The Girl In His Eyes: a dark psychological drama

by Jennie Ensor

  Around the table, vacant looks.

  ‘Tell us, for God’s sake,’ she urged her brother.

  ‘Chocolate and paedophilia – and they only invented chocolate for the paedophiles.’

  Her mother frowned. Karen plucked up her glass, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Daniel,’ her father snapped, ‘I think we’ve had enough jokes for now.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Has anyone been watching that awful show on TV? What’s it called …?’

  Laura pushed aside the remains of her food. She wanted to get away from this room, away from this house. It was a reminder of everything she wished she could forget. Around her, familiar objects – hanging on the wall, her childhood sketch of a vase of tulips, now confined by a conspicuous frame. In the display cabinet, above her father’s coin collection and gleaming swimming trophies, a row of school photographs of herself and her brother. The house was pulling her back, stripping away the years. She’d sat at this table ten years ago, on her twelfth birthday.

  Mum is bringing in a huge cake studded with pink and yellow candles. Around the table, friends are cheering and clapping.

  ‘Blow them out!’

  ‘Go on, all in one go!’

  One, two, three puffs. The last flame wavers and goes out.

  Mum is smiling at her. ‘Make a wish, darling.’

  Straight away, it comes – please, make him leave me alone.

  After lunch, Laura helped her mother to clear up in the kitchen while the others sat in the living room. Every so often she could hear her father’s robust laugh from down the hall.

  ‘Jane heard from Neil yesterday,’ her mother said, feeding a plate to the dishwasher.

  Jane? Oh yes, Jane was a friend of her mother’s. Neil, Jane’s husband, had left her for a woman of twenty-eight he’d met in an Argentine tango class.

  ‘Is he still with that girl? What was her name?’

  ‘Yes, they’re living in a flat in Luxembourg. Neil rang Jane to wish them all a happy Christmas and she told him to get stuffed.’ Her mother’s voice got louder. ‘She’s not going to forgive him for running off like that. It’s been a huge struggle for her, working full-time and coping with the kids – and now Emma’s playing up.’

  ‘Playing up?’

  ‘Answering back, refusing to do anything round the house. Jane’s really worried about her.’ Her mother slammed the dishwasher door. ‘Did your father tell you he’s going to take Emma swimming?’

  ‘No – how come?’

  ‘Jane asked him if he’d mind taking Emma to the pool with him on Saturdays. To give her a break, partly – the kids are such a handful. But it’ll be good for Emma too. Jane says she’s always stuck in her room playing computer games and messing about on her iPhone.’

  ‘Dad doesn’t mind?’

  ‘No, he’s happy to help out. He likes the idea of teaching again, he misses working with kids. I think it’ll be good for him, a chance for him to feel valued outside the office.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  It sounded sensible, on the surface. Her father had been a hotshot swimmer. He’d coached children at his swimming club in Canada, she remembered him saying – they all looked up to him because he’d won a big swimming competition, the state 100m freestyle title, or something. But a fuzzy sense of unease filled her.

  ‘Suzanne, are you two still in there?’ Her father’s head appeared around the door. ‘I thought we were going to have coffee?’

  ‘We’re just finishing, Paul. Give me a minute, will you?’

  Her mother reached up into a cupboard then shrieked as a cup hurtled out and broke into small pieces that scattered across the floor.

  ‘Jesus.’ The veins bulged in her father’s forehead. ‘I’ve never in my life known anyone as clumsy as you!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Paul, I didn’t do it on purpose.’ Despite its attempted firmness, a tremor caught her mother’s voice. ‘Leave us alone, won’t you?’

  His footsteps thumped away down the hall.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  The colour had gone from her mother’s cheeks. As she stared down at the floor in dismay, she looked as if she might break too.

  ‘Sit down, let me clean up.’ She went to the cupboard and took out a dustpan and brush. I’ll make us more coffee.’

  It had happened again, as it had so many times in her childhood. She had always been in a constant state of waiting for her father to let rip over some inconsequential thing. She or her brother hadn’t tidied their bedrooms properly, or her mother had burnt the toast – anything would set him off. His rages would end with her mother dosing herself with pills and retreating to a darkened bedroom.

  Daniel and Karen appeared in the kitchen and announced they were leaving – they were worried about driving on dark roads.

  ‘Bye, sis.’ Daniel gave her a quick squeeze. ‘Look after Mum.’

  ‘See you, Dan. Give me a call if you’re ever in London.’ Even as she said this, she knew he wouldn’t. He was always busy with something. They got on well enough but their lives were mostly separate now.

  Her mother put her hand on her arm.

  ‘You’ll stay on for a bit, won’t you, dear? I’m going upstairs to lie down for half an hour.’

  Laura made the coffee as slowly as she could then took the two cups into the living room. The thought of being alone with her father made her skin prickle, as though she were a child again. But she told herself she ought to make an effort. She was an adult now – trying to avoid him the whole time was ridiculous. Anyway, she wasn’t going to let him get the better of her. Not anymore.

  Her father was slumped in his armchair, his eyes shut and his legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched out in front of him. She put his cup quietly on the coffee table, which was temporarily unburdened of her mother’s Healthy Living magazines.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not asleep.’ His tone was friendly. He pushed himself upright. ‘It’s good to see you again, Laura.’

  She backed away. ‘I know I haven’t been over much lately. I’m sorry.’

  He nodded, picking up his cup. ‘I expect you’re busy, these days.’

  Reluctantly, she lowered herself onto the sofa. It would be rude to leave the room now. But what to say to him? A minefield lay between them, un-crossable. How could he talk like this, as if everything was perfectly alright? As if the past had never happened?

  ‘Mum says you’re going to take Emma to the pool with you.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ Carefully, he replaced the cup in the saucer. ‘I’ll help her with her swimming.’

  ‘What about your own swimming? Won’t Emma get in the way?’

  He smiled, a generous smile that showed off his perfectly crowned teeth. ‘I won’t mind. It’ll be fun.’

  His tone was light, anodyne. But something was out of alignment. The door would not quite fit the jamb.

  They talked some more – safe, impersonal topics. The recent severe weather, plans to give prisoners the vote, the farmer fatally gored by his own bull. Laura watched the coloured lights on the Christmas tree blink on and off. The standard lamp cast fuzzy shadows on the milk white carpet, which matched the antique white sofa and the hospital-white walls. The carpet had been chosen by her father, despite her mother’s protests. As predicted, it was now bearing signs of spillage, which the recently placed rug didn’t quite hide.

  Outside, street lights came on. The contents of a lit room in the house opposite were clearly visible. A figure moved inside it – the old man who used to leave notes on her father’s windscreen, complaining about him taking up too much space when parking.

  Laura listened to the carriage clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Each tick was louder than the last and seemed slower coming. A kind of helpless resignation came over her. Neither she nor her father had spoken for a while. Somehow, she was incapable of speaking. Even now, all these years later, he was controlling her.

  Suddenly, her father leaned forward and placed his hands onto the arm
s of his chair, palms facing down. Her heart raced. He was going to get up and come over. Any second now, he’d be sitting beside her. There’d be that distant look on his face, as if his usual self had shut down.

  Don’t be so stupid. Of course he’s not going to do anything.

  No, she was twenty-two years old, not a child. What was the matter with her? She should just say something to break the silence.

  With a small groan, her father pushed himself up off the chair. Her breath stopped. He walked over to the window and reached up. He was going to close the curtains. The curtains … Deep inside her brain, a switch flicked on. He was going to close the curtains, just as he used to, before coming over to sit beside her. Even when it was still light outside, he’d draw the curtains. After that first time.

  She shivered. It had happened in the garden. She’d not thought of it for years. She’d pushed it deep inside her brain where it would be safe, where she’d never be able to find it again. But the memory sneaked up on her, without warning.

  She’s in her swimsuit, lying on her side on a towel on the lawn. Her back is warm from the sun. A book is open in front of her. It’s a Saturday or Sunday, just after the start of the school holidays. Her mother has gone out to see a friend. Her brother is away somewhere too.

  Her father comes over and sits down beside her on the grass. She glances up, thinking he’s going to talk to her. But his face is closed down, a mask hiding his normal face.

  He begins to stroke the back of her thigh. Gently, not like when he used to tickle her. She looks up from her book, confused.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He doesn’t reply. Instead, he slips the strap of her swimming costume off her shoulder and clamps his hand over the small mound of her breast. She is cold. She can’t move her tongue. It’s stuck inside her mouth, useless. Her heart hardens in her chest like a big stone. He explores her breast with his fingers, as if it belongs to him.

  ‘Dad, stop it.’

  It is as if she hasn’t spoken.

  Silently, she prays for him to stop. If only she could get up and run away. But she is unable to move. Her entire body has turned to stone.

  Then she remembers the sex education class, what they are supposed to say if they ever get unwanted sexual attention.

  ‘Please, leave me alone. I don’t want you to do that.’

  He doesn’t seem to hear, he is so absorbed in his task. He lowers his head and his tongue is rough and hot on the sensitive tip of her breast.

  At last, he puts the strap of her costume back on her shoulder.

  ‘Did you like that?’

  His voice is shaky and higher than usual. She shakes her head.

  ‘You will, sweetie, I promise.’

  She stares at him.

  ‘You mustn’t talk about this to anyone,’ he says. ‘And you must never tell your mother. If she finds out, it will kill her.’

  When she has sworn not to tell, he leaves her alone. Alone except for the strange tingling sensation, and a certainty that everything will be different from now on. Something has been taken from her that she’ll never get back.

  When her mother gets home, he goes back to being the father she used to have. He tells her in a cross voice to go and tidy her room, as if nothing has happened.

  In the long hours before she succumbs to sleep that night, shame and confusion take over. Why did she let him touch her like that? Why didn’t she stop him? What had made him do such a thing?

  After that first time, he does it again. Always when he is alone with her. Usually in the living room. Touching her body with his fingers, his lips. He talks to her like she is his girlfriend, his lover. Sometimes he holds her hand, squeezes it hard. Sometimes he kisses her on the mouth. She hates it, tries to turn away her head. He tells her he adores her, he needs to be with her like this. She’s becoming a woman now. She turns him on so much, he can’t help himself.

  No one ever sees him do these things. Occasionally, her mother comes in when he isn’t expecting it – she gets back early from visiting a friend, or a yoga class. But he’s too quick. He just moves away and pretends to be watching TV or reading the newspaper.

  She never says anything to her mother. She behaves as if her father is the same man he’s always been, because she has no choice. Because she knows perfectly well, without him telling her, what would happen if she told: it would break up her family and ruin all of their lives. And maybe what her father told her is true, maybe it really would kill her mother if she ever found out. How could she be responsible for such a thing?

  She knows she can’t stop her father from doing what he does. He is the man who makes everyone do whatever he wants them to. He is the head of the family, the one who sets the rules. She is his daughter, not yet twelve, who must follow the rules. Most of all, she knows she should have said something the first time, and now it is too late.

  The three of them clustered in the hall. Her father held out her coat.

  ‘You’ll come over again soon, won’t you, sweetie? Are you sure you don’t want me to run you home?’

  ‘No, really, I’m happy to get the train. I’d like to get some fresh air – thanks, anyway.’

  If she stayed here any longer, she’d suffocate.

  Her father went into the kitchen and returned with a foil package. ‘Here, put this in your bag. I wrapped some birthday cake for you, in case you’re hungry when you get home.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  A sudden rush of affection overcame her, some remnant of her childish love for her father. She swallowed to clear the tightness in her throat.

  ‘Cheerio, sweetie. Safe journey.’ He put his arms around her, awkwardly. She froze as he made contact. ‘See you again soon, I hope.’

  Her mother hugged her tightly, holding on for a long time.

  ‘Promise you’ll phone soon – to let me know how you are.’

  Laura sat on the District Line train, opposite a short-skirted, ponytailed girl, and a middle-aged man. He was the girl’s father, clearly.

  The girl chattered non-stop, her shining eyes darting around the compartment and beyond the window, but always returning to the face of the man beside her. What was it about her? She seemed so innocent, so vulnerable. She must be eleven or twelve – the age she herself had been when her father began to see her differently. Emma’s age.

  Laura stared out of the window, not seeing the houses hurrying past.

  He wouldn’t think of doing anything to Emma – would he?

  The thought wedged in her brain, blocking out everything else. Small hairs stirred on the back of her neck.

  It had never occurred to her before, that her father might do the same things to another girl. He had done those things to her because … What? She was special, he’d told her. There’d been something about her, something he couldn’t resist.

  But what if she hadn’t been so special? What if he’d said the same thing to other girls?

  West Kensington, she realised, several seconds after the train had stopped. She jumped out, escaping just before the doors clamped her between them.

  The platform was empty. She walked up the steps, scarcely seeing them.

  She should say something to her mother, or to Jane, or one of Emma’s teachers. She must protect Emma from any possible harm.

  Only that would mean telling on her father. She’d never told anyone – she’d kept it a secret, just as she’d promised.

  If she finds out, it will kill her.

  As a child it had been easy to believe him. She’d imagine her mother crying, sinking onto her bed, shutting the bedroom door and never coming out. And what might he do, if she broke her promise? When her father got angry, he could be frightening. Her mother, her brother, herself – they had all cowered before him, dreading what he might do. He’d chased her out of the house once, when she was fifteen, for daring to answer him back, his face red, yelling that she needed to be taught a lesson; after that she’d spent even less time at home.

/>   Now though, she was a grown woman. Surely, she would be able to deal with her father now, however angry he might get.

  What about her mother, though? Her mother loved him, depended on him. How would she cope if she knew the truth?

  Laura turned in the direction of her flat.

  It was impossible. Telling was as bad as not telling.

  But her father should face the consequences of what he’d done, shouldn’t he? Her mother would get through it somehow. Wouldn’t it be the best thing, to tell the truth?

  It’s dark, except for a glimmer of light just above the horizon. The place is nowhere she knows. There’s no shelter. The ground is strewn with small rocks that rip into the soles of her shoes. She is running as fast as she can, every so often stumbling then righting herself. She keeps on running.

  Someone is coming after her. There’s a thud-thud-thud like distant explosions. Bullets, or machine-gun fire? She runs faster, desperate now. But the thuds get louder and the interval between them gets shorter, and she knows that to try to escape is useless. Whoever is chasing her will not give up. Soon they will catch her and her life will be over.

  For hours after the dream, Laura lay in bed with the light on, alert to the slightest sound. Her skin was still clammy, her heartbeat hard in her chest. She had never dreamed such a thing before, or felt such fear.

  It’s not real, she told herself once again. You’re safe at home. No one is coming after you.

  Yet she knew, in a way, she was wrong. It was her father who was chasing her – there was no doubt in her mind. She couldn’t get away from him, not even in her sleep.

  2

  Suzanne

  New Year’s Eve, 2010

  Suzanne removed the green silk dress from the hanger and let its cool smoothness linger on her skin. She put the dress down on the bed. It made her cleavage deeper and her waist narrower – she knew perfectly well – and her eyes startlingly green, as if all the grey flecks had been washed away. It was just the thing for Katherine’s party.

  Her skin looked brighter and firmer than usual, she thought with a spike of pleasure as she removed a blob of mascara from beneath her lower lashes. She could pass for forty-five, or younger. She brushed powder onto her cheeks. Paul’s birthday came into her mind again, and his outburst in the kitchen. What had made him so bad tempered, on his birthday of all days? He’d made the children leave early, and she’d been hoping to talk more to Laura about how she was getting on. Oh, well. Laura hadn’t been in the mood to talk anyway. She’d been withdrawn for most of her visit. Not just withdrawn. Strained, on edge, almost as if she thought something terrible would happen.