‘Porter’s lodge.’
Chapter 2
She found herself lying on the kitchen floor, blood clogging the vision in her right eye, cheek pressed against the fake marble tile. There was a piece of pasta beneath the cooker and she wondered whether the small brush in the cupboard under the sink would be able to reach it. He hated mess. Her face was one big blot of pain. Bottles clinked in the front room.
What’s happened to our marriage? she thought. It was good once. It was normal. If only we still had Emily, things wouldn’t have ended up like this.
Slowly she got to her knees, feeling as if the weight of her skull had trebled. Drips of blood fell onto the floor with a steady ticking sound. Reaching up, she curled her fingers over the edge of the sink and got stiffly to her feet. The J-cloth smelled faintly of sour milk as she dabbed the blood from her eye.
‘Taped over Man United. Stupid bitch.’
It wouldn’t be long before he came for her again, rage restoked by the alcohol. She opened the cupboard door, leaned forward and tried to reach the floor cleaner, spotting her gin hidden behind the bleach just before her vision darkened. She heard a bottle bang down on the coffee table in the front room, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
He was really going for it. She changed her mind about cleaning up, knowing how the whisky set his demons free. Following a routine that was getting more and more frequent, she grabbed her handbag off the top of the fridge and unbolted the back door.
As she walked unsteadily to her car she thought about how their life had gone wrong. He’d always got a bit lively after a drink or two. Things would get knocked over in the front room if his football team let in a stupid goal. She’d seen the occasional flash of aggression in the pub. Not enough to attract other people’s attention. Just sneers at young and boisterous groups. People he felt were lacking in respect.
But he hadn’t drunk enough for her to perceive it as a problem. That only happened when his career started to stall. As he was passed over for promotion again and again, the resentment began to build, a dark anger at the world. Trying to get him to talk about it only led to accusations of being a nag.
As she reversed out of the drive he appeared on the front doorstep. The surprise on his face turned to a snarl and he staggered across the lawn. ‘Where are you going?’
Her hands were shaking as she got into first gear and accelerated away, the whisky bottle bursting against the back windscreen.
As usual she drove aimlessly, the occasional heaving sob doubling her over the steering wheel. The bleeding above her right eye had started again and the tissue box in the glove compartment was empty. Looking around, she realised she was driving through Belle Vue. The bright lights of a bingo hall were on her left and she turned into the car park, pulled up next to an empty coach and walked towards the entrance. A ripple of nudges went through a group of elderly women in the foyer and they stared at her through the plate-glass windows.
‘Can I use your toilets, please?’ she asked the red-coated man at the door.
He looked her up and down. A woman in her late thirties with messed-up hair and a bloodied face. ‘Are you a member?’
‘I’m sorry?’ she replied, taken aback by his callousness.
‘Have you got your membership card with you?’
She shut her eyes. ‘I just want to use your toilets.’
‘It’s members only.’
She opened her eyes, saw his look of undisguised distaste. Shame suddenly filled her and she turned away from him. There was a motel on the other side of the car park, its neon-lit sign advertising rooms for £39.95 a night. She set off across the tarmac, trying to keep some dignity in her step.
A low hedge separated the two properties and she squeezed through a gap into a dark and empty car park. Directly behind the building she was just able to make out the greyhound racing stadium, unlit floodlights looming in the dark. She pushed open the motel’s front door, immediately noticing an ashtray on the counter overflowing with butts. To her side was a rack for holding pamphlets. ‘Manchester’s Attractions’, said the card at the top, but the shelves below were empty.
She pinged the bell, then immediately placed her hand on the metal dome to stop its sharp echo. The office door opened slightly and a thin woman with lank brown hair slid through the gap. Her pale, narrow face emphasised her large brown eyes, which moved around like those of a frightened deer.
The woman who had just walked in off the car park was immediately reminded of a girl from her school. She’d come from a poor home and always wore second-hand uniforms and jumble-sale shoes. Her stick legs were never clad in tights, and during cold weather the skin almost went blue. The girl constantly suffered from a runny nose — colds in winter, hay fever in summer. As a result, a hanky was always pressed to her face and the playground joke was that her thinness resulted from her losing so much fluid through her nose.
She gestured towards the inner doors. ‘I just need to clean up. Can I use your toilets? Please?’
The receptionist’s eyes went to the doors behind her as if she was expecting more than just a lone woman. ‘Jesus, you need more than a sink.’ She stepped back into the office and almost immediately re-emerged with a green first-aid case. ‘Here. I don’t think this has ever been used before. I’m pretty sure it’s full.’
She put it down on the counter and unclipped the lid. Inside were bandages, plasters, safety pins, antiseptic cream and a pair of blunt scissors. ‘The toilets are just through those doors. Wash the blood off and we’ll get you patched up.’
‘Thank you.’
The hinge on the door into the toilets was stiff and the place smelled awful. She stood in front of the mirror and looked fearfully at her face. God. Her right eye was swollen half shut, dried blood caked her cheek and clotted her eyebrow. A fresh drip emerged from the split in her skin and caught in her eyelash.
She looked around for paper towels but the dispenser was empty. So were the toilet-roll holders in the first two cubicles. The last had a small stack of tissues piled on the cistern.
Five minutes later she stepped back into the reception, a tissue pressed to her eyebrow. ‘Seems it doesn’t want to stop.’
The receptionist frowned in sympathy. ‘Was it a john?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your face? Was it…?’
Her mobile phone started to ring. Picking it out of her hand-bag, she saw her husband’s name on the screen. She turned it off and dropped it back. ‘Jeff. My husband.’ The admission brought tears to her eyes.
The receptionist’s face softened further. ‘Let me see your face, you poor love.’
‘Really, you don’t need to. I can do it myself.’
The receptionist peered at the cut. ‘These butterfly plasters might do it.’ She smeared antiseptic cream over the cut, then applied two of the plasters. ‘I’ve got some ice in the back. It will help with the swelling. You look like you could do with a cup of coffee as well. I’m Dawn, by the way.’
‘Fiona. Thank you so much for this,’ she replied.
The back office looked as dilapidated as the rest of the motel, but the chairs were soft and the coffee hot. She sat down, and her resolve to return to her car instantly crumbled. Reaching for her handbag, she took out a packet of cigarettes and held it out to Dawn.
‘Cheers,’ she said, sliding one out.
Fiona held a flame to it and then to her own, took a deep drag and sat back in the seat. Bustling around the room, Dawn wrapped some ice cubes in a bandage and passed it across. Fiona regarded her, thinking that her concern seemed to extend beyond mere sympathy. ‘This has happened to you as well, hasn’t it?’
Those eyes again. They moved with a look of perpetual alarm.
‘How could you tell?’ she asked.