by Annie Murray
‘I do. Me.’ He came up very close, speaking right into her face. ‘So who decides whether or not I can take my own daughter out for the day, if I want to? You?’ The sneering tone increased, the eyes boring into her. ‘And what do you bring into this house, by the way, if anything?’
‘Dave!’ She tried to back away.
‘No, I’m serious.’ He was forcing her into the corner of the kitchen and Joanne started to feel her knees go weak. Her hand was gripping the potato masher. It was a tinny thing, not much of a weapon for self-defence.
‘Look, I know you earn the money . . .’ She was beginning to panic, feeling trapped in the kitchen. She turned and pulled open the cutlery drawer, trying to break the mood. ‘Could you go and lay the table for us – please?’
Again he stared hard at her, taking his time, then turned away. She followed him out to the back room, anger coiled within her. He was round the other side of the table now, the way clear if she wanted to run out of the house.
‘Since you ask,’ she said, ‘if you had to pay a childminder to look after Amy all day, you’d soon find your precious wages disappearing, I can tell you.’
His head shot up. She saw fear in his face for a split second, before the hard, controlling eyes were back, trying to pin her down, body and soul.
‘Why would I need to do that?’
‘You don’t – that’s the point I’m making. I’m just saying my days are worth something, that’s all. You’re not the only one.’
For a second she thought she had pushed him too far, that he would lash out, but to her relief he seemed to subside and go off the boil. As she served the food Joanne realized that standing up to him might be the best thing. It just took so much energy and felt so risky and frightening.
‘Look,’ she said as they ate their meal, ‘I don’t mind if you want to go to Drayton Manor Park – we’ll go, if that’s what you want.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ he said with heavy sarcasm, as if he had just been granted an enormous favour. And he stared her out again. The battle of the eyes. She found it hard to swallow her pie and left half of it.
It was later that he hit her, unannounced, from behind.
They were undressing in their room and she was standing by the bed, her shirt off, in the process of unfastening her bra. He was suddenly behind her, punching her hard, between the shoulder blades. The pain was extreme and she fell forward onto the bed, gasping. Eyes closed, absorbed in the blackness, all she could think of was the pain, the need to get her breath. She heard her own shuddering sobs, once she could suck the air in and out. There was nothing to say. She had gone to a dark place in herself, like an animal surviving.
He was standing over her. As she surfaced she became aware of the denim-covered legs near her by the bed, alien as something from outer space. Without a word to him she got up, not looking at him, blanking him out.
‘Jo?’ He put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she snarled, shying away.
She was too hurt and upset to think about whether he would hit her again. All she could think of was getting out of that room, away from him, from a man who could just hit you, out of the blue, for nothing – a man who was supposed to love you.
Trembling with shock, jolting sobs shaking her, she went to the pillow on her side of the bed and pulled out her nightdress. She didn’t look at him. She was like a machine.
‘What’re you doing?’ he said. He didn’t sound angry, just bewildered.
‘I’m going to sleep in with Amy.’ She marched to the door. She felt electric, full of sparks that might burst out any moment in the form of screams that would never stop.
‘No, Jo, don’t . . .’ He had started to sound wretched. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I said don’t touch me! I don’t care how sorry you are! What good is sorry? Get away from me . . .’
‘Don’t walk out on me – just come to bed and it’ll be all right.’
But she was already across the landing, into Amy’s room, frantically moving the chest of drawers against the door to keep him out. She never wanted to see him again, ever.
Stiff and in pain, she crawled into bed with Amy and took comfort in the warmth and yeasty smell of her little daughter. She held her, kissing her cheek.
‘Oh God, babby, my babby . . . My little girl . . .’ Then her words were lost as her body shook with tears.
Thirty-Nine
Somehow, the next morning, they managed to act as if nothing had happened, for Amy’s sake. And for their own, because neither of them knew what else to do.
Joanne woke early when Amy stirred and carried her downstairs, thinking that Dave would be asleep. It was only six forty-five, but she saw him outside, painting wood treatment onto the new fence.
‘Dada!’ Amy pointed, squirming with pleasure.
‘Yes,’ Joanne said flatly. ‘Dada.’ Each time she took a breath it hurt.
Dave seemed calm when he came in. Joanne avoided his gaze. She felt cold and closed in on herself and did not speak to him except for a few abrupt replies. He could pretend nothing had happened, when she felt the result of it in every move she made. It was hidden from him, though – not like a black eye, something that would make him see what he had done.
There was a lull. They managed to avoid each other for most of the morning. He stayed outside as the morning warmed up, then went out for a while, to buy things at some DIY place. Joanne took no notice. She did some chores, entertained Amy, ironed some clothes, numb and mechanical. It felt the same to her if he didn’t come back at all.
That morning, though, it came to her with full force just how far down he could push her; how far down she was already, like a prisoner in her own house with little will of her own.
It wasn’t until later in the morning that she realized they needed bread and other food.
Cursing herself for not noticing earlier, she flew into a panic. If only she could get Amy ready and get out to the shops before Dave came back! She felt a desperate need to get out of the house on her own, to walk the streets, to see people and be warmed by the pulse of other lives.
Every move of getting Amy into the buggy seemed to take an eternity, clipping the straps into place, finding her purse, then her keys.
‘Right, Mommy’s ready!’ she said, opening the front door.
Dave was coming up the path with his shopping. He looked startled to see her coming out. They regarded each other. Joanne’s mouth went dry as she saw the suspicion gather on his face.
‘Where’re you off to then?’ he asked, pretending to be casual.
‘We’ve not got much bread – or milk. And we need a few other bits and pieces.’
‘All right. Let me put these down. I’m coming with you.’
‘There’s no need,’ she said breezily. God how she wanted to be away from him!
‘Oh, I think there is.’ He pushed past her and left the bags in the hall. ‘That’s what this week is for, isn’t it? Us being together.’ He locked the front door. ‘See, Amy? Daddy’s coming shopping as well.’
Amy smiled and jiggled excitedly, which made Joanne feel betrayed. Daddy was exciting.
They made their way down to the shops in silence, Dave having to keep walking behind to let people past. It didn’t improve his mood.
‘I hate crowds of people,’ he said grumpily.
Well, don’t bloody come with me then, she thought. I don’t want you here. But she said, ‘It’s not as bad as Saturdays.’
They went to a couple of shops and bought groceries, Dave staying outside with the buggy. With every move, lifting and carrying, Joanne could feel the pain in her back and chest. Soon they had bread, milk, biscuits, tins of corned beef and fruit loaded on to the tray at the bottom of the buggy and were heading home.
She couldn’t have avoided the situation; it was too late by the time she realized. They were both walking up to one of the Asian greengrocer’s with an awning outside and, just as they reached it, someone else pushing a buggy emerged f
rom the shop, almost blocking the path. They were face-to-face. Kieran. He gave his usual friendly smile.
‘Oh – hi, Joanne!’ he said. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to ram this into the path like that – only it’s mayhem in there. I was just escaping!’
Joanne forced a smile.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Look, Amy, there’s Billy and Charlie!’
Dave was at her right shoulder. She could feel him there like a boulder about to fall on her. She turned and saw the suspicious, unfriendly look on his face, which he didn’t take the trouble to hide.
‘Kieran, this is Dave – my husband. This is Kieran – Amy and Billy play together sometimes.’ She didn’t feel she could say we’re friends. Dave had seen them in the park that day; surely he must recognize Kieran, with his ginger hair?
‘Hi, nice to meet you, Dave,’ Kieran said, holding out his hand.
Dave ignored it, gave a stiff nod and said something that might have been ‘Hello’, but it was muttered ungraciously. Kieran lowered his hand, too good-natured to show he was offended.
‘Yes, the toddler group’s a godsend,’ he said. ‘Helps you get through the day. It’s been quite tough not having it there to go to over the summer. Still, it’ll be starting up again soon, won’t it?’
Dave just stared at him as if he hadn’t spoken.
‘Yes, it’s great,’ Joanne enthused. ‘We’ll see you there, I expect. Better get along now – get Amy’s dinner!’
They parted with cheery goodbyes. There was a long silence until they’d turned off into their road. Then, in a loaded tone, Dave said, ‘So who was that, Joanne?’
‘Kieran – I told you. He looks after his kids because his wife’s in hospital, depressed. She’s only at home at weekends at the moment. That’s why he started coming to the toddler group.’
‘You said it was only mothers.’ His voice was very quiet, menacing.
‘Well, it was – until he started coming.’
‘What is he, some kind of poof, or summat?’
She kept her fury at this under control. ‘He’s just a nice bloke – that’s all.’
Without comment Dave fished in his pocket for the keys to the house. Joanne lifted the carrier bags of shopping from the bottom of the buggy. He took them, without looking at her.
It was one of those summer days when the contrast between sun and shade is extreme. She was standing in the sun, beyond the shadow of the house; he seemed to disappear into darkness, going into the hall and out again. She stood watching. Despite the heat, her senses were alert in an exaggerated way, as if she might be able to hear ants marching in the flowerbed. She could not avoid the feeling that something was coming towards her, slow and silent as a tidal wave.
Dave lifted Amy’s buggy into the narrow hall with her still in it, putting it down beyond the carrier bags. Amy was hungry and grumpy in the heat and was starting to whinge. Joanne closed the front door and they were sealed away from the glare outside.
As she bent over to pick up the bags of food, he swung at her with the flat of his hand, catching the left side of her face so that her head jerked back, jarring her neck.
‘Bitch!’ The pent-up rage poured out. ‘You twisted, cheating slag!’
As she was still reeling, he slapped the back of his hand across her other cheek, catching the side of her mouth. She fell, tasting blood, banging the back of her head against the side of the stairs. Her foot landed on something in one of the bags and she slipped, ending up on the floor, her back against the side wall of the staircase.
Her yelps of pain, and Dave’s frightening tone, set Amy off crying, even though she was facing the other way. ‘Mama! Mama!’ Her voice rose in terror.
Dave was bent over Joanne. His face was red and looked puffy, as if it might burst open. He took her by the throat.
‘You slag – you’ve been with him, haven’t you? All this pretending: “Oh,” ’ he mocked her tone nastily, ‘ “I’m just taking Amy to the toddler group, with the other mothers.” When all the time . . . I’ve seen you with him in the park, cosying up to him, that weedy little ginger prat – never knew I’d seen you, did yer? Not such a fool as you think, eh?’
Joanne was terrified. Her face throbbed and he was pressing her throat so that she could only just breathe.
‘No,’ she tried to say. She was shaking her head, while a dribble of blood ran down the side of her chin. ‘No – I’ve never. You’ve got it all wrong . . .’
‘You think you can make a fool of me, you bitch . . .’
She grabbed his hands, trying to pull them away from her throat.
‘Get off me – you’re hurting.’ Panic seized her. ‘I can’t breathe—’
‘Mama!’ Amy was screaming, the sound filling the hall.
Something in Dave seemed to give way.
‘Shut up!’ he roared at the top of his voice. ‘Stop that bloody racket!’ Releasing Joanne, he went round the buggy and yelled right into Amy’s face. ‘Shut up your noise! She’s not your mother – she’s a whore, that’s what she is! Who knows if you’re even my daughter? Stop that, you little brat . . .’
Amy’s cries spiralled up into complete hysteria. Joanne was on her feet.
‘Get away from her!’ she screamed, launching herself at him, but he was so much stronger and heavier that it only set him back a little. He came at her, shoving her hard so that she lost her balance and fell again, banging her shoulder on something in one of the plastic bags. She groaned with pain.
Dave was unstrapping Amy from the buggy.
‘Come here, you whining little bugger . . .’
Amy’s cries were going through Joanne like knives, shredding all her nerves to pieces. She fought to get up, her feet sliding on oranges, onions. For a moment it seemed impossible to get off the floor.
Dave yanked Amy out of the buggy and held her in front of him, under her arms, away from him as if she was wet or dirty. Kneeing Joanne out of the way as she struggled to get up, he hurried up the stairs.
The whole of Joanne’s mind was full of Amy’s screams. It left space for nothing else. She found herself whimpering, ‘Amy, babby – my little babby . . .’
What the hell might he do?’
A tiger’s rage filled her. She scrambled to her feet and, as she did so, her hand pushed against the hard thing in the plastic bag onto which she had fallen. Rummaging frantically, she pulled it out – a tin of corned beef. In a second she was following Dave up the stairs.
‘Shut up!’ she could hear him yelling, from Amy’s room. He sounded desperate, full of rage, but also as if he was on the verge of tears. ‘Just bloody shut up screaming! Amy – Amy, stop it! STOP IT! Stop it, or I’ll slap yer – I will . . .’
From the back she could see him holding Amy over the bed, gripping her and shaking her so hard that he was making her head flop back and forth. Amy was in such a state that her screams were becoming gagging sobs of distress.
Joanne didn’t hesitate. Holding the narrower top of the tin, she slammed the other end as hard as she could into the side of Dave’s head. She saw blood immediately, from his ear. He yelled in pain and within seconds she had done it again, even harder.
‘Put her down!’ Her own screams were completely hysterical now. ‘Put her down, you bastard!
He was dropping Amy already, on the bed, clutching at his ear. Before he had any time to recover, Joanne raised her leg and shoved him in the belly, forcing him away. She seized Amy, hugging her close, and ran from the room, slamming the door.
All she could think of was getting out of the dark of that house, into the light, away from him. She took nothing with her, just yanked the front door open. Thoughts stampeded across her mind. Where could she go? She had no money, nothing. If she took off down the street, he’d catch her up in minutes.
Holding the sobbing Amy against her, tightly, she did the only thing she could immediately think of doing, which was to run into the next garden and bang urgently on the Coles’ front door.
Forty
At any moment Dave might erupt out of the house. Clutching Amy, rigid with distress on her hip, Joanne desperately imagined Mrs Coles out in her garden, and the time it might take her to get to the front door. But seconds later the door swung open. Mrs Coles stared at her.
‘Can we come in?’
‘Ooh, bab,’ Mrs Coles said. ‘Oh, dear.’
Without questioning her, she held the door open and Joanne was swallowed into safety, the door closing behind them.
‘Who is it, Mary?’ Jim Coles called from the living room. When Amy paused for breath, Joanne could hear the telly, some kind of sport.
‘It’s young Joanne from next door,’ Mary Coles said. ‘She’s just popped in. No need to worry, love – I’ll take ’er through to the kitchen.’
But before they could move there was a furious banging on the front door. Joanne jumped, her blood lunging round her body.
‘Don’t let him in!’ she begged.
Jim Coles erupted from the front room.
‘What in the name of God is going on?’
His blue eyes took in the sight of her. Only then did Joanne remember she was bleeding. She licked her lips, tasting blood.
Jim Coles was a burly Irishman, overweight now with a belly on him, but once a builder and fit as a flea. He had a ring of grey hair round a bald patch, a bacon-coloured complexion and a strong, dignified manner.
‘Did he do that to you?’
All Joanne could do was nod.
‘Now, Jim . . .’ Mary began.
But he was already heading to the door.
‘Get through to the back, love.’ Mary seized Joanne’s arm. ‘You don’t want him seeing yer.’
Joanne heard the door open.
‘What’s all this?’ Jim Coles was saying. ‘No – no, that’s enough of that now, Dave. You get away from my door until you can handle yourself . . .’
She was terrified that Dave would hit him and force his way in. But though they heard a further brief altercation on the doorstep, soon it went quiet. The door closed again.
‘He’s gone,’ Jim called through the kitchen door. ‘I told the fella not to come bothering you.’
