Page 64 of The Devil’s Lair

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The door to the living room opens, and Rebecca appears. Her eyes are swollen from crying, the lashes clumped together, and there’s a bow to her shoulders that wasn’t there this morning. She’s been crying again.

Rage fills my chest. I definitely should’ve beaten that little shit to a bloody pulp, then paid for a cleaning company to sort out Vanessa’s café.

Rebecca twists her fingers into the hem of her jumper. “I can make myself scarce if you’d rather be alone.”

I pat the spare seat on the couch next to me. “Come here.”

She pads across the thick carpeting before she sinks onto the couch as though she’s used the last of her energy. Balling her hands, she rubs her eyes.

“How’s Isla?”

“Happy.” She rolls her head in my direction. “Thanks to you.”

“Not true.”

“It is true. When Marcus was alive, she wasn’t like this. To outsiders, she appeared to be the best-behaved child they’d probably ever seen, but it came from fear. No child should ever be frightened of their parent. I’m ashamed I let that happen to her.”

“You didn’t let it happen. You had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. I could’ve taken her and gone to one of those domestic violence shelters. I didn’t have to put her or myself through that horror, day after day, and I did.”

I pause, afraid of saying the wrong thing from a place where I don’t have her lived experience. Though I’m more afraid of letting her continue this train of thought.

“It’s never that simple, though, is it? You said yourself that Marcus kept you starved of money. With a child to support, or even for women without children, I’m sure it’s not just a case of packing a bag and walking out, otherwise more women would do it. Fear is a powerful emotion, and sometimes it’s what we need to force ourselves to act. Other times, we freeze instead.”

Her hands tremble. She knits her fingers together and rests them on her lap. “When I first met Marcus, I thought all my troubles were over. I’d spent my whole life struggling, and here was this well-put-together, wealthy guy who showed an interest in little old me. I was so desperate to escape home, what with Mum’s alcoholism and my brother constantly in trouble with the police. Life with Marcus seemed like a dream come true. And at first, it was. He love-bombed me until I thought the world started and ended with him. Then we married, and everything changed.”

She pauses, her teeth worrying her lip. I don’t say anything that might put her off telling me more. I want to hear this. I need to hear it.

“At first, it was the little things. I’d put on a dress to go to dinner, and he’d say something like, ‘Oh I think the blue one goes better with your hair styled like that.’ And I’d think wow, my husband really cares enough to notice my appearance. Next came wanting to know where I was every second of the day disguised as concern. Then it was constant criticism of the way I did everything, from putting washing in the machine to replacing the toilet roll. I began walking on eggshells, trying to make everything perfect. I’d wake up in the middle of the night in a panic that I’d made some transgression I’d pay for in one way or another.”

“Over how long a period did this happen?”

“A few months. It’s amazing how quickly you can go from a regular girl just trying to escape the drudgery of her life to someone terrified of their own shadow.”

For what feels like the fiftieth time today, I wish that bastard was alive so I could rip off his fucking arms and strangle him with his own hands.

“He wasn’t cruel all the time. Sometimes he’d be so loving and attentive, I’d think we’d turned a corner. Except those moments never lasted.”

She steeples her hands over her nose and mouth, breath shuddering through her fingers. “Sorry, give me a minute. I haven’t even told my therapist this much yet.”

“Take your time. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Her hands drop to her lap again. “No, I want to. It’s cathartic, actually. Let’s not tell Jane I told you first, though.” She smiles briefly, then closes her eyes for a few seconds as if gathering her thoughts. “After Isla was born, he left me alone for a while. I began to think fatherhood could be the making of him, but he barely looked at her, let alone picked her up, played with her, or gave her a bath. It was as if she didn’t exist, except when she was crying, and then he’d rage and slam out of the house, leaving me to comfort her.”

I’m having trouble containing how fucking angry I am. I hide my fisted hands beneath my thighs and school my expression, when what I really want to do is dig that fucker up from his grave and snap every bone in his body.

“When she was about six months old, he came in from the pub drunk and belligerent. He had a friend with him. To keep out of his way, I went upstairs and got into bed. He loved showing off in front of people, so I knew if I stuck around, he’d say or do something vile. I was almost asleep when the door burst open. I stayed as quiet as I could, hoping he’d be so drunk he’d get into bed and go to sleep. Except he wasn’t alone.”

A cold chill swept through me. I knew where this was going without her saying another word. The bastard. The fucking vile piece of shit. I was running out of words to describe him. A monster. An abusive cunt.

“After that, my body just stopped responding, like I was numb or it was happening to someone else.”

I don’t think. I act. Taking her hand, I bring it to my chest and cover it with mine. “You’ll never know that kind of fear again. You’ll never be abused or violated. I know nothing I do or say can make up for what you went through, but it’s over, Rebecca. It’s over.”

For a long moment, she stares at me. Then slowly, she turns her hand beneath mine and threads our fingers together. It’s such a small gesture, barely anything at all, yet it feels like change, like we’re both moving forward. More than that, it feels like trust, and I’ll be damned if I’ll ever make her regret giving it to me.