When You Are Mine(6)

‘Agnes.’

‘You didn’t stay. You left before your finals.’

‘We moved to Belfast.’

I have a vague memory that something happened – some scandal or incident that people talked about for a few weeks, but I don’t recall the details. My friend Sara might remember. We were besties at school together and her appetite for gossip is insatiable.

What can I recall about Maggie Brown? She was pretty and popular, but not an extrovert or a queen bee. She didn’t ‘own’ the corridors or mistreat anyone or compete for attention or call shotgun on the back seat of every bus.

‘Do you keep in touch with anyone from St Ursula’s?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she replies dismissively. ‘I hated that place.’

‘Oh!’ I feel a little hurt.

There is another long pause. I watch the triage nurse examine a new arrival – a drunk man with a mouth full of broken teeth and a T-shirt that says TROPHY HUSBAND.

‘How did you meet Darren Goodall?’

‘My girlfriend and I witnessed a crime. A guy on an electric scooter snatched a handbag and took off, but as he ran a red light he was hit by a lorry. Killed him outright. Maybe it served him right.’ She doesn’t sound convinced. ‘The police made us wait around to give statements. Darren took down our names and addresses. A few days later, he called me.’

‘Why?’

Tempe laughs. ‘Do I have to spell it out?’

I feel the tops of my ears grow warm.

‘How did he get your number?’

‘He’s police,’ she says, as though it should be obvious. ‘I didn’t know he was married, of course. He let me think he was single. When I learned the truth, I tried to rationalise it – telling myself I wasn’t hurting anyone.’

‘You thought he’d leave his wife.’

‘No. Well, maybe. But he has two young kids. I’m not naive.’

‘Is there somewhere else you can stay?’ I ask.

‘Not really.’

‘I can take you to a refuge. It’s a safe space until you find somewhere else.’

‘He’ll have calmed down by now.’

‘Has he hit you before?’

‘Not like this.’ She looks at me defiantly. ‘I’m not some battered wife.’

‘I didn’t say you were,’ I reply, wishing I had a tenner for every time I’d heard the same thing said by wives and girlfriends with bloodied faces and bruised limbs, who didn’t see themselves as victims but as strong, independent women, who would never let a man beat them … until they do.

‘I have to ask you a series of questions,’ I say. ‘If your answer to any one of them is yes, then you should think about whether your relationship with your partner is healthy.’

Tempe laughs bitterly. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

‘Are you frightened of him?’

She doesn’t answer.

‘Do you fear injury or violence?’

Again nothing, but I don’t expect or need a response.

‘Is this the first time that he’s hit you?’ I ask.

‘You asked me that already. Twice.’

I rattle off more questions. ‘Is the abuse happening more often? Is it more extreme? Does he try to control everything you do? Do you feel isolated from friends and family? Does he constantly text or call or harass you? Is he excessively jealous? Has he ever attempted to strangle or choke you? Has he ever threatened to kill you?’

Tempe lets each query wash over her without comment, but I know that she’s listening.

A nurse calls her name. She’s taken to an examination room where fresh white paper has been rolled across the bed. A young Asian doctor appears, wearing green scrubs and showing the tiredness of a long shift. She asks Tempe questions about her age and height and weight and medical history, before telling her to get undressed behind the screen. ‘This is a rape kit. I need to take a few swabs.’

‘But I wasn’t raped,’ says Tempe.

The doctor looks at me. ‘I thought …’

‘No,’ I answer, glancing at Tempe to make doubly sure. ‘I was worried about her cheekbone.’

The doctor asks Tempe to sit up straight and shines a pen-torch into her right eye. Her left has closed completely.

‘Any blurred vision?’

Tempe shakes her head. The doctor moves the torch from side to side, then up and down.

‘Any headaches?’

‘One big one.’

She touches Tempe’s swollen cheek and runs her fingers over her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose.

‘I don’t think you’ve fractured a cheekbone and your eye socket is intact, but that’s going to be one ugly bruise.’

‘How long before the swelling goes down?’ asks Tempe.

‘If you keep it iced – twenty-four hours.’

Tempe looks aghast. ‘But I have meetings. If I don’t work …’

‘Maybe you could hide it with make-up,’ I suggest.

‘Or put a bag over my head,’ she replies sarcastically.

The doctor peels off her latex gloves. ‘I’ll write a script for painkillers. Keep up the icing until the swelling goes down.’