by Kim Noble
Mum’s health really deteriorated. She’d suffered a serious stroke. After she was released from the hospital she needed twenty-four-hour assistance. Social services supplied some care. Other than that it was up to the family. My boss said I could change my hours to get off earlier so I was home when the help left.
I’d worked as a courier for five years and it seemed like a couple of months. I realised now, with Mum’s operation, that I’d been in my new job for three years already. I honestly couldn’t put my finger on where the time was going. Days, weeks, months and maybe even a year or two seemed to be slipping through my fingers like dust. No sooner had I got up some mornings than it felt like I was already climbing back into bed. Sometimes I recalled having a glass of wine, sometimes I didn’t. The weird thing was I never really had a craving for a drink. If booze was the problem, shouldn’t I have at least wanted it more?
Between looking after Mum and trying to track down my missing minutes there hardly seemed to be much time left for work. If it weren’t for the money in my bank account at the end of the week I would probably have questioned whether I was even going in some days.
But if they are paying me, everything must be okay.
Except everything wasn’t okay. Far from it. I couldn’t put my finger on why but the mood in the office had changed. In fact, the atmosphere around the whole building was completely different – and not in a good way. First of all there were the whispers. People were talking about some really unpleasant things. Not openly, but I’d hear snatches of conversations in car parks or toilets or occasionally in the pub after work. There were rumours that a certain member of staff had complained of being sexually assaulted by others. No one told me directly, and they certainly didn’t mention who the victim was. I felt sorry for whoever it was. They were just whispers, not much better than gossip really. But people seemed to be taking it seriously and, day after day, that was the secret topic of conversation behind the work façade.
The worst thing about the rumours was not having a name. I realised, Anyone could be involved. Everyone who came into my room was suddenly a suspect. Relationships generally appeared strained.
How is anyone meant to get any work done like this?
Even though I seemed to be going into work less and less frequently – or so I remembered – the atmosphere was getting worse. Paranoia was in the air, you could feel it. Was I imagining it or were people staring at me? Did it go quiet when I entered the room?
Pull yourself together, I told myself. You’ve got nothing to do with it.
People were also talking about a paedophile ring which had been discovered. I’m not even sure I knew what that was. When I found out, my stomach turned. I couldn’t imagine a worse crime. I still can’t.
The biggest blow for me was realising Carol, who always helped me, had disappeared – literally just walked out one day. I’d gone to her house but she’d moved. It was really odd. Was it something I said? Carol and I loved a night out. Had I let the vino get the better of my tongue?
Or was she something to do with what everyone was talking about?
I really hope not. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Even though I didn’t have a clue what was going on, I had a sense of things building to a head. The final straw came when I found myself turning up to work and the girl in reception saying, ‘I thought you were on sick leave.’
I just stared at her. Sick leave? What for? I wasn’t ill. I’d just come to work, hadn’t I? But she insisted I’d been signed off indefinitely by a doctor. Usually I just play along with whatever people tell me and try to connect the dots as I go but this time I was stumped.
‘What’s supposed to be wrong with me?’ I heard myself ask.
The receptionist started to reply then changed her mind.
‘It’s probably best if you just go home, isn’t it?’
Just at the point I really needed time to get my head clear and start collating all the various strands of information I’d learnt over the last few weeks – or was it months? – I found myself getting shorter and shorter on time. As usual I chalked it up to the wine. Stress from work, I reasoned, was obviously making me drink even more than usual and as a consequence I was blocking out a lot of memories. But I never seemed to have a hangover. And I never seemed to be drunk, either. But something was happening to me, even I could see that. For the first time in my life I even began to wonder whether the doctors had been missing something every time they locked me up.
I’m not an alcoholic, I know I’m not, I told myself. So what is the matter with me?
I was none the wiser, when, what felt like the next morning, I casually rested my chin on my hand while I was watching television.
Ouch! That hurts.
It felt like my face was on fire. What on Earth had I done? Gingerly I ran my fingers along my cheek. The slightest touch was like a dozen pinpricks and yet the skin didn’t feel cut. In fact it felt like I was one massive scab.
My mind went into overdrive. What was the last thing I remembered? Nothing rang any bells. Reluctantly I considered the only possible cause.
Had I fallen? Too drunk to walk? How embarrassing.
I just hope it was a good night …
I was annoyed with myself for joking about it but what else was I going to do? My life was a mess. What the hell had I done to my face? I couldn’t even bear to think about it. Just too much to take in. It had been too much for a long time. I needed to get out, find somewhere to sort out my life. I needed some fresh air.
I grabbed my coat and marched to the door. ‘Just going out!’ I called up to Mum. I snatched the handle, flung it back and nearly jumped out of my skin. Two men, dressed head to foot in black, spun round, almost as surprised as me.
‘All right, Kim,’ one of them said. ‘Going out?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Do we need the car?’
Who the hell are you?
‘I was going for a walk actually.’
They looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ one of them said.
Ten minutes later I was marching angrily through Croydon’s shopping area with Tweedledum and Tweedledee about ten feet behind. It didn’t matter which shop I went into, they followed. If it was a small place then one came in and the other hogged the doorway. They were big buggers, too. You wouldn’t want to mess with them.
On the way back I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’d worked nothing out for myself. I needed to know who the hell they were.
‘How long will you be here?’
I thought that was pretty clever.
‘Until we’re called off,’ the talkative one replied, ‘or they find the maniac who threw acid in your face.’
Usually after a hospital visit I knew it had all been a waste of time. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place and, far from curing me, normally it was the doctors and their team who were subjecting me to painful tests and so-called cures. This time was different. I could feel my face had changed. It was rough, like crêpe paper. And even a week afterwards it still hurt like an open wound. Just smiling felt like I was ripping my own face. Laughter was completely out of the question, although, for obvious reasons, there wasn’t much chance of that.
Learning that I’d been attacked was a lot to take in. Initially I’d denied it. But having a couple of security guys on twenty-four-hour duty outside my front door pretty much won the argument. These men cost money. From what I knew about the world, you had to be in pretty deep trouble for anyone to put their hands that far into their pockets. I wanted to argue, to say it was all a mistake, a bad dream, a misunderstanding. But then I would touch my face and have to admit there was no other explanation.
I just wished somebody could tell me why.
*
Answers had been in short supply for most my life. In the months after the mysterious acid incident they were virtually non-existent. In fact, although I would eventually discover why it happened,
by then I had bigger problems to deal with. At the time, however, I had no information about the cause or the culprit. I wasn’t even told that the security team would be taken away. One day they were there, the next they weren’t. I could cope with that. Compared to somebody else who suddenly went missing, they were nothing.
I remember sitting at home, staring at the TV one day. The house was so quiet and I realised the television wasn’t even turned on. How long I’d been there I didn’t know, although there wasn’t a glass near me. I hadn’t been drinking.
I looked at the time and decided to check on Mum. Then I remembered.
She’s gone.
The pain never got any easier to bear. Mum had died. I was alone – and distraught that I couldn’t even remember the funeral. I must have attended. It was inconceivable that I would miss it. But I couldn’t recall her dying or saying goodbye. It was as if I hadn’t even been there.
I had to blame the wine. There was no other explanation. I’d obviously drowned my sorrows at the wake as though there were no tomorrow. But even so, you’d think I would remember some of it.
Mum’s death wasn’t the only thing I missed. A few days – or maybe weeks, months, I don’t honestly know – later I remember coming home, being on my road and stopping outside the house.
This isn’t right, I thought, and stared at the blackened windows. Policemen were coming and going through the front door like it was the local station. A dozen or so neighbours were milling around. The smell of burning, even drenched by firehoses, was unmistakeable.
I felt sick.
Mum!
It was instinctive. I had to get to her, rescue her, make sure she was all right.
Then it came flooding back. She wasn’t in there. She’d gone.
I forced myself to look back at the charred walls. What had happened? Did I leave a cigarette burning overnight? Was I drunk again? Who else could have started a fire in my house if it wasn’t me? Apart from Mum’s Airedale, Alfie, no one else lived there. I don’t think he smoked forty a day.
I sniffed my clothes. I didn’t recognise what I was wearing but at least it didn’t smell of smoke. Obviously I hadn’t been involved in the fire. Thank God.
I moved along the path. A uniformed arm stretched across the door.
‘Sorry, Miss, it’s a crime scene now. We can’t let you in.’
‘But I need to collect some things.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss, but I don’t think there’s much left. So, if you wouldn’t mind stepping back out onto the pavement.’
Without thinking I did as I was told. Every step that I took, though, resonated with the same thought.
He said ‘crime scene’. Did I not cause this fire?
The alternative was almost too much to process.
First the problems at work, then the acid and now this. What the hell is going on with my life?
I didn’t have the answer. I didn’t know anything. The only conclusion I truly drew for sure was that my problems had nothing to do with alcohol.
But if it’s not the wine, then what is it?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Please help me
The woman collected her papers from the lectern, gave a brief, self-conscious nod of recognition and headed towards the anonymous safety of the stage’s wings. It wasn’t like being at a concert or the theatre but the speaker’s audience applauded heartily all the same. And no one clapped with more gusto than Hayley.
What a day, she thought. Applauding alongside her, Hayley’s friend Ann looked just as rapt. No one, they agreed, could possibly leave that hall without feeling empowered after hearing these incredible women speak.
The event was a conference about women and violence and the speakers on the bill included some very famous names. Susie Orbach was the headliner, familiar to many the world over for her book Fat Is A Feminist Issue. As one of Britain’s most distinguished lawyers, Helena Kennedy was someone who’d built a reputation for championing victims’ rights. But it was another speaker, one Hayley hadn’t heard of before Ann had mentioned her, that had truly struck a chord. Valerie Sinason, a therapist from London, was a wonder to listen to, from start to finish. By the end of her speech Hayley couldn’t imagine ever being a victim of men again.
As the hall emptied, Ann led Hayley towards the event’s social area. Unlike at theatrical performances, conference stars were happy to mingle afterwards. As they reached the area where fans waited for Susie Orbach’s signature on well-thumbed copies of her book, Hayley began to lag behind.
Noticing, Ann laughed.
‘Don’t go getting cold feet now,’ she mocked gently, and gave her friend a comforting arm to hold through the throng. Even then Hayley was reluctant to go further.
‘Tell you what,’ Ann said. ‘You wait here and I’ll give it to her.’
Relieved, Hayley found a chair and sat down. Ann had been a good friend, especially with all the troubles at work and then the acid and the fire. It had been her idea to come here today. Just the recollection of the acid saw Hayley’s hand absent-mindedly stroke her cheek. The physical wound had long stopped hurting but Hayley could still feel the burn with every touch. That would stay with her forever.
Moments later, Ann returned.
‘I’ve done it,’ she said. ‘I gave her the letter.’
‘What do we do now?’ Hayley asked.
‘We wait.’
Standing outside the darkened shell of my house I thought of all the times I’d blacked out, all those unaccounted-for hours and days of my life that just seemed to be lost however much I tried to call them back.
And how I wished I could have blacked out there and then.
Everything I owned was in that building. Now a policeman was calling it a crime scene. There was a chance they were still looking for clues and in my heart I knew I couldn’t guarantee I hadn’t caused the fire. But there was a chance, albeit a small one, that it had been started by someone else. The more I dwelled on it the more scared I became. If there was even a 1 percent risk that the fire had been started deliberately by someone else then I was in more trouble than I could cope with.
What on Earth am I supposed to do now?
I never thought that the answer would lie at Kingston train station.
I don’t remember how long after discovering the house it was. I just recall staring at the sign and looking for a station clock.
According to the timetable, the next train is in twenty minutes.
I checked the platform numbers. I was on the side heading away from London. Where the hell am I going? Then I noticed the herd of people funnelling towards the exit. Maybe I wasn’t going anywhere. Has a train just left? Did I just get off here?
I scratched my head, desperate to remember. Why was I in Kingston? Who did I know there? What was I doing? In the absence of any better plan I decided to follow the masses to the exit. Hopefully something outside would jog my memory.
‘Kim?’
It was a woman’s voice.
‘Hello?’ I said warily but if she picked up on my nerves it didn’t show.
‘My car’s over there,’ she gestured. ‘Shall we go?’
I didn’t have a clue who this woman was but she obviously knew me. That gave her the advantage but at that moment it was just a relief not to be on my own.
During the course of the journey I discovered I was on my way to a women’s shelter. The address was top secret. That’s why she’d met me at the station rather than sending a cab. For the sake of conversation I asked if security was an issue. ‘It’s our number one priority,’ she replied. Even if someone found the shelter’s telephone number, the woman assured me, they would always be answered with ‘never heard of anyone with that name’.
They seemed to have thought of everything – but it still didn’t explain why I was there.
‘Just until you get yourself back on your feet,’ the woman explained. ‘We can’t have you going back home until the bastards who set fire to you and your house are bro
ught to justice.’
She looked embarrassed at her choice of words but I didn’t mind. I could only focus on one thing.
You mean it wasn’t me?
You can play that moment over and over in your head all day and night and it will never sound any better. Every which way I considered it made me feel more and more afraid.
Someone had tried to burn down my house. With me inside. Why? What had I ever done to hurt anyone?
For the hundredth time in what felt like as many minutes I couldn’t help thinking, What the hell is happening to me?
My own problems paled in significance when I met some of the other women at the shelter. There were people there afraid of their own shadows. Others were so close to the tipping point I was impressed how they got through each day. And then there were the ones who just looked relieved to be somewhere safe. I suppose I fell into that category.
I had the usual problems of playing catch-up during conversations but generally it was refreshing to find women who had been through ordeals similar to mine and had come out the other side. We weren’t encouraged to share our problems unless we were comfortable doing so, but I heard story after story that gave me faith in womankind’s ability to overcome adversity. When it came to my turn I felt like a bit of a fraud. I knew so little of what had happened to me that I’m sure it didn’t quite ring true. Still, it wasn’t an audience who would judge.
Generally I think I would have taken my own problems over most of the other women’s. There was just one area where I considered myself disadvantaged. Everyone else at the refuge knew full well who had caused them pain. Each woman had a name or a face etched indelibly on her memory.