When I Was Invisible

by Dorothy Koomson

  Once I’d hit Birmingham city centre and all the people from the coach station had dispersed, I’d wandered around a bit, trying to take in the area, trying to physically learn the lay of the land – which streets were narrow and awkward, which were cobblestoned, which had beautiful old buildings that rose up into the sky like gentle giants, watching over the city. I’d had no idea where I was going, but I’d walked. As I’d walked, the sky had rubbed out its blue colour with black as night had approached, and I’d seen more and more of the previously invisible people. In the archways of buildings, in the doorways of shops, beside cashpoints, in or near the park. I’d walked and watched, knowing that I had to stay awake, find out where things were, see what the city was like before I found myself somewhere to stay. Where are all the women? I had asked myself more than once as I’d continued my walking vigil around Birmingham city centre. Why can’t I see any women sleeping out on the streets? Is it too dangerous for them out here? Or are they doing what I had to do: weighing up which is more deadly – sleeping on the street or sleeping in a bed with the man you are supposed to love?

  Part of me knew I was being ridiculous when I thought about Todd like that; after all, there was nothing he could do. Yet, most of me was terrified of him. Of what he could convince other people of. I knew from past experience that even the people closest to you wouldn’t necessarily believe you when you asked them for help, so why on Earth would the police believe me? And seriously, what was I going to tell them he’d done to me which meant I needed their protection? That he’d bought me clothes that he wanted me to wear? He’d paid for me to be driven everywhere? That’d he’d recorded me? That he would control how much of his money I had access to? That he made it difficult for me to get a job or to have friends? The only thing that could possibly be taken seriously by them, would maybe cast him in a bad light, was that he regularly had sex with me whether I wanted him to or not. Even then, I knew they would blame me. They wouldn’t boldly say it, but would ask me questions that would tell me they blamed me, they held me more responsible for what he did than him. They wouldn’t outright say it, but there would be questions: ‘Why didn’t you walk away?’ ‘If it was so awful, with the money, the clothes, the expensive gym membership, the car service and staying in luxury hotels, why didn’t you just leave?’ ‘He’s not a mind reader, so why didn’t you just tell him that you didn’t want to have sex?’ ‘He didn’t physically trap you in the house, did he? So why didn’t you just leave?’

  How did you explain to people who only dealt in things that were legal and illegal, people who had no idea what it was like living with him, that I didn’t know how to leave? That I was scared to. That he had made me so convinced that it was all down to me, I kept thinking that there would be some way to change myself that would stop him treating me how he treated me. In the eyes of the law, all he did was provide me a lovely, easy life, and quid pro quo, he should get something in return – even if that ‘something’ was sex that I didn’t want, sex that was breaking little pieces of my soul every time it was forced on me.

  Who would understand that?

  And who would understand if I verbalised that for the last year or so, at the back of my head, I’d had a feeling, an uneasy, unformed sense that Todd was going to kill me. If I said that, though, to the police – to anyone – they would laugh in my face and tell me I was being silly. But the way he had worked so hard to make my life extremely small, the way he had managed to twist the changes he was meant to make into changes I had to make, the way he’d been able to control what I did and who I saw without ever shouting at or hitting me, had made me think he would annihilate me before he let me walk away from him. That feeling, of being in danger, had settled at the back of my mind like a contented cat settled on a fleece rug beside a roaring fire. It had been there, mostly sleeping and mostly undisturbed, but the fire had been constantly stoked by the things Todd did, the quiet little violences he’d committed against me, and the cat would be roused, would stretch itself out and would prowl around for a little while to remind me how precarious my situation was.

  After my wash, I sat in the main part of the library in front of a computer. I was trying to find homeless shelters, somewhere I could sleep at night, and then I would be able to look for a job during the day. I was so tired, my feet were sore from walking and walking, I had no idea where anything was even though I had bought a guidebook and an A–Z and I had walked so far in the last few hours.

  The library was warm, full of books, which for some reason made me feel secure, and there was a music section where I could go to listen to music once I’d done this. I was hoping I would be able to find a quiet corner, maybe get an hour’s sleep. No one would bother me here. And then, find a shelter for the night, just somewhere to stay where I wouldn’t have to pay. The money I had wouldn’t last very long – I had to be very, very careful with it.

  There were a few shelters, but none of the information was very clear about how you got in there, if you could just turn up, if they were closed during the day, if they had showers. I needed a shower: the wash downstairs had been refreshing, but not enough. My body wanted to be properly cleansed. Who knew that I should have appreciated every shower I had, especially one I could programme to my exact temperature requirements, because I wouldn’t know when I’d get the next one? In the notebook I’d bought earlier along with the soap, flannel, toothpaste and pen, I noted down the addresses of the shelters. If I can get to sleep tonight, even for a few hours, I’ll be able to get up early in the morning, grab the local paper, walk around newsagents’, see if there are any jobs vacant cards up, see if there is any way I can afford a house share. I had looked at B&Bs: one night would eat into a huge chunk of my money. Under the list of shelters on my notepad, I listed youth hostels. Again, it was money, but not as expensive as B&Bs, and it’d be a place to have a shower, regroup. Maybe make a few friends. Todd had been keen for me to have no friends, so maybe that’s what I needed. I’d been wary of people in the past; maybe I should start to trust them.

  Once I finished on the computer, I got up and walked down the vast, red-carpeted walkway beside the desk space, heading for one of the upper levels. Upstairs, I was sure I would find a place to sit quietly. It was such a huge space, no one would notice me hanging around for a bit.

  ‘Love, love, it’s time to go.’ The woman’s voice was kind, lilted with a strong Birmingham accent, as she tried to wake me up. I sat up, suddenly, realising I’d fallen asleep in a public place. I checked my bag, cradled like a baby under my arm, first of all. Nothing had been disturbed, I didn’t think. My money was safe.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to her. I stood up and was immediately taller than her. She was a slight, small woman – only the oval of her friendly-but-concerned face was on show because of the black hijab she wore. ‘Sorry,’ I said again.

  ‘No, it’s all right, love,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have to wake you. The library’s closing, though, so you have to go.’

  ‘Thank you, sorry.’ Closing time? I obviously hadn’t woken up after an hour as planned; it’d probably be too late to find a youth hostel or shelter now.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ she asked. Her voice was kind, gentle, as though trying not to scare me.

  Is it that obvious? I’d been homeless for two days, only one of them in this city – did it show that quickly that I was of no fixed abode? Or was it the sleeping in a library that gave me away? Or … horror of horrors, did I smell? Did the lack of a shower for two days prove that I had nowhere to go? I quickly clamped my arms down to close up my armpits.

  ‘Erm, I’m kind of new to the city,’ I told her with a glance at her name badge: ‘Nikki B’, it read. The name I’d fled from. The first person to notice me, to see me, in Birmingham was a Nikki, but she was a real one.

  ‘You know, I might be speaking out of turn here, but there are a couple of day centres not far from here. You can go there during the day, get tea or coffee, a couple of times a week th
ey have hot food and you can often have a sit down and sleep if you need to. They also help you with CVs and finding a job and the like. You might not need a place like that, but if you do, there are a couple of leaflets downstairs you can pick up on the way out.’

  She smiled at me and I wanted to throw my arms around her. To cry and tell her thank you, to sob and say that the fact she’d spoken to me, had noticed me, had actually seen that I was a human being, meant so much right now. I’d disappeared with Todd, I had to disappear again to make sure I got away from him, but it didn’t seem such a hardship if nice people saw me, spoke to me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly.

  ‘You can come back here any time you want to, though,’ she said. ‘The library’s for everyone. No one’s going to throw you out just for being here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to her again. Mumbled it actually. I would probably cry if I said anything else.

  ‘You’re more than welcome. Like I said, you’re welcome back any time.’

  At the door, which she had to use a key to open to let me out, she told me good luck with everything and that she hoped to see me again. Then, she asked me my name.

  ‘My name?’ I replied. ‘Grace. Grace Carter.’

  ‘I’m sorry, without ID I can’t let you stay here,’ the lady at the desk of the latest youth hostel I had tried said.

  ‘But I don’t have any,’ I pleaded with her. ‘I lost it all.’

  The woman had a badly done curly perm, and a face set in a permanent sneer. Actually, she probably didn’t, but she seemed to be sneering at me. I wanted to guarantee a night where I didn’t have to walk and walk and walk. I had blisters developing, my socks were rubbing at the edges of my toenails. I just wanted to sleep for the night. It would use up a bit of my money, but I didn’t care. The real Nikki in the library had given me hope. Talking to her, being seen by her, made me realise that maybe I could try doing things the normal way, maybe I would be OK. It was completely magical thinking, as it turned out, because this was the third place that had turned me away because I didn’t have anything to prove who I was. ‘I’ll pay in advance,’ I said to her. ‘Leave a deposit?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s not worth my job. I’m sorry.’

  I sighed, my whole body suddenly heavy and tired. Weary. I’d used that word before but had never properly felt it. Never until then. ‘I just want somewhere to sleep tonight,’ I said to myself. I said it out loud so I could hear if it sounded like something ridiculous, something so outlandish that I shouldn’t even hope to have that wish granted.

  ‘I know.’ The woman’s whole demeanour softened a little. ‘I can’t let you in without any ID, though. Do you really have nothing? Not even a cash card?’

  I shook my head. I had nothing. The credit cards, cash cards and key to Todd’s flat were inside my expensive, designer-label purse, left sitting in a bin in London Victoria before I boarded the coach. This was a reminder, though, that I couldn’t get anything without ID. I would find it hard to do anything without proper confirmation that I was now Grace Carter.

  Not many people knew my proper name, Veronika Harper, but I couldn’t be sure who was looking for me, what sorts of systems were going to be flagged up if I tried to use that name. It would only be for a few months, until Todd got bored and realised that I wasn’t going to reveal all about him, until he found someone else to start over on, but it was going to be a hard few months if I needed ID.

  ‘Look, the only thing I can suggest is you come back when you’ve got proper ID? Yes?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

  It was all very well calling myself Grace Carter, but if I couldn’t prove it, it meant nothing, did it?

  It never grew quiet in here. It was dark, not pitch black, but dark enough to sleep, dark enough to have to wait for your eyes to adjust every time you opened them so you could make out which shapes were human, which shapes were not. It was dark, but not quiet. People coughed, people grunted, snored, moved on creaky beds, talked in their sleep. The air was heavy with the breaths of the twenty or so sleeping people, all curled up or laid flat on fold-out beds that were positioned a few feet from neighbouring cots.

  The man who had checked me into this homeless shelter hadn’t been that keen to admit me, had told me there were no other women there that night so he couldn’t put me near any other females. I’d been so tired by that point, the exhaustion permeating every part of me so extensively, I’d just wanted to walk around in tiny circles to make the tiredness stop. ‘I don’t mind,’ I’d said to him. What I’d meant, of course, was that I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to socialise, to find my new best mate; right then, I’d just needed somewhere to sit down and think, to lie down and sleep, to not be disturbed and moved on for a few hours.

  This shelter was in an old building, not far from where I’d stopped to look at the canal. It looked like a former religious building with its large stained-glass windows, but its outside shape was nothing church-like at all. Both sides of the building were flanked by other buildings under renovation, both of them covered in scaffolding and hoarding that was complicated and prominent, like braces on a teenager’s teeth.

  This place wasn’t so bad. It was all right, actually. It was clean, no one seemed to bother with anyone else, it was somewhere inside and out of the cold and I had a blanket to cover me. I’d lain down fully clothed, with my jacket on top of me, the blanket on top of that, and the soft leather of my lumpy, bumpy rucksack under my head instead of the pillow. I would be finished if I lost my rucksack, so I had to keep it close.

  Obviously for all the tiredness, now I couldn’t sleep. Now I lay awake with my eyes open, listening to the never-quite-falling silence and trying to work out what to do next. I would check out what Nikki the librarian had said about the day centres tomorrow. I could do with drinking copious amounts of coffee, and starting a job search. I wasn’t qualified for much: since leaving home I had worked backstage at the theatre and waitressed and then had become the infamous girlfriend of a man who could kick a ball around a pitch. Not much for the CV.

  I could do it, though. I knew I could. I just needed a chance. I just needed to meet the right person, hear of the right job, and I would have the chance to start over. I was owed a break, I knew that. I was owed the chance to turn it all around. I closed my eyes and kept them closed.

  The sounds around me slowly spun themselves like thread on a spinning wheel into a melody, a backdrop that was unusual but oddly soothing as I let go and drifted off to sleep …

  Suddenly, a hand – calloused and hard – clamped down tight on my mouth, shutting off air. My eyes flew open, my chest expanded to try to pull in air, but it was useless. Another hand, pushing aside the blanket, moving away my jacket. Then a weight on top of me, pinning me down, fixing me to the bed. I couldn’t see a face, not in the dark, not from the way I was being held down, but the other hand was inside my clothes, inside my jeans, my knickers; rough fingers, ragged nails were clawing away at me. I struggled, but the hand on my mouth, the weight on my body, made it impossible. I knew what was going to happen. The sounds of the room were the same as before, all normal, all the sounds you’d expect from so many people sleeping in the same room, and this was going to happen. Surrounded by so many people, this was going to happen to me.

  His breathing, loud and heavy, filled my ears, and no one else could hear it, no one else could hear the noise of him forcing his fingers inside me, nor the sound of my desperate struggle, nor the silent volume of my ‘no’ being shouted against his hand.

  ‘Get off her, you bastard!’ a voice said in the darkness, and I felt the weight being shoved off me before I heard him landing loudly on the floor.

  I was on my feet before the attacker could react. I snatched up my rucksack, held it against my body as protection, then snatched up my jacket, clung on to that, too. It was hard to see in the dark; the shape of the man who had been on top of me stayed on the floor, a lumpy, alm
ost curved mountain. He swayed a little – maybe he’d hurt himself when he fell, although the fall wasn’t from any sort of height. Around us others seemed to be making waking-up noises.

  ‘Come on, we’d better get out of here,’ the man who had saved me said. ‘I just kicked him in the head. When he comes round a bit, he’s going to be pissed off.’ Before I could protest or properly react, he grabbed my hand and began to lead me out of the room, weaving our way around the beds at speed. Without looking back, we left the building and ran a little way down the road until we could turn the corner and move out of sight of the front of the building, throwing ourselves into the false shelter created by the scaffolding on the neighbouring building.

  We flattened ourselves against the wall, trying to disguise ourselves in the shadows in case the man came after us. It was ridiculous, really, especially when we were both breathing loudly, our bodies shaking instead of being silent and stationary if we were to blend properly into the darkness. When nothing happened, no shouts, no loud, angry footsteps hurtling down the street, we stopped holding ourselves against the wall and relaxed forwards. The wind swirled around us, rattling the scaffolding, an eerie soundtrack to what had almost just happened. What had almost just happened.

  My legs went from underneath me at the thought of it, and I was on the ground, clutching my bag and jacket, shaking. ‘He was going to …’ I couldn’t even say the word. I’d never been able to say the word. Every time I saw the word it took me to a different place, a different time, a different horror that I’d tried to forget. ‘He was going to …’ Why? Why? I buried my face in my jacket and rucksack, the full horror of it descending upon me.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, mate,’ the man beside me said. ‘He’s a bastard.’

  ‘Why me?’ I asked myself aloud. The man beside me couldn’t give me an answer, obviously. In fact, I didn’t even know him. He could be as bad as the man in the shelter; he could be worse. Maybe they worked together to get women alone, away from any source of help. I stumbled quickly upwards, steadying myself on my feet as I moved away from him, checking behind me all the while in case someone was going to jump me from behind. I didn’t know this place well enough to know where to run and escape. Would I be fast enough? Would my exhausted legs be able to carry me fast enough and far enough?