And when she clung to that thought for long enough, somehow it calmed her.
The cropped, Rebekah Brooks curls nearly growing sideways out of her head did indeed make her look completely different. Plus ever since she stumbled on the news yesterday, she looked like she’d about thirty per cent less blood than normal. Over the past two years, she’d lost a lot of weight too, which made her face seem sort of sunken and hollow-eyed. God knows all the old sparkle had long since gone out of her eyes and her once pale body was now a deep shade of mahogany. ’Course there was still that bloody kink in her crooked nose, but there was no disguising that, was there? Under a giant pair of sunglasses, though, the face-covering kind where the lenses were the approximate size of two dinner plates, somehow it wasn’t quite so noticeable.
She’d thought everything through and before she left the flat that morning, had even worried that her clothes could potentially be a giveaway; she who’d always been such a haphazard, careless dresser. But Paige had very kindly given her a loan of a neat, black suit, which she was wearing now, along with black pumps and a white blouse. She felt deeply uncomfortable and actually looked a bit scary, like she worked for a bank and had come round to repossess your house, but it certainly served its purpose. A few more deep breaths, a few mental reminders of why she was here in the first place and she was steady on her feet again.
Well, steady-ish.
The flight was full, but they still boarded everyone on time and, head bowed, Jean took her seat right at the very back, thankfully beside an elderly couple from Zimbabwe travelling on to London to see family. No more Irish accents in this part of the cabin, hallelujah be praised. She was careful just to smile and say next to nothing when the couple shook hands and introduced themselves, too terrified to even get drawn into casual conversation.
Almost like a talisman, she was still carrying that dog-eared A4 scrap of a printout with her and just as they started to taxi down the runway, she took it out again to re-read it for about the thousandth time. Like she’d been doing for the last twenty-four hours non-stop, still trying to let it all sink in.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the British Airways stewardess announced briskly over the Tannoy, ‘in preparation for take-off, we ask you to ensure that all your hand luggage is safely stowed in the overhead compartment.’
Jean still gripped the printout in her hand, and just as they started taxiing down the runway, took one final look at it, nearly knowing it by heart at this stage. And there it was: in black and white. The only single thing that could possibly ever make her get onto this plane and go back home in the first place.
KENNEDY, Kathleen, (née McColgan.) At St Patrick’s Marymount Hospice, Co. Cork. Formerly of Foxborough House care home, Co. Limerick. 25 September. (Peacefully, in her sleep.) Dearly beloved wife of the late James Kennedy, sister of the late Paddy McColgan and foster mother to Jean Simpson. She will be sadly missed by all her loving friends and staff at Marymount.
Memorial service Monday 29 September at midday. Rocky Island Crematorium, Ringaskiddy, Co. Cork. No flowers, please.
Mrs K., her beloved foster mum; the one person during her teenage years who’d shown her any care or kindness. The mother she’d never had and who it had broken her heart to leave behind.
And now she was gone.
Chapter Ten
If the first time it had happened had come as a shock to her; if it had been totally out of the blue, then the second time was calculated, almost preplanned.
It was almost as though he’d come in the door looking for trouble.
She’d finished work early and had been in the kitchen cooking dinner for them both: steak, onions and spuds, his favourite. But as soon as she heard him come home, she could almost sense there was something in the air; it was getting so she could nearly smell it. She knew by the slightly aggressive way he flung his briefcase down on the hall table and totally ignored her when she called out a cheerful, ‘Hi! I’m in here!’
Right, she thought. He’s just in one of his moods. He’ll come round with a bit of TLC. He’s just had a bad day, that’s all, so I’ll be nice to him, spoil him for the night. Besides, he was always telling her she was far too tough, too independent for her own good, so for this evening she’d be the perfect girlfriend. The kind of woman he was always trying to get her to be.
She remembered him turning on the telly when he got in; some big match was on Sky Sports that he’d particularly wanted to see. So she served him dinner on a tray in front of the TV, then plonked herself down beside him and asked how his day had been. No response back from him, though; he just kept looking blankly at the screen ahead of him, completely tuning her out. In time, she’d come to learn not even to dream of invading the same airspace as him when he got into one of those black moods, but back then, she was a complete moron who knew no better.
So instead of just backing off and leaving well enough alone, what did she do? Like some kind of kamikaze nut job, she’d asked him what was up and if she could help him in any way. Did he want to talk about it? All perfectly innocuous.
Or so you’d think.
But that was all it took. Next thing she knew she’d been flung back on the sofa, the force of his blow was that strong. Then she saw the tray of food – the dinner she’d gone to such bloody trouble over – being flung against the far wall, smashing the plate and sending peas, lumps of mashed potato and gravy flying everywhere.
‘Are you completely blind?’ he screamed right in her face. ‘Can you not see I’m trying to watch this match, you stupid bitch!’ Then he started pounding into her ribs, pinning her down so she couldn’t move or even breathe. And the pain was utterly blinding this time; far, far worse than before.
But still she astonished herself by trying to fight back.
‘Get off me!’ she remembered yelling. ‘Or else I’m calling the police!’
And then it was like something snapped in him. ‘You do that and I’ll fucking kill you,’ he roared, going for her face this time. She tried to shove him off her, but he was so much bigger and stronger than she was. She remembered looking at the coffee table, wondering why it was at such a funny angle to her. It was only then she realised he’d just thrown her to the floor and she was looking at it from sideways on. And still the punching kept up right until she was about to black out with the pain. Every time he’d pause, she’d think that’s it, it’s over and then he’d start again, only with even more force. Her face felt so hot, clammy, numb … blood was spouting from her nose and pouring everywhere, and now he was punching her for all he was worth, roaring at her for destroying his carpet …
Suddenly she heard an urgent ring at the doorbell. His fist froze in midair for a second, then he barked at her to get up. She couldn’t move, though, so he just abandoned her where she was and told her that if she as much as opened her mouth, she was a dead woman.
Even though her ears were ringing, she could still hear him go down the hallway to their front door and open it. It was Trish, a neighbour from the flat downstairs, wondering what all the hysterical screaming was about. Trish had three kids all under the age of eight, so for someone like her to start complaining about noise meant it really must have been something else.
‘I got an awful fright and so did the kids …’ she could clearly hear Trish saying from the bottom of the hallway. ‘All that shouting and roaring … I was really worried … Is everything OK?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ she heard him tell her, cool as you like.
And he sounded so calm. Polite even.
‘It’s just I could have sworn I heard a woman’s voice screeching out for help … It sounded an awful lot like Jean … So I just thought I should come up and check …’
‘No, no, you must be mistaken …’ God, he sounded so convincing, it was almost chilling.
‘You’re absolutely certain?’
Good on you, Trish. She wasn’t letting it go. She must suspect something, she had to. Otherwise she’d have gone straight back
downstairs to her own kids, wouldn’t she?
The pain was near-blinding, but somehow Jean managed to haul herself up onto her elbow and did her level best to drag herself to the door, inch by inch, to beg for help, spattering a trail of blood behind her. Trish was a great neighbour, she’d get her out of here, she’d understand. Besides, the blood was pumping out of her nose now and she knew she needed an ambulance, fast.
But then just as she’d managed to drag herself as far as the edge of the sofa, his voice filtered back to her, stopping her dead in his tracks.
Because now he was laughing. Actually laughing.
‘Listen, Trish, I’m absolutely mortified about this!’ she could hear him saying. ‘Thing is I’ve just been watching a movie on Sky and yeah, sure, there’s a fair bit of shouting and a lot of violence in it all right. Sorry, was the TV on too loud?’
She couldn’t hear Trish’s reply.
‘No worries at all,’ he went on, smooth as you like. ‘I’ll turn it down right away and so sorry again if it gave you a fright. Serves me right for watching too many slasher movies!’
Jesus, now he was even making light jokes. How could he do that, the tiny part of her brain that couldn’t register pain wondered. Act like the last ten minutes never happened? Was he some kind of Jekyll and Hyde monster? How could he sound so relaxed and calm now, when seconds ago he’d been screeching into her face and pummelling her to a pulp?
In the TV room, she’d still only managed to drag herself a pathetic three or four feet, nowhere even close to the door.
‘Trish, help!’ she tried to shout out, though she knew it was utterly futile. Her voice barely sounded like a tiny croak; no one could possibly hear her. She could feel the blood from her nose oozing down the back of her throat and it was starting to choke her.
‘In here!’ she tried to yell out once more. ‘For God’s sake … Trish, can you hear me?’ But it came out little more than a strangulated squawk that she could barely hear herself.
She’d had to be hospitalised that time.
‘What in the name of God did you do to yourself?’ a senior triage nurse in the A&E department had asked her worriedly, before referring her to a doctor for immediate attention, X-rays, stitches, the whole works.
’Course, he was there by her side, the picture of concern. Holding onto her hand, kissing it, telling her over and over again that she was going to be OK. All an act, her sane mind told her and a bloody convincing one at that. Time and again he kept saying how sorry he was, how he’d just snapped for some reason and how he swore it would never happen again.
‘You can’t leave me, Jean,’ he’d whispered to her, as she lay drifting in and out of consciousness on a hospital trolley, out of her mind, almost floating on soothing waves of morphine.
‘I’d die without you and you’d die without me too. We love each other too much to let this come between us. I’ll get help, I swear I will. I’ll do whatever it takes for you to forgive me.’
Her heart wanted to believe him so badly, it frightened her.
So when she felt strong enough, she looked the junior doctor in the eye and lied to her. The same lie she’d rehearsed over and over in her head.
‘I’ve just taken up amateur boxing,’ she’d croaked weakly. ‘And had a rough fight tonight. That was all. It was no one’s fault but my own.’
The doctor looked long and hard at her.
That the truth? She seemed to be asking silently. Because if you need help, all you have to do is say so.
It’s the truth, she hoped her eyes said back. And if the doctor could tell it was a howler of a lie, she didn’t question it any further.
‘How badly hurt is she?’ she heard him asking.
‘Apart from the blood loss and bruising, she’s got three cracked ribs. But a far bigger worry is her nose. It’s been broken in three places. I’m afraid without expensive plastic surgery, it’ll never be back to the way it was.’
As soon as visiting hours were over and he’d had to leave, she’d made a silent vow to herself. When I’m well enough, when I eventually get out of hospital, then that’s it, I’m leaving. She’d heard that old phrase countless times: hit me once, shame on you, hit me twice, shame on me. Just never in her wildest dreams thought it would apply to someone like her, that’s all. Someone who’d always fought her own battles in life, someone who’d always been so tough and feisty and independent. How could this possibly happen to her?
After all, she was such a strong person, everyone kept telling her. Wasn’t she the girl famous for not taking shit from anyone? The one who always stood up for anyone who was being bullied or downtrodden?
And now just look at her. Look at what he was slowly turning her into.
She was probably the last person you’d ever think something like this could happen to, and yet here she was, lying semi-comatose on a morphine drip in an A&E department, with a smashed nose so sore she could barely breathe through it.
I’ll go home during the daytime, she faithfully promised herself, when he’s safely out at work. Then I’ll pack up my things and just take off. Somewhere he’ll never find me. I could even change my name, just so I’m really on the safe side.
In the end, she didn’t leave him, though. Not that time.
Or the time after that, or the one after that again.
And just look how that turned out.
‘It’s all right, honey,’ she heard a gentle voice say beside her, ‘it’s OK, wake up. You were just having a bad dream, that’s all.’
Jean came to, opened her eyes, petrified.
But somehow it was OK.
She was still on the flight to London, except it was pitch-dark outside now, cabin lights had been dimmed and half the passengers around her were conked out asleep. She looked over to where that lovely elderly lady from Zimbabwe sat beside her, worriedly patting her hand.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Jean said, still groggy and realising that her borrowed blouse was stuck to her with cold, clammy perspiration. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘No, you’re fine, honey. I was watching the in-flight movie anyway. You were talking in your sleep, though.’
Shit, no, no, no, she thought.
‘You mentioned someone called Joe? You kept saying his name over and over.’
Jesus, no …
‘I’m really sorry for disturbing you,’ was all she could manage to stammer out.
‘Anytime, lovie. I’m not a great flyer and I don’t sleep that much anyway.’
‘Well … thanks for waking me.’
‘No problem at all. You sure must have a lot on your mind.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.’
They arrived into London Heathrow just before seven in the morning; a miracle, the lovely lady beside her kept saying, considering how dire the weather was outside. ‘So you can say goodbye to sunny South African skies for a little while then,’ she’d smiled, nudging Jean and pointing out the cabin window towards the gales and torrential rain that seemed to be raging all around them. ‘Instead, I guess we get to enjoy some traditional British weather for a change!’
Jean smiled back at her as politely as she could, thinking, if a heavy storm is all you have to worry you, lady, then you’re one lucky woman.
She still had a good few hours to while away before her connecting flight on to Cork airport. Which was more than worrying, to say the least. Because once she’d claimed the small bag she was travelling with and changed terminal, there was another problem ahead. The weather outside seemed if anything to be getting worse. The rain was battering up against the windows of the departure lounge now, worse than rainy season in Calcutta. She swore she could even see a flash of lightning. Brilliant.
Just then, she happened to look up at an overhead monitor and her heart sank even further.
There it was on the screen right in front of her: ‘FLIGHT EI 723 LHR – CORK. DELAYED. PASSENGERS ARE ADVISED TO WAIT IN THE LOUNGE FOR FURTHER UPDATES.’
And, on
cue, a fuzzy announcement came over the Tannoy.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is to announce a delay on all departing flights from Terminal One, due to adverse weather conditions. Please continue to wait in the lounge and check overhead monitors for further updates. We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience caused.’
Not the best for Jean’s already raggedy nerves, needless to say. Now a short connection had turned into a wait of God only knew how much longer. And now suddenly she was in the land of pale, freckly skin and Irish accents. Where anything could happen, where anyone might recognise her.
Anxiety started to make her paranoid, and by the time she’d arrived at the lounge beside her connecting flight’s boarding gate, she was starting to feel a full-blown panic attack coming on: heart palpitating, eyes blurring, chest walloping cartoon-like, the whole works. Forcing herself to stay calm, she made her way to a tiny coffee shop close by, took a quiet seat in a tucked-away corner where she was certain she wouldn’t be seen and did her best to regroup.
You’re being ridiculous, she kept telling herself. As though the more often she said it, the likelier it was to sink in. It’s been nearly two long years, for God’s sake! You honestly think people will still remember after all this time? You really believe someone will see your face and put two and two together? You’ve more chance of winning the EuroMillions lottery, she thought, than of some random stranger seeing you here and wondering why it is that you look a bit familiar. So just stop beating yourself up, cop the feck on and pull it together.
Besides, you’ve come this far. You’ve been a lot of things in your life before, but you’ve never been a coward and you’re not chickening out of this now. Plus, you’ll need every reserve of strength you have to get through the funeral. So just get over yourself.
Me and You Page 17