What Doesn't Kill You

by Laura E. James

  A troubled look replaced the anger in Tess’s eyes, alerting Evie to the thoughts behind. ‘He hasn’t hurt me,’ Evie said. ‘He is nothing like your father. I promise.’ She saw Tess’s shoulders tense and could only imagine how tightly she was clenching her hands together. ‘It took me long enough to escape Neil and there’s no way I’d expose either of us or Dylan to anything like that again. We’re free of men like him. We’re free of him.’ She tried to foster a smile to reassure her daughter they were stronger now, safe, but it was hard to issue an honest expression when her words were telling lies.

  Neil featured more often in her nightmares than she would admit.

  His death hadn’t brought the closure Evie had prayed for.

  ‘I know you think of him.’

  The instant Tess spoke, Evie blinked away Neil’s image. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Mum! Be honest with me. You used to tell me everything.’

  Not everything.

  From the moment Tess was born, Evie was so overwhelmed with love she swore she would always protect her. Had she known the promise included safeguarding Tess from Neil, she’d have taken her straight from the hospital and disappeared. No trace. No contact. No problem.

  But she hadn’t.

  Her early relationship with Neil and the first year of their marriage had been perfect. Too perfect, upon reflection, but Evie was naïve then. She assumed that was how it was meant to be. Together all the time. Inseparable, with an insatiable desire for making love. Any time they were alone, Neil would pull her to him, and press himself against her. Always hard. Always ready to take her. Sometimes there and then, sometimes teasing her and keeping her on the cusp for what seemed like eternity. And Evie was always a willing participant. She enjoyed being the centre of Neil’s attention. His devotion gave her a sense of security, and he was a skilful lover. Strong. Commanding. Exciting. As long as she kept saying yes, and as long as they were each other’s world, they lived a happy life.

  The day she took Tess home, things changed.

  Neil wanted to know how long he’d have to wait before he and Evie could have sex, but Evie couldn’t give a definite answer. She’d requested time to recover, time to adjust to motherhood, and time to get used to her new body, and its new functions. Her response angered Neil, but Evie brushed it aside, putting his behaviour down to the stress and worry of becoming a parent. She assumed the enormity of the situation was hitting home and making him unreasonable.

  Three weeks on, and Neil was still demanding sex, making crude attempts to fondle Evie into action, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t think of her breasts as objects of sexual pleasure. They were heavy and sore and smothered in a cream the chemist had recommended, held in a maternity bra twenty-four seven, and covered with pads to stop the milk leaking through. They were no longer accessible to Neil to do with as he pleased. No longer a starting point for an orgasm. And there was no way Evie could think of them in that way. Breasts were for feeding and nourishing Tess.

  Swigging from a bottle of rum, Neil expressed his unhappiness at the situation, and laid down the law.

  ‘Sex is our foundation,’ he’d said. ‘It ensures we centre on one another. That we pay attention to each other’s wants and needs. It lets us thrash out our frustrations. And don’t tell me you don’t like it. You get off on what I do to you.’ He’d licked his lips, gazed at Evie’s engorged breasts and had shaken his head. ‘What a waste. Don’t think for one minute I’m happy about this. Two months. No more. And no excuses after that. I don’t want to hear you’re tired, that you’ve been up all night with the squirt, that you don’t have time. You’re to make yourself available at my request, and we will resume the husband and wife relationship I’ve worked hard at building and maintaining. And I never want to hear the word no again.’ He’d adjusted the crotch on his trousers, and he’d emitted a low groan. ‘You see how much I want you? I’d have you now if she wasn’t surgically attached to you.’

  He’d walked away and within seconds Evie had heard the bolt to the bathroom door slide into place. He hadn’t bothered being quiet, clearly making sure Evie knew what he was doing to himself, and when he had finished.

  As time marched on it became apparent Neil blamed Tess for the lack of intimacy, as he called it, in his life, displaying obvious signs of resentment towards the baby. He blamed nothing on his ever-increasing intake of alcohol.

  ‘You’re always with her,’ he’d said. ‘Pandering to her needs. What about me? It’s your duty to fulfil my needs, too. Show me your love’s not all invested in her. What has she got that’s so special, anyway? The little shit machine.’

  It shocked and upset Evie that her love for Tess enraged Neil. He was jealous of the attention Evie gave her. Jealous of the time she spent with her. Jealous of the love and bond between them. And one way or another, he insisted Evie would show him the same depth of love. She would show him the same degree of respect. And if she didn’t give it, he would take it, until she remembered how to love him as a husband – wholly and without distraction.

  When the atmosphere in the house thickened and stole their breath, and when Neil prowled around from room to room, whispering their names, Evie called him to her. She put herself in the way. She took beatings, verbal abuse and sexual violence to stop him getting to Tess.

  As she’d promised at Tess’s birth, she protected her. She’d protected her daughter from her own father; a man whose jealousy threatened to tear their world apart.

  ‘I know it’s something we don’t talk about, but he’s in my head. Too much. If he’s left me with scars …’

  Tess’s unfinished sentence dragged Evie away from the horrors of her mind. ‘Scars?’ she said, giving herself time to catch up with the conversation. ‘What scars?’

  ‘Mental scars, Mum.’ Tess fidgeted in her seat. ‘The sort that never heal because no one can reach them to give them the proper care. I reckon we both have them.’

  It was a frank and mature observation, awash with understanding far beyond Tess’s fifteen years. Its honesty almost drowned Evie, flooding her heart with sorrow and regret, and deluging her conscience with sudden insecurities and guilt. She’d taken the decision for her and Tess to not speak about Neil; to never discuss what Tess had seen, or what Evie had endured. At the time Tess was young, and it had been the right thing to do, but Evie hadn’t considered what the effect would be on her daughter in later years.

  Perhaps it was time to talk.

  ‘I have nightmares,’ she said. ‘About your father.’

  ‘I know.’ Tess remained seated, with her arms still linked behind her back. ‘I’ve heard you call out in your sleep.’

  Evie dropped her tangerine. ‘What have I said?’ This was the part of her life she hadn’t shared with Griff. She didn’t want her past to alter his perception of her, nor did she want the shouting in her sleep to give her away. ‘Have I called his name?’

  Tess shook her head. ‘And it’s only been since Griff left. I don’t remember you doing it before.’

  Relieved, Evie took in a deep, extended breath. ‘That’s something,’ she said, once more offering her hand to Tess. ‘If I decide to tell Griff about Neil, I’d like it to be when I’m awake.’ She paused, waiting for Tess to grasp her hand. ‘Why won’t you take it?’ she asked. ‘You always used to hold my hand.’

  ‘You’re thirty-eight, Mum. I don’t need to hold your hand any more.’

  ‘Maybe I need to hold yours, though, if we’re going to talk about your father.’

  The sigh Tess released caused a disturbance to the loose pith on the table. Her shoulders dropped and she brought her arms to the front. ‘I’ll take Dylan through to the living room and put a DVD on for him, then we can talk.’ She yanked her sleeves down, pushed herself up from her chair and herded Dylan into the hallway.

  Evie continued to lament the loss of Tess’s childhood. It had been taken from her too early. Even at fifteen she should have been carefree, worrying only about the latest
fashion, or which of the three boys who’d asked her out she should date. But Neil had stolen her youth, not by anything he did to her, but by what she saw him do to Evie.

  He’d thrown Evie against the basin in the bathroom. He’d grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and forced his way into her. It had taken all of Evie’s concentration and effort to remain silent, allowing no yell or whimper to pass her lips, despite her tears, but Neil was vocal, explicit and loud. When, to her horror, Evie saw Tess standing on the landing witnessing the violence, she prayed the five-year-old would leave before Neil spotted her and headed in her direction.

  Evie had rushed to her in her room as soon as she was able; as soon as she could walk without trembling, fearful of what Tess would say, scared of what she would ask. She was petrified as to how she would answer.

  Just as she was terrified now of the conversation that lay ahead.

  But ten years ago, Tess had said nothing, seeking only the comfort of her mother’s arms.

  Evie doubted that would suffice now.

  ‘Dylan’s watching his Noddy collection.’ Tess resumed her seat. ‘Can’t say I’m a fan. He’s a little high-pitched and energetic for my liking. Noddy, not Dylan.’

  ‘You never did like him. Noddy, not Dylan.’ It wasn’t the opener Evie had expected, but she could see how talking about Tess’s childhood would lead to Neil. ‘You were a Tweenies and Teletubbies girl, with Barbie films thrown in for good measure.’ Evie smiled at the reminiscence. ‘You loved Barbie of Swan Lake and Barbie in the Nutcracker. We used to turn the volume right up when your dad was at work.’

  ‘I used to turn it right up when he was home.’

  ‘You did?’ It wasn’t a memory Evie could bring forward. ‘Your father wouldn’t have allowed that. He hated noise.’ Neil deemed anything other than sports programmes or action films as noise, and when he was in residence he alone had access to the TV remote. ‘I think you’re remembering it wrongly.’

  ‘Nope.’ Tess rubbed at her wrist.

  ‘Is that scald still giving you pain?’ Evie motioned for Tess to show her, but Tess ducked her arms under the table. ‘We should get it checked over.’

  ‘No. It’s just itchy, Mum. Means it’s getting better.’ Tess pulled her chair in tight to the table. ‘And I’m not remembering the thing about the TV wrong. My memory is in full working order. And I don’t just remember, I hear and see things. In high def, too.’

  ‘But you were just a child, Tess. It’s easy to get memories muddled. And sometimes we think we’ve remembered something, but it’s a manufactured thought, brought on by seeing a photo or having heard someone relate the story.’ Evie stopped the instant she realised what she was saying. ‘Sorry. I think that’s what’s called deflection, or denial. I don’t really know. It’s some or other psychobabble thing. Avoidance, maybe.’ She brushed her hair away from her neck, draping it over her left shoulder. The air was immediately and gratifyingly cooling. ‘Please understand how hard this is for me. I’m not convinced talking about our past will help either of us.’ She avoided eye contact with her daughter, but could sense her glare.

  ‘I used to turn the sound up when he was home, upstairs, with you,’ Tess said, her determination to continue apparent in her firm and steady tone. ‘After the first time I saw him … at you … I’d turn the TV up. So I couldn’t hear.’

  ‘The first time?’ Evie brought her gaze up to meet Tess’s. Her eyes were like lasers, targeted on Evie’s conscience. ‘The first time?’ she repeated, whispering.

  ‘I didn’t know what he was doing to you,’ Tess continued, ‘not at the time, but you were crying, and I thought about the times I cried and why I cried, and I knew you must be hurting. And I didn’t like it.’ She paused, but Evie and the truth were clearly in her sights. ‘Yes. The first time, Mum. I saw him at you more than once.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Griff

  Using his teeth to pull his glove off, Griff reached into his trouser pocket and fished out his keys. ‘I can’t believe how cold it is,’ he said, his fingers numb from the icy wind. ‘It was so warm yesterday.’ The waist-high, red brick wall separating Logan’s house from the path gave no protection from the elements. ‘I wish Dad would add a decent porch on instead of this pointless door canopy. If nothing else, it would shelter him from the traffic as he comes and goes.’

  It wasn’t a heartfelt gripe – it was a few distracted words spoken to conceal Griff’s hesitation in entering his father’s home. They hadn’t seen one another in recent months, and Griff acknowledged that was down to him, but he was convinced he was shielding them both from upsetting and unnecessary grief. Their meetings would end in an almighty row, with Logan exhausted from all the shouting and Griff frustrated and angry at not being heard. It was unhealthy and destructive.

  He searched through his bunch of keys and identified Logan’s.

  Visiting his father was the right thing to do, and it was the only way to put into practice Griff’s resolution to be a better son.

  It was Imogen who’d pointed out time was not on Logan’s side.

  ‘He’s not a young man any more,’ she’d said, when she and Griff had met for a coffee. ‘And I imagine Logan’s set in his ways. You say you don’t get on because you’re too similar, then I say, be different.’ She’d made it sound so simple. ‘If you want change, Griff, it’ll have to come from you. Why don’t you visit him on his birthday?’

  Griff had berated himself at the time. Evie had made these points in the past, but he hadn’t been ready to listen then.

  He truly was his father’s son.

  He was about to unlock Logan’s door when, from behind him, Imogen spoke. ‘Don’t you think you should knock first?’

  Griff peered over his shoulder. ‘I think Evie goes straight in.’

  Imogen pulled a face. ‘That’s their arrangement, and he expects her at certain times. We’ve pitched up out of the blue. On his birthday. He could have guests. He could be entertaining.’ She splayed her hands out in a don’t you think? gesture.

  ‘Entertaining? What sort of entertaining?’ Griff returned the hand signal, but partnered his with a frown.

  ‘You know. Entertaining. A woman. Good grief, Griff. You’re hard work.’

  Amused by Imogen’s exasperation, Griff laughed. ‘I take your point, but let’s not dwell on it.’ He looked back at the door, stepped away and raised his knuckles to the wood.

  ‘There’s a doorbell.’ Imogen’s slim finger appeared in his peripheral vision as she pressed the small brass dome embedded in the doorframe. ‘We’ll wait a few seconds, then ring again and go in. It’s the right thing to do, especially if you want to keep Logan on side. Let’s start off on the right foot.’

  Griff raised his left knee. ‘Right foot. Got it.’

  His corny attempt at humour was rewarded with a generous smile from Imogen, followed by a less charitable shove to his elbow. He slammed his foot onto the path to avoid toppling over. ‘You’re here to make sure I keep both feet on the floor, then?’ he said, arching his brow.

  ‘Who bought you a joke book for Christmas?’

  ‘The same person who gave you the book on diplomacy.’

  The banter felt good. Familiar. Which in itself was odd because as youths they didn’t possess the necessary skills to produce friendly banter. It was mostly requests from Kieran and Griff for Imogen to behave, or bullish commands for her to go away.

  He could see her in his mind’s eye, in her red corduroy dungarees, hanging off the handle to Kieran’s bedroom door, begging to be included in whatever it was she thought teenage lads got up to. She was hanging off Logan’s door now, waiting to discover what it was seventy-five-year-olds got up to on their birthday.

  At least she’d progressed from the dungarees.

  ‘You look nice,’ Griff said. ‘The make-up and stuff.’ He’d thought that when he’d collected her from her house. Her style worked for her. Her short, cream and cranberry summer-weight dress, whilst a
little optimistic for the time of year, showed her figure to its full advantage, including her legs, which Griff considered fit for any catwalk. Who said models had to be Amazonian? Five foot four worked for him.

  Evie was shorter, at five foot three, but as far as Griff was concerned she towered over the super-models. She was petite and slim, with everything in proportion, and a mouth that mesmerised him. She could cast all sorts of spells with those lips.

  He missed kissing. The intimacy it created between him and Evie was incredible; unique. It started with her eyes. Always the eyes. Green, soft, hot, luring him in. But beyond the heat and sensuality, there was a vulnerability he was yet to understand. Her kisses asked questions, but left Griff in no doubt about the strength of her love or her faith for him. He’d hoped to one day answer those questions.

  The muffled barking of Ozzy and Honey drew Griff’s attention to his Land Rover parked roadside. As soon as he raised his head, the dogs jumped themselves into a frenzy, tails wagging so fast they became a blur. ‘They need to come out,’ he said, turning to Imogen, momentarily confused at who he saw. He’d been so deep in thought about Evie he’d forgotten he was no longer with her. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and admonished himself.

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to wind your dad up? Leave the dogs where they are. We’ll ask if we can bring them into the house. We mustn’t assume it’s okay.’ Imogen pressed the bell button for the second time. ‘That was a funny look you gave me a moment ago.’

  ‘Was it?’ Griff didn’t feel the need to explain. ‘Shall we go in, then?’ He slotted the key into the lock, twisted it to the right and nodded for Imogen to turn the handle. ‘Dad? It’s me.’ He entered the hall and slipped off his coat. ‘Come in,’ he said to Imogen. ‘We need to close the door before the warmth escapes.’

  Imogen stepped forward and wiped her feet on the doormat. ‘What warmth?’