The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (16 page)

No.

It was always coming. Before that night; before we got married; before we met. That was Charlo.

Why did you marry him then, Paula?

Fuck off and leave me alone.

He. Hit. Me.)

I was feeling low that night. I was feeling low and slimy. Low and slimy and mean. I was fed up and pissed off because he hadn't come home. Again. He hadn't been coming home for the last month. Since I'd started becoming seriously pregnant. Since I'd started looking wet and fat and white.
Why didn't you make the effort, Paula?
He came home later and later with drink on him.
Could you not have had a nice dinner waiting for him, Paula?
He'd say nothing to me.
Or the fire lit?
He'd grunt his answers when I tried to get us talking.

It had been bad for a good while. The honeymoon hadn't lasted long. He still came home, but sat staring at the telly. He wouldn't look at me. Then he came home later. Then later. Drunk and dirty from the site; he didn't even wash himself. Sometimes he'd come in straight after work, smiling — shy looking — as if he'd decided to start all over again. I'd be thrilled, every time; madly in love. It never lasted, though. There were always rows again. Even before we got married. He got worse. He'd pick rows with me for nothing. Why wasn't I wearing a smock his sister had given me?
Could you not have been more considerate, Paula?
Why had I set the alarm clock wrong?
Could you not have been more careful, Paula?
Why was the floor so dirty?
Well, Paula?
Where's my tea?
Well, Paula?
Make your own fuckin' tea.
Well now, Paula.

I couldn't give him what he wanted, a pregnant wife who wasn't really pregnant. He saw me expanding and wilting and he couldn't handle it. He wouldn't. He wanted a baby but he didn't want anything to do with getting it. I was no good to him, an insult to him. Temporary wasn't a word he understood. He wanted nothing to do with me the way I was now. He hated what he saw. He hated me. (I'm so wise now, so handy with the analysis. I make it up as I go along. It's all shite. I change my mind every day.) I told him I'd soon have my figure back, after the baby was born. I tried to say it cheerfully, like I'd just thought it up, like I wasn't responding to his eyes. I'd backed into him in bed the night before, trying to make him hard. I wanted to feel him getting bigger against me; I was trying to prove myself wrong. I wanted to prove that I could still make him do it, that he wanted to do it. He loved me. I wanted him to ride me, to fuck me; I didn't care how. He pushed me back and turned away. He said nothing. I went into the living room to cry. He was snoring when I went back in. There was no room for me in the bed the way he was lying. I had to get a corner for myself and push with my feet. I lay on the bed. It was cold and I was sweating. I don't think I slept. I made his sandwiches for him the next morning. He took them and went. He kissed me goodbye.

—Take care of yourself, he said.

I stayed in the flat all day. I spent most of the time deciding whether to visit my mother or not, until it was too late. I was too tired and heavy. I was restless but I didn't want to move. I was afraid to move. He came in that night. He'd been drinking. He wasn't drunk, though. It wasn't that late.
We all do stupid things when we're drunk, Paula.
He wasn't drunk. He even washed himself, a sign that he wasn't drunk. He changed his t-shirt. He still had some of his summer tan. He shaved. The two of us in the kitchen. He whistled. All The Young Dudes, I think it was; an impossible song to whistle. I felt bad now. My imagination had led me astray. Everything was fine. We were happily married. But I wanted to say something.

—Where were you?

—Campions.

I had to say something definite. I had to let him know.

—Nice?

—Yep.

He dried his face with a tea towel. He sat down at the table. I stood looking at him. He looked at me. He looked straight at me. It was a good, honest look. I was feeling so bad, so mean.

—Well? he said.

—Well what?

—The dinner.

—There isn't any.

He laughed. There was no anger in it, no shock, no sarcasm. He was so nice. He looked at the cooker and at me again.

—How come?

He looked away.

—I didn't know if you'd want any.

—What?

—I didn't know if you'd be home.

I didn't know if you loved me. I didn't know if you cared. I didn't fuckin' feel like it. I got it all wrong. I'm a cow. I'm a useless cunt.

—I'm here, amn't I?

I felt bad.

—Amn't I?

—Yeah.

I was a lump, a cow. Of course, he was here. After a hard day's work. Waiting for his dinner.

—It's just, I said. —It's just. You didn't touch it last night. And —

—I wasn't hungry last night, he said. —And now I am.

—Sorry, Charlo. It's just hard to tell.

I had to say something to him, something about the other times. I wasn't inventing things.

—What's that supposed to mean?

—I don't know what to do. I didn't know if you'd be home tonight. Like last night. I don't know where I stand with you, Charlo. I don't.

—Stop talking shite, will yeh.

—I'm not.

—You are.

—I'm not, Charlo. I mean it.

—Mean what? At least make us a cup of fuckin' tea.

There.

He hit me. He sent me across the kitchen and I hit the sink and fell. I felt nothing, only shock. A spinning in my head. I knew nothing for a while, where I was, who was with me, what I was doing on the floor. I saw nothing; I was empty. Then I saw his legs, making a triangle with the floor. He seemed way up over me. Way up; huge. I had to bend back to see him. Then he came down to me. I saw his knees bending; I saw his hand pulling up one of his trouser legs. I saw his face. His eyes were going over my face, every inch, every mark. He was worried. He was shocked and worried. He loved me again. He held my chin. He skipped over my eyes. He couldn't look straight at me. He felt guilty, dreadful. He loved me again. What happened? I provoked him. I was to blame. I should have made his dinner. It was my own fault; there was a pair of us in it. What happened? I don't know. He held my chin and looked at every square inch of my face. He loved me again.

Ask me. Ask me. Ask me.

Here goes.

Broken nose. Loose teeth. Cracked ribs. Broken finger. Black eyes. I don't know how many; I once had two at the same time, one fading, the other new. Shoulders, elbows, knees, wrists. Stitches in my mouth. Stitches on my chin. A ruptured eardrum. Burns. Cigarettes on my arms and legs. Thumped me, kicked me, pushed me, burned me. He butted me with his head. He held me still and butted me; I couldn't believe it. He dragged me around the house by my clothes and by my hair. He kicked me up and he kicked me down the stairs. Bruised me, scalded me, threatened me. For seventeen years. Hit me, thumped me, raped me. Seventeen years. He threw me into the garden. He threw me out of the attic. Fists, boots, knee, head. Bread knife, saucepan, brush. He tore out clumps of my hair. Cigarettes, lighter, ashtray. He set fire to my clothes. He locked me out and he locked me in. He hurt me and hurt me and hurt me. He killed parts of me. He killed most of me. He killed all of me. Bruised, burnt and broken. Bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Seventeen years of it. He never gave up. Months went by and nothing happened, but it was always there — the promise of it.

Leave me alone!

Don't hit my mammy!

I promise!

I promise!

I promise!

For seventeen years. There wasn't one minute when I wasn't afraid, when I wasn't waiting. Waiting for him to go, waiting for him to come. Waiting for the fist, waiting for the smile. I was brainwashed and brain-dead, a zombie for hours, afraid to think, afraid to stop, completely alone. I sat at home and waited. I mopped up my own blood. I lost all my friends, and most of my teeth. He gave me a choice, left or right; I chose left and he broke the little finger on my left hand. Because I scorched one of his shirts. Because his egg was too hard. Because the toilet seat was wet. Because because because. He demolished me. He destroyed me. And I never stopped loving him. I adored him when he stopped. I was grateful, so grateful, I'd have done anything for him. I loved him. And he loved me.

I promise!

I promise!

Don't hit my mammy!

I loved him. He was everything and I was nothing. I provoked him. I was stupid. I forgot. I needed him.

I buried a baby because of him.

He burned money in front of me.

—How will you cope?

He slashed my good coat.

—Where'll the money come from for a new one?

He picked me up off the ground. And I loved him. He picked me up and held me. He cried on my head. I needed him. For years I thought that I needed him, that I could never recover without him; I was looking for everything I got. I provoked him. I was useless. I couldn't even cook a fry properly, or wash a good shirt.

I promise!

I was hopeless, useless, good for fuckin' nothing. I lived through years of my life thinking that they were the most important things about me, the only real things. I couldn't cope, I couldn't earn, I needed him. I needed him to show me the way; I needed him to punish me. I was hopeless and stupid, good for only sex, and I wasn't even very good at mat. He said. That was why he went to other women.

—Can you fuckin' blame me?

I could smell them off him. He called me other names when we were in bed. He rubbed me and called me Mary and Bernie. He laughed. He closed his eyes and called me Chrissie. I could see him looking at them. Knackers and dirtbirds. Bleach and false teeth. He came home with their smell on him and then he had me. For afters. He even came home with lipstick on his collar. It must have been deliberate. The lousy bitch, whoever she was. The lousy cheap bitch, kissing his collar. She must have known.

I lost a child because of him.

There were days when I didn't exist; he saw through me and walked around me. I was invisible. There were days when I liked not existing. I closed down, stopped thinking, stopped looking. There were children out there but they had nothing to do with me. Their dirty faces swam in front of me. Their noises came from miles away. There were rooms, food, clothes — nothing. There was a face in a mirror. I could make it smile and not smile. There was a warped, bruised face. There was a red-marked neck. There was a burnt breast.

Leave my mammy alone!

I promise!

I promise!

There were days when I couldn't even feel pain. They were the best ones. I could see it happening but it meant nothing; it wasn't happening. There was no ground under me, nothing to fall to. I was able not to care. I could float. I didn't exist.

The second time he hit me he grabbed my hair and pulled me to him. I saw him changing his mind as he hauled me in. His grip loosened. He stared at me and let go. Another mistake; he hadn't meant it. I saw it in his eyes; that wasn't Charlo. Charlo was the one who let go, not the one who'd grabbed me. I can't remember why; I can't remember exactly when. I was still pregnant. Sunday morning, before we went to mass. I can't remember why. Something to do with breakfast, but I'm not sure. He was talking to me, giving me a lecture or something. I looked away, began to raise my eyes to heaven. (That was a habit he beat out of me.) I felt the rush and the sting on my ear, the air exploded and I was yanked forward. I stepped quickly to stay on my feet. My ear was hot and huge. I might have screamed. My skin was coming off the side of my head. I stepped forward, and looked at him. My hands — the palms landed on his chest. His face changed. He let go of my hair. I said nothing. I watched his face. I wasn't scared now; I hadn't time to be. He took his fingers out of my hair. He might have wiped them on his trousers. I watched him. He looked caught, cornered. He said nothing. He backed off. The side of my head settled into a throb. The left side; I can still feel it. He went into the kitchen. He said nothing. No sorrys, no excuses. I wish I could remember it all; it doesn't matter. I could make it up and it would still be true. He'd hit me again. We went to mass together. He bought me a Flake on the way home. I used to break them before I unwrapped them. Then I'd open the wrapper very carefully, slowly and I'd take out the bigger pieces, men the smaller ones. Then I'd make a funnel of the wrapper and empty the chocolate dust into my mouth. He watched me while I did it. I didn't offer him any. He smiled. I was making a fool of myself. He liked that. I was his little fool. I didn't care. His smile meant lots of things. I smiled back. Over and done with; another mistake. We went to my parents' house. It was Sunday. He helped me off the bus. I was his pregnant wife. He walked at my pace, crawled along beside me. We walked side by side. We talked.

—Don't hit my mammy!

Leanne's voice. Leanne's arms around my leg, clinging to me. Her fingers pulling a back pocket of my jeans. Her feet under mine. As he went around me. And I turned to keep facing him. Trying to keep Leanne behind me.

—It's alright, love.

To Leanne. Patting her head. Her fingers pulling at my pocket. Her face pushed into me. Looking at her father. Looking at his fists. At his face. Her face pressed into me, wetting me. Not being able to see her. My hand on her head.

—It's okay.

Having to keep my eyes on Charlo. Pleading with him, holding him back. Feeling Leanne's shivering. Keeping him back. Making sure I faced him. Making sure she stayed behind me. Making sure I didn't let her become a shield. Her hand gripping my jeans. Her heart beating. Keeping my eyes on Charlo's eyes.

He once asked me how I'd got my black eye. I didn't know why, what he was up to. It scared me. We'd just been talking, about something on the telly. We used to watch the News; this was years ago. I think it was during the Hunger Strikes. Charlo was big into the H Blocks. He knew all the names, how many days they'd gone without food; he was an expert. He'd have loved to have been in there with them. I said that to him.

—Yeah, he said back.

He didn't even know I was slagging him. He wore a black armband all around the place, put it on before his trousers every morning. He still ate like a pig, though, and drank like one. We were watching the News, commenting on it, and he asked me where I'd got my black eye. I kept looking at the telly. I was being tested; I was sure I was. There was a right answer. But this came out of nowhere. There hadn't been a row. There wasn't any tension. We'd been getting along fine, chatting away about the world and the H Blocks. It was nice; the trick was to agree with everything he said. Then he came out with it.

—Where'd you get that?

—What?

—The eye.

It was a test. I was thumping inside. He was playing with me. There was only one right answer.

—I walked into the door.

—Is that right?

—Yeah.

—Looks sore.

—It's not too bad.

—Good.

He was messing with me, playing. Like a cat with an injured bird. With his black armband, the fucker. Keeping me on my toes, keeping me in my place. Pretending he didn't remember. Pretending he'd never seen black and red around and in that eye before. Pretending he cared. I didn't believe he'd forgotten, not even for a second. He wanted me to think that — or that he was sick, having blackouts, that he was like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde, a schizophrenic, that I should feel sorry for him and try to understand. I didn't believe it. He was playing with me. Ruining the night because it was getting too cosy. Only playing. He had me; I could say nothing. I could never fight back. When he wasn't hitting me he was reminding me that he could. He was reminding me and getting me ready. Like the cat playing with the bird, letting it live a bit longer before he killed it.

He put one of his fingers on the bruise. I made sure I stayed absolutely still. I looked ahead, at the telly. The tip of his finger was freezing. He rested it gently under my eye.

—You must have walked right into it, did you?

—Yeah; I wasn't looking.

—Which door?

—Bedroom.

He took his finger away. I could still feel it on my cheekbone.

—Were you drinking?

—No.

—Sure?

—Yeah.

—Just careless.

—Yeah.

—Okay.

I waited for more. I sat beside him and waited.

—I saw you.

—You didn't.

—I fuckin' saw you.

—You didn't, Charlo.

He's making it up as he goes along, making himself believe it; working himself up, building up his excuse. He's getting ready to let go. He's going to beat me; there's no point in arguing, nothing I can do. I should say nothing. But I never learn. I always defend myself. I always provoke him.

—I know what I fuckin' saw, righ'.

He's seen me looking at a man. In the pub; we're just back from the pub, just in the door.

—I didn't look at anyone, Charlo.

His open hand. The sting and the shock, the noise, the smack. He's too fast.

—Say that again.

You never get used to it. Predicting it doesn't matter. Nothing I can do; he has complete control. It's always fresh, always dreadful.

Again.

Always a brand new pain.

The skin doesn't get any harder.

Stay out of the corners; I have to make sure that I don't get caught.

Again.

Buzzing. Things swim and dive. My husband is beating me. A horrible fact. A stranger. Everything collapses.

—Say it.

Again.

A stranger.

—Cunt! Say it.

The back of his hand. Too scared to expect it. Shapes are changing. My hair is grabbed as the hand comes back. Stay out of the corner.

—You fuckin' cunt!

Pulls my head down.

—You fuckin' —

Pushes me, drops me into the corner. Hair rips. A sharper pain. His shoe into my arm, like a cut with a knife. His grunt. He leans on the wall, one hand. His kick hits the fingers holding my arm. I lose them; the agony takes them away. Leans over me. Another grunt, a slash across my chin. My head thrown back. I'm everywhere. Another. Another. I curl away. I close my eyes. My back. Another. My back. My back. My back. My back. Back shatters.

The grunting stops. Breaths. Deep breaths. Wheezing. A moan. I wait. I curl up. My back screams. I don't think, I don't look. I gather the pain. I smooth it.

Noises from far away. Creaks. Lights turned on, off. Water. I'm everywhere. I'm nothing. Someone is breathing. I'm under everything. I won't move; I don't know how to. Someone's in pain. Someone is crying. It isn't me yet. I'm under everything. I'm in black air. Someone is crying. Someone is vomiting. It will be me but not yet.

Do I actually remember that? Is that exactly how it happened? Did my hair
rip?
Did my back
scream}
Did he call me a cunt? Yes, often; all the time. Right then? I don't know. Which time was mat anyway? I don't know. How can I separate one time from the lot and describe it? I want to be honest. How can I be sure? It went on for seventeen years. Seventeen years of being hit and kicked. How can I tell? How many times did he kick me in the back? How many times did I curl up on the floor? How can I remember one time? When did it happen? What date? What day? I don't know. What age was I? I don't know.
It will be me but not yet.
What is that supposed to mean? That I was nearly unconscious; that the pain was unbearable? I'm messing around here. Making things up; a story. I'm beginning to enjoy it. Hair
rips.
Why don't I just say He pulled my hair?
Someone is crying. Someone is vomiting.
I cried,
I
fuckin' well vomited. I choose one word and end up telling a different story. I end up making it up instead of just telling it.
The sting and the shock, the noise, the smack.
I don't want to make it up, I don't want to add to it. I don't want to lie. I don't have to; there's no need. I want to tell the truth. Like it happened. Plain and simple.
My husband is beating me up. A horrible fact. A stranger.
Did any of this actually happen? Yes. Am I sure? Yes.
Absolutely sure, Paula?

I have a hearing problem, a ruptured eardrum. A present from Charlo. It happened. A finger aches when it's going to rain. Little one on the left; he pulled it back till it snapped. It happened. I have places where there should be teeth. There are things I can't smell any more. I have marks where burns used to be. I have a backache that rides me all day. I've a scar on my chin. It happened. I have parts of the house that make me cry. I have memories that I can touch and make me wake up screaming. I'm haunted all day and all night. I have mistakes that stab me before I think of them. He hit me, he thumped me, he raped me. It happened.