The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  ‘You need to learn something, Beth.’ He spat out her name as if it disgusted him, tasted filthy on his tongue. ‘I always get what I want.’ He raised a hand and she stumbled back, fear flooding her mind. She’d thought she knew what he was capable of, the depth of his darkness. But she hadn’t, not truly. Not then.

  He dropped his hand and let out a laugh, a laugh that chilled her to the bone, and turned on his heel. His bedroom door closed with a quiet click, and Beth stood frozen for a few moments, heart pounding.

  And what do I want? His question repeats itself in her head as she lies in the darkness, the door locked and barricaded with the chair, even though Jake is gone. I know what he wants. But what am I doing here?

  The plan was a simple one. It seemed so easy when she hatched it in her flat, the sound of Kyle and Steve muffled by the duvet over her head. Get inside, get what you want, get out. How naïve she was. She realises now that she didn’t plan for Isla, didn’t consider that Isla would prove herself to be anything other than an accomplice, a willing participant in Jake’s games. Beth could never have guessed what went on behind closed doors, the secrets Isla keeps hidden away inside her.

  She turns over, forcing her eyes closed. She has to work tomorrow; she agreed to take the day shift, covering for a colleague, and she has to be up at nine. It must be after three now. At least it’s a short shift.

  The urge to flee grips her again, the compulsion to throw everything she owns into a bag and run into the night. But Isla needs her now.

  Thirty

  Isla

  I barely sleep that night, haunting the darkened rooms like a ghost. I hear Beth get home from work and move around in her room until the early hours, tossing and turning. Can she feel my distress through the wall? I place my fingers against it, the surface smooth beneath my palm.

  By six the next morning, I’m showered and ready, pacing the floor. I make myself a coffee, pouring it into a travel mug, and I’m in the car by seven. My appointment isn’t until nine, but I have to get out. My nervous energy is filling the house, suffocating me. Four days until Jake returns.

  The journey goes by in a blur, my movements dictated by the whining voice of the sat nav. I chain-smoke, hair fluttering in the breeze from the open window. Puffy white clouds fill the sky, but the sun is still warm. My mind is empty and full at the same time, thoughts swirling around, disappearing as soon as I try to grab hold of one.

  I arrive an hour early. I don’t have to search for a parking space; the clinic isn’t even open yet. I wait, sipping my coffee, lighting another cigarette, until a short woman unlocks the front door, turns the Closed sign to Open.

  I take a deep breath and throw my cigarette butt out the window. Then I sit for a moment with my head in my hands, the sound of my own breathing filling my ears.

  It’s time.

  In the waiting room, I avoid the gazes of the other women sitting hunched opposite me. I wonder how many women throughout history have gone through these same emotions, experienced this very situation. Did they sit with dread pooling in their stomachs, their hands trembling, panic and nausea rising? Or did they feel elated, relieved that it was finally happening? Did they embrace their symptoms with joy, or did they overthink everything, desperate to will the pregnancy away?

  These thoughts are dangerous, but I cannot let them go. My mind is full of chaos, my stomach churning, and yet here we sit, straight-backed and smartly dressed, our eyes trained on the floor or the wall, pretending the others don’t exist. The only people in the entire world who might understand.

  I risk a glance at the women opposite. One looks young, no older than fifteen, a furious-looking older woman sitting beside her. Another has her long legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankle. I can see a tattoo peeking out from the bottom of her leggings. Who are these women? Where have they come from? Do I know any of them? None of their faces are familiar, but I feel that deep down I do know them, and all the women who have come before them, and all the women who will, inevitably, come after. I know them very well.

  The young girl catches my eye and attempts a small smile. The woman next to her huffs, knocking her elbow into the girl before folding her arms across her chest. For a fleeting moment, I wish Beth was here with me. But what would she think of me, knowing what I am about to do? Would she hate me?

  I sit with my hands in my lap, my legs jerking up and down. The room is filling with anxiety with each tick of the clock above my head. Pure fear washes over me as I consider the alternative. But I cannot make that choice; I cannot even acknowledge it. It isn’t an option for me. It isn’t an option for any of us.

  I stumble through the front door a few hours later, stomach cramping. I drop my bag in the hallway and wrap my arms around my waist, my breath coming fast, my mind whirling into panic. But I knew what to expect. The nurse with the kind face explained everything, even handing me a leaflet that I immediately shoved back at her. God forbid I should bring any evidence home.

  Go home and rest, she said, smiling gently. She held my hand as the medication worked, as my decision became real. Curl up in bed or on the sofa and watch something mindless on Netflix. But this isn’t a lazy Sunday. I don’t deserve to relax on the sofa, eating chocolate and watching Friends. I need to feel this, every part of it.

  I drag myself upstairs, the pain still ripping through my stomach, and feel the sudden need to get clean. I run a bath, steam rising into the air. The nurse warned me to expect a bit of bleeding, and it started in the car. My hands are shaking as I open the cupboard door, reaching for the bubble bath Judith got me last Christmas. The citrus scent fills the air and I breathe in, breathe through the cramps.

  I slip out of my dress, kick my underwear across the floor. I reach up to open the window, then remove a cigarette from a packet hidden in the cupboard under the sink and light it. The tip glows in the darkness of the room, the only light coming from the shaving light above the mirror.

  As the bath fills, I finish the cigarette, stubbing it out in the sink, where it fizzles before dying. Steam rises into the air; I stare down at the bath, surprised at how painful the cramps are. But I deserve this. It’s the least I deserve.

  I climb into the tub, clamping my teeth shut to stop the scream that threatens to burst between my lips. I take quick, shallow breaths as I put one foot into the water, then the other. It’s too hot, but I slide down until my body is covered. Pain ripples through my stomach and I breathe deeply, trying to focus on the flames licking across my skin as I submerge myself in the water.

  Tears begin to leak out of my eyes. I think of the life inside me, the life that was, before this morning, the life that could have been. The child deserved to have a life, didn’t it? But not this life, not my life. I cannot offer it anything else, anything better. I cannot escape this hell, but I will not bring another into it.

  The water is, mercifully, starting to cool. But my mind is on fire, stuck inside this perpetual terror. Something ignites inside me, a fury so deep it frightens me.

  Jake. He did this to me, to us.

  I lie still, the water cooling around me as the final cramps ripple across my stomach. Eventually it’s done. The pain subsides. I light another cigarette and blow smoke into the air, watching it twirl and turn greyish blue in the soft light. My eyes feel heavy, but with a tinge of sadness, I realise my heart is lighter than it’s been in years.

  Thirty-One

  Beth

  Beth stumbles home, exhausted. She barely managed three hours’ sleep last night, and the day shift was harder than she expected. Crying children, harassed parents, lazy staff. Her feet ache, and she feels pain stab into her lower back. She needs a bath, a hot one, with lots of bubbles.

  It’s mid-afternoon by the time she lets herself into the house. The sky is overcast; summer is slowly transitioning into autumn. Soon the trees lining Gallows Hill will start shedding their leaves, dropping flames of red and orange to the pavement beneath her feet.

  Isla’
s car is parked on the driveway, and the house is quiet. Beth lets out a sigh of relief as she closes the front door behind her.

  ‘Isla?’ she calls, dropping her bag on the bottom step and kicking off her shoes. She peers at the right one; its fraying sole is getting worse by the day. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to buy a new pair.

  ‘Isla?’ she says again, cocking her head. Where is she? A quick glance into the living room shows it’s empty; the patio doors are closed. Maybe she’s having a nap.

  Beth tiptoes up the stairs, opens her bedroom door quietly. She changes out of her uniform, rubbing at a stain on her shirt with a thumb. It needs a wash, but it’s her only shirt. Maybe she can rinse it out in the sink.

  She heads for the bathroom, not realising the door is closed until she’s reaching for the handle. It’s locked.

  ‘Isla?’ she calls, knocking lightly. Worry floods her, and she drops the stained shirt to the floor. The memory of what she did slams into her mind, and panic grips her. The vomiting, the crying. Oh no.

  ‘Isla?’ She rattles the handle again, knocks louder. Nothing. She runs back to her bedroom, picks up a hairgrip from the dressing table. Bending it out of shape, she inserts it in the lock, turning it this way and that, frustration building inside her, until it finally clicks.

  She bursts through the bathroom door, staggers slightly as it swings wide to admit her. Isla is lying in the bath, the water murky with blood. Beth emits a cry as she stumbles to the tub, lifts Isla’s wrist to feel for a pulse.

  ‘Isla? Isla!’ She shakes her, grabbing her by the shoulders, her fingers slipping on her wet skin.

  Isla’s eyes flutter open. After a moment, she finds Beth’s face, her eyes slowly adjusting.

  ‘Beth?’ she croaks, and Beth lets out a sob.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ she whimpers, pulling Isla into her arms. Isla lays her head on Beth’s shoulder, her wet curls sticking to her bare arm. ‘What happened?’

  Isla pulls away, avoiding Beth’s gaze. Guilt thrums through Beth, the realisation hitting her with almost physical force. She knows what’s happened here. She knows exactly what Isla has done.

  ‘Let’s get you out of…’ She falters, waving a hand at the bath. She can see faint swirls of blood sitting on top of the water. Isla grimaces.

  ‘I had to get clean,’ she whispers, reaching down to yank out the plug and pulling herself up on to unsteady feet. Beth grabs a towel from a hook on the back of the door, allows Isla to cover herself.

  She puts Isla to bed, fetching her a glass of water and some painkillers, and is reminded of the time she did this after Jake’s attack. But this time, it is Beth who is to blame.

  She dresses Isla in a light T-shirt, averting her eyes from the bruises lining her ribs, the scars on her thighs. Some look old, others fresh. She wonders how long Isla’s body has been abused. She wonders if she is used to it.

  Without realising, she runs her fingers over an old scar on Isla’s shoulder. Isla freezes, and Beth blushes.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispers, snatching her hand back. Isla lets out a breath.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says, pulling the duvet up to her chin. ‘But that wasn’t him.’ She turns to face the wall, closing her eyes.

  Neither was this, Beth thinks, blinking the tears away. This was my fault.

  Beth stacks the dishwasher while Isla sleeps. She runs a damp cloth over the counters, spraying antibacterial cleaner as she goes. The sky is a deep shade of red; the setting sun burns orange as it moves below the horizon. A door slams and she jumps; she sees a woman across the road put her headphones on and start jogging. She breathes a sigh of relief. Calm down, she tells herself, but the memory of finding Isla, of realising what she has done – what she, Beth, has caused to happen – still makes her heart pound. With fear, with guilt. She remembers the little packet of pills she found in Isla’s handbag, the pills she threw away with an awful glee. How could she have done such a thing? Did she truly believe there would be no consequences to her actions? She remembers how she felt about Isla at the time, how very wrong she was.

  A shadow moves outside the kitchen window, and Beth freezes. Isla’s car still sits alone on the driveway; Jake isn’t due back for another few days yet. She can hear footsteps on the gravel outside, slow, methodical steps. A delivery? She tries to remember what day it is, if Ocado is due today. She holds the cloth to her chest, her breath coming hard and too loud in the silence of the house. The footsteps stop outside the front door. What are they doing? She steps out of the kitchen and peers through the hallway.

  Suddenly galvanised, she rushes towards the front door, yanking it open and flying out into the sunset. She looks around wildly, trying to spot someone running away from the house, or a strange car, but there is no one. Nothing is out of place. She checks the side of the house and the shadowy car park beyond, then hurries back to the front door, left wide open in her haste.

  She pushes the door shut, then leans against it, eyes closed, breathing hard. Is someone watching her? But who? Jake is in Italy, but could he have sent someone round to scare her?

  Stop it, she tells herself. Nobody is watching you. You’re being paranoid. But she can’t stop her heart fluttering in her chest.

  Thirty-Two

  Beth

  Beth has been up for hours when Isla finally emerges from her bedroom the next morning. She fusses around, installing Isla on the sofa and making tea. After she’s laid a blanket across Isla’s legs, she hovers in the middle of the room, full of energy.

  ‘Would you sit down?’ Isla says, exasperated. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  Beth perches on the end of the sofa, her knees jiggling up and down. Isla raises an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Sorry.’ Beth smiles sheepishly. Isla looks around the room.

  ‘Did you… Have you hoovered?’ she asks, eyes wide.

  Beth nods. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Well, thanks. You didn’t have to.’

  Oh, but I did, Beth thinks. She leaps out of her seat, gripped by an idea. ‘I’m going to nip out, get something nice for lunch. What do you fancy?’

  Isla blinks at her. ‘Um.’ Her stomach rumbles, surprising her. She can’t remember the last time she ate. ‘You choose.’

  Beth grins. ‘All right, you asked for it.’

  An hour later, Beth comes home laden down with bags. Isla gets up from the sofa to help, but Beth waves her away.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she admonishes, steering her back into the living room. ‘Don’t you interfere with my surprise.’

  Isla laughs. ‘What surprise?’

  ‘You’ll find out, won’t you?’ Beth sticks her tongue out and heads back into the kitchen. She pulls out trays and plates, sets out a chopping board. She hasn’t cooked like this in years. She remembers Sunday with her mum, the morning spent together in the kitchen, Beth standing on a stool, carefully peeling carrots while her mum seasoned the lamb. Sunday was her mum’s only day off, and she insisted on cooking a roast almost every week. Beth’s mouth waters as the memory floods through her. She considers her ingredients. If her mum had one talent, it was making the most out of what she had. Beth, having been given cash by Isla, has bought the best.

  An hour or so later, she appears in the living room doorway, a tray held between her gloved hands.

  ‘Ta-da!’ she announces, setting it down on the dining table. Isla gets up, wincing at a small pain shooting through her stomach.

  Beth frowns, moves to help her. ‘Are you all right? Do you want a painkiller?’

  Isla waves her away. ‘I’m fine. What’s this?’

  Beth beams. ‘Mushrooms stuffed with mozzarella and garlic,’ she says proudly. Isla clasps her hands together.

  ‘They look amazing!’ she says, bending forward to breathe in the garlic scent. She gazes back at Beth with wide eyes.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised!’ Beth laughs. ‘You don’t work in a restaurant without picking up a few tips. Now sit down. This
is just the first course.’

  Isla chuckles. ‘You can’t be serious?’ But Beth is already bustling back into the kitchen, bringing out warmed plates and setting one in front of Isla. She fetches a fresh baguette, cut into neat slices, and a bottle of wine. She opens the wine, then pauses, hovering over Isla’s glass.

  ‘Are you… I mean, should you drink?’ she says awkwardly. Isla shrugs.

  ‘Maybe just a little bit.’ She smiles as Beth splashes wine into her glass, filling it up halfway. They sit opposite one another, and Beth serves, mozzarella dripping from the mushrooms on to the table.

  Isla takes a small bite and lets out a little moan. ‘This is incredible, Beth,’ she says, mouth still full.

  ‘Really?’ Beth loads her own fork and pops it into her mouth. ‘Oh yeah, it is.’ She grins. ‘If I say so myself.’

  They finish the mushrooms in silence, tearing off chunks of bread. Once Isla’s plate is clear, Beth jumps up.

  ‘I’ll do that!’ Isla protests, but Beth ignores her, taking their empty plates into the kitchen and returning with sliced chicken and a salad.

  ‘I bought that from the hot counter,’ Beth confesses, pointing at the chicken.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to have hunted it!’ Isla laughs.

  Beth joins in, enjoying the sound, enjoying how it feels to be laughing with a friend. Guilt shoots through her again as she tops up her glass. She shakes her head when Isla lifts her own glass.

  ‘No way, no more for you. There’s Pepsi in the fridge.’

  Isla pouts, pretending to sulk, and Beth laughs.

  ‘Eat your food, or there’ll be no dessert.’ Her mum’s voice pops into her head then, and she realises just how much she sounds like her. It makes her feel warm inside.