by K. L. Slater
Esme: He would be violent?
Simone: He was rarely physically violent. I often used to think that would be preferable, you know? Get it over with, a few minutes of pain.
The things he would do, the way he’d speak to me… it was all far wider reaching. It chilled me, terrified and hurt me on a deeper level.
Esme: Could you share those things with us?
Simone: He started to belittle me more in front of our son. Encourage Andrew to call me a stupid bitch or a lazy cow. Andrew didn’t know any better, he’d been taught to do it from an early age, but Grant seemed more and more amused by it.
When I got upset, Grant would laugh and hug me in front of our son, say ‘Can’t you take a joke, Mumsy? We’re only having a bit of fun, aren’t we, Andy Pandy?’ And Andrew would laugh – I was never quite sure whether he knew what was really happening – and I’d have to join in to make it seem ‘normal’ for him.
‘It’s just harmless words, a bit of fun.’ Grant would shake his head as if I were a lost cause. ‘Why do you have to read a deeper meaning into everything we say?’
I’d see Grant out in the back garden sometimes, talking to Neville and Cathy over the fence. I remember this one time, they were closer to the house, and I crept into the bathroom to listen through the open window. Grant was telling them all about my supposed mental health problems and how he was desperately worried about the wellbeing of our son when he left Andrew in my care.
I heard Grant say, ‘You’d think he was a normal boy to look at him but that lad cries himself to sleep nearly every night, Cathy. She’s so cutting, so utterly cruel to him.’
After that, whenever I went outside, Neville and Cathy would either scuttle back inside or avert their eyes and pretend they hadn’t seen me. They, in turn, told other people on the avenue and pretty soon, I was an outcast. In the summer, oftentimes one or more people would have a barbecue and Grant would go alone, telling lies that I didn’t want to mix with other people.
Esme: So it was another way of isolating you.
Simone: Totally. Nobody would have helped or believed me if I’d approached them or confided in them about his abusive behaviour. They all loved Grant. They thought I was the monster.
END OF EXTRACT
Twenty-Four
HMP BRONZEFIELD
ESME
There was a middle-aged woman in the seating area today. When I walked into the space she glanced up from her Kindle but didn’t look up again.
I sat down in the seat furthest away from her, put my bag down on the floor and draped my arm around over the back of the seat as I twisted round towards the large square window. From here, I could see everyone who was leaving the building, the road outside, the car park beyond.
Soon, those things began to blur and the conversation with Simone filled my mind. She’d talked about Grant presenting a picture to others that wasn’t truthful and, after a while, she’d started to believe in it herself.
After Zachary’s accident, everything changed for me and Owen. We both suffered in different ways. For me, the fear of something else happening to my son loomed large. Until I’d been to see the GP and got help, I found I couldn’t leave him alone for a second unless there was someone with him. Owen was different. He couldn’t forgive himself for deciding to go to a training expo in Newcastle and therefore hadn’t been around to protect Zachary or to be with him directly after the accident.
Back then, once I’d started to feel better, I began to think about getting back to work again. Owen took his foot completely off the gas and drastically cut down the number of clients he’d built up as a personal trainer. That was fine by me because he took over as the main carer of Zachary. But then he started pressuring me to work less, too.
I began to feel trapped in a cycle of arguments, so a few months later, I suggested the three of us went to the coast for a weekend break to Whitby, a quaint fishing town in North Yorkshire. The fresh air, paddles and fish and chips, eaten on benches overlooking the harbour, seemed to do Zachary the world of good and Owen and I got some much-needed time to chat while our son happily dug numerous holes on the windy beach.
On our last morning, I opened up, tried to explain exactly how I felt to Owen. ‘I get you want to scale back your job, but if I’m going to start the new business I have to put the hours in for us all to reap the benefits. I want to be able to give Zachary a good life, fund private therapies to try and ease the challenges he’ll have to face from his injuries. You know that.’
‘I do know and I’m sorry. I want to support you,’ he said. ‘I want the best for Zachary like you do. I’ll stop talking about your increased hours, I promise.’
But he didn’t stop. He just found new ways of saying it. He seemed hell-bent on making me feel the guilt he himself suffered from.
‘If only you weren’t going to that meeting we could take Zach to the cinema.’ Or, ‘The weather’s picking up so do you fancy a family day out on Friday? Can you reschedule your work diary?’
Each time I’d gently remind him of his recent promise.
The final straw came one morning when we woke up in bed and he said, ‘You know, most mothers would thank their lucky stars if their kid survived an accident like Zachary has. They’d want to spend every moment with him.’
When he uttered those words, I felt something die inside me. It was probably the hope that things would improve between us but also my belief that I was a good and decent mother to Zachary.
Was it true? Was Owen right, that if I was a good mother, I’d give up everything to be with my son 24/7?
His face was puce, my teeth were locked together and it was just seven in the morning. That’s when we just sort of looked at each other and the realisation dawned. Our marriage was no longer serving either of us.
Inside, I felt hollow. Years together, wiped out in what felt like an instant. If Owen had put his arms around me at that moment, I think I’d have sobbed into his chest and tried yet again to come to a truce.
But he didn’t do that. He folded his arms, the tendons in his neck still visible.
‘Zachary has to come first and this constant arguing can only damage his recuperation. I feel bad enough about what happened to him without causing him more hurt.’
‘Agreed,’ I said, steeling myself against showing any emotion. ‘Perhaps it’s time to call it a day, Owen.’
He looked at me then, a shadow crossing his face and settling over his narrowed eyes.
‘You can’t just airbrush me out of your life, Esme,’ he said, his voice soft and pleasant. ‘I’m here to stay. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, I’ll be right here at your shoulder. Nothing you could say or do can change that.’
Harmless words, Simone said Grant had called them, and now I knew exactly what she’d meant.
What should have felt like a comfort, a security that Zachary and I would never be alone, somehow had sounded like something else entirely.
Silently, I’d swung my legs out of bed and reached for my dressing gown, an icy chill tracing down my spine and pooling at the bottom of my back.
I gathered up my things and headed out. I wasn’t here to rake up events from my own troubled marriage. I hadn’t got the time.
Twenty-Five
SUNDAY
By ten a.m., Zachary and Owen were sitting in the living room watching a recorded episode of Match of the Day.
I closed the kitchen door and called the hospital. The Intensive Care Unit phone number was engaged. At last they must be answering the phone!
For the next fifteen minutes, it was constantly engaged. Just when I was on the brink of getting dressed and driving over there with or without Owen’s approval, someone answered.
‘ICU, Ward Manager speaking.’
‘Hello! I’m calling to see how my sister is. Her name is Michelle Fox and she was admitted to ICU yesterday.’
‘Let’s see.’ I heard the shuffling of paperwork. ‘Michelle Fox. Here we go.’ The line went quiet.
>
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, yes. What’s your name, please?’
‘Esme Fox, I’m her sister. The police came to my house this morning and gave me this number. Can I come over and see her? What time are your visiting hours?’ I felt slightly breathless.
‘You can come and see her whenever you like.’
Was it my imagination or had her voice softened? Seemed I could’ve gone over there after all.
‘Is she… OK?’ I managed as my chest burned.
‘Your sister is on a ventilator and currently unconscious. She’s stable at the moment, but obviously we’re monitoring her hour to hour. Hopefully we’ll have an update later in the day.’
‘Thanks, I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I said, grappling with the new horror that Michelle was unconscious. I ended the call and sat staring into space for a moment or two.
The kitchen door opened softly and Owen slipped in. ‘Everything OK?’
‘I wouldn’t say OK exactly, but I’ve spoken to ICU and she’s stable. I’m going to get ready and go in. They said I can visit any time.’
Owen nodded. ‘Zach’s happy watching TV for now. He’s complained about tummy-ache again; I might have a job getting him to school after all if he’s still like this in the morning.’
I sighed. ‘We’ll see what tomorrow brings, but it’s just not worth upsetting him. A day or two at home won’t do him any harm. He’s obviously worried about Michelle and we have to cut him a bit of slack.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Tomorrow morning I have the visit at HMP Bronzefield, as you know, and then I’d like to pop into the hospital again.’
‘Can’t you postpone your prison visits?’ He said shortly.
‘I can’t, Owen. I’ve managed to get the first three episodes in the bag but after they’re used up, we’ve nothing to air. We booked the remaining few interviews in quick succession… it’s not negotiable, I have to do them.’
He said nothing. He didn’t need to. The disapproval was written all over his face.
‘I’m hoping I’ll be back home around mid-afternoon tomorrow, so if you’ve got stuff to do I can try and—’
‘No, no. Nothing I’m doing is more important than looking after Zachary.’ I received the subtext loud and clear but Owen continued. ‘And looking after you too, actually. You look exhausted if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Yeah, well, Zachary was restless all night… me too, if truth be told.’
‘Go to the hospital now, if you like.’ He touched my arm lightly. ‘You need to see Michelle, you must be out of your mind with worry, but I’m always here. You know that.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling a prickle at the back of my eyes at the unexpected show of kindness. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll cook us up something nice for tea when you get back.’ His face brightened. ‘You’ll need a decent meal after your busy day.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine, Owen. I can sort something out for mine and Zach’s tea. I don’t want you to feel—’
‘I’d like nothing more than the three of us eating together like we used to do. Say no more about it.’
Something rankled in my chest and I suddenly remembered Simone Fischer talking about her husband.
… if I complained or accused him of anything, it just made me look ungrateful.
Owen wanted nothing more than to move back home but he made it sound as if he was putting my welfare first by making tea because I’d be tired later. I’d just sound ungrateful if I told him not to bother. I let it go.
But it was an interesting observation. One that had never occurred to me before.
‘I’ll shower and get dressed for the hospital now,’ I said. ‘Sooner I get there, sooner I can get back.’
‘Course,’ he said, his voice upbeat. ‘Whatever you say. You’re the boss.’
But was I, really? Sometimes it felt like Owen called the shots even though we weren’t together any more.
Twenty-Six
Driving on to the huge QMC campus, I managed to find a parking space near west block and bought a ticket covering me for a couple of hours. As I walked to the hospital entrance, I wondered how people who visited a loved one every day for a period of time managed to meet the extortionate parking costs.
The lift doors opened, bringing me back to the moment and I propelled myself forward, clutching a bunch of flowers I’d picked up from the hospital shop in the foyer. I pressed the C Floor for the Intensive Care wards and, soon as I stepped out, I spotted the large ICU sign. I followed the arrow pointing ahead and then turned left at the end. A man and a woman were in front of me and I could hear footsteps behind me. But as I neared the signposted ICU double doors ahead, the couple turned off and the footsteps behind me faded away. I stood alone in front of the entrance, my heart galloping in my chest.
How had we got to this? From everyday normal life to me visiting Michelle in ICU?
I pressed the buzzer and announced my name. My voice rang out in the echoing emptiness of the corridor. ‘I’m here to see my sister, Michelle Fox.’
‘Come through,’ a female voice said, and I heard the double doors click.
Once inside, I walked down a short holding corridor. A fluttering feeling began to spread quickly in my chest. The floor and walls were white and the overhead lights stark and bright. My small heels clicked on the tiled floor and I breathed in a strong smell of disinfectant. I reached another set of inner doors. A short nurse with a large round face and cropped black hair appeared from a side office.
‘I’ll take you through to Michelle,’ she said and looked regretful. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to leave the flowers here, they’re not allowed in Intensive Care. You can take them back home with you when you leave.’
I placed the flowers on a small leaflet table behind me. She held up a lanyard to scan over the inner door’s security pad.
‘How is she?’ I said.
The nurse hesitated and looked at me. ‘How much did they tell you about her injuries?’
‘I know she’s been attacked, badly beaten,’ I said, trying really hard to keep my voice level. ‘They found her dumped in woodland apparently.’
I thought she’d wince but there was no reaction. She simply nodded and pushed open the doors when the security pad beeped.
We walked through into the main ward and I immediately felt unnerved. I’d never been in ICU before but I imagined a hushed, dim space with pulled curtains and patient privacy. But here we were in a noisy, large open space with harsh fluorescent lighting everywhere.
The patients lay beneath a tangle of plastic tubes and breathing apparatus. These people didn’t just look ill, slumped on their pillows. They were completely unrecognisable, most lying in some awful liminal state between life and death.
The smell of antiseptic remained strong and as we walked further into the room, the noise level seemed to increase, filling my ears and my head.
I looked at the nurse, feeling a rising panic.
‘Are you OK?’ She lay a hand on my arm. ‘It can be a shock, coming into ICU for the first time. Did you want to take a moment before you see your sister?’
‘No!’ I say, too quickly. ‘No. I’m fine. I’d like to go straight to her, please.’
We walk another few steps before she slows down. Stops.
‘Here we are. As I said, she isn’t conscious at the moment because of the ventilator. But you can still talk to her if you like.’
The nurse stood back as I walked tentatively towards my sister’s bed.
I stared down at this person she’d told me was Michelle and I felt completely hollow inside.
Her features were barely visible due to a Perspex mask and various ridged tubes that spiralled around her face and throat like vipers. But the worst thing was the noise: a rasping, pneumatic sound that invaded her body by force and sent chills cascading down my spine.
Her usually smooth, even skin looked mottled, and from the glimpses
I could see, her face was almost double its usual size, blistered and patched with blue and red. If the nurse hadn’t pointed her out, I’d have just walked past the bed.
‘What happened to you, Michelle?’ I whispered, my voice thick and catching in my throat. ‘What did he do to you?’
I stood for a few more moments, wondering how long my legs would keep me standing and then remembered the nurse behind me. I turned to her and she lay a hand on my arm. I wanted to pull away from her touch, my skin felt so stripped and raw.
‘Your sister has sustained a serious head injury and also internal injuries, Esme. One of her lungs has collapsed and that’s why she’s been put on a ventilator.’
‘What happened to her?’
The nurse glanced back down the ward. ‘Here’s Dr Collins now, he might be able to help you.’
A diminutive man with salt-and-pepper hair and an open coat strode towards us flanked by two much younger doctors.
He held out his hand. ‘Dr Collins. You’re the patient’s sister, I understand?’
I nodded, my voice failing me. It all seemed so surreal.
He consulted his notes. ‘We’ll be closely monitoring her for the next forty-eight hours and if she improves, we can consider taking her off the ventilator.’
‘She’ll come out of ICU?’ I said hopefully, although even I could see it would likely be some time before Michelle came home.
‘Too early to say, I’m afraid,’ Dr Collins said. ‘Her injuries are severe. Depending on whether the body can recover from the trauma, we may have to look at other solutions in order to give her the best chance of survival.’
I steadied myself against the bed frame. ‘She might… die?’
