She's Not Gone Page 3

  “OK love.”

  I catch a glimpse of her frowning as I walk away.

  The next couple of hours drag on, until finally Jeannie says it's OK for me to go home. The giddiness has somewhat worn away as the evening draws closer and the reality that this is a stupid idea is hitting home. I still haven’t told Daryl about tonight and now I wonder if I should. He doesn’t always like surprises but then again, I know it’s me who makes him mad. I have so many issues, I'm clingy, nervous. Most of the time I'm afraid of my own shadow. I can hardly blame him for not liking surprises from me. Still, this will make him happy, he’ll be proud of me for doing something by myself, I just know it.

  Back at home, or in the box we like to think of as home, I sit at the table and watch the pink kettle boil. It's a cheap model, like everything else in the house, so it takes forever but I don’t mind waiting. As I nurse my tea sitting at the table, I don’t feel the need to look out of the window. For once, I don’t wonder how others are living their life.

  At five o’clock I rush into the bedroom to get ready as Daryl is probably only half hour away. He usually comes home about half past and I want to make myself beautiful for him. That is a lie, I tell myself. That he would like to see me that way. The reality is different. I know he won’t want me to dress up but I suppose the rebellious nature inside of me is not quite dead. The wild flower that once floated upon the breeze wants to fly once more.

  I edge my way around the bed, to the clothes rail that holds my meagre selection of items. It's ok I don’t have space for my things, the rail does just as good a job. It’s not like I wear a whole lot of designer clothing anyway. I slip off the one nice dress I own, a deep maroon coloured, low cut number, and slip it on. My lip has healed over and for once I have no bruises to cover on my arms.

  I move into the bathroom and slide a wide toothed comb through my curly hair. Like always it's wild, making me recall a bitter memory of the countless times Mum liked to remind me of how it reflected my personality. It's unkempt and messy, like you, she’d say. She’d told me I should cut it off; if I ever hoped to get a man and get out of her life. I wet it and pull it into a clip, leaving some curls down the side of my face to soften the look. Now it's tamed, it has been beaten into submission and pulled into its rightful place. For the first time in as long as I can remember I look at myself in the mirror without looking away. Without peeking at it from the side or quickly running my eyes over some flaw or other. I dare to linger and analyse. Smoothing my hands over the soft fabric of the dress, I'm satisfied with my finished look.

  You are beautiful, believe it.

  I try hard not to indulge my need for inner criticism or ponder how my life has ended up this way. I flip the kettle on for another drink and sit at the table waiting. Swimming deeper and deeper into my own sea of thoughts, I shake my head and glance at the clock. Something catches my attention. I notice the girl from upstairs walking past the window. At least I assume it's her outline I see silhouetted against the fading light. I could have been mistaken but there is a confident familiarity in her stride that I recognise. Briefly, I wonder if she has let me down and is going on a date. I don’t like to think of her as needing someone. It's a rather wicked thought as I sit here in my best dress waiting for my boyfriend to come home, but there is something wonderful about how she seems at ease with the world. I can’t help but feel hope at the sight of her winning at life all by herself.

  The kettle clicks off but I don’t get up, instead, I wonder what is keeping Daryl. With the light outside gone in a blink, my hands clasp the table tightly as I wait for him. Perhaps he’s stopped for flowers or a card? Perhaps he’s been delayed at work. Perhaps he’s gone for a drink?

  Life grinds to a halt with each tick of time marked by the loud clock, but still I wait. Evening sets up camp and the realisation that Daryl isn’t coming home begins to enter my thoughts. The time for the show draws nearer and nearer. This is my fault. I should have told him about my surprise but stupidly I wanted it to be a secret—to be special. As these thoughts wind deeper and deeper, the knot in my stomach grows tighter and tighter. I know it will make him angry knowing that he’s missed out on a special night. He’ll be even angrier I wasted the money and got dressed up. I get up from the table, stuff the tickets inside my bag and get changed.

  I think about how much of my life I have frittered away staring out of this window. Why do I sit here endlessly? Looking out at the world but unable to touch it. I decide it is because my life has been kidnapped, halted in its tracks. I realise the things I thought I could control were as much a part of a dream as the temptations I choose to think about. Through the window, I can see the outside world, I can imagine this house is not a prison and these four walls don't hold me trapped inside them. If you asked me I would tell you I don't stare out of the window because I daren’t look around at those walls and truly see I am a prisoner, and I would tell you it's not because if I do look, I shall start to drown in panic and let the black hole of my fear engulf me.

  I wonder if there were bars on the windows and doors, would I feel more trapped? Would I be able to tell the difference?

  I know I'm too cruel towards the house, it shelters me from the perils of the world, I should be grateful. It’s true I do it a disservice, it's not the building’s fault that I'm unable to leave it. Instead, I'm held hostage by the monster that holds Daryl hostage. It is his selfish and unrelenting need to control me that has caused this situation. Immense sadness tugs at the thread that keeps me anchored above water. I feel sorry for both of us. Sad that whatever is inside of him has caused him to lose control, and sad for me. No, I tell myself it is none of those things, I tell myself I simply like the view.

  Springing up from my bed at the sound of a loud thud, followed by a scratching noise, I don’t dare switch on the table lamp by the bed and instead reach for my phone. It is after one in the morning. There are more sounds of scratching but I'm not afraid it's an intruder. At last, I hear the lock turn as Daryl finally manages to work the key into it. Then, the sound of him working his way across the room is apparent as he hits one side of the wall, then the other. I quickly switch the phone off and scooch down on my side under the covers. I hear him get closer. The bathroom light clicks off and I hold my breath as he comes into the room, doing my best to look like someone who is fast asleep. The reek of alcohol and cigarette smoke drifts across the room like a dark storm front coming towards me. I don’t dare look. If I can’t see it, it isn’t there.

  He climbs into bed next to me and his rough touch on my shoulders sends electric waves of fear through my body. Grabbing at my shoulders he pulls me onto my back. I pretend to wake up slowly. “Daryl, I’m tired hun. Please let me go back to sleep.” I taste bile as he pushes his tongue into my mouth and pulls his body on top of mine. I try in vain to push off his drunken weight.

  “Come here,” he slurs. Grabbing my right wrist, he squeezes hard. He shoves my arm up above my head and holds me. I can hardly breathe underneath him. “Show me you love me,” he says.

  My silent tears drop away soundlessly into the shadows.

  Chapter Five

  The next two weeks pass by in an expanse of drawn out silence, punctuated only by the occasional demeaning comment. I find myself drifting away and thinking about my childhood memories often. Wondering if my recollections are blurred and perhaps things weren’t as bad as I remember. I suppose I'm trying to imagine there's still somewhere for me to run to, although I know it isn’t true. My thoughts circle endlessly around ways I can escape, but the truth is there is only one way, and I'm too much of a coward to attempt it. I have no money of my own and nowhere to run. I know my mum's is not a real option and as for Jeannie, how can I hurt her like that? How can I fail her? The one person who has ever shown anything along the lines of love for me.

  I know I should've seen it coming, Daryl finding the dress, the one I wore on Valentine’s Day when I waited for him to come home. The night the surprise I planned
for the two of us, to show him I was worthy of his love, hadn’t happened. I dared to own something nice. My audacity to want to wear a beautiful dress is deemed to be a crime worthy of this punishment. Silence.

  I find myself now on a desert island, isolated from his affection. Although metaphorically I'm on dry land, it isn’t water that's withheld from me. If I enter a room, he leaves. Daryl won't acknowledge my presence. If I speak to him, he gifts me nothing in return. It's as if we're in a play, and I’m playing a ghost. Whenever the leading character bursts forth on the stage, I become invisible. I stare into the mirror and run my fingers over my face to remind myself I truly exist. These are the times when I think I might go mad. When I'm a seeker of the smallest remark, even a derogatory one, anything to confirm I'm really here. I spend many hours expecting something from him, a murmur, a word but am given nothing. After a while, I begin to forget he can speak and my ears can hear. As the silent treatment continues, his punishment is working, I come to believe I deserve it.

  Neither of us have spoken about what happened, what he did to me on that drunken night. Perhaps he thinks if he doesn’t talk about it, it will be as if it never happened. So, as with all the things that happen when Daryl isn’t himself, we ignore it, we paper over the cracks. Or rather, he's silent and I pretend everything is normal. Depending on your definition of normal. I find myself filling in the empty spaces left by his voice with remarks or comments I hoped he would make. I wonder when this punishment will end. I won't give in and let him win but like a hungry child in search of a meal, I lap up his meagre words as if they're tasty morsels. Have I sunk so low? Have my standards dropped so much? When I look at myself, I can't recognise the person reflected back at me. My hollow eyes, my thin drawn face, the etched look that makes me appear older than my years. Yet I'm the girl in the mirror, she and I are the same. Both whores to social contact, both tied to the need to be connected to another human being.

  A few days later, as I'm busy getting ready for work, for a moment I almost forget he's there. The silence has been so deafening it's become commonplace. My normal. I go about my day as if I'm alone. I pull on my trousers and go grab my kitten heels. Suddenly I feel his hands grab at my blouse, ripping it off my shoulders, sending the delicate cream buttons flying as he pulls it off.

  “You don’t want to wear that Katie. You look like a tart,” he exclaims.

  Looking behind me to see if there is someone else he is speaking to, I turn to confirm that he is looking at me. I hear a ringing in my ears and realise it's the sound of his voice. The sting of my tears burns my eyes but I manage to turn away quickly enough. He sees my weakness. He has spoken to me, I am alive.

  “Do you know what your problem is Katie? You’re emotional. Bloody oversensitive. You need to grow a thicker skin if you’re going to make it out there in the real world, love.”

  While nodding, I chuckle under my breath as if to agree with him, but I’m afraid to answer. Instead, I quietly slip on my t-shirt and decide to wear my trainers. I tell myself it will be more comfortable for my feet anyway, standing all day in heels isn’t a good option. Daryl grabs up the clothes and bundles them away. I won’t be seeing them again. It isn’t until later that I feel the pain from where his hands had been on my shoulder and realise he has hurt me.

  At work the bustle of customers, both young and old, brings something new. I’m surrounded by a different intensity. Instead of silence, I’m met with accusing looks and concerned comments. Daryl’s constant texting makes my life impossible and Jeannie knows something is wrong, or at least suspects something isn’t right, with me and Daryl. It’s almost unbearable, like a humid day that leaves you soaked through and exhausted. Fighting with myself I’m not sure which is worse, living with the silence or feeling the blazing heat of worry in Jeannie’s eyes.

  She doesn’t know how I long to tell her everything. That I fear if I do, he will kill her too. She is the only friend I have in this world and lying to her kills me inside. All I know is that my ability to hide and to protect Daryl is fading. It's as if the emotional strength has left me, I have no energy to give, not even to pretend, but I don't have the strength to run. I can’t.

  My shoulders slump as I walk up to greet another customer. I paint on a smile and try to feel it too. Busying myself with mundane jobs, I do my best to be invisible to Jeannie and slide unnoticed around the shop. Moving a rail here, adjusting some clothing there. Hiding. Skulking. I pretend to be intensely interested in the hem of a dress, looking at the stitching and examining it closely.

  My phone vibrates relentlessly in my pocket, so I switch off the ring tone. The price of having my punishment lifted by Daryl. To be returned from the dead has opened the floodgates for a barrage of texts from him.

  As I manage to go through the rest of the day unnoticed, I think about ending it but not in a good way, in the way that leaves no coming back. I think about how I could do it. It would mean escape, but would Jeannie feel I had let her down? How long can I stay with Daryl, how much more can I endure? There seems to be no way out. There is no reprise. I know I'm drowning. No, actually I think I am dying.

  Chapter Six

  You can imagine my reaction when Daryl asks me to come outside to look at something. His blue eyes, wide and inviting, hiding the whirring thoughts beneath them. I look at him and try to see what he is thinking but, aside from his laughter, he gives nothing away. It’s a surprise, he says, but as you can imagine, I’m no longer fond of them; look what happened after the one I tried to give him. My legs are like jelly, and my heart is beating fast in my chest. I’m scared it will be the kind that can end in a permanent way. If I can ever pluck up the will to leave this world, I still hope it will be under my own steam and by my own hand. I suppose I don’t want to give Daryl the satisfaction of killing me. I have no idea what he is planning, so I hold back the tears and fight against my legs, which feel as if concrete has replaced my feet.

  “Close your eyes. No peeking,” he orders me.

  Tentatively, I let Daryl lead me outside, my eyes closed and covered with a blindfold. Shuffling my feet slowly along the floor, I put out my free hand, feeling for obstacles in case I should hit something. Trying desperately to slow our progress, life begins to move in slow motion. I remind myself to breathe in and out. I don’t want to go with him but I worry about what will happen if I say no. I fear he is leading me to some new kind of punishment. Something he has silently been concocting.

  I imagine the last few days have given him plenty of time to think of something awful. A delicious smell wafts across my nostrils. No doubt it’s lunch being served at the pub, as if to remind me that there is beauty in this world, so many things to live for. But my stomach revolts against the smell, leaping and kicking inside me. Trying to keep the fear and panic out of my voice, I ask, “Daryl, what’s going on? Where are you taking me?”

  So far, surprises and I have had a bad track record, but I am hopeful, (such a small word, yet such an impossible thing, that I cling to still). Hopeful that things will turn out ok, maybe now we are in the after phase. The phase where Daryl does his best to make it up to me. The phase when he is sorry about the things that happened, although he would never confess such a thing to me. These are the moments that make the relationship worth it. In these moments, he worships me, loves me and everything is wonderful. In these times, I almost wonder why I think anything is wrong.

  “You’ll see. You have to trust me,” he informs me. I listen attentively for some indication of what is to come, either from him or my surroundings, but find none. The only noises are the sound of my own quickening heartbeat pulsating in my ear. Pulling me to a halt, he commands,”Stop now and take off the blindfold.”

  Carefully I pull off the tie he used as a makeshift way to blind me. I briefly wonder how he got this idea. Daryl comes up behind me, pinning my chest and startling me with the force of his strong arms. Like a statue in his hold, I do as I am told, blinking wildly for a moment at the stream of light no
w hitting my eyes. He points and says, “It’s for you, babe.”

  Unsure for a moment what it is he’s pointing at, I notice a car at the bottom of the road below us. At least I think I can see one underneath the layers of rust. Sure, it’s small and it looks battered, but that doesn’t matter.

  “Really? It’s mine?” Daryl nods and I squeal like a little kid. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing but my reaction of joy is as much about relief as it is happiness. “Oh darling, thank you. Thank you so very much. I love it.”

  “I love you sweetheart. Now you won’t have to get on the bus all the time and I won’t have to worry about who you’re talking to.” Turning to face me, I'm released from his hold and can at last breathe. Still, I don’t care that the gift was bought out of guilt, and there will be a price to pay. There always is, I understand that. I don’t even care that it looks barely roadworthy. The only thing that matters is that it is mine. I don’t know why it is, or why it means so much to me. Perhaps because it gives me some freedom. Now I can go anywhere I want to.

  “Thank you, darling.” I sweep my hair away from my neck the way Daryl likes and reach up on my tip-toes to kiss him. I hope this phase will stretch out forever. There’s that word again, what a foolish person I am.

  “Can we go for a drive, babe? Can we go right now?” I ask tentatively.

  “Yes, hun,” he replies.

  I jump up and run back into the flat to get my coat and bag. Daryl watches as I hop along the path. With him in the driving seat, we head out of Fenshawe and up into the hills. I’ve always loved how close the countryside is. From inside the village, you might imagine that nothing could exist beyond its walls and simplistic amenities. It is a nice enough place to live and I certainly never imagined living in a city, but it is lonely. Isolated. Perhaps the loneliness is inside me and I do a disservice to the village, but here in the grassy openness lies possibility. In the wide-open spaces that advertise nature’s beauty surrounding us on all sides, the sweet smell of life and the sounds of freedom give me a sense of hope and belonging. I feel as if I could bury my fears and sadness within its hills of hope, in a place so deep they might never be found.