The Name I Call Myself

by Beth Moran

  Faith Harp is the name I call myself, but it is not my name.

  As it turned out, those secrets would remain in my heart that day. I placed one worn-out hand on the ridge of the clifftop, my brain churning as the secrets writhed about like a bucket of maggots. My foot, totally drained of energy from three weeks of broken sleep, anxiety, and all my other problems, failed to keep a grip on the narrow ledge it had been balancing on. Caught off guard, my hands slipped, and before my head could process what was happening I tumbled into open space.

  Unfortunately, at that moment, a teensy twinge of mobile phone coverage allowed the text Kim’s boyfriend had sent her to ping through. Distracted, thinking I had reached the top, she failed to notice the change in slack that indicated me careening down the rock face above her.

  I couldn’t see this, being lost in terror and adrenaline, but I knew in that second I would surely die.

  No, my life did not flash before my eyes. They were closed. I may have screamed. I think I prayed. I hope God didn’t mind that my prayer was not altogether wholesome. It wouldn’t be the kind of prayer you said in church.

  I guess he didn’t, because when the splat that marked my doom came, it was more of an oomph. When I managed to gasp in an almighty wheeze of air, open my eyes, and wait for the world to come back into focus, I discovered myself sprawled on the ground on top of someone. Hoping hard I had bumped down slowly enough not to cause them any serious damage, I accepted Kim’s panicked hand and turned to see whom I had squashed.

  Dylan lay spreadeagled on the rocky earth, face pale beneath his stubble, eyes closed.

  “Faith! Dylan saved you! He like, jumped underneath the rope to catch you and you crushed him. It’s like Jesus – he sacrificed himself to save your life!” Kim gasped.

  Most of the women on the ground were unable to come and investigate, as their partners were still descending the cliff, and no one was letting their eyes off their ropes for a nanosecond after watching me bounce past them. Melody, however, having handed her rope to one instructor, now deftly checked me over, the other instructor jogging back and forth to make sure everyone else was still concentrating on getting down safely.

  “What does that make you, then, Kim?” She tutted. “If Dylan’s Jesus I think you must be the devil.”

  Kim burst into tears. “I might as well be! Flip! My hands are shaking so hard I can’t even call an ambulance. Dylan’s gonna die and it’s all my fault! This proves I’m a total loser. A murdering, failed loser! What’s Scotty gonna say?”

  Melody, satisfied I suffered from no more than scrapes and bruises, kneeled down to examine Dylan. By now the others had begun to gather, although Hester held them back with outstretched arms and blazing eyes. “Keep your distance! Melody is an accomplished medical professional. Everybody stay calm. Kim has not killed Dylan! Although I may yet kill Kim!”

  Dylan confirmed this by groaning. He gingerly reached up to grasp the top of his head, opening one eye a tiny slit. “Woah, Faith. You’re heavier than you look,” he rasped. “But I’m fine. Just winded.”

  He let Melody help him up to a sitting position. “That didn’t turn out quite how I intended.”

  “Aaah,” Uzma said. “Were you supposed to catch her in your arms like a hero?”

  Dylan smiled, then winced sharply, clutching his side. “Like a man at least. The beards over there wouldn’t have fallen over. Having said that, Faith weighs a heck of a lot for such a shrimp. Even they might’ve found it a challenge. I’m pretty impressed I didn’t drop her.” He winked at me.

  I didn’t say anything. I felt discombobulated. The adrenaline flow was withdrawing, leaving my teeth chattering and stomach nauseous. I swayed a little, causing someone to sit me on a rock while Marilyn poured sweet tea from her thermos. As the rest of the choir returned to earth the instructors checked everyone was all right.

  After a few minutes, people drifted away to eat lunch, Kim still sobbing as she swore never to touch her phone again, once she’d tweeted how terrible she felt, and Hester beside herself at the abject failure of our trust exercise. I remained frozen on the rock, my brain in suspended animation.

  “I wouldn’t have died,” I announced, to no one in particular. “I wasn’t falling fast enough. Just a broken leg, or arm, maybe.”

  A broken leg or arm. People with broken legs or arms didn’t make very good waitresses. That meant they couldn’t work, and therefore couldn’t earn any money. No money meant no food, rent, or anything else. It meant no shower gel or toilet paper. No hot water and no way to support my brother, let alone pay off the debts he cost me. No way to be there for him, to keep him from spiralling so far he chose never to come back.

  I squeezed my engagement ring tight. Fifteenth of August. Maybe then the anxious ball of dread in my stomach would begin to melt. A fair swap for spending the rest of my life with a decent man I was fond of, loved even, but was not in love with.

  I looked up, shaking my head to try to clear the pathetic, self-pitying thoughts. Buck up, Faith. Pull yourself together. Your bones are unbroken.

  Dylan stood in front of me, his clear eyes serious as he watched my face.

  “How are you doing?”

  I nodded. “Fine. Thank you. I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Well.” He shrugged, with a wry smile. “I happened to be watching just as you fell. It was instinct. You landed on top of me before I even knew I’d moved.”

  I bit down hard on my lip as my chin wobbled. Dylan leaned down and squeezed my shoulder, briefly.

  “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  Oh boy, how I longed to be safe. And when I thought about how his body had felt beneath me, as solid as the cliff face, his arms wrapped tight around my chest, I wondered how someone could feel so safe, and yet so dangerous, all at the same time.

  On the way home, hoping to avoid both conversation and Marilyn’s pointed stares, I asked Rosa if I could sit with her. As we rumbled back down the motorway towards Nottinghamshire, my wits slowly regathered themselves, and I asked Rosa what brought her to the UK.

  “My husband. He is not a bad man, but he drive me crazy anyway. Spend all money on his crazy plans to make us rich. All bad plans. Nothing work. And now my girls grow up. One in America with soccer scholarship, one married to nice, boring man no crazy plans. I think, I can’t stand this any more. I done my duty. I done more than reasonable. But when I try to go, he cry and kiss me and I feel sorry for him and stay. This happen lots of times. Once I get all way to my sister’s house, he follow me there. That man so handsome. Like movie star. When he look at me I am like – what you say – hypnotized. I cannot resist. So, I wait till him off on next crazy plan, and I leave. Take secret money I saved and get bus out of there. Lots of days travelling, bus, car, lorry. I okay on lorry because I have knife. Big one, look.”

  She pulled out a butcher’s knife from her rucksack to show me. “I no let no more handsome men trick me into waste my life. Big knife keep them away.”

  I didn’t ask how she had got that monstrous knife into the country.

  “Then I meet man who gets me job in England. I share flat with three women. First we wash cars, then I get job clean offices. Now I work in factory, pack boxes. Not a lot of money but I get to keep it, spend on what I want. No crazy plans like build zoo or make film with Lego or sell pizza made with donkey cheese. I happy now. I miss my husband kisses, and his sexy eyes, but I happy.”

  “That’s an amazing story. Did you have a job in Bulgaria?”

  “Yes.” Rosa puffed up her chest. “I seamstress. Best in my city. Make clothes for all important people. Dress for daughter of Prime Minister when she got married. I make this dress. Best wedding dress in whole of Bulgaria. I get good money for all these clothes I make, but my crazy husband throw it all away.”

  “Could you get a job as a seamstress here?”

  “Maybe. But I need samples. Need good machine, material, thread, scissors. All that stuff. I’m at factory all day, too ti
red to think about anything else. If I had good machine in my house, those women sell it. I need break, and no one going to give old Bulgarian woman break. That okay, I happy.”

  I leaned my head against the window and watched the trees whizz by at the side of the road. A crazy plan, not quite as crazy as donkey cheese pizza, popped into my head.

  “Did you know I’m getting married this summer?”

  “Yes. We all know this. Janice heard your man shout in church about it too poor and ugly.”

  “Oh. Right. I don’t think that quite… Anyway. Would you like to make my bridesmaid dresses for me? I can’t pay you much, but I can chip in enough to buy you all the stuff you need. If we got a decent machine second-hand. And you can have the dresses afterwards, use them as samples.”

  And me! my heart whispered. Make me a lovely dress, too!

  Rosa gripped my hand in hers. “You mean this? You let me make dresses for your beautiful wedding, special day?”

  “Yes. I would love you to.”

  “I make you really good dresses, Faith. I not do cheap, bad dresses look like little girl at party or from cartoon. My dresses classy. What you say… tasty.”

  I smiled. “Tasteful.”

  “Yes! Good, good dresses. Beautiful, perfect fit. Right shape for each person. Show little bit bosom but not so men look bosom not face.”

  “Fantastic. I don’t want men looking at my bridesmaids’ bosoms.”

  “So, how many dresses you going to need? Who you got for bridesmaid?”

  Ah. That would depend upon who was controlling my wedding.

  “Can I get back to you on that?”

  “Yes, yes, lovely Faith. You get back to me whenever you want. I happy before, but now I really happy. I not even mind those women take my coat any more.”

  I dreamed of Kane again that night. Dark, twisty dreams full of cracked, muddled images and dormant memories. My mother, little more than a shadow to me now, calling me, her hands frantic as she scooped up my pathetic pile of clothes into a bag, tossing in my favourite stuffed koala and a book.

  “Come on now, Rachel. We have to hurry. Get dressed, quickly now!”

  “Where’s Liam? I want Liam.”

  “He’s packing. Why aren’t you dressed yet? Hurry, we’ve got to hurry. He’s coming, Rachel!”

  But it was one of those dreams where no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get ready, couldn’t dress. Every time I looked down I still wore my faded pyjamas. The panic attacked my throat as my mother grew even more frantic, “Quickly, Rachel, quickly. He’s coming!”

  Liam hid me in the wardrobe, right at the back, and made me promise to stay there, stay quiet.

  “Just for a little while, while me and Mummy talk to Kane. And then we’ll get our bags and go, Rachel. We’ll go far away to somewhere he can’t get us, and live in a nice new house with a swing and your own bedroom with pink walls. But now, it’s very important. Stay here, and don’t come out. Don’t look and don’t make a sound. Promise me?”

  I stayed there, even when the screaming and the crashing started. So loud I thought the house was falling down around the little wardrobe where I crouched, huddled, holding on to the promise of my brother.

  And then the wardrobe door opened, but in my dream it wasn’t my mother, or Liam. Nor the policeman who found me all those years ago.

  Snake leaned in, his thin lips glistening, irises bloodshot and bulging. “You can’t get away, Rachel.” He giggled. “I’m coming and you can’t get away.”

  I leaned back in the wardrobe, burying myself deeper and deeper under the pile of clothes, so deep I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear his gurgling laughter, couldn’t breathe.

  And then two steady arms went around me, held me tight, and whispered my new name, the name I call myself. And for a split second before I woke, drenched in sweat and tears, I was safe.

  Chapter Seven

  The weight of my dream still heavy in my skull, I completed a lunchtime shift at a golden wedding anniversary in a local hotel, then went to see Sam.

  I found him lying on the sofa, the state of his clothes and beard suggesting he hadn’t moved since the last time I had been round.

  I didn’t ask how he was doing. Not interested in a lie, and not up to the truth.

  “Where’s April?”

  He shrugged. “Out. Gone to the shops, probably.”

  “Have you had any alcohol?”

  He closed his eyes, pressing the back of his head against the arm of the sofa. “No.”

  “I want to call Gwynne.”

  He opened his eyes again, still motionless, but his stillness sharp.

  “We can’t be left waiting, with no idea where he is or what’s happening. You need to get well again, Sam. And I need to sleep for more than two hours at a time, preferably without Kane-themed nightmares.”

  Sam let out a shuddery breath. I understood. Calling Gwynne made it real again. Hearing where he was, or what he was doing, or any other tiny detail made him even more alive to us. Made the monster real.

  “It might be good news.” The tremble in my words betrayed the ridiculous lie.

  “What, that he’s dead already?”

  “Or ill, or rearrested, or has to stay within one mile of wherever he was released from. Or has emigrated to Antarctica. It doesn’t matter anyway. We need to know where he is and if… if he’s looking for us.”

  “Looking for me.” Sam swung his legs off the cushion and sat up. The simple action seemed to sap every last ounce of strength in his wrecked body. “I don’t need to speak to Gwynne to know the answer to that question, Faith. You don’t either. He’s looking. And he won’t stop until he finds me.”

  I sat and buried my head into Sam’s shoulder, our bones clattering as we remembered. Bereft, bewildered, traumatized, Sam had testified via video link to a judge and jury about how he had dialled emergency services with shaking hands while in the next room Kane had battered our mother beyond recognition.

  Upon much skilful, gentle questioning from Gwynne, our designated Family Liaison Officer, he also recounted the last words Kane spoke before the police broke down the front door.

  You’re gonna regret this, boy. Keep lookin’ over your shoulder. Don’t matter how long it’s been. As soon as they let me out I’ll be coming for you.

  I’ll be coming for you.

  He was coming.

  I left once April returned, Sam still adamant about not phoning Gwynne. It was entirely possible I wouldn’t be able to track Gwynne down, anyway. She had been young, maybe late twenties, when it happened, and a thousand reasons could have caused her to move on from the Chester police force. I never questioned whether she would remember us, or want to help. Gwynne spent more time with us than was perhaps wise – or allowed – back then. She sent Christmas cards for the first few years, even made occasional visits until Grandma sat her down and explained how seeing her brought it back – the night terrors, the bed-wetting, hours crouching in the back of the wardrobe. Sam’s uncontrollable mood swings.

  I did question if she could help, but I had to do something. Kane was coming, I had no doubt. My ragged, screaming nerves could do with having some heads up as to when.

  The following Thursday, Perry and I were summoned to a family dinner at HCC. Agenda: The Wedding. Chairperson: Larissa Upperton. Other members present: Milton Upperton, Perry’s younger cousin Natasha, Aunt Eleanor, and Hugh, Perry’s cousin, also taking on the role of best man. Perry prepared for the dinner by shaving, tweaking his hair in the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes, and donning a suit and tie pre-approved by his mother. As I hurriedly slapped on some lipstick and an olive green shift dress, all the better to hide my pre-disapproved of figure, I contemplated how the Uppertons rivalled my warped family for functionality.

  I had no illusion about whether or not I had been forgiven for the engagement party fiasco. As we entered the dining room, Larissa smiled – a big toothy grin like one of those fish with massive teeth who live in the depths
of the ocean.

  Mike, a waiter I used to supervise, brought our drinks, then Larissa called the meeting to order. My in-laws-to-be were not happy about the church, the date, the time, and the bride (they didn’t actually list the last one, but I added it to my mental meeting minutes anyway). Wait – amendment. Larissa was not happy about these things. Milton was not happy because when Larissa wasn’t happy he suffered.

  To his credit, Perry did some deft negotiating. At no point did he state that actually, this was our wedding and with all due respect we would do what we wanted. But he stood firm on Grace Chapel and the date. We moved the time back to midday, presumably so the Uppertons could still schedule in most of the day at the club.

  “And I may not manage the whole day, Perry. Not with having to entertain so many guests for all that time, quite frankly most of whom are exhausting bores. I’ve decided to hold a pre-wedding breakfast for those who won’t fit in that poky church place. Not for everybody, just the important ones. And maybe some we like.”

  “Mother, the important guests will be invited to the church service. As will you.”

  “Well, they may not want to go! And there’s hardly any point if you’re going to repeat your vows here at the reception, is there?”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupted, leaning back while Mike placed down my starter with a wink. “I don’t mind if there’s only me, Perry, and enough witnesses to sign the register. Becoming Perry’s wife is what matters. Not who sees it, how grand the party is afterwards, or any of that other stuff.”

  What about a pretty dress? the vain, shallow part of my brain cried. If you’re going to have a swish, swanky wedding, you might as well do it in a beautiful dress! Or at least not a disgusting, ill-fitting one!

  I added it to my mental minutes:

  Note – Faith’s brain requested a vote on whether or not she should wear the Ghost Web. Overruled.

  “Well, that’s perfect then, isn’t it?” Milton added, through strained teeth. “We can have a breakfast for those who don’t fancy the church, and all meet in the ballroom for the photo shoot at one-thirty.”