Page 63 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
Dee tilts her head. ‘I think so. It’s just all so fresh. And he’s somewhere you know nothing about, so you can’t even really imagine it.’
‘Most of my prison knowledge is fromCoronation Street,’ I say. ‘Or crime novels.’
Dee links my arm and we walk on, through the park where some toddlers are taking turns to go down the slide, past the church. And when we circle back round to the pub, there’s a woman hammering on the locked front doors, and it’s David’s mother.
‘We’re not open today,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even and level. ‘Are you looking for me?’
David’s mother, Janet, looks like she’s been crying for days. She looks at me with pure hatred in her eyes. ‘He wouldn’t do this,’ she says.
‘But he did,’ I say. ‘I’m telling you, and a jury has told you.’
‘He’s my boy. I didn’t raise him that way.’
I think about what I have heard of David’s childhood. His father left before he finished primary school, and his mother was strict and worried. Where did it come from, his tendency to violence? I believe that it didn’t come from this diminished woman standing in front of me.
‘I know you didn’t. But he’s an adult, Janet. And for whatever reason, this is what he’s become.’
‘You could have given him another chance.’
Dee steps forward, then. Not so close to Janet that it’s intimidating, but enough to shield me from her words. ‘That’s enough,’ she says. ‘This wasn’t a one-off, or an accident. Your son has been hurting her for a long time, and now he’s being punished for it.’
Janet slumps, and I am reminded of the way David’s body took the blow of the sentence. I know that David is all she has, that she probably hoped for grandchildren in the nearish future. Not prison visits. I find myself about to say sorry, but I stop myself. ‘I’m going inside now,’ I say. ‘I think you should go home.’
Janet turns to go. There’s no fight left in her. I watch her turn the corner before I take out my key and let myself in. Dee stays for another couple of hours. I try to get her to talk more about Liam, but she won’t, and it’s the first time I’ve known her to be reticent like that. Maybe this is really something. After lunch, she looks like she’s got something to say.
‘If we’re not opening, I could do with going out for an hour or two. But…’
‘But what? You don’t have to babysit me.’ It comes out harsher than I meant it to.
‘I know that, Shell. I’m just trying to be a good friend.’
‘I’m fine. Go. Really, go.’
Dee gathers her things together and leaves the flat, and I sit on the sofa thinking that I will cook something nice for the two of us, to thank Dee for everything, and then there’s a noise from downstairs and I jump. I am not okay. Haven’t been since the attack. Physically, I’ve recovered, but there’s a part of me that is always scared. That’s what David’s done, and it’s worse than black eyes and bruises. Worse, even, than a coma. I pull my knees in to my chest and wrap my arms around them, so I’m as small as I can be.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what my future looks like. I thought I’d met the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, but that’s over. And I’m starting to think that the Pheasant isn’t my future either, after years of feeling certain that it is. I go downstairs, into the bar area. I rarely see the place like this, still and empty. Before and after we’re open, I’m always rushing. Now, I just stand here, taking it all in. I’ve done a good job with the place. Toned down the garish décor, replaced the awful patterned carpet with wood-effect flooring. A year or so ago, I hired a local artist to paint on the walls. I am so proud of this pub, but somehow it no longer feels like mine. I have to determine whether that’s something David has done, or whether it’s something my own heart is telling me.
The next morning, I search online for local women’s refuges. I find three in Loughborough and call the first one listed, before I can change my mind. The woman who answers the call has a lilting Welsh accent. She asks how she can help.
‘Do you take volunteers?’ I ask.
‘To help out here at the shelter? We certainly do.’
‘Can I fill in an application, or have an interview, or whatever I need to do? I run a pub, so I’m busy most evenings but I have mornings free.’
There’s a pause, and I think she’s going to tell me that’s no good, but it must just be a brief fault on the line.
‘Why don’t you come in tomorrow morning at ten and we’ll have a chat?’ she says. ‘My name’s Rose, by the way.’
After I’ve hung up, I feel like I’ve made something good out of a difficult day. I think about what I might wear to meet Rose, what I might say when she asks why I chose a domestic violence charity. For a moment, I feel slightly panicked. I’m not ready to tell a stranger about my own experiences. But I don’t have to, I remind myself. I can take this one step at a time. And if I get someone out of the kind of situation I was living in, it will all have been worthwhile.
33
NOW
Hamza steeples his fingers and asks how I’m feeling today.
‘Lost,’ I say.
