How to Play Dead

by Jacqueline Ward

  ‘Ladies. Looking lovely today.’

  We stare at him. I am make-up-less, hair scraped up into a wonky bobble. I am dressed in bright yellow dungarees and a purple Sex Pistols T-shirt that has seen better days. I am quite obviously suffering from the stressful week I have just been through. Janice looks like she is at the pinnacle of a hangover and is dressed in black leggings that are too small and almost see-through, and a too-short T-shirt. This gives the effect that she has missed out an item of clothing somewhere. And the odd shoes. We do not look lovely, nor do we mean to. He tries again.

  ‘So. I spoke to the lady on the phone to book in.’ He says it like it is a hair appointment. ‘What I need to know from you is how many sessions there are on this course.’

  I sense Janice stiffen. She moves slightly forwards to engage.

  ‘Until what, Mr James?’

  I seriously wanted her to say Don James, because that is exactly what this is. He is lording it over us. He smiles a thin smile.

  ‘Until the end of the course and I can talk to Sheila.’

  To be fair, he stands his ground but does not state his purpose. I intervene.

  ‘You can speak to her any time. In fact, didn’t you speak to her last week?’

  I emphasis the ‘speak’ so he knows I do not mean speak at all. He looks at the ground. He is a little pissed off now because we are not bending to his masculine wiles.

  ‘Look, ladies, I just want Sheila home. I don’t know what she has told you but this is all a big mistake. She’s mixed up. She’s on the turn.’

  He even makes a face that implies that Sheila is a little bit insane. Janice takes it up.

  ‘Is that why you are so angry, Frank? Because Sheila is on the menopause?’

  She sing-songs it and he looks very uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m not angry.’

  ‘But you’re here, at anger-management classes, where you learn not to be angry. If you’re not angry, Frank, why are you here?’

  He is confused now as well as angry.

  ‘I … I just want Sheila home.’ At least he spared us the usual protestations of true love. Even though they have beaten the object of their ‘love’ so badly within the last three months that a crisis intervention was warranted. I step forward and guide him towards the door. Once he is outside, I smile and tilt my head to one side.

  ‘The thing is, Frank, this is about what Sheila wants, isn’t it? She left and she is the one who needs to decide if she will return.’

  He’s still confused. Confused that everyone isn’t doing what he says and that Sheila has an opinion and rights. He looks at Malc for male support, but he just shrugs. Finally, he speaks.

  ‘So why am I here, then?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. You tell me, Frank? Have a think. Eh? See you next week.’

  I close the door, lock it and lean on it. Frank is charming. He’s the original ‘how could Sheila say anything bad about him? He’s so lovely’. Completely calm and reasonable in 99.9 per cent of shit situations, after he has encountered them once. Clever enough to not have to deal with them twice himself. He still looks like the Frank that Sheila showed on the old photographs. I remember the scar on her worried face and the solid rings on his fingers and wonder which one made it.

  I make my way back to the room; Janice is stacking the chairs.

  ‘Kids all right?’

  She bangs the chairs on top of each other. She’s a practical person and she would rather mop a floor than do admin, even though she is easily capable. I laugh.

  ‘Yeah. They’re not missing him yet. But I am.’

  She stops stacking.

  ‘There’s somat else, though, isn’t there? What’s up?’

  She’s in my face, watching my eyes.

  ‘Nothing really. Just … Just …’

  She shakes her head and hugs me tight.

  ‘He’ll be back in no time, love.’ I nod and my eyes fill up, brimming over. This isn’t like me at all. A phone vibrates and I jump out of my skin. Janice releases me.

  ‘You need to have a rest. You’re on your last fucking nerve and we all know where that leads.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  At half twelve Sheila appears in the doorway.

  ‘Did he turn up, then?’

  I turn around quickly.

  ‘Oh, Sheila love. You know I can’t tell you what happened, don’t you?’

  She nods solemnly. ‘Yes. But I just wondered what you thought?’

  Her eyes are pleading with me. I know from experience she’ll have been on edge all morning. She’ll be wondering what kind of impression ‘her Frank’ made. She’ll have worried what he said about her, and whether we’d believed him. Would we still help her? She sits down on one of the tiny chairs that we have no funding to replace.

  ‘I saw him standing outside. With the others. It’s not the same, you know. He’s not evil. Not to me, anyway.’

  She qualifies it quickly. I nod and smile.

  ‘But he’s hurt you. Hasn’t he?’

  She avoids my gaze, looking away as usual, feeling for her ciggies and lighter. Feet set apart.

  ‘He’s had a hard life. Got in too deep with that lot when he was young. Very stressful. Surrounded by it, he was.’

  She means violence, not stress. I know that he was an important figure in the Manchester community in the 1960s. He is high profile: suspected of being the figure behind multiple crooked building contracts, although nothing was ever proved. I’ve even seen their house. After I read about Frank’s wealth and lifestyle, which seem to be well beyond that of a local councillor, I looked it up on Google Maps. They live in a detached ex farm in a gated complex. It has a sauna and a hot tub. It’s not massive, but it is impressive. I know exactly what Frank James was and still probably is. Her phone rings and she jumps to attention.

  She thinks it’s him, clearly. I’m disappointed, because she told me he didn’t have her new number. But it isn’t him, it’s her hairdresser and she backs out of the room waving to me as she chats colour coverage and sunbed tubes.

  Still thinking about Sheila, I open the cheap phone to see if this joker has sent any more messages and I see it. There in my in-box, and now open on my phone, is a picture of a penis. I close the picture quickly and words appear.

  JUST A PEEK. UP FOR IT?

  He sent me a dick pic. I pack up my bag and leave the office. I go straight home and sit in the dark kitchen. I will fucking ring whoever it is. I will let him know he is not doing this to me. I am just about to dial his number when Donelle turns up with the kids. She’s holding a bottle of wine and right now it’s exactly what I need.

  By the time she’s told me her latest man news and we’ve drunk more than we should, I’ve made my decision. Tomorrow I will tell someone. A problem shared and all that.

  Tanya

  Diary Entry: Monday

  Al was still very annoyed this morning and I can’t work out what I’ve done. He definitely doesn’t know about this diary. I hid it in a gap under the kitchen unit. I made sure that it looked like I was just putting away a pan because I sometimes think he’s watching me.

  He’s been like this since last week. Apart from the incident with Jade and then the doctor’s, I’ve made sure that nothing is wrong. I’ve been very, very careful to stick to my routine, to speak to him just the right amount so I’m not ignoring him or nagging him. He hasn’t spoken to me. Even in the car driving to work and back. He normally compliments me on my cooking or asks where his shirt or socks are. But he’s worse than he’s ever been, and it’s making me shaky.

  I know it must be obvious. Like some of the other things that have happened. But I hardly ever see anyone outside work and it’s hard for me to get help. I want to be a better person, I really do. I know what’s happening is wrong, but I also know that Al wouldn’t be so annoyed if it wasn’t for me. But I was quite bad today. All I could think about was the silence and the waiting, never knowing what would happen next.
Lying in bed and waiting for the door to open.

  I expect that’s why Mrs Simister came over to my desk at lunchtime. She only comes in one day a week and I used to fantasise about what she did on her days off. Until she brought her son and daughter in. Then I couldn’t think about it any more because I was so sad.

  She gave me a Turkish Delight bar and stood in front of me so Mr Simister couldn’t see what was going on. I looked up at her, my hand shaking as I took the chocolate. She smiled at me, a kind, closed-lipped smile.

  ‘Are you OK, Tanya?’

  I blinked at her. Was I OK? I don’t know. I don’t even know who I am any more.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine, thank you.’

  She looked at my hands. White, thin and shaky. An expensive diamond-and-gold engagement and wedding ring set.

  ‘Look. I know what’s going on. With Alan. I know he’s …’

  It’s terrifying when someone says something like that. Because I do know that something isn’t right. I do know that he’s stricter than other men. I’ve seen couples in pubs we go to laughing and joking. When we’ve been stopped at traffic lights at Aldi I’ve seen women on their own or with kids, shopping. On their own. But he has an answer for everything. And it’s this: he cares about me. He loves me. He can’t bear to be without me. He’s sorry.

  I looked down at my desk. The shaking had spread to my whole body and I tried to keep my shoulders still.

  ‘What?’

  She reddened.

  ‘He’s not treating you well, Tanya. I do the salaries. Your wages get paid straight to him, don’t they? Is it because you’re on the sick? Have you been diagnosed?’

  This is a new one. Diagnosed? Of course, they couldn’t have my National Insurance Number. I knew that. But I wondered what Al had told them. I shook my head and for a moment our eyes met. She handed me a card.

  ‘Look, I know it’s difficult.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Me and him haven’t had it all roses. But if I am right, ring the helpline. You don’t have to stay with him.’

  She walked away and I ate the Turkish Delight. I am not allowed chocolate – it will make me fat, another source of annoyance – and I bring a packed lunch. No money at work. You don’t have to stay with him. Don’t I? Even if I could get away, which I can’t, where would I go? I have no family now my dad is dead and I have no money. I wanted to run after her, shouting, screaming, what did she know? She didn’t know what happened at night, did she? She didn’t know what happened when Al gets really annoyed.

  I looked at the card. Refuge. I placed it inside the Turkish Delight wrapper, went to the toilet and put the wrapper inside my bra. Then I took it out again. I read the words. Get help. A number. I went through it in my mind. How I would walk out of work at lunchtime, just walk, until I found someone who looked friendly and ask them if I could use their phone. But then I remembered that it hadn’t gone well last time I tried this. Not at all. I’d ended up in casualty, upset and, yes, almost hysterical because no one would let me use their phone. Then Alan had turned up super quick and took me home. I squeezed my eyes together, trying not to think about what happened after that.

  When I got home and Al had gone to the loo, I put the card in the gap under the kitchen unit. I placed it carefully on top of the pile of other various helpline cards people have given me over the past twenty years.

  Chapter Eight

  Day 22

  Donelle stayed on the sofa because she was driving and I was glad. I slept properly for the first time in ages and woke thinking today was the day I would take action. We played cards with Jennifer and Simon before she left and as she left I hugged her tight.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She smiled widely.

  ‘Family. Our kid’s family is my family. And besides, we’re friends, aren’t we? I mean, if I ever tie the knot you know it’d be you I asked to stand for me. Anyway. Have a bit of a rest. It’s only early and these two are fine.’

  They were in their bedrooms playing on their tablets. She pulled me into my room and made me a cup of tea, then left. I was so grateful for her in that moment, just someone looking after me, caring. I lay there, fuming over the gall of whoever sent the dick pic. Like teenagers, or something. I know all about Tinder and social networking and Snapchat but I don’t use them and I’m not going to let this happen.

  I get up and Simon is sitting at the table. He’s ten. He is staring at his tablet, watching a Minecraft video on YouTube. Jennifer is eight. She is looking at a row of socks of assorted colours. She’s sorted them into an ever-increasing level of decoration, from white plain to loud pink with green pom-poms. Like mother, like daughter. In this case, anyway.

  I check the cheap phone. There are no more messages, but somehow it seems worse now. The videos of me were one thing, something someone would do to try – and, in my case, fail – to scare me. But this is different. My skin crawls with the violation of it, the intrusion. I know what to do. I throw my purse and sunglasses into my handbag.

  ‘Come on, kids. Time to go.’

  Jennifer pulls on the brightly coloured socks and her own sunglasses. She’s humming ‘Jenny from the Block’ and, once on the street, we break into its verse and do the dance. Simon pretends to be embarrassed and walks slightly ahead. I can see the rhythmic strut almost turning into a dance, the same walk as Danny Jnr and Danny Snr.

  We get to school and I hug them closely. I tell them every day that I love them, more than once, and today is no exception, but I feel it a thousand times more. I hug them to me.

  ‘I love you both.’

  Jennifer smiles and runs off but Simon hangs around.

  ‘Mum, are you all right?’

  I stop in my tracks. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  He thinks. ‘You seem far away.’

  My heart breaks. I do seem far away because I am, lost in a world of bills and missing my man. Someone sending me creepy messages. I take his face in my hands.

  ‘It’s a special time, Si. Daddy and me, we’re thinking about buying a house. That’s why Daddy’s away a lot.’

  He turns slightly and looks at his school, and my idea of moving away – of starting again in a new stalker-free area – smashes into tiny pieces.

  ‘Will I have to leave my friends again?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, we will stay nearby.’ I make a promise I don’t even know if I can keep. ‘Don’t worry about it now, and I won’t. Deal?’

  We do our special street handshake. I watch as he runs to his friends, not looking back. Stability. That’s what Danny wants.

  I arrive at work to chants of ‘Ria, Ria, diarrhoea; Ria, Ria, diarrhoea; Ria, Ria, diarrhoea’ coming from the main room. It is women’s individual counselling day. Before I can even think about what to do about my own problems, I need to see Sally. She still looks nervous after the other day. She came to SafeMe from Gloucester. She has four children ranging in age from three to twelve, three boys and a girl. It is the three boys whose noses are pressed against the window, like the other day, watching me. I open the door and they run over, still chanting.

  ‘Ria, Ria, diarrhoea; Ria, Ria, diarrhoea; Ria, Ria, diarrhoea!’

  I fold my arms. ‘Come on, lads. You know that’s not nice.’

  All Sally’s children are small for their size. She hurries over, herding them.

  ‘All right, boys. Come on, give her a break.’ They run off and she hangs about, pale and shaky. ‘Still over there, he is.’

  Her gaze moves from me towards the direction of the pub across the road where Jimmy has taken up daytime residence, glaring at Malc.

  ‘Right. Look, the police are aware after—’

  She interrupts. I see the tears in her eyes. ‘It’s too cramped sleeping in one room. And school … I’m sorry. I’m just worried.’

  I touch her arm and she freezes. They are sleeping in a family room in the main SafeMe complex; we’ve moved in extra beds. It’s not ideal.

  ‘We’ve applied, but there’s a waiting list. Same with sch
ool places. But it will happen, Sally. It will. Until then they can stay in the school group.’

  We both look at the makeshift school room. Janice holds up her hand. She has a tray of milk and biscuits she probably spent all last night baking, and there is complete silence. The children follow her into the far corner and sit in a circle. I turn back to Sally.

  ‘Right, then. Shall we?’

  She sulkily follows me into a side room where I flick on a light and then sit in front of her. She is studying her phone and looks up only to check the door every thirty seconds. As I make coffee, she is silent. Finally, I sit opposite her. I speak to her gently. ‘Sally?’

  She looks at me. Her eyes are shadowed with dark rings and the bright blond streaks in her darker bob are growing out now.

  ‘They sacked me. I knew they would, but …’ She pauses and looks up. ‘Probably better. Because now I can get benefits to pay for here and … wherever next.’

  Her expression is haunted. I know she had a job as a medical secretary at a hospital. She loved her job, but Jim didn’t.

  ‘You can tell me anything, you know, love. It’s private.’

  She isn’t sure. She’s still looking around. Then she clasps her hands in front of her.

  ‘That, the other day. When I …’ She looks up at me. ‘He kept me awake. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t look after my children.’ Her voice breaks and her lip trembles. ‘He never hit me. He just shouted in my eardrums if I tried to close my eyes. Pinched me.’

  She pulls down her track-suit bottoms.

  ‘He burnt me.’ I see the circles on her legs, scars on her skin, some of them not yet healed. ‘Held ciggies over my eyes and told me that if I shut them, he’d burn ’em open.’

  I take her hands.

  ‘You’re safe here, Sally. We’re going to help you.’

  She doesn’t cry or smile. She is past that.

  ‘That night. He locked us out. It … it was raining and I called the police. He wouldn’t let us in. There was nowhere for us to go in Gloucester so we all had to sleep in a cell, soakin’ wet with no other clothes.’