by Maggie James
‘Tell me about them.’
Christ. He needed this like a dose of the clap coupled with a bad case of the shits.
‘You’re going to have to tell me about them, Dan. I’ll be meeting them someday, if this goes anywhere between us.’
‘I know. It’s just…well, from what you say you had a happy childhood. You’re close to your parents. Some of us don’t come from that sort of background.’
‘You’re right. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. You really can’t tell me about them?’
He couldn't go on avoiding the subject; he knew that. He’d tell her the bare bones and hope like hell that would be enough for now.
‘OK. Mum had me when she was young, at eighteen. Her mother had died a few years before. Her only other living relative was her grandmother, on her mother’s side.’
‘Was she a single mum? What about your father?’
‘An engineering student. Aspiring musician, too, from what she’s said. They’d been saving up; planning to get married once he’d finished university in London. Then do the living happily ever after bit. Except things didn’t work out like that.’
‘What happened?’
‘He died in a car crash. Huge pile-up on the M4. She was seven months pregnant at the time.’
‘Jeez, Dan! Hardly a happy ever after scenario you’re giving me here.’
‘You’re right. Must have been hellishly rough. I can’t imagine how Mum coped, to be honest. Might explain why sometimes…she suffers on and off with some sort of depression, Katie. Withdraws, barely speaks, needs medication.’
‘What was your father like? You a chip off the old block?’
‘I've never seen any pictures of him. She never talked about him when my stepfather was around. Chip off the old block? Yeah. Mostly, from what I've been told. Apparently, he was tall, with dark hair, like me. Brown eyes. Not like me. Good-looking, she always said. Definitely like me.’
Katie laughed, before her expression sobered. ‘Sounds like your mum had life tough at a young age. No father, no mother…she had a grandmother, you said?’
‘Yeah. I’m not sure when she died; I get the impression Mum finds it hard to talk about her. She was really close to her, you see, in a way she doesn’t seem to have been with her own mother. At least, that’s what comes across from what she says. Which isn’t much. Must run in the family, the not being close to your mother bit.’
‘How old were you when she got hitched to your stepfather?’
‘She met him when I was nearly five. Married the bastard about a year later.’
‘Hmm. I'm getting the impression, loud and clear, you two don’t get on.’
‘Yeah. You could say that.’
‘What’s the problem with him, Dan?’
‘You mean apart from him being a total asshole?’
‘Yeah, but what makes him an asshole? Look at me, Dan. Tell me.’
This was the bit where a dose of the clap might well be preferable. He’d tell her enough to keep her from asking too many questions. Ian Bateman was an area where he wasn't going to linger.
‘He’s one of life’s stereotypes, Katie. One of those who never have an opinion against the norm. Supports Fulham because he’s a guy and hey, guys from round our way all support Fulham, so he does too. Same reason he plays golf on Sunday. Oh, and of course…’ Sarcasm curled Daniel's mouth. ‘He’s a complete Philistine, despises anything to do with books, music or art. All art, but especially mine. “Artists are hippies and fools and should get a proper job”. A common refrain with him.’
‘Is he the reason you’ve never pursued your art as a career? When I’ve noticed every time you talk about it, your eyes light up like crazy? And there’s this animation in your voice you don’t get any other time. Is that why you think he’s an asshole?’
‘You got it. When I first mentioned doing a degree in art, he didn’t stop banging on about it for days. You’d have thought I wanted to study paper folding, for God’s sake. Told me, when Mum wasn’t around…’ He tensed. He could hear his stepfather's searing contempt in his head. ‘He said I was a waste of space, a dreamer, and if I thought I’d ever make a living out of slapping paint on paper I was even stupider than he’d thought. Told me no way would he ever pay one penny towards me doing an art course.’
‘Didn’t your mother stick up for you? What did she say when he spoke to you like that?’ He heard raw anger in Katie's voice, temporarily drowning out his stepfather's contempt. Not that it ever left him for long.
‘He never did when she was around. He saved up the crap for when she went out. He wasn’t exactly warm towards me when she was there, but he never did or said anything out of line. She was surprised I never studied art at college, but she had no idea he was the reason. She doesn’t have any money of her own, or I presume she doesn’t, given the fact she gave up work when she married him. I wouldn’t have asked her anyway. I think she always expected my stepfather would provide the funds if I wanted to go to college, so when I didn’t, she thought I didn’t want to.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Not the case. I’d have given my right arm to study art.’
‘Except then you wouldn’t be able to paint. Yep. Your stepfather sounds like a complete asshole.’
‘See, apart from art, there was nothing else I wanted to do. So I left home as soon as possible, did delivery work, bar work…ended up managing the shop where we met. I do art classes as and when I can.’
‘You’ve not seen much of them since?’
‘Not really. He plays golf on Sunday. I go round then to see Mum. She does the traditional Sunday roast bit because she’s not convinced I eat properly now I don’t live with her. I leave as soon as I can and always before he gets home.’
‘So what about your mother? How come you don’t get on with her?’
‘She’s what I call a smother mother. Always has been. Promise me you’ll never fuss over whether my socks are warm enough.’
‘Perhaps you’re being a bit hard on her. Isn’t that what mums do? Mine still worries about me. I know my gap year was tough on her.’
‘Yeah, I know, Katie. She doesn’t have a great deal in her life, I suppose, and she’s always made me the focus of it. It can be a bit difficult to deal with at times.’
‘She get on OK with your stepfather?’
‘Yeah. In her way. She’s always been a traditional wife. Shirts ironed, washing done, his meals cooked.’
Katie laughed. ‘All the things I will never be doing for you.’
‘The funny thing is - I may think he’s a prick, but she doesn’t. She really does seem to feel affection for him, hard as that is for me to understand. I always thought he cared more for her than the other way round, though.’
‘Do you think he really does care about her? Or is it the fact he has an on-tap maid service?’
‘That’s the weird part. When I lived with them, he genuinely seemed to love her. Showed in little ways…I don't know, like the way he looked at her, his tone of voice, although he could be pretty controlling towards her.’
‘What’s your mum like?’
‘She’s nothing like me. Petite, comes up to just under my shoulders. Not bad for her age…she was really pretty when younger. She has a picture of herself, when she was eighteen, holding me not long after I was born. Dark blonde hair…and big blue eyes. Heard my stepfather tell her enough times her eyes were what drew him to her when they first met. He actually sounds romantic – except that’s not a concept you’d associate with him – when he says it.’ He yawned. ‘You finished interrogating me about my family? Can we get some sleep now?’
‘Yep. Don't think you're completely off the hook, though.’ She grinned. ‘I’m going to make you a full English breakfast tomorrow, lover boy. There's something new I want to try in bed. Believe me, you'll need all the fortification bacon and eggs can give you.’
7
HIS WORD AGAINST MINE
My already fractured world was about to split apart even furthe
r, and the hopelessly naïve girl I was back then had no idea.
The woman from the house where I was lodging had gone out for the evening and the eight-year-old boy was at a sleepover. The man sat downstairs drinking beer, as usual; he didn’t figure in my thoughts for even a second. I lay on my bed, Gran, planning how to tell you about my pregnancy and hoping you would understand and not be too disappointed in me. I thought I could come and live with you; I’d be the best mother ever and give my child the love and stability I’d never had. Maybe I’d take some courses at the local college, get some qualifications after my baby’s birth. It’ll turn out all right, I promised myself.
I was jolted out of my daydreams by the door banging open. The man walked in.
He’d never come into my room before. Every part of me instinctively backed away from him, wanting him gone.
He sat down on the bed. I inched my legs away from him, drawing them up beside me.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You still seeing that boyfriend of yours?’
His words startled me. I didn’t think anyone knew about Matt. I’d never actually lied about him, but every time we’d met, I’d given the impression I was going to see a female friend from school. I thought I’d face fewer questions that way.
‘I saw the two of you.’ He edged closer. ‘One evening. Going into Burger King. Holding hands. I thought to myself, Laura, she’s bagged herself a boyfriend. Not surprising. Pretty girl like you.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ I had no idea why I told him that. ‘We broke up.’
‘You don’t say.’ He wetted his lips, his eyes nailing themselves to my breasts. ‘You shouldn’t be too upset. Like I said, a pretty girl like you…you could have your pick.’
Oh God. I swear my flesh tried to crawl off my bones. I couldn't bear him being in my room, with both of us sat on my bed.
I twisted my legs onto the floor, made as if to stand up. His hand clamped around my arm, his grip crushing.
‘No you don’t. You’re not running out on me. I want some of what you’ve been giving that boyfriend of yours.’ He brought his face closer to mine and revulsion hit me as I saw the open pores on his nose and the veins in the whites of his eyes. His breath, reeking of beer and bad hygiene, hit me sourly in the face. I tried to wrench free from his grasp on my arm, but he tightened it even further.
I tried to fight back, Gran, but I couldn’t. He had me cornered and there was no escape. I barely topped five feet two and weighed seven and a half stones. He measured six feet and weighed sixteen stones at least. I never stood a chance.
So I lay there, and the thing I thought couldn’t be happening was, and I turned my head away and tried to pretend it wasn’t. I was sobbing and thinking, no, he can't be doing this, he can't. There’s a baby inside me and I have to take care of it and not let this happen. All the while, the man charged with giving me a safe and secure home lay on top of me, pinning me down with his weight while he rolled on a condom. The thought registered in my brain that he’d planned this; he’d come into my room prepared. Then he thrust into me, sudden and rough, and it hurt. He was heavy and slick with sweat, flabby belly pressing tight against me, musty breath hot against my ear. I was bone-dry and getting sore and it seemed to go on forever.
Eventually he rolled off.
‘It’ll be your word against mine,’ he said.
When I didn’t respond, he stood up and left.
I lay there and I felt soiled, Gran, as if something vile and slimy had smeared itself all over me and I’d never be clean again. I wanted to turn up the shower as hot as it would go and scrub away the filth he’d put on me and not come out until I’d scoured every trace of him off my body. I didn’t, because part of me was able to think clearly, you see, Gran, even if the other part of me was screaming inside and wanting to pound my fists into the bed. I thought there might be some evidence to take to the police, like one of his pubic hairs or something.
His parting words came back to me, though. It would be his word against mine. I didn’t have any fight left, Gran. Years of looking after Mum, finding out about my pregnancy, the betrayal by Matthew Hancock – and now this. I imagined stern police officers, looking at me, judging me, asking me if I was making it all up, had I consented to sex, after all I wasn’t a virgin, was I? I thought of him telling a male officer how he’d tried to do his best for me, provided me with a home when I needed one, and the two of them nodding, agreeing that girls made things up, didn’t they, to get attention. I thought of having to open my legs and some hard-faced female doctor swabbing me for evidence. I thought of standing up in court whilst some stone-hearted lawyer tore me to shreds.
No. I couldn't do it. Far better to be a coward and run away.
I listened. I knew he was downstairs and I thought perhaps if I stayed very quiet, I’d be all right. He’d had what he wanted and I reckoned I was safe for now.
A while later I heard the woman arrive back and the sounds of voices came from below, although I couldn’t distinguish the words. They seemed to go on forever. Eventually both of them came up the stairs and went into their bedroom, down the hall from mine, and then into the bathroom. Someone flushed the toilet. The bedroom door clicked shut.
At last, there was silence.
I waited for at least an hour. Then I got off the bed, moving as quietly as possible. I took the largest bag I owned and filled it with what few possessions I had. I grabbed my coat and hoisted the bag over my shoulder. I came out of my room, walked down the stairs and carefully unlatched the front door. Then I stepped outside into the frigid night air, the door shut behind me, my rapist sleeping, unaware of my flight. I would never set foot in that house again and my only thought was to get to you, Gran.
My bag weighed too much and the walk seemed to take forever, the cold slicing through me with every step, but eventually I arrived at your house. I took the key from its hiding place under the stone in the front garden, and I let myself in, desperately calling out for you.
You came down the stairs and I ran to you, dropping the bag, needing you to take away the pain and misery soaked through me. You asked me repeatedly what had happened, but I couldn't find the words to tell you. I felt guilty for putting you through this but I had no choice. You were my only refuge – where else would I go?
Eventually I broke away from you and rushed up the stairs into the bathroom, where I took the longest, hottest shower of my life. I grabbed a sponge and the soap and I washed myself all over, particularly between my legs, rubbing fiercely, scrubbing away the vestiges of the repulsive flabby man with the musty breath and sweaty body, making myself even sorer but I didn’t care. I could hear you outside, Gran, pounding on the door.
At last, I turned off the shower and opened the door and stood in front of you, still dripping, a towel wrapped around my body. You looked into my face and you understood, without me telling you, what had happened. You pulled me to you and walked me into your bedroom, sitting me down on the bed.
It all came pouring out then, Gran, and I told you about him, about the vile man who had seized his chance with a vulnerable girl half his size. I told you how disgusting he had been, how he’d hurt me. How I thought you’d make me go to the police and that was why I’d taken the shower, to wash away any evidence, because no matter how hard you tried to make me, I would never press charges against my rapist. He’d have to go unpunished because however cowardly it might be, I didn’t have the strength to go to the police, even with you at my side.
I've never been sure you really understood how I felt about that. You were reliving the horror you had gone through when my mother came to you bruised, bloody and battered after the gang rape. You were furious, mad at the man who had taken your precious granddaughter and treated her like shit stuck to his shoe. You stroked your fingers over the bruises on my wrists and you swore; something you never did normally. You told me he shouldn’t get away with it but I think you knew you were fighting a losing battle. The shower had swilled down the plughole any p
ubic hairs or anything else that could place my rapist, panting and sweating like the vile pig he was, on top of me. Without evidence, it really did come down to his word against mine.
I woke up the next morning and knew I’d have to tell you about my pregnancy.
We sat in the window seat after breakfast, clutching steaming mugs of coffee, and I told you about Matt, how I’d thought I’d loved him. Unable to look you in the eyes, I told you about the baby. How Matt had wanted me to get rid of it, but how I couldn’t contemplate abortion as an option. Not for a second. You didn’t let me down. No judgement; no lecture about how I should have been more careful. You put down your coffee mug, pulling me to you, whispering into my hair how everything would be all right. You said I could come and live with you and you’d help me with the baby. Then you didn’t say anything for a long while, just held me tight and I knew I’d found what I’d come for.
8
FIRST MEMORIES
Sex ended up coming first, before the full English breakfast. Daniel woke up with his usual morning wood, and Katie was horny too, but that was typical of her. She was nothing like the bimbos he'd dated before, who wouldn’t contemplate sex unless perfectly groomed and made-up. Katie was ready for it any time of day. She’d never turned him down yet. Daniel recognised it was more than the fact he was easy on the eye and good in the sack. Katie was a sexual being, through and through, like him. She needed sex - hot, dirty and frequent - the same way she needed food and air.
The sex that morning certainly turned out hot and dirty. Katie kept her word, springing a new sexual stunt on him even he, with his extensive experience between the sheets, hadn’t tried before. It was mid-morning before they emerged from her bedroom, hair messed up and bodies sweaty, but too hungry to head for the shower.