Two Women (45 page)

Susan felt the air leave her body as she realised exactly what had befallen her precious daughter.

She had been here herself, knew the self-disgust that her daughter was feeling inside, knew the pain of the knowledge that the man who should be protecting you was using you as no man should use a woman, not even a paid prostitute. Knew the anger and the sense of futility in her daughter’s heart as she tried to come to terms with what had happened to her. Knew it would haunt her all her life, ruin every good day as she thought back on what had happened to her.

How it would make her feel dirty inside. How she would never again be the girl she had been because that girl had gone. Would never come back. Neither would trust. After all, who could you ever trust again if you couldn’t trust your own flesh and blood?

Doreen came in then, a big smile on her face until she took in the scene before her. Her bleached blonde hair and heavy blue eye-shadow looked false in the bright kitchen; her tight top and high heels made her look like a pretend person. A Barbie doll look that suited her in a plastic, pretend way. Her bright red lips were parted in shock and horror as she looked at the girl in front of her.

‘Oh, Sue, what’s he done now?’

Susan felt the trembling begin. That utter shock that made her feel as if she was moving through water. She turned to her friend.

‘Take them all in, will you, please? Take them into your place and settle them down. I have to sort him out now. Once and for all, I have to sort that bastard out.’

Her voice was low as if frightened he could hear her.

Doreen shook her head.

‘Phone Old Bill, get him removed . . .’

Susan interrupted her.

‘What, like they normally do, Dor? Keep him for the night and send him home in the morning? No, take the three youngest, I want to talk to Wendy on her own.’ She stared at her friend and Doreen nodded absently.

‘Whatever you say, Sue.’ She picked up Rosie and the other two kids followed her without a word, as if they knew something was going to happen which they must not see.

When they had gone Susan took her daughter into her arms and loved her as best she could. She stroked the girl’s hair and murmured endearments in her ear. Remembering her own mother’s reaction to what had happened to her. The sheer uncaringness of June. The unspoken words that had clearly told her it was all her own fault. That she had made it happen.

‘He’s a pig, Wendy. A fucking dirty, stinking pig and you couldn’t help what he did to you, darlin’. No matter what happens, you remember that, okay?’

Wendy nodded, face so sad that Susan felt rage so acute she could almost taste it.

‘Is it true what he said, Mum? Is Granddad my dad?’

Susan pulled her closer but she didn’t answer.

‘Where is he?’

‘Upstairs. He’s upstairs. On the bed.’

Susan ran from the room and up the stairs. Barry was lying across the bed, out of it. She saw the bottle of cherry brandy he must have found in the cupboard in the front room lying beside him. It was empty.

Walking back down the stairs, she looked at her daughter. They stared into each other’s eyes and then Wendy started to cry. Susan took her into her arms and comforted her again.

‘It doesn’t matter, remember that. None of it matters. I know, my love, I’ve been where you’ve been, darlin’ and it doesn’t matter. It can’t change the real you. My Wendy, my little angel. It can only change you if you let it.’

Ten minutes later, after they had both stopped crying, Susan walked her into Doreen’s. She told her friend to look after her cuts then take her to Granny Kate’s and explain the situation. That Barry had beaten up his daughter badly and Susan wanted her out of the way for the night.

Doreen nodded, wondering what the upshot of all this was going to be. She wasn’t stupid, she knew Barry had done far worse than beat the girl.

Then, back at her own home, Susan put on a coat and walked to the phone box on the corner. She called Roselle at the club and asked if Wendy could stay there for a few days because there had been some trouble with Barry. Roselle, hearing her tone of voice, agreed.

It was as if all the women in Barry’s life had decided to conspire against him. Which of course they had.

Then, going back to her own home, Susan put the kettle on and made herself a cup of coffee. As she waited for the kettle to boil she went out to the hallway. After looking carefully through the cupboard under the stairs she found a large claw hammer. Placing it on the table, she drank her coffee and smoked a cigarette.

She looked around her home, the place she’d loved so much when Barry wasn’t in it.

She loved the doors scuffed from four kids’ bikes, toys and scooters. She loved the wallpaper on the kitchen walls with its pictures of bowls of fruit and vegetables. She loved the old Formica table with its scratches from years of cutting bread on it for the kids’ doorstep sandwiches. She loved the worn blue lino on the floor and the chipped mugs from the market.

It was her home, not his. The haven she had tried to create in the complete chaos that was her life with a man who saw nothing but what he wanted, what he needed.

Picking up the hammer, she walked slowly through the house, taking in all its sights and smells before finally she walked into the bedroom to find her husband. Her legal mate who was lying across the bed, his face bitten and scratched by his own daughter. The girl he had taken like an animal. Oh, she knew how it would have been for Wendy, she had experienced it herself on many occasions.

Looking down at her husband Susan felt a hatred so intense she felt she could murder the world if she had to just so she could protect her kids.

‘What have you caused this time, Bal? You took her with your diseased body, like she was nothing - nothing at all. I hope it was worth it, wherever you are. I hope you felt it was worth it. I only wish you could really feel this, you drunken bastard. That you could look into my face and feel the fear your child felt.’

Susan raised the hammer above her head and brought it down with as much force as she could on his skull.

She repeated the act over one hundred times until there was nothing left of him. Nothing recognisable anyway.

Barry Dalston was gone for ever.

Susan was spattered with blood, bone and brain. She walked calmly from the room and made herself another coffee, afterwards smoking another cigarette. Then, pulling on her old coat, she walked to the phone box and dialled the police.

Doreen watched her from her bedroom window and felt a tear slide from her eye as she realised what her friend had done. But unlike the rest of the world she knew why her friend had done it.

No one would ever hear the real reason, not from her anyway. Susan had only been protecting her kids, as any decent mother would.

When the police arrived she had them all bedded down and asleep. Except Wendy, who was waiting patiently at her gran’s for Roselle to pick her up and keep her until her bruises disappeared and she could face the world without revealing exactly what had been done to her.

BOOK THREE 1985

‘No time like the present’

- Mrs Manley (
The Lost Lover
, 1696), 1663-1724

‘From marrying in haste, and repenting at leisure; Not liking the person, yet liking his treasure.’

- Elizabeth Thomas, 1675-1731

‘What’s done cannot be undone.’

- William Shakespeare (
Macbeth
, 1606), 1564-1616

Chapter Twenty-One

Susan awoke to the noise of prison. It was a strange awakening, a banging on a door, a shout and then bedlam. As she opened her eyes she saw her new cellmate staring down at her.

Matty Enderby, hair immaculate, face cleansed and eyebrows severely plucked, smiled gently.

‘Feeling better this morning?’

She had a husky voice, the kind of voice a porn queen should have. It was low, sexy, and held a hint of promise.

‘Fuck off.’ Susan’s voice was gravelly from sleep and cigarettes. She coughed harshly, making Matty reel back in disgust.

‘Shall I get you a cup of tea?’

Susan nodded. ‘My mouth feels like a buzzard’s crutch.’

Matty recoiled once more and Susan laughed.

‘You’re obviously a very genteel con so I’ll moderate my language accordingly. In other words, piss off and get me tea.’

Matty left the cell and Susan sat up in her bunk.

She felt and looked dreadful.

Slipping from the bed, she picked up a towel and a bar of Camay. Then, staring in the small mirror attached to the wall above the sink, she poked out her tongue. She looked and felt ugly. Inside and out.

Her hair, which had never been her best feature, hung lifelessly around her shoulders. Its colour seemed to have faded from the lack of sunlight. Her skin was blotched from sleep, her chin looked like a haven for blackheads and her nose was flaky.

Only her eyes seemed alive and they were the eyes of a stranger. Alert, bright, full of wisdom and trouble.

Matty came back in with the teas and placed Susan’s on the table by the door.

‘It stinks in here.’

Susan nodded.

‘I’m sorry, I was sweating like a pig in the night.’

‘You were dreaming, mumbling and snorting.’

Susan grinned. ‘And, knowing me, probably farting and all. Beans were never my favourite food.’

She knew she was making the other women feel uncomfortable and she didn’t care. After her sojourn in Durham, all she needed was to be celled up with a finicky bitch like Matilda Enderby. What were they thinking of?

Instead of posters of naked men with dongers the size of baseball bats, she was in a cell with posters of bowls of fruit and women in old-fashioned clothes eating picnics on green grassy banks.

It was all too strange for her.

She was used to the rough and tumble of prison life. It had a sense of purpose to it. Beating the system. Being part of the sisterhood. Joking about men and their attributes, pretending they were all missing a leg over when in reality it was the last thing on their minds.

With this new cellmate she was stuck in some kind of alternative universe where people ate cucumber sandwiches and played by the rules.

It felt wrong.

Susan sipped her tea and stared once more at the posters.

‘They’re paintings by Monet.’

She shrugged, uninterested.

‘Really? I thought they were posters.’

She drank the tea down fast, savouring the sweetness of it. Then, stripping off her night attire, she wrapped a towel around her and walked from the cell. As she made her way to the showers she encountered women of all shapes, colours and persuasions. Some smiled. Others looked at her warily, her reputation having preceded her.

She knew they were waiting to see what she was like before they offered her anything, let alone friendship. But Susan understood this, could feel secure in the prison environment. With Matty she felt as if she was caught up in some kind of game.

In the showers she stood under the lukewarm water and shivered as she waited for her body to acclimatise. Then, soaping herself all over, she washed her hair and started to rinse.

A young black girl with tribal marks on her face offered her a tube of Head and Shoulders.

‘That soap will ruin your hair, man. Use this.’

Susan nodded gratefully and did as she was bidden.

Savouring the creamy lather she enjoyed herself, taking pleasure in the simple act of washing her lank and greasy hair.

In the shower beside her two women were kissing but Susan ignored them, uncaring. Knowing that privacy was a thing of the past, she walked out of the showers without giving them a backward glance. The privacy she gave them was not to look, not to take notice. Leave them be. It was an unwritten prison rule.

As she walked back to her cell she dried herself on the rough towel. A PO with a severe countenance and shocking red hair waylaid her.

‘Name?’ The command was clipped and hard.

‘Dalston, Susan, PX4414.’

The woman nodded. ‘Visit at one-fifteen.’

Susan nodded and went on her way.

She hoped it was the kids but she didn’t hold out too much hope. The social services were being tricky again. Trying to talk her into all sorts of things. She pushed it from her head, knowing it was futile in her present position to think about certain things. It was a knack you developed to stop yourself going mad.

Twenty minutes later she was reading her mail, the usual daily letter from the kids. Barry’s scrawled ‘I love yous’, and Alana’s little note talking about her new school and new friends. Susan held the two letters to her breast as if she could absorb the words into her body.

Then she opened Wendy’s letter, her heart in her mouth. Her eldest girl was already a woman at fifteen. She’d had no choice. Her letters were adult, their content adult.

It was this that worried her mother the most.

Unlike Alana’s talk of make up and pop groups, fashion and television, Wendy’s letter discussed how the other kids were doing. How Rosie, the acknowledged perfect child, was faring at her foster home with the Simpsons. How nice they were but still not her real parents and never could be all the time her mother was alive.

These letters frightened Susan for more reasons than one.

Wendy blamed herself for everything, and she shouldn’t, she had no reason to. Susan had to remind her of that constantly.

It had been hard in Durham, the journey so long and difficult. Susan didn’t see the kids much, and when she did it was fraught. They were overexcited when they finally saw her and consequently played up, all vying for her attention. Then there was little Rosie who didn’t really know her any more and cried when Susan picked her up.