Carmel Harrington - The Woman at 72 Derry Lane

He raised an eyebrow, watching her, as if he could read her mind. She looked away first, pulling her gaze from him. He always won, much better at the game than her.

Her mother’s face flashed into her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on that. Dark-blue jeans, with a sloppy, long cream cardigan that she always wore around the house. She’d had it years, it was wrapped up in every memory she had of her mam at home.

She used to say, ‘Your nan wore a housecoat nearly every day of her adult life. Whenever she got home, she’d put it on, over whatever she was wearing. This cardigan, well, I suppose it’s my housecoat. Just snugglier.’

Stella remembered a time when all her troubles could be snuggled away sitting beside her mam, with the cardigan wrapped around them both. A blanket of love and protection in that cardigan. Oh Mam …

Her mother’s voice whispered to her a lot these past few weeks. Repeating words of wisdom she’d given Stella. They had just watched About a Boy and Hugh Grant’s character was busy making a fool of yet another unsuspecting female. Mam had paused the movie, then turned to her, saying:

‘How a man treats you is how they feel about you. Do you understand? You must always believe them when they show you who their true self is.’

Stella wished with all her heart she could be back in that cardigan’s embrace, safe and loved.

‘I don’t think Matt likes me very much, Mam.’ As tears pricked, she felt her eyeliner creep its way into her eyeballs, stinging her.

But who else is there, but him?

Her mother’s voice was stern now. ‘No time for tears. Think! Don’t let emotions cloud your next move. Think, my darling girl.’

She played through her options. She could implore him to let her off whatever transgression she had committed, or she could brazen it out, say nothing and hope for the best. Somehow or other, she knew that either would likely result in the same reaction from him. She’d done this dance with him so many times, she knew the drill. This was a game to him, a cruel game of cat and mouse, where the rules changed daily.

Tonight it appeared he wanted to play.

‘You think this is acceptable?’ He pointed to a small, fine white thread that poked out from the hem of her Louise Kennedy dress and flicked it with his index finger. Her stomach flipped when she saw the offending article, so small, yet with the power of a deadly grenade. She must have snagged it when she removed the tag earlier.

You idiot. You bloody stupid idiot.

‘I’ll sort it out, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I missed that.’ She kept her voice light, calm, even, then moved towards the hallway, to the stairway. His voice halted her.

‘Just where do you think you’re going? Come back here now!’ His voice grew louder with every word and her body trembled in response. She moved back into the kitchen, standing beside their large granite island.

She bit hard on the inside of her mouth to stall anguish. Later, while he slept, she could allow herself the luxury of tears.

She glanced at the back door. How far would she get if she ran for it? She could climb the fence into next door’s garden, bang on the woman’s back door and beg for safe refuge. She tried to remember her neighbour’s name. It was a pretty name. Rea. That was it. Despite the fact that their houses were conjoined, semi-detached buddies, she knew little about the woman. She never left the house and gossip on the street was that ‘she wasn’t all there’. No, the tired face of her neighbour, seen peeking through her window every now and then didn’t inspire confidence. Not an option.

Who else was there? The house to their left was empty. On the market for months, ever since the owner died. Linda? She lived opposite with her teenage son. But she was never in. Always out on dates. Matt called her a slut. Stella thought she was lovely, always had a smile and a kind word for her when they bumped into each other.

Was it fair to bring this drama to anyone else’s door? Probably not.

That was that, then. She didn’t really know anyone else on Derry Lane. Matt always said, ‘I like to keep myself to myself.’

He liked to keep her to himself, more like it. She was utterly alone. No family. No friends. There was just him .

Tonight they were out to impress his boss, she had a role to play: the dutiful corporate wife. Remembering this fact gave her hope. The meeting was important. He’d been talking about it all week, the need for a perfect performance from them. His boss, Adrian, was a family man. Traditional, conservative. She was sure he’d not appreciate a black eye on the wife of one of his team.

‘Thank goodness for your beady eyes. What would Adrian think if he saw me in a right old state?’ she asked evenly.

I’m thinking, Mam. I’m being brave. She felt her mother’s approval.

Matt responded with a small nod and then walked to the kitchen cabinet. She knew not to move nor make another sound. She’d pushed it enough by mentioning Adrian. Now it was time to appear contrite, seek forgiveness for her fine-thread transgression. She looked down at the wisp of cotton and her eyes blurred once more as she realised that her life had been reduced to this. There were many times when she felt like she was clinging onto her sanity and life by a fine thread, but this was ridiculous.

She glanced in the cream, ornate mirror that hung over their dining-room table and, not for the first time in her married life, didn’t recognise the woman standing there, looking terrified.

The sound of cutlery jangled against each other as he searched the drawers’ contents. Each clink rang out into the quiet and only heightened her growing fear. What would his next move be? He looked almost cheerful as he searched. He’d be whistling next. Hatred filled her body once more and she held onto it tight, using it as a shield to protect herself from whatever he had planned.

Every time he did this, she swore it would be the last. That she’d leave.

‘That’s enough.’ This time it was her father’s voice in her head. Yes, Dad, I think perhaps it is.

Matt held up a pair of kitchen scissors, long blades with sheared edges and black handles. ‘Here we go,’ he said cheerily.

‘Now, what will we do with these?’ He smiled sweetly when she flinched as the cold steel caressed the side of her cheek. He traced every inch of her face until suddenly he stopped, pressing the tip of the blades to her throat. He continued putting pressure on the tips and she waited for her skin to puncture. Despite using every ounce of her resolve, she couldn’t hide the telltale tremble in her body.

Stella closed her eyes and braced herself for the pain.

This was it.

‘The grim reaper finally caught up with me, Mam’, she thought. You can only dodge his evil snare so many times. And, yes, there were occasions when she lay in her bed, as Matt slept beside her, snoring quietly, that she wished for the sleep of death. But the thing was, she wanted to live.

She wasn’t ready to die. Not today. Not like this.

‘Why are you shaking like a leaf? What am I to do with you?’ Matt asked. She opened her eyes and could see amusement dancing though his own, enjoying her living nightmare. Contempt for this man that she once loved and who she thought loved her, consumed her. There was so much she wanted to say to him. There was so much she wanted to do.

Say something, then. Scream, tell him to fuck off, run, fight, just do something!

Yet she remained silent, trapped in fear. Fear of being alone again. Fear of the darkness inside her. Shame now replaced her anger and she thought, maybe I deserve this. I’m weak.

‘You’re wrong, love,’ her mam whispered to her, reminding Stella that deep down she knew that wasn’t her truth. Somewhere inside of her was a woman who once was strong, who once fought to live over and over again. She needed to find that girl again. She needed to fight back.