Her Victory (55 page)

She knew what he wanted. Her whole being told her to soothe him with a few words so that he would go away as a human being and not some animal set on revenge for his humiliation. That too was another of his tricks, and she wouldn't let it take her over. He would lead her no more. Everything that would be to his advantage contained disaster for her. She must stand where she was and stay alert, eyes never ceasing to look in his direction no matter what the effort.

He made croaking sounds, held up his arm and patted the patch where it was wet. She stepped towards the window-sill till the wall was close. She found it hard to prevent her hands laying down the knife, or letting it fall out of the window, or rushing at him in an unstoppable fury and thrusting the blade again and again into his body till she crumbled under a final desertion of strength. Either course seemed overwhelmingly desirable. It was harder to stay silent and ready. The uncertainty of each second was impossible to bear.

The unexpected touch of the sill at her back was a signal. All air seemed ripped out, either as if she would faint, or as if she had infinitely more strength than she knew what to do with. She advanced towards him with unmistakable intention.

He opened the door and ran.

She shouted at the top of the stairs for him never to come back. The front door slammed, shaking the balustrade.

She gripped with both hands. The knife, hurled after him, had clattered on to the landing below. She went down to pick it up, thinking to run on to the street and shriek so that he would know he had reduced her to the lowest common factor of his imagination as far as women were concerned. This couldn't be the end. Wanting to kill, she was still part of him, and so needed more than ever to destroy him.

After picking up the knife, she stopped. If she maimed or murdered she would be part of him for ever. She felt only humiliation and sickness. If she killed him she would
not
be part of him. It was a lie.

9

With trembling hands she laid the knife in the drawer. Looking in the mirror, there was nothing new in her face except fear. She leaned against the glass and cooled her forehead. She forced a smile, but tears were falling. The grimace mocked her. Setting the clock upright, she saw that only twenty minutes had gone by since her dream had been riven by his banging at the door. She wiped the tears angrily, and felt jubilant.

But she curbed her exultation. It was unworthy, a madness too similar to his. There was much still to be considered. The fight was only half done. It would never be done. She didn't know where they were.

His car was still in the parking bay. She closed the window. Why hadn't he gone? A middle-aged woman walked with a dog along the street. Low clouds were about to spill rain from a darkening sky. A man in the distance already wore his umbrella, and a car went by with small lights on and wipers going. They'll have a rough trip home. She cursed the motorway that put them only two hours from London. It used to take at least double, coming through all towns en route. Maybe he wouldn't be so ready another time. He would bandage his cut by using the first-aid kit in the car, nursing the ache every mile north. One of the others would no doubt drive, if he was conscientious about earning his fee. What year did they imagine they were living in, to think they would get her back with them? Their Neanderthal bellies still thrived on the Wars of the Roses. In this day and age you had to fight with a knife to beat them off. She could hardly believe what had happened.

The door would not lock, but she closed it to begin packing. The sooner she fled the better. She should get properly dressed, go out, and walk back and forth by the police station. But even that might not do any good. She had to live without safety. At least in Clara's flat there was the obstacle of London to deter them from a quick foray. She washed her tears at the sink, unwilling to let them turn her into the animal they wanted her to be. There was no need to despair, she said, looking into her long mirror.

The window tempted her again, but she was afraid of being seen. She looked, and saw their car had gone. Conscious of victory, she felt proud of having got rid of them by herself. Tom would be back, but there'd be no need to mention her struggle, since both she and he would soon be in a place where such struggles would not occur.

She packed shoes and dresses, folded skirts, blouses and underwear into her case. How many more times would she do it? The oftener the better. It didn't take long. Say goodbye to Judy, wedge their things into the car, then go to the estate agent's to settle the rent. The picture was clean and beautiful. They would drive away. Let the rain come. There would be occasional sunshine from now on. Didn't expect it. Didn't care. A thunderous noise sounded on the stairs.

The door banged against the wall. All four were in the room. She cried: cunning bastards. But she spoke quietly. ‘Get out, or I'll call the police.'

Alf took her case and was off with it downstairs. George threw her coat into her face. ‘Wrap this round you.' He smiled: the leader had won. ‘Come on, you'll need it.'

When she refused he crammed it under his arm, and sent two driving blows, one into her ribs and the other at the side of her head that flung her against the wall. No messing this time. She freed herself from one of the scarves that decorated it.

Harry and Bert pinned her arms. It was no dream. They pulled her out of the room. She kicked till Bert fell at the wall to nurse his bruise. Her shoe had flown with him. From the top of the stairs she screamed for Judy, her voice like a noise that rushed out at her from another door. George snarled. ‘She isn't in. Gone to get her National Assistance, I expect.'

They had waited downstairs, impatiently smoking their fags to the stub while George made his first attempt. You didn't bring her? Why, you dozy bastard! You're as soft as shit, George. She had a knife? They laughed all over the pavement. And you let that stop you? Bleddy 'ell! Do you want to get her back, or don't you? Don't cry about it. She ain't worth it. You do? Come on, then, there'll be no pissin' about this time. After all, George, this trip's costing you a bomb. You might as well get summat out of it, even if it's only a bit of you-know-what!

Harry alone was left to help him pull at her, and she struck his face with her clenched fist. She'd never hit anyone in her life before. He must have got out of bed too early to shave that morning. ‘For God's sake give us a hand,' he called, as his own hand slipped from her. He stumbled half down the first flight and continued on his way. She kicked again, but a blow landed at her face that sent her back through the doorway into her room.

She leapt at the chest of drawers. When George clutched her from behind she kept her grip on the knobs. His wrench was tigerish, an effort which pulled the drawer open for her, so that she took the knife and swung towards him. He let go. All three were back, and then at various points of the landing.

‘You don't need to use that,' Bert wheedled. ‘Does she, our George?'

She tore Alf's suit at the lapel. Thinking she had stabbed him, he struck at her face. The wall spun and she was on the floor, still gripping the knife. She kept her eyes closed against the stained carpet, and waited for her chance. A shoe stamped on her wrist, the pain grinding all breath away. She held to the dark as if it were a big foul blanket to crawl under. It comforted but did not strengthen her. She felt herself going, but did not know where. Someone kicked her. Two yellow sparks came together from opposite ends of darkness, then shot apart, and slowly moved towards each other, over and over, forcing her into a tunnel without even a pinpoint of light at the end.

A voice was toned with rough animal-like anger at the fact that they were too long at their simple job. She dimly noted the manner of subdued rage at their stupidity in not being fit to do something which the power behind such a voice obviously would be able to accomplish with no bother at all. She had given in. There was only silence and stillness left in her. She forced back her sobs, all future existence dependent on what pride she could muster. It was the only force she could draw on. Years of dust scraped her face, the detritus of centuries. When the foot ceased to crush her wrist she waited for the last blow to descend, hoping there would be nothing more in life to come.

‘What's going on?' The words were distinct, not violent or loud, though they had a promise of becoming so. The voice kept her alive, free of final darkness, not from hope of salvation but out of curiosity, for it seemed hardly human, rang up and down the stairs in a sort of commanding bark that she had only ever heard from someone talking to a pack of dogs. She trembled with dread, but would not move, even if he killed her.

‘She took a knife to us,' Alf said.

A dizziness faded into and then away from her. Why should he apologize? she wondered, as she battled against the sensation of fainting.

‘Shut your mouth, or I'll take my boot to
you
.' The same voice, an island unto itself, seemed to come out of the roof, with a stridency that had little to lose and nothing on earth at least to be afraid of. The dominating ugliness struck even her in the face, a voice accustomed to making itself heard, understood and obeyed against the noise of engines or the elements, or both – not, perhaps, the voice to command from the throne of absolute authority, but that of someone expounding the law of good behaviour which had been passed on to him. He was finding it no easy task, but in a crisis there was nothing else to rely on, and because the odds were so much against him the transference had to succeed. ‘What are you doing here? There's eighteen months inside waiting for the lot of you.'

‘It's none of your business,' Alf shouted. ‘She's our brother's wife, and she's coming back to Nottingham with us, where she belongs.'

George threw her coat on the floor. ‘It's no bleddy use. Let's clear off.'

She looked, and listened, and waited for the ability to get on her feet. He was holding her suitcase as if it were weighted with iron, and he would swing it against them. His reddening face seemed about to burst with a rage she could never have mustered in herself no matter what they did, and that she thought was containable in no human being. She had not known him before. His head was held back, as if to see above any level they would reach.

‘Let them go away,' she said.

‘Not likely.' He put her suitcase by the wall, seeing Bert making signs to push against him. ‘Keep back, sailor!' he shouted in the voice she hoped never to hear again.

‘Fuck off!'

His knees lifted, and the sharp smack of bone against Bert's face was followed by a colder thump. Bert was taller, and Tom fell grunting with two dull blows at the cheek, but he recovered, and boxed, and edged himself around, and suddenly Bert was heeling down the stairs. George sidled by, and was out of sight. She couldn't tell how it happened, pressed herself in a corner to stay clear.

He maintained his attitude of defence, knowing that Alf would try to avenge his brother. Because there was something funny and pathetic about his two fists, which seemed childishly deployed, she wanted to laugh – despite her tears and the sharp aches. His fists would shield him, and her, from the world threatening to burst through their puny guard. She couldn't laugh. But there was something comical in being defended.

Alf made one last savage attack, but it ended in a circular kind of scuffling around the landing, occasional jabs going out from both. The skirmish seemed to go on for ever. When she looked it was to see Alf go sideways across Tom and follow a pathway down the stairs.

Tom pursued them below the first landing. ‘If you come here again, I'll break you in pieces!'

He breathed as if an engine were locked inside, a weird and distressing effect when he tried to smile. He seemed far away from himself, and separated from her by the agony of breathlessness and pain. The front door slammed, and he walked cautiously down to make sure they were on the right side of it, pressing himself close to the wall on one flight, and against the banister on the next. She supposed he had done such manoeuvres often to be so adept in them.

They had swung at his shopping bag on the way by, all of it spilled and scattered. He thought it cheap at the price. Half a dozen cardboard boxes telescoped into one, which he had brought from the supermarket to serve as containers for their belongings, stood by the door, hardly damaged by their boots in the hurry to get out.

10

She stood in her room, unable to move. Her will had gone. If she sat or lay down she would never get up. She would die, because this was no kind of life. Neither her imagination nor her pessimism had envisaged direct assault. A person could not be secure with such people loose, who felt she belonged to them like a slave to be taken back into bondage.

She didn't, and never had. Never would. She was not connected to them in any way, but they would have killed her rather than let her stay free. He spoke, in his familiar and soothing voice. ‘Come into my room, and let's have a look at you.'

‘Leave me alone. I feel wrecked.'

He put his arm around her. ‘You'll be all right.'

What did he know about it? Her stomach was made of iron when she pressed her fist there. But she went with him. He brought a bowl of water, and washed her face while she sat in the armchair. The rancorous note of his authority was still apparent. ‘If I telephone the police they'll catch them going up the motorway.'

‘Leave them.' She was unable to stop her hands shaking. ‘I'm not really hurt.'

His face was also bruised, the lower lip cut. ‘They're a rough lot. But you're a bit of a fighter yourself, to hold them off so well. You just left me with the mopping-up!'

‘I didn't think I could do anything.'

He took two pieces of cotton wool soaked in cool liquid, and held them to her bruises. ‘You never know what you're like till you get pushed against a wall. But I'm sorry I took so long over my business. When I came back and saw this type coming out of the house with your suitcase I thought he'd rifled our belongings. He gave me some talk, so I put in two quick ones and got him to tell me what was going on. For all I knew, your life was at stake. It certainly sounded like it as I came up the stairs. You get rough lots at sea, even these days, so it wasn't a new situation for me. There's often no hard feelings afterwards, though I didn't like the look of that gang.'