The radio is too basic for a CD but we let the local station entertain us with its eighties flashbacks. We drive up and down, taking in everything that flashes past us, and talk. He tells me he is sorry about the way he behaves, he can’t help it, it’s his insecurities. He showers me with love, and I believe him because he is honest. In these moments, the monster is gone and the Daryl I love is sitting next to me. It can’t be more perfect.
As I go to bed that night, I decide not to bother with the alarm clock. Just for once, I will sleep in on a Sunday and relax. I close my eyes and imagine that Daryl and I will get married. Perhaps I’ll phone my old friend Helen from school tomorrow. I still have her number somewhere in the box of things I’d taken with me when I left Mum’s. Yeah, a box of trinkets is all I have from my time with my mother. The only thing worth saving. I push the thoughts away, I won’t dwell on sad things now. No, perhaps tomorrow I’ll wait till Daryl is out and make the call? Maybe I could even drive to see her? The possibilities are endless.
“What the fucking hell is this?” he screams in front of my face. Jolted awake by the sounds of his anger, momentarily I'm unsure what’s going on. Judging by the light coming in even through the blackout curtains, it's well and truly day. Not yet understanding what Daryl is asking me, I remain silent. “Ah nothing to say for yourself Katie, isn’t this a change?” he says, stomping his feet angrily as he backs away from me. I pull myself up and stumble out of bed. I look up at him and see his dark brown hair isn’t slicked perfectly into place as usual. Instead, it flops down in front of his wild dark eyes. “What is it, what’s wrong?” I ask quietly.
“What’s wrong? You want to know what’s wrong with me, is that it? Isn’t that a laugh! I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Katie. I’ve bloody caught you. Tickets to the theatre on Valentine’s Day? Who is he? Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll catch the bastard and when I do, I’ll kill him.”
A slow realisation comes over me. Daryl has found the tickets.
“Daryl, what were you doing in my handbag?”
“What was I doing? You have the gall to ask me that? I’ll tell you what I was doing, I was checking up on you and what you’ve been up to. Looks like I was right to, doesn’t it?”
I stand up, but with Daryl blocking my exit in the cramped space between the wall and bed there is no way to get past him. I know I need to get distance between us, but escape is impossible. I reach for my hairclip and instinctively grab my phone. Daryl strides towards me in two steps, snatching it out of my hand. I recoil fearfully.
“I’ll have that Katie. You’ve been texting him, haven’t you? He can’t save you now, though, can he, you whore? You’re mine, do you hear me? You belong to me!”
I want to argue my case but know this is a bad idea. Inside I am screaming at him to calm down. He’s got it all wrong. How could I have been so stupid and left the bloody tickets in the bag? The only way out of the room is across the bed. Pulling at the crumpled covers, I lean over and move my way across, making it as I go, edging closer to safety until, springing down, I climb off the other side of the bed.
With a little more space between us I find the confidence to speak. “Daryl, I wasn’t with anybody else. You know I love you, there’s only you. Those,” I point at the tickets crumpled tightly in his fist and say, “were for us, a surprise.”
Instead of calming him, my words only seem to enrage him more. He's lost in the fog of his anger and can’t hear me or anything else anymore.
I edge out of the door and towards the bathroom. Thoughts of running flash across my mind but he is faster and stronger, I’ll never make it. I know he will kill me. Besides, if I run it will only make me look guilty. He’ll see it as me admitting I’ve done wrong. Perhaps there is something of the old Katie and her fight left after all. Why should I run? I’ve done nothing wrong.
I close the door to the bathroom and wish for the millionth time it had a lock. Even with the tap running, I can hear Daryl pacing the floor just outside. I need to buy myself some time. Stay in here until his temper has passed. When he’s like this there is no reasoning with him, his senses shut down and the rage takes over. I splash cold water on my face and neck and try to breathe slower. My legs tremble and my heart pounds in my chest like I’ve been for a run. I leave the tap running and try to calm the hell down. Blinded by panic, for a minute I can’t remember where I am.
With a whack, Daryl sends the bathroom door flying open. Bursting into the room, before me stands a blazing inferno of rage with eyes of wild fire and hatred. I’ve never seen him this angry. At the sight of him, my legs turn to jelly and I try to grab hold of something to support me but my arms flail as I reach for thin air. My legs cycle backwards as I back away but I run out of space all too quickly, and feel the cold and immovable sink behind me.
I beg him to stop. “Daryl, please, you’re scaring me.”
My pleading words fall on deaf ears and evaporate. His face is bulging and red, and I look up at him towering above me. With his open hand, he whips a slap across my cheek before I can react. My mouth drops open in shock as my shaky legs give out beneath me. With an empty hollow clunk, my head meets the unrelenting cold surface of the pedestal underneath the sink, making my ears ring. Hot tears erupt and spill down my cheeks, burning into my already sore face. I clutch at my skin and head, as if my hand can hold back the pain. Foul tasting acid rises into my gullet and the room begins to sway as if I’m aboard a boat. Except instead of water, it’s my blood that flows beneath me.
He’s going to kill me.
“You do this to me Katie. Why do you have to lie and make me do this? I don’t want to hurt you.”
Slurring out of the side of my mouth, the room still swimming, I feel the grasp of his strong fingers around my throat.
“Daryl!” I give a gurgling scream.
“You’ve hurt me so much, Katie. All I do is love you and I can’t even trust you.”
He squeezes tighter and I gasp for air, feeling as if my eyes will pop right out of my head, until at last I hear a quiver in his voice as he releases his vice-like grip on my throat. I pray it is over.
“Oh god. Oh god. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m so sorry Daryl, please don’t kill me. I’ll do better.” My words are unintelligible as my arms slump down to the floor, trying to make contact with something solid and tactile.
Swinging his arms around, he comes into my face once more, and squeezing my eyes tight I prepare myself for the final blow. All my begging and pleading is at an end, my life of 21 years is over.
Will anyone mourn for me, will anyone know I was gone?
“Maybe this will help you remember that you belong to me.” I feel a sting in my cheek as his teeth make contact with my face. For a moment, I’m sure he is going to bite me. Then, he releases his grip. This move is intended to intimidate only. With that he walks away, leaving what is left of my broken body trembling and rooted to the floor.
Chapter Seven
For hours, I lie there motionless. Battered, bloodied and broken. The knowledge that something is very wrong in our relationship has done more than hit me in the face. I know he has a temper, but this? This is a whole other level. I’ve been wrong about him, he isn’t just a guy with issues, he’s a monster and now it has taken over him. Seeing that look of pure hate in his eyes has stripped away any illusions I’d had. Sure, being with Daryl has chipped away at the person I am until I hardly recognise myself anymore and yes, he’s cut me off from those I love, but I let him do it. A willing accomplice to make him happy. Things have been bad before, it isn’t as if this is the first time he’s hit me but there’s been nothing like this. Nothing could have prepared me for this. There is so little of the real Katie left, I wonder if I’m not already dead.
I yearn for my life to be different but what can I do? Where can I go? I’m trapped. I can’t go back to Mum, and even if I did, she won’t notice me. She didn’t notice when I left. Besides, I’m a grown up now, or supposed to be. Her wild kid has ma
de yet another childish mistake. With no fight left in me and no breath for anything, I slip into something between unconsciousness and sleep, where my dreams fall deeper and deeper into a black hole of despair.
When I wake the next morning, numb and cold from the floor, the house is as still as a coffin. I try to pick up the pieces of my broken body, pushing myself up off the floor. Shards of pain shoot out in all directions. I massage my shoulders, which ache from sleeping awkwardly, and feel the hotness in my face which burns with white pain. I rub delicately at my neck. I imagine I look like I’ve been in a brutal accident or something unimaginable, but avoid my own reflection. I’m not ready for that reality just yet.
Tentatively I open the door, hold my breath and listen. The eeriness of the house makes me worry that it’s the calm before another bout of chaos erupts. Holding my breath for more minutes than I can count, I realise the house sounds empty. Daryl has gone to work already, but he’s left me a note.
Dear Katie,
You may use the car this morning if you wish. This is probably a good idea, given the circumstances. I have recorded the mileage on the clock and I know the exact distance to the shop and back. I’ll be checking when I get home, to make sure they match up. I will expect you to give the keys back to me once I get home and I shall retain them until you can behave in a manner that’s good enough to get them back. Expect my texts and please don’t ignore me like you usually do. You know how upset that makes me.
D.
He hadn’t even bothered to wake me or move me before leaving. I wonder if he’d killed me would he have even noticed? And the car? That wonderful gift he gave me. Ha. It’s just one more way to control me.
I decide to brave going to the bedroom to make sure he isn’t lurking silently. I fear he might be waiting on the other side of the door. Thoughts of a knife in his hand flash into my mind. Perhaps he’ll make me his forever, perhaps he’ll kill me.
Pushing it open gently, I go inside. The one advantage of a small room, it doesn’t take me long to check it. If he is here, he isn’t making a sound. I’m alone.
I get dressed and finally pluck up the courage to look at the damage.
Oh, dear lord.
There are red palm prints on my neck and I feel a tender lump on the back of my head. Some clumps of dried blood come away with my hand, sending fresh waves of nausea, and recollection floods my mind. The worst of the damage is on my face. There like a beacon for all to see. Already bruising, the angry marks run like tracks on either side of my nose. No amount of concealer can cover this. I put on a scarf to hide the marks on my neck and for once I’m grateful my wild hair will hide the damage to my head. I feel a little woozy and unsteady on my feet.
Perhaps I should take the bus to work, just to spite Daryl, rather than drive? I'm worried I might have a concussion, maybe driving isn’t such a good idea anyway? That’s when despite everything a defiant smile comes across my face. I won’t take the bus. I’ll drive my car.
As I slide into the seat and prepare to pull off, I feel a tug as my brain tells me I should just drive away and never come back, never go back to him. But even without Daryl there, I hear his voice inside my head, warning me of the consequences. I am too afraid to even run. Wherever I go his voice will follow me.
Instead of running, I find myself at the doctor’s, sitting in a seat that precisely matches the shade of my face, waiting for my name to be called. For some reason, I have an image in my mind of surfers at a beach, patiently waiting at the shore in the shallow waters for a wave to emerge. Standing perfectly still and primed, until a gust of wind brings rise to a mountainous wave to be conquered. At the water’s edge, the waves relentlessly crash and batter the shore. Not all the waves grow to be met by a conqueror, some simply collapse back to the water unchallenged, but regardless the sea never stops.
It isn’t a surfer at the water though, it is me at its edge, where the outside world batters against me relentlessly and throws a challenge for me to conquer my wave. Yes, it is me waiting for my name to rise out of the background of white noise and other people. Except the sky isn’t blue. The sun has gone out and the beach is full of pebbles, not the smooth kind you like to walk on. No, instead the rain is falling from the sky and, judging by the clouds, I wonder if it will ever stop.
The nasty bruise protruding from my cheekbone and the colourful black welt with hints of purple at the edges has me concerned. So much so that instead of driving to work, I find myself here; this bruise isn’t going to go away by itself. That presents me with obvious difficulties and the options for getting help exacerbate my concerns. So, the fact I'm here tells me how worried I must be. How terrified I am that both I and my face are broken forever.
Going to a hospital is not an option. For one thing, I hate the places, endless corridors that all look the same. You find yourself inside a maze of walls that close in on you wherever you walk, and a smell of bleach that stings the hairs inside your nostrils. When the initial chemical smell dissipates, and the acrid tang of the bleach can’t be felt anymore, then you can only smell death. A bitter aftertaste that leaves you craving for the other smell. Those two things are intrinsically linked and I dislike both. Perhaps because I’ve spent so much time in hospitals with my mum after another binge went wrong.
Secondly, if I go to the hospital, I fear the questions they'll ask and wonder if I'll be able to hold my nerve. Which leaves me with this, a trip to the doctors. This isn’t exactly a great choice either. The questions will probably come at me in the same way and the place isn’t equipped with an x-ray machine, but at least the doc’s office is a place that makes you feel welcome and there’s no smell of bleach. Today the waiting room is brimming with people. Today is Monday which means there is only one doctor for the entire surgery. I add my name to the list behind the reception, but I'm in for a long wait with nothing but my own sad thoughts for company.
Distracting myself, I look around at the people sitting next to me and wonder about their lives. I suppose the sight of me must understandably unsettle them somewhat. As I scan around the room, the bodies shuffle away from me, hesitant to meet my gaze. I am met with cold glances and colder shoulders. I can’t really blame them. Looking the way I do isn’t something I'm particularly comfortable with. Why should they be? It is hard to know what goes on in a person’s life. You can’t see the secrets they’re hiding just from a look. For the most part, their illnesses are invisible to my eyes. My bruises are visible, but how they happened is not. Nor are the secrets I carry with me. These are mine alone to carry.
The doctor’s modern surgery is equipped with an electronic display, which periodically flashes to tell the next patient to move along, it’s their turn to go in. The accompanying beep makes everyone’s heads bob up and down comically every time another name flashes up on the screen. I take the opportunity to text Jeannie, and hope she will forgive me for being late. I know she will, what worries me more is the inquisition she will give me. I keep the text brief, explaining that I’ve fallen and hit my face on the door handle. Lies are best kept brief, in my experience. I laugh at myself, what a terrible thing to think. Time will tell if she believes me.
Startled by yet another beep, I join the rest of the crew and pop my head up to see my name. Transfixed for a moment, my body stiff and uncooperative, I'm unable to move. Surely it isn’t my turn already? Resigned, my feet begin shuffling across the room. The handy display also informs me of the room number to look for, but given my general avoidance of doctors I am somewhat inexperienced in the layout of the place. I follow the corridor, which leads me behind the reception desk, and use the handy, large white signs that hang from the polystyrene ceiling tiles to navigate. The first set of rooms I pass are the nurses’ stations. So I continue until I reach a T-junction at the end of the corridor. I scan the doors in front of me and can’t help but think of those puzzle games you sometimes see on the television. The ones where you get locked in a room and must solve a challenge before you can be releas
ed. What door would I get? What would be behind it?
Room number two, the one I’m looking for, is down to the left. I shuffle along the pale blue carpet and stop outside the door. I feel my insides drop through my feet and down onto the floor as I look up at the nameplate on the crisp white door. Dr Peters. Gulping, I hesitated. What to do now?
You might be wondering why the name Doctor Peters strikes fear into my heart. After all, it’s not exactly a sinister name and as far as I know, or imagine, Doc Peters isn’t a sinister man. The problem is that he’s a friend of Daryl’s and that can’t be good. I know doctors have to keep things confidential but that doesn’t change a thing. No, I shake my head. It doesn’t matter, it’s not worth the risk. I turn to head back the way I came when I hear a creak. The door is opening.
“Miss Hawcroft, Katie!” he exclaims. “I was just running to get some things, I didn’t realise you were here.” He waves his arm dramatically behind him as if to indicate what it is he’s getting, leaving me none the wiser. Straightening out the creases in his suit jacket, he turns back to me and smiles. I see a flush of pink rise to his own cheeks as if embarrassed that he is somewhat dishevelled. Realising I’m not ready to conquer my wave today, especially one with such a precarious undercurrent, I silently turn to leave.
“Katie, you’re not leaving, are you?” he inquires anxiously.
She's Not Gone Page 4