To Dare

by Jemma Wayne

  Terry opens the door.

  There is no time. No time to think or plan. Simone pushes herself around the corner. She forces her feet to move, and they do, they obey, they obey her and nobody else – faster and faster, towards the abyss.

  It comes. It happens.

  From outside, she hears the sound of Terry exploding, something smashing. In a moment he will be down the stairs again, on the street, looking for her, but still she steels herself towards him. She has to get to Dominic. She has to get to her son. There is no choice, no freedom after all. She moves closer. Closer again, closer to those hands that will grip around her throat. Closer. Closer. Almost there. Until suddenly, just metres away from the door, a face appears in front of her, and a strong, decisive hand pulls her sharply away.

  “Don’t look back,” says Lewa.

  Veronica

  Veronica had only popped home during lunch for some fresh clothes, but there was post waiting for her. A letter from Dr Shirazi detailing in writing the results of her fertility tests that he had already explained to her in person: quite simply, she was fine. There was nothing abnormal, no depletion of eggs, no irregular hormones, no endometriosis or blocking of the fallopian tubes, no anti-sperm antibodies; there was no reason, on her side, that they should not conceive, as he had suspected. He would, however, monitor her next few cycles so that they could pinpoint the optimal time for conception – which according to Monday’s appointment would be tomorrow. And they would wait for the results from George.

  A week ago, Veronica would have leapt to the conclusion that since it wasn’t her, it had to be George, his fertility had to be the problem, because they had a problem, and then she would have spent days wondering if and when and how to tell him. Now, instead, Veronica ran lightly up the stairs, confident that Dr Shirazi had been right all along. The obstacles were psychosomatic, there was no issue at all.

  Despite the morning’s rain, Veronica had cycled to school, enjoying the dodging of puddles and the pattering of heavy drops on her face. She hadn’t thought it mattered how wet she became since she kept a spare set of clothes in the classroom, and as she weaved through the bouquet of umbrellas, cycling upright with no hands, she had an urge to laugh at the weather, to congratulate it for its unpredictable wildness, to let it know she understood that spirit, she felt it too. But she had forgotten underwear.

  Next door, there was a sudden thumping down the stairs like a bag being pulled, then the slamming of a door, and Veronica moved quickly from her chest of drawers to the bedroom window to look. She hadn’t seen Dominic since returning from France, he hadn’t knocked all week, and the noise in the meantime had been relatively mild, so the darkness that usually emanated through brick had receded slightly in her mind. Still, she found herself thinking frequently of those children, and listening for signs of life.

  On the street, Simone was loading Jasmine into a buggy and arranging a bag on the handles. It was a large bag, a suitcase almost, bulging at the sides and unbalancing the pram so that Simone had to hold it down to stop it from tipping. There was another bag slung across her body. And another stuffed under the pram. Everything she did was rushed and she kept dropping things, glancing twitchily up and down the street. She was leaving! Veronica realised this slowly but with glee. Simone was running, this was it.

  Veronica’s first instinct was to cheer, to crane her head out of the top floor window and shout after Simone: congratulations, congratulations, you did it – the same praise she had offered the rain. But her second thought, abruptly, was Dominic. He wasn’t there. Reasoning in the next moment that he must of course be at school – where she herself should be too – Veronica dashed down the stairs with the intention of grabbing a quick lunch at home before heading back. Stirring soup, the next logical series of thoughts began to surface: did Terry know that Simone had left? How would he react? What would this mean for her and George? Would they have less chance of getting Terry moved on if it was only him living there, or more? What kind of noise would there be when he found Simone gone?

  Veronica didn’t have to wait long to have this last question answered. Out of the front window, she saw Terry waltzing with his usual arrogance up the steps to his front door, and less than sixty seconds later, there was an almighty roar. Then the sound of something smashing, and something else that could have been wood or may have been flesh thudding against the wall, and then a series of what sounded like chairs being kicked over, and then Terry bounding back onto the street where he span around like a crazed animal, this way and that, into the road and back again, until finally, a visible defeat washed over him and he took a step back towards his open door. A foot before it, he stopped, and suddenly turned his gaze slightly to his left, straight into Veronica’s window. Veronica was sitting a few metres back in the kitchen by then, but she was clearly looking at him. Watching.

  Look away a voice inside whispered. Look away. But she could not, and as soon as their eyes locked, the words Terry had shouted at George echoed around her head, as they had done now so many times before: I’ll have you begging! I’ll have you on your knees and broken!

  Look away, the voice of the past year told her again.

  And the teacher in Kent.

  And the man in Oman.

  Veronica put down the spoon and stared straight at him.

  “What are you fucking looking at?” Terry snarled from the street.

  She wasn’t prepared for the volume of the slap as his palm hit reinforced glass.

  Simone

  Lewa tries her best to calm Simone. Dominic is not at home, she tells her, he has not been there, she promises. She has been watching.

  “What do you mean you’ve been watching? How have you been watching? How long? Where were you?”

  Lewa has dragged Simone into the public library a few streets away and they are huddled in a corner by the door. Both of them glance every now and then through the window onto the street, but for now it is quiet. Simone allows the woman to take her face in her strong, firm hands and to stroke hair away from her forehead.

  “I’ve been here a few days, a week maybe. After your email, I had to come. But I didn’t want to knock when that man was there.”

  “Terry. I’ve left him.”

  “Good.”

  “Lewa, I left a note. And Dominic… I don’t know where Dominic is. If he goes home… What have I done?”

  “What have you done?” Lewa asks, standing back now and broadening her chest. “What you’ve done, my girl, is you’ve taken your turn. You’re finally taking your turn. About time.”

  Six years unravel in a minute. With the same ease that Simone remembers, Lewa infuses her with strength and determination, that rare combination that Noah had in such abundance. Despite her fear, Simone feels anchored in a way she hasn’t in many, many years, and she is able to gather the presence of mind to call Polly, who is already on the way to the refuge with Jasmine. Simone and Lewa creep out of the library to meet them there, and on the way they attempt to bridge the dark chasm between them, tentatively winding their way back to those awful weeks after Noah died, and that fateful day when they stood either side of a closed door.

  “I’m so sorry,” Simone says, over and over. “I was so selfish. And such a mess. I should have been there for Noah – I loved him, I did love him, you have to know that. And I should never have lied to you. I should have let you help. I should have let you take Dominic. I’ve been an awful, awful mother.”

  But Lewa puts her finger to Simone’s lips. “It’s okay,” she tells her – once, twice. The third time she shakes her head. “Simone, we cannot change what’s been. But now, now you are being the mother you need to be. Now we find Dominic.”

  As soon as they reach Polly, plans begin. She has gathered more information from the school and Simone is shocked to hear that Dominic has hit his best friend Jakub with a rock. Apparently, Dominic had discovered that Jakub had told a teacher about his cut hand, about many bruises before that, about suspicions
he had. It was one hit, the teacher on duty had told Polly, one explosive hit, from behind, to the back of Jakub’s head, and Jakub had been knocked out by it. But the boy is not badly hurt and thankfully is not seeking to press charges. He has even offered to help search for Dominic. Polly calls the police to enlist their assistance too. “The important thing is that you don’t go back,” she tells Simone, looking her in the eye. “You must not confront Terry. We’ll find Dominic, don’t worry about that, we won’t let him get as far as the flat.”

  Simone nods, though she is unconvinced.

  Polly is thrilled to discover Lewa, and Jasmine takes to her immediately. As Polly and Simone make calls, Lewa entertains the toddler with the exotic contents of her handbag – a nail file, a pack of tissues, a rogue coin – none of which contain nutmeg but somehow are still seeped in the smell of it. After a while, Lewa folds Jasmine into her lap, and sings to her. The little girl closes her eyes. Half-remembered gospel-turned-lullaby drifts over the child and around Simone’s ears, nutmeg tickling her nostrils, and for a second she closes her own eyes too, wishing more than anything that she could return to Lewa’s old, cosy flat, where Noah was wrapped in love and belief, and she was wrapped in him. But of course. she must leave this music, that after all did lead to one good thing: Dominic, who has Noah’s sensitivity if not his talent. She must find their son.

  It is agreed that Lewa will stay and tend to Jasmine. Polly will return to the office to coordinate efforts between the police, the council and the school. Simone will search the streets. Polly did not want to allow this last part of the plan, but she cannot stop her, and if anybody is going to find Dominic, Simone is convinced it will be her. She starts at the estate. Terry has friends here, one of them is sleeping in their old flat, and Simone feels anxious as soon as she draws near; but she does not think that Terry will have told anybody about her leaving. Not yet. He won’t want that humiliation broadcast, he’ll need time first to spin it, or to take revenge. Still, Simone holds her breath as she approaches the Concourse.

  It is like taking a tour of the past decade. There, hanging off the wall outside the bet shop, sit herself and Noah – his arm draped around her, proud, confident, his friends spellbound by the sparks that fly from his eyes and mingle with their own. There, are herself and Dominic – younger, lighter, fingers entwined as they dash, late, past others who are loitering. There she is again, bottle in hand, half conscious, eyes blurred, on her knees.

  Simone shakes her head. Already, the walls have erected themselves inside her, towering around her, it has started to rain again and it is difficult to see. Clenching her fists, she strides purposefully forward.

  The boys on the wall haven’t seen Dominic, they say, not since the night before. Horror pushes through Simone’s chest with the knowledge that he has been here, hanging out, doing goodness knows what, without her knowing a thing, but for now she pushes this concern away. Where next? He is not by their old flat or with any of their old friends on the estate. She looks into a number of stairwells, but he is not there either. She circles back past Jakub’s house but Jakub is out, his mother tells her, a scathing look in her eye, Jakub is out looking for Dominic. Simone nods a thanks, an apology, and scuttles away. At first, she does not know where she is heading. She glances into the park, the newsagent, the tube station. She passes deep crowds of people trundling home from work. She walks up and then back down Camden’s bridge. It is only once she had gone well past Chalk Farm tube and halfway to Kentish Town that Simone realises where she is going. The same place her son was aiming for days earlier. The iron railings of the steps seem less imposing than she remembers. The deep blue of the door is less shiny. But here is the step she sat on, hollering for the neighbours to hear. Here is the step from which she was turned away, pregnant or not. Here is the step upon which she used to stand listening, hoping to hear music, or TV, or voices that never came.

  She rings the bell. Her mother blinks into the dull drizzle, a camera lens opening and shutting, finding focus. Then without saying a word she rushes inside, leaving Simone standing on the doorstep, peering into the corridor where her mother flings open the door to the study that was always so tightly, determinedly shut. A second later, her father appears – older, smaller, but there. Together, Simone’s parents return to the door. Together, they hover, unable still to pull Simone towards them, to pull her back, to break their own chains of restraint, though she thinks she sees their desire for this. They hold each other’s arms. “Come inside,” her father whispers finally.

  Come in. Come in. A door open.

  But there is no time.

  There is no time for the unpicking of a decade. There is no time for recriminations and apologies. The only time is now, and now, she needs only one thing. “Is Dominic with you? Is he here?”

  At once, her mother’s face changes. “You’ve lost Dominic?”

  At once, Simone feels the accusation, the familiar judgment. She is seventeen again. Buried bitterness stirs inside her. But no, she isn’t seventeen, she tells herself, she is no longer an angry, needy child. “I’ve left Terry,” she says, noticing her mother’s hands fly to her chest. “Dominic doesn’t know. I had to do it quickly – he was at school. And yes, I can’t find him. I need to get to him before he goes home. I thought he might be here?”

  “We haven’t seen Dominic in four years,” Simone’s father tells her gently, quietly, with what she can see is a great attempt to keep the blame from this truth. Simone waits nevertheless for more – since you told us to steer clear, since your boyfriend threatened to hurt us, since you let him do that – but it doesn’t come. “Can we help?” he asks.

  Can we help?

  And come in.

  Simone’s parents stand waiting at the door. They see her, and they see her need, and it is everything she has ever wanted.

  Except that Dominic is not there. And the emptiness of that wraps itself around her throat harder than Terry’s hands ever did, and turns her away, and pushes her back down the steps towards the street that so many years ago she abandoned in stupid, helpless defiance. Only it is different this time. Because at the last minute, she stops and dashes back up the stairs, past her surprised parents, and past the wide open door of her father’s study where she rips a sheet of paper from his ready pad and with scratching nib scrawls her phone number before thrusting it into their hands.

  “If he comes here, call me,” she tells them.

  Her father stays her arm. Ripping a scrap of paper off the sheet, he removes a pen from behind his ear and writes his own number, which he hands to her. “When you find him,” he says. “And any time after that too, call us. You can always call us.”

  A lifeline after all.

  He is not down by the canal.

  He is not on the bridge.

  She checks the estate again and he is still not there.

  By the time she returns to the refuge, even the late light of summer has been consumed by rain and night. Lewa beckons her in from the door, whispering so as not to wake Jasmine who is asleep on her lap. Simone notices how content the child seems, oblivious in slumber, and she longs to breathe in her innocence, to take it for herself; but she listens to Lewa’s report that there has been no news from Polly. And then she nods. “I’m going out again.”

  “You need to sleep,” says Lewa.

  But Simone cannot be persuaded. “I need my son.”

  Sarah

  At 4.44am, Sarah glanced from her clock to David’s side of the bed. The storm of the previous day was over and unusually there were no children between them. She should try to go back to sleep, but already she felt she had been laying there fruitlessly for hours. Noiselessly, Sarah crept from the thin summer sheets across the thick shag of white resting on wood. A memory of crunchy grass and night-time adventure slipped between her toes. At the dressing table, she reached for her phone.

  There were thirty-four new messages. But nothing from the school. Nothing from Veronica.

  Instea
d, in bold capitals, was a draft judgment from her case the day before, for handing down the following week. Calmly, she clicked it open. In the end, she had felt confident in the weight of her argument in court, and in the certainty of justice ringing through. Perhaps the law was unclear, but the principles weren’t; it would have been impossible for the judge not to see that. As Sarah read the opening sentences, however, her brow crumpled inwards. It could not be. She had lost. Lost! She hadn’t lost a case in over a year.

  Sarah looked over to David, urgently feeling the need for him, but there was no point in robbing his sleep too. In the dark, her legal brain began to kick into action. She would appeal. There were things she could do. But even as she began to compile them, she could see clearly the reasons why she had lost, and would lose again, deluded before. The law was simply not with her, the law was not with Right.

  Sarah’s heart began to beat rapidly, she felt her palms start to sweat. She was still in the open expanse of the bedroom, but perhaps it was the darkness of the blackout curtains, perhaps that was why all of a sudden she felt confined, and enclosed, and trapped in. Like being on a cattle cart. Or behind barbed wire. Or in a small, locked room of wood. Striding across the floor, Sarah yanked open the curtains, pushing the window open wide and gasping into the storm-cleansed air.

  “What’s going on?” croaked David from the bed, squinting into the sudden sun.

  “Sorry,” she turned. “Sorry, go back to sleep.”