How to Play Dead

by Jacqueline Ward

  I nod. ‘Yep. You know he was at Perps. You saw him go in.’

  It hadn’t escaped my attention that Sheila was standing on the corner when Frank’s limo pulled up. She always is.

  ‘He stayed longer, though. What was that about?’

  I shake my head and put down my cup. ‘What do you think it was about? You know I’m not able to tell you …’

  She’s up and ranting, red face and hands flying around.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. He’d have got it out of you. I know what he’s like.’

  I stay calm. ‘What out of me, Sheila?’

  ‘Her. About her. If I knew. If I said owt. What I thought.’

  I stand up. Enough is enough.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Frank would not get anything out of me because I am a professional. I’m not invested in the nuances of your relationship with Frank or his with you. That is your business. I’m concerned with your safety. And I would never break your confidence.’

  She flies at me. ‘You’re no different to anyone else. He could make you say anything. Anything. He could.’

  She collapses into the chair, crying. I go to her, but she shrugs me off.

  ‘But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything about you, or her. It was never mentioned, by either of us.’

  She is sobbing, inconsolable.

  ‘Yeah. Well. Praps not. But he’ll get you another way. If it wasn’t that, it’ll be something else, and you won’t escape. Nobody does.’ I touch her shoulder but she jumps away. ‘Go on. Get out. Sling yer bloody hook. Bleedin’ do-gooder, you.’

  I leave, reluctantly, and close the door quietly behind me. I text the warden and ask her to keep an eye on Sheila and walk back past the parked car. It’s gone. It’s only as I open my office door that I hear that phone ping. I am so used to Danny’s texts that I think it is him, reminding me that it is day 8, but it’s not.

  CLOSER AND CLOSER. I’M RIGHT BEHIND YOU.

  The argument with Sheila has upset me and I kneejerk reply.

  FUCK YOU.

  I press ‘send’ and my heart beats faster and faster. I spin around and there is an electrician looking at the fuse box. I scan him but how could he possibly message me from up a ladder? I see red. This could not have come at a worse time and I am losing the plot. I can’t do it. I can’t play his game. I type fast.

  JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT. WHY YOU ARE DOING THIS? WHAT I CAN DO TO MAKE IT STOP.

  I have sent it before I realise that this is exactly what he wants. That I’m engaging. Before I have a chance to think more, to dread, my phone pings again.

  NEWTON’S THIRD LAW. EVERY ACTION HAS AN EQUAL AND OPPOSITE REACTION.

  My temper flares. I have a lot to lose, but I’m going to lose it anyway, so I might as well go out with a fight.

  YES YOU’RE RIGHT. I’M BLOCKING YOU. STOP STALKING ME.

  I block his number and block his messages. It feels good for about fifteen seconds until I realise that I have just raised the stakes and given him a free hand. What the fuck does that mean? Every action has an equal and opposite reaction? What sort of fuckery is this?

  Fuck him. Let him do his worst. What can he possibly do now? Him and Frank and Jimmy and Dougie and everyone else in the business of scaring the shit out of everyone around them. Well, they’ve picked on the wrong person because I’m not going to give up without a fight.

  I sit at my desk and fill in my diary. If something happens to me, at least people will know. They will know exactly what he has done. But here I am, at the safest place in the world. He can’t get me here, and he can’t get my children: they are safe too. Now I have stood up to him it can go one of two ways: he will back off or he will escalate.

  I will be ready. I am done with being scared and worrying because, in reality, he will do what he is going to do whether I am or not. And in a week Danny will be back and we will be looking for a new place, away from here. Yes. I can hold it down for a week.

  Especially a week with the funding meeting in it. It feels like a defining time when I will know exactly what my future holds and I will finally be free. Let him terrorise me. Let the funders make their decision. At least everything will be out in the open. I even consider going to Carole again, but the only thing that holds me back is the tiny piece of me that still thinks he is a normal person who will only take this so far. Who will finally realise that he can no longer manipulate me.

  I know that some perpetrators will give up when they realise they could end up in prison. It’s as if they have believed their own hype for so long that when shit gets real they are surprised and back off. This little game they have been playing is private torture, not public humiliation. It is for their eyes only, watching another human being squirm and struggle under the weight of their violence and abuse.

  I also know that when it threatens to go public, in court, or even into the street, well, where’s the fun in that? And there is the problem of looking like a fucking coward. Only cowards hit women, persecute children. Not the big man when everyone knows what they really are. But others do not stop there. The real psychopaths do not care what anyone else thinks because they are convinced that they are right. That their women belong to them, that their power extends to the control of another human being. They will argue with police and hire lawyers to defend themselves, even when the evidence is clear. Their victim is never safe because, even after years in prison, they will return to get what they believe is vengeance, because they are offended just by them being alive.

  I finish my diary and tap, tap, tap my pencil on the desk. Which one is he? I don’t know. He may be the coward, eager to play a clever game but knowing when to stop. Or not. But now I have stepped up, I am about to find out.

  Tanya

  Diary Entry: Tuesday

  I’ve waited all day and he hasn’t come back. This morning I waited behind the door, certain I had got it wrong as usual and it was today he was coming back. About half nine I suddenly realised that he was testing me. He was probably watching me doing all this. He told me once he had cameras installed in the house and he does seem to know everything I do.

  Then I remembered the space underneath the unit where I keep my diary and the tiny cards and Tina’s collar, which I found in the dustbin. He can’t have cameras because he would have seen all that. Even so, I moved the footstool back into the lounge and brushed the cornflake crumbs off the settee. I got the hoover out and pushed it around the house. I felt weak and dizzy but I managed it.

  The kitchen was spotless. The carpets were pristine. I walked around the house, listening to the silence, my footsteps making no sound. It was as if I was not here. And in a way I am not.

  When Alan and I left we came straight here. We came straight to bed and we stayed there, feeding each other chocolate and eating takeaways. I never questioned why Alan would have a house like this, I only found out later that his parents were both dead. He kept telling me that we could never go back. That no one could ever find out where I was because he would get in trouble.

  The police came round. We saw them pull up and he told me to stay in the little bedroom. He pushed my bag in behind me and we were giggling. Actually laughing. Somehow I was so stupid that I thought it was funny that my dad had called the police. Because no one understood Alan and me. Not Dad. Not Ria. Certainly not the police.

  I could hear them downstairs, talking in low voices. All very reasonable. I held my breath, wishing them gone. Then I could hear them in the hallway. Alan’s voice different. Older.

  ‘Yes. If I hear anything I will.’

  A woman’s voice.

  ‘You can understand our concern, though. But it’s all checked out so thank you.’

  ‘No problem at all. Glad to help. Let me know what happens and give my regards to Mr Peters.’

  My dad. I should have run downstairs right then and just gone with them. Gone home. I should have told them it was all a mistake and I wanted to go back to school. Instead, stupid teenage
me thought it was all a game. Me and Alan against everyone else.

  I don’t think he ever meant to keep me prisoner because at first we went out to a lot of different places. We went to Blackpool. We stayed two nights and ate ice cream. When we got back he told me he was worried that we would be found out. I laughed and said we should move away. I saw a shadow cross his face then.

  ‘No. This is my parents’ home. I’ll never move away.’

  And that was that. He told me I couldn’t be Alice any more. To pick a name. I chose Tanya. Tanya Cartwright. I loved it. I just knew it was only a matter of time until we married, and then I would really be Cartwright, because naïve little me did not realise that I would need ID to be married. To get a passport. To open a bank account. And Alan told me that if I did any of those things he would be arrested and sent to prison. Did I want that? Did I?

  So Alice was gone and I was Tanya. I liked it at first. Alice was for little girls with hairbands. Tanya was sophisticated for a grown woman having sex with her boyfriend. He called me Tanya and I didn’t mind. But now I realise that what he was doing was shaping me into what he wanted. We went out less and less and he became more careful about where we went. Then he told me about the job. In Huddersfield.

  I was excited. I felt free. A year was a long time to be sat indoors, only sneaking out for short walks or weekends far away. I wanted to earn my own money. I wanted to go into town and buy clothes. When that did not happen I became angry. And that’s when he started to hurt me. To make sure I was invisible. Making me pull myself up inside myself, so careful not to slip up and annoy. I was no longer Alice. I was a shell of her. A scared, empty shell.

  Now, sitting writing this diary, I am wondering what Mr Simister thinks. Have they missed me? Has Mrs Simister, who clearly suspects something is wrong, tried to find out what is the matter? But Alan will have told them I have flu or some other ailment that takes as long to fade as bruises do.

  The truth is no one is looking for me. There is no one.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Day 7

  I wake up and Lily Allen’s ‘Fuck You’ is my earworm. Seven days to go. I can hardly believe that we have got through it. That it’s been only three weeks since the awards ceremony and that the funding decision is due on Monday.

  There are no signs that he has regrouped – he can’t text me now as I have blocked him. The kids appear and I make boiled eggs and soldiers and we all tuck in. I broach the subject with them.

  ‘OK. So what do we do if anyone we don’t know approaches us?’

  Simon thinks hard and answers through chewed toast.

  ‘Tell an adult.’

  I nod. ‘Good. And do we go with them?’

  Jennifer shakes her head. ‘No. Stranger danger.’

  I high-five them both.

  ‘And strangers are anyone we don’t know. Even if they say they know Mummy and Daddy. The only people you leave school with are family.’

  Simon chews and thinks.

  ‘What about Terri? And Simone?’

  The babysitters. Fair point.

  ‘You know them. You know that Mummy and Daddy know them. But if someone you don’t know tries to get you to go with them, you scream. Loud.’

  They both look at me incredulously. This is the opposite of what I have told them to do on every occasion so far. I am usually telling them to be quiet. I laugh.

  ‘Come on. Let’s practise.’

  I scream really loudly and they stare at me.

  ‘Your turn.’

  I scream again and they join in, quietly at first, then very loudly. We all collapse on the lounge floor, laughing helplessly.

  ‘Good. Good. So that’s what you do when a stranger tries to take you. Or even tries to talk to you. But no need to worry today: Aunty Don is going to collect you.’

  Jennifer is screaming and shouting ‘stranger danger’ and it is time to go. It continues until we are nearly at the school gate and I don’t stop her. She needs to get it into her head just in case … no. I’m not thinking about it. This is the new, positive me. The new ‘Fuck You’ me who is going to take no shit. I drop them off and wait until they are safely in school.

  There are no incidents on the way to work and when I get there Janice is supervising the knitting group. Sheila is there and she looks at me sheepishly. Sally is in the corner and her kids are in the family room on the Xboxes. Janice hurries over.

  ‘Bloody good news for a change: Sally’s housing has come through.’

  I smile. Finally. Sally’s request was an unusual one. After a lot of consideration she had presented us with a list of her requirements for accommodation. Usually, faced with a new start, we are given a wish list that is way above what the local council can provide. But Sally’s appeared to be the opposite.

  ‘I need a three-bedroomed flat – the lads can share. I can even bloody share. Lounge and kitchen. Bathroom and toilet. A shower would be nice.’ She had looked at the ground. Anything that concerned her safety was difficult to talk about. ‘One way in, one way out. As high as possible in a tower block. Fully alarmed with a panic button and a reinforced steel door.’ A slight smile. ‘Balcony for a few plants.’

  We know that the council would have provided a three-bedroomed semi in a rough area with a garden side, back and front, but Sally didn’t want that.

  ‘I want to be high up. So he’s not climbing in the windows at night. Or sneaking in the back door if one of them leaves it unlocked. One way in. One way out.’

  One of the more inexperienced workers told her that ‘it would be fine now, there’s an injunction in place’. But men like Jim don’t observe an injunction. Sally is clever. She made her own plan for her own safety. She will be taking no chances this time. I look over at her, focused on her knitting. She sees me and comes over.

  ‘What’s up?’ Her expression changes. ‘Is it Jimmy? Is he back?’ She looks over her shoulder in the direction of the pub.

  I smile. ‘No. No he isn’t. The thing is, the council have given you somewhere. Treehouses. In the tower block. Three bedrooms. It’s yours if you want it.’

  For the first time since I met her she smiles widely.

  ‘Honest?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. You can move in as soon as you want.’

  She looks past me into the distance and I know she is suddenly seeing her future stretch out in front of her. She has a second chance. And that is what SafeMe is all about. Sally is on to the next thing.

  ‘Course I’ll take it. Wait till I tell the kids.’

  We all look over. Her children, who have gone through so much, will have school places and a stable home. I turn to Janice.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Jan. Can we get her some furniture sorted?’

  Janice beams. ‘On it. Already phoned Mustard Tree. Taking her round today.’

  They’ve been here ages, away from their home. Away from everything they know. But hardly a tantrum or a tear. Same with Sally, stoicism built in. She’s slept in a single room with all her children to avoid having to go back to Gloucester, where Jim could take up where he left off.

  Janice follows me into the office.

  ‘Right then. Funding meeting tomorrow.’ She drags up a chair. ‘We still need a Plan B. In case it all goes tits up.’

  We look at the sign on the office wall.

  Each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, without claiming it, she stands up for all women – Maya Angelou

  I look back at Janice.

  ‘There is no Plan B. This is it. We can’t take Frank’s money, if that’s what you were thinking. He’d want something back.’

  She smiles. ‘He just wants Sheila.’

  ‘No. He doesn’t. He wants to win. It’s part of his game, part of his control. Just like the TVs and the Xboxes.’ I know that she knows this but I also know she is desperate. ‘And Sheila. Jesus, Jan, she’s vulnerable. She’s on the edge. He’s just looking for a reason to whip her back there and it’ll start a
ll over again. When she’s been doing so well.’

  Janice sighs. ‘What else is there? There must be other funding? Other charities?’

  We both know I’ve done the legwork. I’ve appealed to every single celebrity who might want to support us. Started crowdfunders, done social networking, rattled tins on the street. There is nothing.

  ‘Nope. No lottery funding any more. If we don’t get this council funding, we’re fucked.’

  She sighs. I think about the first time I met her. I had been working for SafeMe as a development worker for a year when the manager left. I was thrown in at the deep end, with six months’ worth of admin backlog and a cash loss. I rolled up my sleeves and within four weeks I was up to date and interviewing for two new workers. I secured funding, back then when the council still cared about what happened to people and not just about their jobs. Janice applied.

  She was the only one who was properly qualified and the only one who had answered the question on the application form ‘why do you want to work at SafeMe?’ with the correct answer: because I care.

  We hit it off from the very start, the good cop, bad cop double-act. The Friday-afternoon party in the spare flat that doubled as an office before we extended outwards into the mill next door. Jelly, ice cream and full-fat cola. Virgin cocktails in proper cocktail glasses and trays of tiny sandwiches balanced on cake stands from the local charity shop. We would herd in the women and children. Sad-eyed, shell-shocked residents who had sat for days in a white-walled cell of a room, suddenly confronted by a room full of happiness. It was a start, and we knew it. A start to a new life where there were treats on a Friday afternoon and where opulence was allowed, nay, encouraged.

  The trees and fairy lights were Janice’s idea. I contributed the china teacups and teapots and we had some donated chesterfields reupholstered by a local furniture class. Very soon the SafeMe main hall was like home: a mixture of my messiness and Janice’s boho style. No need for housework or continual tidying. No pressure to ‘keep house’. We were all in recovery here. All supporting each other, feet up, having a brew, in our safe, secure, grotto.