I’ve read her file. ‘Their’ home was in Jim’s name only. All the bills were in his name. The social worker who referred them told me that it was eerily as if Sally didn’t exist in that house. She has refused to press charges against Jim, or even to report him. She is destitute and I know that if this goes on any longer her children will be taken into care. And she has done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.
Sally’s immediate problems are getting suitable housing and making sure Jim does not harm her again. The first one will happen eventually, but the second is trickier. He’s texting her now. I can see her eyes follow the words and consider them. Then her thumbs moving quick as light across the keyboard of her tiny phone.
‘Sally, if we’re going to sort this out, I need to talk to you about Jim.’
Her eyes dim further, if it were possible.
‘Has he said somat?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Look. If you go back there is a risk he’ll do the same again.’
Now she is shaking her head. ‘He won’t stop, you know. See?’ She holds the phone up to my face and I read the standard repeated protestations of undying love and his begging apologies. I am cynical, I know, but I have seen it so many times before. ‘So even if I do get somewhere, he’s just going to follow me. How do I get out of it? How?’
And I do not know. He has threatened her, but when questioned denies it and calls her ‘insane’ and intimates she is on drugs and is self-harming. The police won’t arrest him for sitting in a pub opposite SafeMe and scaring the shit out of her – not until he does something ‘wrong’. Their liaison officer is looking at an injunction for harassment. But it takes time and the evidence has to be gathered from scratch. So I do not have the answer. But I do the best I can.
‘You will have a panic alarm, so that if he comes near the house, the police will come.’
She tears up. ‘It might be too late then, though. Because one day he’ll do what he’s been sayin’ he will.’
I can hear the children in the room behind me singing ‘Ring a Ringo’ Roses’, the patter of feet as they race across the room to tag the wall then reform their circle. A chill runs through me because I know that she is probably right.
She resumes texting. When she puts her phone down on the table to pick up her half-cold coffee, I can see she has been texting Jim. In response to his last three messages professing to ‘be a good boy’, ‘provide for his family’ and then demanding to know who her ‘new fella’ is, she has typed three words over and over again. Leave me alone. She sighs.
‘At least the flowers have stopped.’
I freeze.
‘What?’
She looks up. ‘The flowers. Every single time he did it he’d send me flowers afterwards. The house was falling down and we had no food. But he’d send flowers. To apologise, he said. More like so everyone would see.’
I want to ask her what kind of flowers, how were they tied, but I don’t. She’s stressed enough. At the end of the session she leaves, still reading and texting. Janice pops in and drops the cupboard keys on the table. I know I should be working on the funding bid, but I need some advice.
Geri Lomas is our independent link to the outside world. She is a volunteer, but an experienced solicitor and a trustee of SafeMe. She is passionate and driven and sitting in my office when I get there.
‘So what’s burning, then?’
I’d sent her an email to request a meeting. She would assume it was for the women, but I am going to discuss my position with regard to whoever is stalking me. Just to be sure where I stand before I take any action.
‘Nothing. Well, this is about me.’
She leans forwards. ‘Oh. Right. You are OK, though, Ria?’
The pause in my answer says it all and she sighs.
‘Oh no, it’s not Danny. God, no. It’s something else. I just want to run it by you to check how I stand with a complaint.’
She looks puzzled as I begin to spew out the story. By the time I have finished she looks shocked.
‘Bloody hell. And he actually had a phone delivered here?’
I nod. ‘Yep, and flowers.’
‘And now he’s sending you pictures of his cock?’
I nod and look at the floor and almost laugh. When she says it, he sounds pathetic. Like someone having a fucking massive mid-life crisis. But that isn’t how it’s starting to feel to me. I show her the footage and the messages. And the dick pic.
‘Whoever it is is a complete dick, Gez. Problem is, it could be anyone.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Yes, this is classic manipulation. He has all the power. And you don’t want Danny to find out?’
‘No. I just … well, Danny’s funny about stuff like this.’
I dig my hole a little deeper and lie about the most generous, understanding man alive.
‘Well, I have to say that reporting this is not going to be easy. For one, you know they won’t act without evidence. Evidence in this case being a positive ID. They might go and have a word if he approached you in person, but, for my money, if you can’t pinpoint who it is they will just log it at this point. Might be worth doing that. And don’t engage. And tell Danny.’
All the things I know. But she hasn’t finished. She touches my arm.
‘Look, I know this is scary. You’ve done the right thing telling me. But these are just texts. This is a common thing now, believe it or not, not that it makes it right. Go home. Tell Danny. Ignore the dick pic and messages. Switch that phone off and if he turns up have him arrested. If it carries on and you find out who it is, I’ll prep an injunction. Yeah?’
I nod and smile. ‘Yeah.’
But I know inside that this is just the beginning. And moments later, when I am standing outside SafeMe, this is confirmed. I am in the process of signing out when the cheap phone pings.
LIKE WHAT YOU SEE? PLENTY MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM.
I gag. Smileys. I want to answer, to tell him to fuck off, but I don’t. I do what Gez says and ignore it. I push the phone in my pocket. I haven’t got further than the pub opposite, where Jim is still sitting staring at Malc, when the phone pings again. My fingers are cold and I struggle to open the message. It’s an mp4 and I press ‘play’. It’s footage of me leaving work minutes ago.
I spin around, scanning cars and windows and even SafeMe, looking for someone I vaguely recognise. I spin, spin, spin, eventually coming to a halt in the middle of the road. Then I see Jim, watching from the window of the pub, smiling. I stare him out. He isn’t going to get the better of me. I’m stronger than that.
Tanya
Diary Entry: Tuesday
Nothing out of the ordinary happened at work today. Al is still silent and really annoyed. He did sit at the table tonight to eat dinner instead of taking it into his study, though. He seemed a little bit jollier and, later on, I heard him laughing at the TV in his bedroom.
I feel like I should explain that we have separate bedrooms, seeing that the doctor will read this diary. It’s because Al likes to get a good night’s sleep and I’m restless. He has a very important job – he’s a luxury car dealer. He brokers deals for very rich people, which is how he can drive me to work and back every day. He can keep his own hours.
He stays up watching TV until all hours in his study. I can hear it faintly through the door, sometimes I hear him laughing. The study is below my bedroom and I know every single floorboard creak in this house. I can hear when he opens the door and whether he is going to the kitchen or to the bathroom. I can hear when he is walking across the landing and when he gets to my room. He always stops outside for a moment. I am always listening.
He doesn’t like me watching TV. I’m usually sewing in the evenings, or, in the summer, watching the birds outside. I sometimes hear the children from the house nearest to ours playing outside. They have a plastic pool and I hear their dad get the hosepipe and all the laughter. My childhood wasn’t like that. Not at all. Maybe that’s why I was attracted to Alan. Because he wa
s so much like my dad.
There was a fall-out. Well, not a fall-out. I couldn’t see Dad any more because we would get into trouble. When it first happened I didn’t even want to. We both thought it would be best to leave it for a while. It was fun back then; we were rebels, two young people setting up home. We would lie in bed every day we could, wrapped up in each other.
But I did start to think about Dad. That’s when all the thoughts about her crept in. I hated her. I totally knew that Al must have had girlfriends before me – he knew what he was doing in bed. I loved it then. I loved him. But after a while I started to question myself, then him, about why he had been unfaithful to me. With my best friend. He just laughed and said that it was all in the past.
Then I suggested that we go and see Dad. Explain what had happened. Maybe invite him round for tea? Al became very upset and accused me of going back on our agreement to break free. I tried to explain that I loved my dad but it escalated into a huge row and then he said it.
‘It’s him or me.’
I told him that it wasn’t fair. That Dad would be worried. His face hardened.
‘You should have thought of that before you left.’
He made it sound like it was all my fault and I felt even worse.
‘I’ll go, then. You don’t have to come.’
That was the first time. It was quick as a flash. A slap, but hard. I reacted and hit him back, and the next blow he landed made me see stars. He had my hand twisted behind my back and he ran me upstairs, me screaming all the time from the pain. He threw me on the bed, and him on top of me. I was screaming, ‘No, Alan. No.’ But all he said as he did it was: ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
About six months later he came home one night smelling of beer and looking very sad. He sat down heavily beside me.
‘I’ve got something I need to tell you.’
I thought it was going to be about her. Or that he was sorry for hitting me and … hurting me. But it wasn’t.
‘It’s your dad. I didn’t know how to tell you before. He’s dead.’
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. He told me he had been test driving a car with a client when they stopped in town and he saw Don Jackson, one of Dad’s friends, who had told him the sad news.
‘I want to see his grave. I want to say goodbye.’
He rubbed his eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I should have taken you to see him. I’m sorry.’
I could tell that he meant it. I held his hand.
‘I just want to say goodbye.’
He turned to me.
‘He wasn’t buried. He was cremated.’ He stood up. ‘Come on. I’ll take you to the little chapel at the crematorium.’
I picked some flowers from our garden. We drove up there and, in the moonlight, I said goodbye to my father, my last living relative. Al looked into the will, but it turned out that, after what we had done, he had left it all to Cancer Research. Which answered my questions about what he had died of.
But after that Al and I slept in separate bedrooms because I could not sleep next to him again without crying in my sleep.
Chapter Nine
Day 21
It’s starting to get to me. I forgot Donelle was picking the kids up. I arrived at school and she was already there, leaning against the railings laughing into her phone. All the extra work has helped her lose weight around her waist, giving an overall appearance of youth when you factor in her skinny jeans and a tight T-shirt.
I stepped back as the children raced out and into her arms. I felt the heat of anger in my chest. This will not get to me. I want to smile like Donelle, not a care in the world. I hurried home through the backstreets and arrived before them. I didn’t want Donelle to know I’d forgotten. I washed my face and made drinks and made it look like I was here on purpose. I quickly knocked up some sandwiches and poured crisps into a bowl. Some pink wafer biscuits from the back of the cupboard and a packet of mini chocolate muffins that Donelle brought round last time she was here.
They burst in and I pulled on a party hat and shouted, ‘Surprise!’ Donelle hugged me tight and laughed so loudly that I couldn’t help but join in.
‘Celebrating family.’
She laughed loudly. ‘Yeah. Family.’ She gazes at the kids. ‘I just wish …’
I sighed. ‘You will. You’ll make a great mum. This may be the one.’
We laughed and the kids made a start on the food, all of it laid out in front of the TV on a low trestle table with big sunflowers on it. I sat looking at her and her at me. I could tell she wanted to tell me something.
‘So. What’s up?’
She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’
I’ve seen that look before. Man trouble. I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind but she looked so sad.
‘Tell me.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Well. He was Mr Dreamboat. Drinks. Laughs. Meals out. Charming. Seen him every day while I’ve been working in the office. The minute I say I’m going long haul and I’ll be away he goes all funny. Then he started asking if I think women who have kids should work.’
I grimaced.
‘Exactly. I thought he was kidding at first. Started saying if we have a future together I need to settle down. I said I was settled and he went into a big huff.’ She looked forlorn. ‘I didn’t know what I’d done. Wouldn’t speak to me. Made me feel queasy. Then he was all right after a bit.’
Alarm bells. It sounded like he’s training her. But she knows this. She has the instinct and the sense to feel it. I’d be more worried if she didn’t notice, or, worse, ignored it.
‘It’s early days, Don. And you know what they say. No fun – run.’ We both laughed. ‘Seriously, though, don’t allow him to make you feel uneasy. Don’t let him put on you, scare you.’
She looked up quickly. ‘He’s not scaring me. He just had a bit of a strop. I’ll see how it goes. Don’t worry. If he’s not Mr Right, I’m gone.’
Donelle is usually the opposite. It’s her it fizzles out for. I worry at her easy defence of this man, but it’s hard to say what’s going on without all the information. She phoned a taxi and went about ten o’clock.
I woke early, more positive. I’m travelling the main artery into the city to do some training with Janice. I watch all the faces on the bus, wondering who would waste their time sending dick pics. Gez said it’s commonplace. I Google it, and apparently it’s a thing on the Tube, people sending porno pics via AirDrop.
I called in at work first to see Sheila, but she was in a knitting group. She waved at me like the queen, all serene and airy. Sally was there too, for once not looking at her phone and, as I left, Jim was not sitting in the pub, just watching. The kids were in another room with the playgroup but I could hear the faint sound of the ‘Ria, Ria, diarrhoea’ chant. I heard Sally shouting at them to shut up as I passed the windows. Maybe it was progress, or maybe just the calm before the storm.
When I arrive at the venue, I see Janice sidling up to the buffet. Janice and me, we are from the same tribe. At SafeMe we work as a team, but outside work we are even closer. These training days are necessary to keep up our qualification, but we agreed early on that no one said they couldn’t be fun. It’s relaxation time. Time to reconnect and air any grievances we have in the presence of a referee.
We’re tough women. Me, Janice, Roz from another refuge, Linda Hall from the courts; all of us hard as nails. We’ve seen some things but we aren’t desensitised, because if we were we would lose empathy and be unable to do our jobs. In some ways this is worse because it is a repeated round of seeing unthinkable things.
I know that one of the reasons I have been able to carry on doing this job is Janice. Her humour is dry, sarcastic and to outsiders it might seem cruel. But it is a coping strategy for both of us. We know full well what faces us every day. It isn’t just women suffering, although that is enough. It is the danger of being exposed to the same angry men who had put their partners in the last-chance saloo
n. It is scary. You don’t get used to it.
The world can make a million excuses for them, mostly out of a lack of information. The facts of a case, the exact facts, are rarely disclosed, even if it gets to court. Only hospital records can bear testament to the horrors that happen. And us. Because we listen. We listen to all the details, as many or as few as they need to tell us, as soon or as late as they want to. Some never do, but some tell us everything. Janice and I hold the bad things at a distance for them. Lighten their load until they are strong enough to carry it again.
We don’t record it or write down the details. We just listen and those words are held somewhere in the ether, somewhere secret and forbidden to anyone who they might affect or harm. Or use. It is dirty work. But Janice and I roll up our sleeves and birth the truth. We bring the awful stories of how these women have been treated into the world. The previously unspoken and probably unseen violence, because cowards like to do their dirty work in private.
Most importantly, we listen to each other. In all the years we have worked together we have never grown complacent with one another. I have the utmost respect for Janice with all her fucks and buggers, for her frowns and her inappropriate laughter, which I know is nerves playing out. For standing up to bullies and lying on makeshift beds and holding crying women all nights as they sob for the men that have put them in hospital.
I listen to her talk with love about her family and swear about her mother, who is far worse than mine. I listen to her talk about her dog Ruff, who she loves like a child. The endless banter with Malc over football teams – he’s City and she’s United. I just love that woman and today is a space for that love.
I see her at the end of the training room pushing some tiny doughnuts into a carrier bag.
‘Waste not, want not,’ she says as I approach. ‘It’ll just go in the fucking bin. There’s a homeless guy out there who hasn’t seen a doughnut in months.’
How to Play Dead Page 7