Getting Over It (32 page)

Tom growls, “You got that right!” We tumble into the street and Tom hails a taxi. Luke puts his feet up and lights a fag, and Tom strokes my hand and says, “You’ve gone quiet.”

I nod. I can’t speak. There is nothing on this earth I want more than to tape up Luke’s mouth and drop him at Swiss Cottage, then speed home with Tom and tear off his clothes and make mad passionate love on the hallway floor and then again on the coffee table. I need it. I need to make love to Tom, to feel that connection, like I need to breathe.

But how can I, knowing that Tina’s gone home with Adrian?

If this is a bright shiny new beginning, I want it to be perfect. I think of my friend’s terror and the thought impedes my libido. What’s he doing to her now? It pains me to consider it. There’s no option. I tap Tom on the leg and tell him the truth about Tina and Adrian.

Then I divert the cab to Tooting and I pray we get there in time.

Chapter 41

A
LTHOUGH
I
LOOK ODD
in a bikini and inevitably get burnt to a crisp, I love beaches. I like watching the sea and thinking unchallenging thoughts like,
Wow, all that water,
or
God, the sea’s really big.
I like seeing the waves froth and fizzle on the shore. Or digging my feet into the warm sand and feeling it grainy between my toes. I love looking for shells—those curly ones like tiny unicorn horns—and smooth gray pebbles with streaks of marble running through. I love closing my eyes and listening to the crashing waves and people’s laughter. And smelling the salty air, tasting it on my lips. My favorite thing is to paddle in clear water, searching for gold. I’ll see a glinting speck and try to pinch it up. Of course, it never is gold, just another grain of sand made shimmery by sun and water. But I don’t mind because the joy is all in the seeking.

That’s not how I feel when I lose Tom, though. After all that searching, I stumble on gold and let it slip through my fingers like sand.

Yet as we hurtle to Tina’s defense like a squadron of black knights, there isn’t a clue it will end like it does. I burble out the sorry tale and Tom says “Fuck!” and asks a thousand questions. Luke splutters and says, “I don’t get it.” They bristle and say, Poor, poor Tina, and Adrian’s got it coming to him.

“This isn’t a boy’s adventure game,” I say stonily, because I’m terrified of what I’ve started.

Tom says, “Helen, we’re only going to check she’s okay. You’re right to be looking out for Tina. We won’t do anything stupid.” He squeezes my hand.

Luke adds earnestly, “You did the right thing.” I’m not sure I have.

I soon change my mind. When the taxi stops outside Tina’s flat—“Adrian drives a Beamer!” squawks Luke. “How dare he?”—and we tumble into the street, I can hear the screams. A vile miracle, as my heart pounds loud enough to deafen me. Luke wants to kick the door down, but Tom doesn’t want to give Adrian warning. We sneak in the main door via the woman who lives downstairs. Curiously—or rather, uncuriously—she doesn’t ask who we are. Then again, her neighbor is screaming like a pig who’s just been offered his cousin in a bacon roll, and that doesn’t bother her, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

We clump upstairs and Tom rings the doorbell. A whimper, a rustle, then silence. He rings again. He stands with his back to the door so if Adrian looks through the peephole he can’t see who’s there. “Who is it?” barks a tense voice.

Tom barks back, “Are you the owner of the black Z3 outside with slashed tires?”

There is a loud exclamation and a clack-clack of bolts being drawn and Adrian rips open the door, and as he does so, Tom gives it a hefty boot and Adrian staggers backward. Tom and I rush to Tina, who is cowering in the corner. Luke flings himself at Adrian in what I presume is a textbook rugby tackle—or maybe he just trips on the edge of the rug—and before I can say “Harder than that” is sprawled on top of him and shaking him so that Adrian’s head makes a pleasing bonk-bonk-bonk sound on the floor.

When Tom sees the state of Tina, his face goes taut. Adrian asks what the fuck’s going on and bleats that we’ve misunderstood the situation and Tina and he were merely having a tiff and
yelp!,
Adrian’s rant ends swiftly as Tom squeezes an apparently sensitive point on his neck. “Shut up,” says Tom in a hard voice.

Adrian shuts up.

I ring the police on my mobile as the phone has been ripped from the wall and Tom runs to fetch ice and a towel for Tina. Adrian is struggling for breath under the weight of Luke, so the sterling effort my friend has put into building himself up on pepperoni pizza and chicken korma and cheese and onion crisps for the last decade is paying off beautifully. “Tina,” yodels Luke from his elevated position, “are you okay?”

Tina has seven fresh cigarette burns on her stomach and is far from okay. Her head wound has reopened. Tom strokes her hair out of her face and gently dabs at the blood trickling down her forehead. He says, “Christ, Tina, this is terrible. You don’t have to put up with this.” In a quivering voice, she jokes that she won’t be wearing a crop top this summer, then starts crying and clinging to me and Tom.

“Tina,” I say, trying not to cry myself, “I had to, I couldn’t leave it any longer, I’m sorry.”

When the police arrive, Tina stops weeping and freezes. The police want to hear what happened from all of us, but especially from Tina. “Please say,” I urge her. “Be brave. We’re all here.” She quakes and glances at Adrian, who stares ahead like he thinks he’s the Maida Vale Terminator.

Silence. Tina says nothing and I hold my breath. Luke steps forward and Tina jumps, but he only wants to offer her a scrumpled piece of toilet paper on which to blow her nose.

“I’ve only used it once,” he explains kindly.

Luke’s gentleness steels her. After much snuffling and gulping, Tina points at her boyfriend and says, “He—Adrian—he said cigs are bad for me, which they are. He, he st-stubbed them out on my belly.”

The male officer—whose stern expression is compensation for a faceful of freckles—writes this down in his notebook. Then Tina goes quiet so the female officer, a woman with bright yellow hair and a steel aura, ushers her into the next room. Freckles turns to Adrian. Adrian starts to say, in his plummiest, chummiest voice, that Tina has a drink problem. To my great joy, Freckles cuts in with, “Right now I don’t want to hear your explanation.”

I want to tell Freckles that Tina has stuck to orange juice ever since Adrian nearly drowned her for “flirting” with a guy in the pub (as if Tina would ever fancy a man in overalls). But I don’t want to be reprimanded in front of Adrian, so I save it for later. Instead, I point out the ashtray full of stubs which, I assume, are riddled with Adrian’s fingerprints, even though he doesn’t smoke. Freckles obligingly pours the stubs into a plastic bag and I whisper excitedly to Tom, “I saw this on
The Bill.
Even if it’s not forensically tight, it’s circumstantial evidence!”

I then go into the kitchen because Tina wants me with her. I sit at the kitchen table while Blondie takes pictures of Tina’s stomach and scalp with a Polaroid camera. She seems to understand that Tina is overwhelmed by her presence and its implications and says firmly, “You’re doing the right thing, love. You’ve done nothing wrong. This isn’t what should happen in a normal relationship.”

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to talk, so I nod supportively, behind Blondie’s back and try not to retch at the sight of Tina’s injuries. Blondie then tells me to take Tina to hospital. I ring for a cab. Then I think,
Sod it,
I’m busting to give a statement and I will. I haven’t been so keen to blab since I overheard Laetitia one lunchtime making hushed inquiries about liposuction.

Blondie indulges me and I dictate until she shakes her hand as if she’s got cramp. I feel frustrated because I am forced to admit that I have never actually seen Adrian lay a finger on my friend. “I’ve seen the results, though,” I say fiercely, and then, “Aren’t you going to take a statement from Tina?” She says she’ll get a statement from Tina tomorrow morning. Tina, who’s gone as quiet as a mouse in felt slippers, nods. Tom and Luke also give short statements. As the cab arrives, Blondie marches downstairs to interview Tina’s neighbor (which I am spitefully pleased about) and Freckles says to Adrian, “I’m arresting you for assault occasioning actual bodily harm,” and handcuffs him.

“Careful, my cufflinks!” Adrian snaps, which—I am delighted to note—doesn’t go down well. Freckles becomes, if anything, less careful of Adrian’s cufflinks. Adrian shoots me a bully-boy look and I taunt him with a curly-fingered wave. I am hoping to goad him into saying something incriminating like, “Honest, officer, I hardly touched her!” but Adrian isn’t stupid. He doesn’t say a word. I was also hoping to hear a hearty boom of “You’re going down!” but the heartwarming sight of Adrian in chains will do nicely. He and his Savile Row suit are to spend the night in a police cell and tomorrow morning he’ll be interviewed. Then he’ll be up in court.

And, if I might borrow a phrase from Nana Flo, not before time.

Tom wraps Tina in a blanket because she’s shivering and carries her to the cab. All the way to the hospital, we tell her well done and she’s so brave and this is the end of Adrian. Tina doesn’t seem to hear. She mutters into her hands, “I’m so ashamed.” Tom and Luke and I chorus, “Don’t be!” and Tina smiles because we sound like berks, then winces because her stomach hurts.

In Casualty, the baby-faced doctor says as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, “Your boyfriend did this?”

Tina replies, as if this explains everything, “I smoke.”

The doctor—who has piercing green eyes and might have sprung from
Casualty
if only he had more color in his cheeks—looks suspiciously at Luke. Luke has appointed himself Tina’s bodyguard and is standing beside her with a bulldog expression and folded arms.

“It wasn’t me!” he blurts. “I’m Luke! I’m looking after her!” Tina smiles at him tearily and Tom smiles at me. I glance at my watch and discover it’s 3:23
A.M.
, which means we waited in Dante’s Hell—sorry, Casualty—for three hours. Peely walls. I feel a swell of exhaustion. I mutter that I’m going outside for a second.

I stumble toward the door. The thickly sweet smell of Casualty is having an effect on my ability to breathe. And the swingy hospital doors, with their neat rectangular glass windows, the bright glaring lights, the screeching children and the shouty drunks, the old people shuffling down gray clinical corridors and the rushing staff in white and blue and sensible shoes—the whole lot converges and spins around my head like a small tornado, and I am watching my father die again and the monitor is bleeping and curtains are being pulled and trolleys being pushed and I’m being yanked away and there are screams of “He’s arresting,” and my mother is wailing and my father died and I sat there and missed it and I never told him I loved him because I couldn’t say the words. The blood drains from my head and I feel nauseous and dizzy. I need to sit down or be sick and I’m not sure which, so I collapse on a bench—next to a ragged man swigging from a bottle—then I say “Urgh,” and vomit onto the pavement. Understandably, the man moves to another bench.

I clutch the side of the bench while the world sways. Then Tom is holding my hair off my face and rubbing my back while I retch and spit. I keep retching. Loudly. “Romantic, this,” I mutter, the latest burp ringing in my ears as I stare down at a yellow puddle of sick.

“Nah,” replies Tom cheerfully. “This is nostalgic for me. It reminds me of our first date.”

I would look at him to laugh but I have dribble on my chin. I wipe it on my Ay Carumba sleeve. “How’s Tina?” I say.

“Still in shock, I think,” says Tom. “She said she felt bad about Adrian. But the doctor wasn’t having any of it. He told her men like Adrian don’t change. He was kind but straight down the line. I hope he made some impact, poor Tina. Oh, and Luke’s in love. He wants to stay and guard her.”

My eyes bulge. “Luke’s in love!” I squeak.

Tom grins and nods. “Very,” he says. My brain is twisting in an attempt to absorb this when Tom adds, “Has Tina got family? Do you think someone should phone her parents?”

I joke, “What, to warn them about Luke?” Then I add, “I suppose so. She needs all the support she can get. And I want her brothers to know. We should ask Tina, though.” Tom nods. “Tom,” I say, “I’m scared for Tina.”

I’m scared because I want this to be the end and I’m scared it won’t be. I’m scared because a few weeks back I rang a refuge and talked to the woman in charge to ask how I could help Tina. She told me about women like Tina. One tale she told me stayed in my head. This woman was married to a man who shoved her down the stairs and urinated on her wounds. He also tied the family dog to a tree in the garden and starved it to death over three weeks. She and her two children, aged four and six, were made to watch. Once or twice they managed to sneak out and feed the dog scraps, but this only prolonged the agony. This woman only reported her husband when she became afraid for her kids.

Then she withdrew her statement. The police prosecuted anyway, but her husband was bailed to live at home. He kept his job because he was a “key worker” in his firm and negotiating an important contract which his (male) boss was loathe to lose. The (male) magistrate decided not to send him to prison as—he said—he was not in the habit of wrecking people’s careers. He wanted offenders “rehabilitated.” Eventually his wife fled to the refuge but he traced her and…

The knowledge is polluting me. So I tell Tom. “I bet Adrian has a good lawyer,” I say miserably.

Tom replies, “Yeah. I bet he does. But, see how it goes. At least we all know about him now. He can’t isolate her anymore. And I know this sounds weird, but Adrian strikes me as a man who cares very much about his reputation. And you don’t know what Adrian’s boss is like. And Tina has three brothers. Three. I reckon Adrian’s in trouble. Fuck, if anyone did that to my sister—” Tom shakes his head. I shrug. I feel so despondent I no longer trust anyone to do the right thing.

“Listen, Helen,” says Tom, “it’s four in the morning. Luke’s stuck to Tina like a lovestruck leech. They’re not keeping her in, and Luke’s going to stay with her, you can visit her at home, first thing. You can stay here, but you’re near delirious. Why don’t I take you home. I’ll sleep on the floor.” I reluctantly agree. I run to see if Tina minds, then sprint back to Tom. A small mercy in a mean world: I see Tom’s found a black cab. He opens the door and I clamber in and sprawl like a rag doll on the backseat.

“Fuck,” I say.

“What?” says Tom.

“I hate this,” I burble. “I hate what’s happened to Tina. I did sod-all too late.”

Tom shakes his head. “Helen,” he says, “only Tina can see off Adrian. You couldn’t force her. But you stopped her from getting hurt, well, more seriously hurt, tonight. You did a good thing, be proud. You’re a good friend.”

I recoil from his praise because I feel tarnished and undeserving. There will be no personal gain from Tina’s pain. I don’t want it. Tom senses my misery because he says, “We’ll all help Tina.” Then, inexplicably, he grabs my hand and kisses it. I close my eyes. There is a vague elusive thought buzzing at my brain, but I can’t be bothered and swat it.