I go to check the time, but my Fitbit has been removed. Not knowing what time it is, or even what day it is for sure, sends spikes of isolation and confusion through my body. Still, I have my voice. I can shout and maybe attract attention. I fleetingly consider that shouting will attract the attention of whoever it is that brought me here. He could do a lot worse to me than chain me up, but I have no choice.
‘Help! Help me! Help!’ My voice shatters the dead, unnatural silence. I yell over and over again until I become hoarse. The pain in my tender head intensifies.
No one comes.
No one responds.
The silence stretches. I stop yelling and listen. Hoping to hear something, cars in the distance, people in the street, birdsong, as the light has started to eke around the boarded window. A new day, but which day is it? Nothing. It’s like I’m in a vacuum. Then, I hear footsteps coming towards the door.
‘Please, please let me out,’ I whimper. I’m crying now. I’m not sure when I started crying. Tears and mucus pour down my face. I don’t want to be weak. I want to be strong, brave, resistant. That’s what you imagine you’ll be in a situation like this but it’s beyond me. It’s a ludicrous fantasy. I am just terrified. I will beg, plead, implore. Anything to stay safe. Anything. ‘Please, please don’t hurt me. Please.’
Then I hear the distinct sound of the keystrokes of an old-fashioned typewriter being pounded. A sort of shuffling rat-tat-tat. Slow, precise. Like a hostile countdown. Next, the hurried juddering whirl of paper being forcefully pulled out of the machine’s roller. It is incongruous, this passé sound is the domain of busy newspaper rooms in decades gone by. Who has a typewriter anymore? There is rustling, as the piece of paper is pushed beneath the door. I stretch to reach it, but it is tantalisingly out of my grasp. I lie on the floor and carefully, oh so slowly, edge it nearer with my toes until I can drag it close enough to snatch it up.
I am not the villain here.
2
Leigh
Sunday 15th March
Sunday. The boys are out. All three of them. I probably shouldn’t refer to Mark as one of my boys, not really. It’s a bit infantilising and he’s not that sort of man at all. He’s very capable. Strong. Powerful. It’s just shorthand. And it sounds a bit formal and pedantic if I say my husband and sons are out.
Plus, not strictly accurate.
My husband and his sons are out. The thought flickers into my head, nips hard and cruel. Even now. This sudden and brutal distinction wounds. Although, it hasn’t been sudden, has it? Not really. I might as well be honest with myself. It’s always been there. An imbalance that we are both aware of and try not to acknowledge ever. An imbalance that has been impossible to ignore for these past few months, Oli has started being insistent on highlighting the difference.
They are my sons. I always think of them as my sons, I love them as though they are. I couldn’t love them more.
I really couldn’t.
I have done everything a mum can. I have bathed them, nursed them, fed them, shopped for them, I have played with them – oh the endless, mindless games! I have taught them. Not just their alphabet and how to tie their shoelaces, I’ve taught them how to swim, ride their bikes, measure out cooking ingredients, fasten buttons, tie knots, tell the time, cross the road. I try to teach them everything I can about the world. I want to stuff them full of knowledge and fortitude and curiosity because these qualities will sustain them when I’m away from them. But sometimes – maybe it’s all the time – kids are not pliable. They don’t note or understand your grand motivations. They don’t know you are trying to keep them safe, help them grow. They just think you are the strict parent, the one that obsesses about homework and teeth cleaning.
They are my sons. No matter what Oli says.
It’s breaking my heart. Everyone warned me that this stage would come, somewhere in their teen years when they test boundaries, want to develop their own identities, set their own agendas, create new worlds, generally turn into little shits. My best friend Fiona jokes that Oli could be doing far worse things than calling me Leigh. He could be ditching school, shoplifting or getting high every night. I should be grateful, she says. I’m not, I’m heartbroken. Because this is not a stage, it’s a protest. A point. It is true I’m not their biological mum but I’m the only mum they have, so you’d think he’d accept I’m doing my best. We used to be so close.
We had another row about it this morning. I filled out a parental online form about his Prom night. Just stuff about allergies (he has none) and giving him permission to get the coach that’s taking the kids on to the afterparty (I agreed). Nothing controversial. He said I had no right. I’m paying for the bloody party.
Mark just said it wasn’t the day to get into it. He always says that. We shouldn’t get into it on a school day because kids doing GCSEs are under enough pressure, we shouldn’t get into
