The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (19 page)

It's all a mess — there's no order or sequence. I have dates, a beginning and an end, but the years in between won't fall into place. I know when I met him, I know our wedding day, I know the day I threw him out, the day he died. I have other dates — births, my father's death, communions, confirmations, other deaths. I can put them in a list down a page, but they're the only guide I have.

I missed the 80s. I haven't a clue. It's just a mush. I hear a song on the radio from the 60s or 70s and I can remember something that happened to me; it has nothing to do with liking the song. Song Sung Blue — I'm doing my homework, listening to Radio Luxemburg, the chart show on Monday night, with Carmel and Denise. I'm drawing a map of Ireland, the rivers of Ireland. My blue marker is nearly wasted and I haven't got to Ulster yet. Lily The Pink — I'm sitting on my mother's knee, watching my Uncle Martin singing Delilah; I have a toothache. Somebody else sang Lily The Pink before or after him; I can't remember who — one of my cousins. All The Young Dudes — I'm watching Charlo washing himself at the sink. He still has some of his summer tan. But I don't know any songs from the 80s; they mean nothing — and the radio was on all the time. What did I do in the 80s? I walked into doors. I got up off the floor. I became an alcoholic. I discovered that I was poor, that I'd no right to the hope I'd started out with. I was going nowhere, straight there. Trapped in a house that would never be mine. With a husband who fed on my pain. Watching my children going nowhere with me; the cruellest thing of the lot. No hope to give them. They saw him throw me across the kitchen. They saw him put a knife to my throat. Their father; my husband.

—Ida

I was their future. That was what they saw. The grown-up world. Violence, fat and an empty fridge. A bottle of gin but no meat. Black eyes, no teeth; a lump in the corner. Do your homework, say your prayers, brush your teeth, say please and thank you — and you'll end up like me.

I never gave up.

Carmel told me to go. Fill a bag, get the kids and go. Anywhere, her house, a refuge; go. She kept at me; I hated her for it. It was none of her business. She promised the police and barring orders. She was standing on me, making it worse, rubbing it in. There was nothing wrong. He'd be fine. He'd get a job and everything would go back to normal. He loved me. She just didn't like him; she was jealous. I was cruel to her. I shut the door on her. I threw things at her. (But she was there all the time. She was there when I wanted her. I've never thanked her.) I wouldn't go. I'd get to the door. I'd open it. No further.

The hidings, the poverty, the pain and the robbery. I never gave up. I always got up off the floor. I always borrowed a tenner till Thursday. There were always Christmas presents, birthday presents. They always had a Christmas tree. There was always some sort of food. I got between them and him. I guarded the fridge. I made ends meet.

I never gave up.

I'm here.

I picked myself up. I washed the blood off my face. I put on the kettle.

I came close. I wanted to die. I lay on the floor and felt death under it. It was warm and I wanted it. I never wanted to get up. I was broken; I wanted to melt. I didn't know who I was. All I knew was the pain.

But I got up. I always got up. I had children. I had a husband. I limped around the rooms, tucking the children up in their beds. I hung out the washing with a broken finger. I ate sugar and drank gin. I made sandwiches for their lunches; thin slivers of ham around the edges to hide the nothing in the middle. I hid. I hid the pain, the bruises and the poverty. The front door stayed shut. I went mad if one of the kids left it open. A knock on the door terrified me. I'd been seen, I'd been caught. I was guilty.

He beat me brainless and I felt guilty. He left me without money and I was guilty. I wouldn't let the kids into the kitchen after teatime, I couldn't let them near the cornflakes — and I was to blame. They went wild, they went hungry and it was my fault. I couldn't think. I could invent a family meal with an egg and four slices of stale bread but I couldn't think properly. I couldn't put a shape on anything. I kept falling apart.

The floor was warm and sticky. It was easier to stay there. It was nice. The blood hardened. It didn't want me to move. It wanted me to stay on the floor.

But I got up. Always, eventually. I'd remember who I was. I'd remember the time of day; I had things to do, things to look after. I'd mop the floor and start again. That was my life. Getting hit, waiting to get hit, recovering; forgetting. Starting all over again. There was no time, a beginning or an end. I can't say how many times he beat me. It was one beating; it went on forever. I know for how long: seventeen years. One stinking, miserable, gooed lump of days. Daylight and darkness. Pain and the fear of it. Darkness and daylight, over and over; world without end. Until I saw him looking at Nicola.

I stood at the front door so many times. I opened the door. I stepped out, into the garden. So many times. Never further. I changed my mind; I made excuses. I couldn't do it. I turned back. I'd go upstairs to pack and sit on the bed until it was too late. I'd let John Paul or Leanne or Jack have their nap first. I'd wait until I had some money. I'd wait until after Christmas. I'd wait until Charlo was asleep. I'd walk up to the door, gone already, just the door in the way. But I'd know; I wasn't going. There was nowhere to go; I couldn't go. I couldn't lift my hand to the latch. I couldn't go past the garden. I was walking into nowhere. Disgrace, the shame, the picture of him coming after me. There was too much; I had nowhere to hide. It wasn't worth it. Having to admit everything, nowhere to go. I'd pick up a piece of paper off the grass and walk back in, as if that was what had brought me out, one piece of paper, one out of all the papers and packets and plastic bottles littering the garden. (I once found a syringe in the grass, near the front wall. I didn't touch it. I didn't even think about it.) I'd walk back inside like I'd made my mind up. I'd feel better; this was the right decision. I'd stay. I was needed. It wouldn't happen again. I was better off with what I had. The kids needed their father. It wouldn't happen again.

He put the money on the table in front of me. I never got to count it. Or feel it. I'd been drinking; I was a bit slow. I'd been resting, sleeping. The kitchen, the light on — I was sitting up. Had my head been on the table? He picked up the money and put it back down again, now that he knew I was awake and looking. A wad of money. Serious money. Enough for clothes, enough for a big shop. A full basket full of lovely things, the kids with me, queuing up knowing that there'd be plenty left over when it was all paid for. A bit of excitement. Good lunches for school, lunches to be proud of — grins on their faces. Family packs of waffles and Mars Bars. A jersey for John Paul with John Barnes' number on it. Shoes for Leanne. A tenner for Nicola. A bottle for myself. McDonalds Happy-meals for the lot of us, ice-creams with hot fudge after. A pile of money in front of me, a wad that would keep us going for as long as I needed to think about.

—There, he said.

Salvation and happiness. Out of nowhere. I looked at it. He watched me waking up. He watched me calculating, seeing the things I was going to get with the money. A pile that said hundreds. A pile that wouldn't get smaller unless you put in the effort. I was mesmerised. Very happy and wondering where the catch was. I knew he was watching. I didn't move. Bills gone, a full fridge full of family packs, pouring out of it when I opened the door. A trip to the pictures. A day in town and a taxi home. A real Sunday dinner, paper napkins and the works. Ah, Bisto!

He picked up one of the notes. A twenty. I didn't follow it. I kept my eyes on the rest. The twenty wasn't missing. The pile looked exactly the same. I didn't care where it had come from, how he'd got it. It was robbed; it had to be. I didn't care. The twenty-pound note came down again in front of my face. On fire.

—Look at that, he said.

He lit more notes with the flame. The blue notes turned black; black crumbs lifted into the air. He was setting fire to the lot of it.

—Isn't that a shockin' waste? he said.

I didn't answer him. He wanted me to. He wanted me to grab at what was left. Funny, I didn't care that much. It was interesting, watching it burn. It was so light. I followed the flame. But why was he doing this, making us broke again, him as well as us? I remembered: I'd told him I was leaving, that I wasn't taking any more. The day before, after he'd swiped at me for nothing. He'd laughed when I told him I'd get a job, mat I didn't need his fuckin' money, mat I could fend for myself better than he ever had.

He laughed now. He made himself laugh, like the baddy in a film.

—All that lovely dosh; it's a crying shame so it is.

He bent down and blew it off the table. I could hear the kids in the front room, fighting over the remote control. It was the first time I'd seen his face since he'd come in. There was nothing there, no cruelty. He was like a child now, studying his work. Not all the notes were burnt. He'd stopped; he left them on the table. He put five blue notes in front of me, one hundred pounds.

—Where would you be without me? he said.

He put his hand on my shoulder.

I could never get past the door. There were too many things. Things I didn't have. Money, somewhere to go. Too many things. The kids. The schools. People seeing me. All of them stopped me. It was all black out there. He said he'd kill me if I ever went. I knew he'd do it. He said he loved me and he couldn't live without me; he didn't care what happened to him after he'd done it, it made no difference to him, dead or alive, the rest of his life in jail, he didn't care — he'd kill me. I believed him. It was in his face and voice. He couldn't live without me, he said. He loved me. I couldn't go. He was sorting himself out. He'd come after me and kill me. And the kids. He said he'd never let me take them. I wasn't fit to look after them; I was only a fuckin' alco and too stupid. He wouldn't let it happen; they'd be better off dead. He looked at me. He meant it.

He smashed me against the door before I could open it. He hit my face off it. I waited for the glass to smash into me.

—I'll kill you; I'll fuckin' kill you!

I could never go.

I thought about it; I dreamed about it all the time. I made it up. I sat for hours, going from one step to the next. New house, a job, new hair and clothes. The kids in a new school in black school uniforms with a maroon stripe on their V-necked jumpers. A job in an office. I believed it as I sat there. I believed it all day. Me sitting at a computer. Working away at it, no bother. I always saw myself from a distance, hands moving but never the fingers on the keys. Or I'd see myself from the back of the computer, the camera rising over it. The light from the screen making two shining paths on my cheekbones. Starring Sally Field as Paula Spencer. Home from work — in my little car; I saw myself from the outside — I never had to learn how to drive. A neighbour waved, raking up the leaves. A huge room straight in from the front door, like Cosby's. Food for the kids, a microwave. Laughter, discussions. I helped them with their homework. I read them a bedtime story, all of us on my big fluffy bed. They went to bed together and they slept all night; no wetting, no crying out. I lived this life all day; changed bits, added others. I ran away all the time. I ran away to luxury. I ran away to a new face and body. Me and the kids, no one else. Me and the kids in a big sponge house. Miles from anything Irish. Couches. Rugs. A big white dog with no sex. Dry heat and warm snow. A fluffy dog that didn't shed its hair. A purple bathroom that I sometimes changed to pink.

I ran away in my dreams, the ones I could handle and control. I didn't have real dreams, night dreams. I just went black. I didn't want the real ones. I drank myself into the blackness. I could never run away in the real dreams. I didn't let them in. Sometimes, though, they got through. I fought myself awake. I could never move; I couldn't breathe.

I ran away to twenty years ago. I ran away to another country.

He threatened me all the time, reminded me that I couldn't cope. I had nothing going for me. I was only Paula Spencer because of him. It was the only thing I was. People knew me because of him. We had the house because of him. I was there because he looked at me and proved it. One nice look could wipe out everything. I loved him with all my heart. I could never leave him. He needed me. He told me so, again and again. I was everything to him.

I always stopped at the door.

I was frightened of being without him. In the early days, I got excited when I heard him coming in at night, when I was lying in bed waiting for him; delighted he'd come home to me. At the same time I was scared. Would he be drunk? Would he be nice? Would I be awake or pretending to be asleep? I'd listen to his steps, reading them; how far away, how much drink on him, his mood. I could tell before he got to the room, but there was always hope. Happy feet — he was especially light on his toes when he was feeling frisky. I'd pretend to be asleep. That was the best, letting him think he was waking me. We'd make love for hours. On the bed, off the bed, in the hall. I'd feed the baby while his balls filled up again. Long, long ago. Excited and scared. Sometimes, I liked the mixture. Then it was just scared, no mixture. Just terror when the door slammed, terror all day. We had sex before he went out; I still wanted that, always. He loved me. I was mad about him. Behind that terror and cruelty, he was still there. But I had to get him before he went out. Then I could black out before he got home. If I was lucky.

If I was lucky.

I was so depressed I didn't even know there was a door there. I didn't know where I really was, or sometimes who I was. It was all nothing. Days disappeared. I'd wake up in the toilet. I'd stand in front the sink for hours, water pouring over the sides of the kettle — for hours. There was nothing to hang onto; everything was miles away. Sudden things made me cry. The bell, a door, a skid outside. I couldn't cope with anything coming at me. A letter dropping onto the hall floor. A bird squawking. Noises in the attic. I couldn't tell far from near, important from nothing. I cried when I heard the kids coming home; I couldn't love them — I couldn't concentrate on it. I couldn't cope.

Drink helped; drink calmed me. Drink gave me something to search for and do.

I'd wake up at three in the morning, wide awake. I'd crawl through the day. On good days I knew there was a door there. On good days I could dream. I could smile when I heard the kids coming. I knew where I was going; I knew why. I could love and think. I could feel miserable and know why. I could hate him. I could love him. The bad ones weren't days at all. They were mush. They were blank. Nothing. There was no door because it didn't exist. There was no dreaming. Someone was breathing. It wasn't me. I'd scream. It wasn't me. I was a black lump in the middle of a black lump. Nothing came near me; nothing got to me. There were children out there trying to get in. There were noises. I couldn't reach them. There were tears rolling down a face. There was no one there and no one watching. I was only someone when he walked in. Because he looked at me. Because he smiled at me. Because he hit me.

When was I like this? I don't know. Once? Always? I don't know. I can't arrange my memories. I can't tell near from far. I was married one day. I threw him out another day. It happened in between. That's all.

I threw him out! I'll never forget that — the excitement and terror. It felt so good. It took years off me. God, it was terrifying, though — after I'd done it, after I'd walloped him. I didn't mink. I couldn't have done it if I had. But when I saw him looking that way at Nicola, when I saw his eyes. I don't know what happened to me — the Bionic Woman — he was gone. It was so easy. Just bang — gone. The evil in the kitchen; his eyes. Gone. The frying pan had no weight. I'd groaned picking it out of the press a few minutes before. It was one of those big old-fashioned ones. I hated it; a present from his mother. Maybe there was a secret message in it all along. Maybe that was it. When I saw him looking. It had no weight when I picked it up; I was being helped. I didn't feel the fat falling on me as I lifted it. Down — gone.
His
blood on the floor. My finest hour. I was there. I was something. I loved. Down on his head. I was killing him. The evil. He'd killed me and now it was Nicola. But no. No fuckin' way.

Down on his head. He dropped like shite from a height. I could feel it through my arms. He fell like I used to fall. All the years, the stitches, all the cries, the baby I lost — I could feel them all in my arms going into the pan. They lifted it. They were with me. Down on his head. It still makes me laugh. When I think about it. I couldn't go through the door, so I fucked him through it instead.