I fucking hate this kind of shit. Loathe it with a passion. It’s a pointless exercise, created by psychologists who think it will bring us together and increase our productivity. All it does is make me detest my co-workers and managers even more, forcing me to take part in stupid games and activities that hold no interest for me when I could be sitting at my desk working my way through a backlog of overdue quotes and invoices. They tried something like this once before – organising a whole host of activities for staff to join in with on an evening after work, thus increasing our stress levels even more rather than simply treating us better and affording us a little more dignity while we’re actually here.
Ruth is standing at the front of the office with Brian Digby, the MD of the company, a stupid smile plastered across her face, as if we’ve just collectively won the lottery. ‘The team-building day will take place on Friday. Sorry for the short notice but the company we booked with got a cancellation and, luckily, were able to slot us in.’
I’m not sure whether to applaud or heckle so instead remain silent, my gaze downcast in case I catch anyone’s eye and my negative thoughts become apparent, plastered across my face, irritation at this idea obvious in the black looks I cast about. This is a stupid and childish venture and, if I could, I would gladly sit it out but know that that particular option isn’t up for grabs.
My shoes are dirty and in need of a polish; that’s what I notice as I keep my eyes fixed firmly downwards. Ruth’s words are just white noise in the background, my attention focused elsewhere, my mind shut off to her ideas as she addresses the entire office. I should be kinder to her really, more open to her ideas after she helped me out on Friday, getting me on the train and staying silent about the whole thing to the rest of the team. I saw her chatting to Allison earlier and she hasn’t shown any interest in me or even looked my way so I’m assuming Ruth has kept it to herself. Or at least I hope so. Trust in her integrity is all I have. Not that it matters. The whole world could know about me and my problems and shortcomings and it wouldn’t make any of it any worse. Or better. Only I can do that – improve my lot in life. Which is why I’ve decided to give up drinking and to tackle the issue of Beth. I’m going to call her tonight after work, speak with her and tell her that she needs to do the right thing and go to the police. She won’t like it, and she will undoubtedly rail against the idea, shouting that I don’t care about her and that I’m a grass and that I deserve to die, but that’s fine. I’m prepared for it. I’m inured to it now after all these years. Water off a duck’s back and all that.
‘Some of it will take place outside in the grounds so don’t forget to come prepared with suitable footwear and a fleece or a waterproof jacket. You know how unpredictable English weather is!’
A silence follows Ruth’s lame attempt at camaraderie and humour. She’s a nice lady but being a stand-up comic and an entertaining orator isn’t one of her strongest features. Her attempts at public speaking don’t go down too well as people start to murmur and slowly begin to file away, already bored and distracted, her weak, insipid voice not enough to keep them interested.
‘So don’t forget – sensible shoes and a warm coat, everyone!’ A flush creeps up her throat. She swallows and clutches at her neck, watching as everyone ambles back to their desks, the show of enthusiasm she was clearly hoping for painfully absent.
I give her a nod and a small wave before turning away, the discomfort of watching her flustered little body look up to Brian for affirmation that it went as well as could be expected, too much to stand.
Come Friday, I’ll do my best to show willing, if only for Ruth. I will grit my teeth, join in with whatever shitshow they have planned for us, and get it over with. Like some sort of penance. Although for what, I don’t quite know. Dealing with Beth is my penance for whatever sins I may have committed. An ongoing form of atonement for being a foster child and living with her, the pair of us muddling along together as best we could. Beth and me. Me and Beth, the two of us against the rest of the world.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes. I made a promise to myself that I would turn it off during office hours and haven’t. Yet another failing on my part.
It’s a text message from her. My stomach tightens as I read it.
I’m outside in the car park.
Shit!
I look around the office. Everyone is too busy doing their own thing, tapping at computers or talking on the phone, to notice me.
Why? Why the hell is she here? I’ve told her many times about coming to my place of work, explained that it’s not the right thing to do. I can’t even count the number of times she has done it in the past, hung around outside, loitering in doorways, waiting for me to emerge and escort her home. Chatting to my colleagues, making a show of herself and making me cringe as I watch them tolerate her, wondering who she is and what the fuck she is talking about.
My head pounds as I recall her recent revelation and how I will now need to convince her to go to the police. I block it out of my mind. It’s probably a lie. Beth often cannot distinguish fantasy from reality. And yet if I don’t speak to her about it and it turns out to be true…
Jesus Christ, why am I being lumbered with all of this? I’m willing to bet that other people around me don’t have half as much to deal with in their lives. How can that be fair or just?
I stare over at Merriel and Yvonne, both of them concentrating on their work. How lovely it must be for them to go home every evening and be able to relax knowing that all’s right in their prim and proper little worlds. And then there’s Allison. I doubt she knows what it’s like to struggle through life alone with no support or family around for assistance or guidance. Privileged lives, that’s what they all have. Fucking marvellous, middle-class, privileged little lives. Even Ruth. They’re all so fortunate and I’ll bet they don’t even realise it, taking all that they have for granted.
My fingers hover over my phone screen, my mind trying to think of a reply to Beth. Whatever I say, it won’t be enough to persuade her to leave. Stubbornness is one of her stronger traits. She is an immovable object. A leg iron.
If I don’t go down there, speak to her, she will wait there all day, hanging about, embarrassing me in front of my workmates. I’m just delaying the inevitable. I push my seat back, stand up and head out of the office, hoping nobody notices my empty chair. At least the windows of our office don’t overlook the car park. I can do this thing privately, tell Beth to go home and that I’ll call her once I get in tonight. Which I will. I don’t have any choice, do I?
* * *
‘I hit her. She made me do it.’ Beth gives me a crooked smile, her kohl-rimmed panda eyes glinting with excitement.
‘Who did you hit, Beth?’ I don’t want to be having this conversation. Not here. Not ever, but this is how it is and now that I’m down here, there seems to be no escaping from her twisted story and facial features that are contorted with a sordid, unpalatable look of excitement that is almost bordering on euphoria.
If I show some interest, she might be more likely to leave me alone, to make a rapid exit and let me get on with my day. It’s adulation and attention she craves. And lots of it. Even short bursts of it are often enough to satisfy her.
‘Told you, a woman I found. She made me do it.’
Part of me wants to shout into the sky that I can’t do this any more, that I need a break from this woman, and part of me wants to hear her out, see if there’s any truth in her words. And if there is, if her story seems credible, well then, I will have no other option other than to do something about it. I think of Deborah and shut my eyes, fear making me dizzy. I want to hear this. I don’t want to hear it. I want to curl up into a tight ball and have the ground swallow me up.
I take a long, shuddering breath and speak, my voice distorted and disembodied. Detached from the godawfulness of this unfolding situation. ‘What happened? You need to tell me, Beth. This is serious.’ I am trying to keep the anger and exasperation out of my voice but it’s so fucking difficult. It’s like pulling teeth, trying to converse with her. She lies, is selective about what information she releases and her ideas jump about, her timelines disjointed and fragmented.
‘That woman from your office – she still missing then, is she?’
I roll my eyes and clench my teeth together, no longer caring if she sees and reacts. Acid crawls up my throat at hearing her words, her questions about Deborah. ‘Beth, just tell me about this woman you attacked. Where is she now? How is she? Did you injure her at all?’ Stupid question. She will have definitely injured her if she hit her. The two are inseparable. The question is, how badly did she hurt this poor woman? I visualise somebody lying unconscious somewhere, a back alley or a country lane, where nobody will find her for days, or perhaps even weeks. Or maybe it’s one of Beth’s associates – an argument over money for the latest fix or bottle of cheap cider. Maybe she gave as good as she got. I run my fingers through my hair. Jesus, I’m starting to think like she does, justifying her behaviour.
Or maybe it’s Deborah.
I refuse to entertain that thought, do my best to block it out of my brain completely.
When Beth and I were growing up together in foster care, the two of us flung together in the same home out of happenstance and fate, she used to do strange things: things that, as an impressionable teenage boy, I found both entertaining and scary. Things I myself would never dare to do. Once, while we were alone in the living room, our foster mother not there to supervise us, Beth set fire to the curtains. Another time, she jumped out of the bedroom window onto the garage roof in the middle of the night and broke her wrist after landing awkwardly. Rather than remain still until help came, she rolled off the garage roof and bolted down the street, hammering on neighbours’ doors until the police were called and ended up having to restrain her. She was only thirteen at the time. And although her behaviour was odd and unpredictable, we sort of bonded, our relationship already established as a strange brother/sister connection. A year older than she was, I felt responsible for her, so we stuck together: two lonely souls groping about for stability and affection in an often cold and unwelcoming world.
Beth was desperate for a family of her own. Like me, her parents were a couple of feckless drunks and drug addicts. By the time she reached seventeen, she was pregnant, the idea of having her own child, her own little family, so appealing to her that she lost all sense of what was actually required to bring up a child single-handedly. After a miscarriage, her mental decline was rapid and she has never really recovered from it. She now lives in a run-down part of town in a squalid house, living hand to mouth on benefits.
She deserves better, I know that, but how can you help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped? Somebody who isn’t even aware that they have a problem? Every week there is a new trauma, a new dilemma to solve. And now this. An attack on another person. I don’t know where to start, what to say to get the truth out of her, so I smile, rest my hand on hers and ask her again, who and where this woman is, and hope that this time she tells me the real story. Whether I want to hear it or not.