The Girl in His Eyes

by Jennie Ensor

  Pity and revulsion washed over her.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ It was the truth.

  ‘You can’t go to the police, Laura.’ His voice altered. Anger obliterated all traces of the wheedling, self-pitying tones. ‘Are you listening to me? I won’t let you do that. You can’t go to the police.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Sorry, I have to go now.’

  She ended the call and put her phone on the bedside table. It was almost out of battery, she should put it on charge. But she stayed sitting on her bed, her heart drumming against her chest. Her father’s anger was seeping into her, removing what was left of her resolve. She began to shiver. It was happening again, this attempt to control her, to shut her up, to stop her telling the truth.

  Would there never be an end to it? What was she going to do? Could she let him do this to her again?

  She put her head on the pillow and pulled the duvet over her head. Her mouth was dry and her heart thumped hard, too hard. Another pulse of fear. It had lodged deep down and was steadily gnawing into the sane, healthy part of her.

  Oh God. Please, help me.

  Her eyelids became heavy. She lay in the near darkness listening to the sighs of wind, the uneven tap of raindrops on the pane, the gush of water down the drainpipe.

  It came when she was almost asleep. A memory, swift and ruthless.

  His whisky breath as he kisses her. The smoky sweetness, the almost liquorish taste of his mouth. The retch that begins in her gut as he pushes his tongue into her mouth. Then something else. His iron grip on her wrist as her head is pushed down, towards that place …

  She can’t do it, she just can’t. But there’s no choice.

  What’s next is beyond words. Trapped. The gag at the back of her throat. Hope withering, darkness surrounding her. Only the long, private agony of death awaiting her, or whatever would take the place of death.

  Laura sat up in bed, her eyes wide open, her heart beating erratically. It wasn’t her fault, what she’d done to him. She knew that now, with all of her being. She’d had no choice.

  And then she knew for sure. Even if her mother and brother never spoke to her again, even if her father’s life was ruined as a result, she had to do this. Yes, it would be difficult for Daniel, even more so for her mother, but she had to do something.

  She pulled a thick jumper and a pair of jeans from the chest of drawers and hauled them on, her mind in tumult. Then she hurried to the kitchen and opened the drawer next to the cooker. She rifled through a mess of electricity bills, bank statements and takeaway leaflets before finding what she was looking for: a leaflet from West Kensington police station; the phone number, and beside it 10am to 6pm. She checked her mobile for the time: 8.32pm. The station would be shut now. What fucking use was that?

  She started up her laptop, typed in Metropolitan Police on Google, and clicked Report a crime.

  Is it an emergency?

  No.

  Was anyone threatened, verbally abused or assaulted?

  She clicked Yes. A message came up:

  Report threats, verbal abuse or assault

  Thank you. You can report this crime online. Click 'Start' below to complete our quick and simple online form. Please give as much information as you can so we have everything we need to start an investigation. Our team will review your report and get back to you within 48 hours. You'll also be able to download a copy of your report for your own records.

  She read on. Oh, Christ. It would take an age to complete this form. They wanted the date and time of the crime, the contact details of anyone who witnessed the crime, and information about any evidence that could help their investigation. How the hell was she going to give them all that?

  She thought back to the time her father had done those things. The dates were hazy – no, totally absent. She was thirteen years old the last time her father had come into her room, wasn’t she, while she’d been alone in the house with him for a week? It was 2011 now and she was 22, so that would make it nine years ago … 2002. Daniel had been away camping with his school, so it would probably have been June 2002, or July. She jotted it down on a piece of paper.

  And the first time, in the garden? It was so hot that day. Definitely summertime, early in the school holidays; July. But was it the summer of 2000 or 2001? Suddenly, she wasn’t sure. And what about all the other times in between? She had no idea about those dates – the memories had merged together without any helpful date stamps.

  It was no use. She’d have to talk to a police officer.

  On the website she found another page with a phone number to report crimes. She dialled the number. A recorded message told her they were experiencing a high volume of calls at the moment and she was ninth in the queue. She hung up, swearing.

  A tight ball of frustration was building up, reducing her thoughts to an incoherent mush. But she wouldn’t be defeated. She’d go to a police station and tell them everything she knew. There had to be one open somewhere.

  She went back to the website and entered her postcode. Hammersmith police station showed first on the list. Thank God, it was open twenty-four hours. She wrote down the number and the address. Shepherd’s Bush Road wasn’t that far. She could get there by Tube.

  The decision brought a sense of relief, along with a pang of hunger. She hadn’t eaten for hours. Before leaving she’d have a quick bite.

  Laura lay on the sofa with another cup of tea, and a slice of toast spread with banana and peanut butter. She thought about turning on the TV – something light-hearted to take her mind off what she was going to do, just for a few minutes. But then she wouldn’t hear if …

  If what?

  She took a few more mouthfuls and sipped at her tea, warming her hands on the mug. She was on edge now, over alert. Outside, the rain and wind were getting stronger, removing the normal sounds of traffic and planes, even the fridge’s noisy chatter.

  The window frame jolted, making her start.

  What was it her father had said to her earlier, on the phone? Something she should have remembered. A threat, or a warning.

  I won’t let you do that.

  The words struck her as menacing now. What if he came here? What if he tried to stop her from going to the police?

  She got up from the sofa, spooked. She had to leave, right now. Without another thought she stuffed her mobile phone, house keys and some coins into her jeans pocket, pulled on her raincoat and grabbed her umbrella.

  29

  Laura

  Late evening, 4 May 2011

  Outside, rain lashed the pavement. There was no one about – no one with any sense would be out in this. She tried to steer the umbrella into the direction of the rain, as she pushed the contraption open, but it jammed halfway. She’d be soaked again before she reached West Kensington Tube station, a five-minute walk. Sometimes one could hail a taxi on North End Road, but that wasn’t likely in heavy rain.

  Laura started to run. Before she’d gone fifty yards, a black cat streaked in front of her from under a parked car.

  ‘Shit!’

  She stumbled and nearly fell. The cat sprang over a wall into a garden. She slowed to a fast walk. The pavement was scarcely visible between gauzy nets of artificial light. In the distance she could make out the streetlights of the main road. Shoving her free hand into a raincoat pocket, she brought out half a Mars Bar and a theatre ticket. Les Mis. She’d gone with Rachel an aeon ago to celebrate Rachel’s success at the end of her first year at work. That peal of flirtatious laughter sounded in her memory, as if Rachel were still beside her.

  A loud smack of glass against plastic. Her heart took off, scudding against her chest. She glimpsed a lit hallway behind a closing front door. Only someone chucking stuff into a dustbin. She let out a long breath. Once again, a gust of wind tugged at her umbrella, allowing more rain to land on her. She tossed the useless thing away.

  It was a while before she realised there was a car behind her, moving slowly so it kept
a short distance away from her. Its engine was almost inaudible over the noise of the wind and rain, but she could just make out a deep thrum, like the purr of a giant cat. She couldn’t bring herself to look around, because she knew what she would see.

  She gripped her phone in her hand, walking as fast as she could without running. Should she call 999? No, it was hardly an emergency. She scrolled down to her mother’s number.

  ‘Hello, Mum? Are you there?’

  She heard her mother’s voice briefly before it was gobbled up by a warbling noise. She couldn’t tell if it was her mother’s voicemail or her mother actually speaking at the other end.

  ‘Mum, can you hear me? Dad is over here. I’ve just left the flat. He’s following me in the car.’

  A garbled voice in her ear, indecipherable. Laura shoved the phone into a pocket.

  The car moved slightly ahead and her heart jumped. She could see it clearly now, without turning her head – a silver-grey Porsche. His car.

  It stopped ten yards ahead of her. The passenger window opened. Her father’s head leaned out. She couldn’t see much of him in the half dark. His hair, uncombed. A dull gleam in his eyes. She wanted to run away as fast as she could.

  ‘Laura, stop! I need to talk to you.’ The voice marred by wind and rain.

  She hurried ahead, speeding up to a fast jog.

  The car moved forward. Half a minute later it stopped again, right beside her. Her father’s head appeared through the open window.

  ‘Please, Laura! I want to talk to you, that’s all.’ There was a note of desperation in his voice.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ she replied.

  ‘I just need to say a few things I never had the chance to. It won’t take long.’

  She hesitated. He wasn’t going to go away. Even if she ran it would take her two or three minutes to reach the main road.

  The passenger door opened. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Get in.’

  ‘No, I’d rather not.’

  ‘You’ll get soaked,’ he insisted. ‘We can go somewhere to talk, if you want. A pub?’

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you.’

  ‘Well for Christ’s sake just get in the car then, you’ll catch your death out there.’

  What to do? Water began to drip from her sodden hair down her brow. Her jumper was already damp against her skin. It would be ridiculous to stay out here.

  ‘OK, just five minutes.’

  Laura sat down on the sculpted, pale leather seat beside her father, and pulled the door shut against the slanting rain. The dashboard’s green glow suffused the car’s interior with a faint light, and the fan heater spewed a noisy stream of air. Raindrops smacked the roof. She listened to the rhythmic flick of the windscreen wipers, a coil of tension tightening in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘So, what do you want to tell me?’

  She was aware of him beside her, though she couldn’t bring herself to look properly. There was a fug of whisky coming off him. That same smoky-sweet smell of years ago …

  A tremor caught her stomach. She clenched her bladder muscles tight against the sudden panic and tried to still the violent flutter of her heart.

  He reached forward and switched off the engine then turned to her.

  ‘If you go to the police, Laura, my life will be over.’

  How could such a simple statement have so much force? It expanded to fill the space in the car, snuffing out her rational thoughts.

  ‘I understand how you must feel,’ she replied. ‘How frightening it must be.’ She met his eyes. Before she could look away her eyes were drawn to his, down and down into a well of pain and darkness.

  ‘I want you to know that I did try. I tried so hard to let it go, to do what a good father would have done.’

  His voice reminded her of a hypnotist’s. Despite her instinct to recoil, she couldn’t help but listen.

  ‘The first time it happened, that afternoon in the back garden. I hated myself afterwards. My little girl, my one source of joy … I’d ruined everything. I’d taken what I loved most away from her.’

  His tears glinted as he raised his left hand and held it, palm up, above her lap. In the centre, a taut white thickening of the flesh in uneven ridges. The scar was roughly circular, the size of a pound coin.

  She stared at it, trying to remember. She’d noticed it before, as a child, and remembered how he’d tried to hide the palm of his left hand.

  ‘I burned it that evening. With a cigarette lighter. I told your mother the pan caught fire while I was deep frying chips, my hand got caught in the flame. I did it again, the next time, to try to stop things getting out of hand. But it wasn’t enough.’

  A flicker of anger warmed her cheeks.

  ‘Why did you do those things? Tell me.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘You nearly ruined my life. I can’t begin to tell you how desperate I’ve been.’

  ‘I know what I did was wrong.’ He was addressing the dashboard.

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘I fucked up, Laura, I fucked up big time.’ A crack opened in his voice. ‘You didn’t deserve a father like me.’

  ‘A father who, for years, made me too scared to sleep at night? Who treated me like—’

  ‘I know. I’m ashamed of what I did. Of who I am.’ He leant his head back against the headrest, his eyes shut. ‘I’m not a monster, Laura. I’m just an ordinary man who’s made some terrible mistakes.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Please, you must forgive me.’

  She turned her head away from him. Dark forms merged beyond the window – bushes, houses, parked cars. Someone hurried across the road, head down, oblivious to them.

  ‘If you go to the police,’ he went on, ‘they’ll put me in the dock. What if they send me to prison? Do you know what they’d do to me in there?’ His voice increased in pitch. ‘Do you?’

  She felt pity for him, and something stronger than pity. Contempt.

  ‘Do you really think,’ he went on, ‘I deserve to suffer like that? I’d sooner kill myself.’

  He was trying to squeeze the resolve out of her. He was still trying to win this game that wasn’t a game.

  ‘If I don’t go to the police,’ she replied, ‘nothing will change. You won’t stop what you’re doing, will you? You’ll find someone else, another Emma.’

  His eyes opened wide, as if she’d slapped his face. Then he laughed.

  ‘You’d like me to end it all, wouldn’t you?’ His mouth twisted, distorting his face. ‘Then you wouldn’t have your old man around to bother you anymore.’

  Something jolted inside her like an electric shock. She stared at him, open-mouthed. Her father leaned towards her. A flicker of metal in his eyes. His voice low, accusing.

  ‘You’re going to the police, aren’t you? I know that’s where you’re off to. Why else would you be out on a night like this?’

  She shuddered, had a desperate urge to pee. She had to get away from him. Now.

  Slowly, carefully, she moved her hand towards the passenger door and felt for the latch.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m going to the police and you can’t stop me.’

  It was instinct talking, nothing more. She pulled the handle and pushed open the door, planted one foot on the pavement and prepared to launch herself from the car. But he was ready. He pulled on her free arm, twisting as he did so. Pain stabbed her shoulder. She gasped, a rush of nausea in her gut. Next thing she knew he was out of the car and on the pavement beside her, shoving her back into the seat. His hands, big and strong, pinned her in place. Panic flashed through her. Before she could think of a response, her hand was already hurtling towards his face, fingers outstretched.

  In the semi-darkness, she could not see the strike but she felt it. The contact with something gelatinous, like the over-firm jelly that her mother sometimes made in the trifle for Sunday lunch. At that moment her father screeched, a shrill, girlish sound that she remembered from distant playgrounds, as piercing a
s a teacher’s whistle. He stumbled back, slamming a hand over his eye.

  ‘Fuck, fuck! What have you fucking done? You’ve fucking blinded me!’

  Then she was running, faster than she’d ever run in her life. Towards the distant strip of lights on the main road, where there would be other people, where she could find help; rain piercing her clothes, her mouth filling with spittle, a hoarse warmth in her windpipe, the ache of her calf muscles. Only one thought. Get away.

  No following footsteps, no shouts. Laura ran on. Suddenly, the road ahead lit up, the colours of parked cars leaping out of the monochrome. Behind her, the deep-throated roar of a powerful engine. She glanced behind. Her father’s form was just visible behind the wheel. He would reach her in no time.

  Ahead, a turning to the left. A side street. She darted into the secluded darkness. She had not been down it before. Where it went – if anywhere – she had no idea. The lamp posts were further apart here, gathering shadowy islands between them. The pavement was empty but the road was crammed with cars in shades of grey. Tall brick houses loomed on either side of the road, three storeys high, guarded by rows of black dustbins. Bedsit land. Rented-out flats. Homes where you have to buzz to get in. Most people wouldn’t answer, probably.

  The possibilities zipped through her head. Run up to one and press all the buzzers in turn until someone let her in? If they didn’t, start to scream? There wouldn’t be enough time. She ran on, scanning each side of the road in turn. Gasping for breath, a jag of pain in her side. Not daring to slow even a fraction. Hunting for some dark recess where she could hide.

  Nothing. Only a sprinkling of shrubs and low walls.

  Then she heard them. Footsteps, slapping the pavement in a rapid, even rhythm; their echo cut off abruptly by the landscape of the street. He was coming for her.

  Her heart beat with renewed force. She veered and ran towards a three-storey house. Up some steps. She hesitated. She could ring the doorbell and hope for the best. But what if no one answered?

  She looked around. Clumps of shrubs in a flowerbed, not quite high enough – there was only one place to hide: a small, covered area set against the dividing wall between two properties, a holding place for dustbins. She crouched among a clutter of plastic bins, between a low wall in front of her and the high wall behind. They were child height, and just wide enough to conceal her.