How to Play Dead

by Jacqueline Ward

  But what if they are right? What if I am not the person Danny thinks he knows? I’m scared that I will lose him and scared that he will think badly of me. Scared that Mum and Dad’s assessment of me never amounting to anything will come true. Scared that my colleagues at SafeMe will realise that I am not Superwoman. That I am just an ordinary mortal who can get into debt?

  My phone rings and I jump out of my skin, the spell broken. It’s Danny. He chats about the job and I am silent. Listening. Thinking about Jimmy and the phone.

  ‘Ri? You all right, babe?’

  I panic. ‘Yeah. Just this funding thing,’ I lie, then hate myself. This is how it all goes wrong. This is how it starts. ‘Now the gov have changed it from national to local funding we need to step up. Or we’ll close.’

  He knows what SafeMe means to me and the women.

  ‘Close? Jesus. What’ll happen then?’

  ‘Well, they’ll have to rehouse the women and there will be no service.’

  He is silent for a moment. Then he asks again, ‘So what will happen to … you know …?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing will happen. There will be no help. Well, 999 and an emergency helpline with an answerphone. So nothing.’

  There is silence as we take in this possibility. I change the subject.

  ‘Donelle came round. Telling me she’s changing routes. Doing Japan for a bit.’

  She works for an airline and she’s been promoted. She’s my main source of cheap vodka and perfume. I hear him cheer a little.

  ‘Good girl. Told her to look after you.’

  We laugh and we’re almost caught up. Only one burning question remains. He waits awhile.

  ‘Did you see your mum?’

  He always asks, even though he knows how my parents feel about him. Predictably, my early protests that they would ‘come round’ and ‘realise’ came to nothing. Now any conversation about them is met by Danny’s hurt look. It’s the one usually reserved for teenagers who taunt him at bus stops or half-arsed white supremacists who insult him from a distance. But he’s a good man and he always brings the conversation. He knows that if he doesn’t, he’s accepting that it’s a problem. And we both know the problem is theirs, not ours.

  ‘Yep. Seven minutes, two fat remarks, one hair remark and a ‘pull yourself together’. I laugh and he laughs as I relate the brief chat when I picked the kids up from her yesterday. ‘She told me Dad’s thinking of retiring. More time for him to judge other people, then, I expect.’

  Then on to the question of the day.

  ‘What date will you get back?’

  He is silent for a moment. ‘I don’t know. It’s day twenty-four today, so in twenty-four days. Look, it’ll get easier. I’m here, but my hearts still there, Ria.’

  I almost cry. Yes, his heart is still here. With me.

  ‘Yeah. It’ll be done in no time. I’ve been looking at Rightmove. I’ve been marking them. Ones with a garden and high ceilings. I’ve sent you the links. I love these two.’

  I haven’t looked at them, not in detail. I just typed all our requirements into the page and clicked save. But he seems happy with this.

  ‘We’ll look when we have the money. When all those debts are paid. Remember, don’t open the door to any of them. You know, babe, I can’t believe this; we’re going to have somewhere that’s ours. Get out of here.’

  We say our goodbyes and he is gone.

  The kids are bickering at the table over some Star Wars Lego and I push the button to switch on our ancient TV. I limit their time – yes, I am one of those annoying parents, but I don’t want them exposed to anything that will pollute their minds too early.

  ‘Come on. You can watch TV for a bit.’

  They rush over and sit very still on the sofa just in case I change my mind. I stay with them for ten minutes. Eventually they are suitably hypnotised and I creep into my room and sit on the bed. Evidence of Danny is everywhere. I pick up socks and T-shirts and parking receipts, never wishing to have even the slightest overlap between him and what is starting to niggle me. Finally, I get out the cheap phone. I rerun the video, listening for any hint of who took it. It’s like a fly buzzing around my head, not actually doing any damage but very annoying. I am none the wiser.

  For now, I get the hoover out and move all the detritus of mine and Danny’s life into black bin bags. I clean and polish and soon the whole flat is dust-free and relatively tidy. I iron the children’s school clothes and stick a chicken in the oven for dinner, cut some roasties and even whisk up some Yorkshire puddings. I text Donelle and invite her and Vi and Danny Snr round for dinner. They are going to church, but Donelle accepts so I chill a bottle of white. Why not? I am strong. I am assertive. I might even be Superwoman after all.

  We all have dinner then the kids have baths and go to bed. I don’t even check my phone all afternoon. Donelle makes me laugh until I cry with her stories of ‘dickheads on planes’ – the drunken customers she has to deal with daily. She entertains me with her early Japanese lessons and she drinks more than half the wine, which I am thankful for as I have a big day tomorrow. She looks happy and it doesn’t take her long to tell me why.

  ‘So I met him when I was on that two-day break between trips and, well, what can I say? He blew me away!’

  I laugh.

  ‘Good God. Everyone blows you away.’

  She nods and gulps the wine. ‘Usually. Yeah. But he’s different. Sort of … I don’t know. Charming? So far so good.’

  I laugh. ‘Bloody hell. So far so good? It’s only Sunday!’

  I’m glad for her. Donelle has had her fair share of heartache and I know she would love to have what me and Danny have. She leaves at ten and I feel happier than I have all week. I get ready for bed and as I plug the cheap mobile phone into the charger at the side of the newly shiny bedside table it pings. I debate whether I should leave it until morning, but chastise myself for being so blasé. Even so, I pause, not wanting to deflate my mood, but I have to know.

  STILL WATCHING

  There’s a picture of me getting into a taxi outside SafeMe yesterday. The car door is open halfway and I am smiling at the driver. An involuntary shiver runs through me. I try to pitch the angle, twisting the screen to see if it had been taken from the pub. I lean back on my pillow. Don’t let this get to you, Ria. I’ve got enough problems at the moment without this.

  Tanya

  Diary Entry: Sunday

  I’ve had to find a really secret place for this diary. It was easy to fill it in when Al was out last night. Not so much now, though, when he could come upstairs at any time and catch me. I really do think it is helping me. Write the problem down. That’s what the doctor said. So here goes.

  My problem is: me. I keep upsetting Al. He is a very sensitive man. He likes everything just so. The problem is I keep doing things that make him angry. Like that time when we went to the pub on the way home from work. It’s about half an hour’s drive from Huddersfield where I work to our house and he was in a particularly good mood. He suggested the pub but I didn’t really want to.

  When we got inside I sat down and Al went to the bar. There were some men playing pool and I sat with my back to them. Al came back with the drinks and I did my usual thing of looking into my half a lager to try to stop myself doing it. Then two young blokes came in and stood at the bar. The fact that I knew they were there proved he was right: I can’t help myself.

  I saw the pulse in his temple then he scraped his chair backwards.

  ‘Come on.’ He dragged me outside by my arm. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’

  This is how it has been for as long as I can remember. At first I used to argue and create a fuss and then … well, he lost his temper. Then I began to think he was right. How could he be wrong every time? So I controlled myself. Completely. I trained myself to look into my drink or at Al so he wouldn’t get upset. Afterwards he told me he loves me so much that he can’t bear me looking at anyone else.

 
So that’s the problem. I am anxious because I am doing everything I can and he is still angry with me. He is a good man. We’ve been together a long time and I know all his little ways. I sometimes wonder if I am like this because he was my first boyfriend. If something inside me is lacking. Maybe if I had been a bit more like Jade and her friends before we met I would have been better.

  Al is attentive. Over-attentive sometimes. I can’t think of a single time he hasn’t picked me up from work or not been at my side for the whole of our relationship. We have a beautiful home. He lets me pick everything from catalogues. It’s all clean and white, so easy to look after. The back garden is absolutely gorgeous, all enclosed and quite established now. In the summer I go out there and sunbathe, watching the sky and thinking. Watching planes go over and wondering what that would be like.

  He is careful, too. Although the house is detached — Al’s parents left it to him — he says you can never be too careful, which is why he had the shutters put on. And that’s one of the bad things. The shutters. When I annoy him, he goes out and leaves me in the house. It does make sense, I suppose, and he’s only trying to keep me safe but, if I am honest, this is when I feel most anxious. All shaky and tearful. But it’s for my own good.

  So I try not to annoy him. But the other day all that business with Jade and Karla, then at the doctor’s when I nodded when she mentioned the diary; it must have all built up. Because when we got outside I was shaking and my teeth were chattering. We got into the car in silence.

  When we got home, he stormed inside and went into his study and locked the door. Something had upset him, for sure. He was in there for ages and even when I made some chilli and rice he didn’t come out. It’s nights like these that I sit on my own, just thinking. It all starts to get on top of me and I start thinking that it’s Al. It’s him. He shouldn’t be doing this. I should be able to go out and have my own money. I shouldn’t have to worry about sitting in a pub with him — I wouldn’t have another man thrown at me.

  When I’m tired my mind plays tricks on me. And when he came out of the study that night those tricks spilled out of my mind and cut the air between us like razor-sharp knives.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it? That’s why you’re like this with me. You still want her.’

  His face reddened and his mouth twisted and he lunged for me, but I ducked out of the way.

  ‘You’re hysterical.’

  The voice wasn’t Al’s but someone harsh and cold.

  ‘I’m not hysterical!’ I screamed.

  It only took one slap. I melted into a sobbing heap, sorry for shouting at him and extra sorry for mentioning her. Why did I do it? Why did I do that? Why didn’t I keep quiet and let his mood pass, let him be?

  So you see, it’s definitely me.

  Chapter Seven

  Day 23

  Monday morning finds me raring to go, despite the horrible message. In the middle of the night I made a decision. I’m going to file this away with all the other psychopathic events that surround SafeMe. Someone is trying to play a game with me, but I am not joining in. Danny must have rung just after I fell asleep as he texted me an amused message:

  Bloody hell, babes, those houses are fantastic. Day 23. Nearly one week down and only 3 to go. It all gets easier after this, I love you xxx Always

  Easier. Will it? I pull myself up, gather my strength and tell myself that he is right. I miss Danny. Underneath all the problems and worry, I just miss him: the feel of him there, around the flat or at the end of a phone. I read his text again. I run my finger over the words, over Danny’s optimism that spans the miles.

  When I arrive at work Janice is in the office. I hang my coat on the back of the door, sit at my desk and wiggle my mouse to make my screen spring to life. Janice turns to me.

  ‘You won’t believe it.’

  It’s her opener to tell me something funny. I feel the corners of my mouth curve immediately and think how lucky I am to have her.

  ‘Go on.’

  She doesn’t say anything, but she swings around in her chair and lifts her legs. She’s wearing odd shoes – clearly odd – similar, but definitely not a match. And this is why I love her. Most women, including me, would be mortified, but Janice thinks it is hilarious. She wiggles her feet and I feel the ‘don’t give a shit’ part of me light up. We collapse into laughter, which feels good, and we begin to put the chairs out. It’s perpetrator counselling day and on checking the list we see there are fourteen men and no women booked in today.

  Each of these men, and each of the women who sometimes attend, has their own reason for coming on one of these days. They have usually physically hurt their partners; sometimes they have psychologically abused their partners, too. Some will argue and protest; some will tell us that they own their wives or that we are fucking lesbians who could never understand because no one has ever wanted us.

  They are keeping their wives ‘in line’. ‘Sorting them out’. ‘Putting them straight’. And this is all said in the same tone that the PR woman used to tell me to ‘get a grip’, only with a little added menace. It is pure power dynamics and it affects every aspect of people’s lives, passed down through generations and regardless of class.

  So when I see Frank James loitering outside the SafeMe offices, continually trying the locked door because he still hasn’t realised what this is, I wonder what he will have to say. How he will spin his violent behaviour towards Sheila. She texted me early this morning to tell me he was coming. I texted her back to reassure her it would be OK. She responded with a standard but heartbreaking, Please don’t tell him I said anything about him. This is the risk of holding the perpetrator counselling here: that we lose the trust of the women. But it is part of our funding criteria – if we don’t do this bit of it, we don’t get any of the money.

  The attendees of today’s session are gathering outside. They are standing individually in a very small area pretending that no one else is there. Many of them are smoking underneath a huge red ‘No Smoking’ sign, which does not bode well. I see Frank look around and assume the position: hands in pockets, staring into space, no eye contact.

  We deal with terrible, terrible situations, but Janice and I are good at our jobs and get through them with humour. We are a veritable double act along the lines of good cop, bad cop, and we take turns. I have the ‘Ria stare’ and Janice has the deep, silent frown. She pauses before speaking. Nodding, frowning, pausing. It is unnerving to watch, even for me and I’m used to it. But if it serves to diffuse the power dynamic, then I’m game.

  She stands in front of me now as we listen at the door.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks me in a very serious voice.

  ‘I am. I want to observe Frank James.’

  She nods and faux frowns.

  ‘Frankie, Frankie, Frankie.’

  I can’t help but smile, even though in seconds we will be surrounded by criminals. She flicks the switch that releases the door, and the switch next to it that activates the panic button in the room. We are also targets of violence and it wouldn’t be the first time one of us had been attacked by someone’s violent ex for just doing our jobs.

  The men file in and find places on the chairs in the circle. The new faces look around at the fairy grotto we have made: the low-hanging twinkly branches and the warm colours of the carefully selected framed art posters. If they were expecting a standard, bleak community hall, they will be disappointed. We care about their exes and this is home, just like the huge distressed wood sign that hangs at the front of the room says. Home.

  I point to empty places and urge the reluctant ones forward, while Janice stands, arms folded, staring and frowning. I look around, risk assessing the situation and making sure the exits are clear, just in case. The first to address the group is our security guard, Malc, who some perpetrators will already have met under very different circumstances when they tried to get into the building to retrieve what they considered their personal property.

  ‘Right, lad
s, I’ll be just outside if anyone needs any help – tough uns these two.’

  There is laughter, but everyone knows the score. We begin. We go through the no blaming and shaming policy, we’re here to help, and who will be the first to express why they are angry. We are met with silence, and I take the time to assess Frank James.

  He is a large man, sturdy, tanned like Sheila. His hair is unnaturally dark for his age and I wonder if he touches it up. Vanity. He’s wearing golf clothes – expensive ones – and Adidas trainers, a statement about his football allegiances. He has a Rolex on his left wrist, loose and casual, and he is wearing a wedding ring. Instead of diamond rings like his wife, he has the full sovereigns. His nails are carefully manicured but he has the same nicotine tattoo as Sheila. His eyebrows are trimmed to perfection.

  He screams ‘ladies’ man’. Yet here he is, enduring this to get Sheila back. He’s looking at the other attendees, already thinking of alternative reasons he could be here in case anyone recognises him and word gets out.

  We time the session and out of the ninety minutes there are only eighteen when someone is actually speaking. The rest of the time is Janice nodding, frowning, pausing. When they finally pluck up the courage to say something in front of their wife-beating peers, we have one ‘she’s my property’ and a short burst of crying and apology, which I suspect is put on to get probation points. We also have one verbal attack on us both as ‘rug-munching muffia who deserve everything we get’, which we report to the police as soon as the session finishes as a hate crime. This will be added to his already extensive record of abuse.

  Some people can’t help themselves, and then there are people like Frank. I know that he is sixty-three, which is not old by any means, even in this city of low life expectancy. He moves with the air of a much younger man. As the other men file out, he comes over.