What Doesn't Kill You

by Laura E. James

  ‘All right, boy. I’m sorry. I love you too.’ Griff reached into his pocket for two biscuits. ‘It’s Honey. She gets you all worked up.’ He patted the Labrador’s head, and addressed her. ‘Ozzy’s never had a girlfriend. Now, sit nicely and you can each have one of these.’ He held up the bone-shaped treats. ‘I just need a few minutes of calm before we head back.’

  The sight of the reward encouraged both dogs to park their bottoms onto the path, their tails sweeping the dust and dirt into the gutter with speed and efficiency.

  ‘Are there worse things in life than death?’ Griff said, wondering what the purpose was behind Logan’s statement. ‘What’s worse than death? It’s the be-all and end-all. The final destination. What could possibly be worse? And why would Dad say that?’

  His mind occupied with images of his mother and Kieran, a distracted Griff threw the biscuits down.

  Before he had time to register where they’d landed, the leads were yanked from his hand, and a gut-wrenching screech of tyres and a yelp of a dog hit his stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tess

  I think Mum’s regretting telling me why Griff has moved out. She shouldn’t. Stuff makes sense now. I knew she loved him.

  You see, this is what not talking does. Not talking is destructive. It’s good that she trusts me. She should. For a while it was just her and me, even when Dad was around, and as I grew older I took on the responsibility of caring for her. Not like she cares for Logan, but making sure she ate regularly, had a chance to rest, had someone to chat with, that sort of thing. She’s brilliant at looking after others, but crap at taking care of herself. That’s when we became tight. Unbreakable.

  She’s standing in the doorway. When I get to the top of the road, I’ll stop, turn and wave. I always do when I cycle to Logan’s.

  I’ve offered to go over, sort out his lunch and tea, and help him get ready for bed. Mum said she’ll come over once Griff is with Dylan, but she needs a bit of time to herself. I told her she’s to stay at home. Logan and I will manage, and I can get a taxi back. Mum’s not keen on me cycling in the dark. She’s promised she’ll sort stuff out with Griff and this evening is the perfect opportunity – I’ll be out of the house and Dylan will be in bed. Not that he’s any bother. He’s totally involved in his Noddy marathon. He didn’t disturb Mum or me once while we were talking. We both checked in on him, concerned about the quiet – always a suspicious sign in my experience – but he was happy, sitting on the floor, Enid Blyton books scattered at his feet, and the television lighting his smiling face.

  He’s going to break a few hearts when he’s older.

  My face will break mirrors. That’s what my dad said. ‘It’s why you don’t have friends,’ he’d said. ‘People can’t bear to look at you. I can’t bear to look at you. And don’t blame me. I didn’t give you that stupid, freaky hair.’

  At eight years old, I believed him. At eight years old, I smashed my mirror. At eight years old, my one remaining friend called me a weirdo and stopped coming to the house.

  I was ten when I realised Mum no longer had friends, and even her mum, not that we saw much of her, had disappeared off the radar. Dad’s family had given up on us, too. I don’t recall how or when their visits and phone calls stopped, they must have phased out, but I remember searching that year for Nan and Granddad’s Christmas card, and Mum saying it must have been lost in the post. When nothing arrived on my eleventh birthday, I cried. Dad yelled at me for being a pathetic, over-sensitive female. He called me a ginger whinger, and told me to get over it. ‘They’re not interested in you any more,’ he said.

  Maybe Dad told his parents the same thing. Who knows what lies he spread about us? I think he must have stopped Mum seeing her friends, too. And goodness knows what happened to her mum.

  I imagine this is what happens when a control freak rules your life.

  It’s pretty shit.

  At eleven years old, it dawned on me it was him or us.

  As promised, when I reach the T-junction I turn and wave to Mum, and then I’m off. I’ve a lot to think about on my journey.

  A year after Dad died, Mum decided it was time to rebuild her life. We moved from Bournemouth to Weymouth, and when I was settled at school, Mum volunteered at the local hospice – just a few hours, three days a week. I was really proud of her. I am really proud of her. When I asked her about it she said she’d fought too damned hard to get our lives back to let that screwed-up shithead of a man rule from the grave.

  It was the first time I’d heard her swear. I was twelve.

  That Christmas she met Griff.

  It’s good she confided in me today and I’m pleased I was able to help, although I have no intention of interfering in her and Griff’s marriage. I know more about the split than Griff, which will be awkward if I bump into him, but I’ve learned when to step back. I’m happy to listen to Mum’s problems, and man, she has one huge dilemma to work through, but that’s it.

  When I said I thought she should explain to Griff, not only about Dad, but about Logan’s stuff, too, she turned as white as the onion she was peeling. She was making Dylan spaghetti bolognaise. I didn’t mention he’d had it recently. It’s his favourite. And Mum makes it from scratch, not out of a can. I wouldn’t know where to start, which is what she said about talking to Griff.

  The roads are busy today. I make a mental note to take the back streets.

  ‘Where would I begin?’ she asked. ‘I should have told him when Logan first asked for my help. Griff would still be here if I had.’

  I didn’t answer. I was thinking the same about my cutting. If I’d told Mum that first time I’d cut, my arms wouldn’t look like a page of hashtags. If we’d been open and honest about my dad from the off, I might not get the urge to drag the blade across my skin. And I wouldn’t have been talking literally when I said I wanted to cut a person out of my life.

  I let go of the right handlebar and give my left arm a gentle rub. It’s itchy, but I’m avoiding scratching it, as I’m scared I won’t stop.

  Logan’s being unfair asking Mum to help him, but I understand where he’s coming from. A life half-lived is no life. And if I planned to kill myself, I’d want to make sure I didn’t cock it up.

  Asking Mum was his mistake. I have no idea why he thought she’d agree. Perhaps he’s playing on her need to help people. If he is, that’s a pretty shit thing to do.

  He should have asked me.

  It’s uphill for a while. I change gear to cope with the incline.

  We’re not related, Logan and I, not by blood, but we’re more alike than we first realised. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish to die. Not now. I might have once, a while ago, when I thought there was no way out for Mum or me, but I dealt with that. No, I just think he and I have the same outlook on life. On death.

  I’m not frightened of it or by it. The method concerns me, but when you have control over where and when, you make the how as sweet as possible. Or as bitter.

  Almost at journey’s end. This is the easy part.

  I enjoy the sense of freedom I get when I’m on my bike. I don’t ride it around town or anything, just between our house and Logan’s, where the idiots from school are less likely to spot me. They’d take the piss, and I’m trying to avoid triggers like upset, conflict, and squeaky doors and floorboards.

  That’s the real reason I step over the loose board in my bedroom. I kid myself it’s to avoid being found, but it’s not. Our old bathroom had squeaky boards. Our old bathroom, where I saw Dad go at Mum on more than one occasion.

  I’m working really hard on getting clean.

  Pulling up outside Logan’s house, I loosen my coat. The ride has made me sweat. I lock my bike to an iron drainpipe that runs down the side of Logan’s pre-fab garage, and head for the front door. I ring the bell first, because Mum said I should, and trawl in my pocket for the key. It takes me a moment, as I’ve shoved my gloves in there, but just as I’m about to fit it into the h
ole, I hear footsteps. They’re too fast and clicky to be Logan’s.

  ‘You took your time.’ A woman’s voice.

  That’s … odd. Unless Logan’s finally agreed to outside care, which would be great as Mum’s problems would disappear overnight. She’d have her life back again. For the second time. She’d have Griff. And I could step back. Get off Griff’s case, make the effort to be nice to him, let him and Mum get on with their relationship. And maybe … maybe I could do something about mine.

  The incident, as I’m calling it, in the school changing rooms, got me thinking. Yeah, it was unpleasant and frightening, and it refreshed the images in my mind of what my dad did to my mum, but I’m over what the stupid teenage witch did to me. In fact, it’s made me realise it’s not always men who use violence to dominate and control another person. Women are capable of the same behaviour. In the depths of my psyche I know that, but I’d chosen to let the reality sleep. Well, I’ve had a rude awakening, and I realise I should distrust women as much as I do men.

  The fact I don’t tells me something.

  Love is not about gender.

  And that’s why Stephanie is still in my head.

  She said she was moving to Chiswell in the spring. It’s spring now. I wonder if she remembers me. I can picture everything about her. I haven’t forgotten one millimetre of her face.

  I’ve got this whirl in my stomach, thinking of her. No boy’s had that effect on me, and if I’m completely honest with myself, no boy will. But I’d like to see Stephanie to be sure what I’m feeling is real. If it is, well, I guess I’ll have to be straight with her. It’s scary stuff, but it’s a relief to have got it sussed.

  Mum sometimes talks of the time she met Griff as the fog clearing. She says he was the fresh breeze that blew away the mist. It’s poetic, isn’t it? She says I have a poet’s heart. I do like Shakespeare. Well, right now, I’d say Stephanie’s the missing x in my equation. Okay, that’s more mathematical than poetic, but it’s taken me a while to work it all out.

  The door’s opening. I’m expecting to see an older woman wearing a blue overall, with her greying hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Wow.’ I can’t help myself.

  ‘Excuse me?’ The woman smiled.

  ‘I got the ponytail bit right,’ I say, drawing my hand down the back of my head.

  ‘Not following you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Logan’s voice interrupts our moment.

  The woman folds her arms and leans against the wall. I can tell she’s amused. There’s a dance going on behind her eyes. They’re the blue I’d assumed her overalls to be. That’s a compliment, but perhaps it’s one to keep to myself.

  ‘I was expecting an old lady, with white hair and healthcare assistant clothes, not a blonde …’ I stop. Her neat, precise eyebrows arch. ‘Well, you’re younger than I was imagining.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Logan, again.

  ‘It’s Tess,’ I shout. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘You’re Tess?’ The blonde woman stands up straight. ‘Griff’s daughter?’

  ‘Step-daughter,’ I say. I want to be clear from the start. ‘You know him?’

  She holds out her hand. I’m not sure if I’m meant to be shaking it or appreciating its warmth. She closes her fingers around mine and invites me in.

  ‘I’m an old friend of your dad’s. We’ve come to see Logan.’

  ‘Step-dad.’

  ‘Sorry. Step-dad.’ She closes the door, still with my hand in hers, and she guides me to the living room. ‘You didn’t say your granddaughter was so beautiful, Logan.’

  ‘Step … Doesn’t matter.’ She’s nice. I’m not going to keep picking her up on her mistake.

  She releases me and I kiss Logan on the forehead. I’ve seen him more responsive. I’ve also seen him fuller-faced. I know girls at school who’d die for cheekbones like his. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ I say. I noticed at the weekend, but kept quiet. I didn’t want Mum worrying. Today I’m moved to speak.

  I’m reminded of an old cat my nan once had. He reached the grand age of twenty before he died. He was scraggy. Hollow. His fur and body had thinned. It’s not a good memory.

  ‘I’ve come to make you some lunch. What do you fancy?’ I keep my tone cheerful. ‘I can open tins,’ I joke, ‘and make sandwiches, but only those little tiny triangles with the crusts cut off, and only with cream cheese or Marmite.’ I turn to the woman. ‘They’re Dylan’s favourite. He’s my baby brother.’

  I notice her smile is still hanging around.

  ‘We’ve already eaten.’ Logan pats his stomach. ‘Imy put a few things together.’

  ‘Imy?’

  ‘That’s me. Imogen Joliffe.’

  The blonde woman holds out her hand again, and once more, I find myself in her grip. She sticks to protocol this time, but she’s slow to let go. I’m not pulling away either.

  This woman is a new and surprising variable to my Stephanie equation. She’s intriguing.

  ‘I hope I haven’t caused a problem, or messed up your plans. It’s just that Logan was hungry, and I was here waiting for Griff to get back …’

  ‘Get back from where?’

  ‘He’s out walking the dogs. We were expecting him home half an hour ago. You’ve not heard from him, have you?’

  Imogen’s concern seems genuine. That bothers me. ‘How did you say you know him?’ I claim the armchair, and Imogen takes the sofa.

  ‘We’re old family friends. My brother, Kieran, was Griff’s best friend.’

  She says it like I should know. ‘Okay. So, what? You and Griff have kept in touch?’

  Putting her knees together, she sits forward and shakes her head. ‘No. Nothing like that. We bumped into one another a few weeks ago. At Chesil. He was doing his knight in shining armour thing, thinking I’d been washed out to sea, but basically, he kidnapped my dog.’

  An uncontrollable snort escapes through my nose, but I’m laughing too much to be embarrassed. ‘He kidnapped your dog?’

  ‘Honey. She’s not been the same since.’ Imogen’s mouth curves and soft lines appear at the corners of her eyes. ‘We’re just friends,’ she says, a slow blink of reassurance robbing me of her blue brilliance. ‘Griff and I.’

  ‘Yeah. I got that.’ I consider the reasons for her clarifying her point, and while I realise it’s probably so I know she’s not out to destroy Mum’s marriage, there’s that swirling thing going on in my stomach that says she might be sending me other signals.

  ‘Imy’s father was a good friend of mine when the kids were younger.’ The way Logan speaks of Imogen is the same way I’ve heard him talk about Mum. There’s a lot of affection there. ‘I remember this one from her dungarees and welly days.’

  ‘Not that again. Will I never be forgiven for my appalling sense of fashion?’ Imogen gives Logan’s knee an airy tap. ‘I could retaliate, you know, and tell Tess about your jackets with elbow patches, and the summer you wore socks with sandals.’

  ‘No way!’ I scream. ‘At least I know where Griff gets it from.’ We’re all laughing now. It’s been ages since I saw Logan this relaxed. ‘I think you look great,’ I say, directing the comment to Imogen. ‘But you’ve a body that would look good in anything.’

  ‘And what about me, young lady?’

  Logan’s trying to be stern, but his face is too mobile.

  ‘You do all right for a man of seventy-five,’ I say, his age bringing me back to the fact it’s his birthday. ‘So, how’s your morning been? Good birthday?’

  ‘Better than expected, thank you. Tiring. It was good to see Griff, though. Perhaps he can give you a lift home when he gets back.’ Logan’s head lolls onto the high cushion that hangs over the top of his chair, and his eyes close. ‘He should have brought the dogs in. Would have been nice to see Ozzy.’

  ‘When he gets back,’ Imogen says.

  ‘He’s going to be busy when he gets back.’ I hold up my fingers and put imaginary quote marks around my words. Poor Griff. I think he’s in for a
telling off. When he gets back.

  ‘Your mum must be a beautiful lady.’ Imogen reclines and crosses her legs. Her dress, which is stunning, rides to above her knee. She spreads her arms out along the cushions. It’s an open gesture, like she’s laying herself bare. ‘You certainly don’t get your looks from Griff.’

  I’m trying to gauge whether or not she’s teasing? I don’t want to be rude. She’s too nice to be at the foul end of my temper. ‘That’s because he’s not my dad,’ I say, slowly, hoping I’ve pitched it correctly. ‘But you’re right. Mum is gorgeous. My dad was an ugly sod. In all senses of the word.’

  She’s taken aback by this and she closes up like a flower without sun.

  ‘No. Of course. I’ll try harder to get it right. Forgive me?’

  I wave it away. ‘No problem. I don’t expect Griff has told you much about me.’ I’ll have to change that – give away more of myself, so she’ll give something back. I want her to reveal herself. ‘My dad died when I was eleven.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She’s clasped one hand on top of the other, across her heart. ‘I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you.’

  ‘We weren’t close.’ I’m considering how much I can divulge, remembering that Mum’s not even hinted to Griff about our difficult past. I need to be sparing with the detail. ‘But, yes, it took a while to get over it.’ It’s not a lie.

  Logan mumbles in his sleep, making my insides thump. I blink. I’ve been engrossed in Imogen and forgotten he was here. ‘Can I ask how old you are?’ I’ve put her in her late twenties, not a lifetime away from my age.

  She drops her hands away from her breast, uncrosses her legs and leans forward. Her ponytail tumbles down her back. ‘I promise I’m not a threat to your mum. Griff and I are just friends. He’s really not my type,’ she whispers.

  My palms are clammy and my throat is dry. I actually feel a little sick. It’s like the time I had to recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 at the school Lit Fest. Sir said it was the worst case of nerves he’d come across in his ten years organising the recitals. ‘Did you know Imogen was the name of a Shakespearean heroine?’ I say, finding confidence on solid ground.