Beyond All Evil

by June Thomson

  ‘Look who’s here,’ he said.

  His mother was standing behind him. I was still gripped by sleep. She was cooing with delight, speaking to her son but not to me. Ash lifted Paul from the crib and handed him to her. He said something I couldn’t understand, and she laughed. Ash and his mother conversed in Punjabi as she only had a basic grasp of English. She hardly left the house except to go to church and his devotion to her meant she lived a cloistered existence. I think that suited Ash. He had always kept me at a distance from her. When I tried to get close to her, the language barrier intervened. However, I did not need a translator to know that she was overjoyed by her grandson. Ash delved into his pocket and produced a camera.

  ‘Take our picture,’ he told his mother.

  I felt self-conscious. Obviously, I wasn’t looking my best.

  ‘Ash,’ I said. ‘Give me a minute.’

  He wasn’t listening. He stood in front of me, excluding me from the picture with his body. He smiled broadly, presenting his new son to the camera.

  When the picture was taken, he said, ‘Now you!’ to his mother.

  He handed Paul to her and took a picture of her and the baby. He then put the camera back in his pocket.

  I felt like crying.

  Ash was making soothing sounds and ‘mugging’ faces for the baby.

  ‘Did you phone my mum or Katie?’ I asked him.

  Ash didn’t take his eyes off Paul.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Who did you call?’

  ‘Just my mother.’

  Chapter 10

  Nothing Ever Changes

  ‘The trap closes … Now they have an even greater emotional attachment.’

  Ian Stephen

  June: I thought everything would change when I brought her home, but …

  ‘Where’s the fucking key?’

  Rab was angry. We were at the front door of our house. The journey in the car from Paisley had been awkward and silent.

  ‘It’s here somewhere,’ I said. ‘Here, hold the baby.’

  He took Michelle. She squalled.

  ‘Where’s the fucking key?’ he asked again, his impatience growing.

  ‘It’s here,’ I said, rummaging in my bag.

  The angrier he became, the more fearful and clumsy I got.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said. ‘Here!’

  He foisted Michelle back into my arms and reached into his own pocket, retrieving a key and unlocking the door.

  ‘Stupid bitch!’ he hissed.

  He stomped into the hall, leaving me on the doorstep. Rab’s delight at seeing Michelle in the hospital was but a memory. Only a few weeks had passed since her birth. The real Rab had quickly subsumed the proud father who had been a shy and uncertain creature when he was introduced to Michelle. A smile had softened his features, and when he picked up his tiny daughter he seemed almost afraid. The nurses weren’t fooled. They had heard the harsh words he had spoken earlier.

  ‘They told me you wouldn’t have the baby,’ he said – as if it were my fault, as if I had deliberately excluded him from the birth.

  ‘How long are you going to be in this place?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of days yet, but Michelle will have to stay till she’s a bit stronger.’

  Michelle’s early birth meant she would remain in the special baby unit for two weeks. I would go home without her.

  On the day I had to leave her I was dressed and ready when Rab arrived to take me home.

  ‘About fucking time,’ he said as he led me to the car.

  That was two weeks ago, a period that had been hell without my child. Mothers are not meant to leave the hospital without their babies. The house, with its atmosphere of worry and uncertainty, had seemed an empty place. Rab had been uncharacteristically quiet, at times even gentle. He, too, was worried. We travelled to Paisley every day to visit Michelle. With the medical staff looking on, Rab was forced to modify his usual behaviour. Now that we had brought Michelle home, the scrutiny had ended and the pressure was off. Rab reverted to type.

  ‘What’s for tea?’ he said.

  ‘Give me a chance,’ I replied wearily.

  ‘What did you say?’ he roared.

  I recognised the menace in his voice and it made me even wearier.

  Nothing ever changes …

  Giselle: You hope … and then you realise some things never change.

  The huge blue teddy bear masked my sister. At least, I assumed it was my sister. I could only see her legs.

  ‘Surprise!’ she shouted.

  It was indeed Katie, emerging from behind the biggest cuddly toy I had ever seen. Little Giselle brought up the rear, clutching a similarly sized creature, a giant snowman with a wizard’s hat perched on his enormous head. Ma followed, bearing a bouquet of flowers and yet more baby clothes.

  ‘Where’s Ash?’ Katie asked.

  ‘He’s away,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry he didn’t call.’

  ‘It’s okay, I called the ward,’ she said.

  ‘Ma, I’m sorry,’ I said to my mother.

  ‘It’s all right, pet,’ she said.

  Katie dumped the giant bear in a corner.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Ash must have had such a lot on his mind,’ she said in a voice that dripped sarcasm.

  Every eye went to the crib.

  ‘Look at him, Ma,’ I said.

  My mother looked at her grandchild. She laid a hand on her breast and inhaled sharply.

  ‘Oh, my!’ she said. ‘Just look at you!’

  ‘Isn’t he beautiful, Ma?’ I asked her.

  ‘Better than beautiful,’ she said.

  Katie and little Giselle peered over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re a clever girl,’ Katie said to me.

  ‘Those jeans will look fabulous,’ little Giselle said. ‘And look at that hair!’

  We had a fit of the giggles. My niece had been marking off the days until she could get her hands on Paul and play living dress dolls. Our laughter rang round the ward, sweeping away my disappointment at Ash’s behaviour. I had my son and I was surrounded by my family.

  One by one, the others came to greet their newest member. According to them, Paul was variously the handsomest, most contented, best-behaved and utterly adorable child who had ever been born. I could only agree. With each passing moment, I loved my son more. His dark eyes never wavered from me. He was as transfixed by me as I was by him. I had never felt so needed.

  My family left as they had come, one by one, and Paul and I were alone.

  ‘Won’t be long before you take him home,’ the nurse said.

  I longed for the moment. The next three days seemed to be endless, but eventually Ash arrived to take us home. I made my way slowly to the car park. I was still in pain and my stomach felt tight and hot. Ash gently placed Paul in a baby seat. I rolled down the window and fresh air washed my face. I hadn’t realised how dead the air in the hospital had been. When we arrived at my flat, I settled Paul in his cot and began unpacking.

  ‘I have to go and get Mum,’ Ash said. ‘She wants to see the baby.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Hurry back. I need help.’

  ‘Won’t be long,’ he said.

  He returned with his mother within the hour. They crowded around Paul in his cot, talking to each other in Punjabi. I was happy for Ash’s mother. She seemed so pleased. She stayed for no more than an hour before she asked Ash to take her home.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he told me.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, waving them off.

  He returned to find me in tears, standing in the bedroom beside Paul’s cot.

  ‘Giselle, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m in pain from this scar,’ I told him. ‘I’m scared I won’t be able to get up, to hold the baby or feed him.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said dismissively.

  I had placed Paul’s cot in my bedroom and pushed it up against my bed. He was sleeping soundly. Ash left me and went into th
e living room. I heard his mobile ring. I retreated from Paul’s cot and returned to the living room, where Ash was putting on his jacket.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ I asked.

  ‘Home,’ he said.

  ‘You’re at home.’

  ‘Mum needs me.’

  ‘What about me and the baby?’

  ‘Mum comes first.’

  ‘Before your wife and baby?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She always has. She always will.’

  He walked to the door.

  Nothing ever changes …

  Chapter 11

  Behind Painted Smiles

  ‘Stripped of their own personalities, these women can express only what their husbands allow.’

  Ian Stephen

  June: I was walking a tightrope and I didn’t dare fall.

  I played the role of two very different women.

  To the outside world, I was the proud new mother, accepting the good wishes of those who peered into the pram and congratulated me on my daughter. Within the walls of the prison Rab had constructed around me, I was the captive to be terrorised, humiliated and abused. I should have had friends to call on for support, but Rab had long since systematically separated me from them, a process that began the moment we married.

  No one was ‘good enough’. My pals were dismissed as ‘sluts’ or ‘idiots’. If they called the house, he ranted until it became so embarrassing that I cut short the conversation. If I didn’t, he’d force me to hang up. Even if it was my sister, Linda, he’d snatch the phone from my hand and tell her, ‘She hates you. You know that, don’t you? And never wants to see you again.’

  Linda knew I had said no such thing, and that we could speak only when he was not at home. Of everyone who was close to me, only she knew an approximation of the truth. I couldn’t bear to tell her everything. I was ashamed. I had been warned, hadn’t I? Wilma’s words continued to haunt me. I recalled her face, dappled by the light from the circling glitter ball above our heads in the dance hall where I met Rab. ‘He’s a pig!’ her phantom voice told me.

  How right she had been, but it was too late now. My only other friend was Carol. She and I had been at school together. She, too, was a comfort to me and she had the advantage of being acceptable to Rab because she was married to one of his friends. For that reason, if no other, I obviously couldn’t tell her everything.

  Rab was the least sociable of men, but when I was allowed into company – of his choosing – he demolished my self-esteem. He revelled in using social gatherings to dominate and demean me. If I dared to offer an opinion, he dismissed it as ‘stupid’ or ‘ignorant’.

  ‘Who asked you to speak?’ he would bellow. ‘I never gave you permission to talk!’

  He would turn to the company and declare, ‘I picked her out of the gutter. She’d be fuck all without me.’

  I would cringe and those around us would fall silent. No one would speak; no voice would be raised on my behalf.

  When we were alone, he would tell me, ‘You’re a nutter. I could get you sent to the nut house. They’d lock you up, throw away the key. All it takes is one phone call.’

  I began to experience what I now know to have been panic attacks. Faced with the unpredictability of Rab’s behaviour, I lived on the edge of my nerves. Which Rab was going to come through the door? The one who tortured me with taunts, or the drunk who beat me with his fists? I had nowhere to go. His family was out of bounds and my family still believed that he was a good husband. My dad would have been distraught and angered by my plight.

  So, I played the happy wife. I couldn’t allow Dad to believe I was anything else. If he had suspected the truth, he would have challenged Rab and it would have led to a confrontation. Rab was a brute. He would have thought nothing of hitting his father-in-law. I couldn’t risk Dad getting hurt. Rab had already assumed control over every aspect of my life, and now that we had a child my job was to look after him and the baby, in that order.

  He must have been delighted that I was largely confined to the role of a housewife. His jealous outbursts about my workmates had ceased now that I was a stay-at-home mum. However, any attempt to deviate from that role provoked a fury of kicking doors, smashing furniture and punching holes in walls. The neighbours must have heard the noise and seen the marks on my face, but no one did anything. Rab’s reputation preceded him. Who was going to challenge this violent, hulking brute?

  When I was in the house I learned to walk softly. When I made my brief escapes to the outside world I strode with apparent confidence, wearing a painted smile. I did take delight in showing off my daughter, and in the moments we were alone I held her close to my breast, taking comfort from her. My smiles for her were real.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, baby,’ I told her. ‘Mummy has a secret!’

  Michelle was barely eight months old and I was pregnant again.

  This time it would be a boy and I would call him Shaun.

  Giselle: Playing happy families almost cost me my life.

  Paul was growing.

  My healthy, happy and contented son was now eight months old and I cherished every minute with him, particularly after the realisation of just how quickly I could be separated from him for ever. From the moment I had returned home from the hospital with Paul, I began to suffer complications from the birth. My legs ballooned and the caesarean scar was extremely painful. My consultant insisted that I return to the hospital each morning for injections to help reduce the swelling and control the infection, which he suspected was causing the problems.

  ‘Don’t miss an appointment, Giselle,’ he warned me. ‘Or we’ll probably have to bring you in. It’s also vital that you rest. You’ve been through a difficult delivery.’

  I had been debilitated by pain and tiredness, but the thought of leaving my son and going back into hospital terrified me. I lived in a state of fear. Ash had revealed his priorities and I was constantly worried that ill health might prevent me from being able to care for my son. I was determined to get on with it and allow nothing to interfere – until yet another of Ash’s flights of fantasy led to a 48-hour nightmare that almost robbed Paul of his mother.

  I had returned from one of my morning visits to the hospital to find Ash sitting on the sofa, waiting for me.

  ‘Ash?’ I said, looking at my watch. It wasn’t lunchtime. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘My sister’s coming up from Oxford,’ he said without ceremony. ‘To see her nephew.’

  ‘That’s great. I’d love her to come and see us,’ I said.

  ‘She can’t come here,’ he replied.

  ‘Why not?’

  He didn’t answer and then he stuttered, ‘We have to take her out … show her the sights …’

  ‘That’s a problem, Ash. I’m ill. I need to go to hospital every day for a jab. The doctors insist on it.’

  ‘You can miss a couple of days.’

  ‘I can’t. They’ve told me I can’t miss a single day – and I’ve to take plenty of rest. But there’s nothing to stop your sister coming here.’

  He jumped up as if he had been scalded.

  ‘No! No! You must bring Paul to Mum’s.’

  ‘When is she coming?’ I asked.

  ‘Today!’ he said.

  ‘Aaaa-sh!’

  ‘You don’t want to meet my sister? You want to shame me?’

  ‘No, Ash, but I’m unwell.’

  ‘Okay, you can go to the hospital,’ Ash said. ‘But you must come to Mum’s.’

  I was too tired to argue. I capitulated. I could see he was relieved. I didn’t yet know why.

  ‘Bring the baby’s stuff,’ he said.

  I gathered Paul’s clothes, nappies and bottles, and we left for his mother’s house. When we were there, Ash and his mother seemed to be on edge. I understood why when his sister arrived. She was a strikingly good-looking woman who was obviously well off. I knew from the way Ash had spoken of her in the past that she was a success and I had the impres
sion that he was jealous of her. My belief was reinforced when I saw them together. He was ill at ease, almost in awe of her. She had brought a bag of beautiful clothes for Paul.

  I thanked her and Ash said, ‘Put them in the baby’s room.’

  He smothered my hesitation by taking the bag and going to his bedroom. I watched as he opened the door. Beyond him, I saw an ornate and expensive cot. I rose from the chair and followed.

  ‘This is where the baby sleeps,’ he said loudly. ‘Beside us!’

  I looked at his mother. Her eyes were cast downwards. I was puzzled.

  ‘Ash,’ I said. His eyes warned me to ‘play along’.

  I looked in disbelief at the cot. It was a traditional wooden one, complete with a padded ‘bumper’ and matching bedding. A mobile was suspended above the headboard. The ensemble must have cost hundreds of pounds. It was certainly a lot more expensive than the cot Paul slept in at home. There was also a ‘bouncy chair’ – again an expensive one. Ash opened the wardrobe and laid his sister’s gift beneath a hanging collection of my clothes. He had obviously taken them from my flat. I hadn’t even realised they were gone. I was astonished. I knew then that he had created a charade of happy family life for his sister’s benefit.

  ‘Time for dinner,’ he said, ushering me from the room, with another warning look.

  I struggled through the next several hours, unable to believe the lengths to which Ash had gone to persuade his sister that we were all living together. I wondered why he had done all of this. Dinner was a strained affair and, not long after it was over, I was able to plead tiredness and retreat to my bed. My exhaustion was not a part of the charade. I was worn out and feeling ill.

  ‘I’ll be in soon,’ Ash said. ‘My sister wants to go shopping tomorrow. We’ll all go together.’

  I was too tired to reply. I crawled beneath the covers and was asleep before Ash came to bed. I awoke next morning, feeling even more unwell than I had the day before. Ash was already up and dressed, and preparing to go out.

  ‘We’re going to Braehead,’ he said, referring to the massive shopping mall near Glasgow Airport.