‘Ava, come on. You know I love you.’ His voice goes tight, pitching high with a terrifying sweetness. ‘You can’t walk out on us. I need you, babe. You’re not going anywhere.’
‘Yes, I am.’ I slowly move toward the bedroom, toward my duffel bag, toward whatever scattered version of a plan I can construct in the next thirty seconds.
‘You stupid fucking cunt!’
The crash comes before I reach the hallway.
I spin.
Nevin’s fist is buried in the wall. Plaster dust rains down. His knuckles drip red. The plasterboard yawns open.
‘You don’t get to leave me. How dare you? I love you, Ava! You don’t get to walk out of here and make me look like?—’
‘What the hell is wrong with you, Nevin?’
The life drops out of his eyes and his stare goes blank. ‘You’re not thinking straight. Tomorrow you’ll see straight again, and we’ll talk about this properly, and you’ll realise?—’
‘No. I’m leaving. Right now.’ I try to turn, but he clamps down hard around my wrist. Pressure points flare, small bones grinding together. ‘Ow! Let go of me, arsehole!’
‘Make me.’ He is inches from me. ‘Go on. Scream. See who comes running to save a slut.’
My eyes flick to his other hand. The cocked elbow. The whitening knuckles.
Oh God. This is it.
I wrench free and move fast. Dancer’s reflexes. Years of spinning through space, of trusting my body to find the movement. I’m through the bathroom door in three seconds.
The lock clicks.
His fist hits the wood. ‘Ava!’ His shout is a harsh, guttural bark. ‘Open the fucking door or I’ll break it down!’
I slide down the wall. Cold tiles beneath me. Knees drawn up into my chest. The room tilts. Every muscle in my body is locked, braced for impact, but I can’t feel my limbs.
The wood shudders. Again. Again.
‘I swear, Ava! You can’t hide in there forever! This is my flat! You think you can—’ His voice is nothing but primal fury.
My whole skeleton is rattling, and I can’t command it to stop. I squeeze my eyes shut.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The door is laminate with a flimsy sliding lock. One hard kick. One heavy shoulder.
Thud.
The impact travels through the thin panel and rattles my spine.
I’m one text message away from safety. One text away from humiliation. If I call for help, I make it real. I become that woman. The one who needs someone else to save her because she wasn’t smart enough to leave in time. I don’t want to be the dainty princess who needs rescuing. But I also don’t want to end up on the news as yet another statistic. Rugby player’s girlfriend found dead in King’s Park flat.
‘Ava! I want to talk to you. Open the bloody door, or I swear?—’
Thud. Thud.
Hot and acrid shame burns in my gut. I hate myself for this. For needing a prop. It feels like defeat. As if I’m trading my dignity for my life. But the alternative looks more like a body bag by the second.
My mobile is in my pocket. I pull it out. The screen is bright in the dark. Contacts. Bear.
Help
