didn’t want her to pick you up?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t want her anywhere near this place.’

  She went through everything then, all the do’s and don’ts and the rules and regulations. I tuned out. All I could think about was the next day. Freedom.

  I took a bus instead of a taxi. My first rebellion. There was a taxi rank near the prison and I knew it would be obvious I’d just been released. I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in a cab, watching the driver’s furtive glances in the rear-view mirror.

  I left the prison at ten that morning. There were only a couple of other women being released that day, and each of them had someone waiting for her. I kept my head down as I walked away, but nobody seemed to be paying me any attention. It was a bright, cold January morning and I wore jeans and a leather jacket. Apart from my holdall, I didn’t look any different to anyone else I saw that morning. I definitely had a prison pallor, though. The sun was shining as if in celebration; I’d woken before dawn and stood for hours at my window, staring through the filthy Plexiglas.

  The bus stopped in the centre of town and the driver didn’t even glance at me as I got off. I’d clearly reached that age where I was invisible, despite the efforts I’d made that morning. Well, that wasn’t always a disadvantage.

  I thought of my mum, waiting for me in my new home. I hadn’t given her a time when I’d be back; I’d told her I didn’t want a deadline that first day. I knew she would have cooked something for me, probably something I used to love when I was young. I knew my bed would be made, the lights on low, just how I liked them. And I knew she’d try to hug me. I sh
uddered at the thought of that. My skin was raw from constant scratching – another reason I didn’t let her visit me – and I was so on edge that if she touched me, I think I would have collapsed.

  The station wasn’t too busy at that time of day. In one of the meetings I’d had with the staff before I left prison, I’d been asked if I wanted a rail pass. I quickly declined, picturing the ticket clerk glancing up at me as I passed it over the desk, wondering who I was and what I’d done. I couldn’t have that. I’d said I would pay for my own ticket, thank you, and the officer had looked at me as though I was mad, but I didn’t care. My mum had kept hold of my purse while I was away and sent it to the prison ready for my release. It seemed so odd now to see something from my old life. It was as though it belonged to someone else.

  At the station I took out my bank card. It seemed so long since I’d used it, and I panicked for a moment in case I didn’t remember the PIN. Luckily it was still valid for another year or so. Once I’d bought my ticket, I went to the ATM to get some cash, the first money I’d seen in two and a half years. Just the sensation of the notes in my hands was strange to me now. I bought myself a sandwich and a couple of magazines for the journey, then made my way to the platform, making sure I stood separately from the other passengers. The last thing I wanted was to talk to anyone.

  On the train, too, I sat away from other people, and put my holdall on the seat beside me so that nobody would ask to sit there. It was so quiet on that journey, away from the noise of the women in prison. It was hard to find a moment’s peace inside, and you can imagine how stressful that was for me. There were only a few people in the carriage and most of them were plugged into their phones, ignoring everyone around them. That suited me fine. Of course I didn’t have a phone any more. That had been taken away by the detectives on the first night, and by the time I remembered it, I was in custody, so it was never given back to me. I assumed my mum had it, but to be honest, I’ve forgotten a lot about those early days and what happened when. If you block things out for long enough, you soon forget, though as I found out the hard way, your memories do come back at times, sometimes when you’re least expecting them.

  I left my bag at the left luggage counter at Lime Street station. There wasn’t anything I would need from it tonight. I knew my mum would drive me there to pick it up tomorrow; today I wanted to be free, to have nothing with me to remind me of prison.

  I took the train out to West Kirby, where I was going to live. The carriage was full and I panicked, thinking there might be someone I knew from before I went inside, but it was the middle of the day by then and virtually everyone I knew would be at work. I sat at the end of the carriage, though, and watched carefully as people got on and off. I couldn’t afford to relax yet.

  That afternoon I walked along the coastline feeling the winter sun’s rays on my face. I looked out to the horizon, at North Wales just visible in the distance. It had been years since I could see so far. I thought I would run down here at night, when nobody was around. I knew I’d struggle at first after being cooped up for so long, but I’d soon break through the pain barrier and feel free again. I couldn’t wait.

  My body was chilled and my hands were in my pockets in an effort to keep warm, but there wasn’t anywhere I’d rather be right then. Or hardly anywhere. In prison I’d borrowed books on yoga and meditation from the library and spent hours trying to empty my mind. That afternoon, for the first time, I managed to do that, just for a while.

  I turned back towards the town as the light faded and found a café that was still open. I sat at a little table in the corner and looked around me. The pretty china and the tiny glass vases of fresh flowers looked as though they came from another world than the one I’d become used to. I wanted so badly to be part of this world again.

  ‘What would you like?’ asked the waitress.

  For a moment I couldn’t decide. It’s strange how quickly you become accustomed to having no choice. Panicking in case she became impatient with me, I asked for hot chocolate. She smiled and brought it to me. The cup was laden with whipped cream, and a little chocolate Flake lay on the saucer. It seemed such a treat, such a nice thing to do for me, that I was overwhelmed for a second and I had to drink a glass of water to compose myself.

  I sat in the café until I was the last customer left. It was so peaceful, such an unexpectedly lovely afternoon.

  As I started to make my way to my new home, I stopped at an off-licence and stood for ages at the displays, unable to choose. Even though I used to drink quite a bit, I’d never been fussy about wine, but now, for my first alcoholic drink in more than two years, I just couldn’t decide. I left the shop without buying anything. Just knowing I could was enough.

  As the evening closed in, lights popped up in houses nearby and the street lights glowed. I started to make my way to my apartment. At the bottom of the hill I stopped still. There was a library there. I’d forgotten that. The lights were on and I could see people working, others borrowing books, a few children playing. I looked at my watch. It was 6.30 p.m. As if a magnet was drawing me in, I walked to the entrance of the library. A noticeboard displayed the opening times: tonight it was open until 7.30.

  I stood still. My mouth was suddenly dry and I could feel my face tightening with stress. I closed my eyes.

  What should I do?

  The door to the library suddenly swung open towards me and my body jolted. I could hear the low hum of chatter within the building and then my ears started to buzz. They hadn’t done that for a couple of years, not since the day I found Matt with Katie. Suddenly I was light-headed, and as I swayed, I grabbed the door handle to steady myself. I looked around. There was nobody else there. I tried to tell myself that the doors contained a motion sensor and opened automatically when someone came near them, but I knew it wasn’t just that. The door had opened for me.

  It was a sign.

  I went into the library and spoke to the woman working at the desk. I couldn’t show her proof of my address, though I had my driving licence in my purse to prove my identity. She looked at the photo on the card and then back up at me. ‘It was taken a long time ago,’ I explained, and she laughed, telling me it was OK, I was still recognisable.

  Oh but I’m not, I thought. I’m not the same person at all.

  She told me I could have a free half-hour, logged me on to the computer as a guest, then left me alone. My hands trembled and my breath caught in my throat. Despite the fact that I’d been away from computers for two and a half years, the opening screen still looked exactly the same. I opened Internet Explorer and clicked on the icon for Google.

  I rubbed my arms to get rid of the goosebumps that had appeared when I’d first realised what I was going to do, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail, the way I always did when I wanted to concentrate. I felt like an alcoholic must, faced with the chance of a drink she had no intention of refusing.

  You see, the thing I’d learned in prison was this. Matt could take away the photos, he could take away the messages. He could take away every physical reminder of himself – and God knows he had. He couldn’t take away the memories, though. Nobody could do that. And it worked both ways. He’d always be in my mind and I’d always be in his. That much was true.

  I flexed my fingers. Into the search engine I typed Matthew Stone architect.

  Within a second the results were on the screen. I sat back and relaxed. I felt like I was home.

  The search was on.