Between You and Me (18 page)

‘Charlie, please. I’m not lying – let’s not ruin what has been a lovely week. Come on, Charlie?’ I say, my voice trickling out in a thin moan, backing up to the kitchen counter as far as I can, trying to get as far away from you as possible. You seem to stumble as the boiling liquid arcs out of the mug, over my bare arm, and I look up to see Laura’s horrified face gazing in through the kitchen window.

Chapter Twenty-Six

CHARLIE

I spy the receipt on the kitchen worktop immediately, as I’m putting the phone charger back in the kitchen drawer. Lying there, snug among the safety pins, old keys, and other bits of tat that seem to collect in this drawer, is a brand-new, shiny white phone charger, the plastic seal still wrapped around the lead. I know what has happened straight away – Sal couldn’t find the phone charger and so has rushed out to buy another one. I don’t know why I can’t just accept it, just leave things alone and get on with having a pleasant evening with my family, and a part of me
does
want to just forget about it, but it suddenly strikes me that this is the perfect opportunity. This is the perfect time to really question Sal about something that I know won’t be lied about – giving me the chance to make it easier for me to tell when Sal is actually lying.

I lean out of the kitchen window and roar at Sal to come in, waving the white slip of paper high over my head, all the time watching Sal’s body language for clues. As I scream and make my accusations, Sal plays right into my hands, denying everything I toss out and telling me what I already know. I watch carefully, absorbing every fleeting expression that crosses Sal’s face, every muscle twitch, feeling the weight of those chocolate-dark eyes staring into mine as Sal
begs
me to believe what I’m being told. I close my eyes briefly, a perfect snapshot of Sal’s face imprinted into my memory bank, to be brought out at a later date to prove to me whether Sal is lying or telling the truth.

Now I have what I want, I can’t bear to listen to Sal bleating on any more – today’s meeting with Radu Popescu has already pushed me to my limits. I am feeling frazzled and stressed. I am damned if I know how I am going to sort this problem out, and given that it’s Sal’s fault I am working on this case – let’s face it, I am fighting to make partner so Sal can stay at home and keep house, stay home under my control because Sal can’t be trusted out in the real world – unfortunately this means Sal is going to get the brunt of it. If I can’t completely control the outcome of the Pavlenco deal, I can at least control what goes on in my own home. Now, as I scream and shout and wave things around, I am too far gone to stop myself. Of course Sal bought a new charger if the old one was missing – even I would have done the same thing. But, irrationally, even though I know Sal is telling the truth, I have convinced myself Sal is trying to make me look like a fool. I can’t back down now and say, ‘Oh, sorry, Sal, my mistake.’ I’d look like a right idiot, and the fact that Sal has made me feel this way means the only course of action is to carry on. Anger is still coursing through me, and I can’t help it. I feel nothing but contempt for Sal, for all those people who won’t stand up for themselves properly. Before I even realise what I’m doing, I snatch at the boiling cup of tea and the hot liquid lands directly on Sal’s arm.

Slamming out of the house, I make my way up the hill to the park, a short distance from our house. A huge green space, dotted with oak and birch trees and surrounded by a circular footpath, it’s the perfect place to escape and get away from everything. I find an empty bench and throw myself down, breathing heavily. It’s not my fault, I tell myself. If Sal didn’t do these things, didn’t wind me up all the time, none of this stuff would ever have to happen. Sal knows I have a temper, but does everything possible to make me lose it. Why not just tell me the phone charger was lost, instead of sneaking it into the house like it’s forbidden contraband – am I that awful? Why lie about stuff all the time?
Did my dad think like this?
In all honesty, I called him dad but he wasn’t my father. My real father died when I was six, a lump that turned out not to be harmless taking him away from me and my mother for ever within eight short months. I didn’t really understand at the time what was happening, and my mother obviously didn’t feel the need to explain properly. I barely remember him; it’s like I came home from school one day and he was gone.

Within a few short weeks my new ‘dad’ arrived. Looking back, I think he must have been hovering in the background for a while, but who knows? My mother is not the kind of woman who can be on her own. He was all very charming and polite, until he got his feet under the table and somehow persuaded her to marry him. Before my real dad had been gone six months, they were married and I was told I wasn’t to call him Clive any more, but must call him ‘dad’. I rebelled against it, crying and begging my mum not to make me – I already had a dad, he just wasn’t there – but all it got me was a mighty slap to the side of the head and an evening locked alone in my bedroom. That was just the beginning. Clive ruled our house with an iron fist, (in my head, he was always Clive, although I never made the mistake of calling him that to his face again). He was clearly resentful of my being there, preferring whenever he could to get my mother alone. I didn’t understand why he had chosen us – surely he must have realised I existed, that I came with my mother as part of a package? As I grew up, I realised he probably hadn’t known about me in the beginning. I was doubtful my mother had ever said anything about me until it was too late, so that she didn’t lose him and end up on her own.

My father had left a small amount of money to my mother when he died, along with a small legacy for me, apparently to help me get through university. Once Clive had that ring on my mother’s finger he also got access to the money. He burnt through it in less than a year, and we went from a family that was doing OK, to a family that was pretty much permanently skint. I went from having the latest trainers and being able to go on all the school trips, to being the kid that had second-hand clothes (right down to my shoes), and who could only go on the school trips if the school had enough put by to pay for those kids who couldn’t afford the ‘voluntary contribution’. Clive, however, still managed to spend an inordinate amount of time on the golf course and still enjoyed his bottle of Bushmills most evenings.

The more Bushmills sunk of an evening, the higher the number of slaps dished out. I prayed so hard some nights for a brother or sister, someone who could take a share of the blows. In the beginning I had been defiant, telling Clive he wasn’t my dad and couldn’t tell me what to do, but after feeling the back of his hand repeatedly, it was just easier to shut up and put up with it all. My mother went from a bright, intelligent woman, not afraid to speak her mind or throw back her head in laughter, to an empty shell. A woman who was there but not really there at the same time. We tiptoed around Clive, always unsure every evening what kind of mood he would be in, knowing that if the front gate slammed shut, rather than quietly clicked, we were in for a stormy evening.

The final straw comes just before I turn eighteen. I have just finished my A-levels and am planning to go into town to meet some friends to celebrate.

As I make my way down the stairs, Clive is waiting at the bottom, glass in hand, alcohol fumes pouring off him in waves.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ He shoves his meaty face right in mine, breathing his toxic breath all over me. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, blocking my way.

‘Just to town. I’ve finished my last exams today; I’m meeting a couple of people to celebrate. Excuse me, please.’ I move forward in an attempt to get past him.

‘I don’t think so.’ He raises a hand and pushes me back slightly. ‘Your mother says your room is a shit-hole. I suggest you get back up there and sort it out – you’re going nowhere.’

I can’t help it. Just who does he think he is?

‘Sorry, what? No,
Clive
, I am not a child – I am going out to meet my friends and celebrate the end of my exams. I’m sick to death of your bullying. You’re not my dad – in fact, you’re nothing to me – so why don’t you just fuck off?’ I go to push past him again, my heart hammering in my chest so hard it hurts. I haven’t stood up to him since I was a child. Slowly, deliberately, he places his whisky glass on the telephone table.

‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ he hisses in my face.

‘I am
not your child
,’ I hiss back, gasping as he grabs my wrists, pulling them up high and throwing me back against the wall. Pinning me to the wall by my wrists, he screams into my face. I turn my face away, spittle landing on my cheek, his whisky-infused breath hot and sour in my face. He clasps a fistful of my hair, pulling me down the stairs before grabbing my head and slamming it against the wall. ‘That’s for giving me cheek, you little fucker. You and your mother would be nothing without me. Get the fuck out of my sight.’

I lie, dazed, at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes, before turning and slowly crawling up them, my wrists and head throbbing with every step. Climbing into bed, I pull the covers high, my head sore and tender where it meets the pillow. A little while later, I hear the bedroom door open and my mother enters. She places a cold glass of water and a packet of paracetamol on the bedside table, and then lays a cool hand on my forehead.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Mum. Are you joking? I’m not
ill
.’ I push her hand away and struggle to sit up.

‘No darling, I know, I … look, I’ve bought you a glass of water and some tablets.’ She gestures to the table.

‘Jesus. Seriously, Mum, did you see what he did to me? Aren’t you going to speak to him, tell him it’s not on? He’s lucky I’m not going to press charges – it’s assault, for Christ’s sake. I’m not a kid, Mum. He can’t treat me like that.’ I stare hard at her, willing her for once, just this once, to be on my side. To defend me over him.

‘Well, darling, you did provoke him. You didn’t have to say those things, you know. He has provided for us since your father left.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Mum! He didn’t
leave
– he fucking
died
. It’s not like he chose to leave us!’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing, her words making me feel just as sick as my bruises. ‘I provoked him, did I? Have I been provoking him for the past twelve years? He’s a bully, Mum, and you just let him get away with it. I’m your
child
; I should come before anyone.’ She turns her head away and starts fussing with the duvet cover.

‘Charlie, you don’t understand what it’s like, to be a mother on your own, with a child. You don’t know how difficult it was for me to cope after your father died. Clive saved me.’ Tears fill her eyes, and I start to feel even sicker than I did before.

‘What are you saying, Mum? That it’s OK for Clive to do these things? Are you saying you’ll always support Clive over me?’ She bows her head, tears making damp marks like tiny clouds on the duvet. She won’t make eye contact with me.

‘Fine, OK.’ I grab the tablets and swill three down with a huge gulp of water. I push the covers back and pull my jeans back on, a wave of dizziness making me stagger.

‘Charlie, wait … what are you doing?’ My mother grasps my arm and I shake her off, pulling an old holdall out of the wardrobe. I begin stuffing clothes and toiletries into it, refusing to look at her.

‘What does it look like, Mum? I’m leaving. You’ve made your decision; I’ll let you get on with it. You’re on your own.’ Zipping up the holdall, I throw it over my shoulder and head downstairs. ‘And don’t come crying to me when he starts on you.’

‘Charlie, please. Just think about it. Don’t be hasty.’ She tries once more to grab my arm but I’m out the front door before she can reach me.

I haven’t been back since. I spent a few weeks sleeping on various friends’ couches before heading to London, university and my new life. I didn’t go back for Clive’s funeral a few years later, and although I call my mum at Christmas, it’s more just to check she’s still alive; a duty call, if you like. I’m past caring whether she’s happy. She made her decision all those years ago and I can never forgive her for choosing that man over her own child.

The sun is going down and it’s starting to get chilly sitting on my lonely park bench. I feel calmer now, ready to go back and sort things out with Sal. The red mist that descends more strongly with each row has lifted and I suppose I should go back and check Sal’s arm is OK. If only Sal didn’t wind me up so much, this would never happen. Sometimes I worry I’m no better than Clive, that I’m just as much of an animal as he was. But then I think,
No
. He didn’t have the kind of high-powered, stressful job that I have. He wasn’t responsible for thousands and thousands of pounds at work every day; he worked in a fucking factory, for God’s sake. And no matter how angry I get, no matter how strongly the red mist has me in its grip, I would never hurt a child; I would never hurt Maggie. Clive was a sad, sadistic bully who was only happy when he was making others miserable. That’s not me – I am in no way anything like Clive – in fact, you could say I’m just the opposite. Yeah, sure, I lose my temper, but not because I want to make my family miserable. I want us to be
happy
. I want us to be strong, a team, a family that is going to be together for ever. Sal just needs to learn to rein it in a bit. If Sal would just learn to do what I ask, to do what I want to make us all happy, then none of this would ever happen, would it?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

SAL

I cry out in pain as the scalding liquid hits my arm, splashing down onto the kitchen counter where it forms a steaming pool. As I raise my eyes to yours, I see something from the corner of my eye – Laura’s face, framed with a red halo where the sun streams in behind her, eyes wide with horror. You don’t notice; you’re too busy looking at me in disgust before you turn abruptly and stalk out of the kitchen. A few seconds later I hear the front door slam.

Wiping away the tears that leak soundlessly from my eyes, I switch on the kitchen tap and try to hold my burnt arm underneath the cooling stream, a hot flush of shame staining my cheeks. Laura lets herself in, fumbling with the door handle in her haste to get to me.