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.
29
It was Thursday morning, a year before he died, two years ago. Why do I remember that it was Thursday? They were all the same — up, coffee, the kids up and out so I could sit down for a bit and recover, the first fag, the headache that lasted all day. Having to get up before the kids so they wouldn't eat everything — having to make things stretch, having to be mean. I hated the mornings. They upset me. I sometimes cried before I got up. It was just so hopeless. It wasn't laziness; I've never been lazy. It was uselessness, the feeling that there was nothing. Only the kids. But sometimes I didn't think of the kids. I couldn't even cry. The smell of the room, the damp. Looking for clothes. The pain in my head. And nothing for the rest of the day. Only the kids. Always up before Charlo. Always. That bollocks didn't know that toast was made from bread.
It was Thursday. It was early. Nicola was often gone to work by the time I got down to the kitchen. But not this day. She was there, having a cup of tea before she went for the factory bus, making sandwiches for her lunch. I even remember what kind. Ham. There now. Her own private ham that she bought for herself. Just the two of us. We didn't say anything. I didn't like talking in the mornings and making small-talk with Nicola was hard at any time of the day. She was a moody little bitch back then. It was a phase; I knew it — I didn't fight it. I didn't like it though. I did notice that she was looking bad, white and unhealthy, not her usual self. It was always easy to see when something was up with Nicola, she usually looked so good. She looked bad that morning. She hadn't slept. She was unhappy. There was something wrong with her. She looked sad and skinny. I didn't think about it. She drank her tea. I made my coffee.
Then we heard Charlo coming down the stairs and suddenly I was all talk. I couldn't shut up. It was nerves, I know now. I was trying to hold back the fact that I knew. Talking shite, I was trying to make sure that nothing had happened, that nothing would happen, that everything was normal.
—I don't know where I'll get the time.
Where I'd get the time! Time was the only thing I ever had. Time was why I hated getting up and started, having to kill it.
He was in the room now.
—And I've to bring Jack back to the clinic.
I looked. Charlo was in the door. He Was staring at Nicola. But, really, he could have been staring at anything, waking up. He'd been drinking the night before, the whole day before. We'd opened a bottle of vodka at dinnertime, just after the kids had gone back to school, only Jack left in the house with us. I often did that, bought a bottle to try and get him to stay in the house, so we could drink like a happy couple. Charlo was as shattered as I was.
—And Leanne wants her hair done for her birthday.
Nicola looked quickly at Charlo when she was putting the butter back in the fridge. He looked back at her, up and down. Jesus — looking at it. Up and down. That was the thing in his face that killed me: the hate. It wasn't the way men look at women — I could nearly have understood that. It was almost natural, something to be careful about. But it was sheer hate. It was clear in his face. He wanted to ruin her, to kill her. His own daughter.
I spoke to her, to get her away from that stare. I really didn't know what to do.
—Nicola?
—What?
I kept looking. He didn't seem to care that I was there.
—Will you bring Jack to the clinic on Friday?
I don't think Nicola heard me properly.
—Yeah, she said.
She wasn't really listening to me. She got a half-day on Fridays — they got their pay at half-twelve and the factory shut. She'd never have given up her Friday afternoon. I'd only said it because it came into my head. I'd have said anything.
—Thanks; that'll be great.
I remember it word for word. I've no doubts about it. Second by second. I saw him. He wanted to hurt my daughter. His daughter. Because he could. There was evil in him. I wasn't going to pretend any more. Things were falling apart and it didn't matter. I looked at Nicola. She looked at me. Yes, her face said; you're right, it's happening. She looked embarrassed and guilty. What did I do? her face said. I'm sorry. Help.
He started humming. The noise disgusted me. The humming made me do it. I grabbed the frying pan. It was empty, just the fat. It wouldn't have mattered. He was looking straight at Nicola; he was going to make her get out of his way, rub against her. I could always tell when Charlo was about to move; his shoulders told you. They went before his legs. I hit him on the side of the head with the pan. Nothing stopped me. I didn't care about damage or noise; my arm let me. His legs went, he fell straight like he'd been hanged. He wasn't unconscious.
—Paula — , he said. —Paula.
He sounded like a fuckin' eejit. Like a baby learning the word. I knew I was angry now. I took aim this time. He tried to get up. I hit him on top of the head. I could have killed him; it didn't matter. He collapsed properly.
&nbs
p; I felt great, so satisfied.
—I saw him.
I'd done something.
—I saw him, I said. —Looking.
Nicola nodded. She shut the fridge door.
—Is he dead?
—I hope so, I said.
He didn't matter any more; I'd done it.
—No, I don't, I said. — I don't care —
Then I began to worry. He moved and groaned. That was what worried me. What next? I bent down to get a good shot at his ear, to keep him down till I thought a bit further. His head moved; I had to start again.
—Kill him, said Nicola.
I didn't hit him. I straightened up.
—No, I said. —There's no need.
She couldn't believe me. She thought I was being completely thick.
—He'll kill you now, she said.
—No, he won't, I said.
—He will.
—He won't; he's not that bad.
—Ah, Mammy —
She was terrified and getting angry with me. Here I was, letting her down after only saving her. I smiled at her.
—Don't worry, love, I said.
I let her see that I was relaxed, in charge. Enjoying myself.
—He's finished, I said. —Out of here.
Then I hit him again, to prove that I was right.
—There, I said.
I went to the sink and filled the pan with cold water. Charlo wasn't going anywhere for a while. I remember the weight of the water going into the pan. I remember deliberately turning on the cold tap because I wanted to save the hot. Nicola grabbed the salt cellar off the table. It's one of those heavy ones made from marble. We still have it but the pepper disappeared years ago. She looked down at Charlo. She wanted to hit him — he was starting to get up. I was turning off the tap, spilling some of the water because the pan was too heavy for me. She looked like a young one surrounded by snakes and tarantulas. She couldn't move.
Then John Paul came in. (I hate dunking about John Paul. I'm not ready yet.) He came into the kitchen.
—What's going on? he said.
His face, the puzzled look he'd had since he was a baby. He was in his pyjamas — stripey bottoms and an Italia 90 t-shirt. He was holding onto the bottoms.
—Get back up to bed, love.
I tried to sound normal. With his da in a heap on the floor.
—What happened my da?
—Get up to bed, I said.
—Me da, but.
—Get up!
I roared at him. It kills me now, the number of times I roared at him, screamed at him. And hit him. Jesus, I even kicked him. I roared at him more often than I kissed him. God, he was so small.
He wouldn't go.
Charlo was on his knees now, coughing like he was going to get sick.
—What did yis do to him? said John Paul.
What did yis do to him. Not just me. Me and Nicola. The women.
I didn't roar again, I'm fairly sure of that.
—There's nothing wrong with him, I said. —Now go on. Please. You can come down in a minute.
—But he's —
—I had to teach him a lesson, I said. —Go on up. He's alright.
I watched him turning and going. He was angry, and humiliated. He glared at Nicola. (I never spoke to him about it again.) Something moved. I jumped. It was Charlo shaking his head.
—Fuckin' hell, he said.
He sounded like he'd rehearsed the words. He sprinkled his blood around him. It was the first time I'd noticed it. He was bleeding quite badly. It was soaked into his shirt and on his trousers. I poured the water over him, leaned over him so his hands couldn't grab my legs. His hair hung over his face and for a second I thought he looked funny and lovely. It froze him. He hadn't a clue where he was.
—Get out of here, I said.
I was ready to hit him again. I looked at Nicola.
—Open the front door, love, I said.
His blood was drip-dripping again after all the water. He lifted one knee and tried to stand up.
—What are you — ?
I hit him again, hard, as hard I as could let myself. There was no way I was going to give him the chance to talk to me, to even think. My mind was made up and he wasn't going to change it. I wasn't going to let him.
—Get out; go on. And you're not coming back.
He started to get up again. I had to let him. I couldn't get him out if I didn't. The groans and grunts out of him, I'd never heard him like that before. (He broke his leg in a football match and I was watching it on the sideline — before we got married; I went to all his matches — and the noise of him, he was in absolute agony. I ran on to the pitch. I'd have gone for the fella who'd tackled him and scratched his eyes out if I'd known which one it was. They were all the same size and covered in muck.
—Fuckin' bastards!
—Take it easy, said someone. —It was a fair challenge.) The noise he was making now, it reminded me of the noise a toddler makes when she's trying to stand up after falling down, big gulps and effort and strain and concentration. I couldn't let him stand up straight. I gave him a push the second his legs began to unbend and he fell into the hall — it was hardly any distance. I clattered him on the back to keep him down. He crouched and moved down the hall. I wouldn't, I couldn't let him settle. He spoke.
—Stop, will yeh.
I kept up with him, got between him and the stairs and shoved him to the door. Nicola left it wide open and jumped onto the stairs. He was coming straight at her, like a big old cow coming out of a tunnel. She jumped up onto the stairs.
—Paula —
—Fuck off; get out — !
I hit him and shoved, kept him stunned. He missed the door. He bashed up against the wall, knocked and smashed the holy water font. Part of it still hung on its nail. There hadn't been water in it in years. A broken cobweb swung above it. I slapped him towards the door, just a bit more.
Leanne and Jack were on the stairs.
—Leave him alone!
It was John Paul.
Charlo shut the door. I don't know how; I don't think he meant to. He went too far, past the open door, hit the wall, turned and brought the door with him; he was hanging onto it. Nicola screamed. John Paul pushed her down a step, nearer Charlo. She backed up past him — she'd have killed him to get away from Charlo. She shoved and panicked her way past him, up to Jack and Leanne. God love her, maybe she thought that Jack would save her. His little sleepy face looking down, he hadn't a breeze what was happening. Charlo fell against the door. I grabbed his hair — he liked it long, thank God — and I pulled him away from the door, yanked some of it out of his head. I didn't care. I didn't think about caring. I didn't think at all. Terror made me brave. I reefed him up, back towards the kitchen.
—Open the door! I yelled at John Paul.
—Leave him alone!
—Open the fuckin' door!!
He did it. I don't know why. Maybe in the back of his head he knew what was best. Maybe I looked like a madder bitch than his father.
I kicked Charlo.
I kicked him out the door. He slid out. He turned like a seal in the water and slid out. I wasn't finished yet. I went after him. I had to push poor John Paul out of my way. Jack had started crying now. Nicola picked him up.
I hounded him to the gate. I never let him straighten up or get his head together. I didn't hit him again. I didn't have to. I was frightening him. I escorted him off the premises. Out the gate he went. He got away from me, down the path, away from us. Drenched and bloody and stooped over like a travelling rat.
Then I began to think.
Oh Jesus.
I got back to the door. I ran the last yards. It was only starting. What was going to happen now? I was an eejit for thinking that I could get rid of him that easily, that I could ever get rid of him. He was going to kill me, kill us all. It was only fuckin' starting.
I looked. He was coming back. He was walking back.
—Go a
way!
I stood my ground. I wanted to dash inside.
—Go away!
He stood there. At the gate. The blood was still running out of his head, down into one of his eyes. The door behind me slammed. I turned enough to see through the glass. It was Nicola. She stayed there, ready to open the door when I shouted. I hoped.
He still stood there, just stood. He didn't come in. He just stood there. He swayed. like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. His head was down. He stared at me through his hair. His shirt was soaking. His arms were at his sides, held out from his sides like he was going to draw his guns and shoot me. But he didn't have any guns.
Not back then.
—Go away, will yeh! Go away!
And he did. I couldn't believe it. He did what I'd told him to. He walked away. His head still down. He said nothing at all.
Suddenly, I was very scared. I knocked on the door now, really hammered it. I was terrified.
—Let me in.
He was going to come after me.
—Let me in!
He knew he was scaring me, was already making the most of what had happened. Already recovering and taking over.
—Nicola; hurry up! Come on.
Putting me back in my box. He was going to demolish me.
She opened the door.
What had I done, what had I done?
—Hurry up!
I pushed the door into her and got into the hall. I didn't look back. There wasn't time.
—Jesus —
Nicola shut the door and locked it. She looked calm now. She looked at me.
—Jesus —
I was shaking. I sat on the bottom step. I'd look at the kids in a minute. I'd be ready then. I got up and looked through the pebbly glass. No Charlo. I pressed my face and saw as much as I could see. No. He wasn't there. Nothing on the path. Nothing at the gate. Nothing in the hedge.
—He's gone.
I looked at Nicola. She wanted to believe me.