by Roddy Doyle
I promise!
I promise!
Don't hit my mammy!
I loved him. He was everything and I was nothing. I provoked him. I was stupid. I forgot. I needed him.
I buried a baby because of him.
He burned money in front of me.
—How will you cope?
He slashed my good coat.
—Where'll the money come from for a new one?
He picked me up off the ground. And I loved him. He picked me up and held me. He cried on my head. I needed him. For years I thought that I needed him, that I could never recover without him; I was looking for everything I got. I provoked him. I was useless. I couldn't even cook a fry properly, or wash a good shirt.
I promise!
I was hopeless, useless, good for fuckin' nothing. I lived through years of my life thinking that they were the most important things about me, the only real things. I couldn't cope, I couldn't earn, I needed him. I needed him to show me the way; I needed him to punish me. I was hopeless and stupid, good for only sex, and I wasn't even very good at mat. He said. That was why he went to other women.
—Can you fuckin' blame me?
I could smell them off him. He called me other names when we were in bed. He rubbed me and called me Mary and Bernie. He laughed. He closed his eyes and called me Chrissie. I could see him looking at them. Knackers and dirtbirds. Bleach and false teeth. He came home with their smell on him and then he had me. For afters. He even came home with lipstick on his collar. It must have been deliberate. The lousy bitch, whoever she was. The lousy cheap bitch, kissing his collar. She must have known.
I lost a child because of him.
There were days when I didn't exist; he saw through me and walked around me. I was invisible. There were days when I liked not existing. I closed down, stopped thinking, stopped looking. There were children out there but they had nothing to do with me. Their dirty faces swam in front of me. Their noises came from miles away. There were rooms, food, clothes — nothing. There was a face in a mirror. I could make it smile and not smile. There was a warped, bruised face. There was a red-marked neck. There was a burnt breast.
Leave my mammy alone!
I promise!
I promise!
There were days when I couldn't even feel pain. They were the best ones. I could see it happening but it meant nothing; it wasn't happening. There was no ground under me, nothing to fall to. I was able not to care. I could float. I didn't exist.
The second time he hit me he grabbed my hair and pulled me to him. I saw him changing his mind as he hauled me in. His grip loosened. He stared at me and let go. Another mistake; he hadn't meant it. I saw it in his eyes; that wasn't Charlo. Charlo was the one who let go, not the one who'd grabbed me. I can't remember why; I can't remember exactly when. I was still pregnant. Sunday morning, before we went to mass. I can't remember why. Something to do with breakfast, but I'm not sure. He was talking to me, giving me a lecture or something. I looked away, began to raise my eyes to heaven. (That was a habit he beat out of me.) I felt the rush and the sting on my ear, the air exploded and I was yanked forward. I stepped quickly to stay on my feet. My ear was hot and huge. I might have screamed. My skin was coming off the side of my head. I stepped forward, and looked at him. My hands — the palms landed on his chest. His face changed. He let go of my hair. I said nothing. I watched his face. I wasn't scared now; I hadn't time to be. He took his fingers out of my hair. He might have wiped them on his trousers. I watched him. He looked caught, cornered. He said nothing. He backed off. The side of my head settled into a throb. The left side; I can still feel it. He went into the kitchen. He said nothing. No sorrys, no excuses. I wish I could remember it all; it doesn't matter. I could make it up and it would still be true. He'd hit me again. We went to mass together. He bought me a Flake on the way home. I used to break them before I unwrapped them. Then I'd open the wrapper very carefully, slowly and I'd take out the bigger pieces, men the smaller ones. Then I'd make a funnel of the wrapper and empty the chocolate dust into my mouth. He watched me while I did it. I didn't offer him any. He smiled. I was making a fool of myself. He liked that. I was his little fool. I didn't care. His smile meant lots of things. I smiled back. Over and done with; another mistake. We went to my parents' house. It was Sunday. He helped me off the bus. I was his pregnant wife. He walked at my pace, crawled along beside me. We walked side by side. We talked.
—Don't hit my mammy!
Leanne's voice. Leanne's arms around my leg, clinging to me. Her fingers pulling a back pocket of my jeans. Her feet under mine. As he went around me. And I turned to keep facing him. Trying to keep Leanne behind me.
—It's alright, love.
To Leanne. Patting her head. Her fingers pulling at my pocket. Her face pushed into me. Looking at her father. Looking at his fists. At his face. Her face pressed into me, wetting me. Not being able to see her. My hand on her head.
—It's okay.
Having to keep my eyes on Charlo. Pleading with him, holding him back. Feeling Leanne's shivering. Keeping him back. Making sure I faced him. Making sure she stayed behind me. Making sure I didn't let her become a shield. Her hand gripping my jeans. Her heart beating. Keeping my eyes on Charlo's eyes.
He once asked me how I'd got my black eye. I didn't know why, what he was up to. It scared me. We'd just been talking, about something on the telly. We used to watch the News; this was years ago. I think it was during the Hunger Strikes. Charlo was big into the H Blocks. He knew all the names, how many days they'd gone without food; he was an expert. He'd have loved to have been in there with them. I said that to him.
—Yeah, he said back.
He didn't even know I was slagging him. He wore a black armband all around the place, put it on before his trousers every morning. He still ate like a pig, though, and drank like one. We were watching the News, commenting on it, and he asked me where I'd got my black eye. I kept looking at the telly. I was being tested; I was sure I was. There was a right answer. But this came out of nowhere. There hadn't been a row. There wasn't any tension. We'd been getting along fine, chatting away about the world and the H Blocks. It was nice; the trick was to agree with everything he said. Then he came out with it.
—Where'd you get that?
—What?
—The eye.
It was a test. I was thumping inside. He was playing with me. There was only one right answer.
—I walked into the door.
—Is that right?
—Yeah.
—Looks sore.
—It's not too bad.
—Good.
He was messing with me, playing. Like a cat with an injured bird. With his black armband, the fucker. Keeping me on my toes, keeping me in my place. Pretending he didn't remember. Pretending he'd never seen black and red around and in that eye before. Pretending he cared. I didn't believe he'd forgotten, not even for a second. He wanted me to think that — or that he was sick, having blackouts, that he was like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde, a schizophrenic, that I should feel sorry for him and try to understand. I didn't believe it. He was playing with me. Ruining the night because it was getting too cosy. Only playing. He had me; I could say nothing. I could never fight back. When he wasn't hitting me he was reminding me that he could. He was reminding me and getting me ready. Like the cat playing with the bird, letting it live a bit longer before he killed it.
He put one of his fingers on the bruise. I made sure I stayed absolutely still. I looked ahead, at the telly. The tip of his finger was freezing. He rested it gently under my eye.
—You must have walked right into it, did you?
—Yeah; I wasn't looking.
—Which door?
—Bedroom.
He took his finger away. I could still feel it on my cheekbone.
—Were you drinking?
—No.
—Sure?
—Yeah.
—Just careless.
—Yeah.
—Okay.
I waited for more. I sat beside him and waited.
—I saw you.
—You didn't.
—I fuckin' saw you.
—You didn't, Charlo.
He's making it up as he goes along, making himself believe it; working himself up, building up his excuse. He's getting ready to let go. He's going to beat me; there's no point in arguing, nothing I can do. I should say nothing. But I never learn. I always defend myself. I always provoke him.
—I know what I fuckin' saw, righ'.
He's seen me looking at a man. In the pub; we're just back from the pub, just in the door.
—I didn't look at anyone, Charlo.
His open hand. The sting and the shock, the noise, the smack. He's too fast.
—Say that again.
You never get used to it. Predicting it doesn't matter. Nothing I can do; he has complete control. It's always fresh, always dreadful.
Again.
Always a brand new pain.
The skin doesn't get any harder.
Stay out of the corners; I have to make sure that I don't get caught.
Again.
Buzzing. Things swim and dive. My husband is beating me. A horrible fact. A stranger. Everything collapses.
—Say it.
Again.
A stranger.
—Cunt! Say it.
The back of his hand. Too scared to expect it. Shapes are changing. My hair is grabbed as the hand comes back. Stay out of the corner.
—You fuckin' cunt!
Pulls my head down.
—You fuckin' —
Pushes me, drops me into the corner. Hair rips. A sharper pain. His shoe into my arm, like a cut with a knife. His grunt. He leans on the wall, one hand. His kick hits the fingers holding my arm. I lose them; the agony takes them away. Leans over me. Another grunt, a slash across my chin. My head thrown back. I'm everywhere. Another. Another. I curl away. I close my eyes. My back. Another. My back. My back. My back. My back. Back shatters.
The grunting stops. Breaths. Deep breaths. Wheezing. A moan. I wait. I curl up. My back screams. I don't think, I don't look. I gather the pain. I smooth it.
Noises from far away. Creaks. Lights turned on, off. Water. I'm everywhere. I'm nothing. Someone is breathing. I'm under everything. I won't move; I don't know how to. Someone's in pain. Someone is crying. It isn't me yet. I'm under everything. I'm in black air. Someone is crying. Someone is vomiting. It will be me but not yet.
Do I actually remember that? Is that exactly how it happened? Did my hair rip? Did my back scream} Did he call me a cunt? Yes, often; all the time. Right then? I don't know. Which time was mat anyway? I don't know. How can I separate one time from the lot and describe it? I want to be honest. How can I be sure? It went on for seventeen years. Seventeen years of being hit and kicked. How can I tell? How many times did he kick me in the back? How many times did I curl up on the floor? How can I remember one time? When did it happen? What date? What day? I don't know. What age was I? I don't know. It will be me but not yet. What is that supposed to mean? That I was nearly unconscious; that the pain was unbearable? I'm messing around here. Making things up; a story. I'm beginning to enjoy it. Hair rips. Why don't I just say He pulled my hair? Someone is crying. Someone is vomiting. I cried, I fuckin' well vomited. I choose one word and end up telling a different story. I end up making it up instead of just telling it. The sting and the shock, the noise, the smack. I don't want to make it up, I don't want to add to it. I don't want to lie. I don't have to; there's no need. I want to tell the truth. Like it happened. Plain and simple. My husband is beating me up. A horrible fact. A stranger. Did any of this actually happen? Yes. Am I sure? Yes. Absolutely sure, Paula?
I have a hearing problem, a ruptured eardrum. A present from Charlo. It happened. A finger aches when it's going to rain. Little one on the left; he pulled it back till it snapped. It happened. I have places where there should be teeth. There are things I can't smell any more. I have marks where burns used to be. I have a backache that rides me all day. I've a scar on my chin. It happened. I have parts of the house that make me cry. I have memories that I can touch and make me wake up screaming. I'm haunted all day and all night. I have mistakes that stab me before I think of them. He hit me, he thumped me, he raped me. It happened.
He pushed me back into the corner. I felt hair coming away; skin fighting it. And a sharper pain when his shoe bit into my arm, like the cut of a knife. He grunted. He leaned against the wall, over me. I heard the next kick coming; my fingers exploded. Another grunt, and my head was thrown back. My head hit the wall. My chin was split. I felt blood on my neck. Again. Again. I curled away to block the kicks. I closed my eyes. He kicked my back. Again. My back. My back. My back. The same spot again and again. He was breaking through my back.
The grunting stopped. He was finished; he'd no wind left. I could hear him breathing, slowing down. He was wheezing. I waited. I curled up, tried to push the pain away. I stopped thinking and waiting; I didn't look; I didn't do anything. I tried to spread the pain through my body, to take it away from my back. I could hear whining and crying, breathing. It was me. I heard noises from far away. Charlo was going up to bed. Lights turned on and off. Water running. I stopped listening. I stopped everything. I was a ball in the corner.
I'm everywhere. I'm nothing. Someone is breathing. I won't move; I don't know how to. Someone's in pain. Someone is crying. It isn't me yet. I'm in black water; it's cold and soothing. Someone is crying. Someone is vomiting. It will be me but not yet.
He'd bring me a cup of tea. Or a Flake. That was all it took. A tiny piece of generosity — a kiss, a smile, a joke. I'd grab at anything. And I'd forget. Everything was fine. Everything was normal. He'd put the Flake in the fridge and let me find it. That took planning; the kids always had their heads in the fridge, especially at night — his timing had to be perfect. That was all it took. I still break them before I unwrap them. I sometimes cry when I eat them.
The doctor never looked at me. He studied parts of me but he never looked at my eyes. He never looked at me when he spoke. He never saw me. Drink, he said to himself. I could see his nose twitching, taking in the smell, deciding. None of the doctors looked at me.
I didn't exist. I was a ghost. I walked around in emptiness. People looked away; I wasn't there. They stared at the bruises for a split second, then away, off my shoulder and away. There was nothing there. No one looked; eyes stared everywhere else. I could walk down the street, I could sit in the church at mass, I could go up for communion. I could answer the door, I could get on the train, I could go to the shops. And no one saw me. I could stand at a checkout and empty my trolley, pay for what I was buying. I could hand over my money and get my change and stamps. I could push past people and let them pass me. I could say Please and Thank you. I could smile and say Hello. I could smile and say Goodbye. I could walk through crowds. I could see all these people but they couldn't see me. They could see the hand that held out the money. They could see the hand that held open the door. They could see the foot that tried on the shoe. They could see the mouth that spoke the words. They could see the hair that was being cut. But they couldn't see me. The woman who wasn't there. The woman who had nothing wrong with her. The woman who was fine. The woman who walked into doors.
They could smell the drink. Aah. They could see the bruises. Aah, now. They could see the bumps. Ah now, God love her. Their noses led them but their eyes wouldn't. My mother looked and saw nothing. My father saw nothing, and he loved what he didn't see. My brothers saw nothing. His mother saw nothing. Denise saw nothing — at first. (Carmel was living in England.) The woman who kept walking into doors.
—How are you?
—Grand.
Ask me.
In the hospital.
Please, ask me.
In the clinic.
In the church.
Ask me ask me ask me. Broken nose, loose teeth, cracked ribs. Ask me.
> No one saw me. I was fine, I was grand. I fell down the stairs, I walked into a door. I hit myself with the heel of his shoe. I looked older than my age; what age was I anyway? It was my little secret and they all helped me keep it. He held me still and butted me. He dragged me around the house by my clothes and by my hair. Fist, boot, knee, head. He hurt me and hurt me and hurt me. (Carmel saved me; Carmel was the one. Carmel saw what was happening, and she made me see. And she made the others see. Carmel saved me and I've never thanked her. Sometimes I cursed her. It was easier when you couldn't feel or see.) I began to see what they saw. Nothing. I kept my eyes on the ground. I stopped looking at faces that were looking away from me. It was easier not to see them, and then I forgot why I didn't look. I shopped at the last minute, I wore a coat in the summer — I hid. I sent the kids to the shops. I wore plastic sunglasses. I drank. I avoided mirrors. I closed the curtains before dark so I wouldn't see myself in the window looking back in. I turned off. I forgot. I gave up.
The children made it difficult to stay that way. They always made me come back. I had to be there; I had to be visible for them. I had to think. I couldn't give up; they wouldn't let me. I had to be alive, awake and doing things. I couldn't die and leave them. I wanted them more than I didn't want them — and sometimes I didn't want them at all. But I couldn't leave them with him; I couldn't let go. They were there all the time. They had to be fed. They had to be hugged. They had to be cleaned. I had to be there. So I lived in the house. I was alive for them. They could see me. They could feel me. They'd grow up and then I could disappear. I could fold myself up and stop. But I had to be there for them until they were big enough. I had to protect them. He kicked me, he bruised me, he scalded me. Sometimes I hated them. He'd put them there to trap me; they were in it with him. They never stopped crying. They never stopped eating. They wouldn't let me lie down. They were on his side. They never left me alone. I always had to be there. I could never disappear.
