Who Are You? (25 page)

‘You are sure you’re OK?’ Rowena had said, screwing her eyes up at Juliet’s still-livid bruise.

Juliet had nodded, the lump in her throat making it difficult to talk without bursting into tears – again.

So, here they are, she and Ben, with just themselves for company. And this is how it will be, she realizes. Just the two of them, leaving the lovely big house behind. Leaving her firm base, everything that she’s yearned for most of her married life, and she is voluntarily chucking it all in. Will it be forever? Is there a chance that they might be able to patch it all up? What’s that cliché? Never say ‘never’. Fucking Alex. Fucking Army. Fucking life. It doesn’t
have
to be like this, does it? And how will Ben react? OK, so he’ll miss Daddy, but blimey, it’s not as though Alex has been a huge part of his life so far, is it? Ben and Mummy is the norm. ‘So,’ Juliet tells herself, ‘remember this is OK. This is nothing new. Alone, on your own, single parenthood, is just normal. She’s got to block these feelings of fear because they only serve to paralyse her into inaction. And what is fear but an abstract concept? It’s relative, it’s controllable and mostly … ordinarily … it’s really not necessary.

All she has to do now is bide her time, prepare thoroughly, and wait for the right moment. Sometimes, Juliet reasons, it’s almost as if the major decisions in life are being made for you; it’s not a question of sitting and thinking, ‘Right, this is what I’m going to do, and this is when I’m going to do it’, it’s a slow, evolving process which includes pondering various forks in the road. Like having the bruises to show Geraldine helped persuade her to get the money for Juliet. Fifteen thousand pounds now sitting inside a shoe box at the bottom of Juliet’s wardrobe. Ben’s appendicitis was horrid, but it meant that Alex was out of the house for two nights and three whole days. The lovely Claire alias Lil’ Miss Happy providing a hideaway. Far from feeling sick with anxiety – her normal state these days – she is beginning to feel a sense of lightness as the anxiety subsides. She can see a way out with Ben. Really, she thinks, what the fuck, she’s a civilian, yes – Army term, right – but she’s a civilian living in London amongst normal people going about their normal day-to-day lives, and she’s trying to join in, but she’s
actually
living in a war zone. She might just as well be in Helmand fighting the bloody Taliban. Alex is jumpy as hell. She’s jumpy too. But, and she knows this from her psychotherapy sessions, if your adrenalin level is constantly being pumped up to enable you to deal with a threatening situation, it takes fewer and fewer stimuli over time to get that adrenalin surge, the fight-or- flight high-alert state of mind which can induce attack or defensive strategies, the required level of anger or fear. You don’t have a gradual progression from la la … isn’t life lovely and relaxed to hmmm, maybe this situation’s a bit different, just give me a bit of time to assimilate it … to take it in … to judge how I should react to it … oh dear … looks like I’d better react cos I just might get killed. Oh no. The adrenalin, stress, PTSD junky is more like:
‘What did you just say … right, I’ll fucking kill you …’

That’s why, Juliet reckons, the prison population is so full of ex-soldiers. That’s why garrison towns have a dread of weekend nights and the inevitable skirmishes at chucking-out time. The Army turns normal human beings into killing machines, and then when it’s finished with them, it spews them back into society and … well … what’s the deal? They aren’t killing machines any more? Oh yeah? Well how exactly does that work?

But the
good
thing is, Juliet is going to leave her killing machine. Weirdly, there is a part of her, despite all that’s happened to her – the bruises, the broken ribs, the black eyes, the cuts, the scars on her skin that can only be seen when she’s naked – that still loves Alex. Oh yeah, she’s tried to convince herself that she doesn’t. Well, who wouldn’t? What kind of a weirdo do you have to be to still love someone who has hurt you mentally – not just physically, who has
hurt
you in every possible way – to admit to yourself, let alone anyone else, that you still love that person? That’s masochism. So when she talks to herself about Alex she tries to convince herself that she doesn’t love him at all. But honestly there’s a bit of her that does. Or is it something other than love? Something akin to love – a love impostor, mimicking the feelings of attachment, reliance, dependence, addiction, need. Yes, that’s it, the unhealthiness of love. The loss of self, the merging into the other, the subsuming of the weaker into the stronger. Not just subsumed, but consumed. Alex has devoured her
almost
totally. But this little shred of Juliet that’s been left is the shred that she now needs to nurture back into a whole person, whoever that might be. Like Ben, she’s almost a person under construction, only with Ben he’s a new build while Juliet is a restoration. Without Alex she’s not even sure she will know who she is because there hasn’t been any room inside herself
for
herself for so long. Perhaps, she wonders, if there has ever been much room inside herself for the real Juliet to thrive.

*    *    *    *    *

Alex calls home. Although he’s fairly confident Juliet won’t have left, he still feels a surge of relief when she picks up the home landline. It’s a fairly cursory conversation along the lines of ‘How’s Ben …’ even ‘Happy New Year …’ and his brief description of what he calls the tortuous reeling party, the freezing house and his ill-disciplined nephews and nieces. He hears that Juliet saw in the New Year with only Jules Holland on the box for company. He learns that Ben is getting stronger and beginning to get more physically active and generally being more Ben-like. He suspects that Ben’s recovery will bring their departure another step nearer.

Alex knows that his mother has been very withdrawn during their trip; in fact on the flight north, she barely spoke a word to him, unless it was to voice her concern about Ben. He’s not a fool. He can guess why she’s so reticent towards him. But he chooses not to acknowledge her upset, because then he might have to revisit what he’d done; and that, in turn, would cause him shame. His mother’s always been proud of him and it’s only natural that her loss of respect for him is deeply painful. She saw Juliet’s bruises. She now knows the truth about him. But what it boils down to, at the end of the day – God, he hates that expression – is just one single issue. He loves his mother. He feels protective towards her. He would hate to hurt her in any way. But his main struggle with her is the issue of respect. The thing is, there’s always been the residual feeling, buried inside him, that she could have done more to make things different. If she’d been a bit more assertive with his father, if she’d been more assertive over his schooling, then maybe Alex’s life could have been a hell of a lot easier and perhaps he wouldn’t be the person he is now. Alex doesn’t particularly like himself, but again that’s not something that requires any self-indulgent navel-gazing. He is who he is. Like everyone else. If you asked anyone to say, honestly, whether they
really
liked themselves, what answer would you get?

His mother is weak. A reactionary, passive creature who has been pretty much used and abused for most of her life. An heiress unable to control her own fortune, married to an abusive man, with a son who had no choice other than to shut down emotionally and therefore distance himself from her. Oh yes, there were things that happened between them; things that neither of them have discussed and which Alex would never raise. You don’t as a general rule say over your gin and tonic, Oh, by the way, Mummy, do you remember that night when Dad was holding a knife to your throat? When I came in and got between you? Oh hell, what a funny old time we had. What it all boils down to is the suppression, the blocking of unpleasantness, of things that are just too vile to think about. It’s unfortunate because in many ways it could have brought them closer, but actually it’s become, to Alex at least, more of a hideous example of powerlessness. It is the beginning of a pattern of powerlessness which eventually transforms itself into anger and aggression, either turned inwards upon himself or outwards against others. Funny old life, the way patterns just keep on repeating and repeating.

But not this time. Alex will never ever again be without power or control.

PART

2

RETREAT

CHAPTER

17

Juliet checks Ben in the rear-view mirror. He is crying. She reaches into her handbag, which is open on the passenger seat beside her and finds what she’s looking for, a packet of cereal bars. She hands one to Ben who is strapped into his seat in the back. ‘K’you, Mummy.’

He’s quiet for a few moments, and then he asks: ‘Where are we going, Mummy?’

‘To the country, darling. It’s an adventure. I promise, you’re going to love it.’

‘Why isn’t Daddy coming, Mummy?’

‘Because Daddy’s too busy.’

‘I want Daddy to come. Why’s he too busy?’

‘Just because, Ben. Now be quiet, there’s a good boy, I’m trying to concentrate on driving.’

‘Want Daddy. Can we phone Daddy? Can we ask him to come?’

‘No, Ben. Now shut up, OK?’

‘But I want Daddy …’

Juliet sighs. She has to stop herself from shouting at him, ‘Well you can’t have bloody Daddy …’ Instead she ignores him. Her headache is killing her and they’ve still got a long drive in front of them. Every few seconds she glances in the rear-view mirror to check that the van is still within sight. She doesn’t quite trust them. They came out of the small ads. Man with van. And it’s only a small van, because Mark’s house is furnished. He and his partner arrived at Richmond Park Avenue at ten o’clock this morning. She sensed they’d seen it all before. When it was time to collect Ben from school they had almost finished the loading. Over the past couple of weeks she had been preparing, bagging things up, putting the bags into the backs of wardrobes, any space she could find where Alex wouldn’t notice. Ben’s toys were the challenge. Not because Alex would notice, but because Ben had a solid inventory in his head of just about every little thing he possessed. Then there were Juliet’s clothes – just winter ones for now – and a few items which she was really attached to, and some essential kitchen equipment which she guessed Mark wouldn’t have.

They have travelled beyond the motorway lights and can’t see the van so easily now, so she slips into the inside lane and waits for it to catch up.

‘I need a wee …’

‘No you don’t, Ben.’ She sighs again.

‘I do, Mummy. Otherwise I’m going to wet my pants.’

‘Oh for God’s sake …’

‘I need a wee NOW!’

‘We can’t stop, Ben. If we do we’ll lose the van with all our things.’

‘Why has the van got all our things?’

‘Because we’re going to a new house.’

‘Will Daddy be there?’

‘No. Daddy won’t be there.’

‘Why won’t Daddy be there? I want Daddy …’

‘BEN, WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT UP!’

‘I want to go home …’

‘We are going home. To a new house. You’ll like it. There’ll be lots of lovely places to play. A new bedroom. It’s going to be exciting. I promise.’

‘I don’t want to go to a new house. I want our old house. I want MY bed, Mummy. And I want a wee.’

Juliet picks up the half-full water bottle held in the cup-holder. She unscrews the cap and then opens the window. She empties the water from the bottle into the slipstream, and the draft of air almost pulls it out of her hand. The sudden jet of cold hits her in the face and Ben cries, ‘No, Mummy, that’s cold.’

She closes the window. She hands him the bottle. ‘Ben, darling. Can you wee into this?’

‘Wee into a bottle?’

‘Yes. Mummy can’t stop, so you can do that? Can you be a clever boy and do that?’

Ben giggles. ‘Eeeeuw, Mummy, that’s ’sgusting. Wee-wee in a bottle.’

‘It’s an emergency, Ben. You’ll be a really clever boy if you can do that. Like you’ve done at the doctor’s, remember?’

She hears the dull squirt of fluid flushing into the plastic bottle and tries not to think of it spilling over Ben, or the car seat. The sound stops. ‘Finished,’ he says. ‘Mummy I’ve finished. I’ve done it.’

‘Well done, darling. Now pass it … carefully … to Mummy.’ Juliet reaches behind her and Ben feeds the bottle into her hand. It has wet patches on the outside, and it feels warm. She can smell the uric acid. She tries to put the cap back on one-handed but it slips and splashes onto her jeans. ‘Fuck!’ she says, too loudly.

‘Naughty Mummy,’ Ben says. ‘You said the F-word. Smack naughty Mummy.’

Juliet manages to get the cap on, screws it tightly closed and then places it on the floor of the passenger foot well. Her hands are damp with Ben’s urine and as it dries they feel sticky. She puts her hand up to her nose and smells the urine. She needs to wash her hands. She thinks about the contents of her handbag, mentally sifting through it to find a tissue or a packet of wet wipes. But she knows there aren’t any. Can she wait another couple of hours before washing her hands? Christ! If it wasn’t for the bloody van she would get off at the next service station. She feels in need of a cigarette, although she hasn’t smoked for three years, and a strong cup of coffee would be welcome. But she can’t because of the bloody van. She checks the rear-view mirror once more and she can’t see it. A lorry has slotted in between them. She indicates, waits, and then pulls into the middle lane and slows, letting the lorry pass her on the inside. She sees the van. It has slipped right back, so that there must be four or five cars separating them now. What the hell are they playing at? She slows down to sixty-five and can sense the agitation of the driver directly behind her. Two headlights grow brighter as the car closes in on the rear window. Then it overtakes, as does the car behind, and the car behind that. She is closing the ground between herself and the van. Then she sees that there is an exit coming up. They have passed the 300- yard mark. She thinks she should get behind the van, just in case they decide to turn off. She has a bad feeling about this and she needs to be following rather than leading. She brakes and slows even more and the car behind her flashes. Tough, she thinks. Now she is almost level with the van as the 200-yard mark comes up. She looks up at the driver – Lewis – and smiles and waves. His mouth twitches and he holds out his wrist, stabbing a forefinger at his watch. ‘Sorry...’ she mouths. She falls backwards again, and slips into the inside lane, behind the van now. If they go off the motorway she can follow them. The left-hand indicator on the back of the van flashes, So she was right to trust her instincts. She flicks on her own indicator and follows them. They go past the main car park and head to the petrol station. They pull up by the pumps. Juliet parks behind, opens the car door and steps out.