Run, Mummy, Run (17 page)

‘So, you approve?’ Mark said again, carefully returning the helmet to its box. ‘You can see why I was so excited?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m so pleased for you. It’s important to have something you really want. To achieve an ambition.’

She took a few steps towards him.
Now what?
she thought. How should they progress from here? It would take time, obviously, to rebuild what they had and start again. Hours of talking, possibly with a counsellor. She’d always thought that if they ever reached this point they should seek the help of a professional. Someone who could guide them through the pitfalls of their relationship and steer them to a better understanding. She wondered if she should be the one to suggest it, for men didn’t immediately think of counselling, did they? A Radio 4 programme she’d once listened to about Relate, the marriage guidance service, had said as much. In over ninety percent of referrals it said, it was the woman who made that first call. Their partners and husbands happily attended the counselling sessions, but hardly ever initiated the first appointment.

Mark turned to face her, suit and boots still on. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said. ‘I knew you would want to share it with me as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, yes, I do like it. I’m so pleased for you. The children will be too, particularly James, he loves motorbikes. Shall I fetch them?’

‘In a minute.’ He paused. ‘So, you really do approve?’ ‘Oh, yes, I do, Mark, really.’

‘And you can see why I wanted to share it with you?’

‘Yes. I’m so pleased you did. We …’ She wrung her hands together and searched for the right words, the ones that would acknowledge what they had been through, and lead them forwards to a counsellor. She would suggest it now, while there was just the two of them, before the evening took over and she was busy with the children, and Mark with his new bike. ‘Mark? I’ve been thinking—’ she began.

‘So, you can imagine …’ he said interrupting her, his voice slightly dropping, ‘you can imagine how disappointed I was when I came home and found you weren’t here.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have gone if I had known. But it was pleasant earlier. I thought a walk would do me good.’

‘And did it?’ he said, his eyes widening. ‘Did it do you good?’

‘No, I got wet.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. It was silly of me to go.’

She looked at him and he looked back. There was a silence that seemed to stretch the length of the garage, broken only by the odd cracking of the polythene as it yawned and stretched. And in that silence, she felt the first few grains of sand shift, as the previously firm ground lost some of its stability and the tide began to turn. Yet the surface appeared to remain calm like a millpond, with no ripples.

‘I’d better make sure the children have changed out of their wet things,’ Aisha said. ‘Then I’ll make us dinner and you can tell me more about the bike.’ She smiled and began walking towards the door, instinctively putting as much distance as possible between them. One step. Two steps. Then the first wave crashed as the sand was sucked from beneath her feet, and his voice echoed around the ceiling and bounced off the walls.

‘So, where the fuck were you all afternoon?’

He was behind her, moving in closer, taking up the ground. Only a couple of steps to the door, not that far, not that far at all. But she didn’t make it. He sprang like a lion felling its prey, landed on her back and brought her down. Knees first, then her elbows and face, bouncing off the rough concrete floor. Aisha heard a cry escape from her throat and strangulate as the air was cut off. Flat down on the floor, head pressed sideways, her cheek grating on the dry concrete. Her mouth began to fill with blood as his fists pummelled her back, her head, shoulders, neck, anywhere he could find.

‘You bitch! Whore! Lie to me, would you! I’ll teach you!’

She tried to cry out, but she was cut short by the blows raining down on her neck and head. He was going to kill her this time for sure. She knew she couldn’t survive this. The force of the blows, their ferocity … he was going to smash her to pulp on the hard concrete floor.

And perhaps it was this realization, or some residue of courage that had stayed with her from her conversation with the monk, or her anger at the way she’d allowed herself to believe, or maybe it was Sarah’s hysterical cry of ‘Mum!’ from outside the door, but strength rose within her as it never had before and Aisha began to struggle and fight back. She thrashed her arms, kicked her legs, twisted and turned for all she was worth, trying to dislodge him from her back.

‘Bitch! Whore! I’ll teach you to lie to me, you fucking cow!’

Sitting astride her legs, he tried to grab her flaying arms and pin them to her sides. But the more he tried to restrain her, the more her anger and strength grew. She struggled and fought back, fighting for her life. A life that she finally realized was a life worth fighting for. Not only for her sake, but for that of the children.

‘Mum!’ Sarah shrieked again, and opening the door to the kitchen, screamed.

She heard James sobbing. ‘Dad, stop! Stop! Dad!’ he begged.

With a sudden burst of strength, she arched her spine, threw herself backwards, and managed to force him off. He was beside her now, shouting in her face, still trying to grab her arms. With a second burst of strength, she brought up one knee, sharp and hard, straight into his groin. He let out a cry like she’d never heard before, and his grip momentarily relaxed. She seized the moment, and summoning all her strength, hurled herself towards the kitchen door.

‘Out now!’ she yelled to the children.

‘Run, Mummy, run!’ Sarah screamed.

Aisha raced through the interconnecting door and then slammed it shut. She turned the key. ‘Quick! Out the front, go now! Run!’

Sarah grabbed James as Mark landed with a thud on the other side of the door. ‘You bitch. Wait till I get hold of you.’ His fists pounded the wood.

She cupped her nose to stem the blood and raced after the children – out of the kitchen and through the lounge. They only had a few seconds before he would go to the front of the garage and release the up-and-over door. Then he would kill her without a doubt. She saw Mark’s keys on the hall table and grabbed them. She threw open the front door. The children hesitated.

‘Get in his car. Now!’ she screamed, pushing Sarah and James out through the porch. Blood dripped from her nose and she tried to pinch it as they ran down the short path and onto the pavement. She pressed the fob to the car and mercifully the locks flew up. She tore round to the driver’s door as Sarah bundled James into the back, and slammed the door. Left hand over her nose to stem the blood, she jabbed the key into the ignition with her right hand.

‘Please, dear God, let it start,’ she breathed.

The key turned and the engine fired, just as the garage door began to rise.

‘He’s coming! He’s coming! the children shrieked hysterically.

Into first gear, she released the handbrake, at the same time pushing the accelerator down hard. The tyres screeched and they shot forwards, leaving Mark on the drive shouting her name.

D
own to the end of the road, Aisha stopped the car at the T-junction and peered at the dashboard. She found the light switch, clicked it on, and the road ahead lit up. Grappling with the steering column, she found the wiper arm and pushed it to the top. The wipers flicked furiously and the windscreen cleared.

‘Fasten your seat belts,’ she shouted to the children as she extended her own.

She inched the car forwards, up to the white line, and paused. She checked in the rear-view mirror and saw the road behind was clear. Her foot hovered above the accelerator pedal as she waited for a gap in the traffic to turn right. The cars were relentless, non-stop in both directions. She wanted to turn right and then go up the High Street, and out towards the M25. She knew where to join the motorway, and it would be easier than trying to find her way through the country roads in the dark: easier and safer.

She drew the back of her hand across her nose and sniffed; she could feel the congealing blood settle in the back of her throat. She checked the rear-view mirror again; a white van drew up behind obscuring her view. Then she checked the wing mirrors and the road. More traffic, it was endless. Finally a gap seemed to be appearing in the headlamps further up, in both directions. Was it big enough? She wasn’t sure. She waited, hands clenching the wheel, pulse soaring, scanning the road both ways. It was difficult to judge the approaching space in the dark and rain, and with so many cars, and so long since she’d driven. Touching the accelerator, she took up the slack on the clutch, then, pressing her right foot down, seized the gap in the traffic. The car lurched, but thankfully didn’t stall. She changed up into second, then third, another jolt, but she was driving; incredible after all these years. And more incredible – they’d got away!

Aisha steadied her breathing and concentrated on the tail lights in front, then without looking down, delved into her cardigan pocket for a tissue and wiped her nose.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked the children in the back. They were so low in their seats she could only see the top of their heads in the rear-view mirror.

‘Yes, are you?’ Sarah’s little voice faltered.

Aisha nodded, then she braked lightly as the traffic slowed to join the High Street. Gradually her pulse settled. It was still very busy with late-night Friday opening and she continued up and down the gears, and past the shops. She was getting the hang of the gear changes now; it was astonishing what you could remember when you had to. The wipers were still going full tilt and she felt for the wiper arm and turned it down a notch so that they settled into a slower, more steady rhythm.

‘We’re going on the motorway to the monks’ house,’ she said. She hardly dared believe the words herself.

‘I’m cold,’ James murmured.

Aisha glanced down at the dashboard, saw what she thought was the heating dial and turned it on. Warm air began to circulate round their feet.

The High Street ran out and the first sign for the M25 appeared. The interchange was about a mile away and Aisha knew she wanted to head west. The road widened and the traffic began to gain speed and she changed up into fourth gear. She wasn’t sure where fifth gear was, but she didn’t need it now, she would worry about that later.

‘I’m hungry,’ James said.

‘Sshh, quiet,’ Sarah pacified.

Aisha stared through the windscreen and concentrated on the road ahead, while her thoughts coursed between anger, astonishment and exhilaration at having got away. How dare he? How could he? How dare he lure her into the garage like that, make her believe in him and then attack her! What a fool she’d been, what an idiot, and not just now, but in all the years gone by. But somehow, miraculously, with the monk’s encouragement, she had got away – not only that but she was driving his car! His bloody precious car which she’d never been allowed to touch, let alone drive; a family car which had only ever left the garage with him in it. She bet he was angry, furious, pacing the garage and probably trashing the house. Just as well she wasn’t there to see it, she knew what he would do to her. But that was past now, history, and would never happen again. That she’d had to leave all their possessions behind, and the children and she only had the clothes they stood up in, didn’t matter. At the retreat she could telephone her parents, and once she’d explained what had been going on she was sure they’d help her. Now she’d escaped and was away from Mark she was already finding her thoughts were beginning to clear: thoughts, plans, and actions. Who knew what the future could hold, for now she’d made the decision to get away, all things were possible. Mark could have his car back later, when he was calmer and less likely to kill her.

A large illuminated signboard appeared and the traffic began to slow. Aisha changed down into third gear, then second, and it didn’t jolt this time. She saw the roundabout ahead and remembered it from years ago when she used to drive – left to Heathrow and right to the Dartford Tunnel; she flicked the indicator to left. She had to concentrate hard now, to get onto the roundabout and then the motorway. She watched the red brake lights of the car in front, and the traffic coming from the right. The queue of cars gradually moved forwards, filtering onto the roundabout, and then it was her turn. She pulled onto the roundabout and then immediately turned down the first exit and onto the slip road to the motorway.

They were gaining speed, the cars in front and behind, going down the slip road to join the fast-moving traffic on the motorway. With the indicator flashing and in third gear, Aisha glanced through her side window at the cars coming along the motorway to her right. They were going fast, very fast, and she couldn’t see a space on the motorway. One set of headlights seemed to follow another, but she kept the speed going – she knew she couldn’t slow or stop, but had to filter in. She felt a moment’s panic as the end of the slip road approached and there was still no sign of a space, then a van flashed and held back, letting her in. ‘Thank you,’ she said out loud, and gave herself a mental pat on the back –
I’m doing well
, she thought.

The windows were misting up, but she’d no idea how to direct the air onto the windscreen, and she was going too fast to search for the dial now. Leaning forwards, she rubbed the glass with the sleeve of her cardigan and then glanced at the speedometer. The needle hovered on sixty, but it seemed much faster with all the cars and lorries, and the three lanes moving in parallel. She checked the mirrors, then somehow managed to find fifth gear. It was where it had been on her old car – the one she’d had before her marriage, a lifetime ago. Aisha touched her nose; she could still taste blood, but it had finally stopped bleeding. The front of her cardigan must be covered in blood and she probably looked a right state. But who cared? They had escaped, and she was driving, and when they arrived at the monks’ she would be able to wash it; everything was going to be all right.

‘OK?’ she asked the children, her voice nervously light. ‘You didn’t know Mummy could drive, did you?’

‘No,’ they chorused together.

‘Is there a radio?’ James asked, recovering slightly and hoisting himself up in his seat.

Aisha felt for the radio dial and pressed the knob. It was preset to Magic, a popular London radio station, and the DJ was announcing the next song. An unexpected chart success, he said, which had gone straight to number one. An upbeat religious reggae tune settled beneath the rain and wind as Aisha concentrated on the car in front and those to the right of her in the middle lane. She remembered to check her mirrors every so often to see what the vehicles behind were doing. The conscious thought she was giving to this was like taking a driving test before driving became second nature.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the children after a moment. ‘I’m sorry for everything. You shouldn’t have suffered as you have. I promise I’ll make it up to you as soon as I can.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘You didn’t do anything.’

‘I should have acted sooner. All these years. What’s it done to you two?’

For sitting here in the car and driving, a sense of normality had begun to return: an objectivity which was allowing her to view the past and see it for what it was. All that time, she thought, how could she have let them suffer? Yet it had taken a monk, and another brutal attack, to finally spur her into action. She had become petrified into acceptance and compliance. If someone had said to her a day ago, ‘Get in the car and drive,’ she would have said, ‘No, I can’t possibly; I’m useless, I’ve forgotten how.’ Yet here she was after all this time, driving as competently as everyone else. And if she’d got this far, and re-mastered this skill, who could say what else she was capable of? It was amazing what you could do when you had to; she had amazed herself, the children and probably Mark too.

‘I’m hungry,’ James said again.

‘It’s not too far,’ she said. ‘Only about twenty minutes. Once we’re at the retreat the monks will look after us. I’ll ask them for something to eat.’

Aisha was almost certain which turn off the motorway she wanted and Radwood, the nearest town to the retreat, was sure to be signposted. But she couldn’t visualize the country lane the house was in. The bus would have approached it from a different direction, and in the dark and rain it would look very different anyway. There was no rush, she told herself, she could take her time and drive around if necessary, and if she still couldn’t find it, then she would stop and ask for directions – that would be the sensible thing to do. There couldn’t be many Buddhist retreats in the area, she thought. In fact when she’d looked in the phone directory, there’d only been two listed. She relaxed a little, and took comfort in her newfound ability to make rational, objective decisions and act on them, and her new ability to keep the children safe.

The radio was playing S Club 7 now and their old hit ‘Reach for the Stars’. It rang out, up-tempo in beat and uplifting in lyrics, and the words were inspiring and ironic. Sarah was absent-mindedly mouthing the chorus and Aisha was reminded that here was another thing they’d been deprived of: music. Theirs had been a house without cassettes, CDs, radio, MP3s, DVDs; the list was endless. And, she thought sadly, without laughter too. She and the children had been trapped in a barren dessert, not only cut off from other people, but happiness.
You bastard
, she thought.
I really hate you for what you’ve done – not just to me but the children.

Aisha rubbed the windscreen again and remembered to check the mirrors. She returned her gaze to the front and then checked the mirrors again. Further back, four or five cars behind, a bright headlight was visible on the outer edge of the inside lane. The driver was trying to pull out and overtake.
Idiot
, she thought,
he’ll have an accident or, worse, cause one, trying to overtake in this weather.

‘Reach for the Stars’ had been replaced by a more downbeat Jennifer Lopez song – this was more her type of music. Aisha had forgotten how much she used to like music, in the days when she’d had likes and dislikes. She remembered she’d always had music playing in her car and in her bedroom at home – while working at the desk her father had made. Mozart and Tchaikovsky had been two of her favourites, they’d been
Mark’s favourites too
, she thought bitterly, remembering their first conversation all those years ago.

She glanced at the speedometer, the needle was still hovering above 60 mph which was fine. The middle and outside lanes weren’t travelling any faster, the whole of the M25 was moving as one in the Friday evening exodus from London. She glanced at the children: James was snuggled into Sarah and she was watching the cars through her window. They both appeared more relaxed now.

Aisha looked to the front again and thought of the monk who was waiting for them with a room prepared, and the life from which she had so incredibly managed to escape. A roar of an engine sounded from behind and she glanced in her wing mirror. She saw the bright headlamp – the one that had been trying to overtake before – move out again, still trying to overtake. An uncomfortable tightness settled in her chest as she realized it was the single headlamp of a motorbike and not one of a pair from a car.
Don’t be silly
, she told herself,
there will be any number of motorbikes on the motorway, of course it’s not him.

She kept glancing in the mirror, watching the bike as it forced a gap between the inside and middle lane. Then it accelerated out and round the car in front, until it was behind her, hovering at her rear offside wing. She looked in her wing mirror but the driver was hidden behind the bright light of the headlamp. Then the bike began to move out again, ready to overtake her. Her heart clenched and her mouth went dry. Could it be? Was it possible? Another roar of engine and the bike was beside them outside her window, hovering between the lanes at 65 mph. She looked, saw it, and knew – the white luminous flash running down the side of the biker’s red suit. ‘My God! It’s him!’ she cried, and she had to fight her panic to keep the car straight.

The children screamed and clung to each other. Aisha looked frantically between her side window and the road ahead. He was directly next to her, riding parallel, the white luminous flash glowing against the dark red of his leather suit. His elongated helmeted head turned slightly towards her like some giant insect, looming in the night. Aisha clutched the wheel to keep the car on course and, feeling for her door, pressed the central locking.

A car horn blared angrily at him from behind for blocking the lanes. The bike engine revved; then it moved forwards, alongside her bonnet and out into the middle lane. Another roar and it had disappeared between the cars, into the rain and dark ahead.

‘He’s gone!’ Aisha cried to the children. ‘Calm down, please. He’s gone!’ Her heart thumped wildly and her hands sweated as she clenched the wheel and stared straight ahead. ‘Please! Calm down!’ she cried again. ‘I can’t drive.’

Dear God! Now what?
she thought. He was on the motorway! But how? Had he followed them from the house, so far behind she hadn’t seen? She remembered the white van drawing up behind them as she’d waited to turn out of their road. Had he been behind the van and followed them all this way? It was possible; she’d been so busy concentrating on driving and on the road ahead she wouldn’t have necessarily noticed. Had he followed them or did he know where they were going? Did he know about the monk? Was it possible he’d found out somehow? It would explain why he’d chosen today to collect the bike and come home early.