When You Are Mine(19)

Alison has been talking.

‘I’m sorry. I was miles away,’ I say.

‘I asked what you did … your job?’

‘Oh, right, yes, I guess you could call me a counsellor. Domestic abuse mostly.’

Her body language changes. ‘That must be challenging.’

‘Yes, but also rewarding. I meet women who are trapped in abusive relationships and I give them the strength and the tools to get out; to save themselves … and their children.’

Alison doesn’t reply, I keep going: ‘Often it’s about convincing them that they’re not to blame. There is no shame or guilt in having an abusive partner. Nobody likes to admit that a relationship is failing, but it’s not their fault.’

‘What if they decide to stay?’ she whispers.

‘That’s their choice. Some women take time to decide. Others get defensive or deny the abuse is happening or believe they can change the man they love.’

‘Can they – change him, I mean?’

‘What do you think?’

She looks surprised. ‘Me?’

‘You must have an opinion.’

‘Not really.’

‘Do you know anyone in an abusive relationship?’

‘I mind my own business.’

‘You could help her, you know, your friend—’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Some women hold on for the sake of the kids or because they fear being destitute or alone; or there are family expectations. I can’t make that decision for them. I can only urge them to make a plan.’

‘What sort of plan?’

‘It might mean packing some important things in a suitcase; or having a safe word; some agreed signal to let a friend know they’re in trouble and need help. They should also have nominated a meeting place and found somewhere they can hide.’

Alison is staring past me. ‘Who are you?’ she whispers.

‘A friend.’

Her features harden and she picks up her shoulder bag and wrestles the stroller between chairs, knocking one of them over. I try to help her, while apologising to the other patrons. I borrow a pen from the barista and jot down my phone number on a paper napkin.

Alison is outside, pushing the stroller along the footpath. Jogging to catch up to her, I press the napkin into her hand.

‘Take this, please.’

Alison balls it up and throws it away.

I retrieve the paper and push it into her shoulder bag. She keeps walking. I yell after her.

‘A suitcase. A safe word. A friend.’





8


My Tuesday karate class is mixed, full of men and women, mostly in their twenties and thirties. Some have been with me for two years and have moved through the levels, from white to orange to blue. Ricardo is the highest with a brown belt.

We’re just finishing up our session, wiping down the impact bags and stacking the mats when I hear them planning a quick drink in the local pub.

‘Care to join us?’ asks Ricardo, who is Spanish, with a sexy accent and hang-dog face.

‘You ask me that every week and I always say no.’

‘I’m an eternal optimist.’

‘And I’m happily engaged.’

‘Maybe next week,’ he says, giving me his rakish grin, which looks creepy rather than charming.

I change out of my Keikogi, pulling on jeans and a light sweater. I’m locking up when I sense someone behind me, standing in the shadows.

‘Hello,’ says Tempe, stepping into the light. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

I almost don’t recognise her because her face is no longer swollen and her lip has healed.

‘How did you find me?’

‘You told me about your karate lessons.’

‘Did I?’

‘At the hospital …’

I vaguely remember the conversation.

‘There aren’t that many studios in South London,’ says Tempe.

‘You phoned them?’

She nods.

‘Did you send me flowers?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘I wanted to apologise – for what happened.’

We lapse into silence for a beat too long.

‘Your face looks better,’ I say.

‘Less Frankenstein, more Igor.’

‘Hardly.’

Tempe glances through the glass doors into the studio. ‘I was hoping … I thought I might …’

‘What?’

‘Sign up. I want to be able to protect myself. I saw what you did to Darren. You sat him on his backside. The look on his face was priceless …’ She stops and starts again. ‘Could you teach me to do that?’

‘There are classes.’

‘I want you.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise. It might be seen as a conflict of interest.’

‘Why? I didn’t make a statement.’

She has a point, but I’m still wary of getting involved.

I change the subject. ‘I went looking for you, but you’d left the shelter. When I went to the apartment, I found blood everywhere.’