No Escape (13 page)

Lizzie grasped at the excuse. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘A little.’

‘No need to worry,’ Jack said. ‘Not with Dad taking care of it.’

She smiled at him, turned back to supper, tried for a moment to remember exactly when ‘Mummy’ had given way to the more grown-up, more independent ‘Mum’.

‘Of course not,’ she said.

Regularly, in the course of Joanne’s ongoing struggle to keep Irina safe, she pored over her options, wondering if she might have overlooked something,
anything
,
that she could do to salvage her and her child’s future. Divorce was impossible. Tony had told her, loudly and clearly, that he would never let them go. Joanne had tried telling him that it
would surely be the easiest solution for him: peace and quiet, no more ungrateful daughter or wife.

‘Tempting,’ Tony had said. ‘But not quite tempting enough, with all I’ve forked out over the years.’

‘We’re not an investment,’ Joanne had reminded him.

‘Pity,’ he’d countered. ‘If you were, at least I could cash you in, get something back out of it.’

She’d left it, of course. She always did, knowing that every reproach, every murmur about separation carried with it the threat of another punch, his anger always, still, directed at
Irina. Still punishing Joanne through the little girl.

‘Is Irina all right?’ Sandra Finch had asked her daughter, just last week.

‘Fine,’ Joanne answered, her stomach clenching. She had begun to dread taking Irina anywhere these days, even on the swiftest visit to her grandmother.

And, of course, Irina was far from all right. She knew that. Irina seemed, to Joanne’s increasingly fearful eyes, to be fading. Like an unvarnished painting that had at first been vivid
and bright, and gradually, over time, had dulled.

‘Don’t you see what you’re doing?’ Joanne had asked Tony a day or two before that visit to her mother. ‘Not just to her, but to yourself?’

It had been morning, breakfast-time, the safest time of day for daring any kind of challenge, the least drunken time.

‘Of course I see it,’ Tony had answered, flatly.

Joanne had stared at him, not sure if she’d heard properly.

‘Think I don’t know I’m a monster?’

She’d looked at him. ‘Then why?’

‘Can’t help it,’ he’d said, stood up and gone to work.

Two Saturdays later, while Joanne was in the lavatory upstairs and Tony was watching Channel Four Racing, Irina got up from the corner where she’d been quietly looking at
one of her library picture books, walked over to where she’d earlier left her favourite purple and white stuffed dog, and tripped over the too-long aerial cable near the television.

‘Look where you’re going, for God’s sake!’ Tony shouted from his chair.

‘Sorry, Daddy.’ The little girl began to get up, but one of her Start-Rite shoes was caught beneath the cable and in trying to disentangle herself she pulled too hard, dislodging the
aerial connection from its wall socket.

‘Jesus!’ Tony jumped up. ‘Can’t you do anything right?’

‘Rina
sorry
!’ the child cried with fright.

‘Let me do it,’ her father yelled.

She saw him coming, struggled again to pull her foot free. The cable snaked to one side, the small metal plug at its end lashed through the air and hit the TV screen.

‘I said
leave
it!’ Tony bellowed.

Upstairs, Joanne heard him, froze, opened the door.

‘Tony?’ she called.

And heard her daughter’s screams.

This time, in A&E, she knew, with sickening certainty, that it wasn’t her imagination that the questions were being more carefully posed, that the receptionist and
the nurse and then the doctor and then the X-ray woman were all looking at her and at Irina differently.

‘She tripped over some wires and hit herself on the table and wall.’

And her father kicked her in the ribs.

‘Rina fell down.’

The cover story, faithfully supported by her poor, frightened little girl.

Please, God, let her be all right.

‘Rina foot got stuck.’

If she’s all right this time, God, I’ll find a way to stop him.

‘It’s all my fault, doctor. I’ve been meaning to get those wires sorted.’

If they believe me, God, I swear I’ll find a way.

‘Just waiting for the X-rays, Mrs Patston.’

Please, please, God.

She almost didn’t take Irina home that night, almost grabbed at that blessed moment when the child was given the all-clear and ran with it, almost drove off with her into
the night, never to return,
almost
turned the car towards the road that led to the M25 – and
any
motorway would have worked for Joanne that night, so long as it led away from
the man who kicked his daughter and said he couldn’t help it.

Almost.

God had listened, but Joanne wasn’t sure if He’d done her that great a favour, after all. Definitely not sure if He’d done much to help Irina.

Free will, Joanne.

Not up to God, not really.

Up to you.

To help her daughter.

No motorway. No point. Not without enough cash and somewhere to go. She had a credit card, and a cash card, but Tony controlled them both, would stop them both, and even if she went to a
hole-in-the-wall now and took the maximum, how long would that last?

She actually pulled over then, stopped the Fiesta at the side of the road, to rummage in her handbag.

‘Mummy?’

Sleepy voice from the back.

‘It’s all right, baby. Go back to sleep.’

She’d left her cards at home.

So no cash. No motorway.

Home.

She began to fantasize. About escaping, about safe places to hide with Irina, faraway places where Tony would never find them. She began keeping Irina by her side every single
minute of every day, even when she went to the loo, even if Tony was out, in case he came back suddenly, without warning.

‘Can I come over?’ Sandra asked one morning on the phone.

‘We’re just going out.’

‘Maybe I could meet you?’

‘It’s just a bit of shopping.’

‘I could come when you get back.’ Sandra paused. ‘Since I know you won’t bring her to me, even though I’ve no idea why.’

‘I’ll bring her soon, Mum.’

‘You’re hurting me, Joanne, and I don’t understand.’

‘There’s nothing
to
understand. It’s just been so busy lately.’

‘Of course,’ Sandra said coolly.

‘I love you, Mum.’

‘And I love you,’ her mother said. ‘And I love my granddaughter, too.’

‘I know you do.’

Joanne knew she was hurting her mother, but it couldn’t be helped, because she was too afraid that one of these days Sandra would worm the truth out of Irina, and she couldn’t take
that chance – she was taking enough chances just
staying
with Tony, and she wasn’t sure she could bear any more tension, and one day, one day when she’d found a way out of
the nightmare, she’d explain it all to her mother.

No more fantasy
, she told herself.
Do something.

She took Irina to South Chingford Library in Hall Lane, sat her down at a table by the window with a book, kept her eyes on her and tried to find out from the leaflets around the library –
not asking anyone, she couldn’t actually come out and
ask
– about shelters, refuges for people like her. She took the number of a twenty-four hour crisis line to a phone box two
streets away and spoke to a lovely, sensible woman while Irina nestled between her legs. But even while the woman at the other end of the phone talked to her of help and places of safety and
injunctions and legal aid, Joanne knew that none of these things were for her and Irina, because she was, when it came down to it, a criminal, because she had illegally brought her little girl into
the country, had aided and abetted her husband in
paying
for their daughter.

Nothing compared to standing by while he slapped her.

Kicked her.

No hiding places for her. All just fantasy.

Hopeless.

‘You never get used to it, do you?’ Maureen Donnelly said to her friend, Clare Novak, over dinner at one of the small Greek restaurants off Charlotte Street.

‘I never did.’ Clare dipped a small piece of pitta into taramasalata, looked at it, then put it down.

‘Sorry,’ Maureen said. ‘I shouldn’t be talking about it.’

‘Yes, you should,’ Clare told her. ‘It’s on your mind. Better to unload.’

‘You’re right, about it being on my mind.’ Maureen drank some retsina. ‘This one’s really bugging me. There was nothing definite, you know. It really could have
been what she said – injuries commensurate with what they both said happened. And God knows kiddies do fall over all the time.’

‘But you didn’t believe it.’

‘Not really, no,’ Maureen said. ‘But it was strange, in a way. I usually only care about the children – don’t give a damn about the mothers who let it go on, you
know.’

‘Not this one though?’ Clare’s soft hazel eyes were intent.

‘She was
so
tormented.’

‘Guilty.’

‘God, yes.’

‘Not her doing, then?’

‘Definitely not.’ Maureen shook her head. ‘God, that kiddie tore at me, Clare.’ She paused. ‘And the mother, too.’

‘Do you think,’ Clare asked Novak later that night, as they were going to bed, ‘that you could maybe take a look at these people?’

‘To what end?’ Novak touched their duvet cover. ‘This is nice.’

‘Bought it in the John Lewis sale.’ Clare turned out her bedside lamp. ‘Mike, do you think you could do that?’

‘Why?’ He snuggled down, put his right arm around her, drew her close.

‘In case you think it might be a case for Robin.’

‘You hate Robin.’ Novak was surprised.

‘I’ve never said I hated him, just that I don’t necessarily trust him.’ Clare paused. ‘Or at least his motives.’ She pulled away slightly, leaned on her left
elbow, looked at him in the dark. ‘I need you to take me seriously about this, Mike.’

‘I always take you seriously.’

She lay down again, tried to relax. ‘So?’

‘I thought Maureen said there was no real proof it wasn’t a fall.’

‘Not this time, no. Which is exactly why someone should try to help.’

‘Before there’s a next time.’

‘Exactly.’

Novak stared into the dark, picturing a small girl with dark, haunted eyes and bruises on her body. ‘I love you.’

Clare felt for his hand. ‘I love you too.’ She paused. ‘So will you?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Novak hated disappointing her. ‘She hasn’t asked for help.’

‘The mother, you mean,’ his wife said. ‘The child hasn’t, either.’

‘She can’t, can she.’

‘Exactly,’ Clare said again.

They fell asleep after that, but Novak had woken again to hear Clare moaning in the midst of a bad dream, and when he switched on his lamp he saw tears on her cheeks, which disturbed the hell
out of him.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked next morning, while they were getting dressed.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Now I know you’re going to try to help that little girl.’

‘I said I wasn’t sure,’ Novak said, zipping up his trousers.

‘I can’t see how it could hurt.’ Clare dabbed on a little grey eyeshadow. ‘Just checking out the Patston family.’

He looked at her. ‘Isn’t this what you got away from when you left A&E?’

Clare sat on the edge of the bed. ‘She’s already in my mind, Mike. So it’s too late, isn’t it? If we don’t at least try to help, I’ll just worry
more.’

‘What if I find out it’s very bad, and we still can’t help?’

‘That’s what Robin’s about, though, isn’t it?’

Novak sat down beside her, looked into her challenging eyes.

‘Isn’t that exactly what he says he does?’ she persisted. ‘Takes care of women who can’t get help any other way?’

‘Even Robin can’t help everyone,’ Novak said.

‘But at least he could try.’ Clare paused. ‘Just take a look, Mike. Please.’

Novak went on looking at her. Nothing fragile about her now.

‘Please?’

He smiled. ‘Give me the details.’

The
Lizzie Piper Roadshow
assembled in its entirety for the first time on Sunday, the twenty-eighth of July, in Vienne, south of Lyon. Lizzie and Susan had flown from
London to Lyon, from where they had driven, in a hired Peugeot, to a house that had been rented by the Food and Drink Channel on the outskirts of town. Richard Arden, the producer, and Gina Baum,
his PA, having travelled by Eurostar two days earlier, arrived – with smug smiles that spoke volumes of the two nights they’d spent in Paris – in a rented Citroën on the same
day as Lizzie and Susan. The crew – a horde, it seemed to Lizzie, feeling panicky – came later that evening, in a minibus and lorry, out of which they unloaded tons of equipment.

‘Who
are
they all?’ Lizzie whispered to Susan.

‘Not the foggiest.’

‘I thought Richard said this was going to feel “intimate”.’

‘Maybe it will,’ Susan said doubtfully. ‘Maybe some of them are just here to help with the unpacking.’

Lizzie phoned Marlow an hour later and spoke first to Gilly, who reported that she and the children (due to follow, in less than a week, with Christopher, meeting the Roadshow in San Remo) were
all well and excited.

‘Christopher’s here,’ Gilly said. ‘Hang on.’

‘How’s my star?’ He sounded hearty.

‘Petrified.’ Lizzie lowered her voice. ‘I’m not at all sure this is going to be a good idea for the children. What if it’s all too much?’

‘Jack’s totally gung-ho.’

‘It’s not just Jack I’m worried about. Sophie’s still very young.’

‘Sophie’s seven and very adaptable, like all our children.’ Christopher was in one of his cheerful, rational moods. ‘You’re worrying unnecessarily,
darling.’

‘All I’m saying is you need to be prepared to cancel if we have to.’

‘We shan’t have to cancel anything,’ Christopher said. ‘Worst case, I’ll keep the children in the hotel and we’ll have a straightforward holiday while you
slave.’