by Jo Jakeman
“Haven’t really got any. Foster kid,” she added by way of explanation. “Don’t know where half me family are and the other half are dead.”
She stared ahead, careful not to meet my eyes, which tripped from her cut face to her wet hair and her stained clothes.
“I’m not saying it were my fault,” she said. “I’m not daft. But I should know better than to say them things to him when he’s in a mood and I’m backed into a corner with nowhere to run. Nan always said I didn’t have the sense I were born with.”
The shoulder of her gray sweatshirt was black with blood spots and there were rusty smears across her jeans. She was scraping at the stains with her thumbnail. Blood had dried around her eye and caked in her eyebrow.
Now that we were in the light I could see that she had a gash across her forehead that led up into her hairline. Her bottom lip was swollen and cracked.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He pushed me over and I split my head open. That’s about all there is to it.”
“But why?”
“Doreen Maclaren?” a nurse called.
An elderly woman got gingerly to her feet, helped by a younger man, her son maybe. She was cradling her arm as if it would fall off if she let it go. Naomi and I watched as she went by.
“You know,” I said, “if it helps, I will believe you. Whatever it is that you tell me about him . . . I’ve probably experienced something similar. I doubt anything you could say would shock me.”
“When you know stuff you can’t unknow it.”
“Hit me with it.”
As soon as the sentence left my mouth, I cringed at my choice of words, but if she was offended, she didn’t show it. She moved in her seat until our shoulders were touching and spoke quietly, barely moving her lips.
“He were complaining about work. I said to him, ‘You’re full of shit. Imogen’s told me you’ve not been in work for ages.’”
I cringed. Had I caused this?
Naomi picked at the skin around her thumbnail.
“And then what?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“He did his nut. Went full-on psycho. ‘Who do you think you are, checking up on me?’ Then he kicked over the coffee table and it broke in half. The mirror bit? Just clean in two. Then he pushed me and I s’pose I hit my head but I didn’t feel anything at first. And he were screaming at me, ‘Look what you made me do! Couldn’t keep your nose out, could you?’ But he weren’t worried about me—it were the table he were upset about. And I was like, ‘You know what? I’ve had enough. We’re done.’
“Anyway, he slammed out of the house and were gone. Just like that. Pissed off in, like, two minutes. He went from mad and screaming to . . . gone. And I reckon I’ve got, like, a couple of hours to pack my stuff before he comes back. So I’m thinking about, you know, where to go and I’m in the kitchen running the tap into the bowl and trying to stop my head from bleeding and I don’t hear him come back.
“He . . . he grabbed the back of me head and pushed me face into the washing-up bowl. Didn’t say a word. I weren’t even sure it were him at first. Scared the shit out of me. I kicked, like kicked his knees or something, ’cause he went down and pulled me out of the water as he went.”
“Naomi Green?” called the nurse.
We both started, dragged back from our minds, Naomi seeing it as it happened, I imagining every moment.
“That’s me,” Naomi said. “You coming?”
“No, I’ll wait for you here.”
Her narrow back disappeared behind the white door. I released the tension from my shoulders and rubbed my eyes. The buzz from the afternoon’s wine had worn off, but it would take more than a couple of drinks to get my head around what I’d just heard.
Phillip was mean, controlling, would chip away at your self-esteem until you were sculpted into a pitiful imitation of the person you used to be. In the beginning, he’d use pressure points, threats, words sharper than a blade to secure your submission. Occasionally he’d snap, push, and send me flying down the stairs, but it always seemed to be in the heat of the moment, an eruption of anger that he couldn’t contain. I’d never known him to walk purposefully back into a fight and never thought him capable of . . . what? Murder? Because if Naomi hadn’t kicked out at him, who knew how long he would have held her head underwater? Just long enough to teach her a lesson? Or too long?
I wondered if Naomi could be lying. Almost hoped she was. But she had no reason to mislead me. The blood smeared about her face was further proof, if any were needed, that Phillip had a new way to ensure obedience.
I took the phone out of my bag and kept muttering “Christ almighty” under my breath as Naomi’s words sunk in. Twice I keyed in the wrong code on my phone before it sprang to life. Rachel picked up on the second ring just as I reached the automatic doors that were a second slower than I was. I had to pull up short to save my head from making contact with the glass. Just one preoccupied moment and I could have been joining Naomi for matching stitches, though mine would have been for trusting the doors would magically open, hers for trusting the man she loved wouldn’t try to kill her.
“How is the old bird?” Rachel asked.
“Sleeping. I’m sure I heard one of the nurses say ‘mini stroke,’ but no one’s said that to me yet. They’ll keep her in overnight to see if they can find a reason for her fainting.”
“Bless her.”
The night had changed in the brief time I had been inside. I could no longer see the stars beyond the thick cloud that hovered above me like a water balloon waiting to burst.
“Look, I’ve run into a bit of a problem,” I said.
“Everything all right?”
“Well, I’m fine but on my way to the taxi I bumped into Naomi.”
“Naomi Naomi?”
“Yep, they’re cleaning her up. Phillip’s done a number on her. She’s in the ER having stitches right now.”
“Shit!”
“You should see her, Rach. She’s covered in blood.”
“Where’s Phillip now? Has she called the police?”
“I don’t know where he’s gone but I don’t think Naomi’s spoken to the police yet.”
“Is she going to?”
“Doubt it. You know how it is. Who are they going to believe? The police officer with the perfect record or some girl who would look more at home in one of their cells?”
“She can’t let him get away with it!”
Rachel was indignant, and I loved her for it, but she had no idea how much the police liked to look after their own.
When Phillip pushed me down the stairs, I told him I’d report him. I wouldn’t let our son grow up seeing me treated like that. He laughed in my face and wished me luck. Without witnesses, it would be my word against his—the man who had received a commendation for bravery. The officer who put his body on the line to protect others every single day.
I called his bluff. I still believed in a fair world back then.
The officers who turned up were friends of Phillip’s. I knew one of them from a wedding or christening. They didn’t take notebooks out of pockets, didn’t ask me any questions. Phillip spoke in hushed voices, told them he was so embarrassed I’d wasted their time. An argument, that’s all, tempers frayed. You know how it is. Teething baby . . . He shouldn’t have lost his temper, but it happens to the best of us, right?
They said he wasn’t to worry. It wasn’t the first domestic they’d been called to and wouldn’t be the last. They were joking as they left, trying to make him feel better about his wife who called wolf.
Rachel’s voice in my ear brought me back to the present.
“What did they fight about? Was it the affair?”
“Sort of. She knows he’s hiding something and they had a big row. Look, I have to get back inside. She’ll be out
in a minute. Don’t answer the door if Phillip comes round and don’t answer the phone either.”
“Why can’t I answer my phone?”
“You can answer your phone. Just don’t answer my phone, okay?”
“You think Phillip’ll come here? I hope he does. I’ve got some things I’d like to say.”
“He won’t. It’s just in case, you know. Judging by the state of Naomi, he’s in a foul mood. God knows what he might do. Look, I’ll explain everything when I get home, okay? How’s Alistair?”
“Tip-top. We’re having a great time. He’s drinking hot chocolate and I’ve finished off that nice bottle of Bordyux.”
“It’s pronounced Bord-oh,” I said.
“Whatevs. I mean the half bottle of red stuff that goes nice with lemonade.”
“Rach, you didn’t! That’s a twenty-pound bottle of—”
“Keep your Spanx on! I’m kidding. You wine snobs are easy to wind up. Listen—” She paused while she gathered her thoughts. “Are you really okay? This must be weird for you, being with Naomi.”
“I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me. I won’t be here for a minute more than is strictly necessary. I’ll get rid of Naomi and be back within the hour.”
I was shaking my head as I clicked off my phone.
“Get rid of me?”
I spun round to find her standing in front of me with her arms folded and her shoulders hunched under her ears.
“Naomi! Hello. You’re finished, then? I wasn’t—” I couldn’t find the words to explain what she’d heard.
Naomi put her head down against the cold and stormed off. I almost let her leave, but, as tempted as I was to bury my head in the sand, I couldn’t let her walk straight back into his arms. I ran after her and grabbed her shoulder. She turned to face me with narrowed eyes and a curling top lip.
“What?” she spat.
“Don’t do that. Don’t just walk away.”
“Why not?”
“Because we haven’t finished. I meant what I said; you can tell me anything. I’m sorry you heard what I said on the phone but . . .”
I cast about for a suitable excuse but only had enough energy to come up with the truth.
“You know what? I was hoping to get rid of you as soon as possible.”
She laughed unkindly and looked away.
“I don’t want to spend my Sunday evening with you any more than you want to spend it with me. I don’t want anything to do with Phillip. And you making me see . . . this”—I gestured to her head—“is a lot to take in. So yeah, when I said I wanted to get rid of you, part of me meant it, because I’m scared of being sucked back into Phillip’s world. I’m scared of what he’s capable of, and my first instinct is to protect me and my son.
“If you were anyone else apart from my ex’s girlfriend, I wouldn’t hesitate to run to your aid. I’d tell you to leave him and help you pack your bags. I’d give you a bed to sleep in and protect you from him, but the man who attacked you is the father of my son. I still have to see him every week and if I don’t keep him on my side he could make things difficult for me and—”
I paused. Did I really believe he would hurt Alistair? I knew he loved him, but then, he used to say he loved me too.
“Listen,” I said, shaking the fear from my head. “It was a shitty thing for me to say and I truly am sorry. Can we start again?”
An ambulance pulled up at our side and the doors opened slowly. We stepped backward to let green-suited men pass, pushing an old man on a stretcher. He was emaciated and his body hardly made an impact under a pale blanket. He had an oxygen mask over his face and we could hear the hiss of air as he passed. It brushed away some of Naomi’s anger as it wheeled on by and she took a step closer to me. She kept glancing over her shoulder like she expected Phillip to appear.
“You know,” I said, “you could leave him. He shouldn’t treat you like this. There are places you can go that—”
“You say it like it’s a choice. Why didn’t you leave him?”
I looked at the pavement. It was a good question. Why had I put up with him for years? The affairs. The mental abuse. Perhaps I thought I could change him? I had enough reasons to walk away and only one to stay: I hadn’t believed I deserved better.
Funny how people assume that you have a choice, that you choose to stay, to be treated like dirt, to live in fear. And they also forget that the man you once loved is in there somewhere and you’re still holding out hope that he’ll come back to you one day if only you can love him more and annoy him less.
“You don’t need to make the same mistake I did,” I said. “I’ll never be completely free of him because of Alistair, but you can start again. You can leave and never look back.”
I placed a hand on her arm and she flinched.
“It’s not that simple,” she said. “Don’t you ever wonder what his hold is over Ruby? They’ve been split up for years and yet she still hangs around. You know as well as I do that once he has you, he’ll never let go. We’re marked by him now. Face it. He thinks we’re his until the day he dies. And as far as I’m concerned, that day can’t come soon enough.”
CHAPTER 7
12 days before the funeral
It had been four days since I’d seen Naomi at the hospital. Four days of picking up the phone and placing it down again. I was scared of making it worse for her and scared it was already too late. She’d gone back to Phillip, saying she’d work something out, and if he went for her again, she’d be ready.
I was loading the dishwasher after dinner. Disposing of the leftovers via forkfuls and glassfuls, rinsing plates before stacking them in the machine. My mind was wandering, the kettle was boiling, and Alistair was having “five more minutes” on the trampoline before bed. The evening had retained none of the day’s warmth, yet he was out there in a T-shirt and shorts making me feel cold just looking at him.
I rubbed at my eyes, feeling the mascara come off on my fingers and not caring that my makeup was smudged. Since I’d seen Naomi, my racing mind had made sleep impossible to catch. It felt like all I had to do was take one long blink and I would fall asleep where I stood, yet once I was in bed with the lights off, my mind would switch on and assault me with visions of Phillip pushing me down the stairs, pulling my hair, bending my fingers back.
Was loneliness ever felt more keenly than at four a.m.? The silent slumber of those around you dampening the night so that no sound can travel. And you, all alone, in a bed too big for one. After Phillip left, I tried sleeping on the left, the right, and even in the middle. Sideways, upside down, star shaped. Who was to stop me now? But I returned to the right, where I was closest to the door in case Alistair needed me. And through my sleepless nights I never ventured onto the other side. The morning light would show a neatly tucked-in sheet and an undented pillow reminding me—as if I needed it to—that I was all alone.
I yawned. I only had to hold it together for another twenty minutes and then Alistair would be in bed and I would be acquainting myself with a nice fruity red that was on special offer in the Co-op, hoping it would lead me to sleep.
The kettle clicked as it reached the boiling point. The sound appeared to echo in the kitchen. Except it didn’t. The noise behind me was slight, but purposefully so—separate, uninvited, and out of place. I turned around slowly.
“Jesus Christ!” I fell backward against the sink, knocking the washing-up liquid into the bowl.
Phillip was standing by the door to the hallway with his hands in his pockets.
He smiled out of one side of his mouth but didn’t say anything. His eyes crinkled with pleasure at having startled me. Fear had always been his greatest bargaining chip.
“How did you get in?”
“Still my house, isn’t it?” he said.
“You can’t do that, Phillip. You can’t just let yourself
in.”
I stepped away from the sink, mindful of what he’d done to Naomi.
“I think I’ve proved that I can, and I will. Did you sign the paperwork?”
I put my hand to my chest and waited for my heart to calm down. I shook my head in annoyance.
“I’ve got an appointment with my solicitor on Monday. She said I shouldn’t sign anything without her seeing it first.”
Phillip looked past me to where Alistair was bouncing, bouncing, dropping, bouncing on the trampoline.
“The clock’s ticking. Sign the papers, Imogen, or you’ll end up with nothing.”
I didn’t like the way he was looking at our son when he spoke.
“The thing is . . .” I began.
I had always feared Phillip, but mostly his disapproval. Now that I’d seen what he’d done to Naomi, it was a different fear that caused my voice to come out higher than I’d intended.
“The thing is . . . that there is no way Alistair and I can find somewhere else to live by the end of the month. You’re being unreasonable. I’m happy for us to go forward with the divorce, but I think we need to come to a fairer arrangement about the house. If we could sit down and discuss it, perhaps we could come to a compromise.”
I started the dishwasher. Keeping busy. All the while my eyes were trained on him.
“Compromise? How about living rent-free in my house for two bloody years?”
“If we have to sell the house, then why can’t we do that with Alistair and me still in it? Let’s put the house on the market this week. We’ll split the profits fifty-fifty. That’s fair, right?”
“Fair? How much money have you contributed to the mortgage?”
“What’s this really about?” I asked. I knew that look on his face. It went deeper than anger. He was worried about something, and to cover it, he was lashing out.
“End of the month, Imogen. Or else.”
He was good at misleading me. Or I was terrible at spotting lies. Perhaps a little bit of both. I was more prone to suspicion now, a gift given to me by my cheating ex along with the crippling self-doubt and the chlamydia.
