by Deborah Bee
‘Coco,’ she says.
I nod.
What do you mean, that’s not your name?
It suits you.
I chose it for you.
Well, I don’t care.
Coco is the name of the sort of girl I go out with.
‘I’ll have mine with whipped cream, I will,’ says Barney.
‘And sprinkles,’ says Ryan, half coughing, half laughing. Almost slipping off the plastic chair at the end of the row. Then he catches himself by grabbing the leg of the bloke next to him.
It wakes him up and he yells, ‘Piss off.’
‘Easy, Mr Gullett,’ the policewoman says, smiling. ‘Do you need some help?’ she says to me as she offers me her arm. The down-and-outs and the woman in the anorak all stand up to help.
But all I really need to do is hang on to one person’s arm.
‘Please ignore our visitors. They’ll be leaving shortly,’ she says.
‘Gentlemen,’ she says, nodding at the various members of the line.
‘Morning,’ she says to the woman in the anorak, who got me the socks.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper.
‘This is our community room,’ she says, closing the door behind her. ‘It’s a good place for a private chat. I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke. I run the Community Safety Unit here at Camden. Why don’t you call me Susan?’
Anyone asks, we’re married.
Of course we’re married!
Anyone can see we were made for each other.
She goes back out to reception.
The door is open and Joanna from behind the counter is getting a telling off.
I don’t want to seem unkind, but Susan, DS Clarke, is no oil painting.
She has no wedding ring.
I notice things like that.
But she had lots of other rings: rings with tiny beads; beads that look African or something like that. And a plaited bracelet made of string a bit like the ones we used to make out of rubber bands during school break.
I wouldn’t have thought they were allowed to wear string bracelets . . .
‘Have you come to make a report?’ she says, really quietly and seriously, once she’s sat down next to me.
Hand patting my arm.
Head on one side.
Making those affirmative little noises.
Like people do when they are waiting for you to say something.
Why does sympathy make it worse?
I want to cry.
I nod.
I cough.
My voice has gone croaky.
I can feel lumps of sick coming up the back of my throat.
Babe.
You know what?
You should give up work.
You don’t need to work.
Yeah. You should give up work.
I can earn enough for both of us.
We can be together all the time.
And then I can’t think what to say.
It’s all just disappeared out of my head.
‘I . . .’ I say. ‘The thing is . . .’
It’s too hot. I wish I wasn’t so hot.
I said, you don’t need to work.
BABE!
Didn’t you hear me?
Put your laptop away.
The back of my neck is stone cold.
My stomach is turning over and over.
She hands me another box of tissues.
It says man-sized on the side of the box.
Only for man-sized nightmares.
‘Are you injured?’ she asks.
Just like that.
Am I injured?
Babe.
Stop pretending.
Of course it doesn’t hurt.
I’ll run you a chamomile bath.
You know how much you love a chamomile bath.
I check myself from top to bottom.
Just in my head.
I do that every morning, soon as I wake up.
Nothing hurts.
Nothing majorly hurts.
It’s just a tiny bruise, babe.
Everyone gets bruises.
You know how you bruise easily.
Bruise like a peach, babe.
I shake my head.
I still can’t speak.
‘Just to be clear, you’re saying you have no injuries at this moment?’ she goes.
I shake my head again.
I look at my hands folded on my lap.
The skin is raw around my fingernails.
Bitten.
Did you, or did you not, bleach this floor?
I told you to bleach it.
You don’t need gloves to bleach a goddam floor.
Well, do it again.
It doesn’t look bleached enough.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Coco, but have you been sexually assaulted?’
I shake my head.
She doesn’t say anything, just keeps on looking at me.
‘Not today,’ I whisper.
It’s hard to speak.
My mouth has stopped working.
‘Not today?’ she says.
I shake my head again.
‘When was the last time you were assaulted, Coco?’
Did I say you could look at me when I’m talking to you?
Did I?
Do you want another slap?
Do you realise that it’s your own fault that you get slapped.
Your stupid ugly face deserves it.
DID I SAY YOU COULD LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU?
‘I’m not looking at you,’ I whisper.
‘Coco?’ she says, staring at me.
‘What?’ I say.
‘When was the last time you were assaulted, Coco?’
‘Last night,’ I whisper.
‘Last night,’ she says, quietly.
Doesn’t she believe me?
‘Are you sure?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But, I think it was last night.’
‘OK,’ she says.
She sighs.
‘It’s hard to get the days in the right order.’
Does she think I’ve done something wrong?
Does she think it’s my fault?
I can’t really remember much about anything.
No one will believe anything you say.
You’re a drunk and a liar.
My throat feels like it’s constricting.
The room is getting darker.
I can’t breathe.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asks.
She jumps up and pops her head out of the door and shouts, ‘Joanna? Where’s that tea got to? Mug of tea. Large mug of tea. And one for Coco while you’re at it. Do you take sugar?’ she says, looking back at me.
FAT BITCH. I’VE TOLD YOU ABOUT SUGAR!
‘NO SUGAR!’ I shout at her.
She looks taken aback.
She watches me.
‘I don’t have sugar. Not anymore,’ I explain.
I used to have sugar but now I don’t have sugar.
You’ve got fat.
No, my sweet girl, it’s got nothing to do with the vitamins.
It’s you being greedy.
You do nothing but eat.
You don’t understand the meaning of self-control.
I’ve dated supermodels.
And now I’m stuck with you.
Fat cow.
‘Milk?’ she says.
‘No thank you. Lactose . . .’ I say. ‘Lactose intolerant.’
I didn’t used to be but now I am.
FAT.
COW.
She slides back into the seat, takes a deep breath.
‘Two things,’ she says, brightly, looking down at her laptop. ‘First, we need another police officer here, to help me with all the details because of the sensitivity of your case. That OK?’ She looks up. ‘And second, we need to think about doing a physical examination. This means I need to take some swabs of saliva, b
efore we do anything else.’
I nod and she gets a box of stuff out of a cupboard.
Giant cotton buds in plastic pouches.
Paper bags with POLICE EVIDENCE written on the side.
A woman appears at the door. She’s timid looking, not in a uniform. She’s really young. ‘This is Alison Boneham, she specialises in sensitive cases like yours. You can call her Ally,’ says Susan.
Ally has a burgundy high-necked sweater that looks sweaty and itchy, a swishy wool skirt with flowers on.
They don’t look like her clothes.
They look like an old person’s clothes.
Like my art teacher.
Mrs Shave.
She’s awkward.
Why’s she so awkward?
She makes me feel awkward.
Just by the way she looks at me.
Like I’m a specimen.
She asks me to stand up and she pushes the chair I’d been sitting on to the side. She unfolds a large sheet of paper and puts it on the floor, then places the four legs of the chair squarely in the middle of it.
‘To catch any evidence,’ she says quietly.
She thinks I’m going to moult.
Like I’m a dog.
She asks me to open my mouth, wider, wider. Her glasses have slid down her nose and are squeezing her nostrils together. She wipes one of the giant cotton buds around the inside of my mouth.
Under my tongue.
‘Your tongue is blue,’ she states.
She looks disgusted.
Dirty on the outside.
Dirty on the inside.
I have a blue tongue.
‘Before we start, Coco, is there someone I can call for you? Let them know where you are? Someone who will help you?’
I shake my head.
‘A family member? A friend? A colleague?’
No.
‘A neighbour?’
I just look at my hands.
‘Let’s just get started with some easy questions, then, shall we?’ Susan says lightly.
I hate false brightness.
She starts to tap onto the screen.
‘So it’s Coco James. C-O-C-O. J-A –’
‘Chambers. My surname is Chambers.’
‘Oh. I see. Is James your married name, then?’ she says, smiling a smile that is odd when all we are doing is filling out a form.
‘We’re . . .’
No one would believe that someone like me would marry someone like you.
‘Yes. We’re . . . I’m not married,’ I say.
‘That was my next question . . . single, married, divorced, in a rela–’ she says, smiling.
‘Single,’ I interrupt, taking another man-sized tissue.
She looks confused.
‘He told all his friends we were married,’ I whisper. ‘Showed them a ring and everything. He said to say we were married, if anyone asked.’
‘But you aren’t married?’ she questions.
‘No, I’m not married. But he’ll say we are. He’ll say I’m making all this up.’
I’m going to say it was your idea.
It’s the sort of mad shit you would do.
‘Who will, Coco? What is it you’re supposed to be making up?’ she says.
It’s too confusing.
All of it.
I can’t remember what I’m doing here.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
And then she’s silent for a bit too.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Can you help me?’
You see, the thing is, babe, now we are married I can do what I like.
You’re mine now.
‘Of course, we can help you,’ she says, measured, trying not to show anything in her voice, ‘but you need to tell us what has happened.’
‘I need somewhere safe.’
‘And that’s because it’s not safe at home?’
I nod. ‘It’s not safe at home,’ I repeat back.
‘Is that where you’ve come from. From home?’ she says.
I nod.
‘Because there’s someone there who hurts you?’
I nod.
‘Is it your partner?’
I look down.
‘And have you been kept inside your home, against your will?’
I nod.
‘Can you tell me where it is?’
‘The laundry room,’ I whisper.
You know where girls go who are bad, don’t you?
‘You’ve been locked up in the laundry room of your own home?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘I meant can you tell me where your home is?’ she asks again.
‘It’s more of an outhouse,’ I say.
‘The laundry room?’
I nod.
‘In the garden?’
‘Yeah, like one of those toilets. From the olden days.’
You’re a slut. SLUT. And that’s what happens to sluts.
She is staring at me.
I cover my eyes.
I don’t want her to see me.
‘Can you tell me your partner’s name then, Coco?’
Don’t say anything.
Shut up.
Don’t speak until I tell you to.
‘I can’t remember . . .’
There is no sound.
Just the humming of the heating system, the clicking of the radiator.
‘Coco? Can you tell me where you live? Coco?’
My head starts to swim.
I think I might be sick any second now.
‘Do you feel like you’re in immediate danger, Coco? From your partner?’
You go to the police and you know I’ll get you, don’t you?
You can’t hide from me.
They can’t protect you from me.
I’m cleverer than they are.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, seeing his face at the window.
But it’s not his face.
There’s no one there.
I wipe my eyes.
Licking my finger and running it under them.
Staring out of the window.
The sun comes out.
Branches with bright green leaves reaching up to the sky.
Blue sky.
He’ll be behind that tree.
Waiting.
My finger tastes weird.
‘Have you been injured, in the past?’
It’s your fault.
You don’t know when to shut up.
You’d better stick to the story, babe.
If you don’t, you’re just going to look even more crazy.
I look at my wrists.
The red marks are still there.
‘I don’t know.’
The bruise on my calf, hidden under my jeans, is throbbing.
‘If I’m correct and you are reporting an incident of domestic violence, I’ll need to conduct a Risk Identification Checklist. Is that OK?’
She is looking at me steadily. Ally is also looking at me, her eyes following my eyes.
Looking where I look.
At the floor, if I look at the floor.
At my hands, if I look at my hands.
‘This is normal. It’s for your own safety. Are you OK, Coco? Do you just want to have a chat for now?’
Just have a chat!
I think I’ve forgotten how to just have a chat.
I can’t speak.
You don’t even need to speak.
I can hear what you’re thinking.
I know you better than you know yourself.
‘Maybe to start with, would it be easier for you to tell us a little bit about yourself and maybe about your relationship? For instance . . .’ Susan says, with her eyebrows raised, and her head on one side, like we were talking about fairy cakes or something, ‘. . . when did you first meet your partner?’
She smiles and nods the way grown-ups do with children when they want them to eat their broccoli.
Joan
na appears at the door with three mugs of tea on a tin tray.
She puts the mug with the smiley face on it in front of me.
It’s got milk in it.
Lactose intolerant.
I don’t say anything.
You’re just a silly little girl who’s going to look like a liar.
LIAR, LIAR.
I start to cry again.
The gulps of tea take the lumps of sick back down.
When did I first meet him?
That was a different time.
I was sitting in this bar with Louisa.
It was about six weeks after Dad had died, right after Easter.
I remember that.
One of the first really warm days of spring, the light streaming through the windows.
The Adelaide, it was called. We used to work there on weekends, while we were at uni. Just off the high street near Boots.
They had live bands on the top floor on Wednesdays. Even after we’d finished uni, we still hung out there. The barman gave us free drinks, whenever he could.
Since my dad died, we’d probably been going more.
I didn’t like being at home so much, wasn’t used to living on my own, wasn’t used to not having to look after someone.
Louisa would come over, even stay sometimes. On the nights she didn’t I’d dread opening the front door to a dark empty house.
Louisa told me to sell it, said I could get one of those posh penthouses overlooking the canal for the same money.
She got me all the details from the estate agents in Belsize Park.
And I was thinking about doing that.
I just felt like it was too soon.
It was only a few months after he’d died.
We raised £23K for the cancer unit that Dad was at. We’d been in the local paper, probably because a lot of people knew my dad in the area.
Made a nice story for them.
Front page.
Big picture.
He was only forty-eight.
He was a builder, that’s how he knew everyone.
Sat on the town council too.
The people from the paper met us at The Adelaide. They got us to hold a massive cheque and then they took our picture and it went on the front page.
