When I Was Invisible

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Nah, nah, I’m not working with him,’ the man said when he saw what I was doing. ‘I wouldn’t do nothing like that. He’s just a bastard. Every time there’s a woman in there he tries it on. We tried to get him banned but they say there’s nothing they can do, everyone’s welcome and no one’s ever pressed charges. Like that was ever going to happen. There’s always one of us looking out for the girls – tonight it was me.’ He stared at me with his open face. ‘Felt good to give him that boot to the head.’

  The man was only a fraction taller than me, with a wiry frame, his many layers of clothing hanging off him. He looked grimy; not dirty, just a bit grubby, his clothes coloured with the grey of city living, his shoes worn, and his surprisingly clean but yellow-stained fingers, peeking out of fingerless gloves.

  ‘You just arrived?’ he asked. He didn’t try to close the gap between us, seemed to know that I needed space from him. I liked that. It showed a modicum of decency and understanding.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want me to show you round?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘All the best things happen in the middle of the night,’ he said. Then stopped. ‘You know what I mean, sorry. That was thoughtless.’ He didn’t have a Birmingham accent, it was more cockney than anything, maybe a bit of south London, too. It was hard to place because it kept dipping in and out of various areas of London.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. ‘I just wanted somewhere to sleep. One night’s sleep, that was all.’

  ‘It’s hard for girls on the street, I won’t lie to you … What’s your name?’

  ‘Grace.’ It was easier that time – it tripped off my tongue like people had been calling me that all my life. Grace, my middle name. Carter, my mother’s maiden name.

  ‘I’m Reese. Well, that’s what I call myself, it’s not my real name. No one knows my real name, not even me, I don’t think. I’ve changed it so many times to suit whichever situation. Right now, I’ve had Reese for three years. Saw it on a film once. Liked it, used it.’ He paused for breath. ‘What was I saying? Oh yeah, it’s hard out on the streets for girls. The mixed night shelters aren’t that safe, and there aren’t any women-only ones round here. The best way to get some sleep is to hide. Find somewhere hidden and sleep there. That’s where all the girls are. They sleep out, but they hide at night. It’s the best way.’

  I was going to have to do it, I realised that then. I was going to have to sleep on the streets, on the ground, until I could find a way to make money. People walk on those streets with their dirty shoes. Dogs take dumps on the street, wee up against walls. The streets, the pavements, the ground that I’ve always thought of as dirty and disgusting, are my only option – unless I want to go back to Todd, or go back to my parents.

  ‘It ain’t so bad, ya know?’ Reese said. He had probably worked out what I was thinking. How need was going to have to trump disgust. ‘There are some real bastards out there, but ya know, mostly, we look out for each other when we can.’ He nodded to himself before hoisting up his once-green sleeping bag on to his shoulder. ‘I can take you to a café that’s open twenty-four hours if you want? The owner’s sound as a pound, he don’t mind us lot coming and going as long as we don’t take the piss, like. No dealing on the premises or crap like that.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ I said.

  ‘Come on then, Grace,’ he said. ‘And tomorrow, when the normals are awake, I’ll find out about getting you some ID. A photo driving licence should do it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see, Grace me old girl, you’ll see.’

  I had been wrong earlier when I’d thought I hadn’t gone to the shelter to make friends: that night was the night I met one of my best friends.

  Roni

  London, 2016

  I’m not sure how to dress for a date. Not that I have many clothes to choose from. I have visited the local charity shop and found myself a few non-dowdyish dresses, some flat, sensible shoes. I had to debate with myself over them, though. I wasn’t sure if they were worth using the scant money I had to pay for them, nor whether they would suit me. I missed Mum so much at that moment. The mother I have is not the mother I have in my fantasies. The mother in my head would have come along shopping with me, would have told me what suited me, what I should simply put back on the rail and walk swiftly away from.

  I stand in front of the hallway mirror, examining myself. I have chosen a pinstripe suit jacket, one of my usual blouses, and jeans. I’m not sure if I look like a nun in jeans or not. The chain of my crucifix is visible around my neck, but the actual cross is below the top button of my white blouse. My only other jewellery is the gold-plated watch my parents gave me for my eighteenth birthday. I’d left it behind because we were only allowed the absolute basics in the first convent I entered. It’d been one of the first things I’d put on when I got home. I stare at myself again: my brown hair’s a bit plain, but there’s not much to do with a cut like mine. It wasn’t necessary to cut my hair short, but I liked it short and easy to manage. I suppose I could grow it out.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ I say to Mum, who is sitting in the living room with her needlepoint on her lap, one of her quiz shows on the TV. ‘I don’t think I’ll be back too late. Say bye to Dad for me.’

  Mum is openly horrified: her needle sticks upwards from her canvas, her glasses slip down to the end of her nose. This is her version of the scratch across a record when strangers enter a pub. ‘You’re going out? What about dinner?’

  ‘I’ll probably get something when I’m out,’ I say.

  ‘You’re not cooking tonight?’ Mum asks, clearly aghast.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t aware you wanted me to. You haven’t been very happy that I’ve been cooking so I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  ‘I simply wasn’t best pleased with the mess you left behind.’

  I don’t like to call my mother a liar, but: ‘Liar!’ I wash up as I cook – it is second nature to make sure everything is as near pristine as possible when you sit down to eat in almost all the places where I have lived. ‘Well, you won’t have to clear up after me tonight,’ I offer as a halfway house to ease her indignation.

  ‘Really, you should have told me you weren’t going to do what you committed yourself to. I would have made other arrangements. I wasn’t aware that they taught you not to honour your commitments in that convent of yours. I’m very disappointed, to be honest. Very disappointed.’

  ‘You look nice, love,’ Dad says, coming up behind me. I step aside to let him pass and watch him settle into the dynamic of the room. His chair is nearer the window than Mum’s and looks altogether more comfortable, too.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘Off out?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry about not making dinner. I didn’t realise it would cause so many problems. Thing is, I don’t have the number of the person I’m meeting so I can’t call and cancel.’

  ‘Cancel? Don’t be ridiculous. We weren’t expecting dinner, were we, Margaret?’ Dad says. He sits heavily backwards, picks up his newspaper from where it is resting on the armchair and shakes it open between his hands.

  ‘It simply would have been nice to have some notice if Veronica wasn’t in for dinner and she wasn’t going to cook as planned.’

  ‘Have you had some sort of knock on the head?’ Dad asks Mum. He holds his paper away from his face, which is corrugated with confusion. ‘Since when was it a plan that Veronica cooks? It’s been lovely of her to do it these past few weeks, but you’re the one who won’t usually let anyone into the kitchen. If I try to so much as boil water for pasta you’re telling me off.’ Dad shakes his paper out again with a stern look at my mother. ‘Go on, Veronica, have a lovely evening.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mum,’ I say. I shouldn’t laugh, but when I step out of the house, I can’t help but have a little giggle. ‘Have you had some sort of knock on the head?’ That makes
me want to laugh and laugh and laugh.

  The Forbidden Grape is a dark pub, lighting set to ‘intimate’. I realise my mistake the moment I enter. Cliff is going to think all sorts, I tell myself.

  He can think what he likes – doesn’t mean he’ll get anything out of me, I reply to myself.

  I am here early because the pub is a bit of a walk from my parents’ house. I choose a table near the bar, then decide a booth at the back might be better. Then I question what sort of message that might send. I do not want Cliff to think this is anything more than a drink or two. I have never been on a proper date, and if that becomes obvious to him, which it probably will, I do not want him to take advantage. Or think about taking advantage. Leaning over and kissing me without permission would certainly be seen as taking advantage. That is far more likely to happen, though, in a booth. I slide myself out, and move back to the table near the bar. It’s got a distinctive wobble and a rickety frame; the backless stools aren’t much better. I feel on display here, as if I am trying to make a ‘NOTICE ME’ statement. I move to a table near the toilets, but it is too near the toilets and there’s a waft of tangy toilet cleaner every time the door opens, plus the table is too big for two. I move to the other side of the bar, near the exit to the beer garden. Smoke from the smokers’ area is blown back inside, though. I go to move again, when I spot Cliff arrive. He’s quite handsome away from school. He isn’t much taller than me, and his hair is nicer when it’s not slicked back, he has glasses on that seem to have been made to emphasise his bone structure, and he is no longer dressed like a teacher: jeans, white shirt and pinstripe suit jacket. No, he’s not dressed like a teacher – he’s dressed like me. The absolute blessed shame of it!

  ‘Hi,’ he says, and he colours up a little; obviously our twin-like dressing faux pas has mortified him as much as me.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks. When I was younger and used to go to clubs, someone buying you a drink meant one thing and one thing alone. The world must have changed since then … although I’m not so sure sometimes. If I allow him to buy me a drink, expectations may arise …

  ‘An orange juice and soda, please. In the same glass,’ I say.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a pint?’ he asks.

  ‘No? Unless you’re expecting me to pay for it, which may change my answer slightly.’

  He laughs gently. ‘I mean with the …’ He waves his hands around as though they are meant to speak for him but they don’t, not effectively anyway. ‘You know, the whole …’

  ‘The whole …?’

  ‘The whole … G. O. D. thing.’ He whispers this. I’m certain God will hear him no matter how quietly he talks, but he seems tense enough so I don’t tell him this.

  ‘Are you thinking God will mind if you have a pint? Because I’m told that Jesus once turned water into wine. I mean, I wasn’t there so I can’t say what colour wine it was or if, indeed, it was something like Prosecco or champagne, since it was at a wedding, but that’s what I’m told. From that, I’m guessing God might overlook the odd pint or two.’

  ‘You don’t drink, so it’s easy to assume that you might disapprove if I do.’

  ‘I don’t drink because I spent most of my teenage years falling down drunk every chance I got. I don’t think I could drink any more even if I wanted to.’

  The tension binding Cliff’s shoulders and pinching his face melts away and he seems happier now to go to the bar.

  London, 1994

  ‘Why didn’t you tell your parents, Roni? You said you would.’ Nika wasn’t cross with me, she was sad if anything. She was sad because if I had told my parents like I said I would, then they might have told her parents and maybe they would have believed her. They still didn’t believe her and the thought of that happening to me made me feel sick. Nika was brave and strong. She could talk and say the truth and she kept saying the truth even when no one believed her.

  It must have killed her soul every time when it happened, when she was sent back to him, and he probably said to her what he often reminded me: ‘No one will believe you if you tell, everyone will think you’re a dirty little liar.’

  ‘I wanted to,’ I said to her, ‘but I was too scared.’

  ‘I would have come with you.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me,’ I said to her. ‘Please. I was just too scared.’

  ‘I said to my parents I wasn’t going back to the ballet lessons. They told me if I wanted to carry on living in their house, I had to do what I was told.’

  ‘I don’t think they mean that, do you?’

  ‘My parents always mean what they say.’

  I took her hand. ‘Do you want to come out with me on Friday night?’ I asked her. I hadn’t told anyone about what I did at the weekends. It was my little secret, my chance to escape. Nika needed to escape, to let go of the noise and find silence like I needed to; she might find that in the way I did.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You’ll see. Just tell your parents you’re sleeping over at my house and then I’ll show you a night you’ll never forget. Honest.’

  London, 2016

  Cliff and I have managed to make some pretty pleasant small talk so far. Which means, so far, I like dating. If it entails this sort of thing, then I like dating very much.

  ‘Did your superiors at the convent mind that you had such a colourful past?’ Cliff asks. He’s got that question there on his face, in his eyes, teetering on the edge of his tongue. I guess this is his way of working up to it.

  ‘I didn’t say my past was colourful, I was saying I used to drink a lot when I was younger.’

  ‘Didn’t they mind?’

  ‘They at the convent, you mean? Not especially. I wasn’t exactly going to be recreating it in the convent environment, and besides, you have to confess all before you can enter a convent. The confessional is binding so nothing could be mentioned again outside of it and once you say your Hail Marys, and complete your act of contrition, you can walk away with the means to atone for your sins.’

  ‘Did you really believe you could do that?’

  ‘Are you asking me as a former nun or a woman you are sitting in a pub with?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask me the real question you’re dying to know the answer to, Cliff?’

  Dipping his head, Cliff scratches a little at his ear, runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sure which question you’re referring to.’

  ‘Have it your way. But I won’t be answering it unless you ask me outright. You won’t be able to con me into it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. If I knew what you were talking about. Drink?’

  ‘Another orange juice and soda, please.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  London, 1994

  ‘Please don’t do this. Please,’ Nika shouted at me.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ I said with a giggle.

  Nika hadn’t wanted to wear as much make-up as me, she’d refused to use the same dark kohl pencil on her eyes or my thick mascara on her lashes or my red lipstick on her mouth. In the end, I’d told her to at least put on some lip gloss and wear my heels because we wouldn’t get into any of the clubs we were heading for.

  We had been in the club about an hour when he approached me. He’d bought me two drinks – one had been for Nika but she’d refused to drink it. Spoilsport. He was a lot older, and a bit big around the middle, but he liked me, had kept patting my bum and telling me how sexy I looked. When he’d asked me if I wanted to go outside so we could be alone, I’d said yes. He wanted to and that meant I probably should. Nika had asked where I was going and I’d just pointed in the general direction of the exit. My hand had disappeared in his thick, meaty grip and he’d practically dragged me outside. Nika had been right behind us. ‘We’re coming back in,’ I’d heard her tell the bouncer, who’d grunted in reply.

  The meaty grip tightened around my hand and it hurt a little as he pulle
d me towards him. He slapped his spare hand on my bum and squeezed, hard. Probably hard enough to bruise. That made me laugh. How was I going to explain that to Mum? He laughed too, then he was pulling me along again, down the street, and then he was pushing me towards the cut by the club, not very far in.

  I wasn’t thinking very much, but I thought he might kiss me then, now he’d shoved me against the wall. I’d had too much to drink too quickly, I could barely stand. This probably wasn’t a good idea. His meaty hands, which had been sweaty and a bit cold, were suddenly up my skirt, his fingers ripping at my knickers.

  Whoa! I thought as I swayed again. This really isn’t a good idea.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Nika called to me again. Nika. My lovely Nika. I turned my head towards her voice and saw she hadn’t left me alone. She was standing there, waiting for me, telling me not to do it. This was a usual Friday night thing. It meant nothing.

  He snarled at her, and I could tell by the look on her face that his eyes were probably threatening her to shut up. Go away.

  ‘Don’t, please. We can just get the bus home.’ She was so brave. So strong. She didn’t need to drink, she didn’t need drugs, she didn’t need to do this to stop the noise in her head.

  He growled at Nika, showing her all his teeth, and she took a step back, scared suddenly of what he might do. I knew what he was going to do. It was always the same, they always did the same. ‘It’s OK,’ I told her. But my words sounded all blurry. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It never means anything.’