by Alex Lake
Mike shrugged. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘But how about we order take-out first? I’m starving.’
They went downstairs and ordered Thai food; Kate poured two fresh glasses of Prosecco while they waited.
‘So,’ Mike said. ‘The shelter. It was my mum. She spent a lot of time there when I was a teenager. My dad, he was’ – he sipped his drink – ‘well, he was very fond of this stuff, for a start. And he was an angry, disappointed man, who thought he should have done more with his life. And maybe he would have done, if he hadn’t blamed everyone else for what went wrong. In particular, my mum.’
‘What did he blame her for?’
‘For wanting a baby. For trapping him in a conventional family. For giving him responsibilities which meant he had to get and keep a job so he could pay the mortgage. In his mind, she had stolen his chance to be someone by forcing him to fit the mould.’
Kate leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. ‘What did he want to be?’
Mike laughed. ‘Nothing. Everything. He didn’t know: he just wanted to be someone other than who he was. Nowadays, shrinks would say he suffered from chronic low self-esteem and anxiety, which manifested as self-hatred – or something like that. All I know is that he drank it away, and when he did he got rid of that self-hatred by beating the shit out of my mum. Badly.’
Kate sat next to him still and silent, letting him talk.
‘We’re talking black eyes, broken ribs, internal bleeding. More than once she came to me, apologizing, needing me to go and get her painkillers from the chemist because she was in too much pain to go herself. That was me aged twelve: buying pills for my mum and feeling guilty that I couldn’t stop it.’
‘God,’ Kate said. ‘That’s awful. And that’s when you found the shelter? She went there?’
‘Oh no,’ Mike said. ‘It got a lot worse before that happened.’
17
Wall-to-wall pussy.
That was one way of thinking about this place. Phil stood, back to a wall, and watched the pub as it filled up. It was only loosely describable as a pub; it was more accurately a large city-centre drinking palace, serving sugary, sticky drinks high in alcohol content or cheap, strong beer. Standing room only, all the better to pack more people in.
Phil’s main problem was that he didn’t like this kind of thing. Didn’t enjoy the drinking – although he seemed to be doing plenty of it – didn’t like the atmosphere or the fact that half the people there – the male half, mainly – were only out to pick someone up for casual sex. He’d tried that with Michelle and discovered that all he wanted was to have sex with Kate, and Kate alone. Some people wanted to play the field before they settled down, find out what was available, explore different opportunities, but he didn’t. He wanted to be with Kate. But he couldn’t.
And he couldn’t forget it.
He checked his phone for the tenth, twentieth, fiftieth – who was counting? – time, hoping, as he hoped each time, even though he knew there was no chance it would happen, that there would be a message from Kate.
Come round. We need to talk.
Then he would go there and see her and they would sort this mess out.
There were no messages, not from her or anyone else, which was something else he was coming to realize. He didn’t really have any friends. Andy, yes, but beyond that there was no one. He’d invested his entire life in Kate, and now that it was over, he found himself very isolated. He had work colleagues, but he’d kept them at arm’s length, turning down most opportunities to socialize with them.
No texts from her, no texts from anybody.
He looked up. Andy was weaving his way through the clientele, four bottles of some drink in his hands. Behind him was a group of women about Phil’s age – which was old for this place – wearing angel’s wings on their backs and red devil horns on their heads. They were in white; one of them had L plates around her neck and the words ‘Dirty Angle’ printed on her forehead.
Andy grinned. ‘Found you a dirty Angle,’ he said. ‘I’d have preferred a Saxon, but what can you do?’
‘Hiya,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Dawn.’ She was, in a way, pretty, but she was wearing too much make-up and too few clothes.
‘She’s getting married,’ one of the other women shouted. ‘We’re on a hen night.’
‘Is that so?’ Phil said. ‘I never would have guessed.’
‘She’s got to get off with twenty-one guys tonight,’ another shouted. She was holding two shot glasses. ‘A snog and a shot. Your mate said you’d be up for it.’
‘Twenty-one?’ Phil said. ‘Twenty-one shots and twenty-one snogs?’ He wasn’t sure which was more shocking – the idea that someone who was shortly going to get married was prepared to kiss twenty-one strangers in a pub, or that she was able to consume twenty-one shots and not die of alcohol poisoning.
The woman with the shot glasses thrust one at him. She gave the other to Dawn.
‘One, two, three,’ Dawn said, then poured the shot down her throat.
‘Go on,’ Andy said. ‘Get it down you.’
Phil looked at the liquid in the glass. It was green. He had no idea what it was. Maybe something minty. He’d had something like that once; when he was a teenager, someone had stolen a bottle of crème de menthe from their parents’ cupboard and passed it round after school one Friday. Maybe it was that.
He drank it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t crème de menthe. He couldn’t tell from the taste what it was supposed to be – maybe some kind of fruit, or maybe pistachio, or maybe marzipan – but he did know that it was foul.
When she kissed him Dawn tasted of it, mingled in with cigarette smoke and something slightly rotten. He got the sense that she did not take much care with her dental hygiene. As she kissed him, she put her hands on his back, then felt down to his buttocks.
After a few seconds he pulled away. Dawn’s friends all cheered. One of them passed him a red marker pen, and Dawn turned round.
There was a list of names written on the back of her white dress. He counted seven – so he was the eighth person she’d done this to. For some reason he’d thought he was the first. He felt nauseous; God knew what germs she’d picked up.
‘Sign her back,’ someone said. ‘Write your name.’
He leaned forward and read the names:
Elvis Presley
Simon Cowell
Your Dad
Jeremy Clarkson
The Elephant Man
David Cameron
Donald Trump
Phil thought for a second, then made his contribution.
Phil Flanagan, he wrote.
Then he handed the pen to her friend and picked up his drink.
Outside, there was a cold wind coming off the Irish Sea. Andy was still in the pub, standing in a corner fondling one of the hen party women. Phil was dizzy, and sick, and he wanted to go home.
He leaned over, his hand on a lamppost. On the pavement below his face was a congealed pizza and a half-eaten wrap of chips and mushy peas. They gave off a pungent, vinegary smell.
He retched, and a stream of watery vomit splattered the tarmac, splashing back onto his shoes and trouser legs. He put his hands on his knees and groaned.
‘Mate,’ a voice said behind him, ‘that’s fucking disgusting.’
There was a sharp push in his back and he fell forward, his temple slamming against the lamppost. He staggered to his feet; three broad-shouldered kids – maybe seventeen, eighteen – were laughing at him. They walked off, flashing V-signs.
He put his fingers to his temple. They came away wet with blood. Great. Perfect for Monday at work. He’d look like he’d been in a drunken bar brawl.
A private-hire taxi was waiting outside a pub fifty yards up the road. He walked up and knocked on the window.
The driver, a thin man with a pinched face and thick stubble, shook his head.
‘I’m booked, mate,’ he said.
‘Fifty quid,’ Phil replied. ‘On top of
the fare. Going to Warrington.’
The cab driver glanced around, checking that no irate punters were on their way. He nodded.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Get in.’
18
They sat at the table, pad thai, massaman curry, spicy beef salad in front of them.
‘She did end up at the shelter,’ Mike said. ‘But before she did, Dad got a lot worse. He started drinking in the day, lost his job. Drank more. And the more he did, the more he beat Mum.’
‘Did he hit you?’
‘Yeah. But only if I got in his way, and only enough to clear me out of it so he could get to Mum.’ Mike paused. ‘Tell me if I’m over-sharing,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of fuck-up. I’m not. I came to terms with this a long time ago.’
‘I don’t think that,’ Kate said. ‘And tell me as much as you like. I’m fine.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Well, like I was saying, it got worse. He started to hurt Mum. Snap the bones in her fingers. Burn her with cigarettes. Beat the soles of her feet with a tyre iron.’
‘Didn’t she see doctors? Or tell the police?’
‘She didn’t dare. She thought he’d kill her. And she was right. He would have done. He thought she was something less than human, treated her like she was a piece of dirt. And then, one night, he showed up at the house, as drunk as I’d ever seen him – which was saying something – with a friend, although when I say a friend, it wasn’t anyone I’d ever seen him with before. I think it was some fellow drunk he’d run into, another shambling, angry, foul-mouthed version of him.
‘Anyway. They raped Mum. He went first, then he let his new friend have a go. I heard it all. And I did nothing to stop it.’
‘You couldn’t have done anything,’ Kate whispered. ‘You were only a kid.’
‘I could have. And I should have. Even if they killed me, I should have. But that’s history now. The next day, I did do something. I asked a friend’s mum – who was a magistrate – where women like my mum could go, and she told me about the shelter. Told me that she couldn’t give me any details – she couldn’t risk people like my dad finding out – but that she would give me the number of a woman – Carol – that Mum could call.’
‘And did she?’
‘I took her the next day to a phone box and made her do it. Carol – if that was her name – told her that she would pick her up at the phone box and take her there and then.’
‘What about you?’
‘I went to the magistrate’s house. Mum made Carol promise that I wouldn’t have to go home. I was sixteen by then; a few months later I was living with a friend who had a flat in Winwick.’
‘And then what?’
‘I didn’t hear from Mum for a year, until Dad was in prison for stabbing a guy in a fight. He never came out. Liver cancer. Which was better than the bastard deserved. Anyway, Mum got in touch and we met up. She was a different person, more whole – although the scars were still there, if you knew where to look. She moved into her own place. Lived another six years before she was killed by a stroke. The happiest years of her life. After she died, I inherited some money from her, and I donated it to the shelter. They’d given her life back, what was left of it, and I wanted to make sure they could do the same for other people. The magistrate arranged it. And then, over time, I became more and more involved. And now, I help them out. Give money. Do odd jobs. Because there are plenty of women out there who are suffering like my mum did, and if I can help in any way, then I will.’
Kate wanted to cry, both for his story and for his compassion. She hugged him.
‘That’s an amazing story,’ she said. ‘You’re amazing. And I know what you’re talking about.’
‘You said you knew the shelter,’ he said. ‘I was wondering what you meant.’
‘Well,’ Kate said. ‘This too is a long story.’
‘Like you said,’ Mike replied. ‘We’ve got all night.’
PART TWO: INTERLUDE
Five Years Earlier
1
Kate walked to the lift with her work bag in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. It was the last day of work before Christmas and Trevor, the partner in charge of the new graduates, had given them all their Christmas gift from the firm: a bottle of Veuve Clicquot’s finest.
Which was great, other than the inconvenient fact that the champagne wouldn’t fit in her bag, which meant she’d have to carry it around the pub where the graduates were meeting for Christmas drinks. Worse, she’d have to keep it safe from all the drunks on the train home; it would be a miracle if it made it back. She could picture the scene, a bunch of bespectacled lawyers and accountants full of bottled beer.
Open it! Don’t be mean! Come on, love, it’s Christmas!
Still there were worse problems to have.
She walked into the lobby, and headed for the main door of the office. Outside, she turned left. The bar was about fifty yards down the street.
She heard a voice say her name.
‘Kate.’
It came from a bench a couple of feet away. She turned to see who it was.
It took a moment to figure it out. She was twenty pounds lighter and with hair cropped close to her skull, but there was no doubt it was her.
‘Beth?’ Kate said. ‘What are you doing here?’
2
‘Where can we talk?’ Beth said. She had an empty look in her eyes, and each word seemed to cost her a great effort.
Kate looked around. She couldn’t take Beth into the office without signing her in, and she didn’t want to do that.
‘I’m supposed to be meeting people,’ she said. ‘For a drink. You’re welcome to join us. But first – give me a hug, stranger.’
She was achingly thin, Kate realized. Under the bulky winter clothes there was not much of her left.
‘Are you OK, Beth?’ she said.
Beth shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, and started to cry. ‘I’m not.’
‘Let’s go home,’ Kate said. ‘Forget the pub. We can get a cab, even.’
‘No,’ Beth said. ‘I can’t go to your house.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because’ – she looked at Kate, her eyes glistening – ‘because he might be there.’
Kate guessed immediately who ‘he’ was. ‘Colin?’ she said.
Beth nodded. ‘Colin.’
‘Beth,’ Kate said. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
They went to Kate’s parents’ house. Her mum and dad were out at a retirement party, so there were no awkward questions about Beth’s sudden reappearance and radical change in appearance.
Beth slumped on the couch. She looked tiny and her eyes were red with exhaustion. She’d barely spoken on the way home.
‘So?’ Kate said. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Morning glory,’ Beth said. It was what they had said as teenagers when they were into Oasis, although by then Oasis were past their best. For them it had been an ironic after-the-moment embrace of the band. Beth smiled. ‘Long time ago, eh?’
‘Yeah. Seems that way. So what is the story?’
Beth stood up. She shrugged off her coat then pulled up her sweater.
Her ribs stuck out, each one visible beneath the pale, puckered skin. That was shocking enough, but it was nothing compared to the dark blue and black bruises that covered every inch of her torso.
‘Oh my God,’ Kate said. ‘Beth, what happened? You poor thing. Did he do this to you?’
Beth nodded. ‘And worse. You don’t want to know the worse.’
‘I do,’ Kate said. ‘Tell me it all.’
Beth shook her head. ‘Maybe later.’
Kate wrapped her arms around her friend. ‘How did this happen?’ she said. ‘What did he do to you?’
Beth pulled away. ‘At first it was – it was stupid shit like the photos of the drinks. And most of the time he was fine. Loving. Considerate. He told me how beautiful I was, how intelligent, ho
w he could see that I was special, that other people didn’t know, didn’t love me like he did.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘It was horseshit, but anything is easy to believe when you want to.’
She sniffed, then continued.
‘Then he changed. Became more possessive. Jealous. If I went out with you, he shouted at me. He always apologized, mind you.’
‘That day, at the Trafford Centre—’
Beth shook her head. ‘I was so fucking embarrassed. He showed up when you were in the changing room, grabbed my arm. Tugged me out of the shop, hissing in my ear about what a slut I was, about how you were corrupting me, making me into a slut like you. He hated you – Gemma and May, too, but mainly you.’
‘Why? What did I do? Not that I care what that bastard thinks.’
‘Because you were a threat, I guess. I always felt closest to you, and so he saw you as the one person who might get between me and him.’
‘Fuck,’ Kate said. ‘I knew there was something going on at the time. I knew it. I should have done something.’
‘You tried. I remember. But he wouldn’t let me call you, he read my emails, sent replies from my account telling you I was OK.’ She put her hand on Kate’s thigh. ‘This isn’t your fault, Kate. Not your fault at all. It’s on me.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s on him, and no one else. Don’t you dare say it’s your fault.’
And then, over wine and tears and pizza, it all spilled out. The hitting, the rape, the grovelling apologies, the promises that it was all over, that it would never happen again, and then, of course, it did, each time worse than the last, until she felt like she deserved it, like she was making him do it, like there was no way to stop it, no way out other than one way, the final way, but she didn’t even have the courage to do that, at least not directly. She was choosing the slow way: starvation.
When she had finished, Kate hugged her.
‘You’re going to be OK,’ she said. ‘I promise. I will take care of you. Between me and Gem and May and Phil and Gus and Matt and all of the people we know, we will take care of you.’