by Ricki Thomas
When Sophie had taken us to the airport in Palma the next morning, everyone was despondent, Harry and I not wanting to leave Sophie and Jaimee, the intense bonding of the past month difficult to let go. Sophie was daunted by the impending loneliness and responsibility: I had been a massive support since Jaimee had arrived, instructing Sophie calmly on nurturing a child, and taking over when she desperately needed to catch up with lost sleep. And the money we’d given her to help her initially until she found work had been generous, relieving any immediate financial worries.
Turning the key in the door of the silent and still flat, and carrying Jaimee through the threshold, Sophie realised she had never felt so completely alone. Life, her life, Jaimee’s life, it was all down to her now.
She sat the car seat, Jamie snoozing softly, on the floor, and poured herself a glass of wine from the carton. She would have the rest of the day off, and start searching for work tomorrow.
Chapter 19
Going It Alone
The flight home had been enjoyable, with the airline, albeit an economy line with no frills or perks, treating us kindly, and the drive back from East Midlands Airport easy, quick, and uneventful. It was early afternoon when we returned to the neat semi in Littleover, dragging our suitcases, stretched to the seams with the added items we’d purchased in Mallorca, through the hall, me dumping mine to put the kettle on.
Both Harry and I had been reassured after organising the arrangements with Bob, and we believed we had left Sophie in a much better frame of mind then when we had first arrived. And the bonus was our blossoming relationship, we were so content in each other’s company, it felt perfect.
We were sorting through the stack of mail, cherishing our mugs of tea made with bottled milk, instead of powdered, when the phone began to ring. I finished the dregs of my drink, while Harry trotted out to the hall. He sat on the telephone seat and answered.
“Hi Dad, I just wanted to make sure you got back okay.”
I could hear the relief in his voice, so, guessing it was Sophie, I followed him to the hall. I knew the call was costing her next to nothing due cards you could buy from the agente periodístico, which gave her two hundred and fifty minutes of European calls, so it had been a prior arrangement that any contact would come from her.
I caught Harry’s eye and mouthed ‘Is that Sophie?’ and he responded with a nod. “Can I speak to her?” He passed the receiver across, and I, searching for words that wouldn’t cause alarm for either father or daughter, greeted her. “I just wandered, well, I know I’m a silly old thing, but with a baby on your own you’re going to need to someone to offload your day onto. I was dwelling about this on the plane home, I just wandered if you’d call us every day, I mean, if the cost of the cards is a problem we can send some money across, but…”
Sophie’s chuckle tinkled over the line. “Mary, if it makes you feel better, I’ll call every evening to tell you all about what’s going on, and update you on Jaimee’s progress. Okay!” My shoulders relaxed with relief.
It had been a week since her parents had flown home, and Sophie had settled comfortably back into the flat. She’d decided to take at least one trip out a day, collecting the free daily newspapers from whichever bar she was walking past, restocking the food cupboards with daily visits to the supermarkets, and the market on Wednesdays, showing Jaimee off to cheerful, cooing, passers-by. She’d also taken to spending some time by the communal pool, sunbathing, and taking a short swim when Jaimee was safe in the pram, shaded by a pretty, white broderie Anglaise parasol. The expeditions had been valuable, she’d managed to get chatting to a few of the other residents of the Montaña Vista Apartments, and the offers of chinwags over coffee reduced the loneliness she’d felt whilst pregnant.
Every evening Sophie, supping a couple of glasses of wine, would scour the job adverts in the papers, but so far she’d not found anything suitable, and she resolved that she would have to resort to asking in bars and restaurants, in the shops, to see if they needed any new staff.
It was Tuesday, and Sophie had already taken Jaimee for a walk, ensuring she got some fresh air before her father was due to pick her up at twelve. But midday came and went, and by eight in the evening he still hadn’t shown, not even a phone call offering an explanation. Although she was pleased not to have to hand the daughter she adored over for the night, Sophie was annoyed at Darren’s lack of responsibility and care for Jaimee.
She took the baby, tired, well-fed, and clean, to the bedroom and tucked her into the Moses basket, placing the cute, cuddly toy that she’d purchased from the market beside her head. After a gentle kiss goodnight, she watched over her until her eyes closed, and, strolling into the kitchen, she poured the first glass of wine of the day, sitting on the stool by the breakfast bar with the day’s paper stretched out in front. A knock on the door aggravated her: surely he wasn’t going to drag the baby from her bed at this time of night!
As she opened the door, the chain her father had fitted to guard her safety in place, to Darren, she could feel her temper fraying. She unlatched it, let him through, and couldn’t contain her annoyance. “If you think you can take her now, you’re wrong. I’ve just put her to bed, the arrangement…”
“Oh, shut up, woman! I didn’t come here to listen to your bloody nagging!”
Sophie could smell on his hot breath that he’d been drinking heavily, and she instantly calmed herself down, not wanting to provoke him. He grasped her drink from the side, staggered across the apartment and slumped onto the sofa, lounging back and putting his feet on the table. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing, but dared not say anything that might irk him. “If you’re not here for Jaimee, then what do you want?”
“Get a drink. I want to talk to you.” Bristling, she followed his instructions and took the other sofa, setting the drink on the table. “You’re a bitch, Sophie, and you’ve ruined our lives!”
Rolling her eyes, she blanked the drunken spillage away. “Thank you. Is that all you wanted to say?”
Darren sat upright and leaned forward towards her, taking a gulp of the drink with a grimace. “My mother, my wonderful Mam, was sentenced to eight years in prison today. She’s gone down, leaving me and my Dad to cope for ourselves, and it’s all your fault.”
Sophie was astounded, having forgotten the mention of blood stained clothing three weeks before, until now. “What! Why’s she in prison? I haven’t done anything, it can’t be my fault.”
“Dad’s in pieces.” He drained the glass and swayed drunkenly as he reached into the holdall that he’d dropped on the tiles. He tugged out a bottle of whisky and Sophie’s heart sunk as he poured it into the glass, filling it to the brim. “If it hadn’t been for you, you bitch, Mam would be at home having a nice drink to round off the day, but oh no, she’s locked away in some dingy cell while you live happily in my bloody apartment.”
“Darren! We’ve got to stay somewhere,” she pointed to the bedroom, “there’s a newborn baby in there! Or have you forgotten! Anyway, my money made up over eighty percent of the purchase price, so it’s more mine than yours!”
Darren laughed vindictively as he dragged some papers from the bag. “In your dreams, stupid!” He tapped the bottom of the paperwork with his finger, before throwing it on the table. “This place is in my name, see. My name. No mention of you, is there?”
“But we bought it together, the bulk of it was from the proceeds of Iris Cottage!”
“No, you can’t buy anything over here, Sophie, haven’t you worked that one out yet? And you’re supposed to be bright. Get this into your stupid head, Sophie, you can’t buy anything here without an NIE number, that’s why your car had to go in Dad’s name. Nothing, nada, zilch. This flat belongs entirely to me, and if I want you to leave, I’m completely within my rights to ask you to go. And that’s what I want.”
Sophie’s mind flitted to Carlos Gutierrez. “No! Any solicitor would be able to show that the money was transferred from my account in Engl
and.”
Darren cackled triumphantly, replacing the paperwork and the whisky bottle into his bag. “Doesn’t make any difference, you stupid cow, not over here. See, you’ve always looked down on me as if I’m the stupid one, just because you’re a solicitor and I do manual work. But who’s the stupid one now, eh! You can sleep on the sofa tonight, I want you out of here tomorrow.” He grabbed the holdall and swaggered into the bedroom, leaving Sophie open mouthed and flabbergasted.
Bob, eyes red and swollen from the hours of shedding tears over his wife’s imprisonment, opened the gate and let Sophie pass through. He showed her into the villa, and fixed a drink for each of them. “So, why are you here?”
She explained the horrific conversation she’d just finished with Darren, but Bob dismissed it. “Oh, he’s just had a few to drink, he’s just a bit upset. He’ll have forgotten all about it in the morning.”
“Bob! At this very moment he is asleep in my bed, with my baby, who needs me around, and left me to sleep on the sofa. It’s just not on.”
Sophie had never heard Bob shout before, he’d always seemed happy-go-lucky, not placid, but not aggressive either. “Look, I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment without having to constantly intervene in yours and Darren’s petty arguments. Just go home, have a drink, sleep it off, and everything will be fine when you wake up.”
Shocked, and worried, she left the villa, ambling back to the apartment, her sight misted with terrified tears. She knew she wasn’t wrong to be concerned about what Darren had said, there had been a malicious tone in his voice she’d never encountered before, and his ochre eyes had registered nothing but pure hatred. She needed some help, and the only person she could think of was Kerry on the second floor. She rapped urgently on the door, her acquaintance from the poolside briefly beaming when she saw her, face falling as she realised Sophie had been crying.
Kerry tugged her inside, led her to the kitchenette and sat beside her at the breakfast bar. “What’s happened?”
Sophie related the situation, stressing that she believed Darren, regardless that his father didn’t, and Kerry was appalled, but pacifying. “What a bastard! Look, if the worst comes to the worst, you can stop here for a couple of nights, but you can’t stay longer than that, I mean, I’ve got four kids, and we’re all sharing a two bedroom flat, and their Dad’s due over this weekend, but at least, if he really intends to kick you and the baby out, at least you’ll have somewhere for a few days.”
Sophie was grateful for the charitable offer. She reached into her handbag and drew out the telephone card. “Can I call my Dad from here, I daren’t do it back there in case Darren hears me.”
“Of course you can. Look, I hate to say this, but if your husband does carry out his threat, you haven’t got a leg to stand on over here. If the flat’s registered in his name, it doesn’t matter where the money came from, it’s still his. You should have got an NIE number as soon as you moved here. And residency, have you got that?”
“I don’t even know what it is.” The affirmation of Darren’s threats were twisting her insides tightly, a void in her stomach which physically hurt.
“Girl, you’ve got problems! You go and phone your Dad, the phone’s on the sideboard in the lounge, I’ll get you a beer. Do you drink beer?”
Sophie nodded and sauntered to the phone, distraught, with fresh tears brimming.
Harold, disgusted at the way his daughter was being treated, could only find one solution. “Phone Carlos tomorrow, first thing, and see how he’s progressing with Jaimee’s passport, tell him the situation and that you need it urgently. As soon as you get it, get on a plane, we can charge it to my credit card, and get yourselves back to England. We’ll find a good solicitor over here, someone who can work alongside Carlos fight to get your money back. Okay?”
She knew, her soul deflated, that he was right.
Darren was rasping noisily when she returned to the apartment, reminding her how grateful she was not to have to put up with the hideous racket every night, and she crept into the bedroom, taking a pillow and blanket from the closet to the sofa, before returning for the Moses basket. She brought a carton of wine and a glass through, and knocked it back, drink after drink, each one dulling her senses, and finally a drunken slumber took over, not even stirring when the hungry Jaimee woke for her midnight feed, eventually crying herself back to sleep.
When she awoke the next morning she momentarily forgot the events of the night before, recalling everything as her eyes opened and she saw the sofa rather than her bed, and heard the sound of Darren clattering about noisily in the kitchen area. Her immediate hope as she clambered up and checked Jaimee, was that Bob had been right, but Darren soon removed the optimism with a sneer, reminding her to pack her bags. She noticed he already had a whisky on the go, and her heart sank to the lowest depth it had ever reached.
Fed up with being bullied, and protective of her baby’s welfare, Sophie snapped, she stomped through to the kitchen and fronted Darren. “I am not going anywhere, Darren. You can’t get rid of me if I refuse to leave.” Darren raised his fist, threatening, but she remained firm.
“Stop being so dumb and go back to your parent’s house. We can sort this place out through solicitors.” The anticipated punch struck her powerfully on the cheek, she fell back, but scrambled up immediately, standing up to him again. But the next crack knocked her into the wall, her head smashing into it, she slithered down, unable to move from the pain, and she realised she’d lost the battle.
Darren stood over her winded body, chuckling with his dominance. “Your brat’s crying, hadn’t you better go and feed it?”
It hadn’t taken Sophie long to pack, she’d filled two suitcases, unwanted tears spilling copiously as she tried to come to terms with the horror that was her life. Darren had remained in the living area the whole time, poring through the Daily Express he’d picked up from the tiny British shop attached to the apartments whilst she was cleaning the cut on her face. If she’d realised he was going out, she would have put the chain across the door, but he hadn’t said anything.
Her heart was heavy as she dragged the suitcases to the front of the flat, and she left them to fetch Jaimee from the Moses basket she was dozing in. As she lifted the baby, Darren turned his attention to her. “What are you doing?”
There was no strength left inside Sophie to retaliate. She remained silent, face swollen with a mixture of sobbing and bruises. He jumped up and grasped at the child, but Sophie dragged her back. “I said you had to leave, you’re not taking her with you!” It was the first time he had acknowledged Jamie’s sex.
Sophie placed Jaimee in the car seat and lifted it on to the pram. How she was going to wheel the carriage as well as dragging the two suitcases, she had no idea, but, now she’d accepted that she had a choice between violence or departure, she was eager to get away. Darren snatched Jaimee from the seat, and ran back to the sofa, clutching her close.
Maternal instinct overwhelmed Sophie. “I am not going anywhere without my baby. Put her back.” Her voice boomed with aggression and protectiveness.
“Get out, you stupid cow. Me and my Dad are going to look after this thing. Just get your bloody ugly face out of my apartment.”
Sophie launched herself at him, hands scratching, teeth gnawing, and he threw the baby on the sofa, stood up, pushing her back, and thumped her to the floor, kicking, over and over, each impact rattling through her body, the pain dulling from the repetition. The final boot to the side of her head made her world instantly black, and Darren eased himself back to the sofa, watching for movement as he went, took the screaming baby, and replaced her in the Moses basket. “Shut up, you stupid brat!”
Kerry had decided to pop in to Sophie’s and see how things were going. As she reached the fourth floor and opened the fire door to the corridor, she spied two navy suitcases outside an apartment, not bothering to give them any attention until she realised it was Sophie’s place. Speeding her pace, sensing trouble,
as she neared the bags she first saw the feet, then the body. She raced over, immediately checking for a pulse, and was relieved when Sophie stirred. “Sophie! Can you hear me, it’s Kerry.”
Sophie groaned, her body throbbing, every piece of her sore and bruised. The word was unintelligible to Kerry, but Sophie continued to repeat it, her eyes closed, in obvious distress. “Jaimee.”
Kerry, trained in first aid before she had started her family, her certificate expired but knowledge intact, was checking over Sophie’s body. “We need to get you to hospital, Sophie, you’ve been beaten up pretty bad.”
She managed to open her puffy eyes, pulling herself together with the last ounces of her waned strength. “No. No hospital. He’s got Jaimee.”
Kerry ignored the slurred statement, more intent on getting Sophie’s injuries dealt with suitably. “So the baby’s with her Dad, he’ll look after her, darling, she’ll be fine. But we need to get you into an ambulance and get you some treatment.”
Weak and in horrendous pain, Sophie struggled slowly to sit, holding her forehead as it pounded. She knew Darren hadn’t the slightest interest in Jaimee, he’d proven that, and the only reason he was insisting on her staying with him was his vindictiveness towards her. But how did she get Kerry to understand when her bloated lips and tongue, bitten through on each side from the punches and kicks, couldn’t form the words to express herself clearly.
Through the haze of her fuddled mind, she could hear Kerry’s hammering on a neighbour’s door, the brief explanation, and she felt, her eyes closed again against the agony, strong arms underneath, lifting, carrying, and soon she was laid on a comfortable sofa. In the background she could hear Kerry talking urgently in fluent Spanish on the phone.