~
As we pull up in front of Dad’s house, I feel like a teenager again. Although it’s well past midnight when we arrive, there are lights on inside and I know he’s waiting up for me, just as he did when I first started staying out late at parties.
Dad opens the door before we reach it and when he sees me, I see his smile vanish for the first time in years. He kisses me on my good cheek and then helps us in with all the bags and suitcases.
‘The cot’s in Julie’s room for now,’ he says, ‘and I’ve made up a bed for Nikki in the boys’ room.’
Chloe slept in the boys’ room last time I came down. It used to be my bedroom. Mine and Louisa’s. When we lost Louisa, Mum wouldn’t allow anyone to touch it. She made me move into Julie’s room as soon as Julie had moved out to live with Daniel. Mum would sleep in Louisa’s bed for days and nights on end and I was no longer allowed to go in there. Even Dad was only permitted occasionally when he’d made her tea or soup.
After Mum died and Oscar and Archie came along, Dad and I moved my things into Julie’s room and redecorated my mum’s shrine to my twin sister, transforming it into ‘the boys’ room’. Julie hasn’t slept at Dad’s house for years – she doesn’t live far away and she says the Si Chi energy vibes are too strong – but the room I sleep in at Dad’s is still ‘Julie’s room’, even though there is hardly anything of hers anywhere in our childhood home.
Dad goes into the kitchen to make tea, cradling his sleepy granddaughter in his arms, while Nikki and I trundle upstairs with the luggage. It’s only as we’re coming back downstairs that I realise Jet hasn’t come to greet us. He usually comes rushing to jump up on me, his tail wagging so hard that it’s a wonder he doesn’t put his back out.
Jet’s bed is still in the hall, though, near the kitchen door. I look closely at it as we walk past because it’s black, like Jet, and when he’s asleep, you don’t always realise he’s there, as if the bed provides him with camouflage.
But his bed is empty.
‘Dad, where’s Jet?’ I ask, entering the kitchen.
Still holding Chloe in one arm, Dad hands me my tea with a little shake of his head.
‘Oh, no. When?’
‘This morning. I left you a message on your mobile.’
‘I haven’t … I didn’t get it. I’m so sorry, Dad.’
We all carry our mugs through to the sitting room and Dad changes the subject to focus on me. He wants to know what’s going on.
‘Did Alex do that to you?’ His eyes are looking over the top of his glasses at my face.
‘Yes.’
‘The bastard.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Nikki vigorously nodding her agreement at this description of my husband, having used the same word herself only a few hours earlier. I’m struck by the realisation that I’ve never heard my father swear before. Not once.
‘Did he … treat you badly often?’
‘It was the first time he’d hit me, if that’s what you mean,’ I say, ‘but he could be manipulative and mean.’
I don’t want to tell Dad that Alex kept me captive and handcuffed me to the bed. I don’t want him to worry more than necessary. Nikki seems to understand this. She sips at her tea silently, sitting next to me on the sofa.
Dad gazes at Chloe, who has now fallen asleep on his chest. He strokes her blonde head. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks without looking up.
‘I’m going to go to the police station in Minehead first thing tomorrow morning and report him.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ my Dad offers. ‘Chloe and I can go for a walk along the promenade while you’re talking to the police.’
As I’m getting ready for bed, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. It’s Nikki.
‘I thought it would be a good idea to take some photos of your face,’ she says. ‘You can give them to the police.’
I remember my mother-in-law using her photos to make sure her husband wouldn’t come back. I can use mine as evidence to make sure my husband doesn’t get away with what he has done.
‘I’ll email them to you seeing as you haven’t got your mobile,’ she continues, waving her mobile at me as she waltzes barefoot into Julie’s room wearing a nightdress with the logo Don’t judge my dogs and I won’t judge your kids on it.
‘OK,’ I agree, my lips twitching. It’s the closest I’ve come to a genuine smile for a while.
‘I think you should look a bit more serious,’ she says, aiming the camera of her phone at me.
‘Sorry. It’s your nightie. It’s great.’
She smiles at that while I keep a straight face as she snaps a few shots.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m glad she came up with that idea as the bruising on my face has gone down and it’s not nearly so noticeable. For which I’m also glad.
Nikki leaves at around nine o’clock with a large packed lunch that my dad made her for the journey. When she has gone, I boot up my dad’s desk computer to check my bank accounts. I always use the same password for everything, which I know is a mistake. I’m sure Alex knows it, too. It would have given him easy access to my money. But it turns out my password is no longer valid for our joint account.
I try my current account and discover to my horror that the balance totals only £3.20. I was expecting something like that, but it still makes me feel sick from the pit of my stomach up to my chest. Scrolling down through the most recent transactions, I can see that several fairly large sums of money have been transferred out of that account into Alex’s. I print out the online statements.
Next I use Dad’s landline to ring the emergency number and cancel my bankcards. I’m not sure why as they’re useless anyway. At some stage I’ll close down my current account and open another one here and inform the university so that I continue to get my maternity pay.
Finally, I access my emails and print out a couple of the photos Nikki took of my face.
Dad pops his head around the door to see how I’m getting on. ‘I’ve just rung the police station,’ he says, waving his mobile. ‘I’ve made an appointment for ten-thirty this morning. You were on the phone, so I just told them what I knew and they said to come in then. We need to get going.’
Just before half past ten, Dad drops me at the police station in Townsend Road. I’ve been past this building before, of course – I used to live in Minehead. But this is the first time I’ve noticed the white wooden bars on all the windows. It’s a building built of reddish brick, nothing like the cold grey stone of the Old Vicarage, but for a moment I’m reluctant to go in.
‘Here’s my mobile number,’ my dad says, pushing a scrap of paper into the palm of my hand. ‘Ask to use their phone and give me a ring when you’ve finished. There’s no hurry. Chloe and I will find a café along the Esplanade.’
I give my dad a kiss and watch him as he walks back to his car. Then I examine the piece of paper in my hand. My heart skips a beat as the coincidence strikes me. He has written his number – very neatly – on an orange Post-it. Just like the one Alex pretended to have written a message on. The message I didn’t get. About his mum’s accident, which I know now was no accident.
My legs are weak and heavy as I go up the steps to the entrance.
A few minutes later, I find myself face to face with a stocky man with dark hair gelled to one side. I’m not sure if it’s the uniform, or the hairstyle or his stance with his arms by his sides, but he reminds me of one of the Playmobil figures Oscar and Archie used to play with. I’d assumed I would be talking to a female officer and I’m thrown for a second. I also find the fact that he’s smaller than me disconcerting, even though a lot of men are. But he has a firm handshake and a friendly face and I warm to him instantly.
‘Kaitlyn Best? I’m Detective Constable Nigel Bryant.’ He has a surprisingly deep voice for his build, I notice. ‘Would you like to follow me?’
I don’t know whether Dad did that deliberately when he rang the police station this morning or if it was a slip, but I feel bolstered by the officer’s use of my maiden name, as if, by assuming my old identity, I’ve taken a baby step towards mending myself.
I follow him into a small office and he sits down, gesturing for me to take the seat opposite him. He asks me to tell him what happened in my own words and he types on his computer as I do, prompting me or asking specific questions from time to time. He rephrases some of what I say, translating my words into his jargon.
‘Domestic abuse … coercive behaviour … false imprisonment …’
I don’t know how much time goes by. I’m exhausted by the time we’ve finished. DC Bryant reads back what he has typed up and I elaborate on a few things or try to clarify others. Then he amends a few sentences and prints out my statement for me to sign.
Reading it over, I realise I’ve mentioned Nikki, but only for her role in helping me escape. What happened to her and the nature of her relationship with Alex just didn’t come up. DC Bryant asked me if Alex had hit me before, not if I knew whether he had a history of controlling behaviour or previous relationship problems.
I wonder now if I should add that, but decide against it. Nikki didn’t want to report it when it happened to her after all. And I don’t want to come over as a bitter wife intent on discrediting her husband. The last thing I need is for the police to think my statement is defamatory. So I stick to the facts as I know them. The rest may come out later.
I haven’t brought up Alex’s ex-wife and daughters, either. I can’t get Nikki’s belief – that they’re buried underneath the damson tree – out of my head, but she has no proof of that. Although I think I would have starved to death if Nikki hadn’t come to my rescue, I don’t truly believe Alex is capable of killing in cold blood.
I have told DC Bryant that Alex drugged our daughter. I’m scared that Alex will claim I was the one who drugged her, as he threatened to, and turn the tables on me. His word against mine. But this is part of my story, so I’ve told it, although I realise it will be impossible to prove.
But I can prove that Alex took my money. DC Bryant takes my bank statements and he also keeps Nikki’s pictures of my face that I printed out this morning.
‘What happens next?’ I ask him, signing my statement.
‘The Avon and Somerset Police take domestic abuse very seriously,’ he says, ‘and we do everything in our power to protect victims from this crime. We can involve a specialist Domestic Violence team to place you somewhere where you’ll be safe, until––’
‘No,’ I say firmly. DC Bryant tries to insist, but I’m not having it. I’ve been kept prisoner for several days and I was cooped up in the Old Vicarage for far too long. I don’t want to feel confined to a women’s refuge.
‘I don’t think I’m in any immediate danger,’ I say. ‘I’d much rather be with my family. Anyway, my husband won’t know I’ve got away until he gets back on Friday.’
‘Well, we’ll be doing everything we can to locate your husband before then, obviously. But if somehow he does find out you’ve left, he may contact you because you’ve taken his baby.’ DC Bryant’s choice of possessive adjective makes me wince, but he doesn’t seem to notice. ‘If you hear from him, you must let us know. Immediately.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Unlawful imprisonment is a very serious offence.’ His voice conveys the gravity of Alex’s actions. ‘We’ll liaise with the Cumbria Constabulary on this matter. I’ll be in touch with them today and I fully expect them to check out your house as part of their investigation. They’ll be looking for evidence that you were detained by force by your husband in your home. That will be the first step. This, I’m confident, will lead to his arrest.’ He sits forward in his seat, signalling the end of my appointment. ‘And we’ll be in touch to take it from there. In the meantime, I’ll be checking in with you on a daily basis.’
Coming out of the police station, I tilt my head back and allow the sun to warm my face for a few seconds before I walk down the steps. I haven’t rung Dad and I don’t want to just yet. I wander around for a while before realising where I’m going.
‘I would have rung,’ I say, seeing Hannah’s eyes widen as I enter the salon, ‘but I don’t have a mobile at the moment.’
She looks startled to see me, and almost scared, although I can’t imagine why. I was going to give her a hug but this stops me. I watch her as she hands a customer’s credit card back to him and goes to open the door for him. As soon as we’re alone, Hannah asks, ‘What happened?’
It takes me a second to realise she means my face. I sigh.
‘I left him, Hannah,’ I say. ‘You were right. He was too good to be true. He was cruel and calculating. And in the end, he was violent.’ My brief marriage summed up in a few short sentences.
Hannah says nothing; she just stares at me. The pity exuding from her is almost tangible, and in her eyes it’s legible. It makes me feel inexplicably angry with her. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me, but I don’t know what reaction I was hoping for.
A bell chimes as an elderly lady enters the hairdressing salon. I hardly acknowledge her.
‘Are you home for a while?’ Hannah asks after fetching a protective cape for her next customer and getting her seated.
‘I’m not going back to the Lake District, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I just meant, will we see you around?’
I don’t answer. The ‘we’ bothers me. Hannah locks eyes with me. She has realised this.
‘You need to go and see Kevin,’ she says.
I wasn’t expecting that. ‘Why?’
‘You just … do. That’s all.’ She turns away from me, perches on her stool, and looking in the mirror, she tucks a wayward ringlet back into the messy bun on the top of her head.
‘I don’t want to … I’ve nothing against … Can’t you and I meet up, just the two of us?’
‘No. Yes! Listen, Kaitlyn. Kevin has something important to tell you.’ She’s still studying her own reflection above her customer’s head, avoiding eye contact with me for some reason. ‘I think you should know. It might … change things. I’d rather you talked to him. It’s not really my place to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
Hannah shakes her head. ‘Why don’t you come round to dinner on Saturday evening?’
I hear myself accepting the invitation, ignoring my brain telling me that this is a very bad idea.
‘Here’s our address,’ Hannah says, getting up to fetch a business card for her salon and jotting the address down on the back of it. ‘We’re renting,’ she adds.
Our address. This is where Hannah is living with Kevin. My ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend.
I read Hannah’s familiar handwriting upside down. Hopcott Terrace. Minehead.
‘You can’t miss it. It’s the redbrick one on the end.’
While Hannah focuses her attention on her customer, I borrow her mobile to ring Dad. I have no intention of going to Hannah and Kevin’s place for dinner. I’ll call her on Saturday morning and tell her I’m ill.