Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ I say, giggling as she hops on one foot, trying to remove her Louboutins at the door.
‘Na-ah!’ She wags a finger. ‘We take our shoes off, and we place them behind the door, that’s the rule. Ari always insists upon it!’
I help support her, though I’m not exactly the steadiest myself.
‘Well, you’re in my apartment now, I don’t care if you keep them on or off.’
She places them neatly together by the front door – though it takes a couple of attempts – as I go into the small lounge and ask Alexa to play ‘something fun’.
‘I want a grand tour!’ She instructs me, loudly, drunkenly, as she begins to pad, barefoot, through my apartment.
Brazenly opening the door to my bedroom, she throws herself face down onto my bed.
I giggle again, go back to the kitchen and look for the bottle of cheap Prosecco that I know is buried somewhere behind the out-of-date ready meals in my fridge.
‘Summer Nights’, the song from the musical Grease, is playing and I start singing along to it.
‘Oh my God, I love this song!’ she shouts from the bedroom. ‘Grease is one of my favourite films of all time.’
‘Mine too!’ I call back. ‘A well-a well-a well-a, ooh!’
I pour us both a shaky glass as we sing loudly in unison and bring it to her in the bedroom.
I haven’t drunk this much alcohol in ages.
I know I shouldn’t, it’s really not good for me, but whatever, I’m enjoying myself.
I can’t remember when I last had such a fun night out, and I really could do with a new friend – or any friend, for that matter.
It’s difficult to admit – even to myself – that I’m desperately lonely.
When we finally stop belting out the film soundtrack some minutes later, she props herself up on her elbow, pats the space next to her on the duvet, gestures for me to join her. I flop down onto the bed, kick my shoes off and listen out for the thud as they hit the wooden floor.
‘Do you mind me asking what happened to your parents?’
The question instantly takes the edge off my happy buzz. I know there’s no way around it though. ‘The only way out of anything, Erin, is through it.’ I hear my therapist’s words again and take a breath.
‘My father died when I was four years old, from prostate cancer. He was from Venezuela, originally. Sometimes I think I have memories of him, but perhaps they’re just fantasies I created in my mind based on the things Mum told me about him.
And my mum…’ I pause. ‘My mum died a week after my thirteenth birthday. She was killed by her partner.’
Her eyes widen.
‘Oh, Jesus, Erin… That’s some seriously heavy shit, hun.’
I laugh.
‘Yeah, no shit.’
‘Listen, we really don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to…’ She taps a floppy hand against my arm, lets it rest there.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, even though it isn’t. Having to have this conversation is the miserable legacy I’m left with.
‘He stabbed her through the heart in a moment of rage during one of their many arguments and she died almost instantly, right there, on the kitchen floor, in front of me.’
She looks suitably horrified.
‘Oh. My. God! That’s just awful… that’s just so… horrible. Did he hurt you too?’
‘No. Never. To the outside world, he appeared to be the perfect partner and stepdad. He was covert, you know, the worst kind of abuser? The kind that no one would believe it of. But there was this darkness in him, this demon that would rear its ugly head, and Mum, she was always on the receiving end of it, everything was always her fault.’
‘Yes,’ – she lowers her eyes and looks away – ‘I understand.’ But I wonder if she really does, or if anyone does, for that matter, unless they’ve been through something similar themselves.
‘We had a barbecue the night it happened. It was a glorious summer’s evening, a lot like tonight, I s’pose, balmy and warm, the air perfumed by the jasmine in our back garden, the kind of summer night you don’t ever want to end, and definitely not how it did…’
Other than to my therapist, I haven’t really spoken about what happened that night in detail to anyone, but I’m surprised how naturally and easily the words find me as I talk to her.
‘I can’t remember how the argument started between them, it was something and nothing, like it always was, I’m sure. They’d been drinking at the barbecue – he was a heavy drinker – but Mum, well, I think he – the abuse – drove her to drink more over the years.’
She’s searching my face with her eyes as I speak.
‘He was holding this metal spatula at the time, and he hit her with it, smacked her right round the face. The sickening sound it made, of the metal making contact with her skin, it still triggers me today.’ I shudder, close my eyes in a bid to distance myself from the memory.
‘She told me to go upstairs then, and that was code for she was going to get a beating and to stay out of the way. And so I went up to my room, put my headphones on. I remember at the time I was listening to the song, “Keep on Movin’” by Soul II Soul…
’ I start to sing it, softly, badly probably, and she nods, joins in with me for a moment.
Her singing voice is much nicer than mine, melodic and pretty.
‘I could still hear them going at it though, even with the headphones on and the volume cranked up. I figured they would run out of steam soon enough, like they usually did, but I felt so powerless, so helpless, so angry…’
She takes hold of my hand, squeezes it tightly. ‘I’m sure you did…’
‘The row seemed to go on for hours. I wanted to climb out of the window and go next door, ask them to phone the police, again. Not that they ever did anything, the police, I mean, useless bastards.’ I snort, pushing back tears and contempt.
‘They let him go so many times. Mum would never press charges against him anyway. She was too scared of the repercussions, and honestly…’ I turn on my side to face her, our noses practically touching.
‘I think, in spite of everything, she actually still loved him, still believed it could all just work out if she hung on in there a little longer, if she was just more of this and less of that, and vice versa. If she could just get him some help, if he could only battle through whatever his demons were, then he’d be the good man she knew he could be again.
’ I inhale, deeply. ‘It’s like those people you see playing the slot machines in Las Vegas, you know, who sit there, putting coin after coin in the slot on autopilot.
Maybe the next coin will be the one that’ll win big…
And perhaps, every now and again, maybe you do get a win, and this gives you intermittent reinforcement that you really could hit the jackpot, if you just keep playing, and so it goes on, coin after coin after coin…
until eventually you run out of money – or die, in my mum’s case. ’
She’s nodding, her head cocked, her face a picture of empathy.
‘After a while I couldn’t take it anymore, the sound of screaming and glass smashing.
And so I stomped down the stairs in a huff.
I remember being a bit scared, but also angry, you know?
Like, why can’t we just be a normal family, and why won’t he stop and why won’t she stop him and…
?’ My guts are churning as I speak. I don’t want to put myself back there, in that dreadful moment, but I can’t stop now.
‘I saw them through the kitchen door from the stairs – he had her on the floor. I could see her legs kicking violently back and forth and I remember thinking, Oh God, he’s strangling her!
He’s killing her! I think I shouted, “Stop!” or “Mum!” or both maybe, but then Mum was up on her feet and…
I didn’t actually see the knife go into her.
She had her back to me at the time, but I saw it, shiny, in his hand and I saw his arm come down.
’ I pause, close my eyes and try not to visualise.
‘She fell backwards, straight, like a tree. And then… then I saw the blood.’ I hear the crack of emotion in my voice, my tears imminent. ‘It was… it was just so quick…’
‘It’s OK, darling.’ She starts to stroke my hair, gently tucks a piece behind my ear. ‘It’s OK, hun… come on now…’
I really mustn’t cry. It’s been such a brilliant evening and I don’t want to spoil it.
‘He turned and he saw me then, standing on the stairs. He said something like, “Go back to your room…” But I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t do anything. I was literally paralysed by shock and fear, like I’d turned to concrete.
So, I did nothing. I just stood there on the stairs and did nothing.
’ I drop my chin. ‘I honestly don’t remember much after that, but I do remember the police coming, when they took Ray – and Mum – away.
I remember the sing-song of the sirens as the ambulance pulled up outside.
Ray Denis, that was his name, the man who killed my mum.
He died three years into a life sentence for murder.
He slashed his own wrists in his cell and bled to death.
And so, that was that!’ I turn to her. ‘Do you want a top-up?’
She hasn’t taken her eyes off me the whole time I’ve been talking.
‘Do you know,’– she props herself up on one elbow – ‘that is just about the worst story I think I’ve ever heard. You must be one hell of a strong woman to have dealt with the trauma of such a terrible tragedy – you’re a true survivor, Erin, do you know that?’
I shake my head, scared to speak in case I dislodge the hard lump in the back of my throat.
‘The guilt, it has tormented me my whole life since. I know I should’ve stopped him, but I…
I just stood there, frozen with fear. I should’ve protected her that night; she was my mum. I should have done something.’
‘You were thirteen years old, for God’s sake!’ she says. ‘You were just a child! You were the one who needed protecting! It wasn’t your fault, Erin, none of it.’ Her brow wrinkles. ‘Who was this Ray Denis piece of crap anyway?’
‘I think he was originally from Australia or New Zealand or somewhere. I think he was a truck driver, one of those long-distance ones. Sometimes he had to travel, and it would be peaceful then, just me and Mum, together.’
‘Did he have any family, any children of his own?’
I blow air through my lips.
‘I don’t know… maybe. I do remember playing with another little girl who came to visit a couple of times, but I could only have been five or six at the time and I can’t remember any names.
I think I heard them arguing about it once or twice maybe, though they argued about everything, or rather, he did.
Though I’m sure he could’ve lied about that too. ’
‘What a vile excuse of a man,’ she spits, angrily. ‘I’m glad he’s dead. Oh, hun, how have you coped?’ She looks at me, her head tilted to the side, her green eyes wide and watery, and a little drunk.
‘Well,’ I sigh. ‘I haven’t really, that’s the truth.
Actually, I had a breakdown last year.’ I may as well be honest and tell her everything, what have I got to lose?
If it scares her off, then so be it. It means she isn’t ‘my tribe’, or whatever crap my therapist says.
‘I ended up in hospital for a few weeks. I really messed up my teens and twenties, you know, trying to deal with all the guilt, to come to terms with everything, and it all just finally came to a head. I couldn’t cope with the way I was feeling anymore… ’
‘Oh, hun, who didn’t mess up their teens and twenties?’ She rolls her eyes.
‘Yeah, well, I took far too many drugs, I drank too much…’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘And I repeat…’
I manage a smile. She’s being nice.
‘I thought I was coping, but I was just trying to bury it all, you know – bury my pain and sadness under alcohol and drugs and dead-end relationships with men I didn’t even like.
Anyway,’ – I clap my thighs with my palms – ‘I’m thirty-four now.
Time’s running out. I just need to get back on track, make my mum proud.
Maybe this new job will be the start of that.
Who knows, maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams, get married and have a child of our own?
That’s what I really want, if I’m honest, to have the family I was denied thanks to that evil bastard, Ray Denis. ’
‘Yes!’ she says, jubilant. ‘You can do anything you want, Erin. Anything you put your mind to, just remember that – and I know that your mum would be proud of you. Look at you! You survived all of this on your own. I don’t know how you’ve done it.
You’re a legend, you really are!’ She pulls me close into an embrace, begins stroking my hair.
‘You poor love. Why is it always the good people who seem to suffer?’
I shake my head but I don’t speak. If I dislodge the lump in my throat it will definitely open the floodgates.
‘You and I, we’re the survivors of this world, Erin.’ She continues to stroke my hair gently, like my mum used to when I was a child. It feels soothing. ‘I will look after you – we can look after each other. What do you say, hun, yeah? We’ll take ’em all on together!’
I nod and smile, though tears are now leaking from the corners of my eyes.
‘Together.’