by Jessica Ames
I hold my injured wrist against my chest with my good hand and try to slow my breathing. I don't trust anyone but myself. And I definitely don't trust her.
She must sense this because she says, "I know you have no reason to believe me, and I know how scared you are right now, but you can't go home to him. You know you can't."
I keep my face impassive even as my brain short-circuits. How can she know this? How can she know any of this? I was careful. I'm always careful. I use fake names every time. I don't stay long enough to be questioned by anyone and I sure as shit never go back to the same hospital twice. Yet she sees through my lies like they’re nothing.
My panic is mounting by the second. Shit, if Simon finds out a domestic violence group has been talking to me he'll hit the roof. I know I can’t go back to Simon, but I can’t stay here either. My thoughts are so conflicted, so confused. I can’t keep straight what my action plan is. I sag, my shoulders dipping as my chin lowers to my chest. I don’t know what to do.
"He's going to kill you,” Georgia’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “You know that, deep down in your heart. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow or next week, but it is hurtling towards that final destination.”
She’s probably right. No, she’s definitely right. Simon’s anger tonight had been unparalleled. I have never seen anything like it from him. And this time I don’t think he will be sorry in the morning. There will be no apology, no attempt at reparation, no calm after the storm. The thought makes my stomach swirl again. I’m tired of living this way. I love Simon—always will—but I’m coming to realise I can’t fix our marriage; I can’t fix him. This cycle we’re in is never ending and is heading for calamity.
“I can get you away from him,” Georgia continues. “I can set you up in a new town, with a house and job and a life that is safe. No one will ever find you. He'll never find you."
Her words cut through my fear, through my rage and despair, because if she's telling the truth she's offering me something I never thought I could have again. She's offering me hope.
Georgia also realises that she has me on the hook because she continues to speak. "Safe Shelter is set up specifically to help people get free from abusive partners. I have a place ready for you miles from here, all you have to do is say the word and it's yours. What do you think?"
A place.
A place away from him.
A new start.
Safe.
Can I do it? Can I really leave?
Will he let me leave?
Georgia is right about one thing: he is going to kill me one day. The violence in the past six months has already escalated far beyond what it started as.
In the beginning, I could predict what would set him off and avoid those triggers. Now, there is no rhyme or reason to his moods, and I am at the mercy of them all.
This version of my husband is not the man I fell in love with. In fact, he reminds me of his father. That need to control is in Greg Wilson too. When Simon was younger, he controlled everything he—and his mother and brother—did. He still does; I see it when we visit for Sunday lunch or when we attend some glamorous event hosted by the Wilsons. Simon is his father’s son, although he would deny that vehemently.
Don't get me wrong, I haven't sat back and done nothing through this. I’ve tried to leave, numerous times, but he always brings me back and I go willingly in most cases because he’d be contrite, filled with sorrow and love for me. He’d dote on me, and for a short time I’d get a glimpse of the Simon I knew and loved—the Simon I couldn’t breathe without. And just when I was back on that hook again, the violence would intensify.
“Honey…” Georgia takes my hand and the contact momentarily surprises me. “Do you want to stay with him?”
I think about it, really think about it. And the answer is no. I want to live a life without fear. The woman I’ve become can’t continue to love the man he’s becoming. Before, it seemed worth the pain, the suffering for the glimpse of good we had, but those glimpses are getting less and less. I can’t change Simon, as much as I wish I could. No amount of loving him will fix what’s broken in him.
"You should take her up on her offer," Kim (or Lyn) says from the side of us, making me jump. She must have come into the cubicle while Georgia and I were talking. I didn't hear her and I wonder how much of our conversation she heard. She tugs the curtain closed behind her and moves towards us. "No one has the right to put their hands on you, sweetheart. No one. Georgia is a good woman and has helped a lot of people in your situation. She'll help you now, if you let her." Her hand goes to my face in a gesture so kind my eyes well with tears. When was the last time anyone was ever kind to me? Even Simon’s kind moments have an agenda—to keep me quiet. It wouldn’t do for people to find out the great Simon Wilson is a wife-beater. "Let us get you safe."
I want to say yes, but the word sticks in my throat. Georgia doesn't let the silence grow.
"Safe Shelter has safe houses all over the country. Many are in small towns off the beaten track where he'll never think to look for you. My organisation can set you up in a new home and help you find work once you’re settled." She gives that a moment to set in. "All you have to do is say yes." She grips my hand and squeezes. "I know it's scary, believe me, I know, but you have to do this. You have to."
And I do. Not because I fear for my life but because I have nothing here and nowhere else to go. My life with Simon is done. He and I are done. This shelter could offer a sanctuary long enough to sort myself out and decide my next move.
"What about my friends and family?"
"Do you have either?" It’s not said nastily, but as a genuine question.
I think about my response. All our friends are Simon's and my family are next to useless. I’m sure my parents and siblings know what he does to me but turn a blind eye because of who Simon is—because of what Simon’s family name means in our community. This meant when I went to them for help they believed Simon over me. He convinced them I hurt myself for attention. He was so compelling I started to believe his words too. Maybe I had brought this on myself. Maybe I had pushed him too far. Maybe I was the delusional one.
He spins words until I don’t know what is the truth and what is a lie. He makes me doubt everything and everyone—including myself. But this time, I know I did nothing to warrant this level of violence. It came out of nowhere and I think it surprised him as much as it did me.
But my family are never going to help me. They think the sun rises and sets on Simon. They’re as bad as him, because they allowed it to happen by swallowing his lies, by trusting him over me. If I leave, I’m sure they will be humiliated and further renounce me as the outsider in our family. I can hear my mother’s voice now.
“Olivia was always flighty.”
I wonder what they will make of my sudden disappearance. How will Simon explain it? Will he bother trying? I suspect they’ll think I’ve done it for attention.
If only they knew.
But leaving him is a big decision. How can I survive without his support? How can I leave when I’m financially tied to my husband? Simon gives me an allowance; I don’t even have access to our money.
I shake my head. “I don’t have anyone.”
"That makes things easier." Georgia studies me, then says, "Will you let me help you?"
I take a breath and let my imagination run riot. A life free of pain and fear, a life free of Simon. Is it possible?
“I don’t have any money,” I tell her.
“You don’t need it.”
“I haven’t got any stuff with me.”
“It’ll be fine.”
She makes it sound so easy, so straightforward, but it’s not. It never is. Leaving Simon always ends badly. He’ll find me, he’ll bring me home under the promise of things improving and I’ll go because I want so desperately to believe him. Things will be fantastic for a couple of weeks, then Simon’s true colours will shine through.
For a long time, I’ve
been holding onto the delusion that I can change him, that if I love him enough he’ll be my Simon—the one I fell head-over-heels in love with. I have to believe that, because if I don’t, what has it all been for? But lately his string of broken promises follows me, dogging my steps and the love I have for him is always at war with the fear I feel for him.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"I know, but you don't need to be. Safe Shelter will take care of everything."
I let out a long breath. "Then, yes, I want you to help me. Please, help me."
Georgia's eyes close and I see the relief. "Then, I'm going to help you."
Chapter Two
Present day…
I'm unloading groceries from my car when I first see him. It's the roar of the engine that draws my attention. It's so obnoxiously loud in the quiet cul-de-sac that I can't stop my eyes from gravitating towards the sound. As I do, the mid-afternoon sunlight catches the chrome pipes, momentarily blinding me before the bike moves into the shadows of the trees lining the road.
I don't know a thing about motorcycles, but I can appreciate the beauty of it. It's a beast of a machine, with an emerald green fuel tank and pearl accents. It's a bike designed to catch attention, and it does. Even if it didn't, the man riding it would. To say he's imposing is an understatement.
With fascination—and a healthy dose of trepidation—I watch as he stops the bike in the driveway opposite my house and pulls off his helmet.
His head is covered in a thin layer of dark fuzz, which is at odds with the amount of hair covering his jaw, and every inch of skin not covered by clothes is inked. I'm more than certain his body is covered in even more artwork than I can see.
He isn’t classically handsome, nor is he the type I would usually find attractive, but there is something about him. Maybe it’s the bad boy vibe, or the confidence of his movements—I'm not sure. He's only wearing plain, boring, black jeans—nothing special—but they do fit him perfectly. The dark denim hangs in a way that accentuates his narrow hips and his tight bum. Beneath his leather vest he has on a loose, dark sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Looking at him, it’s like he rolled up out of hell to cause mayhem. Simon could never pull off that look, not in a million years. He is a trousers and button-up shirt kind of guy.
He's also a huge bastard—one that should not be entering my head at all.
My breath catches and all thoughts of Simon vanish as the biker turns and I get a full view of the back of his vest. There are two crossed swords dripping blood onto a skull wearing a helmet. This is macabre enough, but it's finished off with a T-cross piece over the skeletal nose and red, burning coals for eyes. The words 'Lost Saxons' are arced across the top of the garment, 'Kingsley' across the bottom.
He's not just a biker, he’s a biker.
I'm not a native to Kingsley, but I also don’t live under a rock; I know what the Lost Saxons Motorcycle Club is. They're well-known, even outside the former colliery town. If the newspapers are to be believed, they deal in drugs, weapons—anything that will give them a quick payout. They're criminals, a gang of men dedicated to living outside the confines of the law, and from the looks of it, I have one of their members living across the road from me.
And he definitely lives there because he's moving up the path towards the front door with a comfortable ease that only comes from being in your own space.
The bands around my chest loosen a little as he steps inside the house, the front door banging closed behind him, and once again peace and tranquillity return.
I’ve been in Kingsley for more than a year, but I’ve only been renting this property for the past three months. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly happy since I left Simon; the therapy, the breathing techniques, the finding something good in each part of the day is working and I finally feel as if I’m moving forward.
But now I have a biker living on my road.
Maybe I can move somewhere else…
Except, I signed a twelve-month tenancy agreement. Why? Because this house has a good square footage, is in a quiet part of Kingsley and was a bargain.
Now, I’m wondering if Mr Biker is the reason why the rent is so cheap.
I shake myself.
Firstly, for being so judgemental; I’m not usually. This is because so many people have judged me over the years and usually they come to the wrong conclusion. Secondly, because in the months I’ve lived here, this is the first time I’ve seen him. Clearly, he’s not a frequent visitor to the house.
I stare at the now-closed door and sigh. Maybe I should worry about my own problems and not who is living across the street from me. But I can’t help but feel concerned. I left my old life behind, reclaiming what was left of the woman I was before I met Simon. Even after all this time, I’m still trying to work out who this version of me is, but I figure she’s the kind of woman who would not care about the biker living across the street. I also figure she is the kind of woman who doesn’t get involved in other people’s business unless it becomes her business.
But he is a problem and he most definitely is my business, because he lives spitting distance from my front door. I don’t need the kind of trouble this man and his Club will bring. I need quiet, and I need safety. I don’t need the police camped on the front lawn.
Feeling irritated—and a little anxious—I reach into the boot of my car, gather up my shopping bags and heave them out with a grunt. Juggling my load, I fumble for the lid of the boot and manage to get it closed without dropping anything. This is a feat in itself, given how heavy these bags are. How much did I buy?
This is something I have struggled to get used to since I set out on my own: shopping for myself. I was so used to getting whatever Simon wanted, not what I wanted or needed that I now have a tendency to overindulge when I’m in the supermarket. I have to remember I’m on a budget and that I can’t afford a hundred pounds a week food bill. But the freedom to do as I please goes to my head more often than I would care to admit—even after all this time.
I barely take two steps before I feel something shift. Then, the weight of the bags changes as the plastic splits from handle to seam. Laden down as I am, I can do nothing but watch in seemingly slow motion as my milk carton hits the concrete at force, spraying white into the air like a geyser while the rest of the contents spill out onto the pavement, my apples rolling to settle in the gutter.
Well, shit.
I move to my car and carefully place the other bags in the boot before turning back to the carnage I have wrought. A white river of milk is free-flowing across the paving slabs and staining the grassy verge.
Shit, shit, shit.
I move to pick up the first fallen item—a ruffled looking lettuce—when a deep, gravelly voice says, "Do you need a hand?"
I jump practically out of my skin; I can't help it. It’s not a normal response and I know this, but I can't stop it. My flight response battles with my fight for dominance as I spin around. And my body, which has been conditioned to react over the years, tries to recoil. It takes everything I have to stand still as I let out a garbled yelp.
"Jesus!" I gasp out as I realise the voice belongs to my neighbour from across the street: the biker.
For a moment a tendril of fear works through me, but it winds back a notch when he doesn’t make any sudden movements. I put a hand to my sternum, trying to control my thrumming heartbeat, then drag in a shuddering breath as my counsellor’s voice sounds in the back of my mind: I am in control; I can keep myself safe.
And I can. I have been doing it for months now quite successfully.
For his part, Mr Biker looks contrite and slightly concerned, as if worried I may keel over. It is a possibility, given how much of a workout my respiratory system is getting, courtesy of him.
"You nearly gave me a coronary,” I snap, which is probably not the best idea, given the present company, but shock makes my mouth engage before my brain.
"Fuck," he mutters, as a tattooed hand runs over h
is buzzed head. My eyes of their own volition follow the movement and I have to drag my gaze back to his face. "I didn't mean to scare you."
“It’s okay,” I mutter.
This close up, I can see his eyes are pale, a blue so light it looks grey. He’s also wearing a ring through his left nostril that I shouldn’t like, but find I do. I don’t usually like piercings, nor do I like tattoos, but he pulls both off perfectly. Too perfectly, really. He’s nothing like Simon who was more at home in a suit rather than jeans and never left the house without ensuring his hair was perfectly styled. I doubt this man cares about that kind of thing; he’s dressed for comfort. He’s rough, hard, but there is something about him that I like—and I don’t even want to dissect that.
Boy, do I have bad taste in men? First Simon, now I’m lusting over a criminal. I should become celibate and join a nunnery.
But he is good looking, even under the bad boy appearance.
“Do you have another bag?”
“What?” I pull my attention from scanning the thick scruff of beard covering his jaw. It’s verging on wild and this close to me, I can see it has copper-flecks among the brown.
“A bag: do you have another? To put the food in,” he clarifies, speaking slowly, as if I’m not with it—which I’m not. I’m rattled having him in my space, and not just because my hormones are standing to attention. The man belongs to one of the most notorious biker gangs in the country, and he’s also at least five inches taller than I am. He’s bulky, in an athletic way, rather than a steroid way, but that means nothing; Simon wasn’t built but he could still overpower me. That in itself is enough to make me wary, although I do everything not to show it.
He’s not going to hurt you.
Breathe it out, Olivia.
“Oh. Yeah.” I move back to the car and find a spare shopping tote tucked away. When I turn back to the biker and hand him the bag I do it with a lot more confidence than I feel.
He takes it without a word, opening it up and gestures for me to hold it for him. I do so without question. Why? I don't know. I should run into my house and hide because this man is dangerous. His leather vest with the skull on the back, the tattoos, the swagger: everything about him exudes just how dangerous he is. Except, he's standing on my driveway, helping me to collect the remains of my scattered shopping.
