Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

But ‘Dad’ flashed up on the screen.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. Your father.’

She flopped onto the bed. After their last conversation, she hadn’t expected to hear from him.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know what your intentions are. You’re not going to tell anyone about this… situation, are you? You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?’

His voice was badly slurred. She’d not heard it like this for a very long time. It contained an echo of something from years ago, which she couldn’t quite bring into memory. He’d drunk Scotch in the evenings sometimes when she was growing up, not usually enough to affect his speech, just enough to make him darkly morose and even more unpredictable. But it wasn’t that. It was something else, something icky.

‘I haven’t gone to the police yet, if that’s what you—’

‘Laura, listen to me. You can’t tell them about me and Emma. I’m fifty-three years old, I’m hanging on to my job by a thread. If this comes out, I’ll never work again. Your mother has left me, and now you’ve gone too. I’ve got no one left except Daniel, but if you keep down this path he’ll be gone too. Is that what you want?’

Pity and revulsion washed over her.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ It was the truth.

‘You can’t go to the police, Laura.’ His voice altered. Anger obliterated all traces of the wheedling, self-pitying tones. ‘Are you listening to me? I won’t let you do that. You can’t go to the police.’

‘Yes, I understand. Sorry, I have to go now.’

She ended the call and put her phone on the bedside table. It was almost out of battery, she should put it on charge. But she stayed sitting on her bed, her heart drumming against her chest. Her father’s anger was seeping into her, removing what was left of her resolve. She began to shiver. It was happening again, this attempt to control her, to shut her up, to stop her telling the truth.

Would there never be an end to it? What was she going to do? Could she let him do this to her again?

She put her head on the pillow and pulled the duvet over her head. Her mouth was dry and her heart thumped hard, too hard. Another pulse of fear. It had lodged deep down and was steadily gnawing into the sane, healthy part of her.

Oh God. Please, help me.

Her eyelids became heavy. She lay in the near darkness listening to the sighs of wind, the uneven tap of raindrops on the pane, the gush of water down the drainpipe.

It came when she was almost asleep. A memory, swift and ruthless.

His whisky breath as he kisses her. The smoky sweetness, the almost liquorish taste of his mouth. The retch that begins in her gut as he pushes his tongue into her mouth. Then something else. His iron grip on her wrist as her head is pushed down, towards that place…

She can’t do it, she just can’t. But there’s no choice.

What’s next is beyond words. Trapped. The gag at the back of her throat. Hope withering, darkness surrounding her. Only the long, private agony of death awaiting her, or whatever would take the place of death.

Laura sat up in bed, her eyes wide open, her heart beating erratically. It wasn’t her fault, what she’d done to him. She knew that now, with all of her being. She’d had no choice.

And then she knew for sure. Even if her mother and brother never spoke to her again, even if her father’s life was ruined as a result, she had to do this. Yes, it would be difficult for Daniel, even more so for her mother, but she had to do something.

She pulled a thick jumper and a pair of jeans from the chest of drawers and hauled them on, her mind in tumult. Then she hurried to the kitchen and opened the drawer next to the cooker. She rifled through a mess of electricity bills, bank statements and takeaway leaflets before finding what she was looking for: a leaflet from West Kensington police station; the phone number, and beside it 10am to 6pm. She checked her mobile for the time: 8.32pm. The station would be shut now. What fucking use was that?

She started up her laptop, typed in Metropolitan Police on Google, and clicked Report a crime.

Is it an emergency?

No.

Was anyone threatened, verbally abused or assaulted?

She clicked Yes. A message came up:

Report threats, verbal abuse or assault

Thank you. You can report this crime online. Click 'Start' below to complete our quick and simple online form. Please give as much information as you can so we have everything we need to start an investigation. Our team will review your report and get back to you within 48 hours. You'll also be able to download a copy of your report for your own records.

She read on. Oh, Christ. It would take an age to complete this form. They wanted the date and time of the crime, the contact details of anyone who witnessed the crime, and information about any evidence that could help their investigation. How the hell was she going to give them all that?

She thought back to the time her father had done those things. The dates were hazy – no, totally absent. She was thirteen years old the last time her father had come into her room, wasn’t she, while she’d been alone in the house with him for a week? It was 2011 now and she was 22, so that would make it nine years ago… 2002. Daniel had been away camping with his school, so it would probably have been June 2002, or July. She jotted it down on a piece of paper.

And the first time, in the garden? It was so hot that day. Definitely summertime, early in the school holidays; July. But was it the summer of 2000 or 2001? Suddenly, she wasn’t sure. And what about all the other times in between? She had no idea about those dates – the memories had merged together without any helpful date stamps.

It was no use. She’d have to talk to a police officer.

On the website she found another page with a phone number to report crimes. She dialled the number. A recorded message told her they were experiencing a high volume of calls at the moment and she was ninth in the queue. She hung up, swearing.

A tight ball of frustration was building up, reducing her thoughts to an incoherent mush. But she wouldn’t be defeated. She’d go to a police station and tell them everything she knew. There had to be one open somewhere.

She went back to the website and entered her postcode. Hammersmith police station showed first on the list. Thank God, it was open twenty-four hours. She wrote down the number and the address. Shepherd’s Bush Road wasn’t that far. She could get there by Tube.

The decision brought a sense of relief, along with a pang of hunger. She hadn’t eaten for hours. Before leaving she’d have a quick bite.

Laura lay on the sofa with another cup of tea, and a slice of toast spread with banana and peanut butter. She thought about turning on the TV – something light-hearted to take her mind off what she was going to do, just for a few minutes. But then she wouldn’t hear if…

If what?

She took a few more mouthfuls and sipped at her tea, warming her hands on the mug. She was on edge now, over alert. Outside, the rain and wind were getting stronger, removing the normal sounds of traffic and planes, even the fridge’s noisy chatter.

The window frame jolted, making her start.

What was it her father had said to her earlier, on the phone? Something she should have remembered. A threat, or a warning.

I won’t let you do that .

The words struck her as menacing now. What if he came here? What if he tried to stop her from going to the police?

She got up from the sofa, spooked. She had to leave, right now. Without another thought she stuffed her mobile phone, house keys and some coins into her jeans pocket, pulled on her raincoat and grabbed her umbrella.