by Hannah Howe
Chapter Twenty-Four
I was sitting on my bed in my torn dress in the darkness. I must have dozed because in my waking moments I could recall vivid nightmares, centred on my mother and Dan. It was as though the past five years hadn’t happened and I was living with Dan again. The fragile confidence, painstakingly built up over those five years, had gone and the dark thought reasserted itself – all men are monsters and they’re only out to hurt me. I sat, staring at my bedroom walls, watching the first light of dawn.
Normally, after an altercation with Dan, I’d bounce back within an hour or so. But this time I’d fallen through an emotional trapdoor and was free-falling into the abyss. Pull yourself together. Pull what together, how? Dan’s voice was like a record whirling round and round inside my head, a record you didn’t like, but one you couldn’t get out of your head. For hour after hour, his voice mocked me, criticised me, threatened me...
At the first light of dawn, I undressed and wandered into the bathroom. I ran a bath, my default reaction, to try to wash away the memory of Dan. I soaked in the bath, trying to wash the hurt away. I stayed in the bath until the water became cold and I could no longer be bothered to reach for the hot water tap.
In a daze, I dried myself and pulled on a fleecy dressing gown. I returned to my bed and gazed at the ceiling.
Then the phone rang. It must have been mid-morning, but I had no sense of the time. The phone rang again; I ignored it. A few minutes later, my mobile phone rang. I ignored it. In fact, I put my hands over my ears to block out the sound.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. This time I got up and pulled the wire out of the wall. Then my mobile phone rang and I switched it off. I felt very tired, emotional, totally drained. At times, I’d cry, though I couldn’t quite understand the reason for my tears.
I was still crying when someone rang my doorbell. I pulled a pillow over my head and yelled, “Go away!” Irritatingly, the doorbell rang again, a shrill, insistent, annoying sound. I threw my pillow at my bedroom door and screamed, “Go away!”
Then a voice called out, “Sam, it’s me, Alan.”
I rolled on to my left side and mumbled, “Go away.”
“Sam, are you okay.”
Get up, open the door, get rid of him; he’s a man just like Dan; he won’t give you any peace.
I adjusted the tie on my dressing gown and stumbled to the front door. It took more effort than usual, but I managed to unlock the deadlocks. Then I opened the door a fraction of an inch.
“Sam, what’s happened?” Alan’s voice was soft, tinged with concern while his forehead was etched with disquiet. “Are you okay? I’ve been phoning, your home, mobile, office...no answer...I was worried.”
Across the hallway, I could see old Mrs Baxter eyeing us with suspicion. Maybe she’d heard the row between Dan and me. I didn’t want a scene, so I opened the door for Alan. “You’d better come in.” I closed the door and invited him into my living room.
Alan sat in my armchair, while I perched on the sofa. I looked dreadful. My hair was a mess and my face was red from all my tears. But I felt no sense of embarrassment; I’d moved beyond such emotion. I stared into my lap, my fingers twirling my dressing gown tie.
Alan leaned towards me. Unusually for him, he was agitated. He loosened his tie, undid the top button on his shirt then asked, “What happened after I left you last night?”
“Dan happened.” I gave details of our altercation, the best I could.
Alan removed his tie, rolled it and placed it in his pocket. He stood. He was angry, I could sense it, I could sense his emotion without seeing his face, and his anger scared me. He was angry with Dan, but I was worried that he was also angry with me. I couldn’t cope with that. In all honesty, I was struggling to cope with his presence in the room.
“I’ll have words with him. I’ll sort him out.”
“No,” I pleaded, “don’t get involved. It will only make things worse.”
Alan sighed, taking a long, steady breath. He looked at me with sadness in his eyes then shook his head. “Have you eaten?”
I shook my head. “Not hungry.”
“Let me make you lunch.”
“No.” I stared at my carpet, at a stubborn stain that refused to budge. “It’s not a good time. I’m having a bad day. Please leave.”
“I can’t leave you like this. Let me help.”
He squatted at my side, just as Dan had done the previous evening. The memory was too much and something deep within me snapped. I totally lost it and went into a rage.
“You’re so perfect aren’t you! You’re so calm. You’re so in control. All you want to do is help people and make them feel better, well you’re not helping me by being here, so go away. In fact, you’re making me feel sick.”
“This is not you talking, Sam, this is the poison he’s put into you.” Alan’s voice was gentle, soothing, but I heard nothing but aggression and threats.
I shot him an angry glance. “It’s not me talking? Well watch these lips, if you’re so totally wonderful and want to help people all the time why didn’t you help your wife and save her instead of saving your own skin!”
His eyes widened in shock. His jaw dropped. He looked upset, deeply wounded. I replayed my words over in my mind and wondered where they had come from. How could I say such a wicked thing? Because I was frightened, frightened that if I reached out to him and became dependant on him he’d hurt me, just like Dan. And I couldn’t face hurt anymore. I couldn’t face men anymore.
Alan stood. He walked, with dignity, out of my living room. As his footsteps clipped the stairs I could hear the little devil in my mind laughing at me, mocking me in Dan’s voice, while the little angel was shouting, run after him, you idiot, apologise. It took some effort, but I dragged myself to my feet and I did run out into the street, after him. My neighbours were staring at me and I felt what I was, a total fool.
When I reached him, Alan was behind the wheel of his vintage Jaguar XJ6. I placed my head against the glass of his driver’s window and beseeched, “I’m sorry, Alan, I’m sorry, please forgive me, I didn’t mean it. Please...”
But he drove off and left me standing in the rain.
On the way back to my flat, I thumped my head against my Mini in frustration. I kicked a tyre and yelled at a neighbour, “What are you looking at?” Then I slammed my front door, slumped to the floor and buried my head in my hands again.
