“Richie’s angrier than ever,” Lindsay says. “He thought he was going to be famous, what with all the press attention he got when he was released from prison, but that’s died off. He thought hewas gonna be rich, too—his lawyer promised him they’d sue the police for wrongful imprisonment. That’s not happening because the lawyer says he doesn’t have time for it anymore and Richie needs to find someone else to represent him. He’s not sleeping. Not eating. Just drinking and being angry. It’s scary.”
“Is that what’s made you think now is the time to leave?” Sam asks.
“Not just that,” Lindsay says. “The beatings are getting worse. Last night, he put a pillow on my head and sat on it.”
Sam’s hand flies to her mouth, even though she’s heard stories like this, worse even, hundreds of times.
“That’s awful, Linds,” she mutters.
“I thought he was gonna kill me. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes felt like they were popping out and I… I…” Lindsay looks down at her untouched hot chocolate, her cheeks flushing pink.
“It’s OK, Linds,” she reassures her. “Go on.”
“I pissed myself.”
Sam doesn’t speak. What can she say?
“Not only that,” Lindsay continues, “I bit through my tongue. I didn’t feel it at the time, but it’s killing me now. He only got off me when I passed out. I honestly think he thought I was dead. When I came to, I found him crying.”
Sam slides her hand across the table and holds Lindsay’s cold, bony fingers in hers.
“I’m ready, Sam. I’m really ready this time.”
“Once we set the ball rolling, there’s no going back,” Sam warns.
Lindsay nods.
“OK,” Sam says. “We leave now. Right now.”
Lindsay gapes at her. “But I haven’t—”
“We’ve got some time before the football finishes. It’s not much of a head start, but it’s enough. We’ll go back to Acacia Gardens together. You can pack your stuff and then I’ll drive you straight to King’s Cross. You’re taking the first train to Newcastle. My friendNeil will meet you at the station and you’ll stay in my new apartment for two weeks.”
“I don’t have any winter clothes,” Lindsay says, panicking. “It’s cold up North. I seen it onGeordie Shore.”
“Are we doing this, Lindsay?” Sam asks, her voice firm.
“Richie would hate the thought of me going out on the Quayside. And this Neil—who’s he?”
“A friend. He’s a police officer. You can trust him, I promise.”
“Wow. Newcastle,” Lindsay says. “Yes. I’m doing this. Today. Else Richie will kill me. I know he will.”
“I’ve already got you a travel pack sorted,” Sam says. “It’s in the boot of my car. I’ve put a bit of cash in there for you, plus a new phone, but it’s not a smartphone. You can’t go online after today. Not until this is over with. I’ve put some clothes in there, too. And snacks. Even my favorite book for you to read on the train. I’ll need you to give me your phone, Linds, and tell me the passcode and any passwords.”
Lindsay looks at Sam doubtfully. “Why?”
“It’s common in domestic violence cases for abusive partners to plant hidden tracking on phones,” Sam says in her official voice. “Over and above the tracking you might consent to. You can use the new phone I got you, and I’ll get this one checked and back to you as soon as I can.”
“He tracks me everywhere,” Lindsay sighs, taking her iPhone tentatively from her pocket and stroking it. The case is bubblegum pink. Slowly, she pushes it across the table to Sam. “That’s why we have to meet at the swimming pool café and I have to jump in the bloody deep end every time so I smell of chlorine.”
“What’s the passcode?” Sam asks, picking up the phone.
“Richie doesn’t like passcodes,” Lindsay says, “and he changed all my passwords to ‘LindslovesRichie.’”
“I’ll take care of it.” Sam slides the phone into her pocket.
“What’ll happen to Richie?” Lindsay asks.
