The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  ‘We could camp in the forests of Scotland, listening to bagpipes and eating haggis.’ Her attempt at a Scottish accent is terrible.

  ‘We could run a café in Cornwall, serving up cream teas to tourists.’

  ‘We could work on a cruise ship, sailing under the Northern Lights in the fjords of Scandinavia.’

  ‘Do you even know what a fjord is?’ I laugh.

  Beth shakes her head. ‘I read it somewhere a few days ago, in one of your old magazines.’ She’s grinning. ‘It sounded nice.’

  ‘I remember the article. It did sound nice.’ I let out a sigh. Beth does the same. Could this be possible? Am I really considering leaving Jake? Leaving this house, this life? Could I actually do it?

  Beth looks at me then, as if she’s reading my thoughts. She places a hand on my arm again, her touch feather-light, and it hits me then, the magnitude of what we’re discussing. A seed of fear plants itself in my brain, making my stomach jolt. But another seed is also being planted. It feels like hope.

  That night, I lower myself on to the toilet, hoping to see blood on the tissue I use to wipe myself. But it’s clean, of course it’s clean. I rest my head in my hands, tears flowing down my cheeks.

  I shower quickly, avoiding the cut on my lip. It feels raised, thick. When I brush my teeth, it splits open again; crimson mixes with the white toothpaste I spit into the sink. I avoid my own gaze in the mirror, afraid of what I’ll find there.

  I slide into bed, turning on my side, away from where Jake should be. I feel on edge, braced, waiting for him to burst through the door, ready for round two. I cup a hand over my stomach. Is there a difference? No, it must be my imagination. This child – I flinch mentally at the word – must barely be the size of a pea. And yet it survived the savagery of today. But it might not survive the next time.

  Eventually my eyelids flutter closed, and I sleep.

  Twenty-Seven

  Beth

  Beth is up first; she creeps downstairs and makes a pot of coffee, eating a slice of toast as she waits for it to brew. She’ll make Isla a cup, she decides, take it up to her. She considers whether Jake will be remorseful, full of apologies, an expensive bunch of flowers in his arms when he comes home from Italy. Isn’t that how these things go? But then she doesn’t think Jake’s ever apologised for anything in his life, especially not to Isla.

  What have I got myself into? she wonders, remembering Kyle’s panic. Was he right? Is she in too deep? She wants to run, to get as far away from this house as possible, but then Isla’s face flashes through her mind, the cut on her lip, the blood smeared across her chin. A shiver runs up her spine. I can’t leave her here, not like this. Not with him.

  She takes two mugs of coffee upstairs, carefully easing Isla’s door ajar.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she says when Isla’s eyes flutter open. Isla tries to sit up, grimaces in pain.

  ‘Careful,’ Beth says, setting the mugs down on the bedside table. She props the pillows behind Isla, then sits on the edge of the bed, her face creased with worry. ‘Are you okay?’

  Isla nods. ‘I’m fine.’ Those words again. Has she ever been questioned like this before? Has anyone ever seen him hurt her? No, Beth thinks with sudden clarity, he’s a clever one. He keeps it hidden. He knows how to hide things. I know that only too well.

  She hands Isla one of the mugs, then picks up the other one and blows on it.

  ‘Don’t you have work?’ Isla asks, taking a sip of her coffee. Beth nods.

  ‘Not until later,’ she says, sighing. ‘Late shift.’

  Isla falls silent, eyes trained on the bedspread, coffee cupped beneath her chin. Beth wants to say more – there’s so much she wants to say, to ask, to scream – but she can’t. Isla’s eyes are rimmed with purple, like a deep bruise. Her lip is puckered, sore. Beth looks at her friend, and the fire inside her dies, blows out like a candle in the wind. She just wants to wrap her arms around Isla and keep her there, protected, safe.

  The word surprises her. Friend. When did Isla become a friend?

  She’s sitting on the sofa when she hears a thud from upstairs; the ceiling seems to shake with it. She leaps up and runs up the stairs to find Isla bent over the toilet in the en suite, her hair dangling in her face. Beth hovers in the doorway, unsure. Should she help? She wants to reach out and hold Isla’s hair back, like she has for friends on countless nights out. But this isn’t a night out; Isla isn’t drunk and crying over nothing. She is hurt. She has a secret.

  After a few minutes, Isla gets to her feet and flushes the toilet, stumbles over to the sink to wash her hands. She turns to Beth, her eyes red and watery.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a bath?’ she says, her voice raw. Beth blinks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In your bathroom. It’s the only bath.’

  Beth shakes her head. ‘Of course not. It’s your house.’ Isla smiles weakly, and Beth moves aside as she limps past. ‘Do you need any help?’ The words spill out before she can stop them.

  Isla pauses, head bent, one hand resting on the wall. Beth is about to retract the offer, wave it away as something weird, but Isla speaks first.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she says quietly, then heads into the bathroom.

  Isla sits on the closed toilet seat while Beth runs the bath. She pours in bubble bath, the scent of orange and mango filling the room, then helps Isla undress, averting her eyes from the fresh bruises, the old scars. How many times has this happened? Beth thought she knew Jake, thought she could handle him. But at the sight of Isla’s battered body, a thrum of fear passes through her.

  Isla sinks into the water, the bubbles covering her, her hair piled on top of her head. Beth takes her place on the toilet seat, elbows resting on her knees, staring at the bath mat in front of her.

  ‘When will he be back?’ she asks.

  ‘Five days,’ Isla says, staring up at the ceiling. Beth opens her mouth, closes it again. What can she say? This is his house. If Isla cannot stop him, what chance does Beth have?

  Anger bubbles in her stomach, absolute fury at the feeling of powerlessness that is engulfing her. Should she run now, tonight? Pack her suitcase and leave? But where would she go? The story she told Isla about her landlord was true. Kyle hadn’t been paying the rent or the bills, choosing to hide the final demand letters from her for weeks, months. That’s why she went that night. That’s why she got into the car.

  She looks at Isla, at the terror in her eyes, her swollen lip, and resolve grips her. He’ll pay for this. He’ll pay for everything.

  Isla meets her gaze then, as if Beth has spoken aloud, and Beth sees the shame, the despair. Her chest constricts and she reaches out, grabs Isla’s hand; bubbles drip on to the tiled floor. They sit in silence, fingers linked, the air between them full of the words they cannot say.

  Twenty-Eight

  Isla

  Beth is in bed; I finally managed to persuade her that I’ll be fine. The house is quiet with Jake gone. It makes me wonder what life would be like without him, if I were to leave. Could I really leave? Couldn’t we make this work?

  I’m kidding myself. I know that when he returns, things will just go back to normal: our marriage, this house, his need for a child. How can he want a child? How can he believe that this home, this marriage, is a good place for a child?

  I remember the last time we had sex, Jake’s kindness, his attentiveness. It was unusual, for him. The bench is cool on my bare skin and I shiver, disgusted. At him, at myself, for the gratitude I felt that night, that he wasn’t violent for once. Disgusted at what I’ve become, what he’s turned me into. What he’s forcing me to do.

  I light another cigarette. My throat is sore, my head still pounding. Were we ever happy? I try to remember the early days, the first dates, the first time we made love. Our wedding day. But even that is tinged with violence, with terrible memories.

  He didn’t mean to hurt me. That’s what he said, anyway, back then. But I’d infuriated him. It was suppo
sed to be a happy day, a day of celebration, he ranted as I lay on the floor, the tiles of the en suite cool against my face. Was that the first time he hit me? No, there had been other occasions, but this memory stands out in my mind as the beginning of it all. As he shouted at me, his words raining down on me like blows themselves, I remember wondering: why did I marry this man?

  He left me lying on the floor, grabbing his jacket and storming out of our room. The bridal suite, flash, expensive. He was going to join his best man for a drink, he said, and stomped past, making my body vibrate with his footsteps. When the door slammed behind him, I closed my eyes and let the tears leak out on to the floor. Eventually, I got up, easing myself into the bath, averting my eyes from the bruises already blossoming on my arms, my stomach. Afterwards, I stood naked at the window, smoking, staring out across the rolling countryside, the white dress discarded on the bathroom floor.

  I went to bed alone that night, the night of our wedding, and woke up to Jake’s drunken fumbling with my clothes.

  ‘Got to consummate the marriage, wife,’ he said, a sardonic smile on his lips, his eyes bloodshot, hungry. His fingers dug into the bruises on my arms, shooting pain through me, and I acquiesced, allowed him to do what he wanted. I remember the feeling that came over me as I lay there that night, almost like a premonition. He would always do what he wanted, and I was trapped.

  I recognise the longing rising up inside me: I want so desperately to be free. But the chains wrapped around me are too strong, too tight. He will never let me go.

  I finally go to bed, drifting in and out of sleep until the watery sunlight filtering through the curtains forces my eyes open.

  I have five days to… deal with this situation. I swing my legs out of bed and head for the bathroom, the nausea rushing up as I move. I throw up in the sink, gripping the edge so hard that my fingers turn white. Five days.

  Downstairs, I make myself some tea and toast, forcing it down, ignoring my protesting stomach. I go out into the back garden and collapse on the bench, sipping my tea. It’s still early, but the sun is warm on my face. I can hear the cars rushing past on the dual carriageway. The conversation with Beth drifts back to me. Did she mean it? Would she really help me escape?

  Concentrate. I don’t have time to worry about that right now. I feel a pang of guilt at the thought, but no matter how much she might want me to deal with my marriage, I have something else I have to deal with first. I scroll through the contacts on my phone to find the number for the clinic. My entire body is trembling as I book the appointment, the words catching in my throat. But it’s my only option. Isn’t it?

  When I first met Jake, I dreamed of Sunday roasts with his parents, Christmas spent in front of a roaring fire, presents piled beneath a huge tree. I was desperate for a family, for that easy love that fills a house, the feeling of being home. But I should have known I wouldn’t get my wish. I didn’t deserve any of it.

  The fire was my fault. I was ten years old, a girl who still liked to sneak into my parents’ bedroom and snuggle between them in the early hours. I was a girl who loved to read, who spent hours in the library every Saturday. I loved my parents, and they loved me. I didn’t do it on purpose. That’s what I tell myself in the early hours of the morning, when my nightmares take me back there, back to where it all began.

  It was a cold winter’s night, not long after Christmas, one of those nights where the darkness seems to last the entire day. The sky was leaden; drizzly rain pattered against the windows. I had haunted the flat that day, unsure of what to do with myself. The dread of going back to school like a heavy stone in my stomach; I always preferred to be at home.

  My mum and dad were in the kitchen; I could hear them singing along to the radio while they did the dishes. They often did them together, laughing and chatting, sharing the load. I wandered into their bedroom, trying to find something to play with. I was on the cusp of adolescence, experimenting with make-up and trying on my mum’s clothes, but I was still young, still liked a bedtime story. I never got one after that night.

  Mum had received a pair of straighteners for Christmas. They were bright pink – to match your cheeks, Dad had laughed when she tore off the wrapping paper. My mum, fair-skinned, was prone to flushing when she was angry, or upset, or happy.

  The straighteners had been left on top of a tall chest of drawers, supposedly out of my reach. But I had grown quickly that year, something I was proud of, and I could now reach the top if I stood on the stool. I plugged the straighteners in, placing them carefully on the heatproof mat, and began brushing my hair. I took my mum’s favourite lipstick out of her make-up bag and applied it to my lips, making a face in the mirror.

  ‘Isla-la-la!’ Mum’s voice, calling from the kitchen doorway. ‘Time for a bath!’

  I jumped off the stool and ran to the bathroom. I was having a bath by myself now; I knew how much bubble bath to pour in, how to check the temperature. I quickly undressed and slid into the bubbly water, wriggling my toes

  ‘All good in here?’ Dad appeared in the doorway, his hands held over his eyes. I giggled and splashed him.

  ‘Oi!’ he laughed, jumping. Water droplets appeared on the front of his shirt.

  I still don’t understand how it happened. I swear I turned the straighteners off, but I can’t have done. They must have been on for hours, burning their way through the heatproof mat. When the fire started, it bloomed within seconds, catching on the pile of blankets stacked on top of the chest of drawers, engulfing everything in flames. My dad woke up coughing; the sound roused me in my room next door. Then the shouting began.

  ‘Isla! Get Isla!’ Mum. I stayed frozen in my bed, smoke billowing out into the hall, creeping through the open doorway.

  Dad burst out of his room, one arm held over his face. He ran to me, grabbing me out of bed, his grip tight, almost painful, and threw me over his shoulder. I cried out, terrified, as he ran back into the thick smoke. He flung the front door open and fell to his knees on the grass, retching, eyes streaming.

  ‘Isla,’ he croaked, reaching for me. I sat in shock a few metres away, eyes wide, glued to the flames licking up the side of the ground-floor flat. ‘Isla, go across the road. To Mrs Fisher. Call for help, 999. You remember?’

  He started to cough again, his whole body heaving.

  ‘Do you remember, Isla?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ I stammered. He nodded, got shakily to his feet.

  ‘Go on now, good girl. I’ll go back for Mummy.’ He smiled then, his face covered in sweat, his eyes wide and wild. ‘Back in a jiffy.’

  ‘Dad!’ My scream ripped through the night as my father turned and ran back into the flames. ‘Dad, no!’

  I remember feeling stuck, frozen to the spot, staring after him as he disappeared. I had to call for help, but I couldn’t. I was terrified. Sobs racked my body.

  ‘I’ve called 999!’ a voice shouted from behind me. Mrs Fisher. ‘Isla, Isla sweetheart.’ Hands on my arms, warm hands. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Mummy,’ I sobbed, and the hands drew me close. Mrs Fisher’s dressing gown smelled like flowers.

  ‘Are they still in there, pet?’ she asked, crouching down to face me. I managed a nod. ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she murmured, pulling me close again. ‘You poor, poor thing. Don’t worry, help is coming.’

  More neighbours streamed out of their houses, men and women wrapped in dressing gowns and warm coats. Someone draped a blanket around my shoulders, pulled me gently away from the flat. Everything was alight. I saw the curtains in the living room go up in flames, then a window shattered. Everyone moved back, to the other side of the road. I couldn’t take my eyes off the windows, desperately searching for my parents. But all I could see was fire.

  It seemed that hours had passed by the time I heard sirens in the distance. I was shivering, my teeth chattering, my entire body trembling with fear. Where were they? Tears poured down my face, and it felt like my heart had been smashed into a thousand pieces.

&nb
sp; ‘I killed them.’ I whisper the familiar words into the darkness, like I have a hundred times before. Sometimes the grief overwhelms me, appears out of the blue to engulf me, smother me. Sometimes I let the tears fall, and the memories flood over me.

  The people in the flat upstairs were on holiday, visiting family over the Christmas break. I shudder to think what might have happened if they hadn’t been away. Another family lost, torn apart by my stupidity. From that day on, my life would never be the same again. I knew it then, even at such a young age, standing outside our burning flat, my parents lost for ever. My future was marked by my actions. I would pay for what I had done.

  Twenty-Nine

  Beth

  Beth lies awake, watching the trees outside cast shadows on the wall. She listens to Isla throwing up, hears her crying. She can feel something bubbling under the surface. The air simmers with it.

  She remembers the scene with Jake before he left, before he attacked Isla. She hadn’t realised how deep his anger ran. She shudders as his words come back to her.

  ‘I’ve had enough of you,’ he hissed, catching her as she crossed the landing to her bedroom. She flinched, ripping her arm out of his grip, but she refused to be cowed. She met his eyes, those eyes she’s seen every night in her dreams, bloodshot and wide, pupils dilated. How can he live with what he has done?

  ‘You can’t always get what you want,’ she spat, jaw clenched.

  ‘And what do I want?’ He moved closer as she took a step back, feeling behind her for her bedroom door. If she could just get inside, she could lock the door, lock herself away from him. But I’m in his house, she reminded herself as she stood frozen, Jake’s face so close to hers she could feel his breath on her face. You’ve got yourself into this situation.