It seems like forever before anyone picks up that telephone again. My chin is resting on my free hand while my eyes scan the notebook in front of me in an attempt to concentrate on anything other than the awkward sound of silence being filled with approaching footsteps down the line.
“Walker, how can I help?”
My body instantly reacts to his business-like approach. My elbow slips awkwardly off the edge of the desk while the notebook goes flying across to the other side. The stiffening of my spine causes me to sit bolt upright and I’m completely mortified by the ‘Oh shit!’ that slips from my mouth without permission.
“Hello?” he says in a calm but rough voice. I can almost picture his face in front of me, even though I have no idea what he looks like. His voice oozes character and confidence. His tone, however, tells me he’s wearing a frown that’s there from impatience alone.
“H-Hello?” I reply, clearing my throat when the first letter gets lodged in my bloody throat. “Hi. Sorry about that. My… pen… slipped.”
“Can I help you?”
I sigh a little too heavily and try to compose myself. I haven’t even told Paris what I’m about to do, but I know that if she’s going to have any chance of recovering, the first thing she needs to do is rid herself of her old life completely, and that includes ditching her job as a barmaid at some sleazy, back street pole-dancing club. Pressing my hand to my forehead, I close my eyes and try to get on with what I have to do.
“I’m hoping you can. I’m a friend of Paris’.”
“Paris? Is she okay?”
“I…” Fuck. How do I even begin this conversation with a person I don’t even know? I have no clue how involved he is with her life, how much he knows about her addictions, the abuse she suffered under her ex-boyfriend. I could spend a whole day trying to figure out a way to dress this up and make it sound poetic, but something about the urgency to this 'Walker's' voice makes me feel like I don’t have a lot of time to get my words out before he’s going to get fed up and end the call. Shuffling on my bum, I take a deep breath and blurt the words out in a rush. “Paris isn’t okay. I’m sure, as her manager, you’ve seen the state of her health recently.”
“I have,” he says, his voice a little softer.
“Well…” I nod once, dropping my hand to the table to drag my notebook in front of me to fiddle with some pages. “I’m her friend, and she’s come to stay with me for a while. I’m going to make sure she gets better.”
“And you are?”
“On her side,” I whisper.
The silence that hangs in the air is thick. I don’t know what made me say that and from the slight hitch of breath in his throat, I can tell it wasn’t the answer he was expecting to hear either. The only recognisable sounds are the hammering in my chest and the awkward scratching of his hand against his, quite clearly, unshaven chin.
“Good answer,” he eventually responds.
My frown grows deeper at the tone in his voice. “Thanks for the approval, although, it wasn’t said to appease you. It’s simply the truth.”
A short burst of laughter escapes him before he begins to speak again. “I never assumed it was said for my benefit. I was merely expecting a name rather than something so… profound.”
“You don’t need to know my name,” I mutter back a little too weakly.
“That sounds ominous.”
“The less you know, the better it is for everyone.”
“I’m a curious creature.”
“Yeah, well, look what that did to the cat, Mr. Walker.”
“Maybe I just want to know for my own sanity.”
“I can imagine you do. Is that so you can go running to Daggs and tell him that you found out where she is and who she is with, before anyone else gets the chance?” I’m aware he probably doesn’t deserve my derision, but my defences are up, and the only person I give a flying shit about keeping happy today is currently lying upstairs in a complete mess.
“I don’t run to Daggs for anything, love. I can assure you of that.”
My mouth moves to answer him in some smart arse manner, but the way he says love causes the heat to raise to my cheeks and my body to shuffle awkwardly on the spot once again. “Well, that’s good to know.” I nod, only to try and convince myself that I’m the one in charge of this conversation, not him. “Then you really don’t have a reason to know my name. Just know that I'm her friend, that I’m looking after her and that I’m phoning you to quit her job for her.”
“Okay,” he says, so casually that I wonder if he actually heard what the hell I just said.
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay.”
“You did hear me just say that Paris won’t be returning to work at your club, didn’t you? I’m not just talking about over the next few days or weeks. I mean forever, Mr. Walker. While I’m sure she appreciates everything you’ve done to help her keep a roof over her head for the last however many months, being in that environment just isn’t the right thing for her anymore.”
“I agree,” he answers with nothing but conviction.
“Oh.”
“If I had your name, I would address you by it right about now, and maybe ask if I could take your number to keep in contact with you, just to make sure she’s well, given time. But seeing as I don’t…”
“You can’t,” I finish for him.
“Exactly.”
My sharp intake of breath causes my chest to rise and stay held there for quite some time. That awkward silence hangs in the air again, and I don’t know what the hell it means, but my hand flinches toward the pen sat next to my notepad, just for a second, before I quickly retract it and place it in my lap. I don’t need to take his number and I certainly don’t need to give him mine. The only things I need to do are wrap up this conversation and move along - get Paris away from everything and anything to do with what was and stick to the plan.
“I should go, Mr.-”
“Ethan,” he interrupts quickly. “Call me Ethan.”
“Thank you, Ethan.”
“Give Paris my best wishes… if that’s not too much to ask.”
“I will and please, I know we don’t know each other but I know the sort of man Jason Dagson is, so if you could keep this conversation between the two of us, I’d really appreciate it. I know Paris would, too.” My fingers idly pick at a loose thread on the seam of my jeans as my heart rate finally starts to slow. I’m not sure why I feel like I can trust this guy, but something tells me I can. As a woman that’s always worked on instinct and usually got it wrong, the assurance I have in my own assessment confuses me no end.
“I’ll take it to the grave.”
A small smile tugs on my lips. “Not too soon, I hope.”
“I'll have to check there's nothing in the diary. Fairly sure I'm safe for a while, though,” The returning smile in his reply makes my own grin grow that little bit wider.
“That’s good to hear. I’ll leave you to get back to your empire. I'm sorry for disturbing you. Goodbye, erm, Ethan.”
“Feel free to disturb me anytime you like. Goodbye... mystery lady.”
Before I have chance to even blurt out my name, which is desperate to fall off the tip of my tongue, I quickly end the call and slam the phone down on my desk in an irrational moment of blind panic. My gaze falls to the screen that’s still lit up and my hand remains in the air like it’s just been burnt. The realisation of what I’ve just done begins to set in, and the all too familiar feeling of riding a rollercoaster without being strapped in soon returns. Phase one is done and it wasn’t so bad at all. In fact, it went far better than I ever could have expected. I even got away with omitting my name entirely from the conversation.
Not that it matters in the grand scheme of things, I guess. In about five minutes flat, the one person we’re hiding from will know exactly where she is and who is looking after her. He’ll also have copies of the pictures I’ve just taken of her injuries - the ones he caused only yesterday, mixed t
ogether with a few scars from old wounds he inflicted on her - previously unblemished - skin. Alongside those pictures will be the threat of contacting a very good friend of mine in the police department with a list of all the latest drug deals he has going on - the ones I’m sure Paris will only be too happy to tell them about, should it ensure her future safety and his removal from her life. There may also be a mention of the connections I have in the world of journalism. The fact I know more editors of local - and some national - newspapers than he does dope-smokers means I can drag his name through more mud in a mere twenty-four hours than he could ever hope to escape from clean.
Some of the things I’m sending from Paris’ mobile will be the truth. Other things will be nothing more than fabricated tall tales I can only hope keep him away long enough for us to get to the police station and file a request for a restraining order, once she is better.
I'm buying our silence. I'm bribing a criminal. I'm an amateur messing with a professional crook. I'm about as scared as I've ever been in my life. For now, it's the only hope we both have of keeping her alive and getting her on the road to recovery - the road to… a new world. A world we don't yet know the name of, but I know in my heart exists. We just have to take the right paths to find it.
Twenty-Nine
2006
I've heard about the struggles of recovering addicts before. I think most have, to be fair - the cold turkey phase, rehab centres, sobriety meetings, cognitive behavioural therapy for when the urge to take a hit strikes. It's all there in black and white at every doctor's surgery or local pharmacy, hidden away in fancy pamphlets that are meant to provide all the answers to your worldly problems in less than two hundred words.
No matter how much studying I do, though, nothing prepares me for the hard work involved once I’ve brought her home. Her darkest days aren’t just dark; they aren’t even black. Her darkest days can only be described in colours that don’t even exist.
Surprisingly for me, the physical abuse is easier to deal with than anything else. While I may not be the most experienced nurse out there, having seen this kind of thing before, I’m able to put my mind to the task and help her heal that little bit quicker than she could possibly have done by herself.
It’s the mental abuse that leaves me helpless - the strangled screams through the night as she shouts out my name in her sleep and the constant itching of her skin while her eyes burn into the ground as she goes through flashback after flashback. My arms have never held another human being as much as they have held her since she came back. Some days, I spend so much time holding her in place and trying to still her body from the trembling and the agony she’s suffering, that when I eventually fall asleep, either in my own bed or beside her, I ache with tiredness. Every morning presents a new challenge. It’s like she’s starting all over again, like a newborn child, and the only way she knows how to communicate with me is through her silent tears.
When the bruises eventually begin to fade and we’ve still not seen or heard anything from Daggs, I start to feel a small fleck of hope that my somewhat lame plan may have actually worked. As the days pass by, I allow myself to leave the house more without constantly looking over my shoulder. I whisper words of encouragement to Paris at any chance I get.
If he was going to hurt us, he would have done it by now.
Sleep well. You’re safe with me; I’ve made sure of it.
He isn’t coming back. He won’t ever hurt you again. I took care of it all, Paris. You have to try and focus on the future now. Trust me.
Yet, even as I say them, I don’t feel conviction in my words. She never argues with me. She never tells me that I’m a fool or naïve, but it’s all there in her eyes. In her heart, she knows he will be back, and while that belief lingers in the back of her mind, she’s always going to be a ghost of who she once was. The emptiness never seems to fade. The hollow, lost look haunts every single feature on her face. All I can think about when I look at her is how much I let Dandy down by allowing this to happen.
Eight weeks after bringing her home, her cravings seem to subside dramatically, although she won’t allow herself to leave the house for anything other than a cigarette on the back doorstep. She spends hours out there, lifeless and limp, just scanning the trees and soaking the air into her lungs at any given opportunity. I try to tell myself that it’s her way of cleansing her body and her mind, of appreciating what is out there in the world that we all take for granted. Simple things, like the air we breathe, she’s starting to value over the life she recently left behind.
I force food down her more than I should, even though I know she struggles to eat it because my cooking is awful. We play board games every night, because whenever we turn the television on, there’s always something on there that reminds her of Daggs or the drugs. During the day, when she’s roaming aimlessly around the house, she sometimes sits quietly over my shoulder and watches me write for hours on end. We never speak. We don’t have to. Her quiet appreciation for what I do keeps her mind occupied and her eyes busy while I work. That’s all she needs from me, and having her safe is all I need from her.
Eventually, as it always does, time creeps by without us paying too much attention to the calendar.
After twenty six weeks of life in the slow lane, I force myself to acknowledge how far we’ve come. As a rule, we don’t chart dates and times. Any reference to what once was is merely ignored. Her former years aren’t discussed unless it’s absolutely necessary. Somehow, acting as though they never happened seems a whole lot easier for the both of us to deal with.
But today… it’s definitely necessary.
It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon and the cold of the autumn air outside has forced us back indoors. We’ve both spent the last two hours out on the patio, talking about nothing important, with two of Betty’s cats sat in our laps.
As a small shiver runs through my body, I walk over to the couch where Paris sits with her legs tucked under her bottom and hand her the hot drink I’ve just made. Falling down into the space beside her, my feet rise to the coffee table and I cast a nervous glance her way.
“You’ve been clean six months today.”
Her eyes never break contact with the contents of the cup in both her hands as she whispers her reply. “I know.”
“How do you feel?”
“Tired but alive.” She smiles softly as she forces her lips to the edge to take a small drink before eventually dropping it back down to her lap and looking back at me. “That’s a good thing.”
I study her face for a few seconds longer than I should. It’s a bad habit of mine that I haven’t been able to break since she came back. Every silent inspection I make assesses how much she’s changed or grown or healed since she first walked into these four walls that are not just mine anymore, but ours. “That’s definitely a good thing.” I smile softly, my thumbs lazily brushing the edges of the cup in my own hands.
“I thought you might have bought me a cake or something.” The slight smirk on her face forces me to huff out a small laugh in response.
“Damn it! I should definitely have done that. I’m such a bad friend.”
“The worst,” she snorts in response.
“Must. Do. Better.”
“Yeah, you’ve really been slacking this last six months, Mav. I may have to get a new soul sister in my life to replace you. One who buys me cake.”
My head falls back against the sofa as my smile turns into a grin and my eyes lock on the ceiling. “I’ll buy you a boat or something when I’m rich and famous. That’s better than cake, surely?”
“A boat? What would I do with a boat in the middle of Manchester?”
“Well, my dopey little love buddy, we wouldn’t be in Manchester if we were rich, would we?” My cheek falls lazily to the side as I watch her eyes narrow in question as curiosity takes over. “We’d have a beach hut in, say, I dunno, The Bahamas. Yeah, The Bahamas. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Uh oh, your
voice has just taken on that storytelling tone.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No! I love it. You sound like Dad used to.” She grabs her ankles with one hand and tucks them even further under herself, snuggling as far down into the corner of the sofa as the cushions will allow her to. There’s a new look in her eyes, one that makes me realise just how much she always has and always will group me with her father. It takes a lot for me not to cry at the emotion that hits me, but I force myself to keep smiling when she urges me to carry on.
“Okay,” I chuckle softly. “So, we’d live in The Bahamas all year round, even in their winter, which isn’t really a winter. It’s more like the best summer we could ever wish for here in England. We’d live right next to the ocean and I would spend my days writing, earning enough money for us both to live the lifestyle we’ve always wanted - completely care free. We’d date; obviously you would date more than me because, well, it’s you.” A cushion suddenly flies through the air along with a few curse words and chortles of laughter as it makes contact with my head before bouncing onto the floor. I rub the spot it hit, just for effect, roll my eyes and carry on. “No dating?”
“I don’t mind dating. As long as you realise I want to get married some day,” she beams at me.
“Married?” I breathe softly, trying not to let the smile fade away from my face, even though that single word alone has the capacity to bring me to my knees and make my strength bleed out on the floor.
“Yes, married.” Her sigh is dreamy as she brings her shoulders closer together and closes her eyes in thought. “I want to be somebody’s everything. Not just physically, but mentally, too. I want someone to love me and adore me enough to say the thought of anyone else having you makes my heart ache. You are mine, forever. You know? That kind of all-consuming love, where you’re powerless to stop it.”
“I think I know...”
“I want a gentleman - not like he who shall not be named. Someone who appreciates my wild side yet allows me to be soft, too. I want a man who is strong enough to hold me in his arms and carry me for miles, but one who doesn't see weakness as an actual weakness. I want that kind of marriage.”
Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1) Page 21