‘Right, Ria. How’s Sheila?’
I nod. ‘She seems OK. I saw her on Friday.’
The conversation is loaded with Thursday night’s events, but I will not be the one to mention them. He nods slowly. Then he touches his cufflinks – gold with a tiny diamond in each. He’s nervy and the atmosphere changes. I flick the switch under the desk to record.
‘Right. Right. The thing is. I think we are making progress here. Sheila agreed to accompany me on a social event the other night. It went well. Did she mention it?’
I smile. ‘You know I can’t disclose the conversations I have with Sheila, Frank.’
He nods. He is calculated, slow in his movements.
‘No, no. Of course. The thing is, Ria … this is private, isn’t it?’ I nod. He knows it works both ways. Unless anything criminal is disclosed, of course. ‘So this place. I wanted to do something to make sure it carries on. With the funding coming up. And I looked into donating privately but how can I be sure that my money would be used correctly?’
I stare at him.
‘We have audited accounts. And we are accountable to the funding body.’
He nods and holds up his hands. ‘Yes, yes, oh, I wasn’t suggesting anything … inappropriate. But in the course of wondering what the money was used for I met up with someone from the funding body … Trevor … I forget. But he was very helpful. Very helpful indeed.’
I can feel myself flush. My face is burning.
‘And what did Trevor say?’
Frank shrugs casually. ‘He told me that this could be a private concern, set apart from the other services, because of the specialist care. He agreed that Sheila didn’t really belong here. Her place could go to someone who really needs it.’
‘But she really needs it, Frank. That’s her decision. Not yours or Trevor’s.’
He smiles. ‘Oh yes, of course. Of course Sheila has a choice. While this place is open, anyway.’
I check, from the corner of my eye, that the red recording light under the desk is lit. It is. This conversation is being recorded. I nod.
‘Yeah. True. Who knows what will happen next week, with all the cuts?’
He leans forwards, and I instinctively lean away.
‘Well, one thing’s for sure, even if you lose your funding, Frankie can help. For people who need a place. Not like Sheila, who have their own homes to go to.’
I regulate my breathing. I hold in my rising anger.
‘So are you offering funding, Frank? Conditional funding? Just so we understand what you are offering?’
He presses his fingers together as if in deep contemplation.
‘Let’s just say, if the council funding doesn’t come through, which I have to say from my conversation with Trevor is looking unlikely, I can offer whatever you need to keep this place running. I am sure, under those circumstances, that Sheila will see that this has been a huge misunderstanding and will decide to come home. After all, no charges have been made. Or indeed, no complaints. So …’
I stand up.
‘Let’s see what the funding decision is, Frank.’
He stands too, very close to me, close enough that I can smell his expensive aftershave and his blossom-fresh clothes. His minty breath is on my face. He speaks very quietly.
‘The thing is, love, unless something drastic happens, you won’t have any choice. If you get my meaning.’
I know I should shut up now, but I can’t. This means too much.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Frank. You’ll need to explain it to me.’
Frank doesn’t like me. I see his face flush slightly and sense a change in his stance. More tense.
‘Right, love. What I mean is I want my wife back home. And I want to support this place and its good work. I know Shelia takes notice of you, she’s mentioned you numerous times, and you can talk some sense into her. I’d really appreciate that.’
I have a comeback.
‘But we should get the council funding, Frank. It’s very kind of you but I don’t think we will need your help. It’s a big commitment.’
He pauses and looks around again, weighing up the odds of him getting caught.
‘You won’t get that funding. I have a lot of sway in this town and I can assure you that I am easily able to convince Trevor that the funding would be better going to, I don’t know, the lads’ boxing or the WI thing about World War One. Wasn’t there another organisation who could take this over or something?’
Trevor Jones. He’s definitely been talking to Trevor about a potential merger. I play dumb.
‘OK. Well, I guess the council will make their decision and if it’s a no, then we’ll be in touch about your kind offer of a donation.’
He shakes his head. ‘I want her home, and, believe me, love, I’ll do anything to get her. She’s had her bit of fun now.’
I stare at him.
‘A broken arm is hardly a bit of fun, is it?’
He turns quickly.
‘Like I said last time, nothing to do with me. None of it. Understand?’
I hold up my hands.
‘Yes. Of course, Frank.’
He opens the door.
‘Mr James, to you. From now on. You won’t get that funding, and I’ll be your boss. Have a think about that.’
I sink into my chair and, when I see his limo pull away and Malc has deposited the usual bribe into the charity box, I turn off the recording and check the file. I watch it back, Frank’s manner looks much more threatening than I experienced. I save it to the hard disk and to a flash drive, just to be sure, and then I call Janice. She slumps into the chair opposite.
‘He’s bribing Trev.’ I show her the conversation. ‘In return for Sheila coming home.’
Janice sighs. ‘Bloody hell. What can we do? And he’s offering to replace the funding money. God, Ria, we can’t.’
I shake my head. ‘Oh no. That is not happening. A bloody perpetrator running the show. Jesus.’
We watch the recording run in a loop.
‘All those years of hard work and in the end it comes down to a twat like Frank James. Is there any hope, Ria? Really?’
She wipes away a tear and I think about how this is yet another kind of control. Getting their kicks from being king of their castle. Knocking down strong women, who are trying to make a difference, women who support other women to be strong; that’s their speciality. I smile.
‘Yeah. There’s always hope.’
She sniffs and wipes her eyes. I pass her a loo roll and she rips a big piece off and blows her nose hard.
‘Is this the bit where you rip your shirt open and you’re Superwoman underneath?’
I laugh. Superwoman. Ha. Right now that is the biggest joke ever, but somewhere deep inside I still have a spark.
‘I never said I was Superwoman. But the fuckers haven’t got us yet, Jan. Not yet.’
Tanya
Diary Entry: Monday
It’s almost midnight. I eventually found something very heavy; it was staring me in the face all the time. Our cast-iron skillet. It takes me two hands to lift it up and all my strength to pull it down from the hook on the wall.
I expected him to come home this morning. He would need to change before he went to work. Then I remembered that he hasn’t got a job. And he’s probably not at a conference. Nevertheless, I stood behind the door on the footstool holding the skillet from seven o’clock until a quarter to ten. My nerves jangled, but I had to admit that I have no idea what time her would be back.
I poured the last of the cornflakes and the milk into a dish and sat at the table eating them. When I had finished, I opened the freezer and looked for something I could make for dinner. That was when I realised that I was not going to carry out my plan. My head ached and my legs were like jelly and now my arms were heavy from holding the skillet.
I’d eaten most of the frozen food over the weekend. The peas were still there and there was a pack of haddock that was too frostbitt
en to eat. I opened the fridge. Two eggs and some butter. There was a crust of a Warbuton’s loaf in the bread bin and nothing else.
Alan doesn’t like frozen food. He likes everything made freshly. He has never once cooked a meal yet he has criticised every single dish I have made, even if it was only with a silent lip curl. I had recipe books and my signature dishes were lasagne and salad. Mainly out of boredom, I had made my way through the only real reading material I was allowed. I made detailed shopping lists, the contents of which would magically appear in the kitchen on my return from work.
I opened the top cupboards. Flour, cooking oil, tomato sauce. Tins of beans and kidney beans and chopped tomatoes — no good to me as Alan would not let me have a tin opener without him being there. Same with knives. A biscuit tin with no biscuits. A Jacob’s Cream Cracker box with two crackers in the bottom.
No doubt he would come waltzing in with bags from the butcher’s he loves so much and Tesco’s. He always puts the food away and brings me knives and tin openers when it’s time to cook. He stands there, watching, as if I was going to slit my wrists at any moment. Don’t get me wrong, I have considered it. But this is just another failure on the long list of things I am too weak and scared to do. When I have finished cooking, he stands there while I taste it.
This is how I know that there is something wrong with him. After our first big argument and the shutters, but before Tina, he got it into his head that I was trying to poison him. He picked me up from work and he looked as white as a sheet. We’d hardly got home before he was rushing to the toilet. I heard him vomiting and I wondered what was wrong. He was in bed for three days, so I was off work, tending to him. All the time he made me taste the chicken broth and the dry toast.
As soon as he was better, he confronted me. I was in the kitchen and he swung me around, soap bubbles spraying across my apron.
‘What did you put in that sandwich?’
I often don’t know exactly what he means and my answers are so nerve-laden that I say the wrong thing.
‘Today? Ham. You said ham.’
I felt the sting across my cheek. Red, burning hot.
‘Don’t get smart with me. You know exactly which sandwich I mean.’
This happened a lot. He would tell me that I knew exactly what he meant when I didn’t have a clue. I had to flounder around, trying to second-guess him and hoping that I was right. I racked my brains and eventually he filled in for me.
‘You tried to poison me, you fucking bitch.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Alan. I would never do that.’
I wouldn’t. Because I am not brave enough. But that was beside the point. From that day I had to cook what he wanted and he would buy everything. No more supermarket for me. Not that I went much anyway. My world narrowed until the only place I went was work and a walk at the weekend, often to a remote moorland where I was sure he was going to murder me and bury my body.
But he didn’t, he preferred to keep me like a little pet, a dog to kick when he felt like it. And here I am. He hasn’t come home. He must have meant Tuesday.
Chapter Twenty-two
Day 8
I fell asleep on the sofa last night. Danny must have texted late.
Day 8 – three weeks down, one week to go. We’re nearly there! I love you, Ri, always x
I switch on the TV. I’d scanned the news last night, but the media eye had turned away from Springhead and towards more pressing matters. I search the internet for any updates, but there are none. For an insane moment I consider skipping work and going up there, just to see what’s going on. But every time I think about it I flashback to panic, icy water setting my teeth on edge and the blackness of almost drowning.
I never thought of it as rape. Not until I was older. I don’t know what I thought, except it was very wrong. Every time I thought about it I felt sick. Ashamed. I wanted to tell someone, scream it out. To a teacher. My mum. Anyone. But I couldn’t. So I just didn’t mention it to anyone. Alice was gone; that was all anyone cared about. By the time I had escaped and realised what had happened to me it was all a distant memory. Distant, as long as I kept away from home and my parents. So life went on.
I exhale. Yesterday’s conversation with Frank has made me even more determined to rise above. I need this job to make mine and Danny’s plans work. It’s no use having a deposit for a house if there is no job to get a mortgage. And we can’t get a mortgage with a bad credit record. The funding meeting is on Thursday and we have submitted the bid now, so all we can do is wait and see. Frank could easily be lying about meeting Trevor, but how would he know about the merger? Janice is as worried as I am. I can see it in every movement, every glance around the room. Even the twinkle of the fairy lights somehow seemed brighter, as if the whole place is making an effort.
I check the cheap phone. Nothing. It’s like a brief interlude in a hectic schedule that barely stops, where I am lying very still and enjoying the gap in the proceedings. I stare at the ceiling of the tiny flat. I will miss this place. Everyone thinks I am mad, but I love living like this. I am not someone who needs their space to be tidy. I need it to be lived in.
I will miss it. I don’t think for one moment that Danny is suddenly going to change into Mr Tidy. No. He just wants something of his own to mess up. He needs a show home even less than I do and is as fond of bright colours as I am. None of the houses we have seen so far have fitted his wish list fully, but we will know when we see it, when we glimpse our dream home. I feel a pang of apprehension as I think about my job and the funding meeting, about Simon’s reluctance to leave his school that limits our choices. But most of all, I am anxious at the prospect of a day ahead of me with someone watching my every move.
It all disappears as Jennifer runs in asking for her PE kit and Simon appears to be singing an X-rated version of a rap song. He looks at me, all innocent.
‘Daddy sings it.’
I turn around and smile. So it begins. We gather up all our belongings that the day demands and start the trek to school. I wave them goodbye in the playground.
‘Aunty Don will pick you up. OK?’
They nod and wave and hurry towards their other life with their friends. Simon is high-fiving and bumping fists and I see him growing into a teenager almost before my eyes. I am smiling and walking away from the school, through the streets and towards SafeMe, when I see it. A red Skoda parked a street away from my workplace. I hurry away from the car, looking back and wondering why it is parked here. Where is he? The gates to SafeMe are locked and Malc is standing guard. He smiles as I approach.
‘Mornin’.’
I stop. He wouldn’t have let him in, would he?
‘Mornin’, Malc. Any visitors?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. One of the ladies’ partners was here overnight but the police collected him. Going to court this morning, by all accounts. Your mate’s already here. And they’ve changed shifts round the corner. Couple of cars there early on, seeing Sheila, I think.’
I momentarily forget about my own problems.
‘Sheila? What time?’
‘About nine. Pulled up. Went into hers. Weren’t there long. She came out and waved ’em off.’
I look at SafeMe. It’s not Sheila’s day and the other women and the funding bid need my attention as well. Maybe that’s what Frank is relying on.
‘Right. Ta, I’ll go and see her.’
He nods.
‘Nasty piece of work, that; you need to watch yourself there.’
I stop in my tracks.
‘Frank? Was he there?’
‘Both of them. Don’t underestimate anyone around Frank James. He’ll have them doing his dirty work. Just sayin’.’
As I walk around to Sheila’s flat I wonder if I’ve missed something. She seems like a woman on a mission to save herself, but can Malc see something I can’t because of my attachment? Her front-room light is on and I see her shadow cross the room. I buzz her and she lets me in.
‘All r
ight, love?’ The room is thick with cigarette smoke and she is flushing the remnants of the ashtray down the toilet. ‘I’ve had company,’ she explains as her hand wafts the air. I leave the door ajar.
‘So I heard. Just checking all is OK?’
She nods. ‘Yeah. Fine.’
I glance around. Some of the boxes are gone. She watches my eyes, waiting to jump in, her mouth twitching. Her bright red lipstick, the one she always wears if men are around, has bled into the lines around her mouth, suggesting she applied it quickly, without much care. ‘Had a bit of a sort-out. The lads came and took the stuff I was throwing to the tip.’
I nod. ‘The tip being back to Frank?’
She shakes her head. Her eyes harden. ‘No, lovey. To. The. Tip.’ She explains like I am a child. Then she stares at me, unsmiling. We are at loggerheads for a full minute before she breaks.
‘Why are you here?’
She is still hostile.
‘I just wanted to make sure you’re all right, Sheila. It’s up to you what you do, you know.’
She nods. ‘Yeah. I know. And I’ll do what I want in the end. When I know what’s what.’ She lights another cigarette and I note her chain-smoking is much, much worse. ‘That’s if these don’t finish me off first.’
I know this is a strategy for many of the women. Slow suicide. Drink, drugs, cigarettes, anything that might end this existence of torture from which there is no escape sooner. Some of them even admit it, but for most it is subconscious and part of the work we must do to help them recover. It is a long, hard road, for them. Sheila’s narrowed eyes as she regards me tell me that something has happened to make her take a step backwards. We were getting somewhere, she was opening up. Now she is not so sure about me. She sits down carefully on the armchair in front of me.
‘Frank came to see you, didn’t he?’
How to Play Dead Page 20