Run, Mummy, Run (14 page)

S
even years passed during which time Mark’s occasional ‘out of character’ punches developed into a regular battering which left Aisha in fear of her life and Mark firmly in control. She lived as though balanced on a seesaw which was so finely tuned that she never knew when it was going to tip and send her crashing to the floor. Mark said that she should be more assertive and stand up to him. He said his mother had been the same, always kowtowing to his father, even though he battered her. Then one day she had sent him a solicitor’s letter threatening legal action, and his father had changed immediately and had never hit her again; they were still together after nearly forty years of marriage.

But Aisha had forgotten how to be assertive, if she ever knew. Women in her family, her culture, didn’t. It wasn’t so very long ago that wives walked behind their husbands as a sign of respect and to emphasize their more lowly status. Aisha was no more likely to send a solicitor’s letter to Mark than fly to the moon, and Mark knew that.

When Sarah was nearly two years old, Aisha discovered that she was pregnant again. She was being made to sleep downstairs by then, on the sofa, and Mark came to her once a week and took her roughly and out of necessity. It wasn’t making love, for there was no love in it. It was more like marital rape, although Aisha never put up any resistance and would have never used that term. Mark always left straight after he’d climaxed to shower thoroughly. He said that because of her skin colour he couldn’t tell if she was clean or not, and it was better to be safe than sorry; he didn’t want to catch anything nasty.

So Aisha had another child, James, and the three of them lived isolated, in fear, and hidden from the outside world; and the beatings and mental torture continued. There were no visitors; they weren’t allowed visitors, and Mark saw his friends away from the house. There was no money either. They had never opened a joint bank account, and when Aisha had first stopped work Mark had given her housekeeping money, which he’d handed to her in an envelope marked ‘Aisha’s Wages’. But by the time Sarah was six months old, that had been replaced by the odd £10 note left on the table after Aisha had asked for money to buy food. That too had quickly dwindled to a pile of loose change, which he threw in her face if she asked too often.

Once, out of desperation, she suggested that perhaps she should find a part-time job, in the evenings, to help out with the money. It was the wrong thing to say, but she was desperate and didn’t know what else to do. ‘No wife of mine is going to work,’ Mark flared. The resulting battering left her right eye closed for three days, and a cut to her eyebrow which should really have been stitched, had he allowed her to go to the hospital.

When Sarah was three, she started nursery and Mark said Aisha could take her as long as she came straight home again. Aisha was never going to be one of the group of mothers chatting at the school gates, arranging coffee mornings and fund-raising events. Head down, under a permanently knotted scarf to hide her cuts and bruises, and with James in the pram, she hurried straight there and back. She spoke to no one and no one spoke to her – like many victims she had become invisible and it was doubtful if anyone even noticed her. Another year passed, and then two, and time contracted for Aisha and it became meaningless. She took each day one at a time, concentrated on the little practical things like trying to feed and clothe the children on only a pound a day, and prayed that things would change.

There were no birthday parties for the children, no friends to tea. As Sarah and James grew and made friends at school, they seemed instinctively to know that it wasn’t possible. Without any explanation, they knew that theirs wasn’t a normal family and they would all suffer the consequences if anyone found out. The children never asked, not once, if they could invite a friend home to play, and the thought of what they were missing broke Aisha’s heart more than anything.

‘But how did it get to the point?’ the inspector asked, with a scepticism Aisha had seen before. ‘Why let it get so bad? And when it had, why stay? You could have left him, surely?’

Aisha shifted uncomfortably in her chair. How to make the inspector see? How could anyone understand other than another battered woman?

‘It didn’t just happen,’ she said quietly into the dark. ‘It stole up on me. Like a burglar in the night, it ransacked the house and took everything of value. I fully believed it was my fault and if I could only find the right way, the magic formula, then I could bring back what I’d lost. I was proud, Inspector, I couldn’t admit what was happening even to myself. I was also frightened and completely isolated. By the time I realized, it was too late and I was impotent to act.’

‘But your parents?’ he persisted. ‘Why didn’t you tell them? They would have helped, surely? You were close once and you must have seen them?’

‘To begin with we saw them occasionally, when Mark said it was convenient. But the times grew less and less frequent. Once, they dropped by unexpectedly, possibly even suspecting something, I don’t know. Mark bundled us into our coats before opening the door. He was curt to the point of rudeness and said we were going out. We walked past them to the car and got in, then sat on the driveway until they had gone. I phoned them the next day while Mark was at work, and apologized. They were hurt, obviously – who could blame them? – and I couldn’t tell them the truth. Mark stopped me using the phone after that, and if they phoned again I never got the message. But it would have crucified them to have known that the daughter they had invested everything in was a beaten, pathetic wreck. I wanted to protect them, and I really believed it was all my fault, and I had let them down. Survival bleeds you dry, Inspector, there’s nothing left over for rational thought, let alone action.’

‘But I still can’t believe,’ he said, ‘I can’t believe there was not one single person you could have turned to and confided in. The women’s refuge? The Samaritans? There must have been somewhere you could have run to before it came to this?’

Aisha clasped her hands together. The room was very dark now and a familiar shadow was forming in the corner. ‘There was one,’ she said slowly. ‘One person I went to in a final, desperate bid. Seeing him gave me the strength to do what I did, which was ironic when you consider what he was.’ And she gave a little humourless laugh.

T
he two statues either side of the driveway were carved from grey stone and appeared to be a cross between a dragon and a dog. They were seated on their haunches and were nearly as tall as her; their huge eyes seemed to follow her with a fixed, unyielding scrutiny. Aisha should have known what they were, which part of the teaching they represented. To come here so badly informed, she thought, was disrespectful and presumptuous on the community’s generosity.

She paused between the statues and looked up the drive to the rambling Edwardian house beyond. It stood in its own grounds on the edge of the green belt, surrounded by trees and open countryside, and wasn’t as austere as she’d expected. There were no cars on the driveway, there wouldn’t be. But there were net curtains at the windows, and the neatly cut lawn that ran out from the house was dotted with large terracotta pots much as you’d find in any North London suburb.

Aisha took another step and began falteringly up the driveway, forcing her legs onwards and forwards. To walk the length of the drive, ring the bell and wait to be admitted, then have to talk to someone she didn’t know was more than she could bear. She doubted she was still capable of conversation; it had been so long since she’d spoken to anyone apart from the children, let alone a stranger. She could have turned and fled; run back down the drive and caught the next bus home, had she not gone to so much trouble. All those months of planning and saving the ten-and sometimes twenty-pence pieces, which she’d secreted in an old sock at the bottom of Sarah’s drawer until she had enough for the bus fare. Then daring to stop at the bus stop on the way back from school and quickly memorizing the timetable in case he was watching her. Her heart had pounded uncontrollably as she’d arrived home and began calculating the time she would need: the length of the return journey, added to the walk either end, plus an hour spent there. Then having to choose a day, one from five, almost impossible with nothing to set them apart, and the risk spread evenly. She had finally decided on Friday because it was the last day she could possibly choose before beginning all over again the following week.

That morning, after Mark had gone to work, and before she took the children to school, she’d done the housework, set the potatoes and cabbage in salted water and cooked the brisket, ready for her return.

Yes, she could have turned and fled, had she not gone to so much trouble. And she knew that if she did, there would be no second opportunity.

Aisha stood in the tiled porch and looked at the old-style bell chime with its brass handle swinging on the end of a rod. The brass was so highly polished it glinted in the wintry sunlight; she was surprised that they bothered with such a secular chore as polishing when they must have more spiritual matters on their minds. She raised her hand and steeled herself, then gave the bell rod one short tug. She heard its single note echo down the hall and then peter out. She licked her dry lips and waited. No one came. She hadn’t much time She tugged the bell rod again, and then the door began to open. Aisha instinctively took a step back.

She watched as by degrees he slowly came into view, then stood framed in the doorway and looked at her expectantly. She looked back at him and opened her mouth to speak, but all the months of preparation vanished; she stood helpless, and mute.

‘Yes?’ he said softly, after some moments. ‘How can we help you?’ His voice was low and almost choral in its serenity.

‘I … I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I need to talk to you.’

He studied her for a moment, as though gauging the level of her sincerity, his shaven head slightly bowed, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his saffron robe. Then, releasing one hand slowly from its sleeve, he moved aside and gestured for her to come in.

Aisha stepped past him and into a long, bare, wood-panelled hall. The house was perfectly quiet, as though he was the sole occupant. The monk closed the door behind her and turned slowly to face her, his hands once more concealed within the sleeves of his robe.

‘We have a visitors’ room at the rear of the house,’ he said softly. ‘We can go there to talk if you wish. We won’t be disturbed.’ His voice was encouraging in its quiet confidence.

Aisha nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

He glided round her as though on a cushion of air, only his feet were visible beneath the hem of his robe. She followed him down the hall, her footsteps echoing harshly on the wooden floor compared to the sandal silence of his own. He was short, only as tall as she, and his skin was more bronze than brown. Stopping at the far end of the hall, he raised his eyes briefly to hers. ‘Would you like a hot drink? You must be very cold.’

‘No, no thank you.’ She smiled nervously, unsure of how she should address him.

He pushed open the door on their right and went in first. Aisha followed and looked anxiously around her. The room was bare except for an old upholstered chair and a marble altar dominating one wall. The altar was scattered with fresh petals and in the centre was a large wooden statue of Buddha, seated cross-legged. Slightly above the altar was a small leaded-light window, which looked out over the gardens at the rear. In the distance she could see the other brothers at work in the gardens, their robes little flicks of moving orange against a background of green and brown.

The monk bowed low before the altar then slowly backed away. Aisha was familiar enough with Buddhist teachings to know that you never turned your back on Buddha, and she waited a little behind the monk.

‘Please, sit down,’ he said, nodding to the one chair.

She went over and perched nervously on the edge while the monk lowered himself effortlessly to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her.

He bowed his head and sat silently in prayer for a moment. With his shaven head and all-enveloping robe, his age was impossible to tell. After a moment, he slowly raised his head and studied her, quietly and at peace.

‘Tell me your name, child,’ he said, his manner echoing the gentleness of his voice.

‘Aisha,’ she said. ‘Aisha Williams.’

‘A Western surname?’

‘Yes, I am married to an Englishman. My parents are from Gujarat.’

He nodded and the next question, which she had half-anticipated, held no hint of criticism. ‘I don’t think I have seen you or your family at the temple?’

‘No, my father converted to Christianity many years ago. And my husband is an atheist. He doesn’t believe.’

‘And you, my child? What do you believe?’

Aisha hesitated, and felt again the imposition of her coming. ‘I don’t know. I was born a Buddhist. My parents’ families still are. Was it wrong of me to come? I’m sorry if it was.’

His face flickered a smile and bore no trace of censure. ‘No, it was not. All gods are compassionate, particularly in the face of pain and adversity.’

Aisha looked down at her hands wrung tightly in her lap, then up again at the monk. ‘If it’s so obvious,’ she blurted, ‘if my pain is there for all to see, why doesn’t my husband see it? Why, if it’s so obvious, does he continue? Why doesn’t he stop if my wretchedness is so clear?’

The monk’s eyes immediately dulled with sadness and she felt guilty for putting it there. He paused, and then asked gently, ‘Your husband is responsible for all your pain?’

She nodded. ‘I have tried, believe me. I have tried for so long, but nothing I do makes any difference. I still try. But he hates me more and more. I am now so unhappy and consumed by bitterness, I think things too dreadful to speak of.’ She stopped. How could she expect him to understand? This holy man who lived segregated from the outside world. What would he know of marriage, her self-loathing and desperation? Did she even have the right to talk of such things in his presence?

He was still looking at her, compassion and concern on his face. ‘The bruises on your face and neck, my child. Did your husband do this to you?’

Aisha pulled her coat closer around her neck and nodded. ‘But it was my fault. Somehow I provoke him, though I don’t know how. I try not to, God help me, I try. He says I have made him what he is. I must be evil, but I don’t mean to be.’

The monk’s eyes stayed with her, deep and unblinking, as though he was able to look into her very soul and see the pain within. ‘You are too harsh on yourself. No single person can take all the blame. Not when two live as one.’

Aisha said nothing – her experience had told her otherwise.

‘And you are alone in this?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Alone? I have two children.’

‘But you yearn for no other man? I ask because of the Western acceptance of infidelity when all love has gone.’

Aisha looked at him and could have laughed at the ludicrous notion that she could in any way be attractive to another man. ‘I am alone,’ she said. ‘I have never looked at anyone else. Never.’

‘Then if you have tried to bring happiness to your union and failed, you must ask yourself if your suffering is great enough to leave. If you have looked within your heart and seen the truth, you have a duty to act, both for your own sake and that of your children.’

Aisha held his gaze, confused by his insight and candour. ‘You speak as if you know of such matters?’

He gave a slow nod. ‘We are not completely cut off from the outside world. We know what goes on. We simply choose to live away from it.’

She was silent for some time and the monk watched her serenely, waiting for her response.

‘I can’t leave,’ she said at last. ‘I am a prisoner. As surely as if I was locked in a cell with iron bars, I am a prisoner. I am nothing. I don’t make decisions, I barely exist. The only way I can leave is to kill myself … and, believe me, I have considered it.’

He was silent for some time, his head slightly bowed, and perfectly still. ‘You made the decision to come here,’ he said at last, looking up. ‘That took a lot of courage.’

Aisha continued to look at him, this monk who with so few words seemed to see and know so much. ‘Yes, but I will be going back.’

‘You spoke of your father. Would he not offer you shelter in your time of crisis?’

She shook her head and tugged anxiously at her coat. ‘My parents don’t know, and I wouldn’t ask. I couldn’t harm them more than I have already. The shame it would bring on them would be untold. No woman has ever left her husband in my family. My parents wouldn’t cope.’

‘I understand,’ he said nodding slowly, then his eyes flickered to the altar and back again as though drawing silent guidance and direction. ‘What you need more than anything is time and peace to heal. You need respite from your daily cares to allow you the time to come to a decision. Without that, you will never be able to see anything, not with all your suffering.’

‘I know, but how? How? Tell me. What can I do?’ Her voice choked and she swallowed back the tears.

The monk paused before he spoke and when he did it was with the same calm reassurance and acceptance. ‘Part of our house is a retreat, it is open to anyone who needs it. You can come here if you wish, with your children. You will have the peace and time you need. Your pain will not last forever, although it may seem so now.’

She stared at him sharply. ‘But you don’t understand. I can’t. Mark would never allow it, never let me go. He would hunt me down and find me. He would stop at nothing to keep what he sees as his, what he says he has a right to. I would be placing you all in danger, not just me.’

The monk’s eyes widened. ‘What is this man? A giant? We have thirty brothers here. You will be safe. He is not Goliath.’

She lowered her gaze. ‘He is to me,’ she said quietly.

Yet sitting here enveloped in the monk’s unassuming confidence and quiet inner strength, she could almost feel she could – she could collect Sarah and James from school, go home, quickly pack a bag and leave. Was it possible? Could she find the courage? Was there enough left in her? There would be time before Mark came home from work, if she was quick.

She wrung her hands in her lap and felt them cold and clammy. ‘But even if I could come and stay here,’ she said. ‘I have no money. How would I pay for our keep?’

The monk smiled kindly. ‘We do not ask for money. Only that you contribute in some small way to the community. Every skill is appreciated. Cooking, cleaning, or working on the farm. But only when you feel strong enough. Your immediate need is for rest and tranquillity.’

He waited again, exuding a peace and calm that seemed to empower the very air Aisha breathed. Could she? Was there still a small spark within her that could allow her to do this and see it through? An ember of self-preservation that hadn’t been completely snuffed out in the last seven years, and with the monk’s strength could be rekindled before it was too late?

‘If I came,’ she said suddenly, looking up, ‘it would have to be tonight. If I made the decision to come it would have to be now.’

He nodded again, his calm and dispassionate features acknowledging this as he doubtless acknowledged all things. ‘We can have a room ready. If that is your decision.’

A decision? Could she make one? After all these years could she make a decision to save herself and the children? Yes, she must. For the sake of Sarah and James, she had to, before it was too late. There wouldn’t be another chance. ‘I must,’ she said. ‘I must do it now. I’ll come tonight. I have to go and collect my children from school, then I’ll pack a bag and come. I will, I promise, but I need to go now.’

She stood. The monk nodded and then, raising himself effortlessly from the floor, went over to a small bureau behind the door. Sliding open the single drawer he took out a five-pound note and held it out to her. ‘This is for your bus fare. I think it will be enough.’

She took the note and could have wept at his insight and generosity. ‘Thank you so much. I only had enough to make this journey. I’ll repay you as soon as I can.’ She clasped his outstretched hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I must go now, I must go before I lose my courage. Pray for me, please. Maybe there is a way, there has to be.’

The monk slowly released her hand, then, bowing silently to the altar, backed towards the door. She followed him out, out of the room and down the quiet and empty hall, her heart racing, her thoughts soaring in a direction where they had never been before. She waited as the monk unbolted the front door and her eyes fell to a scroll hanging on the wall opposite. It was a quote from the Buddhist teachings. She hadn’t seen it on the way in, but now the black lettering seemed to fly out at her.