Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 5 - 6 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 This is an unpleasant couple of chapters. Please be cautious. They involve a rebellious child who thinks he can get away with anything An abusive husband who has similar self-centred views regarding his marital entitlements The loss of pretty much the only friend in this lonely life The former occupant of the life and her views on what she'd left behind And the protagonist and her response to all of the above. By the end, there are signs that the tide may be on the turn. I should also mention that the manner in which the police respond in these chapters is purely fictitious and does not reflect actual practice in any way.

-oOo-

Chapter 5

Steven bounced his football as we walked, controlling it with his feet before lifting it back up into his hands. A nagging part of me wanted to tell him to be careful, but I'd seen him in action on the pitch and I knew how good he was, so I sat on my reaction and let him get on with it.

“I hope Jake is there,” he said, kicking the ball up high and catching it.

I sighed. “When his mum gave me her number, she said to give her a call in the week. That suggests to me that maybe she already has plans for the weekend.”

“But maybe she doesn’t.”

“In which case maybe they'll be down at the park already. I'm not calling her, Steven.”

“But...”

“But nothing! Call it payback for tipping my phone over earlier.”

“You don't know that was me.”

“Michael was upstairs, your dad and I were in the front room. You were the only one near enough and the video shows it going over slowly without any sign it was knocked. Evidence enough for most juries to convict.”

Steven glanced at me for a brief guilty moment before his face settled into a familiar obstinate glower.

“We’ll call that one quits, but from here on in I'm instituting a three strike policy. You already know the sorts of things you shouldn't do because you've shown me you have a tendency to do them when you think you can get away with it. From here on in I'll give you a strike every time you deliberately do something you know you shouldn’t. Three strikes in a week and you’re grounded, which will mean no Saturday football.

“What if I don't agree?”

“Then hard luck, because I'm your mother and I get to make the rules. You need to understand there are consequences to your actions, and I need to make sure you learn that while I’m still able to control the severity of those consequences.

“Having said that, if you think one of my rules is unfair you can try to persuade me that's the case and I promise I'll consider your arguments, but this is the way things are going to be, do you understand?”

“Whatever.”

“And just to make things abundantly clear, if you decide to do something that's very wrong, I do reserve the right to give you all three strikes at once, and carry further strikes into future weeks.”

The anger in his eyes was a fair imitation of his father’s.

“On the flip side, if we get to the end of a week and you don't have any strikes, you'll most likely earn yourself a reward.”

“Like what?”

“Something we’ll have to be able to afford obviously, and something that will have to be appropriate to your age. Beyond that, we’ll aim for things you actually want rather than anything I decide.”

The glower remained, but the dark shadows behind it receded a little. He bounced his ball to well over three times his height and almost didn’t manage to control it when it came back down.

“And since we’re starting this now, I deliberately haven't said anything about you bouncing that ball because I know you're pretty skilled with it, but if you were to lose control and let it bounce out into the road, that would most likely count as at least one strike, so you may not want to test the limits of your skill until we get to the park.”

He made no noticeable acknowledgement of what I'd said, but the height of the bounces decreased by degrees until they were back to a sensible level.

A small hand wiggled its way into mine. I gave it a friendly squeeze.

“Why are you different, Mummy?”

I looked down at the small figure beside me. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you look the same, and you smell the same, and you feel the same, and you sound the same, but the things you say and the way you say them is different.”

“Are different,” I corrected absentmindedly. “I don’t know if I have a good answer for you, Michael. Maybe it was when your daddy bumped my head this morning. Sometimes people change after they have a bump to the head, and I did bang it pretty hard. Does it bother you?”

“No, I like it. Usually you’re all shouty with me and Steven, but today you’ve only been shouty with Daddy. It’s better like this.”

“I’m glad you approve, because I think this is going to be the way of things from here on.”

“But I don’t want Daddy to hurt you again, Mummy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's talking about last year when you fell down the stairs,” Steven said.

“Mummy didn't fall. Daddy pushed her.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about “

“I do too.”

“It’s alright, Michael.” I squeezed his hand.

“But Mummy...”

“I said it’s alright. I’m not about to let your father hurt me. Not again.”

Fortunately the next turn brought the park entrance into view. For one thing I was feeling decidedly winded after the short walk. For another, Steven took it as a sign that he was no longer tethered to our little party and ran off in search of friends and adventure, which brought a welcome, if temporary, pause to the constant acrimony between him and his brother.

Michael gravitated towards the playground in much the same way he had earlier that morning, and in much the same way I found a place somewhere in between where I could keep an eye on both of them.

Truly alone for the first time since I'd woken up, I fished in my bag for my phone. With its hot pink case it wasn't hard to locate. I didn’t mind the colour, but iPhones had never been my first choice. I thumbed it open.

The battery was down to only ten percent, which on a phone like this could be anywhere between thirty minutes and thirty seconds of talk time.

I figured it was worth a chance and tapped in my old number.

The phone rang for ten seconds and switched to voice mail.

I tried again with the same result, then again. On the fourth attempt it was answered.

“Look, who the fuck is this? If you keep fucking calling me, I’ll call the fucking police on you.”

I blinked and stuttered. I’d expected it to be my voice, but it still felt weird hearing it from the outside. All the more so to hear it spouting such a stream of invective, and through a mouth stuffed full of something or other.

I pulled myself together. “Don't you recognise your old number?” I asked. “We used to be each other.”

“Oh, it’s you! Well, no take-backs.”

“What?

“No take-backs! It’s what the man in red said to tell you if you called wanting to change back. Honestly, I thought I’d hear from you a lot sooner.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you're abandoning your children?”

“Nah. I never fucking wanted them in the first place.” The voice became more muffled as she took another enormous bite out of whatever she was filling her face with. From the lack of crunch, I suspected it wasn’t the least bit healthy – possibly originating in the doughnut shop down the road from my apartment. “George fucking knocked me up when we was still at school, so his mum and dad made him fucking marry me. I didn't really want to, but my mum and dad – yours now I suppose – said to me how was I going to raise a kid on me own when they wasn’t going to turn their lives upside-down just ‘cos I couldn’t keep 'im outa my fucking knickers. Dad paid for the wedding – just the six of us; me, George and both our parents down at the registry office, with a pie and a pint to follow – then he told me that was the last he was going to fucking spend on me and I ‘aven’t spoken to ‘im since.”

That answered a few questions already.

“A couple of years after I ‘ad Steven, I read in this magazine how it’s much easier looking after two kids than one, so I stopped taking the pill for a bit until Michael came along. FYI, two kids is bloody not easier than one!

“George was fucking pissed.” She laughed at the memory. “It’s almost been worth having that whiny fucking brat just for how much it pisses him off. Mind you he told me exactly what he’d fucking do to me if I stopped taking the fucking pills again.”

“So perhaps you should tell me where you keep them? I haven’t taken one yet today.”

“Don’t be stupid! You don’t have to take anything for a week now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You take one every day for three weeks then you stop for a week. Didn’t you start bleeding today?”

“Yes, but I’ve never been on the pill before, so I don’t know how it works.”

“Oh, right. Well, you get twenty-one in a pack, and you take them at the same time every day – that’s important…”

“So what time is the same time for you?”

“Oh, er, my doctor said to do it in the evening when I eat dinner. It’s better with food, and if you have dinner at the same time, which we do, then you get in the habit of taking the pill at the same time.”

“So, when do you usually eat dinner?” I could feel my patience wearing away, bit I kept my voice calm.

“Yeah, about six usually. When we eat later, I still take the pill at six, but like I said, when you’ve taken it for three weeks, you’re supposed to stop for a week to let all the shit out, sort of thing. You can’t get pregnant during that week ’cos you’re not ovlu… ovril… ‘cos you’re on the rag sort of, but it’s important to start again after seven days off.”

“So how long have I been off and where do you keep your pills?”

“They’re in the kitchen cupboard next to the oven and I took my last one day before yesterday.”

“Do you have a calendar to help keep you on track?”

“I’ve got an app on the phone. It’ll beep at you at ten to six the next time you need to take one, that is if the fucking thing hasn’t lost all its charge again.”

“So, there’s the next question,” I paused long enough to glance at the phone. Down to four percent, “where is your phone charger?”

“Right. It’s next to the bed. I forgot to plug it in last night, didn’t I? Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll probably run out of battery in a minute or two, but I still have a bunch of questions.”

“Well, keep ’em coming, ’cos I’ve got nothing else to do.” I could barely make out her words around the mouthful of whatever she’d just bitten into. “Do you really want my life, ’cos I mean… fuck.”

“Yeah, well like you said, no take-backs. In the meantime, would I be right in assuming the boys go to the same school Steven was playing football at this morning?”

“Oh fuck, I forgot about that. How’d he do?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really. Nasty little shit. I was hoping maybe someone kicked him in the bollocks or something. Right, yeah, they go to school there. Michael’s in year three at the primary and Steven’s in year seven in the secondary. He usually has homework over the weekend. He’ll try and tell you otherwise but look in his bag. You’ll find their school stuff in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Yes, I already found the ironing. Didn't see any uniforms though. Any birthday’s coming up any time soon?”

“Next one’s Michael’s, but that’s still a few months away. They’re all in the calendar on the phone. Michael doesn't have a uniform. Stevie’s should be there somewhere.”

“Anything else I should know that you can think of?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Any friends expecting a call any time soon?”

“I don’t have any friends, not really. My fucking husband overcharges for his work, but he’s the only plumber in the area. There used to be another, but he kind of moved away a couple of years ago. I can’t say for sure if George had anything to do with it, but he had the biggest fucking grin all over his fucking face when he told me the other guy was going.

“Nobody I know in the area really speaks to me now, ’cos they kind of think I’m the reason he overcharges. Plus a few of them think he kind of messes with other bits of the plumbing while he’s working, so there’s always something for him to come back and fix. They reckon I’m in on it. I mean why would I do something like that?”

“I don’t know. What do you usually cook for Sunday lunch?”

“Whatever I fucking feel like, or whatever’s in the freezer. Pizza maybe?”

“When and where do you go shopping, and how do you get there?”

“There’s a Lidl down the road, about ten minutes’ walk. They’re fucking useless in there, almost nobody speaks English hardly and they never have the things you want, but anywhere else means taking a bus and who can be fucking arsed with that? There isn’t enough room for everybody in the van so no point in asking that fucking useless shit to drive us.

“Here, do you really have a car? I mean me. Do I really have a car now?”

“Yes, it’s all as I said in the note I left. The keys should be in my trouser pocket.”

“Sweet. George promised me a fucking car after we was married, even paid for me to learn to drive, but it never happened.”

“Why not?”

“He likes his fucking horses, doesn't he? Every fucking Saturday he turns on that fucking telly and watches whatever shit happens to be on till the racing comes along. You’ll find out when you get home how well he’s done, and it’s not great most of the time.”

“This deal keeps getting better and better. I take it that’s why there’s almost no cash in my bag?”

“Yeah, that’s a thought. I’d get him to give you the housekeeping before the races start, otherwise you won’t have nothing for the week.”

“So, when do the races start?”

“I don’t fucking know. I just make sure I get it out of 'im first thing in the morning.”

“That doesn’t help me much today does it.”

“’Scuse me for not thinking of everything. You could’ve called earlier, couldn't you?”

“You’re right. I suppose I ought to head back sooner rather than later. Please take care with the car.”

“I’ll be alright. I mean it's easy like falling off a bike, innit? Not something you forget.”

“If you haven’t driven since your driving test, it’ll probably be a lot like falling off a bike. If I were you, I’d have a couple of refresher lessons before...”

“Yeah, well you’re not me, are you? Not any more, so keep your fucking nose out.”

“You’re right. It’s none of my business. It's just... Look, we swapped lives looking for something better. I’d hate for things to turn to shit because of something you could easily avoid.”

“Why do you even care?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s all these new hormones. Maybe I still feel some responsibility for who I was... who you are now. Please, will you just think about it?”

“Whatever, maybe. Hey, where do you keep your fags?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You must do. I’ve been dying for a cigarette ever since...”

The phone went dead. I stared at the blank screen for a moment and swore quietly to myself. Any further Q and A on my new life would have to wait till I could find my charger. In the meantime, I hoped she wouldn’t do anything stupid with my old one.

“Hey, there you are.”

I looked up with no small amount of confusion. “Charlotte?”

“Sure. Why so surprised? I mean this was your idea.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. You texted me.”

“I didn’t, and I’d show you only I've run out of battery.”

“Yeah? Well look here.” She tapped at her phone and handed it over.

The top of the text definitely showed my name. I couldn’t be sure about the number, but why would it be different? The text read, ‘Heading to the park. Steven has his ball in case Jake and you are free.’

“I’m sorry, but I didn't send you this. Where are Jake and Steven?” I looked around without seeing anyone I recognised.

“They ran off over that way.” Charlie pointed in the direction of an old pavilion on a gentle rise to one side of the open space.

“So why would they go there?” I mused. “I mean you’d want flat ground to play football, wouldn't you?” A horrible sick feeling crept over me. “Michael,” I called, “come here sweetie.”

“I'm playing, Mum.”

“Come here now.”

I didn't like resorting to the dangerous voice, but I had a bad feeling and needed to act on it straight away. Michael came running, looking scared.

I marched off in the direction of the pavilion with perhaps a little too much determination as I started puffing and wheezing before I was halfway there.

Charlie hadn't said anything, but her expression had passed through worried to dangerous. We rounded the corner and found what I'd been afraid of.

Steven, along with four of his friends as far as I could see, had Jake on the ground and were kicking him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I yelled. It would have been more impressive had I not been so out of breath, but it worked well enough. Five guilty faces looked up at me long enough for me to have a good look at them before four of them made a break and ran for it, scattering in different directions. Steven, knowing he had nowhere to run, raised his foot for one last kick.

“Don't you dare!” I yelled, loud enough to have an effect. Charlie was already running forward to see to her son.

“Come here,” I growled. I couldn't remember ever being so incensed. I wanted to give him that kick in the delicates his mother had wished on him, but I knew that wasn't the answer. Punishment given out in anger was more likely to be cruel than effective. Instead, I turned to Charlotte and Jake. “Are you alright...?”

“I begin to see why you don't have any friends,” Charlie snapped. Her son's face was bruised and bleeding, swollen around the lips and eyes.

“I'm so sorry. If I’d had any idea...”

“I think we'd like you to leave us alone, thank you.”

There wasn't anything I could do for them. Nothing they'd be prepared to accept from me anyway. I turned to Steven. “Come with me,” I said in a voice that I hoped would brook no nonsense. He turned to collect his ball. “Leave it,” I snapped. “That belongs to someone else now.”

I held a hand out to Michael, who tentatively took hold of it, then took a few steps towards home. Steven didn't follow.

“How much deeper do you want to dig this hole?” I asked him. I took a step towards him and he started moving, his face as sullen and angry as I’d seen it.

The walk home gave me time to bring my rage back under some control. Steven was in too much of a sulk to speak and Michael too afraid, but that did me fine. I let the anger drain until I no longer felt like whipping the hide off him, then let my mind work on more appropriate and potentially more effective punishments.

The slug still sat spread across most of the living room. The TV showed horses being led about in a busy paddock.

“What happened?” Mr Wonderful grunted. “I thought you'd be gone longer.”

“What do you care?” I threw back at him.

Anger simmered in his eyes, but maybe he saw enough in my own to know this wasn't a fight he wanted to be a part of. Maybe he just wanted us to go away so he could get back to wasting our money.

I led the boys through to the back room and commanded Steven to sit, which he sullenly did. I told Michael he wasn't in any trouble and asked him to collect my phone charger from my side of the bed, then, while he was running up the stairs in response, I stepped back into the front room.

“You'd better give me next week's housekeeping before you lose it all,” I said quietly and calmly.

He turned slowly, but the angry glare that came with it couldn't dent the armour of my own simmering rage. He pulled a fat wad of notes out of his trouser pocket and peeled off four twenties which he held up.

“You have to be fucking kidding,” I said ignoring the offering.

“If you don't want it.” He made to put it back.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll do what I can with what's in the house, but you'll be sick of beans on toast by next weekend, when there won't be enough of anything to make your fucking Saturday breakfast.”

“So, I'll feed myself.”

“On what? How much are you going to have left after this shit?”

He peeled a couple more twenties off his stash.

“A hundred and twenty quid? To feed a family of four? What world do you live in?”

“You're beginning to piss me off, woman.”

“We need a new kettle in case you'd forgotten.”

“How much to make you fuck off.”

“Two hundred, and even that's going to be tight.”

“Fucking hell.” He counted out the extra notes and offered them up. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

The roll of cash had barely diminished in size. At a guess there had to be several thousand in it. I found myself wondering how much the Inland Revenue knew about.

Not the time for that battle. I withdrew to the back room and the kids, one of whom I was desperately regretting inheriting.

I took the charger from Michael and plugged my phone into one of the kitchen sockets. A suggestion that maybe he might like to go upstairs and play by himself for a while was all it took to send him running for refuge.

“What am I going to find when it has enough charge to turn on?” I asked Steven. “I'm guessing there'll be a text to Charlie in there, won't there?”

He did his best to give me a dad glare.

“Maybe if I look in WhatsApp I'll find a message to a bunch of your friends. I wonder what that'll say.”

The anger in his eyes slipped towards uncertainty.

“I think we'll wait and find out before we decide just how much trouble you’re in, but for now let's deal with the fact that you thought it was okay to kick another person.”

I opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. He eyed me warily.

“Take off your shirt,” I told him calmly.

“No.” His eyes widened as he realised what I had in mind. My disinterest in football meant I only vaguely recognised the club colours and the name across the back, but I could see it was his pride and joy. I also knew that it was expensive enough that we wouldn't be replacing it any time soon.

“You don't have a choice, Steven. Well, actually I suppose you do. You can choose to defy me, but that’ll make the consequences just that little worse for yourself.”

“You're not getting this shirt.”

“What do you plan to do? Fight me on it? No, I don't think that’d work. It’d be a little too dangerous, what with scissors and everything. No, I'm going to give you a choice.” I put the scissors on the table. “You can take the shirt off and cut it up yourself right now, or you can wait until you come home from school on Monday and see what else of your stuff you no longer own.”

“Mum, please, no.” There were tears in his eyes, but I couldn't find any compassion in me.

“I warned you there would be consequences, Steven, or did you think I wouldn't mind you using my phone to set up an attack on the son of one of my friends.”

“You don't have any friends!” he shouted.

“No, I suppose I don’t,” I answered with deadly calm. “I did this morning, but you wrecked that, didn't you? Not that that’s what bothers me right now. What bothers me is that a son of mine would conspire to ambush a child and beat him up simply because he was good at a game you enjoy playing. Now, take off that shirt.”

“I hate you!” He shouted, tears streaming down his face.

“What the fuck’s going on in there?” The shout came through from the front room.

“Shall we tell your dad and see what he thinks about it?” I asked, knowing full well how unfair a tactic it was, but then the little scrote hadn’t been too bothered about fairness earlier.

It was a bit of a risk, because there was no guarantee that the fat turd would back me on an issue like this.

It paid off. Steven pulled his shirt off. I nodded at the scissors.

“I’ll hate you forever,” he hissed at me, picking them up.

“I'll take that risk,” I said. “Right now I don't know how long I'm going to keep disliking you. Cut it from the bottom all the way to the top.”

He did so.

“And again.”

He made a second long cut, tears flooding his eyes as he did so.

“And keep going until I tell you to stop.”

It took ten minutes. By the end, the shirt had been reduced to ribbons and Steven to a quivering wreck.

“Now go and change into something not football related,” I said, “then come straight back downstairs.”

While he was gone I turned my phone on. The text to Charlotte was there as I’d suspected, along with her reply saying she would come.

WhatsApp didn't appear on my phone's main screen, but it was in the app library. I opened it and found a few messages listed, all to different groups that had nothing to do with me. The latest was directed to a group called 'footie’. I opened it.

“Come to the park if you want some payback.”

A quick check of the group’s ten members suggested this was the school football team – maybe less the substitute. Thank goodness most of them had the good sense not to get involved. As for the rest, it shouldn’t be too difficult to identify the culprits.

I hunted through the cupboard under the stairs until I found a couple of rucksacks. A quick hunt in the larger one uncovered a few books and a homework diary. The current week showed a couple of pieces of homework set for the weekend and several for earlier in the week. I left the diary open on the page and put a pan of water on to boil.

I cracked open the door to the front room. “Tea or coffee?” I asked.

“What?”

“Would you like a drink?”

“No. Now fuck off.”

Well, I’d tried.

Steven was coming downstairs as I withdrew. I pointed at the table.

“We don't get homework, Mum,” I said in a fair imitation of his butter-wouldn't-melt tone of voice. “Just how much of that have you done? Bear in mind that I will be checking with your teachers on Monday.”

He gave me a black look.

“Get it done,” I said, “And show me when you’re finished. If I don't think you’ve made a good enough effort, you'll be doing it again. From scratch.”

“This isn't fair.”

“I'm sure Jake didn't think it was fair when you and your friends laid into him like that. Why don't I give you a little time to think about whether or not you’re going to tell me their names?”

“I'm not a snitch.”

“I thought you were going to say something like that. Do you think it'll stop me finding out who was involved?”

He grunted.

“Do you think your punishment will be better or worse if you don't tell me?”

“You already punished me,” he shouted.

“Only, for your part in attacking Jake. I still have to figure out what can be done about your organising the attack in the first place.

“I know not all of your team were involved. You could help me make sure only those that turned up to give Jake a kicking get in trouble for it.

“Anyway, think about it while you're catching up on your homework. I'll just stand over here and do some ironing while you get on with it.”

Which was how the afternoon passed. An occasional cry of exasperation accompanied by a flurry of expletives gave us a running commentary on the progress, or lack thereof, of the Great Plan to Get Rich going on in the next room.

By six-thirty, my pile of ironing had converted into several piles of clothes to put away, Steven’s attempts at his homework – including the assignments he'd skipped during the week – had been completed to an acceptable standard and Michael had reappeared, his hunger having overtaken his nervousness over what he might find downstairs.

One final stream of profanity reached us from the front room before the door slammed.

I dared a peak into the lord's domain, finding it deserted. I ventured further to stick my head out the front door to see the waddling rear end of my husband making its way down the road, and his was a true waddle. By comparison, my own ungainly gait was verging on graceful.

I didn't particularly want to engage him in conversation, not given the way he'd spoken to me at any time since I'd met him and certainly not at a distance that I knew would disturb the neighbourhood, so I hunted out my phone and checked a local map for what might be in that general direction. Unsurprisingly, the nearest pub happened to be just round the corner.

“Alright,” I announced to my two young charges. “First you help me put this away, neatly mind, then we sort out tea.”

“I'm hungry, Mum,” Michael whined.

“I'm sure you are, and once you do your part to help me put these clothes away, I'll be able to put together something to eat. So, here’s your pile,” I gave him a stack of his own clothes. “You know what goes where so make sure it all does. Steven, these are for you, and remember how thin the ice is that you're walking on, so tread carefully.”

The last lot belonged to the shambling mound and myself, mostly mine and comprising the best of a mediocre lot. Certainly better than the rags I'd found in the wardrobe that morning.

Inevitably, I finished ahead of the boys and stuck my head in their room to find them squabbling over toys with their clothes dumped in the middle of the floor.

“Oh,” I said feigning surprise. “You’re not hungry then. I thought you were.”

I waited, staring in a meaningful way at the clothes I'd so recently ironed until they got the point and set about putting them away. Their first attempt involved dumping the piles inside their wardrobe, but when this resulted in a disappointed sigh from me and enough of a blockage in the doorway to prevent their escape, they eventually realised there were no short cuts here and did it right.

It was seven o'clock before we made it back downstairs.

“So, eggy bread?” I asked.

“What’s...?”

“...eggy bread?” they asked between them.

“I think you'll like it.”

“I want pizza,” Michael whinged.

“That'll take half an hour and you already had sausage and chips for lunch. This'll be ready in ten minutes.”

It was something I'd learned from one of my former girlfriends. Heat up a frying pan, cut some slices of bread into triangles, whip up some eggs with a little salt and pepper. Dunk the bread in the egg and fry both sides until crispy. Serve with a dollop of tomato ketchup.

It went down a treat. I even allowed my complaining innards a couple of slices to make up for the slim pickings they'd had all day.

Juice for the boys, tea for me. Cuttles and crocks soaking in the sink. We were done by seven-thirty.

“So, since we have the place to ourselves for a while, how about a little TV before bed. Michael’s choice.”

“That's not fair!” Steven was the epitome of predictability.

“You're still working off a long list of wrongdoings young man. Don't tempt me to add to it.”

Michael chose a relatively recent Disney film which Steven didn’t actually mind. Shithead the Great had attempted to get his own back by hiding the remote, but since he'd chosen the same hiding place I'd used, it didn't disrupt our plans at all.

The film ended by nine or shortly after, which left me with the final chore of chasing the two of them into their pyjamas and getting their teeth brushed before bed. I would have forgotten Michael's pull-ups had he not fetched a pair for me to help him put on.

I kissed them both – even Steven – and left them to the night.

It had been a long first day and I was exhausted. I locked up downstairs, assuming his nibs had a key, and showered before climbing into bed myself. Glasses on the nightstand, alarm clock numbers blurring into a smudge. Sleep didn't take long to follow.

Chapter 6

I woke in the dark to the sound of quiet grunting and clumsy shuffling. I reached quietly for my glasses and held them up so I could read the numbers on the clock. One-fifteen, which suggested Mr Wonderful had weaved a drunken path back home. Certainly more believable than my first thought, that our vast riches were being burgled by the clumsiest thief in the world.

There was enough light in the room to make out his familiar bulk standing on my side of the bed while he struggled with the intricacies of belt and buttons in an effort to disrobe.

I kept still, not wanting to let on that I was awake, and watched as he continued to fumble and stagger about, eventually presenting me with the repellent silhouette of his vast belly hanging down in repulsive folds over his...

Well, that at least might explain why the original Sandy had been attracted to the man. It hung from him like a hosepipe. Personally, I found it as much a turn-off as the rest of the man.

He began to stroke it, lowering my opinion of him further. I watched in fascination and slowly growing horror as it rose to attention, pressing against his mammoth gut.

He pulled my bedclothes aside and reached under my nightdress.

“No,” I said quietly but firmly.

“I thought you was awake,” he slurred.

I felt his calloused fingers close on the waistband of my knickers and start to pull them down.

“No,” I repeated, louder and more emphatic.

I reached down to stop him, but he grabbed me by the wrists, shifting his grasp so he held both of mine in just his one left hand and pulled them above my head. His right hand went back to my underwear. I squirmed to get out from under him, but he pushed my legs apart and settled the bulk of his beer gut on me. I felt a tug and a tear and my last line of defence was gone.

He belched and the stench of stale beer washed over me. Between the dim light and the blur my eyes were making of his face I could just about make out his vicious leer looking down at me from way too close. Between the sickening feel of his belly spreading out over my stomach and the noisome stench of his breath, I felt disgusted, nauseated.

“No!” I screamed at him, squirming feebly, ineffectively. I tried to shift, to bring my knee up between his legs, but he was already between mine.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s about fucking time I reminded you who the fucking man is in this house.”

He pushed my legs further apart and shifted his position.

“No! No, no, no, no, no, no.” What started as a defiant shout descended all to rapidly into desperation and denial. I felt a terror rising up within me, robbing me of my strength. I struggled to push him off, but could have been trying to move a mountain for all the effect it had.

He reached down, guiding his swollen dick until I could feel it tickling its way between my labia, then he thrust forward.

It hurt. I bit back on the scream that rose inside me, not wishing to give him any more satisfaction than he was already taking, and closed my eyes, tears squeezing out through pinched eyelids.

The whole experience was mercifully short. He thrust his way in perhaps a half-dozen times before tensing and letting out a shuddering gasp.

He might have collapsed on me then, had I not shoved and twisted, pushing him over to his side of the bed. He rolled off. I was tempted to push further and see if I could put him on the floor, but the aphorism about sleeping dogs came to mind and I let him be.

His breathing settled into the slow rhythm of sleep while I lay back and let the tears flow.

I wasn’t going to get back to sleep any time soon. I doubted anything would rouse him for some hours, but I had no desire to be anywhere near him. I grabbed my glasses and dressing gown and made my way downstairs.

It took several minutes probing to find the tail end of the tampon I still had in me. He'd jammed it in tight, which added to the discomfort as it came out. I overrode my first instinct to throw it away and instead fished out a Ziploc bag from one of the drawers in the kitchen and sealed it inside before wrapping it in toilet paper and tucking it into the bottom of my bag. In the process I discovered a fresh tampon which I put aside.

I ran a bath and settled myself into water almost hot enough to scald. It wasn't enough. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt dirty, like I’d never be clean again. I felt the shock of being violated. I felt angry and scared and above all revolted. I sat there with tears streaming down my face until the water turned cold enough to goad me into motion.

I pulled out the plug and grabbed a towel from the rail. The pink one would be mine. There was no way I wanted to touch anything he'd been in contact with.

I'd emptied the ironing basket earlier, which meant my choices for getting dressed included going back into my bedroom – very much a last resort – putting my nightdress back on – a quick examination showed it was streaked with blood and who knew what else – or choosing something from the drying rack. Option three seemed the least of the worst and provided me with a dress and underwear that were almost dry. I wore my dressing gown for the time it took to run the iron over everything, which helped dry it most of the rest of the way, and changed.

That sense of delicious vulnerability I'd always enjoyed about skirts and dresses in my former life worked against me now. The last thing I wanted was to have that part of my body exposed, like the petals of a flower open in invitation, but the thought of going back upstairs repelled me.

So did putting in the tampon. A part of me didn’t want anything in that part of my body ever again. I told myself I was being ridiculous and set about the business of inserting it before I needed to change my knickers. I couldn't help crying over it, but it was done.

The clock on the oven showed the time as just past four AM. Rather than sit around for the rest of the night feeling sorry for myself, I picked up my phone, thankfully still charging in the kitchen. A quick search took me to the government website on domestic abuse and from there to Refuge and their twenty-four-hour helpline. I punched in the number and found myself talking to an actual person before I was ready to say anything.

She was kind and supportive, patient while I cried myself out all over again, encouraging as I talked my way through my days' experiences. I don’t know how long I was on the line with her, but it ended with her trying to persuade me to call the police.

I felt oddly reluctant to do so, as though I would be disturbing people who had something better to do with their lives. In the end she got through to me though, and made the call on my behalf, staying on the line while I stammered my way through a repeat of what I’d told her, even chipping in when I missed out something she felt was relevant.

The police sent a couple of cars almost immediately. No sirens, but with flashing blue lights as they arrived outside the house, blocking the road.

I let them in and told them where to find him and what to expect – large, strong, naked, drunk. I also mentioned my two boys asleep in the room opposite with a request not to disturb them if at all possible.

It wasn’t possible. The moment George awoke, he flew into a roaring rage and had to be forcibly subdued. He was still spitting and yelling threats at the police and at me as they dragged him, handcuffed and wearing nothing more than a pair of old jogging bottoms, out to the waiting car.

Steven and Michael appeared wide eyed at the top of the stairs. A spare police officer found them and led them to the living room where I was sitting with a WPC. She explained that George would be held in a cell overnight but that I’d have to come down to the police station to formally press charges in the morning.

Once they’d gone, I settled the boys back into their beds, telling them as little as I felt I could get away with. They’d hear the truth in time, but I needed to find out exactly what that truth was going to be before I told them.

With them settled, I ventured into the other bedroom and stripped down the bed. I wanted to burn the bedding, but it was all potential evidence, so I bagged it up in a bin bag and put it to one side with my nightie and my torn knickers from earlier.

There was a stain on the mattress on my side. I made the herculean effort needed to flip it, then remade the bed with fresh bed linen. I still didn’t feel like climbing back into it, so instead I switched my dress for a more comfortable and secure pair of jeans with a tee shirt and cardigan over the top. There’s something about cardigans. Grabbing the open sides and pulling them across kind of gives you permission to hug yourself, and I was going to want to do that quite a bit over the next day or several.

I lay down on top of the bed and gradually curled into a foetal position, giving way to my exhaustion and drifting off once more.

…

I woke to the sound of squabbling, perhaps inevitably. I was still wearing my glasses, albeit skewed, so could read the time. Nine-thirty. I let out a sigh and sat up.

They both looked at me guiltily when I appeared in their doorway. The fight was over a different transformer which I could only assume was another one of Michael’s toys, so I looked around the room, settling on a football poster stuck up over Steven’s bunk.

I unpeeled it from the wall and twitched an eye at Steven whose face stiffened. I held it at the top, ready to tear it and waited patiently. His face remained hardened and he continued to hold onto Michael’s toy. I made the slightest of tears and he let go.

The poster went back on the wall. I turned a weary smile on both boys.

“I imagine you’re both hungry. I'm sorry I slept late; I didn’t have a very good night.”

“Where’s Dad?” Steven asked.

“Don’t you remember? The police arrested him?”

“Why?”

“Because of what he did to me after he came home last night, and because of a few other things.”

“He’s going to kill you when he gets home.”

“I’m afraid you may be right, which is why I’m going to do my best to make sure he doesn’t come home.

“Come on, let’s get you fed. We have a long day ahead of us today.” I led the way downstairs.

“But it’s Sunday,” Michael whined.

“Yes, but the police don’t close on Sundays and I have to go and give them an official statement of what your daddy did to me.”

“What’s an official statement?”

“It’s when I tell them what happened and they write it all down. Then they decide what needs to be done about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether your daddy stays in jail, like how we can keep safe...”

“When he comes to kill you,” Steven smirked.

“Well, it’d be better for us all if that didn’t happen,” I replied calmly as I put the cereal boxes and bowls out. “Obviously, I’d rather not be killed, but if I were, your father would go to prison for a very long time, which would mean that you two would go into foster care. And however much you might hate living at home with me, you'd hate foster care a lot more.”

“I'll tell the police that Dad didn't do anything to you,” Steven sneered.

“Probably as well the police won't ask you then, isn't it? Come on, eat up while I look at the bus timetable.”

It took forty-five minutes to get them breakfasted and dressed and out the door. Fortunately that meant we managed to get to the bus stop with ten minutes to spare. I drew a few curious looks from the nearby neighbours, but they apparently felt it was more important to snub me than ask why the police had come round the previous night.

We found the police station easily enough. I left the boys in the hands of a friendly WPC while I gave my statement. I tried to be as complete as possible, including everything that might constitute domestic abuse. Mainly it was about his forcing himself on me though and, whilst they were sympathetic towards me, they didn't think I'd provided enough evidence for them to charge him.

“What evidence do you need?” I asked.

“Well, so far it's just your word against his, isn't it?”

“That didn't answer my question. I mean I have blood on my nightdress, I have semen stains on the sheets and the bed.”

“All of which could have come from a number of innocent sources, or been staged. I'm sorry Mrs Bush. The police don't have the resources to prosecute a case like this.”

“So, when he comes home this afternoon and commits murder...?”

“Then we'll be able to lock him up.”

“In the meantime, what am I supposed to do to keep my children and myself safe?”

“You could always hire a lawyer...”

“And how exactly should I pay for it? I doubt the pittance he gives me for housekeeping would even pay the retainer.”

“Try getting in touch with Refuge then. They may be able to help with your case. I'm afraid we can’t.”

If there's one thing the British police do to perfection it is obstinacy once they have reached a decision. I wasn’t going to get any more out of them. I gathered the boys and headed out into the town. An ice-cream each kept them quiet while I put a second call into Refuge.

“Look,” I said, “it was on the recommendation of your operator that I involved the police yesterday. Now they're refusing to prosecute, or to keep him beyond twenty-four hours. If you don't do something, he's going to be home tonight and heaven knows what he'll do then.”

“I'm sorry, our offices are closed...”

“Yes, they'll be open tomorrow morning at nine, by which time I'll either be in the hospital or the morgue.”

“Where did you say you lived?”

I told her.

“We do have one solicitor in your vicinity. I shouldn't do this on the weekend, but I could ask if she'd be prepared to see you.”

“Yes please.”

The hold music played through its loop twice before she came back to me.

“You're in luck. She’s agreed to see you.” She gave me an address which was fortunately nearby since I was told to meet her there in ten minutes.

We arrived first, despite foot dragging from the two oiks. We then waited no more than a couple of minutes before a mini pulled into a nearby space – no parking restrictions on the weekend.

“Oh!” I said quietly as Charlotte stepped out. “I didn’t realise you were a solicitor.”

“It never came up,” she said, “and I tend not to mention it early on. It’s usually just one more reason for people to dislike me.”

“You’ll not get that from me, not if you can dig me out of this hole. How’s Jake?”

“Doing better, thank you for asking. He’s with my sister this afternoon. How’s your boy?” She looked at him pointedly.

“I think he’s more angry than repentant still, but I'm not done with him yet.

“Look, I had no idea this was going to be you. If you'd rather not deal with my problem then...”

“Then who else do you know who will help you? No, this is an entirely different matter and it would be unprofessional of me to turn my back on you. Come on up and we'll see what we can do.”

Half an hour later her grim expression had deepened.

“I hate to say this, but the police have a point. I mean we're all up for women like you standing up to the asshole men in their lives, but sexual assault is one of the hardest things to prove between husband and wife. That operator should not have advised you to call the police.”

“Might this help?” I asked, fishing the roll of toilet paper out of my bag.

“What is it?”

“The tampon I had in me when he forced himself on me last night. It was in for at least three hours before he came home, so it should have a fair amount of my, er, leakage in it as well as his semen and a little fresher blood from the damage he caused.”

She smiled, albeit grimly. “Fairly gross, but I think it makes the point. Along with what else you've told me, it should be enough to get a restraining order against him.” She picked up the phone.

She made a number of calls, all beginning with apologies for disturbing on a Sunday and ending with thanks for their consideration. By lunchtime the order had been filed. George had the right to collect his van and a suitcase or two of clothes – under supervision – then he would be required by the courts to maintain a distance of five-hundred metres from me until legal matters were settled between us.

Charlie offered us a lift home, which was decent of her given her disposition towards Steven. I in turn offered her lunch or at least a coffee, which she declined, but she did leave me her card so she could intervene if anything else went wrong. She also gave me the name of a locksmith who wouldn’t be available till Monday, but who would prioritise me given my circumstances.

“I’m not sure how I'm going to afford all these expenses,” I said.

“You won't have to worry about legal fees,” she said. “We’ll cover that and sort out payment in the settlement. Can you manage until the end of the week?”

“It’ll be tight, but I expect so.”

“Good, we’ll have an interim agreement in place for child support by then. The rest we can sort out when we get around to negotiating the next step.”

“Thank you. You’ve been amazing.”

“I take my job very seriously, Sandy. I’ll be in touch next week when we’ve organised a preliminary meeting.”

With the boys playing away the afternoon, I packed a couple of suitcases with an assortment of George's clothes. The van keys were in the trousers he’d abandoned on the bedroom floor. I reclaimed the front door key from the keyring and set the rest aside. I included a wash bag with his toiletries and razor. I thought long and hard about what else he might need and drew a blank, suggesting there wasn’t anything else. Maybe the TV, but he wasn’t getting that.

With his stuff sorted, I turned to other thoughts. The shed at the bottom of the garden surrendered a handful of rusty bolts and screws, enough to secure the doors once they were locked. The van keys gave me access to the tools I needed to fit them. By the time evening came, I’d secured the house as well as I could.

Pizza for tea and another film. This time agreed between the three of us, which really meant between the two of them with me mediating. I sent them to bed early and sat up waiting.

…

The doorbell rang about half past nine. George’s familiar bulk showed through the frosted glass, but he had a couple of shadows.

I made a show of unbolting the door before unlocking it, then opened it to find my husband flanked by two police officers.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said to me in his deep rumble.

“No, but given the alternative, I’ll stick with my decision. As I understand it, you’re here for the van and some clothes.”

He glowered at me but didn’t say anything more, so one of the police officers answered for him.

I waved at the two suitcases and offered him the van keys which he took with bad grace.

“Where's my house key?” he asked.

“You won't need it,” I answered. “If you need anything else, get your solicitor to talk to mine.”

“How do I know you haven't done something shitty with this lot?” He waved at the bags.

I opened one for his inspection then, when he'd grunted a begrudging acknowledgement, the other.

He wasn't satisfied. There was something he wanted from inside the house, and I’d effectively prevented him from getting too it. There wasn't much he could do with the police either side of him. He picked up the bags.

“I'll see you next week,” he growled.

“From more than half a kilometre away.” I smiled sweetly at him. “Unless we’re both attending a meeting with our council to sort this out.”

He gave me his best death glare, then turned to leave. I thought about suggesting the policemen might like to look his van over, but it would only take one of us being vindictive for the gloves to come off once and for all.

I locked and bolted the doors then set about preparing for the next day. Bags ready, uniform for Steven, lunches, breakfast things out. It’d do.

I thought about going to bed early, but that hadn’t worked out so well the previous night. I could see myself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for half the night if I wasn't careful.

Instead, I applied my mind to what George had wanted to recover and where from. Chances were it'd be somewhere he was more likely to go than me, at least not often. That meant the living room and his side of the bedroom as prime locations.

It didn't take that long to find. Being the lazy sod he was, I figured he wouldn't want to exert himself when accessing his stash, so the first place I looked was down the back and side of the sofa. I must have missed it by inches when I’d hid the remote the previous day, but there it was, most of the roll of banknotes he'd been handling the previous day, or one very similar.

Maybe he'd hidden it before going out to the pub. Maybe he'd expected to encounter his bookie while he was out and didn't want to settle his entire debt.

I counted out the entire contents which included quite a few fifties as well as the main bulk being twenties and tens. It came to just shy of five thousand pounds, which made me wonder what kind of idiot walked around with that much cash on him.

Well potentially I could be that kind of idiot unless I could find a considerably safer place to hide it.

Then I had an epiphany of sorts – a sense of delicious irony. From his evident reluctance to do any work around the house, the chances of him going anywhere near the hot water pipes in the kitchen had to be slim to none. That really would be the last place he'd think to look.

I cleared out the cupboard under the kitchen sink and had a look at the spaghetti mess of pipework under there. The u-bend and waste pipe was there as was a fairly sensible arrangement of pipework for the cold tap, but what was connected to the hot made no sense whatsoever. The fittings were hand tight and had never seen water going through them. I removed a length of pipe and found it jammed full of similar rolls of cash. Another five in all, which amounted to a total of thirty grand.

I checked the rest of the piping, but that was it. Not that thirty thousand pounds amounted to small change.

It was late but I called my former self.

“Wha’?” came the response when she picked up the phone. Her mouth was full as before.

“You know my body's not going to stay slim and fit if you keep filling it with shit?” I chided gently.

“Fuck off. It's not your body anymore.

“Anyway, I should fucking sue you. Your fucking car didn't drive straight.”

“How bad?” I asked dropping my face into my free palm.

“The car’s a fucking right off, innit, and the other driver’s fucking saying it's my fault 'cos I was on the wrong side of the fucking road. That's 'cos it didn't fucking drive straight you fucker.”

“Insurance documents are in the port-a-file in the wardrobe.”

“Yeah, I fucking found them. The other fucker set the police on me though. They're charging me with fucking driving without being careful or some shit.”

“No-one was hurt though?”

“The other fucker’s saying he's got fucking whiplash or some shit, but no. How am I going to get to fucking work tomorrow though?”

“Well, I'd have taken the bus anyway. There isn't a lot of parking near where I work. Number twelve bus, leaves at eleven minutes past eight. Get off in the high street and you'll see Clarks and Spencer on the opposite side of the road. There should be a year’s bus pass in my wallet.”

“Oh yeah, I got it. You say this job of yours is a piece of piss?”

“If you’re halfway good at English, sure. All you do is read through the manuals they send you through the email and highlight any mistakes. You may need to check a few technical definitions online, but you should do okay.”

“Fucking A. What do you want?”

“It was a question or two about your husband and his horses. Did he ever win?”

“No, I don't think so. I only ever heard him swearing in the other room.”

“Do you know how he made his bets?”

“Fuck no! Why should I care about that shit? I think he phoned them into this bookie, then settled with him down the pub as far as I know.”

“Last question for now, how long has the hot water not been working in the kitchen?”

“Oh, that's been fucked up for years. I've told that fucker to get it sorted more times than I can think, but he never gets round to it. Why d'you ask?”

“No reason really. It's just really annoying.”

“Yeah, well he's your fucking problem now. Hey, I gotta go, that's the pizza guy at the door.”

She hung up and left me to my musings. George had so far proven to be an unpleasant and totally selfish bastard, but maybe he was shrewder than I’d given him credit for.