How to Play Dead

by Jacqueline Ward

  ‘Thanks for everything, love. I’ve thought of you as a kind of daughter, you know. If I’d had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be just like you.’ She holds my cheeks in her chubby fingers. ‘You’re a lovely girl. Lovely.’

  I take her hands. My heart is breaking.

  ‘We could meet up. Have a brew somewhere? I just want to make sure you are OK.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, lovey. You know that’s not what’s going to happen here. I told you to tell the truth, and I will now.’ She squeezes my hands tighter until it almost hurts. ‘You won’t see me again. It’s for the best. For everyone.’ I feel the tears, hot on my cheeks, but she brushes them away with her thumbs. ‘Superwoman. That’s how I’ll always think of you, love. Bloody Superwoman, you are.’

  She lets go suddenly, grabs the holdall and leaves. A small crowd has gathered outside and I watch through the window as she stands at the top of the path and Janice talks to her. Janice has the tenancy folder and I see her pointing to the signature line, and Sheila taking the pen and signing. She looks back at the doorway and I wonder if she has changed her mind. The van drives away and for a moment I think she will come back in, sit down in the chair and light a cigarette.

  Instead, she kisses Janice on the cheek and moves towards the other women; they are holding her hand and laughing, the easy camaraderie of a soldier going into battle. I see the ‘good lucks’ and the pats on the back, the arms-folded solidarity of women who know full well what this battle entails because they have all been there.

  I compose myself and go outside, past Janice, who catches my eye and nods, through the small crowd and to Sheila.

  ‘Good luck, Sheila. I know what you said, and I’ll never chase you, but you know where we are if you want us.’ I hug her. ‘Where I am. Anything, yeah? Anything at all.’

  She nods and looks into my eyes.

  ‘It’s over for me now. You do what I told you, you hear me, lady?’

  I nod. We all watch as a black limo pulls up and almost silently draws to a halt, the back door aligning exactly with the gravel pathway. Sheila hardly misses a beat as she holds her head up high and, as the door opens and I catch a glimpse of a pair of golf shoes, she turns and waves like the queen. Everybody laughs except me, and she is gone. The door shut, the limo pulls away and disappears around the corner.

  The crowd disperses and Janice is beside me.

  ‘Another one bites the dust.’

  We stare at the space where the limo was, arms folded and sombre. Malc paces up and down, I can see Sally’s kids through the family-room window playing. A bird sings and the sound of the M60 rumbles in the distance. All as usual. Except Sheila is gone. Janice shakes her head.

  ‘Come on. We’ll sort that lot out later. We’ll need a couple of pneumatic drills to get the nicotine off them walls.’

  I have to smile because what else can I do?

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  She hands me the keys and I go back inside. She really is gone. Tell the truth, she said. And I will. I root around in my bag for a tissue to blow my nose and feel something soft and furry. I already know what it is before I pull it out. The blue fuzzy ears emerge and I hold it there in front of me, conclusive proof that Sheila has given up: Bobby’s rabbit.

  Tanya

  Diary Entry: Friday

  I am weaker than ever but I have made a breakthrough. I am trying to drink lots of water as well as tea and coffee, but I have to make the tins last as long as possible. Last night I bust them all open and scooped them up into freezer bags, tiny portions in each. I put them in the fridge and it looked like a decent amount.

  Mid-morning I made a big decision. I knew that Alan kept biscuits in his study because I have seen the empty packets in the bin. Boxes, sometimes. And chocolate. I have never been allowed in there, even at the beginning. He jokingly called it the ‘man-cave’ but there was more truth to that than I imagined. Today, though, I would break in.

  The bedroom, too. He had told me to never go in there, so I never had. Sitting at the table, thinking about the letter and every combination of what could happen until I felt sick, I suddenly realised that his bedroom didn’t have a lock on the door. I had just never dared to go in alone.

  I rushed upstairs and tried the door. Sure enough, it opened. I crept inside and opened his wardrobe. Quite a lot of his clothes were gone, leaving big gaps. I searched through the drawers. No food. No sweets. Not even mints.

  Then I turned around. The TV. I can watch TV. I switched it on and turned it up. Loud. It was a game show. Lots of people stood behind illuminated boxes. Just the sound of human voices made me less panicky.

  I made my way downstairs to the study. I’d seen Alan lock it so I knew this wouldn’t be as easy as the bedroom. I tried the handle but immediately felt sick to my stomach. What if he comes home now? I ran back upstairs and switched off the TV. At least I would hear him.

  The study door is just dark pine, the same as all the other internal doors in the house. I tried to smash the handle and lock first, but a fortunate near-miss hit one of the panels and splintered it. I hit it again, harder this time, and it smashed out. I tore away the splintered wood and climbed into Alan’s man cave.

  It wasn’t what I expected. Unlike the rest of the house, the furniture was dark oak. He had an old desk with green leather inlay and a computer screen on the top. There was a TV in the corner and an ox-blood chesterfield against the wall. I opened the drawers one by one and bingo! A biscuit tin. I prised it open and there were just four Nice biscuits. I gobbled them down. Better than nothing.

  There was a brown leather bag. I opened it and inside was a badge with Alan’s picture on it. He must have got a job at Social Services. Maybe Jenny got it for him. Then I saw a drawer with a key. I turned the key carefully, wondering what he would lock up in an already locked room. There were some more photographs of me as a teenager and some strips of tablets. I suddenly wondered if he was ill and if that was why he was doing all this. But they were Cerazette. I vaguely recognised the name, but I read the leaflet all the same. The mini pill. My hand went to my stomach. He’d taken away the one thing that could have saved me. Not that I wanted his baby. No. But I would have liked the choice.

  Then I turned around. On the wall behind the door was a cork board. There were a few pictures of a woman and two children. There was a picture of me all those years ago as a teenager, all teeth and hairband. I looked closer. There was a newspaper cutting pinned to the top of the photographs. It was photocopied and highlighted. There was a woman holding a small trophy, smiling.

  ‘Ria Taylor – Local Superwoman.’

  My blood ran cold and the familiar icicles of jealousy began to form. Then I remembered what he had done to her. Done to us. I read the rest of the report.

  Local mother of two Ria Taylor ran an evening to highlight the plight of women experiencing violence. Ria, who runs the SafeMe Centre, said, ‘Two women per week are killed by their partners. I am making it my life’s work to stop this happening, whatever it takes.’

  The Centre provides accommodation and recovery for women who have undergone abuse. Ria explained how she got involved in this work.

  ‘An incident in my teens made me realise that I wanted to help other people who had been harmed by violence or coercive control.’

  I chilled even more. He had highlighted ‘An incident in my teens’.

  Pinned next to the picture of Ria were various photographs of an older woman and another woman with lots of children. A picture of a building. A picture of a terraced house. A picture of a school with a different woman with the children Ria was with in the first picture. Ria going into the police station.

  What the hell was this about? Has she reported him after all this time? Is this why this has come up now?

  I ran my finger over her face on the newspaper cutting. She looks happy. I’m glad. I know what the ‘incident in her teens’ means. She would run to my house, her face still red, vivid hand mark
s. She told me her dad hit her. Slapped her. I never understood it really. Not until now.

  But Alan would obviously think it was about him. The self-obsessed bastard. I shocked myself. I had long ago regulated myself not to get angry and not to swear, even in my head, as it might inevitably slip out and was punishable.

  I wonder where he is now, what he is doing to her. If he has her trapped too. But Ria is brave. I bet she would fight, unlike me. As usual, I am helpless to do anything except fade away.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Day 4

  Nine o’clock on Saturday morning and I’m in the foyer of the police station waiting for Carole Barnes. Simon is entranced by the desk and the sergeant and the man who has just been brought in wearing handcuffs. Jennifer is playing hopscotch on the multicoloured tiles.

  I cried myself to sleep over Sheila and I was exhausted from the past couple of days. I knew as soon as Frank’s car pulled away that I would be sitting here this morning. I am not responsible for Sheila’s safety, but I am bound by my own integrity to report any criminal activity. It isn’t the first time I have given the police a heads-up on a potentially dangerous situation.

  Bound by my own integrity. Yes. For other people, but not for me. Here I am, sitting in the police station and I don’t even have the guts to tell the truth. I will. I definitely will. Carole appears.

  ‘Ria. Hi. Come through.’

  Simon is delighted that we are seeing the inside of the police station. Carole waves to a woman on the desk.

  ‘Paula, can you give our VIPs the guided tour?’

  Paula smiles widely and herds Jennifer and Simon towards the staff canteen and the play area. I follow Carole to her office.

  ‘So. What can I do for you?’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Sheila James. She’s returned to the family home.’

  Her face clouds. ‘Frank James’s wife? Did she go of her own free will?’

  I nod. ‘She’ll say she did, but …’

  We sit in silence for a moment. Carole stares at me.

  ‘You know I can’t log it. I’ll put a note on the file but she has never made a complaint.’

  I roll my eyes. Of course she hasn’t. She’s never really admitted that Frank has hurt her. Not officially.

  ‘Yeah. My problem is that he’s tried to get over-involved with SafeMe. Tried to interfere in the funding process.’

  Carole makes a face. ‘What, Frank? Bribery? Fraud? Never.’ She is sarcastic and scathing. But then she realises what I have said. ‘God, Ria, is it that time? Funding apps? What’ll happen?’

  I shrug. ‘Hard to tell. The council guy recommended against it. So I showed them Frank’s arse.’ I remember she is the police. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  She smiles.

  ‘But the service provision?’

  ‘They claim it will go to Redeem. But they don’t have a specialist service, do they?’

  She pales. ‘You’re kidding. The women …’

  ‘I know. They would just be placed anywhere and then they’d be sitting targets.’

  Neither of us speaks. I know that she is imagining the same scenario that has haunted me for weeks: someone in danger with nowhere to go. Someone in need of protection, turned away.

  ‘Was there representation from us?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. George came along. Adele Baker was there too. But I can’t call it. It doesn’t look good.’ She puts her pen down and leans forwards.

  ‘What about you? That guy you told me about?’

  I swallow and I feel my face redden.

  ‘He turned up at my flat. He grabbed me. Hurt me. In the street. Been texting. And even though he’s scaring the shit out of me there’s nothing I can put my finger on or prove that it’s actually him doing all these things. Except …’

  She stares at me.

  ‘Is there history?’

  I think. I do not fucking know. It could be anyone. Terri described a generic white male delivering flowers.

  ‘I don’t know. I have no idea who this is. It could be … anyone.’

  I feel the words come but they stick inside me. I struggle and she sees me falter.

  ‘So has he approached you directly?’

  ‘Someone grabbed me. Someone cut my hair on the bus. But like you said when I first told you, there’s no proof it’s connected. I live in a high crime area. And unless sending flowers is illegal …? And last time I checked it wasn’t. The problem is, he hasn’t done anything illegal. Not that I can prove. Not yet. Except keep texting.’

  She seethes. ‘Did you go to the hospital? When he grabbed you? Did you…?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ No I didn’t do exactly what I tell the women to do. Report everything.’

  ‘You can still report it. Or just talk to someone? Look, Ria, I know you work with violent people, but is there anyone at all who would want to harm you? Would want to hurt you? Even in the past?’

  The moment is here, the moment I have imagined for twenty years. I am sitting in the police station with a friendly police officer asking me what happened that night. But I will never tell. If I haven’t told it can’t be him.

  ‘Not really. Whoever this is has scared me. I expect he will give up or Danny will stop him.’

  She sighs. ‘Have you told Danny, then?’

  ‘No. He’s working away, but when he comes back I will.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure, Ria? You know where I am. And I’ll try to look out for Sheila James. But I can’t promise anything. Frank’s got it sewn up.’

  She stands and it’s time to leave. At least she is aware, I lie to myself as my children run towards me. At least she will keep an eye out for Sheila, let me know if anything happens. And if anything happens to me, she will have a starter for ten.

  As we walk away from the police station, both kids talking at once about what they had seen and what they had done, I spot the empty red car. I look away and almost turn back, but Jennifer is pulling me towards the tram and I let her. He can’t know that I’ve seen him, that he is winning, so I plaster on a smile and fix it.

  But my phone beeps. Not the cheap phone with the blocked messages. I stop dead and read the message.

  I’VE GOT SOMETHING OF YOURS.

  I check the number and it is the same. It’s him. What has he got of mine?

  Off the tram and walking towards home, Jennifer is demanding to know if we are meeting Grandma.

  ‘Can we have ice cream? Janet has ice cream with her nana and grandpa. Can we, Mummy? Where is our grandpa?’

  Even Simon looks at me and raises his hands.

  ‘We don’t have another one, Jenn. Just Granddad Danny.’

  She folds her arms and sets her face.

  ‘But Janet has two: her daddy’s daddy and her mummy’s daddy.’

  I feel my temper rise. Bloody Janet. ’

  Simon shakes his head and runs towards the front door as I do my usual checks. No red car. I know he’s planning something. I know he is. But I need to stay calm.

  ‘Well, we get what we are given, don’t we?’

  Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Is your daddy in heaven? Is that why we can’t see him?’

  I gather her up in my arms. Bless her. She must be wondering all kinds of things. I have been distracted and Danny hasn’t been here. I make a mental note, as I close the door, to speak to Danny about explaining everything. Everything about my dad. Everything about difference and everything about how we will always support her and Simon. Simon is finding out the hard way. Shunned by friends, I have caught him staring at himself in the mirror and trying to straighten out his beautiful curls. He is only too aware of how cruel people can be; now he has found friends he is militant about not letting them go. I hug them both, counting the hours in my head until Danny is back and we can be a proper family again.

  Almost as soon as we settle down there is a knock on the door, firm and hard. I stiffen. Is it him? He would know I was on my own with the kids. I stand behind the door as
the knock comes again. I can’t live like this, not wanting to answer my own front door. In fear of what will happen next. My anger rises and I pull at the latch, ready to turn him away. My phone ready in my hand.

  But it isn’t him. It’s equally surprising: it’s Mum. She is standing there, glancing around, a look of doubt on her face. She fixes her gaze on me as she cancels out my shocked face.

  ‘Oh. So this is the right address.’

  I don’t say anything immediately. All I can think is that something terrible has happened. We both know she is banned from visiting me. But when she doesn’t announce a disaster, I shake myself into life.

  ‘Yes. Hello, Mum. Come in.’

  The kids see her and make a run for her, nearly knocking her wiry frame into the door post. I shut the door behind her. We stand in the tiny living room, the crowding eyes of the tiny faces of the ornaments all looking at me now, questioning me and my obvious contrast to her neat and tidy beige abode. The Lurex scatter cushions and purple velour throws, grubby with stickiness, all jump out at me. She scans the room and fixes on the back window.

  ‘Oh. You have a garden. I wasn’t sure …’

  She walks over, towards the light, around the unmatched chairs and the crumb-covered table. I stand beside her – anywhere in here would be beside her as it is so small – feeling teenage huge and ungainly at the side of her slender grace and elegance. She looks outside. I can see her reflection, thin lipped and uncertain.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ria.’ She murmurs it almost incomprehensibly. ‘I’m sorry. I should have come here before. We’ve missed so much.’

  I fold my arms.

  ‘But it was difficult for you …’

  She shakes her head and her hair, lacquered to a sheen, does not move.

  ‘Not really. I could have just come. But there would have been questions. Consequences.’

  I put the kettle on. It suddenly reminds me of Sheila, how we would sit and endlessly drink tea. I feel the lump in my throat. Mum perches on a chair at the table, looking around. What must she think? But this is me, without her influence. Pure Ria. No pallid colours in sight, no laundry-fresh room deodorant. A pile of unironed clothes in the open, shoe stragglers under the table. Every surface covered in tiny monuments to my women. Unframed photos of me and Danny and us and the kids pinned to the kitchen cupboards with dressmaker’s pins. A bare, concrete kitchen floor because we always wear socks, not slippers. This is us. Take it or leave it.