Her Victory

by Alan Sillitoe

  He threaded the fingers of both hands together, so that a whole series of cracks ran along the knuckles. ‘I can’t wait much longer.’

  She dodged as he tried to grab. ‘I’ll come in my own time.’

  Terrorist force was on his side, his unreal calculations taking account only of himself. He lived in the vacuum of his own needs, which admitted nobody else’s because he thought his desires were also the world’s. His clenched fist flashed at her face. ‘You’ll come now.’

  He was quick, and the room was small, but she avoided all but the close-winded rush. She had nowhere to go. The refuge that had taken weeks to construct had turned into the perfect trap. ‘I’m not going by force.’

  She spoke whatever words would stall him from one moment to the next, but despised herself for uttering such phrases of surrender before the threat of his fists. His eyes, and the brain behind them, assumed she belonged to him because he was stronger, and that she had no life of her own.

  He stood back, as if he had won round one, and could afford to wait. ‘Take your time. Have a few minutes if you like. I don’t want to rush you.’

  She was wary. He closed the door. She wouldn’t get it open in time if she ran. Tom had no doubt been waylaid by his brothers. Three to one was their style.

  He lit a cigarette. ‘Want one?’

  She shook her head.

  He acted like a friend, but was not very good at it. He smiled. ‘Go on,’ and held the packet towards her.

  ‘No thank you.’

  She put a suitcase on the table. She should have accepted the cigarette. Lull him. She took a dress from the wardrobe, and walked to fold it in the light of the window which gave a view up and down the street. Tom wasn’t in sight, but neither were the others. George’s car was in a meter-bay a hundred yards away. Maybe he had only put enough money in for an hour, and wanted her out quickly because he didn’t care to overstay his time. Like most ambitious men who lived in their own small area he was law-abiding, for while he had the born energy and skill to do his job well he did not have the ingenuity to break the law and feel confident that he would never get caught, especially in London. Nor did he have the necessary panache to bend the regulations and not care whether he was found out. Therefore he had put in enough money for the maximum of two hours in case something went wrong.

  ‘I must get some fresh air into the room after sleeping in it all night.’ She opened the window. Impossible to jump before he grabbed her. His hands twitched, as if afraid she might try. Perhaps he wouldn’t care. If she flashed out of his sight it would make a respectable end to his troubles. Or he would hire someone to push her around in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the room does pong. You must have been drinking. You never did booze, though. The odd shandy now and again. But I expect you’re on the hard stuff every night, with the sort of company you keep.’

  He looked wretched again, and threatening. A real woman would have sympathized with his suffering – and been destroyed. But she wouldn’t. He could plead as much as he liked. Every word he spoke ate into his self-esteem. Then he became quiet. She too had better say nothing. Yet silence could only mean surrender. He called the tune. The leader led, but where did he take you? You didn’t follow. So he was no longer a leader. But the rules he made her live by were so deep in him that he wasn’t even aware that they existed. Lucky man. All men were lucky – though they might not know it – by much more than a head start. Yet it was best not to think so, because that too was only part of their unspoken rules and the effect they had on you. How could you be yourself, or know yourself, if you were under that kind of domination? You didn’t follow. You did anything but follow. A man with no one to follow him was finished. He was beaten. You just did not follow.

  He smiled at her silence. Won again. He didn’t even need to say it. The damp air that came coldly in might stir her sufficiently to think properly and find a way out of her peril. Still holding the dress, she went to the chest of drawers. ‘I don’t drink half as much as you imagine. I can’t take it. Do you remember when we went to that club? I had, two small gins, and was ill when I got home. All I drink is a glass of wine, and then only with a meal.’

  Using her dress as a cover she opened the drawer and gripped the knife in her right hand. There was no other way. The more she spoke the more silent and depressed he became. He pulled back into the bleak spaces inside, his familiar manoeuvre being to retreat with set mouth and glazed eyes, and surround himself with a broken-glass zone of resentment that could only be entered by those who admitted to being the cause of his distress, even if they weren’t. It was a trick he had often used, of blaming her for the dark moods that would occasionally envelop him for no reason. She was long used to his expressions. To comfort him was to accept the blame for the way he felt, and not to comfort him was to be blamed because her very presence made him feel worse. It was as if she were back home already. Futile emotional competition once more enmeshed them. Her months of freedom vanished in a moment.

  Air from the open window pushed at the small of her back. Her face burned but her body stayed cold. The dress fell to the floor and she held the knife in front. She knew him too well not to love him, but it was the love of pity, not the love between equal human beings. Despair pierced her so sharply that she lunged.

  He leapt from his chair and staggered away. The point tore his coat. What she needed to tell him fused into a mass and would not be said. There was nothing to say any more. If he wanted so crucially to lead anyone, let him lead that remnant of himself which might yet redeem him as the good person he could well be in some unreachable part of himself. He saw clearly what she demanded from him, but he would not do it. She lifted the knife again.

  He stared at the razorsharp blade in the hope perhaps that she would stare back long enough to be hypnotized into losing her determination. His lips were about to say something. He would try to argue, but if she replied with words it would weaken her stance. Words were finished. When in his presence they seared her too painfully.

  He darted, speedy as a cat, to grab her arm. She stood aside and brought the knife against his hand. He squealed. It was real. He went back to the door, afraid to turn and open it in case the knife burned into his back. He held his wrist high, and blood came from an opening cut. The insanity was in her own eyes, and she prayed he would leave. But she would neither ask nor order. He had to go without words. Words were finished.

  She flexed her body. He saw the movement. His cry suffused him with shame at having to plead, but it was a shame which gave him courage to stay where he was. He would fight for his life. He shifted as if to come forward, but it was hopeless because he could no longer take her by surprise. He noted her knuckles whiten at the grip, and her left hand come out as if to give a firm balance.

  His smile was a sign of wanting to placate her, almost of surrender, and stopped her hand lifting for its final drive. His features, bunched like a baby’s about to weep at some primal disappointment, caused her to brace herself for a sly attack. His life was saved. She lowered the knife, but lifted it not quite so high. She hadn’t lived with him twenty years for nothing. No sudden attack was possible, because the gleam of the blade was sharper than any eye.

  There was a rattle at the door. Inside or out, she didn’t know. His unwounded hand clutched the knob. He didn’t want to go, needed to speak, to plead, to get the knife clear and batter her to death. She watched the flicker of his eyelids when he tried to look directly at her. He wasn’t able to, as if he would go blind should he succeed. His hand motioned for peace, while his head was fixed at an angle that only allowed him to see the floor.

  Her terror was in abeyance while she waited. However abject, he could leap like a tiger, but the cold air kept her alert, and if he ran she would kill. He wouldn’t force her. She would force him. The rattling of the door knob was to distract her. His eyes looked up, and she swung the knife.

  The sleeve of his suit was soaked. T
he twitch of his face and the sway of her knife came out of the same impulse. An ache pained him. His eyes pleaded for her to speak. Any words from her would have been balm, but she couldn’t trust him. Trust also was finished. It was an all-or-nothing game, and she hoped to die rather than have it go on by his rules.

  She knew what he wanted. Her whole being told her to soothe him with a few words so that he would go away as a human being and not some animal set on revenge for his humiliation. That too was another of his tricks, and she wouldn’t let it take her over. He would lead her no more. Everything that would be to his advantage contained disaster for her. She must stand where she was and stay alert, eyes never ceasing to look in his direction no matter what the effort.

  He made croaking sounds, held up his arm and patted the patch where it was wet. She stepped towards the window-sill till the wall was close. She found it hard to prevent her hands laying down the knife, or letting it fall out of the window, or rushing at him in an unstoppable fury and thrusting the blade again and again into his body till she crumbled under a final desertion of strength. Either course seemed overwhelmingly desirable. It was harder to stay silent and ready. The uncertainty of each second was impossible to bear.

  The unexpected touch of the sill at her back was a signal. All air seemed ripped out, either as if she would faint, or as if she had infinitely more strength than she knew what to do with. She advanced towards him with unmistakable intention.

  He opened the door and ran.

  She shouted at the top of the stairs for him never to come back. The front door slammed, shaking the balustrade.

  She gripped with both hands. The knife, hurled after him, had clattered on to the landing below. She went down to pick it up, thinking to run on to the street and shriek so that he would know he had reduced her to the lowest common factor of his imagination as far as women were concerned. This couldn’t be the end. Wanting to kill, she was still part of him, and so needed more than ever to destroy him.

  After picking up the knife, she stopped. If she maimed or murdered she would be part of him for ever. She felt only humiliation and sickness. If she killed him she would not be part of him. It was a lie.

  9

  With trembling hands she laid the knife in the drawer. Looking in the mirror, there was nothing new in her face except fear. She leaned against the glass and cooled her forehead. She forced a smile, but tears were falling. The grimace mocked her. Setting the clock upright, she saw that only twenty minutes had gone by since her dream had been riven by his banging at the door. She wiped the tears angrily, and felt jubilant.

  But she curbed her exultation. It was unworthy, a madness too similar to his. There was much still to be considered. The fight was only half done. It would never be done. She didn’t know where they were.

  His car was still in the parking bay. She closed the window. Why hadn’t he gone? A middle-aged woman walked with a dog along the street. Low clouds were about to spill rain from a darkening sky. A man in the distance already wore his umbrella, and a car went by with small lights on and wipers going. They’ll have a rough trip home. She cursed the motorway that put them only two hours from London. It used to take at least double, coming through all towns en route. Maybe he wouldn’t be so ready another time. He would bandage his cut by using the first-aid kit in the car, nursing the ache every mile north. One of the others would no doubt drive, if he was conscientious about earning his fee. What year did they imagine they were living in, to think they would get her back with them? Their Neanderthal bellies still thrived on the Wars of the Roses. In this day and age you had to fight with a knife to beat them off. She could hardly believe what had happened.

  The door would not lock, but she closed it to begin packing. The sooner she fled the better. She should get properly dressed, go out, and walk back and forth by the police station. But even that might not do any good. She had to live without safety. At least in Clara’s flat there was the obstacle of London to deter them from a quick foray. She washed her tears at the sink, unwilling to let them turn her into the animal they wanted her to be. There was no need to despair, she said, looking into her long mirror.

  The window tempted her again, but she was afraid of being seen. She looked, and saw their car had gone. Conscious of victory, she felt proud of having got rid of them by herself. Tom would be back, but there’d be no need to mention her struggle, since both she and he would soon be in a place where such struggles would not occur.

  She packed shoes and dresses, folded skirts, blouses and underwear into her case. How many more times would she do it? The oftener the better. It didn’t take long. Say goodbye to Judy, wedge their things into the car, then go to the estate agent’s to settle the rent. The picture was clean and beautiful. They would drive away. Let the rain come. There would be occasional sunshine from now on. Didn’t expect it. Didn’t care. A thunderous noise sounded on the stairs.

  The door banged against the wall. All four were in the room. She cried: cunning bastards. But she spoke quietly. ‘Get out, or I’ll call the police.’

  Alf took her case and was off with it downstairs. George threw her coat into her face. ‘Wrap this round you.’ He smiled: the leader had won. ‘Come on, you’ll need it.’

  When she refused he crammed it under his arm, and sent two driving blows, one into her ribs and the other at the side of her head that flung her against the wall. No messing this time. She freed herself from one of the scarves that decorated it.

  Harry and Bert pinned her arms. It was no dream. They pulled her out of the room. She kicked till Bert fell at the wall to nurse his bruise. Her shoe had flown with him. From the top of the stairs she screamed for Judy, her voice like a noise that rushed out at her from another door. George snarled. ‘She isn’t in. Gone to get her National Assistance, I expect.’

  They had waited downstairs, impatiently smoking their fags to the stub while George made his first attempt. You didn’t bring her? Why, you dozy bastard! You’re as soft as shit, George. She had a knife? They laughed all over the pavement. And you let that stop you? Bleddy ’ell! Do you want to get her back, or don’t you? Don’t cry about it. She ain’t worth it. You do? Come on, then, there’ll be no pissin’ about this time. After all, George, this trip’s costing you a bomb. You might as well get summat out of it, even if it’s only a bit of you-know-what!

  Harry alone was left to help him pull at her, and she struck his face with her clenched fist. She’d never hit anyone in her life before. He must have got out of bed too early to shave that morning. ‘For God’s sake give us a hand,’ he called, as his own hand slipped from her. He stumbled half down the first flight and continued on his way. She kicked again, but a blow landed at her face that sent her back through the doorway into her room.

  She leapt at the chest of drawers. When George clutched her from behind she kept her grip on the knobs. His wrench was tigerish, an effort which pulled the drawer open for her, so that she took the knife and swung towards him. He let go. All three were back, and then at various points of the landing.

  ‘You don’t need to use that,’ Bert wheedled. ‘Does she, our George?’

  She tore Alf’s suit at the lapel. Thinking she had stabbed him, he struck at her face. The wall spun and she was on the floor, still gripping the knife. She kept her eyes closed against the stained carpet, and waited for her chance. A shoe stamped on her wrist, the pain grinding all breath away. She held to the dark as if it were a big foul blanket to crawl under. It comforted but did not strengthen her. She felt herself going, but did not know where. Someone kicked her. Two yellow sparks came together from opposite ends of darkness, then shot apart, and slowly moved towards each other, over and over, forcing her into a tunnel without even a pinpoint of light at the end.

  A voice was toned with rough animal-like anger at the fact that they were too long at their simple job. She dimly noted the manner of subdued rage at their stupidity in not being fit to do something which the power behind such a voice obviously would b
e able to accomplish with no bother at all. She had given in. There was only silence and stillness left in her. She forced back her sobs, all future existence dependent on what pride she could muster. It was the only force she could draw on. Years of dust scraped her face, the detritus of centuries. When the foot ceased to crush her wrist she waited for the last blow to descend, hoping there would be nothing more in life to come.

  ‘What’s going on?’ The words were distinct, not violent or loud, though they had a promise of becoming so. The voice kept her alive, free of final darkness, not from hope of salvation but out of curiosity, for it seemed hardly human, rang up and down the stairs in a sort of commanding bark that she had only ever heard from someone talking to a pack of dogs. She trembled with dread, but would not move, even if he killed her.

  ‘She took a knife to us,’ Alf said.

  A dizziness faded into and then away from her. Why should he apologize? she wondered, as she battled against the sensation of fainting.