A Last Kiss for Mummy

by Casey Watson

  I knew Mike was right. Of course he was. That was our job. But I also knew myself, and while he’d been talking I’d been thinking, and it was becoming clearer by the moment what was really rattling me. It was this endless need to play bad cop – having to be the person who ‘ruined everything’ – as Emma had pointed out I would most definitely be if I made a phone call and grassed Tarim up.

  I knew Mike understood because I could see it in his face, but actually this wasn’t about hurting my feelings, was it? It was just so much more important than that.

  Emma didn’t come down till about ten, and when she did – Roman balanced on her hip, his usual sunny self – she was subdued and looked tired. Perhaps, with the benefit of some time having passed now, we’d be able to discuss things more calmly.

  ‘Say hi to Casey,’ she said to Roman as they came into the kitchen. He was smiling and holding his arms out towards me. I didn’t take him from her; instead I held up the coffee pot. She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll just have milk, thanks,’ she said. She was lisping.

  I put the jug down and came closer. Her face looked terrible. Worse than last night, even, her left eye fully closed now, and her lip, also swollen, competing with the eye socket for which would create the most colourful bruising.

  ‘Oh, Emma,’ I said. ‘Just look at your face, love. You know,’ I said, peering closer, anxious about the bits I couldn’t see, ‘I think we might need to see the doctor with that eye.’

  Now I did take Roman from her, because he was struggling to get to me, and popped him in his high chair so I could get her a glass of milk.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Casey,’ she said to me. ‘I told you, I’m fine. I’ve had a black eye before and I’ll probably have one again. Few days, it’ll be gone.’

  Given what had happened the previous evening, what she said didn’t shock me. But I clearly needed to try a different tack.

  ‘That’s the thing, though, you see, love. I’m paid to fuss, aren’t I? Paid to care – paid to look after you and Roman. Do you really think for an instant that I can leave this thing? Do you? Love, why can’t you see that this is wrong?’

  And so it began. Another full-scale row, just as we’d had the previous evening, with me telling Emma I’d be reporting Tarim’s violence and her telling me that I had no right to do that and that I might as well just kill her as I was going to ruin her life.

  I tried. I tried to make her see that the ‘rules’ she’d grown up with – that women annoyed men, which meant men couldn’t help but hit them – were wrong on every single level imaginable. ‘Don’t you see, Emma?’ I pleaded. ‘It’s a pattern – a terrible pattern. You watched it happen to your mother; watched her let men abuse her and hurt her, and because she let them you now think it’s normal. But think back. Think back to when you were a little girl and you saw that violence happen. And to your mum, your own mum, who you loved. How did it make you feel then? Terrified, I’m guessing. You must have hated it. Hated it. Is that what you want for Roman? To watch as his father gives his mum a black eye?’

  But it was pointless, as it had been for some women in perpetuity, and would be again in the future. Because her argument was the same that was used by women everywhere – most frequently the broken women holed up in battered women’s refuges, having used it, to their detriment, for years.

  ‘But it’s not like that!’ she persisted. ‘Tarim’s not like those dickheads! They were just scumbags – one-night stands, wasters – they didn’t love her. They couldn’t give a toss, but Tarim’s different. Tarim loves me! Why can’t you get that through your head?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, feeling my temper taking hold of me. ‘Here’s Roman. Who you love. And he does something to annoy you. At what point do you think it’s going to be a valid course of action to raise your fist – given that he’s smaller than you, younger than you, weaker than you – to raise that fist and slam it into his face? Emma, we don’t hurt the people we love! And for that matter, according to your “can’t help it” logic, what’s to stop Tarim punching Roman in the face?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Casey!’ she spat back at me. ‘He’d never do that! And he’d never have hit me in front of the baby. I’d never allow that!’

  ‘Allow?’ Now I was incredulous. ‘You think you could stop him? If you could stop him doing anything you wouldn’t be sitting here right now with a fat lip and an eye you can’t open!’

  Emma stood then. ‘You’re wrong, Casey. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Tarim would never hurt Roman, not in a million zillion years. And the only reason he hit me was because he loves me so much. No, he shouldn’t have done, but you only do stuff like that if you really, really, really love a person!’

  She stormed out then, slamming the door, leaving poor Roman staring after her and leaving me reeling, hot and shaking, in her wake.

  Perhaps because he sensed it was a shrewd move under the circumstances, Mike called an hour or so later. Given the time, he said, he’d go straight from the warehouse to meet with Kieron, and would be back at teatime, to get the ‘next episode of the soap opera on catch-up’. It was an attempt to lighten my mood and, to some extent, it was a good one. There were deep issues to address here, and – make no mistake, I thought – I would bloody well address them, but there was also the issue of having a fourteen-year-old girl in the house. Shouting and slamming doors were par for the course. I mustn’t lose my sense of perspective.

  By this time I had already decided I would telephone John Fulshaw, just as soon as Roman went down for his nap. I went through what I’d say while sitting on a patio chair in the garden, collecting my thoughts while Roman played happily in his playpen, which I’d taken out and set up on the grass. Of Emma herself, there hadn’t a peek since she’d stormed out of the kitchen, just the low thunks and lunks of her CD player going, playing whatever tunes were proving balm to her troubled mind. And, for the moment, I was happy that she stay in her room.

  But apparently there was someone else who wasn’t.

  Roman had just fallen asleep, right there, in the sun, on his play mat on the lawn, when I heard shouting from out in the street. It was being carried in on the breeze, over the side fence that led to the front garden, and at first I thought I must have imagined it. It was a sleepy sunny Saturday afternoon in a residential neighbourhood, but, no, there it was again, somebody yelling. And being very free with their language, too, which made me stop in my tracks. I’d been just about to go and call John, so was putting a blanket over Roman, and though he didn’t wake – he was the sort of baby who could readily sleep through anything – I imagined half the street coming out.

  I shot inside and went straight to the living-room window, where I was horrified to see Tarim, leaning on our wall. He had a bottle of what looked like cider, which he was swinging from one hand, and was shouting up towards our bedroom windows. ‘Get down here, you fucking slag!’ he roared. ‘Come on, what’s the fucking matter? Nothing to say, eh?’

  Two things were clear. One that he was very, very drunk and, two, that the ‘fucking slag’ in question was Emma. I rushed out into the hall and shouted up at her to come downstairs immediately. She appeared on the landing, looking sheepish.

  ‘Don’t let him in,’ she warned. ‘Not in that state. He’ll kill us.’

  I could still hear him – clearly – still entreating so delightfully, and, in between, shouting at what presumably were neighbours, asking them what they ‘thought they were fucking looking at’. I was mortified. We’d already had to move once because of our fostering activities, and these neighbours, like most of the last, were all such lovely, decent people. They really didn’t deserve this. And shouldn’t have to.

  ‘I can’t wait all day!’ Tarim roared again. ‘Get out here and fucking face me!’ Then, obviously to someone who’d dared to face up to him. ‘Get in, you fucking nosey old bag,’ he railed. ‘So ring the fucking police – see if I care!’

  Emma came halfway down the stairs, then sat down abruptl
y, as, fed up with things now, I reached for the door handle. ‘You’re not going to let him in, are you?’ she squeaked at me. ‘Don’t let him in, Casey – please don’t!’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ I reassured her, wondering where her bravado about Tarim had suddenly disappeared to. ‘I’ve taken on far worse than him in my time, Emma. If he tries to cross me he’ll know about it.’

  It was all bravado, but, fired up with mortification, I pulled the door open and stepped out onto the front path. ‘Tarim?’ He blinked at me, clearly struggling even to focus. ‘She isn’t coming out to talk to you. I’m not letting her. Not with you in that state. Go home, sober up, and when you think you can be civil you can come back again for a chat, if that’s what you want. And do it now. I’m not having this, Tarim. You hear me? I am not having it.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ was his considered response. ‘Just get that slut out here. I’m not shutting up and I’m not going away. I’m not doing neither,’ he added, swaying against the front wall, ‘till she comes out and tells me if it’s true!’

  ‘Just go,’ I said, but now he was talking to another neighbour.

  ‘You know what she said, mate?’ he slurred at the poor man. ‘She’s a slag, she is. She said he’s not even fucking mine! I’ll do the DNA, you know.’ He swung around again. ‘I’ll do the fucking DNA, you SLAG!’

  I turned around. Emma was now sitting at the bottom of the stairs, crying.

  ‘You told him that?’ I hissed. ‘That the baby wasn’t his? That was clever.’

  ‘He made me!’ she said, sobbing. ‘He was winding me up so much – I just wanted to say something to hurt him! I didn’t mean it. I’ve never been with anyone – not ever …’ She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed some more.

  This was shaping up really well. ‘Tarim!’ I said, turning back to him. ‘Look, last time of asking. Go home, sober up and we’ll talk about this later. If you don’t, you give me no choice but to call the police and –’

  I had to stop speaking then and duck back inside, pretty sharpish, to avoid the cider bottle that was winging towards me and which had been thrown with such force and accuracy that it missed me by inches, smashing loudly against the front door.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said, to an equally startled Emma. ‘I’ve given him more than enough chances. I’m phoning the police.’

  Emma leapt to her feet then. ‘Oh, please don’t, Casey. Please don’t do that. He’ll be so sorry when he sobers up. He’ll be just horrified. He’ll buy you flowers and everything, I know he will. I promise, Casey, he doesn’t know what he’s on about just now. You can see that, can’t you?’

  She was actually gripping my arm now. I felt sick. She was completely taken in by this lad, it was clear. Hook, line and sinker. She really did believe the rubbish that was currently spewing from her mouth. Flowers? Flowers? It beggared belief.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I said, ‘but not a chance, I’m afraid. You might be happy to, but I’m not taking this sort of crap from anyone. No, I’m sorry but I’m going to go and do what I should have done first thing this morning. Because maybe if I had, then he wouldn’t be here now shouting the odds at us both, would he? Now go and check on Roman, will you? It’ll be a miracle if he managed to sleep through that. He’s out in the garden. Go on. Scoot.’

  She duly did.

  They didn’t take long. Within a matter of minutes we were back stationed by the window, watching a burly police officer and policewoman escorting Tarim to their patrol car. Once he was inside, the policewoman came indoors to take a statement, while such neighbours as had stayed out to watch the closing scenes of this short and sorry drama went back inside, presumably to gossip about quite who the drunken thug was.

  It was left to me to explain, as Emma cried for the duration, and when the policewoman asked about her facial injuries and I urged her to explain them she refused, saying that it was just a bit of horseplay that had got out of hand and that she wouldn’t be pressing any charges.

  ‘It’s up to you, lovey,’ the policewoman said, flipping her little pad closed, ‘but I can assure you, if he’s hit you once, then he’ll hit you again.’ She paused and glanced at me, then back at Emma. ‘It never, ever stops at “just the once”, love. Ask anyone who’s been there.’

  But her words were falling on deaf ears and both of us could see that. So she left, and as soon as she was walking down the path Emma rounded on me, teary-eyed, again. ‘If he ends up back inside,’ she said, jabbing her index finger towards me, ‘and leaves Roman without his daddy, then I’m holding you responsible, because it will all have been your fault!’

  Yes, I was angry. Yes, I was aghast. Yes, I was traumatised by what had happened, but at the same time I could so clearly see her pain. She just didn’t get it. This was par for the course, this was normal, this was the way it was in relationships. And it was that which was set to be her downfall. I sighed and walked back outside to check again on Roman. He had slept through everything. The whole sorry business.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, love,’ I said, as she followed me into the garden, ‘but he has to learn that he cannot treat people like that. You, me or anyone. Ever, you understand? Because you need to realise that too.’

  ‘Don’t you fucking patronise me!’ she screamed, running past me to pick up Roman. Now he did wake, with a start. God help the poor tot. ‘This is my baby, you understand me? My baby, so just butt OUT!’

  She hauled him up and flew from the room, the blanket trailing behind her.

  I sat down then and gave up with thinking how best to proceed. I was shot, and needed Mike home to help us find a way forward. Till then I just cried. Cried very hard.

  Chapter 16

  I had probably been too optimistic, that was the crux of it. Too idealistic, as well. What had happened – well, how earth-shattering a development was it really? Underage mum, difficult background, boyfriend known to social services … Throw in a bit of sexual jealousy, some mischief-making – for goodness only knew what juvenile reason – and you had the recipe for what happened next right there. Which was just so depressing, and it gnawed at me with a furious insistence. And more than that, with a sense that I should have expected it to happen. Which in turn made me cross with my cynical alter ego – what was so wrong with hoping for the best outcome, anyway?

  But for all that I’d pinned my hopes on Tarim getting his act together, what were the chances of that happening in reality? That was Mike’s take on things when he got back and got his update, and the rest of the weekend played slowly out.

  Emma barely spoke to me, except in sullen monosyllables, and I despaired of finding a way to get her to understand that her loyalty to Tarim was so misplaced. But I knew I must. I had seen enough to absorb the whole chilling picture. There were clearly two sides to Tarim and, dispiriting though it was to think it, where Emma was concerned, anyway, there probably always would be, too.

  It was Monday now – a drizzly day to match the prevailing mood – and I was just wiping mushy rusks from Roman’s chubby cheeks when the doorbell rang. I knew who it would be – Hannah and Maggie. After I made the call to John he’d filled both women in, and this morning’s meeting had been convened as a matter of priority. The plan was that they’d come out to give Emma a ‘wake-up call’. Whatever that was. I still wasn’t clear what would actually happen now. And Emma didn’t even seem to care. When I’d explained to her on the previous afternoon that they were coming over for a chat with her, her only comment had been a sour-faced ‘whatever’.

  Popping Roman down in his playpen – Emma was still upstairs, showering – I had a glance round to check the house was at least reasonably presentable, then went out into the hall to let them in. I opened the door to find two faces professionally arranged into ‘now it’s time we got serious about things’ masks.

  Which was fine – they were right. Getting serious was what was needed here. But at the same time I felt a slight frisson of defensiveness on seeing them,
as if, while my head said we were batting for the same ‘welfare of the child’ team, my heart was resisting the idea.

  I pushed it aside as I led them both into the sitting room, and Roman, as if schooled by a drama coach, pulled himself up onto his legs and grinned and bounced excitedly as the two of them went over the better to fawn at him.

  ‘Oh, he’s just adorable!’ Hannah cooed as she smoothed her hand over his inky curls. She turned then. ‘You’re doing a great job with him, Casey.’

  ‘Me?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, yes, I do play a part obviously, but, you know, despite her – ahem – poor choices when it comes to boyfriends, Emma’s actually turning into a lovely little mum.’

  It had come out unthinkingly, but seeing the look Hannah and Maggie had exchanged when I’d spoken made me feel suddenly wary. ‘She is,’ I persisted. ‘You should see the two of them together. She dotes on him, she really does. You must have seen for yourself, Hannah …’ There was no response, other than another surreptitious look passed between them. I felt my stomach plummet to my toes. ‘Anyway,’ I finished lamely, ‘who’s for coffee?’

  I had thought that it would be best if I stayed out of the way while Hannah and Maggie spoke to Emma, so, after calling her down and then delivering coffee and biscuits, I went to take Roman out of the room and leave them to it.

  ‘No, no, stay, Casey,’ Maggie urged. ‘This obviously concerns you as well.’

  So I stayed, entertaining Roman while the two of them berated Emma, telling her how irresponsible she’d been and how much she’d let them down. They also told her that what had happened between her and Tarim – both the violence and the drunken visitation – had set things way back in terms of them trusting him with Roman. Emma had remained silent throughout but now looked directly at Hannah.

  ‘With Roman? What’s that supposed to mean? That was nothing to do with Roman.’