by Nina Milton
“Ow,” I hissed. “Stop that.”
He stood back, keen to obey, and the cloth dripped bloodstained water on my trousers. “Maybe we should use ice,” said Ivan.
“Use ice?” My voice sounded faint and slurred, even to me. “How about using some sense?”
“I’m sorry, Sabs.” He bent and tried to kiss me. I wriggled away from him. “You don’t ever have to be scared of me, sweetie. I won’t hurt you.”
“You just did.” My head was pounding too badly for me to raise my voice, but that was no bad thing—I was finally learning that you lost your temper with Ivan at your own peril.
“Never again,” he said, sliding his arms right around me. I didn’t have the energy to push him away. “Never again. You know you belong to me now. I wouldn’t hurt my girl.”
“I’m bleeding on you,” I said. “I think I need stitches.”
I had to get out of the house. But the suggestion that we go to casualty made him jumpy. He kept dabbing at the wound so gently that tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel myself trembling uncontrollably. I felt as if I’d just had some sort of coronary event—my forehead was ice cold and my vision was all over the place. Ivan wrapped his arms around me and pulled me up.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” He was forcing me along, using a shoulder to push me in the direction of the stairs. My mind wasn’t completely clear. There was a singing at the back of my head, but I knew I should not get into bed with Ivan.
I turned to him and tried to open my eyes wide with trust and appeal.
“I’ve got to see to the hens.”
“Oh, Sabbie, fuck the hens, can’t you? Just this once?”
“I’ve got to check they’re all right. It’s the afternoon and they haven’t had their breakfast yet.” Desperation was clearing my head rapidly. “It won’t take me more than a minute, honestly.”
Ivan was sufficiently nonplussed by my insistence for me to pull away from his grasp. Behind me, leaning against the hall wall, was my backpack. Both my mobile and my car keys were in there. I was desperate to have them close to me again.
I slung the backpack over my shoulder and marched towards the kitchen. A microsecond later, Ivan was behind me. I felt his big, angry hand grip my arm, swinging me sideward. He seized the backpack and thrust me away from him. I lost my balance, clutching at the radiator as I watched him unzip the bag and tip the contents onto the floor. He grinned at me as he pushed my keys and my mobile into his jeans’ back pocket.
“You didn’t mean to run out on me, did you?” His voice was shaking with emotion. “You know I can’t allow that.”
I looked up at him. I was so shattered that I longed to curl up on the floor with my eyes closed. Let Ivan do whatever he liked with me. Being cared for by a dominant person suddenly felt like the most appealing option—even if that included the occasional beating.
Ivan took a step closer and repeated his words. “YOU KNOW I CAN’T ALLOW THAT.”
The words hit me like the air rifle, one syllable after the other, but the onslaught gave me the strength to think ahead. I gave him a wonky smile, the best I could summon. “There’s some stale crumbs in there I was going to give to the hens.”
I pointed to the crusts of pie in their ball of clingfilm. He picked them up and handed them over in silence, as if slightly humbled. I fled through the kitchen. My coat was crumpled by the back door where I’d lobbed it earlier. I cast it around my shoulders against the drizzly day. Ivan was on me again by then. He did that thing that blokes love to do, he hugged me from behind, cupping my breasts with his hands. I was still coming to terms with the constant alterations in his character—one moment domineering to the point of extreme violence, the next moment tender and amorous. I could not understand how I had been so deluded that I’d allowed this monster into my life for one second.
But this was not the time for analysis. This was the time to put on the performance of my life. Caught up in my palm were the spare keys I’d taken off Ivan. He’d forgotten about them, and so had I—they’d fallen into the folds of my coat as I’d slung it onto the floor and now I was trying to keep them from glinting or chinking. I felt Ivan’s hands slide downward from my breasts into the pockets of the coat. He fished out bits of chewing gum wrapper and a used tissue, examining each item in turn.
I turned round to him and planted a kiss on his furrowed brow. I recognised that I was playing this part for my life. He began kissing back properly. The touch of his lips made my stomach lurch. I summoned a bright smile.
“There might be eggs! We could have omelettes! I’m starving, aren’t you?”
Ivan thought for a moment. “I guess I am,” he admitted.
No doubt beating up your supposed girlfriend can give you quite an appetite.
“Why don’t you open the bottle of wine in the fridge,” I went on, summoning every ounce of my seductive powers. “I’ll be back in two ticks.”
He looked confused, which I reckoned was a good sign. I saw his gaze swing around the room again, searching out those dark corners. Then he grinned at me. “Good idea.”
I stood, quaking, waiting for him to move away. He seemed unsure, as if he didn’t quite trust me, but couldn’t work out why.
“Wait a moment.”
“What?” The word escaped me with a terrified gasp.
From his back pocket, he pulled the keys he’d snatched from me in the hall and unlocked the back door, swinging it wide open for me. He looked like he wanted to go with me, watch me all the way.
“Get some glasses out, Ivan. You know where they’re kept. And the corkscrew’s in the cutlery drawer.” Actually, it was hanging on a butcher’s hook with my cooking utensils—I hoped he’d have his head buried in the drawer long enough for me to make my escape.
I exited the kitchen and half pulled the door shut behind me. I didn’t go anywhere near the hens. I chased around the side of the house, trying desperately to be fast and silent. The coat fell from my shoulders and I left it behind. The front gate was in my sights when I heard Ivan’s voice.
“Sabbie?”
He was not calling from the kitchen. He had stepped into the back garden. His voice was clear on the afternoon air and filled to the brim with fury.
“SABBIE!”
I leapt over the front gate. I had no idea I was able to do that. I landed badly, and a pain shot from my ankle into my calf. But I was getting used to pain. I flung myself across the pavement, making ready to thrust the car key into the lock. By the time I was inside the car, Ivan had already vaulted over the gate with a lot more agility than I had. I put my trembling finger on the door lock and pressed. Ivan reached the car and wrenched at the passenger door handle. I didn’t look at him. I was trying to get my old car to crank into life. The engine turned, slowly but surely. I put her into first and lurched forward.
The jolt of the sound of breaking glass made me yell out. My foot slid off the clutch. I kangarooed to a stop. Ivan had swung a bottle of wine at the passenger window. A massive spider’s web of cracks stretched across the glass and Ivan was thumping his fist into the centre of it, time after time.
TWENTY-FOUR
The window seemed to be holding. I was lucky not to be covered in slivers of glass. I was lucky that Ivan’s hand was not yet through the window and grabbing at my ponytail.
I restarted the car. I could hear my breath, coming in one-
second beats, shrieking like a steam train in full throttle. The engine turned over at the same moment that the passenger window shattered. The bottom of the wine bottle shot into the car. I did nought to thirty in seconds, Mini Ha Ha’s engine whirring at the strain. Well, I’d just leaped over a gate; the least she could do was a supporting act.
I heard a thump on the boot. I looked back. Ivan was standing in the middle of the road, roaring at me.
“Come on!” I
screamed at my Mini. We took the corner of the street on three wheels—maybe two. I had no idea what Ivan was doing right then, I was too busy looking for traffic. But as I hurtled up the road, I managed a quick glance in the rear-view mirror. Ivan was in his car and heading towards me. My luck wasn’t going to hold.
My mind flashed back to that odd feeling I’d had as I’d arrived home. I had caught sight of a silver car parked outside the Wraxalls, but I hadn’t made the full connection. Perhaps if I’d taken a closer look, I would at least have been forewarned. But, deadbeat, I’d stumbled towards my house with no idea what waited for me inside.
Ivan’s car gained on me as I tore down the road, the headlights boring through the dullness of the afternoon. I swerved onto the next side street, frantically searching for further turnings. I knew this part of the town a lot better than Ivan. It was the only advantage I had.
I was reminded of my least favourite reoccurring dream. I’m escaping from something that threatens—usually of an official nature, a knock on the door, a uniform spotted through a window—and I retreat over garden walls and fences. Often I’m carrying something indescribably precious that the faceless officers badly want. I hide it in a pocket, and sometimes the dream turns nasty when later the pocket is empty. In these dreams, I twist and turn through gardens, lanes, and back streets until a feeling of doom descends upon me.
Mini Ha Ha hurtled through the car-lined streets of Bridgwater, their surfaces damp from earlier rain. My eyes strained on the road ahead, alert for dogs, children, and bikes. I headed towards the centre of town, where I could get lost in traffic. For a second, I wondered if that dream of mine was precognitive—that all these years, I’d been dreaming of this madness. My gut was in a nightmare knot and the line of sweat on my upper lip was the sweat I licked off in the dream. But I knew that the dream came from a time long ago. It’s not me who’s running away, it’s my mother. And the precious object, held tightly in her arms, is me.
I hung a right onto Packard Street. For the first time since I started swinging around the back streets, there was no silver streak behind me. I turned too quickly, slotting myself in front of a Sainsbury’s van. The driver hooted at me. I raised a conciliatory hand in response.
Up to now I hadn’t thought what I was doing apart from getting Ivan off my tail, but now I was in town, I had to ask myself where I was heading. Should I go to the police? I had a nasty cut on my temple, which surely would be proof enough of what had happened. Then I wondered if I ought to make casualty my first stop. The wound felt very tender. I’d be walking round with a beacon of a bruise for a week or so—an excellent reminder that I had a weakness for the wrong sort of men.
I indicated right for the police station, checking my side mirror. In a flash of silver, I saw an Audi powering up the central lane. It gained on me until I could clearly see Ivan’s fiendish face through the windscreen.
I felt a shock of tension move up my spine like a lance. The Sainsbury van driver hooted at me again. I took no notice of him. Ahead to the left was an exit road for the A38 out of town. I pulled the car into it, not even considering indicating, tyres screeching on the slippery surface as I tried to down shift and control my direction before I hit the kerb. I saw Van Man shake his fist at the incompetence of women drivers, but he wasn’t scaring me. All I cared about was that Ivan was stuck in the middle lane.
“Think, Sabbie girl,” I urged myself. “Get a plan.” I needed to find help. I was too proud to land myself, shaking and beaten up, on any of my friends. Marianne would be horrified at what I’d let myself get caught up in. Anyway, in my heart I longed to be wrapped up in Gloria’s squidgy and welcoming arms.
I powered up the A38 towards Bristol, the March winds blowing ice through the broken window. A mile or so and I could get onto the motorway, then I felt sure Ivan would be lost for good. I glanced down at my speed and my chest imploded inside my rib cage. My petrol dial was kissing E.
I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. The horn beeped at me, as if I’d hurt it. How stupid—I’d used all my fuel up trying to find the burial site yesterday. I had no money, no phone, and very soon I’d have no car. I badly wanted to cry, but I was too angry with myself.
At that moment my gaze fell on a scrap of white, stuffed between the dashboard and the windscreen. Linnet’s card, professionally printed in bottle green. Don’t hesitate to use it. Those had been her words, and her card had stayed tucked onto my dashboard until the spirit world had revealed it to me at the moment of most need.
I swung into the next pub car park and hid in the overflow section behind a nicely bristling pyracantha. I grabbed all the small change dotted around the car and went to find their pay phone, which turned out to be on the wall next to the Gents. Taxi firm cards were stuck all around it with ancient Sellotape, like a wreath to the inebriated. I punched in Linnet’s mobile number. After a fifteen-second, stomach-churning wait, she answered.
“Linnet Smith speaking.”
“It’s Sabbie.”
“Hi!”
“I need help.” My voice came from the back of my throat, as if it was being strained through thick muslin.
“Do you want to come and see me tomorrow? I could fit you in—”
“No! No … it’s Ivan.”
“Who?”
“Remember I told you about my boyfriend—well, he’s not my boyfriend—he’s got a gun so I can’t go home—”
“Calm down.” Her voice sounded thin and distant, as if she was speaking from another country. In a moment of panic, I imagined her back up in Aberdeen. “Try to explain.”
I stuffed in the last of my change. “I thought he was going to blow my face off!”
“Have you contacted the police?
“I was hoping you’d be the best person … oh Linnet, my money’s going to run out so quickly …”
“Where are you?”
An infantile sob hiccupped out of me. “About five miles north of Bridgwater. Pub called the Arms something or other. I’ve no money and my tank’s nearly empty, and …” I couldn’t bring myself to say I’ve got nowhere to go, but she must have heard the desperation in my voice.
“I’m not in the office today. I’m working from home.”
I felt tears sting my eye. I wiped at them with my sleeve and it came away smeared with blood. “What … should I do?” There was such a long silence, I thought she’d gone. “Linnet?”
“Okay. Don’t worry. Sounds like you’re in the Wheelwright’s Arms. You’re no distance from my house.” She barked out a staccato of directions. “He’s not still following you, is he?”
“No, I lost him in the middle of town.” I put the receiver down gently. The bloke coming out of the loo did a double take at my beaten-up face—his hand was still fiddling with his zip—and I turned away, quickly shielding my bad eye with one hand.
“You okay, miss? Sorry, it’s just that you look … ”
I probably did look something—traumatized—crazed with fear. It was a good job he couldn’t see my car. I began to run, the pub door swinging behind me.
I pulled out onto the road, muttering Linnet’s instructions. Drive back towards Bridgwater until you see the B road for Muchum Middling, take the first left off it, signposted Hartley’s Wood. I’m about a mile down that track. Every muscle in my body was screwed as tight as piano strings. Very soon I’d be off the main road and safe. I was hovering at the turning for Muchum when a silver Audi shot past me, heading away from Bridgwater.
They say in books that terror turns your guts to soup. I felt it happen. Every organ inside me was in shutdown. My hands and knees vibrated as if the car had gone into spasm around me. I hung the corner on two wheels and powered along the B road. First turning, first turning—moments ticked by and there were no exits, nothing, not even an open gate into a field. Had it been Ivan? Had he seen the way I was heading? I stormed down the road to
Muchum. I had to keep away from Ivan. I felt sure he would kill me if he found me. My foot was on the floor and the engine was roaring in third when I saw the turnoff: a single-track road with a Forestry Commission board. I rounded the corner and killed my lights just in time—a full beam shone against the heavy twilight cloud cover. Ivan had doubled back.
Doubts crowded my mind. I’d chosen this road in a sweat of panic. Was this Hartley’s Wood? The lane was narrow and winding. Branches loomed high on either side of me, obscuring the sky. I rolled on through the wooded gloom without lights, almost without power, winding round two half bends in the road.
I saw a flash of headlights behind me, between the trunks of the trees. I lifted my foot from the gas pedal but remembered just in time not to hit the brake, causing the lights to flash red. I pulled on the hand brake and clicked open the door with more stealth than I needed. I didn’t think I could be seen, but I desperately needed to see—to make sure. I crawled into the hedgerow and peered back towards the B road. The pale opal gleam of a silver bonnet was nosing its way into the top of the track. I stopped breathing. Would he spot Mini Ha Ha? I glanced back at her. She was surely obscured by the winding lane and its high tree cover. The silver car was stationary, fifty or so metres away. I was sure it was Ivan, sniffing after me like a psychotic terrier, checking every junction. I shivered among the weeds, trying to get into his twisted mind. He’d seen me indicating for the B road, but he couldn’t know where I was now. He had to decide between checking each turning and driving on in the hope of catching me up. Finally, the streak of silver slid away. I almost keeled over in relief.
The air had a damp chill to it now, since the sun was going down. I got back in the car and rolled her forward again. Ten minutes down the track, a long gravel driveway turned off it. I parked in sight of it and got out of the car, breathing in the damp air as if I was deprived of oxygen.
At the end of the drive, I could see a house. It was of red brick and had a low, sweeping roof with scalloped tiles. Two tall chimneys seemed to grow from the foundations like stovepipe hats. A cockerel swung in the wind from the apex of the gable. I was trying to work out just how many of the ex-council houses in Harold Street you would have to sell to match its worth, when I had one of my “moments.”
