by Carrie Elks
Even though Simon would kill me if he knew I was here, I arrive at her block of flats at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. The sun is desperately trying to burn through the grey, high-level clouds that’ve been cloaking the sky for days, lending them a pale lemon hue. It’s so much prettier than the dull slate of the concrete tower block.
Built as part of a social movement that flushed through Britain in the 1960s, the tower stands as a memorial to over-optimism. Once there were flower pots and plants hanging from the rails that circle the building. Now there are drying clothes. Walkways wrap around the block—envisaged as ‘streets in the sky’—and are best avoided at night. This is where the deals go down, where the gangs fight over territory. This is the Britain we middle-class folk like to forget exists.
I don’t take the lift up to the fourth floor. It’s out of order, but I’m also scared of getting stuck in there, among the litter and the smell of urine. If I’m truly honest with myself, I don’t want to be trapped in there with another resident, either. They scare the hell out of me. Even dressed down in jeans and a thin jacket, wearing nondescript boots with my hair pulled into a messy bun, it’s clear I don’t belong around here. I don’t think it’s my clothes or make-up as much as the way my face looks. It’s too clear and bright—not marred by a lifetime of poverty and desperation. Coming here makes me realise just how lucky I am, and how far I’ve come.
By the time I reach the fourth floor I’m breathless. I have to catch some oxygen before I open the door of the stairwell and walk out onto the long wraparound balcony that leads to all the flats. It’s not quite so scary here during the day, though I’m still wary as I walk past a group of young lads, leaning against the rails and smoking, their dark eyes following me. I glance at them—enough to take in that despite their cigarettes and their bumfluff beards they should all be at school.
Of course, I’m too chickenshit to say anything.
Daisy lives at 422, about halfway down the block. When I get there, I notice the curtains are drawn. The window glass is so grimy that whatever light the thin fabric lets in must be obscured by dirt. Knocking twice on the door makes a few flecks of peeling red paint fall to the concrete floor. After waiting for a minute I knock again, but there’s still no response.
I vacillate over what to do next. Perhaps I should leave a note, or wait until Daisy comes back, but I’m too scared to hang around here for long. I knock one last time and shout her name this time—making sure there’s nobody outside who can hear me—but I get nothing.
Then there’s a loud creak as the door to the next flat opens. A woman peers around the wooden frame, reaching up to wipe a lock of greasy brown hair out of her face. She stares at me through narrowed eyes.
“You from the council?” she asks suspiciously.
“No.” I shake my head quickly.
She raises a drawn-on eyebrow. “The social?”
“I’m a friend of Daisy’s. Do you know where she is?”
She’s still staring at me. Her eyes slowly scan downward, taking in my clothes, my shoes, the way I stand. “Yeah.”
We look at each other, and it takes me a minute to realise she isn’t going to follow up. “Where?”
“Who wants to know?”
I take a step toward the woman, then stop as soon as I notice the huge dog standing right behind her. I’m not that great with breeds, but it looks like a wolf crossed with a Doberman. “My name’s Beth. I know Daisy and Allegra. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“They took her kiddie away.”
“I know. But Daisy, is she okay? Have you seen her?” I don’t know if it’s my persistence, or if my genuine concern shines through, but I notice her expression thaw a little.
“She hasn’t been out for days. Not since her boyfriend left.”
“Darren’s gone?”
“Yeah, and good fucking riddance if you ask me. Coming and going at all hours, bringing bad people back. Fucker.”
I try to smile sympathetically, but my stomach lurches. If this woman is describing Darren’s friends as ‘bad people’, they have to be truly awful. “Are you sure she’s in there?” I incline my head to Daisy’s flat.
The woman shrugs. “I’m not a nosy neighbour or anything, but I haven’t seen her leave. And she isn’t exactly quiet, if you know what I mean.”
Then she’s in there. I can tell the woman is definitely a nosy neighbour, and she’d know for sure if Daisy had left. I feel panic start to rise in my chest. If Daisy is alone—and has been for days, not answering her phone—then what sort of state is she in?
I pummel on her door, calling out her name. Feeling stupid and alone—except for the neighbour and her dog—I swallow down my panicked tears.
“She won’t answer.”
“What?”
“She’ll think you’re from the council.”
“But I need to check on her.”
Cool as a cucumber, the woman walks out of her doorway and over to where I’m standing. Gently pushing me out of the way, she does something to the lock I can’t quite see. A moment later, the door swings open. A waft of warm, dank air hits my nostrils. My gag reflex comes back stronger than ever.
The neighbour goes back to her flat without a word, pulling her dog with her, closing her door with a click. Leaving me alone in Daisy’s flat. I start to feel really anxious. What if Darren hasn’t really gone? I’ve only seen him once, when he met Daisy outside the clinic, but there was an air of malevolence in his stare that scared me stupid. I take a deep breath and walk into the living room, trying to ignore the taste of stale air.
The floor and table are littered with takeaway cartons and beer cans, and there are ashtrays over-spilling with butts of both cigarettes and joints. DVD cases are strewn across the TV stand, and there is a big pile of clothes in the corner.
But no Daisy. Where is she?
I pull my mobile phone out of my bag and clutch it in my sweaty fingers, holding it like a talisman to ward off evil. Then I walk out of the lounge and into the next room. One glance tells me it’s empty—from the pink walls and pile of toys I’m guessing this is Allegra’s room. I step back out and head for the third door. When I get closer I start to hear something—more than heavy breath, less than moaning. A couple of coughs that sound way too full of liquid.
“Daisy?” I push the door tentatively. My whole body is alive with adrenaline. I’m half a sensible thought away from getting the hell out of here. Just when I think there’s going to be no reply, there’s another almost-groan.
Right away, I can tell it’s her bedroom. Though the curtains are drawn, they’re thin enough to let in the light. She’s lying curled up on the bed, her hands clutching at her stomach. Her right eye is black and swollen—illuminated with a greeny-yellow sheen where the bruise has matured. Right below it, the side of her cheek is enlarged and puffy, almost certainly broken again. A stench of urine and vomit permeates the air. I have to cover my mouth and nose with my free hand, trying not to be sick.
With the other, I dial 999.
* * *
Simon doesn’t get angry very often. I’m used to his softly spoken, gentle way of communicating. Of course, I’ve seen him in adversarial mode—being a lawyer it’s almost obligatory—though with me he’s always been a man carefully handling a fragile china doll. But ever since he picked me up from the hospital an hour ago, he’s been holding his body like a lion about to pounce.
So many times he’s told me that working at the clinic is dangerous. He’s asked me to leave before, and I’ve held out, telling him I’m not in harm’s way. Today, we both know that’s a lie.
Maybe that’s why I’m finding this so hard. Perched on the edge of our leather couch, my fingers clutching the seat cushion, my heart rattles in my chest like an animal in a cage. He paces in front of me, one hand pulling at his white-blond hair, the other balled into a fist.
“What the hell were you thinking?” He stops in front of me. “Jesus Christ, have you no brain cell
s in that pretty head of yours?”
“I’m so sorry. I...”
He continues as if I haven’t spoken, “When we got married you promised this wouldn’t affect us. You said you’d give up the clinic before it did.”
Did I say that? It does sound like something I might have said. But my heart falls at his words. I don’t know if he’s being passive aggressive and trying to make me leave the clinic, or if he’s simply thinking things through out loud.
I remain silent.
He starts pacing again. It’s rhythmic; three steps to the right, stop and turn, four steps to the left, then stop.
“Why didn’t you call somebody? Why did you go there alone? If something had happened to you...”
Tears start to pool in my eyes. Even though I swallow hard, they start to overflow, because something did happen today. I found my friend lying in a pool of her own vomit and blood, almost dead on her bed. I got to see the bruises and the cuts and the track marks and I can’t get it out of my head. Even thinking about the way she smelled when I got close—a horrific mixture of vomit and excrement—makes me want to hurl.
I start to shiver when I think of another death, so many years ago. The way Digby collapsed. How we were responsible. It all comes flooding back; the guilt, the memories, the unshakeable pain.
“Don’t turn on the fucking waterworks with me.”
My eyes widen as I lift my head up to meet his angry stare. Simon hardly ever swears. I bite my lips in an effort to stifle any sobs. He’s starting to scare me, this angry, shouting Simon. It feels as though my blood is fizzing in my veins, all my muscles slackened and useless. Still the tears flow like hot rivulets down my cheeks; cooling at my chin.
“Simon, please.”
“Please what? Please can I go and put my life in danger again? For some bloody junkie who couldn’t give a damn about herself?”
“Daisy isn’t a junkie.” I know this is a lie. “She’s a friend. Somebody’s mother. She counts.”
She matters, of course she does. So did Digby. I owe him this.
“You count more.”
“I’ve taken drugs as well, you know.” There, I’ve said it. Brought up my own past before he can. I don’t know why I’ve decided to rehash it now.
“It’s not the same. You weren’t a junkie, you just experimented.” Though his tone is lower, his face is still an angry red. I know that when he’s in control of his words he can out-talk me every time. “I don’t want you seeing her again.”
What? I feel disbelief wash over me, almost stemming the tears. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m completely serious. She put you in danger. I don’t want you anywhere near her.”
“She didn’t put me in danger. I did that all by myself.” I’ve walked right into it. His lips twitch at my words.
“Then you need to choose your friends more wisely.”
“Since when did you decide to become my dad?”
“When you started to act like a child. You don’t seem to be thinking straight, Beth. You went to the worst tower block in London, walked up to the fourth floor and then broke into a junkie’s flat. Did you not think it through? What if her boyfriend had been there? What if he’d beaten you up, too? I could have lost you.”
Standing up, I throw my arms around him, burying my sobs in his shoulder. His stance is stiff, his muscles unyielding. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know she was okay.”
He pushes me back. His hands grip my shoulders as he looks at me. “This is going to sound harsh but I really don’t care if your friend is all right. I do care if you’re okay, though. And you’re not okay. You haven’t been okay for weeks. If the clinic is making you feel like this, if it’s going to come between us and affect our relationship, then I want you to give it up.”
“It’s not the clinic that’s made me feel this way.”
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I know I’ve been behaving differently—erratically sometimes. My mood has been swinging from high to low, and I know exactly why it is. It’s nothing I want to share with Simon, though.
It isn’t Niall Joseph’s fault he’s stirred everything up until I don’t know which way is up. Not his fault I’ve been digging up memories I’ve long since buried. The past is making me feel raw and open. A wound that refuses to heal.
“I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling down.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Because I can’t stop thinking about another man and it makes me the worst kind of person. “I can deal with it. I promise.”
“You don’t have to deal with it alone. I’m your husband, let me help you.”
I feel like his child again. Rather than accepting his dominance of me, I start to bristle. What once felt like protection now seems more like a prison.
My eyes feel as though they are glued together, my lips are cracked and dry. I slowly moisten them with my tongue before attempting to open my eyelids, fighting against the sleep that’s keeping them closed.
“Don’t move.” Niall’s voice is raspy and low, the aural equivalent of my own come-down state. Of course I do the opposite, sitting up in his unmade bed, seeking him out. He’s perched on an old wooden chair, a large sketchpad propped on his knees. Pulling an over-sharpened stub of a pencil across it, his movements are just short of furious. When he looks up and sees I’ve moved a flash of irritation crosses his face.
“I told you to stay still.” Even though his words are harsh, he manages to soften them with a smile.
I reach up my arms and stretch them to the ceiling, letting a yawn escape my lips. “What are you drawing?”
He puts the sketchpad down, locking his gaze on to my exposed chest. My nipples peak as they’re bathed with cool air.
“Nothing.” He’s still staring at me. I cover myself up with my arms, feeling self-conscious. The irritation returns to his face. “Don’t hide yourself from me.”
“You’re being very bossy this morning.” I don’t tell him that I like it, but I do. There’s nothing I don’t like about this man. I’m totally infatuated with him.
“And you’re being very disobedient.” Niall crawls across the mattress until he’s looming over me on all fours. Dipping down, he captures a nipple between his lips and scrapes his teeth across it. I arch my back in pleasured response. “What can I do to persuade you to lie still?” he asks.
I gasp as his fingers find me and push inside. “Not that.” I prove my point by starting to squirm. He laughs into my chest, and I feel the vibrations on my skin. Then he lifts his head up and kisses me hard, and I forget about everything except the sensation of his body on mine, and the absolute, sheer pleasure of come-down sex.
Later, we lean out of his window and share a joint, looking out at the green, undulating campus, watching the few solitary figures who are braving the early morning rain. Mostly staff; no students would feel the need to be up at this hour. He offers me a toke, exhaling smoke that quickly dissipates into the damp, misty air. “I want you to model for me.”
I lift the joint to my lips and breathe it in. “Nude?”
“Of course.” He sounds as if he’s smirking and I turn to look at him.
Yep, he’s smirking.
“How very Rose and Jack of you.”
Propping his elbow on the windowsill, Niall stares at me. “Who are they? Friends of yours?”
I start to blush, feeling stupid and suburban and so very ordinary. I can’t bring myself to tell him I’m talking about Titanic. This is why I feel silly whenever he is around. He paints beautiful pictures and makes love as if it’s an art form, and I go around talking about overly melodramatic films. I’m a child trying to catch a butterfly.
It seems like a good time to change the subject. “What time is it?”
“Nearly seven. Why?’
I take another puff. “I have a nine o’clock seminar.” I can’t miss this one. Lectures are one thing—easy
to avoid and then borrow notes from somebody else—but at seminars there’s only a few of us. It’s obvious when we aren’t there.
“Skip it. Stay with me.”
I want to, I really do. But somewhere beneath the lust and the intoxication lies obedient Bethany from Essex. Daughter of a city banker. Mostly A-grade student. She stretches her arms and slowly wakes up.
I go to the seminar, but I barely pay attention. Instead, I find myself daydreaming about him.
7
I’m running late again. I almost make it to the Tube station before my phone rings. Stopping mid-pace, I pull it out of my bag, pausing a moment to catch my breath.
“Hello?”
“It’s Simon.” He has this propensity to think we’re still using analogue phones. It’s as if he forgets his name comes up on my screen when he calls.
“Hello. Everything okay?” We’ve been treading on eggshells for the past week. Pretending to be asleep when I know we’re not; neither of us mentioning Daisy or the clinic. When I went to visit Allegra last weekend, he didn’t bother asking me where I was going. I didn’t volunteer the information, either.
“Do you know if my suit came back from the cleaners? I want to wear it tonight.” Another thing he does: leaves all things domestic until the last minute. I don’t think that’s why he’s calling this time; we both know his suit came back last Friday. He’s trying to remind me we are going out tonight.
“It’s there. I should be home after seven. What time are we leaving?” The last thing I want to do after taking ten kids around an art gallery is go out to some dry, work-related dinner party. They’re clients of Simon’s and it’s important to him, though, so I’ll pull on a dress and paint my face and make small talk as I always do.
That doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Drinks at eight thirty. Try not to be late.”
Thanks, Dad.
“Mmhmm.” I hang up, biting my tongue to prevent a pithy response. Even if the train arrives on time, I’ll be ten minutes late. I hastily tap out a text and send it to Niall.
