Lucy couldn’t sleep. Patrick hadn’t come home yet, and the house seemed eerily quiet even with Siobhan asleep in the other room. Lucy threw the blankets off her and headed to the bathroom for a glass of water. On her way back, she noticed the box room door slightly ajar. It had always been her escape. She pushed the door open and turned the dimmer to low. A soft glow encompassed the room. A faint scent of Patrick wafted in the air, so Lucy turned on the air freshener.
The walls were plain, but Lucy had put up a few shelves to hold the books and little trinkets she’d collected throughout her lifetime. Deep maroon curtains added a cosy feel and the cream carpet was so plush that Lucy would often take off her shoes and run her bare feet through it. There were a few pictures in this room, one of Siobhan, laughing and enjoying herself on a beach holiday that the three of them had taken before they were married. Some pictures of Lucy and Patrick from happier times. Those days seemed few and far between. Lucy sighed.
Although Rory often used the small room when he visited, Lucy had made sure it stayed as a small haven for when she needed time alone. Patrick didn’t understand the day-to-day stresses that Lucy had to contend with as a probation officer.
She settled into her favourite chair – an old rocking chair she’d seen at a boot sale and refurbished – and wrapped the woollen blanket around her legs. Putting her headphones on, she pressed play on the CD player and listened to The Killers, allowing her favourite songs to take her away from misery. She knew it was risky, because she might not hear Patrick when he finally got home, but she really needed to relax.
The cushion behind her jutted uncomfortably into her back. Lucy knew exactly what it was and gently stroked the bump. Inside the cushion was a bag of various pills that Patrick either no longer took or that she’d stolen and stashed away. They were like a security blanket to her. When things became too much she’d visualize swallowing the pills. One by one, washing them down with vodka and going to sleep – forever. There had been times when her suicidal thoughts pulled at her, tempting her to end it all. She had come very close once, but a faint ‘tap tap tap’ on the door and Siobhan’s big blue eyes staring at her had shaken her out of that fantasy fast. As if Siobhan had known. Lucy would never leave her.
Lucy had wanted to speak to her GP, but she couldn’t face disclosing her feelings and the reasons behind her low moods.
She hugged her knees close and rocked gently back and forth. The music soothed her only temporarily. Closing her eyes, Lucy continued to rock until sleep took over.
In her dreams, Lucy was strong, confident, and fierce: the way she used to be before she married Patrick. Lucy used to pride herself on being a good judge of character. She assessed people daily and rarely got it wrong. What really astounded her was the fact that her specialism was domestic abuse. She knew what to look for: manipulative, controlling behaviour with a need for complete power and control over someone. Even when these things cropped up briefly in Rory’s behaviour, Lucy made the very excuses that other victims of domestic abuse made.
Dark thoughts sometimes took over. They made her feel good. A particular recurring dream gave her an overwhelming sense of euphoria.
In the dream she was standing in the kitchen chopping vegetables. The knife gripped tightly in her hand was big and extremely sharp. Patrick came through the back door that led directly into the kitchen. Angry, as usual, about something Lucy had no control over. It could be his failure to keep a job, or some knob cut him off on his way home – it could be anything. He was shouting in her face, the spit flying, showering her cheeks. He put his forehead against hers. Hard. Unyielding. Making sure she knew who was in control. Patrick reminded her that in his mind she was scum. A slag. Unwanted. She gripped the knife tighter. Patrick took no notice, he never did, unless he was getting something out of it.
Her knuckles were pure white from holding the knife so tight. The rage inside her building. Inside her head she was screaming, everything she wanted to say aloud, while Patrick screamed in her face. And then, as if it had a life of its own, her arm began to rise in slow motion, like a film. Patrick remained oblivious, too busy shouting obscenities in her face. One deep plunge in his shoulder first. Him stumbling backwards, away from her. Stunned.
Lucy gathered all her rage, held the knife out in front of her and ran towards him, plunging the blade deep into his chest and holding it there. Looking straight into his eyes as the shock hit him. Watching the anger turn to fear in his eyes. Pulling the knife out and stabbing him again, and again. Screaming. You fucking prick. I hope you die. Everyone would be better off without you! Patrick dropped to the ground and lay there, on the kitchen floor, in a pool of blood. Blood everywhere. His face confused as his life drained from his eyes. Lucy just stared. Dripping knife still in her hands. And then she laughed. A manic laugh that scared even her. And why? Why the crazy laughter? Because even though she was now free of Patrick, Lucy knew he’d still won – still ruined her life. She would end up spending the rest of her life in prison for killing him. This is the point when she woke up crying because, even in death, he still controlled her.
She heard the front door slam downstairs, bringing her once again back to reality.
A whispered shout called out to her. ‘Lucy! Lucy! Are you home?’
Lucy looked at her watch. It was three-thirty in the morning. She’d slept longer than she’d wanted. She stayed silent and turned off the CD player. A mobile phone ring. It was faint; she breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t hers. Maybe Patrick wouldn’t know she was awake. She needed to get back into their bedroom while he was on the phone. She only made out parts of the conversation.
‘OK … will try but … Lucy doing … speak soon, babe.’
That woke her up. She opened the door slowly, careful to avoid the creaking floorboard that she’d discovered after a previous attempt to avoid Patrick.
‘Why didn’t you answer?’
‘Shit, Patrick! You frightened the life out of me. I couldn’t sleep. I was on the rocking chair in the small room … where I obviously did fall asleep.’ She laughed nervously, hoping she sounded convincing.
‘Ah. Sleeping, were you?’
Patrick sounded like he was accusing her rather than asking a straight question. She hated when he did that. Always made her feel guilty, even when there was no reason to be. An image from her dream flashed before her eyes: him dead in a pool of blood on the floor. She swallowed.
‘Yes, I just told you that.’
Patrick slowly walked up the stairs towards her.
Oh God! He knows I’m lying. She cowered on the landing.
‘What’s the matter, love? Guilty conscience? I only want to use the toilet.’
Lucy’s shoulders slumped in relief.
‘Sorry, I must still be half asleep.’
She let Patrick pass and, as he closed the door, he squinted his eyes and pointed his finger at her.
‘I hope you’re not keeping anything from me, Lucy. You know I hate liars.’
Lucy shook her head.
‘What would I be keeping from you?’ She turned and headed back to their bedroom.
That’s rich. Me a liar? Look in the mirror, Patrick – who the fuck were you calling, babe?