Beth Morrey - Saving Missy

I heard them creeping up the stairs – there were at least two of them – and closed my eyes tightly, grateful that the curtains were closed so it was too dark for them to see my uneven breathing. When they came into my room I stayed very still, not moving even when the flashlight played across my face. I worried they would be able to hear my heart pounding, but they didn’t really care if I was asleep or not – I wasn’t going to stop them. They went over to my dressing table and rifled through my jewellery box. Things Leo bought me, mementos my mother left me. Her pearls. The Regard ring Leo bought me after Mel was born. The ruby earrings he gave me for our fortieth wedding anniversary. Not the what, but the who and the why.

Concentrating so hard on lying still, at first I didn’t notice one of them had moved nearer and was standing by the bed looking down. I couldn’t see him of course, but I could hear him, feel his gaze. Still as I was, I stiffened, barely able to breathe, and then … the rustle of fabric as he reached out. I could sense his hand hovering above my hair, almost touching but not quite. That I, who so craved the comfort of human contact – a friend’s embrace, a child’s hand – should endure this. I lay like a corpse, so revolted that bile rose in my throat, but his companion suddenly hissed, the hand was withdrawn and he moved away. Then they went out again, and very slowly and carefully I breathed a sigh of relief, because it could have been so much worse.

They left rather less quietly than they came in, because the job was done by then. I couldn’t face going down to inspect the damage, so waited until my tears had subsided and then got up and opened the curtains, letting the streetlight in so that I could watch the shadows on the wall. When dawn came, I went down to the kitchen and saw that my new laptop had gone, and cried again, because it had all my photos of Arthur on it.

When the police came, they’d said they’d probably picked the lock on the back door, that they were good at that sort of thing nowadays, as if it was a skill people learned in school. They said not to worry, that they probably wouldn’t come back now the house had been ‘done’, but to change the locks and consider some additional security measures. So I got out the emergency locksmith although I couldn’t afford it, and he put on some extra bolts and recommended an alarm system. But the price he quoted was so extortionate that I balked, and hustled him out of the door. No men in my house, not now.

I stayed in my kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, drumming my fingers on the table to drown out the silence (they’d taken the radio). I thought about Leo, and Percy the lunger, and Fix’s husband, and the burglar’s hand … As a girl, I’d always thought of men as the protectors – Fa-Fa in particular the mammoth gatekeeper of our family – but at Cambridge I realized that they had little comprehension of the damage they could cause. I supposed guardians were by their nature ruthless, in some respects. A monster not to be overcome … Cerberus who eats raw flesh, the brazen-voiced hound of Hades …

As the light started to fade again I couldn’t take it any more, couldn’t think any more, so I put on my coat and let myself out, marching briskly down the road to the big house Angela had pointed out to me. Peering at the many doorbells, I squinted until I saw ‘7C. A. Brennan’ and pressed it firmly. After a little while I heard a familiar voice, harsh with cigarette smoke. ‘It’s me. Missy,’ I said. The door buzzed, and I went up, catching my breath on each landing.

Angela greeted me at her door, eyebrows raised. Otis poked his head out from behind her, followed by Bob on the other side. She wagged her tail in greeting.

‘I’ll take the dog,’ I said. ‘Just until your friend sorts herself out.’

For a second Angela was impassive, and then her face broke into an ear-splitting grin, the tiredness and worry wiped away. She leapt forwards and hugged me, too hard. But I found I didn’t mind.

‘You won’t regret it,’ she promised. ‘She’s the best dog.’

‘I’m sorry about yesterday. It was my birthday. I was a bit depressed.’ I felt shamed by both admissions, and looked away before Angela could spot the tears in my eyes, bending to scratch Bob awkwardly on the ear. She panted and nudged me for more.

Angela clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry! Honest, I really am, I had no idea. God, what a stupid cow, barging in like that.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, pinning my smile in place and straightening up again. ‘I suppose you brought me a present, in a way.’

She laughed. ‘Fancy a drink to celebrate?’

She led me into her flat, and as I bent again to pat both Bob and Otis, I could already hear the sound of a cork popping. Angela reappeared, holding two very large glasses. At least half a bottle in there.

‘Happy birthday, Missy,’ she said.

With Otis passed out on the sofa, we drank Prosecco and ate leftover macaroni cheese warmed up in the microwave. Her flat was tiny – a living room with a kitchenette at one end, a minuscule bathroom off the rabbit hutch hallway and a bedroom with twin beds pushed together – one for her and one for Otis. I was a little shocked, but she assured me this was pretty good for London. As we ate the pasta, she told me about her friend Felicity and her dreadful husband.

‘She met him through work – she’s a journalist like me, but much more principled. Writes about climate change, saving the whales, that sort of thing. She was interviewing a local businessman about some campaign that was going on, something about cutting down trees. He asked her out, and you know. Six months later they’re married and she’s up the duff.’

Angela scraped a spoonful of cheese sauce out of the serving bowl and continued. ‘He changed after they were married. Started slowly, just comments about her appearance and stuff. She was skin and bone by the time he started hitting her. He’s really careful and you’d never suspect a thing talking to him – very plausible. But I’ve seen the bruises.’

‘Why didn’t she get out sooner?’

‘The children, I suppose. Though you’d think they’d be a reason to leave. But mostly because she had nowhere to go. He threatens her, says she’ll lose the kids – and she believes him because she’s had years of him grinding her down. She hasn’t worked in ages, she’s got no money. But I’ve been trying to persuade her for months, and last week she finally agreed, but only after he nearly put her in hospital. Bastard.’

I took a gulp of wine. ‘Where are they now?’ I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

‘In a women’s refuge. We’re trying to get her to press charges. But at least she’s out. And, thanks to you, once she’s sorted herself out she can have Bob back and get on with her life. She really loves that dog.’ She reached down and scratched Bob, who was waiting for scraps. Angela told me I wasn’t to feed her anything from the table as that encouraged begging. She had to be walked twice a day, fed twice a day and brushed regularly to stop her fur matting. Then there was worming, and anti-tick treatment, and teeth cleaning and Lord knows what else. I was regretting my decision again but then thought of Felicity’s bruises, and my back door, and resolved to make the best of it.