by A. L. Bird
Third new message. Left today at 1.45 a.m.
I brace myself for Dan’s voice again. But it’s not him.
‘Hi, Ms Sutton. It’s Sarah here, your protection officer? Please can you call me urgently – there is something you need to know.’
Shit. Has Dan been calling her, dobbing me in? Or is she tipping me off about bloody Patricia and her chid protection?
Next.
Fourth new message. Left today at 2 a.m.
‘Hi, it’s me again.’ Dan. ‘Someone called Sarah has just been round. She wouldn’t say who she was, but she seemed pretty official. She wouldn’t leave a message, other than you have to be in touch, and wherever you are, you have to keep a low profile. OK?’
I shiver. Instinctively, I touch the radiator next to me. It’s on, now. So it’s not the cold that’s getting to me.
Fifth new message. Left today at 2.30 a.m.
‘Hello, Chloe. Or maybe I call you Jen? Do you recognize this voice? I hope so. Because you’re going to be hearing a whole lot more of it. Very soon.’
I crumple down at the foot of the stairs.
It’s Mick. Mick has my number. And he knows my new name.
Chapter 39
Next door, Josh and Mum are still chatting. Like nothing has changed in the last few moments. Like there hasn’t been a shift. Has there been? Given Tim is Mick’s cousin, he could have passed on my mobile number weeks ago. Mick could have phoned me from prison way back then. But he didn’t. He did it tonight. When my witness protection officer has left a message saying I need to call her. And visited Dan’s flat too.
So. I need to call her.
She picks up after one ring.
‘Jen’ she says. Gone are the ‘Ms Suttons’. ‘Where are you?’
I ignore her question. ‘What’s going on? I had a call from Mick. On my mobile. And your voice messages. What’s happening?’
‘We had a call in the early hours of this morning – and I did alert you to the possibility – but it seems that the prison had neglected to tell us earlier that, after a review of –’
‘Sarah, cut to the chase. What’s happened?’
‘Mick’s out of prison.’
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
‘Ms Sutton? Are you there?’
‘Well, what are you doing?’ I ask her. ‘What are you doing to protect me and Josh?’
‘We’re doing everything we can. If you let me know where you are, I’ll come and pick you up, and we’ll put you in a different part of the country.’
‘But you did that! It didn’t work. You put me in a firm, and a guy came to work at the firm who is Mick’s cousin, and they cornered me.’
There’s a silence on the line. ‘Sarah – have you got that? You already failed to protect me. Us, I mean.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that particular –’
‘Well, let me fucking update you. Mick or his cousin tracked me down, despite all your great security, despite all your “never give your real name”, all your “speak to us every time you want to so much as sneeze”. And they found me, and they basically tried to blackmail me into telling them – never you mind.’
‘OK. Right, well, I need to look into that. In the meantime, we can get the ball rolling, put you in new temporary accommodation and –’
‘Like the last temporary accommodation? Where they tried to take my son away?’
‘Ms Sutton, it will only be temporary. We’ll find somewhere nice, somewhere new – and I’ll speak to the child protection people, OK? Explain what you’ve gone through. So when they make their assessment –’
‘I’m not being assessed. I am sick of being assessed. I have been being assessed since before I was ten and it has never ever ever done me any good. You’ve got to just protect me from Mick and promise me I’m not going to have some bastard assessor seeing if Josh is safe with me.’
‘I can certainly have that conversation, Ms Sutton.’
‘But you can’t promise anything?’
‘That’s right.’
Fuck. My head is going to explode. Do I go back to them, start all over again, and hope that it will take a few more years for Mick to find me? That it will take longer for him to catch up with us than it will social services to try to take Josh away? Maybe if we left the UK we’d be all right.
‘Can you place me abroad?’
‘Because of the jurisdictional and financial constraints, we tend to find –’
‘Does that mean no?’
‘It means no.’
I put my head in my hands. I can’t decide this now. It’s 3 a.m. in the morning in a hallway that’s not my own – or too much my own that I don’t want to think about it. Why did I come back here?
‘Ms Sutton?’
‘I’ll call you back,’ I say.
‘Just tell me where you are, Ms Sutton,’ she whines down the phone. ‘Or the child protection –’
I hang up.
The phone vibrates again immediately. I turn it off and stuff it into my pocket.
Josh is standing in the doorway. I don’t know how long he’s been there.
‘Is everything all right, Mum?’
I give him a long look and try to work out what version of the truth to spin him this time.
Maybe the real one.
‘Things have been better, sweetie. Your daddy is out of prison. We need to decide what to do.’
‘What, like go and see him?’
‘We’re not doing that, sweetie.’
Mum appears in the doorway behind Josh.
‘You could meet him, Chloe. It might help.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake! We’re not seeing him!’
Josh and Mum are silent.
I clench my fists in and out and take a couple of breaths. ‘Sorry. Sorry. No, we are not seeing Mick. We need to decide what to do. Either we go back to the witness protection people, or we go it alone. Stay here a few days then, I don’t know, get a boat somewhere or something.’
‘Get a boat somewhere?’ asks Mum.
‘I don’t know. I don’t have a plan, OK?’
Mum comes over to me and stands behind me, her hand on my shoulder.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘Have a rest. There’s a spare bed upstairs – I always kept it for you. Had to get rid of the rest of your stuff. Your dad … made me. But there was always a bed for you. You’ll be fine there for the night, with Josh, and you can make up your mind in the morning. How about it?’
I rub my eyes. I look at Josh standing in the doorway. I put one hand out to him.
‘What do you think, Josh? Is that what we should do.’
He shrugs. ‘Better than sleeping in the car.’
I nod. ‘You’re right. Better than sleeping in the car.’
I wave my extended hand at him, trying to get him to come over. Reluctantly, he shuffles across.
‘Come on, let’s go up,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘It’s the first door on the left,’ she says.
‘I know where my old room is,’ I tell her. ‘Thanks,’ I add, in case the first bit came out as catty as it was meant to.
***
But it’s not really my old room. Because as Mum said, everything was stripped out. I have a pretty strong recollection of that room – over the years and years and rooms and rooms and pavements and benches where I’ve lived, I always returned in my head to that perfect imperfect place. The Spice Girls bedspread. The Titanic poster. The Barbie Colour Change make-up doll on my chest of drawers slash desk. Oh – and yes, that handy nook in the chest of drawers where I could just about fit if I curled up small and tried to pretend I didn’t exist. In case Dad wanted to come and find me. Or so I didn’t have to hear him finding Mum.
All stuff bought on the cheap to make it look like I was in a great safe home. But it was Mum’s bruises (and occasionally mine) and me slacking off school that bothered social services more. And, o
f course, Mum and Dad eventually saying it was better that I go. I was too expensive, Dad said. (Funny how drink was always affordable.) How much better it would have been had the mines stayed open. I became a statement of the rampant self-pity that had a convenient political explanation and a pliant domestic outlet.
Now, it’s just a pinky-beige guest room.
I put Josh to the wall side and I curl up round him.
How have we come from that secure life only a few weeks ago to this?
I’d better phone Sarah tomorrow. That’s what I’ll do. It’s the only hope, really.
***
In the morning, Josh is still sleepy when I wake up. I bet he’s awake really, because he wriggles a bit and his breathing changes, but he keeps his eyes steadfastly shut. Fine. If that’s his game, let him play it – he’s young enough for it still.
I look at my watch: 8.30 a.m. So, enough of a sleep to feel a bit restored; not so much that I’ll over relax.
I can’t keep running from the authorities. I’m not a kid any more. I have a kid. We can’t go and live under bridges or say ‘Yah boo sucks’ to the adults. It’s real. It affects my life. His life. If I respect the law, it will respect me. And all the rest of the crap they taught me on my diploma.
I pick up my mobile and make to tiptoe out of the room so I can call Sarah. But just as I think I’ve made it, there’s a bleary cry of ‘Mum!’ from the bed.
So I go back and give my lovely son a hug. He looks so beautiful, his chestnut hair all shaggy round his eyes. My little autumn leaf. I kiss the freckle on his cheek.
‘Come on, let’s go down for some breakfast,’ I tell him. ‘Then we’ll get ourselves sorted out.’
Mum’s left me some of her clothes out, so I can feel ‘a bit fresher’ in her words. They fit better than I would have imagined. And I feel less like a stale whore – it’s a long time since clean jeans felt so luxurious. Even M&S ones. And some lovely fresh pink socks. Who knew that I could be like everyone else – that home comforts are actually a thing. So we pad along the corridor, down the stairs – which just look like stairs this morning, not a relic of domestic abuse.
I risk a look at myself in the hall mirror. Hah. There’s Chloe, then. My roots are really showing. I’ll have brown hair again in no time. Maybe Mum can pop out and get me some cheapo blonde hair dye. For vanity as much as disguise. We head into the kitchen. There’s Mum, sitting by the back window. There’s a pot of tea in a tea cosy, some bread on a cutting board, and even a jar of peanut butter on the table.
‘Morning, Mum,’ I say, and go and give her a big kiss on top of that familiar frizzled head. ‘We’re so much better this morning, thank you. Aren’t we, hey, Josh?’
Josh nods.
‘I knew you would be. Sleep sorts everything out.’
‘It does indeed. Now, let’s get you some breakfast, Josh.’
I pick up the peanut butter and unscrew it.
The doorbell rings. Josh runs to answer it.
‘No, wait, sweetie, remember!’ I shout after him.
‘It’s fine, Mum, it’ll just be the postman!’
‘No, Josh, let me!’
I run up behind him. But he’s already taking off the chain, opening the door. Please let it be the postman.
Yes, it is. I catch sight of a retreating uniform of blue shirt and baseball cap. False alarm. Stop, beating heart. Not every morning is a drama. I kiss Josh on the forehead.
‘OK, Josh, it was the postman. But next time it might not be, all right? So let me open the door.’
I lead us back to the kitchen to resume breakfast-making activities, musing at how, even in a situation like this one, ten-year-olds can find post so engrossing – no bills to pay, I guess.
But then I realize Josh isn’t following. I turn round.
His face is white.
‘You’ve got a postcard,’ he says. ‘From Chloe Brown.’
The peanut butter jar drops from my hand.
‘Josh, let me see.’
He hands me the postcard, wide-eyed.
Yes, there’s the name. Chloe Brown. Printed clearly, so there’s no mistaking it. The message just says: ‘See you soon.’
I turn over to the picture. It’s a small boy, on a bike. My stomach twists. I flip back to the name again. And that’s when I see. There’s a stamp, but no postmark. Where the postmark should be, it’s written: ‘By hand.’
‘Mum, it wasn’t really the postman. I think it was …’
It’s Mick. It’s got to be Mick. He knows we’re here.
‘I think it was Dad. I recognize him from the photos.’
Yes. Mick. Not the postman. And I was right. Josh isn’t safe.
‘It’s to you, Mum, isn’t it? You’re Chloe now, aren’t you, Mum?’
‘Yes, yes, I am.’ Because why deny it. Jen is dead. We can’t go back to her. We’ll get new names soon but I won’t be her ever again.
‘Then why is it from you, rather than to you?’ he asks. ‘And why wouldn’t Dad just come in?’
He’s too young for the mind games. Too young to understand the notion of the past catching up, coming to reclaim me. How to create fear.
‘Mum, we’ve got to go,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level, but I can hear it shake. ‘Mick knows we’re here. We’re leaving now, OK? We need to get somewhere safe. Josh, are you ready? We can call Sarah in the car.’ I take hold of Josh.
Mum gets up from her chair and comes over. ‘You’re panicking, love. Why do you need to run? Mick might have things to say to you.’
‘Yeah, and he’ll say them loud and clear with his fucking fists. Or our luck, he’ll have a gun or a knife or something now.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mum asks.
‘I mean Mick is worse than Dad ever was, and he tried to kill Josh before he was even born. I’m sorry, Josh, but it’s true. Now come on.’
I try to leave the kitchen but Mum grabs on my arm.
‘He beat you?’
‘Yes, he beat me. That’s why I had to shop him on the drugs stuff, which he may or may not have done, minor detail – you know what it’s like, the police don’t care enough when it’s just the violence.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Mum says.
‘I know you didn’t know. No one knew.’ Mum’s gone white. ‘Mum, what’s wrong?’
‘I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have done it,’ she says.
‘Mum, what is it, what have you done?’ My insides are constricted. I can feel my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. Here it is again: the fear.
‘I thought it was just that you’d framed him. He said he’d never touch drugs, because of his sister. The way she died. All the papers carried the story. I thought you owed him an explanation. That you could sort it out. That it might help Josh.’
‘Mum, what have you done?’
She hangs her head.
‘I knew he was coming out. I heard on the grapevine. I sent a message to one of his friends last night. Said you were here. And then I made you stay.’
I try to deal with the weight of this, but I can’t. My brain is just saying the same as it did before: you’ve got to go; you’ve got to run.
‘OK, look, I appreciate the apology, but there’s nothing new there. We’ve still got to get out.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘It’s too late,’ she says. ‘He’s here.’
And she gestures to the door. There’s a silhouette looming large through the window panel. The same silhouette the ‘postman’ cast. But now we know it’s Mick.
Chapter 40
We stand frozen, staring at the silhouette of Mick. This is real, then. What I’ve been protected from for so long is here. What I’ve been protecting Josh from.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy, that I didn’t recognize him more quickly from the photos. He had a hat; it was pulled low!’
Josh jabbers quietly, more to himself than us.
Still, we don’t move.<
br />
Unfreeze. You’ve got to unfreeze.
‘Quick, we can get out the back door!’ I hiss. The escape route of old – I would slip out if I didn’t like the look (or smell) of Dad when he came in the door.
Wham!
I scream.
Splintering wood, flying glass. A boot comes through the front door.
Josh clings to me. Mum wails and covers her mouth with her hand.
‘Come on!’ I shout, trying to drag them with me.
Wham!
Now the door is off its hinges. Then slowly, too quickly, it falls inwards to the foot of the stairs.
In the doorway stands Mick.
As tall and broad as I remember him – maybe more so, more muscle-bound. Has he been working out in prison? I look everywhere but his face – navy blue tracksuit bottoms, scuffed Caterpillar boots, arms exposed and muscular underneath the blue polo shirt. Baseball cap now gone.
‘Look at me, Chloe,’ says a curt, commanding voice.
‘I’m looking at you,’ I whisper. I hug Josh to me.
‘Look me in the eye,’ he orders.
I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to.
Mick takes a step closer to us. I push Josh behind me. Then I look up.
There.
That face.
I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry.
I thrust my chin up. I stare into his deep, green eyes. The same eyes that got me in the first place. How cold they are. I should have spotted that all those years ago. Unless they are colder now.
‘That’s right,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Keep looking me in the eye, and admit to me what you fucking did.’
‘Anything I did to you, you did worse to me,’ I tell him. Because it’s true. If I’d stayed, he’d have killed me. And Josh.
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, Chloe. You’re not getting it. You tell me, face to face, what you did, or there’s consequences, for all of you.’
He looks us over.
‘All right, Mrs Brown,’ he says, nodding to my mother.
She starts shaking. ‘Monster,’ she hisses. ‘If I’d known –’
