24
Elise
From the hospital, I call a taxi, clutching a bag of newly prescribed painkillers, hiding my swollen face from gawping eyes behind dark glasses and a large scarf. It’s midday by the time I get home. The first thing I do is pour myself a vodka, taking it upstairs with me. In my own bedroom, in the full-length mirror in daylight, the bruising looks uglier than ever. Taking a mouthful of vodka, I start applying my heaviest makeup, trying to hide the worst of it.
Even when it’s done, there’s a bluish pallor through the thick layer of tan, but it’s enough for now, and there are other matters to attend to. Firstly, the rent Andrew told the estate agent that they could keep, which I want back. When I call them, they’re reticent, until I explain that it was my signature on the rental agreement and that they had no authority to act on what anyone else told them. In the end, I have to kick up a fuss, threatening them with legal action until eventually they refund it all, but they ask me not to contact them again. After calling them fascist bigots, I hang up.
Composing myself, my next call is to the airline I work for, to whom Andrew has also spoken. Deliberately and patiently, they tell me that my doctor has suggested a referral for mental health problems and that I’ve been suspended from flying duties. Managing to keep my calm, I tell them that my doctor is my abusive husband whom I’m about to leave; who has an axe to grind and that I’ll contact them as soon as I have a second opinion. After hanging up, I drink the rest of the vodka before hurling my glass at the wall.
I know only one person who understands what I’m going through—DS May. My fingers hesitate on my phone as I think about calling her, but then I remember the help line number she sent me. It’s a lifeline I need, rather than a help line, but back downstairs, I call the number anyway, the knot in my stomach tightening as I wait for someone to answer. They’re my only hope.
“Hello?” I’m reminded of the woman in the market in Marrakech, the stone she gave me. Kindness, again. It astonishes me how much can be conveyed in a single word.
Tears erupt, flowing down my face, so that I can’t speak. Eventually they slow enough for me to mumble, “Please. Help me.”
An hour later, after the call is over, I’m drained of emotion, but calmer. When I get up to look in the mirror, I gently feel my face, where my tears have carved their way through my makeup, exposing a lattice of bruising underneath. Going upstairs, I remove the rest of my makeup, flinching as the bruising comes into full view. I’d wanted to protect Niamh from it, but in order for her to understand, I need her to see the full force of what her father’s done.
Then I do what the woman on the help line told me to do. I call the police—more specifically, DS May.
“It’s Elise Buckley. I want to report an instance of domestic abuse.” My voice is shaky. I can’t do anything to stop it, but it isn’t because I’m having second thoughts. I’m more sure than I’ve ever been.
“OK. Have you spoken to the help line number I gave you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So they’ve run through what you can expect. Elise, I’m going to ask Sergeant Collins to come over and take a statement from you. She’ll have someone with her. They’ll take you through what happens from here.” She pauses. “It isn’t easy, Elise, but this is important. You’ve taken the first step now. Keep strong.”
Like the woman on the help line, I’m aware of the kindness in her voice, kindness that all of a sudden has become more impossible to bear than pain. I manage to say, “Thank you,” before hanging up, doubling over as I try to stifle my sobs.
While I wait for Sergeant Collins, I make a mug of tea I don’t drink, then pace around the kitchen until her car pulls up outside and two uniformed figures make their way toward the door.
Without waiting for a knock, I open it. “Mrs. Buckley? May we come in?” If Sergeant Collins is shocked by my appearance, she doesn’t show it.
“Of course. Please.” Leaving the door open, I hear one of them close it as I go into the kitchen. When I turn around to look at them, I lose my voice as the reality of what I’m about to do hits me full on.
Sergeant Collins nods toward the man with her. “This is Constable Emerson.” Vaguely recognizing him, I nod, and she goes on. “Would you mind if I make us all a pot of tea?”
Realizing she’s trying to inject normalcy into a situation that’s anything but, I start toward the sink. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“If you show him where the teabags are, Emerson will do it.” She hesitates. “Let’s sit down.”
Nodding, I follow her to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. She sits opposite me, waiting a moment before she says, “I understand your husband has assaulted you.”
Years of habit kick in as I bite back the excuses I want to make. I fell down the stairs. We had a row and he lost his temper. It was just one of those things. But thinking of Niamh, I know I can’t do that anymore. “Yes.”
“When did this assault take place?” Her voice is gentle, but there’s steeliness behind it.
“Three days ago. I came back from hospital today.”
“Apart from the obvious bruises on your face, did he hurt you anywhere else?”
“He punched me in the stomach.” Words that sound light, belying the force he hit me with.
As Emerson joins us, carrying mugs of tea, she puts down her pen, her face sympathetic as she looks at me. “I hate to ask you this, but we need you to tell us what happened, including what was said leading up to his assault or what may have caused it.”
Knowing this was coming, I nod. “I had found a cottage for Niamh and me to move to.” Seeing Sergeant Collins lift her hand slightly, I pause.
“Niamh is your daughter, isn’t she? How old is she?”
“She’s fourteen. Andrew’s behavior has got worse lately.” I sigh, knowing I need to tell them about his affair with Stephanie, then about his other affairs, wondering how far back I should go.
“It’s OK. There’s no hurry. Take your time.”
But I shake my head. There is. What if Andrew comes back? “It’s complicated.” I look at them both. “My husband was having an affair with Stephanie Hampton.” From their faces, I remember the police already know. “Before her, he had other affairs. Anyway, since she died, he’s been at home much more. His behavior’s been getting increasingly aggressive. He uses foul language and thinks nothing of letting Niamh see his temper. She’s frightened of him.” My voice cracks slightly, my hands shaking as I take a sip of my tea. “I knew things couldn’t go on the way they were. I found a cottage and paid three months’ rent up front. When Niamh got home from school, I told her. I thought she’d be pleased.” I still don’t fully understand why she reacted the way she did. “But she ran upstairs. I found her sobbing on her bed. Then she told me she didn’t want to go.”
Sergeant Collins is frowning. “Did she say why?”
I shake my head. “I know she’s frightened of him. I don’t know if there are other reasons. When Andrew came in, she told him. I was upstairs . . .” The same despair I’d felt when I realized what was happening comes back. “He said he’d told Niamh that he was going to have a chat with me about my naïve little plan, as he put it. I told him he couldn’t force me to do anything, but he said he’d do whatever he liked. He wanted me to stop dreaming up ludicrous ideas because he wouldn’t let me leave. In fact, he’d do anything to stop me.” I pause. “I think it was at that point I felt I was in danger. But I’d gone so far, I couldn’t back down and let him believe he’d won—again... I suggested we should talk. I reminded him about his affairs. That we didn’t love each other.”
“You actually said that to him?”
“Yes.” I shrug. “But none of this is about love. It’s about Andrew’s need to control me. When I didn’t say what he wanted me to say, he started to hit me.”
“I know it’s hard...” Sergeant Collins’s eyes don’t leave my face. “But we need an account of his assault. Where did it happen?”
“In here. Over there...” I point toward the worktop near the oven. “He slapped me across the face. Then he pushed me into the corner and slapped me again. I think he must have punched me here.” I point to the swelling below my left eye. “I remember his hands around my throat. I felt a blow to my stomach. After that, I remember arriving in hospital. Andrew was with me. He told the nurses that I’d had too much to drink and fallen down the stairs. He also told them he had concerns about my mental state—that he had for some time.” I shake my head, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “While I was in hospital, he called the estate agent I’d used to rent the cottage. He told them I wouldn’t be taking it and that they could keep the rent I’d paid in advance. When it was my money . . . Then he called the airline I work for and told them what he’d told the hospital staff. I’m suspended from flying duties. Basically, my employers now think I’m unstable.”
“He’s assaulted you before?”
I nod. “A number of times. If there’s a pattern, I think it’s to do with when he’s under pressure of some kind. But there’s an underlying current of abuse that never stops.”
“Have you ever told anyone about what he does to you?”
“Until now, no. Andrew holds a winning hand. He’s always said he has proof that I’m unreliable and unstable. He can bring me down.” I stare at Sergeant Collins.
“Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing?” Her voice is insistent. “How much worse could it get?”
I shake my head. “You don’t know my husband. He’ll make you believe that my injuries are self-inflicted. That I make his life a misery, that I’m damaging Niamh. He’ll even tell you...” I break off.
“What were you about to say?” Sergeant Collins looks at me.
I sigh shakily. “He’ll tell you it was my fault our son died.” A tear rolls down my cheek. “The trouble is, in many ways, he’s right.”