The night sky was a battlefield, brilliant with clashes of colour and flame. Crackling explosions kept jump-starting her heart. Her head was spinning so fast she thought it might shoot off into space and burst into a million sparkling pieces. She was a Roman candle, a banger, a glorious fountain of golden rain.
The air was thick with smoke, the sulphurous kind you only get on Bonfire Night, that seeps into your clothes and sticks in your hair for days after. The smell reminded her of being a kid – neighbourly get-togethers in back gardens, writing her name with sparklers, stamping the ground to bring the life back to her toes. Burnt sausages, fried onions and tomato ketchup. Dads carrying around biscuit tins and setting off weedy displays – Catherine wheels that wouldn’t spin, rockets that spluttered then fell into the rose bush. They had been simple, innocent times, she thought. But now the smell of gunpowder would be forever associated with this extraordinary night.
The ground was soft after days of rain. She made her way to the end of the garden, the long wet grass licking her ankles, mud soaking into the soles of her slippers. It was strange that she couldn’t feel the cold. Her breathing was quick and shallow – the baby was so large she couldn’t fill her lungs. She steadied herself on a fence post. The child kicked out, pressing its foot against the wall of her womb.
Bang, whoosh, sizzle, wheeeeee … The sky was on fire. Hot sparks fluttered around her, illuminating her silhouette as she walked around the compost heap, testing the ground. She crouched down, letting the hem of her dressing gown trail in the damp earth, and picked up a few dead leaves, mulched by the rain.
Yes, this was the place. Nobody was around to witness; they were all at the park. They would watch the finale, have a few more goes on the rides and stalls, then drift slowly away, stopping off for chips or last orders. Everyone would come home and go straight to bed. She could be out here all night and not a soul would notice.
It had been a night he had predicted, that she’d been warned about a thousand times. The ultimate attack she’d strangely wanted to happen, but only because she could no longer bear the tension of not knowing when it would come.
Her fear of him was permanent, a tattoo on a part of her body only he had ever seen. Although the bruises, burns and bite marks had faded, they would never go away completely. She’d been a work in progress to him. ‘One day I’ll finish you off,’ he’d often said, and there’d been no reason to doubt him.
A loud scream pierced the air. She looked up to see a huge rocket zooming towards the heavens. It held its breath for a moment, then exploded, spattering the sky with blood-red drops of fire.
The new human being inside her – she hoped it was a girl – drew her knees into her chest.
‘It’s only fireworks, silly,’ she whispered, stroking her hard belly. ‘No need to be scared. We’re safe now.’
Now
I hug myself under the blanket and stare out to sea. This is my favourite room – a small corner turret perched on top of the house. You can watch the sun travel from east to west from its circular bay window. It’s so high up, I can look straight out at the water and ignore all the signs of human existence in between – the double yellow lines, the bus shelter, the green sward littered with benches, the zigzag of beach hut roofs. I can pretend I’m in the middle of nature, surrounded only by mud, sea and sky.
Or rather, I could if the builder wasn’t making such a racket. I put my hands over my ears in a futile attempt to block out the banging. It’s been going on all morning; there’s no escaping from it, not even up here. He’s inside my head, hammering against the walls of my brain.
This tiny room tucked under the eaves is the warmest place in the house. I climb up here every morning after Jack leaves for work to watch the tide go in or out. I can’t seem to drag myself away from the view. Even when the sea’s choppy and there’s a storm brewing it still seems peaceful compared to what’s going on below.
Sawing, drilling, banging, thumping, things being wrenched apart and smashed to pieces; the house is a demolition site, but unlike our builder, we don’t get to go home at the end of the day. We’ve been camping in one of the downstairs reception rooms for weeks, with an unreliable boiler and only a dribbling electric shower. It’s so cold I can’t bear to take my clothes off at night.
January is a stupid time of year to start building work, but we had no choice. It took six months for the sale of the house to go through because the owner was a charity and the trustees had to vote on every little decision. Then we couldn’t find a builder who was prepared to do the job for a price we could afford. In the end, I put a postcard on the community noticeboard in the local Co-op, and thankfully, Alan responded. He’s a nice guy but he’s a one-man band, in his late fifties and not the fastest worker on the planet.
Before we moved in, I created mood boards for every room, with paint colour charts and fabric swatches, wallpaper samples, pictures of rugs and light fittings cut from magazines. I knew exactly how I wanted every space to look, what furniture we would buy and where we would put it. But since we arrived, my enthusiasm has waned. I’m struggling to imagine the tatty bedsits on the first floor transformed into four decent-sized bedrooms. The longer I spend in the gloomy seventies kitchen, the harder it is to visualise the bright and airy extension we’re planning with its generous skylights and bifold doors.
A seagull lands on the roof just outside the window, its oily feathers ruffling in the cold. I fix my gaze on the watery horizon and try to recapture the excitement I felt the first time we viewed the house. It was June, one of the hottest days of the year. The sun was blazing, the sky was a solid cornflower blue and the English Channel was sparkling like the Mediterranean.
We’d never been to Nevansey before; all we knew was that it was a few miles from fashionable Whitstable with its oyster restaurants, art galleries and vintage shops, and that houses there were a lot cheaper. We took one look at the tatty pier with its souvenir kiosks, its helter-skelter and giant bouncy castle and understood why. The town might have been a pleasant seaside resort once upon a time, but it’s well past its sell-by date.
Jack wanted to go straight back to the train station, but we’d arranged to meet the estate agent at the property and I felt it would be rude not to turn up. I also had a strange, secret feeling that, despite the unpromising surroundings, this was going to be ‘the one’.
We turned away from the tacky amusement arcades and set off along the seafront road, grandly named the Esplanade. The heat was exhausting and I felt dehydrated, regretting the bottle of lager I’d drunk with my fish and chips. I fanned myself with the house details as we climbed the hill, passing several boring bungalows and wondering where on earth Westhill House could be. Then we rounded a bend and suddenly it was in front of us, in splendid isolation on a wide corner plot.
It was love at first sight. For me, anyway; not so much for Jack. The house looked even bigger than in the photos online. Double-fronted, rising to three storeys. Eight bedsit rooms, four downstairs receptions, a cellar, conservatory and large overgrown garden. In need of total refurbishment but with unlimited potential to be transformed into a stunning family home, or so the agents claimed. We stood in awe, silently noting the cracked stonework and rotting window frames, the broken roof tiles clogged with moss, the security cameras hanging off the walls and the rusting alarm box above the front door. Orange streaks ran down the grubby white facade like tears on a child’s face.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said.
Jack snorted dismissively. ‘The views are amazing, I’ll give you that, but the place is falling apart. It’ll gobble up every penny of your inheritance.’
‘I don’t care,’ I whispered. ‘It’s what they would have wanted for me.’
It’s almost two o’clock, still no sign of the delivery van. I should go down to the kitchen and make myself some lunch, but Alan is banging so loudly, I’ll never hear a knock on the front door. Feeling my stomach gurgle with hunger, I reluctantly leave my lofty watchtower and go down to the first floor.
His radio is blaring out as usual, permanently tuned to the past. He sings, bashing in time with his club hammer. I put my head around the door just in time to see part of a partition wall crash to the floor. Lumps of plaster scatter everywhere and a cloud of grey-pink dust rises in the air, making me cough.
‘Don’t come in!’ he shouts above the music. ‘It’s dangerous. The rest could fall down any moment.’
‘I’m making tea, want some?’
He grins. ‘Never say no to a cuppa. Thanks, love.’
Leaving him to his demolition work, I go down another flight to the kitchen, wincing as always at the sight of the greasy old units, varnished pine cladding and orangey brown tiles. I put the kettle on to boil and am reaching for the box of tea bags when I hear the sound of a vehicle backing onto the driveway.
As I open the front door, a cold blast of sea air smacks me full in the face. A medium-sized van marked with Sweet Bedtime Dreams in swirly pink writing is parked on the cracked paving stones. The driver gets out and walks towards me.
‘Is this Westhill House?’ I nod enthusiastically. A second guy gets out and unlocks the back doors. ‘Queen-sized bed frame and memory-foam mattress. You want it assembled, right?’
‘Yes please. We’re sleeping downstairs at the moment, so if you could bring it in here.’ They pick up the mattress and follow me into our makeshift bedroom-cum-living-room.
Their eyes flicker over the mess and I feel myself redden with embarrassment. Packing boxes are stacked around the walls and our clothes are hanging off hooks like dubious works of art. A pizza box from last night lies stranded on the desk; electric cables trail hazardously across the floor. The airbed we’ve been sleeping on is unmade, and dirty washing is heaped in the corner. I should have tidied up before they arrived, I suppose – not that there’s anything to tidy stuff into.
While they’re assembling the frame, I retreat to the kitchen to finish making the tea. Fingers crossed this will cheer Jack up, I think. He’s been sulking since our row a few nights ago. One of those quick, nasty exchanges that came out of nowhere, fuelled by tiredness and alcohol.
‘I’m sick of living like this,’ he said. ‘The airbed is crippling my back, I haven’t had a proper shower in weeks, and if I have to eat another ready meal, I’m going to kill myself.’
‘It’s worse for me. At least you spend the day in a smart office – I’m stuck in this one room.’
‘You decided to buy the place.’
‘It was a joint decision!’
‘No it wasn’t. It was your money, I couldn’t stop you.’
‘Yes, my money because my parents are dead,’ I said, then burst into tears.
I felt bad about using their deaths to trump the argument. The next day, I drove to one of those superstores in a retail park just out of town and bought the best frame and most comfortable mattress they had. It’s a surprise. You could even call it an apology.
This evening I’m going to steel myself to clean the hob and cook a proper meal for once. It’s only spaghetti bolognese, but I’ve bought fresh Parmesan and a bottle of decent Chianti. Tonight’s going to be a fresh start. Proper food, proper wine, proper bed. Maybe we’ll even have some proper sex for a change.
Five hours later, my heart leaps as I hear the sound of Jack’s key turning in the lock. Rushing to the mirror, I check my lipstick and adjust my hair. I’ve changed out of my usual baggy jumper and jeans and put on a slinky black dress. I’m wearing the sparkly earrings he bought me for my birthday.
‘Hi! I’m home!’ he calls.
I quickly glance around the room. Fresh linen is on the new bed, nightlights are flickering on the mantelpiece, the bottle of wine sits expectantly on the desk we’re using as a dining table. The atmosphere is almost romantic, in a tatty, bohemian kind of way.
Jack enters, unzipping his jacket. ‘My God! What’s all this?’ he says, grinning.
‘I decided enough was enough. It’s queen size, bigger than the double we had at the old flat.’
‘Yeah, so I see.’ He sits and bounces up and down on the mattress. ‘Not too hard, not too soft. Good choice, Stella.’
‘I’m so glad you’re pleased. I know we were going to wait until the new bedroom was finished, but—’
‘No, no, you did the right thing.’ He flops back in a starfish shape and sniffs the air. ‘And do I actually smell cooking?’
I run off to the kitchen to serve up while Jack opens the Chianti and pours two generous glasses.
‘Ta-dah!’ I waltz back in with the steaming plates of spaghetti. ‘Not exactly MasterChef, I know, but at least it’s real food.’
‘Anything’s better than the shit we’ve been eating lately,’ he says, then adds, ‘I mean, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.’
The pasta and the bottle of wine seem to do the trick, and before long we’re snuggled up together on our new bed, watching a movie and starting some casual foreplay. His hand creeps along the front opening of my dress and slips under my bra. I feel my nipple harden and lean into him, gently caressing the back of his neck. It’s been so long since we made love, we’ve almost forgotten how to do it. I stare into his dark brown eyes and grin mischievously. He gives me a slow, understanding nod and shuts the lid of the laptop.
Then everything picks up speed and we’re tearing each other’s clothes off and thrashing about, kissing everything we can get our mouths to.
‘I love you,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry everything’s so chaotic – do you think it was a mistake buying the hou—’
‘Shut up,’ he replies softly, opening my legs. ‘I don’t want to think about that now. All I want is you.’ I pull him into me, clasping my hands over his small, tight buttocks as we rock together.
Suddenly there’s a loud thumping noise. I start nervously. ‘What was that?’
‘Mmm … it’s nothing. Kiss me.’
‘No, listen! Somebody’s at the door.’
‘Who cares?’
Thump, thump, thump. It sounds like they’re hammering with their fist.
‘Who do you think it is? What shall we do?’
Jack lifts his head. ‘Ignore it.’
The knocking continues, growing louder, more insistent.
‘Maybe it’s Alan. He might have forgotten something.’
‘If it is, he can wait till tomorrow.’
‘It can’t be Alan, he’s got a key.’ Bang, bang. They’re not giving up. I wriggle out from under him and grab my dressing gown.
‘Don’t answer. It’s probably some delivery guy got the wrong address.’
Bang, bang, bang.
‘Not at this time of night. It sounds really urgent. Maybe it’s the police.’
‘Why would it be the police?’ he says, sitting up. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
But I know the banging’s not going to stop until I answer. I run barefoot into the freezing hallway, quickly tying the belt of my gown.
‘Who is it?’ I shout. A dark silhouette presses against the wire-reinforced glass.
‘Please let me in! Please!’ A female voice.
I bend down and shout through the letter box. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘I need help!’
Jack emerges, a towel around his waist. ‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s a woman out there. Says she needs help.’
‘What? It could be a scam, Stella. Don’t answer.’
But all I can think of is Mum and Dad, remembering how they lay bleeding in the road that dark rainy night. Maybe they cried for help but nobody came. If the driver had stopped, if a passer-by had witnessed the accident and called an ambulance, they might still be alive today. And then I wouldn’t be carrying all this guilt around with me. Maybe, just maybe, this is a chance to make amends for the terrible thing I did.
Without another thought, I fling open the front door.
Now
The woman staggers forward a few paces, then falls headlong into the hallway, smacking herself hard against the cold tiles and rolling onto her side. For a second she’s completely still; all we can hear is her heavy breathing. Jack and I stare down at her.
‘What the …?’ he murmurs.
Her face is badly bruised, her lip is swollen and blood is trickling from the corner of her mouth. There are streaks of dried blood down the front of her sweatshirt, her jogging bottoms are tatty and stained and she’s wearing slippers. No coat, no socks. She’s clutching a brown handbag to her chest. Behind her on the doorstep is a small black suitcase, the size I’d use for a weekend away.
‘What happened?’ I crouch beside her.
‘Door,’ she says through thick lips.
‘What? Is somebody out there? Jack – shut it, for God’s sake! She’s terrified.’
He goes to the doorway and steps outside, peering into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anyone.’ He comes back inside, moves the case into the hallway and shuts the door. ‘Have you been mugged?’ She shakes her head.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say gently. ‘We’ll take care of you.’ I look up at Jack. ‘Should we call the police? Ambulance?’
‘No! No police!’ She shakes her head fiercely. ‘No ambulance.’
‘But you’ve been attacked.’
‘No! They said it was okay … No police …’
‘Who said it was okay? The bastard that did this?’
‘No! No … Phone … On the phone.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Who are you?’ asks Jack, hovering a few paces away. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Let’s not worry about that now. There’s a first-aid kit in one of the boxes,’ I say. ‘See if you can find it.’
He doesn’t move. ‘But we don’t know anything—’
‘It doesn’t matter right now. She’s hurt. Find some antiseptic cream, plasters, anything. Boil a kettle, we need hot water.’
‘We should call the police.’
‘She doesn’t want us to. Please just find the first-aid kit. And get some clothes on.’ He turns around with a huff and disappears into the front room.
I go back to the woman. ‘Are you okay to sit up?’ She nods. ‘Let me help you.’ I carefully ease her upwards. ‘I’m Stella. What’s your name?’
‘Lori,’ she mumbles. ‘Ta.’ She moves her head stiffly, looking around her with a puzzled expression on her face.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to A and E?’
‘No. I mean, yes, I’m sure … Don’t need hospital. No police.’
‘But you’ve been attacked, Lori. You need to report it. How did it happen? Was it a stranger, or do you know them?’
She screws up her eyes. ‘This is Westhill House, right?’
‘Yes …’ I say warily.
‘You take anyone in, no questions, no police unless we ask for them. You never turn anyone away, that’s what they said.’
‘Who said?’
‘The helpline.’
‘What? I’m ever so sorry, I think there’s been some mistake.’
‘No, no mistake,’ she says firmly. ‘This is Westhill House. The refuge.’
‘A refuge?’
‘Yes! You know, for battered women.’ My mind immediately goes to the bedsit units, the communal spaces downstairs, the cameras, the alarms, the security glass on all the external doors.
‘Well, um, maybe, I don’t know, maybe it used to be a refuge, but it’s not any more, hasn’t been for a long time. It’s a private house now. I’m really, really sorry, but you’ve been given duff information—’
She grabs my arm. ‘Please, love, please don’t turn me away! I’ve nowhere else to go, I’m running for my life. He’ll be out there looking for me. If he finds me, I swear he’ll kill me. Please, I’m begging you, let me stay.’
My head spins with contradictory thoughts. I’ve just let a total stranger into my house; I must be crazy. How do I even know she’s telling the truth? But then I look at the bruises on her face, her swollen bloody lip …
‘Let’s get you cleaned up first,’ I say, gently lifting her to her feet.
I steer her into the front room and sit her on the edge of our new bed, where just a few moments ago we were in the throes of passionate lovemaking. Her glance wanders over the telltale scene. The remains of our romantic dinner are still lying on the table, flickering candles almost burnt down to stubs, our empty wine glasses stained ruby red. My clothes are lying on the floor where Jack threw them after he ripped them off me. The sheets are crumpled from our thrashing about.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ I say, quickly kicking my bra and knickers under the bed. My flimsy dressing gown barely disguises my nakedness, and my bare feet are freezing. ‘We’re camping in here while we’re having the house done up.’
‘Oh, right.’ She pulls her knees together, clutching her handbag as if it contains her whole life.
Jack, now back in jeans and a shirt, brings me the first-aid kit and I tear open a packet of antiseptic wipes. She flinches as I try to clean the dried blood off her face. ‘Sorry. There’s a small cut on your cheekbone and the inside of your mouth seems to be bleeding.’
‘He swung at me, made me bite my cheek.’
‘You should get checked out at the hospital,’ Jack says, hovering behind me.
She shakes her head. ‘Nah, it’ll be all right … I’ve had worse.’
‘There, that’s the best I can do.’ I stick a plaster over the cut. She looks up and gives me a weak smile.
‘Thanks, you’re an angel. Don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t answered the door.’
Jack is staring at her, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘My husband,’ she says quietly.
‘Jesus … Why?’
‘Let’s not go into that now,’ I say, shooting a glance at him. ‘She’s escaped, that’s the main thing.’ Turning to Lori, I add, ‘You’ve been incredibly brave.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ She looks down at her grubby pink mules. ‘What must I look like? A total wreck. Didn’t even put my shoes on.’ Tears well up in her dull grey eyes and she wipes them on her sleeve. ‘But at least I’m alive, eh? Just about.’
There’s a pause. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or some tea?’
‘Tea, please, if you’re making.’
‘I think we could all do with one.’ I look meaningfully at Jack and he signals that he wants to talk to me. ‘I’ll be right back,’ I say, following him out of the room.
We go to the kitchen and he closes the door behind us, his face puckered with annoyance.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he hisses, ‘but she can’t stay.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because! We don’t know who she is, or why she’s here—’
‘She’s just told us. Her name’s Lori; her husband beat her up so she escaped.’
‘How do we know she’s telling the truth?’
I fill the kettle and put it on to boil, hoping its roar will drown out our conversation. ‘Look at the state of her! We can’t turn her away. Her husband could have followed her. He could be out there now, waiting for her. What if he murders her in the street? We’d never forgive ourselves.’
‘If he’s outside, we should call the police. Let them sort it out.’
‘She doesn’t want them involved.’
‘That’s stupid. Why on earth not?’
‘I don’t know, Jack, she must have her reasons. Maybe she doesn’t trust them.’
He huffs, unable to comprehend. ‘Well maybe I don’t trust her. I mean, why come here? Why pick on us?’
‘Apparently this house used to be a refuge.’ He stares at me blankly. ‘You know, for victims of domestic abuse. Their locations are kept secret.’
‘Oh. Right …’ He thinks for a few seconds. ‘If it’s a secret, how come she knew about it?’
‘She rang a helpline and was given this address.’
‘What helpline?’
‘I don’t know. They told her to come here and she’d be looked after – they got it wrong, it wasn’t her fault.’
Jack takes a breath. ‘Okay, okay, that makes a tiny bit of sense, I suppose. But it’s not a refuge any more, is it?’ He looks at me hard.
I pop tea bags into three mugs and pour on the boiling water. ‘It’s midnight; she’s hurt, scared, in shock. We can’t turf her out now. She can have the air mattress and a sleeping bag in the other room.’ I push past Jack to get to the fridge and take out the milk. ‘It’s no big deal.’
‘Yes it is – it’s a huge deal,’ he fumes. ‘We don’t know anything about her.’
‘It’s just for tonight. I’ll help her sort out a proper refuge in the morning.’ I pick up two of the mugs. ‘Be kind, Jack. Please, for me?’ I leave him pouting furiously in the kitchen and go back to our guest.
‘Do you take sugar?’ I say as I enter the front room, hoping to God she didn’t overhear us.
‘No, that’s fine, as long as it’s warm and wet.’ I pass her a mug, and she cradles it against her bloodstained top. ‘I’m really sorry for barging in on you like this. They told me on the phone I could just turn up, no questions asked.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not your fault, you were misinformed.’
‘I know, but I feel terrible …’ She pauses, looking anxiously towards the door. ‘I get the feeling your husband isn’t too happy about me being here.’
‘He’s not actually my husband, but he’s fine – it’s okay, we both want to help. We’ve got a camping mattress you can sleep on tonight. I’ll set you up in the other room. It’s a bit of a building site, I’m afraid.’
‘Anything’s better than being on the streets. You’re a diamond, thank you.’
‘Please don’t keep thanking me, it’s okay. Try to get some rest and we’ll sort it all out in the morning.’
It’s nearly one o’clock before we get to bed. I lie in the darkness, listening to Jack’s snuffling breathing and wondering about Lori in the room on the other side of the hallway. Has she collapsed with exhaustion or is she still awake too? I’d be surprised if she could sleep after what she’s been through tonight.
I turn onto my side, listening to the noises of the house. It’s as if it has woken up after a long sleep, rubbing its eyes and stretching its limbs. I can hear it gently breathing, the floorboards creaking like old bones, the rusty pipes gurgling and coughing. How many women have knocked on its door, battered and bruised, desperate for help? It could be in the hundreds, even thousands.
Jack’s furious with me, but I couldn’t turn her away, I just couldn’t. Thank God we were at home tonight. What if we’d refused to answer? What if her husband had followed her and stabbed her on the driveway with a kitchen knife? Left her dying in a pool of blood? I shudder, banishing the violent image from my mind and replacing it with a picture of her wrapped safely in her sleeping bag in the room across the hallway. I did the right thing, I think. For once in my life, Mum and Dad would have been proud of me.
Then
It was mid February and the shop was heaving with symbols of love. Posters in the win. . .
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