by Helen Lowrie
Vic would never let me go. Not because he loved me or anything sentimental like that; if my husband had ever loved me it had been short-lived. But he liked wielding his power over me, having me at his beck and call, reliant on him and running his cafe so that he didn’t have to. And Vic was a proud man. His tough guy persona and the respect of his peers was everything to him. If I embarrassed him by trying to leave he would take it out on me with violence.
The events of the night before last were a prime example of Vic’s vicious nature – after his ‘covert’ meeting he had vented his frustration by sweeping the contents of the cafe counter top onto the floor. Unable to stop his rage there he had hauled me out of bed and commanded me to tidy up, pushing me down the stairs when I moved too slowly, despite the fact that his dissatisfaction was nothing to do with me. No, if I tried to leave Vic, if I gave him a real excuse to hurt me, I had no doubt he was capable of murder.
So was I brave enough to do it anyway?
That night I’d lain at the bottom of the stairs pretending to be unconscious until Vic had gone and only then had I dared to move. On autopilot I’d awkwardly cleaned up the mess one-handed, while deliberating about going to the hospital. I suspected my wrist was fractured and I knew there was a chance I could be bleeding internally. I’d made the journey to St Mary’s a few times before and I had the short bus route memorised. But I was still hesitant about breaching the invisible boundaries of my daily life and not just because of Vic – it was my own anxiety holding me back. The outside world was alien, unpredictable in its multitude of variables and overwhelming on the senses. Quite simply the thought of venturing beyond the market filled me with dread and it was easier to stay within the familiar confines of my prison, where there were fewer unknowns.
Despite my trepidation and my pathetic excuse for a life, my impulse to survive rose up from somewhere inside me like a silent roar, forcing my limbs to override my fear. I wish I could say that it was self-respect or even defiance that gave me the courage but in all honesty I just wanted to be well enough to see James again.
Decision made, I’d pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms, shrugged into a cardigan and stuffed my fish-finger box into a rarely used handbag. Having dropped the cafe key and an accompanying note through Cherry’s door, I stumbled on to a double-decker bus and into a seat at the back. By focusing intently on the seat in front of me I could ignore the strangers around me and the bewildering intensity of London as it passed me by. I had never felt so alone. As the pain and nausea grew steadily worse I’d concentrated on thoughts of James to distract me and somehow, at last, I’d made it to A&E before collapsing.
I’d made it this far; could I go further?
Jamie wanted to take me away and, in spite of everything, I desperately wanted to leave with him, if only for a little while. Vic tended to disappear whenever I ended up in hospital, lying low to avoid any difficult questions. Maybe I could take advantage of his absence, just for a few days – go with Jamie and see his home, meet his friends; enjoy a temporary escape from my own life. I could get back before Vic even noticed I was gone. One thing I knew for sure; I absolutely did not want the two men to confront each other.
Jamie was physically bigger, younger and almost certainly stronger than my husband but he was also a nice guy, whereas Vic always fought dirty. And besides my husband had an army of jacked-up, steroid-enhanced bouncers at his fingertips. He was fully capable of having Jamie killed without risking a single scratch to himself. Shivering I folded my arms around myself. It just didn’t bear thinking about.
In anticipation of being discharged I’d changed out of the hospital gown and back into the scruffy, mismatched outfit I’d arrived in. The nurse had drawn back the curtains from the end of my bed to let the daylight in and I kept an eager eye on the entrance to the ward. As soon as the doctor had signed the relevant sheet of paper Jamie’s tall, distinctive form appeared in the doorway. All broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin and long athletic legs, he drew interested glances from the other patients and nurses alike, as he strolled towards me across the room. Would I ever get used to the sight of him? Would he always set my pulse racing? Was it right that he still did, knowing who he was to me?
‘Hey, how are you feeling?’ Jamie smiled but there was a shyness about him that hadn’t been there yesterday.
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘Did you manage to get any sleep?’
‘Yeah, some.’
He nodded. ‘That’s good.’ He sat down in the chair without taking my hand and I tried not to notice, tried not to think about it, tried not to read any meaning into the slight distance between us. The irony was not lost on me that, after years of avoiding physical contact at all costs, I now craved even the slightest of touches from Jamie. ‘Has Vic tried to visit?’
‘No. He usually disappears when something like this happens – goes on a bender: drinking, gambling, that kind of thing. He probably won’t be around for at least a week.’
Jamie shook his head in disgust, his stubbled jaw flexing with tension. He braced his hands on his knees and sighed. ‘You can’t go back to him, Kat.’
I didn’t reply – couldn’t decide what to say – and Jamie didn’t push it but changed the subject instead. ‘Do you mind if I call you Kat?’
The way he said my childhood name did strange things to me but I liked it. ‘Not if I can call you Jamie,’ I said.
Smiling he held up a plastic carrier bag. ‘I’ve brought some things for you. I didn’t know what you’d want but I’ve brought some toiletries, a hairbrush, a change of clothes. I’m not sure if they’ll fit but hopefully they’ll do for now.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, moved by his thoughtfulness. He put the bag on the bed beside me but I felt too self-conscious to look inside.
‘Do you want me to fetch any of your things from the flat?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? If Vic’s not around then –’
‘There’s nothing I want.’
He held my gaze in that way of his, as if reading my mind with his large chocolate eyes. ‘OK. I’ll leave you to get changed and then we can get out of here.’
In the bathroom I washed and re-dressed myself in the clothes Jamie had provided. The outfit – plain white long-sleeved T-shirt, blue floor-length skirt and flip-flops – was not flashy or conspicuous but it was brand new. I couldn’t remember ever being given brand new clothes before. They were well fitting, comfortable and chosen with me (and my bruises) in mind – a complete contrast to the second-hand cast-offs that I’d always worn. Even the underwear Jamie had bought for me – a white bra with matching knickers – though simple and functional, fitted me beautifully, gently hugging me as if tailored to my measurements. I felt like a new woman, dressed to rejoin the human race.
My wedding ring had been cut away from my swollen left hand when I first arrived. Turning the ugly piece of twisted metal over in my fingers it looked small and insignificant and yet as heavy as an iron shackle. Taking a deep breath I dropped it into the bottom of my handbag out of sight.
As I attempted to hide the bruise on my forehead under my hair, manoeuvred my sling into place, and eyed myself in the mirror it occurred to me that I must have some small sense of pride left. I regretted that, after all this time, Jamie had discovered me living in such a state – hidden away in a greasy spoon, afraid to go out and letting life pass me by. I was nothing like the gutsy girl he once knew – I’d bowed to Vic’s will for too long, suppressed my own instincts and emotions for the sake of an easier life, and become a ghost of my former self in the process. What must Jamie think?
I had no idea how much time I would get with my not-so-little brother but I wanted to try and make the most of it. He was risking a lot for me, whether he realised it or not, and I didn’t want to let him down. Jamie’s opinion of me was the only one I cared about.
He was talking on his mobile phone in the corridor as I left the ward with my handbag on one shoulder, and the carr
ier bag, which now contained pain medication, clutched in my right hand. He ended the call when he saw me.
‘OK?’
I nodded and smiled, determined to act normally.
‘You look lovely.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘So … will you come back to Wildham with me?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I will, thank you.’ His expression brightened with relief. ‘Thank you for everything.’ I could feel my own face heating and I turned away but he pulled me into a clumsy hug, my cheek against the firm curve of his shoulder, my bruised ribs complaining, my plaster cast sandwiched awkwardly between us.
‘We have so much catching up to do, Kat.’
But we didn’t talk straight away. Jamie took my bag and led me along several corridors, down two floors in a lift, through a lobby and into a car park, where he helped me into the passenger seat of a battered old maroon-coloured estate that he said had belonged to his dad. As we set off Jamie turned the radio down to a murmur to allow conversation. I was sure he had plenty of questions for me, as I did for him, but he seemed to sense that I needed some more time. It was certainly disorientating being outside in the world again after so long. It was a vividly bright June day and I tried to suppress my impulse to panic as I stared out at an infinite assortment of strange faces and unknown places. Jamie steadily navigated our way through the traffic and out of London and I repeatedly reminded myself that the world was not necessarily a big scary place, filled with pain and danger – not if you had someone to trust, someone to look out for you, someone to care. And as ridiculous as it may seem, given that we’d spent most of our lives apart, I did feel like I could rely on this person beside me. Jamie was the only person I had ever trusted.
As the roads grew wider the terraced shops and houses gave way to larger ones, outlets the size of warehouses and homes with front lawns and driveways. These in turn fell away to be replaced by grassy banks, lines of tall trees, and open blue sky. I tried to appear unaffected as we hit the motorway and vast verdant green fields rolled out around us, the likes of which I’d only ever seen on TV and in other people’s magazines.
Eventually we turned down a long narrow road lined with lush green hedges and swathes of frothy white wild flowers. Beyond a large entrance sign for Southwood’s Nursery & Garden Centre, and a modest car park, lay a small gravel driveway almost concealed by bushes. Jamie pulled the car in and we stopped outside a pretty stone cottage, complete with roses scrambling up around the door. Switching off the engine he looked at me and it was only as the engine cooled and the silence grew that I realised how tightly I was gripping the edge of my seat with my uninjured hand. Easing my fingers open, I took a breath and turned to meet his gaze.
‘This is my home, Kat,’ he said softly. ‘It’s your home too now, for as long as you want it to be. You’re safe here.’ The warmth in his eyes and his words made my heart ache. Smiling back at me, he released his seatbelt. ‘Come on in. I’ll show you around.’
Beyond the quaint timber porch and the cheery glossy-red front door was a tiled entrance hall with a narrow staircase leading off it. As Jamie squeezed past a heavily laden coat stand and disappeared through a doorway, I avoided the mirror on the wall and glanced down at the narrow table below it. An old-fashioned telephone and answering machine were perched atop a pile of directories, which had slithered awry with their own weight. But my eyes snagged on the framed photograph almost concealed at the back; a formal studio shot of Mr and Mrs Southwood posing proudly with their young son. I recognised all three faces from a lifetime ago but also registered the unfamiliar details – the ruler-straight edge of Jamie’s haircut, the crisply ironed planes of the shirt he wore, the bright optimism in his smile – before forcing myself onwards into the house.
The interior of the cottage was warm, bright and cosy with flowery comfortable-looking furniture, curtains around the windows and paintings on the walls. The fireplace in the living room harboured a stack of real logs along with a coal scuttle and a stand of old-fashioned-looking metal implements. On the stone slab mantelpiece above an ornate clock was ticking unnervingly loudly, as if emphasising the steady march of time.
Jamie hovered uncertainly in my peripheral vision.
‘So many books!’ I murmured enviously under my breath, spotting the overloaded bookcases in the corner.
‘Yeah, help yourself. The books on these shelves are mine and the rest belonged to my parents – actually I guess they all belong to me now – but just help yourself to anything that takes your fancy; there are lots of reference books, fictional classics, thrillers, sci-fi. My mum liked romance novels but I imagine they’ll be a little dated now.’
The kitchen was what I’d once seen referred to in a magazine as ‘country farmhouse’ in style, with warm wooden units and surfaces, a white Belfast sink and a solid-looking, iron cooking range. Jamie hastily tidied piles of books and papers on a worn timber table by the window and then proceeded to open various cupboards pointing out the locations of coffee, teabags, mugs, tumblers, biscuits, boxed cereals, and numerous other items while I tried to take it all in. Jamie’s home was welcoming and disorientatingly familiar. It was as if I had just stepped on to the set of a fictional TV show where happy families lived and loved and regularly ate meals together. Except that this was real. I was really here and Jamie’s adoptive parents, sadly, were not.
The bedroom he showed me to had a sloping ceiling, uneven white-washed walls and a pretty bed piled high with cushions as soft and inviting as clouds. But it was the view out of the window, sparkling with verdant life, which really captured my attention.
Below and to the right, beyond a tall fence, were long benches crowned with colourful signs and laden with row upon row of potted plants, many of them in full bloom. The stock was made accessible by a bisecting network of paths where a middle-aged couple was pushing a trolley and slowly making their wandering way between neat lines of rose bushes, oblivious to my attention. Over to the left were yet more rows of plants but these were less formally arranged, without retail signage or labels, and situated against a backdrop of plastic-covered growing tunnels and a jumble of small outbuildings. This was the growing area – the nursery side of the business – the ‘Staff Only’ sign on the gate leading to it confirmed as much.
All of this would have been enthralling enough but beyond the nursery and the garden centre an immense expanse of grass stretched out like a carpet – lush green fields that gently unfurled uphill, rising to where a ridge of leafy trees met the vast blue sky. Shaggy, brown, contented-looking cows punctuated the open space, while a lightly trampled footpath, over on the far side, followed the fence line up to a rustic-looking stile in the distant top corner. The overwhelming and unfamiliar sense of freedom I felt, as I took in the idyllic view before me, gripped me with light-headed hope and fear.
Joining me at the window Jamie talked about one or two aspects of the business while I quietly fought to subdue the panic rising inside me. My heart thudding in my chest, I listened intently, focusing on the calm, soothing sound of his voice. I had never experienced such seemingly unconditional kindness, never been anywhere so beautiful, and never been so close to living a life I’d hardly dared dream about. I was aware that I should be enjoying this moment and delighting in my new surroundings, the way anyone else lucky enough to be in my position would. But instead I felt desolate, dizzy with emotion, swamped with a sense of impending dread. How was this lovely dream going to end?
Chapter Twenty-four
I woke early, despite not having slept for very long. Just knowing that Kat, Kitkat, was asleep in the room next door, kept me awake for hours. I could still barely believe it – that I’d found her, that Kitkat and Rina were the same person. Of course, it went some way towards explaining the strange connection between us, the way I’d felt drawn to her at first sight – maybe on some subconscious level I’d recognised her. Either way, she was even more important to me now; the urge to look after and protect her
was stronger than ever.
But the physical attraction between us had me confused. Kitkat had always been a big sister to me. Was it wrong to lust after her the way I did? She wasn’t technically my sister – not biologically or legally – and we were different people now: adults. I’d spent the last thirty-six hours or so trying not to think about Kat sexually but it was impossible – I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anyone and I was worried my body would give me away. How did Kat feel about me now?
She had been subdued the day before, quiet on the drive back from the hospital and watchful as I showed her around the cottage. Kat didn’t openly display her emotions on her face, not the way Jasmine did, and I was curious to know what she was thinking. But I hadn’t dared ask. I was afraid of what she might say. Instead I’d pointed out those parts of the nursery and garden centre that were visible from my parents’ freshly decorated bedroom – it was her bedroom now. I could tell she was struck by the place, maybe even impressed, but her body remained tight with tension, her uninjured arm defensively wrapped around her middle and her face set in a mask of neutrality. She’d declined to come with me when I went to check in with the staff and I’d figured she needed more time.
We’d had lunch together; I’d made sandwiches and asked Kat once again if there was anything she wanted or needed – anything I could do for her to make her more comfortable – but she had only said no. I’d suggested that I could take her shopping in Wildham the next day to buy her more clothes and things. I suspected she didn’t have any money, and was unlikely to accept any, but she couldn’t live in one set of clothes indefinitely. Having listened to my carefully worded proposal she eventually agreed, on the proviso that I would let her pay me back one day.
Later I had run her a bath, hot and deep and filled with bubbles. I’d waited downstairs at the kitchen table, my hands clutching invoices but my eyes seeing only her. I held my breath, listening to every splash and sigh, thoughts of her naked body making me uncomfortably hard. Afterwards she had retired to bed early, sweetly scented and hidden from neck to toe inside a set of my winter pyjamas.
