Chapter Ashleigh Brett and Remy Aller 1983 Aged 21
Ashleigh Brett and Remy Aller
Remy
The sky took on the pinky hue of dusk, as Remy, who had lost all track of time, stared out of the window of the taxi.
Sleep had been sporadic over the last couple of days.
It happened like this, when your day was no longer punctuated by a work routine, or the eating of breakfast, lunch, and supper.
No commute, no clocking in or clocking out, no being late or early, no framework within which to exist. It had been this way since the incident, which she didn’t really know how to name, cloaked still with shock and something close to embarrassment that it had happened to her, happened at all.
Weren’t smart people supposed to avoid situations like that?
And that nagging and persistent doubt that she could have done more, done less, done differently.
The police called it an assault, grievous bodily harm. It had certainly been grievous to her body, had harmed her for sure, and yet if people asked her what had happened she felt her mouth go dry and she’d mumble, ‘We were . . . hurt, my . . . my friend and me. It was, it was bad . . .’
And they’d more than likely nod and change the subject. She understood. I mean, what was there to say that wasn’t either flippant or invasive?
Sorry to hear that . . .
Glad you’re on the mend.
Bad, what do you mean, bad?
How’s your friend?
How was her friend? That was a good question.
He was at his mum’s and didn’t leave the house.
He was in bed most of the time, taking copious quantities of painkillers while his bones continued to knit.
He attended physical therapy, saw a shrink, and was holed up with a small TV in his room on which he watched TV-am, Sons and Daughters and Blockbusters just to pass the time.
‘You got away lightly.’
That was what Tony’s mum, Mrs Newman, had said to her when she’d been there to eventually welcome him home from hospital, and she supposed she had.
The woman had spoken with subtle undertones of anger, of blame, as if Remy should have taken half of the beating metered out to Tony so it wouldn’t have been as bad on him, a dilution of his injuries.
It was nothing she hadn’t considered herself, no matter how misplaced.
Watching as the ambulance pulled up slowly to the kerb, one or two neighbours found jobs in the front garden just to catch a glimpse.
They’d wheeled him out the back, down a ramp and helped him up the front step.
He’d looked old and bent and small and grey and more like a husk of the boy who had banged the steering wheel and yelled, ‘Turn it up!’
It was so sad to see, and to be so helpless; she felt like her heart had turned to dust and swirled its sadness in her veins.
Tony didn’t want visitors, didn’t want to chat, or be chatted to, didn’t want her to sit in his room and watch him watching TV.
He wanted to be left alone, and so she did, she left him alone.
But my God, how she missed him. Feeling the absence of him like a dark thing hovering.
Ashleigh had come home, and suggested they grab a pizza and go and surprise him.
It angered her, her sister’s lack of awareness, too busy racing ahead with her life plans, and without a shred of comprehension that a surprise of any kind was the last thing Tony needed. Her twin was horribly out of touch.
Oi! This was the word that infiltrated her dreams and pulled her from sleep, the word that ricocheted around her head when she walked along a pavement or entered a lift or crossed a park or was in a public space that was strangely quiet.
Her heart would race, her breath coming in short pants, and she would sweat and shake, so much so she preferred not to go outside alone if she didn’t absolutely have to.
She had thought, in the wake of her attack, that she might stay close to home. A quiet life, away from those boots and that noise Oi! and that fear. That awful, awful fear. But that wasn’t quite how it had worked out.
And as the cab now trundled out towards Broadhaven, she yawned.
Her shoulder ached. It was the norm, and she therefore rarely mentioned it.
This, along with limited movement in her wrist, which the doctor told her would improve with time, and the criss-cross of angry red weals on her face, raised and unpleasant both to see and touch, daily reminders of just how lightly she had got away with it.
One scar, across her forehead above her left eye, was about an inch in length, with small, vertical lines where long stitches had pulled the skin together.
Stitches applied to her skin by an impatient and possibly tired hand in the early hours.
The second scar, longer but finer and running from her cheekbone up to her temple.
One of Jamie’s friends, Higgins, had nicknamed her Scarface.
They’d been in the pub, all laughing, all sloshed, and he’d said it, pointing to her empty glass, ‘What you ’aving, Scarface? ’ as he stood to buy a round.
The atmosphere had changed in an instant, like turning off the light.
Jamie had laughed only once, a short snort, before launching himself across the pub table and smacking Higgins in the face. He’d had to leave, spitting blood, and wiping tears from his eyes as a tooth plopped into his palm.
She had stared at Jamie, his expression searching, whether wanting her thanks or approval it was hard to tell; unable to explain to him that the very last thing she needed or wanted was to be around more violence, more blood, more injury.
Jamie . . .
Just the thought of him was exhausting. And now she sat in the back of the taxi, mentally fatigued, too tired to think straight. There was some small solace in knowing she was heading home.
What the hell do I do now? she asked the pink sky that met the wide sweep of countryside, unable to appreciate the beauty of her surroundings, too worn out even for that.
‘I won’t be that long! I’ll be home soon. We can talk when I get back.’
That was what Jamie had said, but she knew the moment he closed the front door and left her, despite her pleading with him to stay, that she would not be there to talk to when he got back, not this time.
Plus, it was most probably a lie. Another lie.
He would not be home soon. She’d simply run out of energy to have the same conversation, in any number of variants, about what she needed, what she expected and what he was prepared to give or not give, which was more to the point.
I’ve messed up . . . I’ve really messed up . . . how is this my life?
These thoughts and others did nothing to aid her state of mind, which could best be described as fragile.
She paid the cab and grabbed her heavy bag from the back seat. It was hard to do with Sophie balanced in her right arm.
Her baby girl stirred, lifting her small hands to her face, and pursing her tiny lips.
‘Shhhh, go back to sleep, little one, go back to sleep.’
Remy trod the path to the front door of her parents’ house in Church Lane and placed the heavy bag on the floor.
It was stuffed with clothes for Sophie, nappies and blankets, a pair of jeans for her, and some other bits and bobs, but essentially it was what she had managed to grab in the forty-five minutes between deciding to leave and arriving here.
Raising her knuckles, she hesitated, wishing she’d practised what she might say to her parents, what she might be asking, but deep down confident that there wasn’t really a need for any rehearsal, knowing she could always return.
It was more the sense of failure that dogged her, the awful dragging feeling that she was that girl.
The one who had met a boy, fallen for a boy, got pregnant by a boy, married the boy in a crappy ceremony that took no more than half an hour on a grey, wet Thursday morning.
Discovered the boy was not who she had thought he was and was now here, babe in arms, coming home. It was as desperate as it was clichéd.
It was shortly after the assault that she’d met Jamie Aller. He had been working on the new wing at the hospital where she kept her appointments and medics told her she was healing nicely.
The cocky, chirpy scaffolder with all the chat had bombarded her. ‘Here she is, hello gorgeous!’ or ‘You not talking to me then?’ he’d holler, as she smiled and made her way in and out of the automatic door of the outpatients’ department.
‘I don’t know you,’ she replied, once.
‘Well, we need to put that right, don’t you think, beautiful?’
She hadn’t felt beautiful, the opposite in fact, but it had been nice.
He’d pushed, and she had been drawn to the man.
A new person who was interested in her, even in this state.
A man who was brawny enough to keep her safe from the one thing she feared more than any other, physical attack.
She was lonely, afraid, damaged, and so instead of staying coiled and remaining quiet, she had jumped into his arms and into this life, and it had felt like a tornado, whipping her up and spinning her around until she didn’t know which way was up.