The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  Her pyjamas slip down, and she feels him push inside her. She bites the pillow beneath her to stop herself screaming. Soon her back is slick with sweat – hers or his? She doesn’t know. The feeling makes her feel sick; bile rises in her throat. She forces her mind to go elsewhere, to get away from this, from him.

  He’s finished within minutes. He flops down on to the mattress beside her, eyes closed, a smile on his lips. She wants to punch him, smash him in the face with her fists, grab a knife from the kitchen and stab him in the throat. But she doesn’t. She can’t even speak. She always freezes when he does this, like a helpless rabbit caught in headlights. Her weakness makes her even angrier.

  Kyle’s breathing is already slowing; he’s slipping away into sleep, a guiltless, easy sleep. Tears leak out of the corners of Beth’s eyes. She stares at him, at this man she chose to live with, to try to make a life with. Did she really choose him, this? She looks away in disgust, pulling herself up and out of bed. She stumbles to the toilet and sits down heavily, cradling her head in her hands. Is this truly her life? Was she always destined for this – a shitty flat, a crap job, a pathetic excuse for a boyfriend? When she was born, did her parents look down at her and think: this one will never make anything of herself. She shakes her head to dispel the thoughts, forcing herself out of this pit of despair.

  She longs to get in the bath, a hot bath to wash him away, but she can’t. The boiler is so noisy, it will wake the whole block up. She wets a flannel under the tap and washes between her legs, grimacing. She catches sight of herself in the mirror, flinches. What has she become? When did this become normal?

  ‘You can’t rape your girlfriend. That’s like saying you’ve stolen your own car,’ Kyle snorted once when she brought it up. The dreaded ‘r’ word. But that’s what it is, isn’t it? That was the last time she’d tried to reason with him, tried to have an adult conversation with him.

  She could feel her cheeks heating up at his words, anger pulsing in her chest, but she didn’t have a response for him. What could she have possibly said? While he shook his head and laughed and went back to his game as if she wasn’t there, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, she locked herself in the bathroom to cry. She didn’t know how she’d got into this situation, so stuck in this life, this misery. She didn’t – doesn’t – know how she could get out of it.

  Now she stands staring at her reflection in the grubby mirror. She doesn’t want to go back to bed, lie down next to him, but she has no choice. There’s nowhere else to sleep. Through the doorway she can see the slumped form of Steve on the sofa, hear his piggish snores. She wrinkles her nose and slips back into her bedroom.

  She lies on top of the covers, as close to the edge of the bed as she can get without falling off it. Tears spill across her pillow, soaking her cheek. She can’t remember what it feels like to love Kyle; to like him, even. He has nothing going for him. No job, no education, no passion. Nothing interests him any more. He spends his days sleeping and his nights smoking weed, playing games with his friends. She can’t remember the last time they cooked together, or even ate together. Why am I still here? she wonders, her heart hammering in her chest. But she knows why. She has nowhere else to go.

  Her tears start to slow; her breathing calms and her eyes flutter shut. But beneath, her heart is hardening, turning to ice within her chest. There is a way out, she tells herself. And there’s someone who can make it happen.

  Four

  Isla

  I wake at nine, gasping into consciousness. The dream is still gripping me; tendrils of fear snake through my mind as my heart beats wildly in my chest. I sit up, panting. I can still feel the heat on my face, see the flames licking up the side of the house. A house that no longer exists, except in my memory. In my nightmares.

  I rest my head in my hands, feel the sweat beaded on my forehead. I get slowly out of bed and head straight into the bathroom, pulling my hair into a loose bun on top of my head. I step into the shower and turn it to cold; icy droplets cool my feverish skin. After a while, I turn the water to warm and begin my ritual.

  Clean, I wrap myself in a towel and stand at the sink, brushing my teeth. I scoop my hair into a loose ponytail and dress in another loose dress, this one pale blue, then slip on my glasses and go downstairs.

  I wonder briefly where Jake is. His trainers aren’t in the shoe rack. Has he gone to the gym again? It’s possible. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in the house, and for that I’m grateful. I don’t waste time asking questions.

  In the kitchen, I find the cafetière dirty, full of old coffee grounds. Jake must have used it this morning. I empty it into the compost bin and make myself a fresh pot, adding a squirt of vanilla syrup to the bottom of my mug. More sugar, Jake says in my head. I ignore him.

  How many mornings have started like this? I get up, shower, dress, have breakfast, and then… what? I spend my days on social media, scrolling through comments that make my stomach turn. Why is it that so many people feel the need to share their disgusting views on rape, war, immigration? Social media has become a platform for every voice to be heard, no matter how bigoted it might be.

  I spend some time reading most days. Since today is Sunday, Jake should be back soon, and then I’ll cook a roast. I remember suddenly that I have to go to the farm shop for meat. Hopefully they’ll have beef or lamb; Jake doesn’t like any other meat for his roast dinner.

  Grabbing my purse and keys, I quickly leave the house. The farm shop opens at ten; I’m a bit early, but the butcher never seems to mind. He knows me by face, but not by name.

  My next-door neighbour is out in his front garden, vigorously cleaning his windshield. I raise a hand in greeting.

  ‘Morning,’ he calls back, a little breathless. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry on a Sunday? Not late for church, are you?’ He grins at his own joke.

  ‘You know me, Mike,’ I say, flashing him a smile, ‘never miss a day!’ He chuckles as I get into the car and drive away. ‘Muggy Mike’ is what Jake calls him, smirking at our neighbour’s obsession with cleaning his car. At least once a week he’s out there, filling bucket after bucket with hot soapy water, hoovering the interior. ‘It’s not even a nice car,’ Jake sniffed last weekend, watching him from the kitchen window. ‘It’s an old BMW.’

  ‘How many chicken breasts will it be today?’ the butcher calls cheerily when he sees me walk through the farm shop door. I smile. A man browsing the selection of cheeses looks up and grins.

  ‘Psychic butcher?’ he says, jerking his head towards the man behind the counter.

  ‘He’s not that good,’ I say, winking at the butcher, who opens his mouth to protest. ‘I just buy a lot of chicken.’ I step up to the counter, looking through the glass at the meat. ‘Four chicken breasts today, please, and also two of your lamb steaks if I may.’ There’s little point in buying a whole leg of lamb for just the two of us.

  ‘Of course,’ the butcher says, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘How you been keeping then, all right?’ he asks as he slips the chicken breasts into a bag. I’ve tried to get them to switch to a non-plastic alternative, but they won’t have it.

  ‘Yeah, not too bad. Yourself?’ It’s the same answer I always give; non-committal, generic. ‘Been busy?’

  ‘Always,’ he says, weighing the chicken and printing off a label. He slaps the small package on top of the counter, then bends down and reaches in for the lamb. ‘These two all right for you?’ He lifts up two large steaks.

  ‘Perfect,’ I say, and he nods, bagging them up.

  ‘Looks like it’ll be another beautiful day,’ he says when he hands me the lamb. I look behind him through a window at the back.

  ‘Yeah, it’s lovely out at the moment.’ He pulls a face. ‘Sorry about that,’ I add quickly.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine! You go and enjoy yourself while I’m stuck in here. I can’t remember the last time I spent a Sunday afternoon in the garden.’

  I try to smile apologetically. ‘You can take a da
y off, you know.’

  ‘But then who would be here to provide you with your chicken?’ The butcher grins good-naturedly, and I laugh.

  ‘See you next week,’ I say, lifting the parcels off the counter. He winks and turns to serve the next customer.

  I hurry out to the car and get in, slamming the door behind me. I so rarely interact with people these days, I find it difficult to be around others. Calm down. That exchange went perfectly well. After a few moments, I start the car and head home.

  Jake is in the kitchen when I get back, gulping down a glass of water. He’s dressed in knee-length shorts and a vest, dark with sweat.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asks. I bustle past him to the fridge.

  ‘Where do you think?’ I say, holding up the parcels of meat. He doesn’t move out of the way, just continues to stand in the middle of the room. As I’m bending down to pull out a roasting tray, I feel his hand reach out to the back of my head.

  ‘What did you just say?’ he growls in my ear. I drop the tray; it clatters to the floor at my feet.

  ‘N-nothing,’ I stammer, trying to keep my voice light, trying to stop whatever is about to happen. ‘It was just a joke. I went to get meat. For your dinner. For our dinner,’ I amend quickly. ‘Lamb, your favourite.’ He’s still standing behind me, his hand in my hair. I can’t see his face, but I can hear his breath coming fast out of his nostrils. Suddenly he moves away, and I stumble forward. I catch myself on the counter and stay there, afraid to turn around. I feel him reach out and grab my hair again, and I freeze, but he slowly pulls the band out, letting my curls fall around my shoulders.

  ‘Much better,’ he says, his voice bright again, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. ‘Stick the kettle on, would you? I’m going for a shower.’

  ‘Yep,’ I say brightly. My hands are shaking as I turn on the tap.

  Later, after Jake has wolfed down a humongous portion of roast potatoes, I sit in the garden, glass of wine in hand, eyes closed against the sun. I’m on my third glass – or is it my fourth? Surely not – and I’m smoking the last cigarette in the pack. I’ll have to buy more tomorrow when I meet Beth in town. I feel a thrum of excitement when I think about it. I’m meeting someone for coffee. When was the last time I met someone for coffee? Or for anything? Other than Jake, that is.

  It’s nearly eight o’clock. I suddenly feel more tired than I ought to at this hour. Maybe it’s the wine, I muse, swilling the clear liquid around in my glass. Jake doesn’t like it when I go to bed before him, but maybe he’ll let me tonight. I’ll say I have a headache. It’s not a complete lie; my head has been throbbing since Friday night, since we found that man in the middle of the road. I replay the scene at the restaurant, Beth standing out so clearly now as she served us our meals. As Jake reached out and groped her. Does she want to confront me about him? Another possibility occurs to me: did she tell the police? Surely not; surely they would have mentioned it by now? But what if she tells someone else?

  I flinch away from the idea. Who could she possibly tell? She doesn’t know anything; she only got a glimpse of what Jake is really like. The Jake I see every day.

  When did he start to behave like this, pawing waitresses in restaurants, losing his temper more often? He wasn’t always like it; I can still remember when he was kind, thoughtful even. Over the past few years he’s started working longer hours, chasing promotion after promotion. Or so he says. I don’t pry, not any more. I tiptoe around him, ashamed at my desperation to please. But I always manage to get it wrong.

  A memory comes back to me from when I first met Jake’s parents. Judith with her perfectly styled hair, her nails a shimmery pink. She was wearing a dark blue jumper – cashmere? Probably – and smart trousers, and I remember wondering why she was dressed up so much. Now I know that this is her relaxed look, her version of lazing around the house. Dinner in the Hull household has always been a formal affair; candles, silverware, clean hands and brushed hair. It’s no wonder Jake is the way he is, I think, with Judith as is mother.

  I realise I feel a bit nauseous. Did I eat too much? No, I barely finished half the food on my plate, and I didn’t give myself a large portion. Not enough, then? Too much wine, a voice in my head says. I ignore it and drain my glass.

  Finishing my cigarette, I stand and go back inside. Jake looks up from his phone as I close the back door and lock it. He’s sprawled on the sofa, his legs crossed at the ankle. I can see the fair hairs catching the late sunlight.

  ‘All right?’ he says. I wonder what he sees in my expression.

  ‘Not really. Feel a bit sick, actually. My head’s pounding. Do you mind if I go to bed?’

  Jake pulls a face. ‘But it’s so early,’ he almost whines. I feel the urge to slap him but I hold in my emotions like I’ve been trained to do.

  ‘I know. I don’t have to, I just—’

  ‘No, no, go on,’ Jake interrupts, waving a hand. ‘I was going to nip out actually, go and see an old mate. I don’t have to be in the office until later tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I say, surprised. ‘Which mate is this?’

  Jake’s eyes narrow at my question, but I keep my face neutral.

  ‘Scott, friend of mine from school. He lives just outside of Ware now.’

  ‘Near your parents?’ I ask.

  Jake nods. ‘Yeah, thereabouts.’

  ‘All right, well, have fun,’ I say, but he’s looking at his phone again: I am dismissed.

  I get a glass of water from the kitchen and, grabbing my bag from a hook by the front door, head upstairs. I go through my nightly ritual, then climb into bed, enjoying how empty it is. I hear the front door slam, Jake leaving to visit his mate. Is that really where he’s going? I realise that I don’t care. I only care that he isn’t here.

  I fall asleep quickly, drifting into a dreamless sleep. I always sleep better when Jake’s not here.

  Five

  Isla

  I slept well, barely stirring when Jake left for work. Now I’m sitting on the sofa, counting down the minutes until I can leave to meet Beth. She texted earlier to confirm the time, and I almost offered her a lift, but I stopped myself. I have no idea who she is, not really. But I’m hoping I’ll find out. And I’m hoping it has nothing to do with what my husband did.

  I unhook my handbag from the hook in the hall, check that the back door is locked, then step outside. The sun is hot, glaring. I slip my glasses over my eyes, and they begin to darken against the UV rays. Mike, the next-door neighbour, is out with his car again, polishing it this time. He turns as I close the front door and lifts a hand. I smile and get into the car. My car. I have a little Ford Fiesta, dark grey in colour and only a few years old. It sits on the driveway most days, barely used from one day to the next. I never thought I’d live in a house with two cars, not until I met Jake, who simply accepted and expected things that seemed like a luxury to me. Probably to Beth too, I realise. Maybe we have more in common than I think.

  The drive into town is easy. I put the windows down and enjoy the breeze flowing through my hair. The radio is on in the background, turned down; a song I vaguely recognise floats through the air.

  Within minutes, I’m pulling into a space at the far end of Sainsbury’s car park. The machines are broken again, so I don’t have to dig into my purse for change. I so rarely use cash any more, it’s always a surprise when a situation demands it. I run into the supermarket to buy some more cigarettes, then head into town, past the McMullen’s brewery and along the river, across the bridge. Ducks splash in the water beneath me; children laugh as they skip past me with their parents.

  I exit the shade of the trees and walk over another bridge, the river stretching out to my left, music and laughter spilling out from the Old Barge pub. My step is light on the cobblestones. People pass as I walk: couples and families, small children and grandparents.

  I stop outside the Coffee Lab and check my watch. I’m early. I dig in my bag for my cigarettes and a bottle of
water. A reusable bottle, of course. The recent discovery that the ocean is full of plastic shocked me. Turtles impaled by single-use straws, dolphins unwittingly polluting their young through their contaminated milk. I shudder, wondering why I focus on such things. Because you don’t have anything else to think about, a voice whispers inside my head. Anything else you want to think about. I shake my head to dispel these thoughts – these unhelpful thoughts – and take a drag on my cigarette.

  I lean against the warm wall behind me, watching the world go past. I love this town. Hertford, the county seat. Last year I went on a guided tour, where the woman talked about criminals and prisons and hangings. That’s where I found out about Gallows Hill and its morbid history. The bustle of the town centre always manages to relax me. I love to watch people, especially when they don’t know they’re being watched.

  ‘Hi!’ A voice beside me makes me jump. A woman about my age is smiling at me. She has straight brown hair and a ring in her nose. Beth.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, turning to grind the cigarette out against the wall and throwing the butt in a nearby bin. ‘Beth?’ I realise I sound hesitant and try to smile to cover my nervousness.

  She nods, smiling. There’s an awkward pause, until I say, ‘Shall we?’ and lead the way into the café.

  The aroma of fresh pastries and coffee hits my nose. I breathe it in, savouring it. I turn to Beth. ‘The cakes here are amazing,’ I say, nodding at the counter. ‘We should get one.’

  ‘We’ve got salted caramel today,’ the waitress says as we step up to the counter. She waves her hand at a slab of cake sitting on a wooden board to her right. I look at Beth, who nods.

  ‘Two of those, please,’ I say, and the waitress grins.

  ‘Are you sure? The slices are absolutely huge!’ She gets a knife and cuts off a piece, slapping it on to a plate. My eyes widen. That is a lot of cake.