Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

Rachel is stalking around in the front room. Her heavy footfalls on the floorboards cause the whisky glasses to jangle in the drinks cupboard, sending our cat, Monty, scampering up the stairs. She pulls out a cigarette, pats down the breast pockets of her denim jacket for a light. I open my mouth to ask that she smoke it outside. But something stops me. As I watch her struggling with the lighter, I notice her hands are trembling. Her right hand is swollen, pink and fat as a cat’s paw, with cuts all over the knuckles. As she walks up and down, I see there is a single red mark on the other side of her neck, too. The bruising is deep, angry, more like a burn. It makes me wince to look at it.

Rachel finally succeeds in lighting the cigarette. The smoke twists up towards Mummy’s chandeliers. She appears to have forgotten I am actually here. She is swearing, over and over, in short, foggy exhales.

‘Fuck,’ she is saying. ‘Fuck.’

In the kitchen, I hear that Daniel has switched off the radio and is turning down the gas on the hob. He strides into the front room, flipping a tea towel over his shoulder. I feel as if I am watching a traffic collision, one I am powerless to stop.

Rachel gives Daniel a pained smile. ‘Hi. You must be Daniel. Heard loads about you.’ She grimaces. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I’m such a mess. I just, um … Just need a minute.’

Rachel places her palm over her face, the cigarette still balanced between her index and middle finger. She lowers herself down to the ground until she is crouching, balanced on the chunky heels of her boots, and stares at the wall. Over her head, Daniel blinks at me. I shrug hopelessly. The smell of cigarette smoke starts to overwhelm the aroma of our anniversary meal browning on the stove. Behind Daniel, the candles on the table drip wax down the sides.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Daniel asks eventually, peering down at Rachel. He is staring at her neck. ‘A cup of tea, maybe, or a glass of –’

‘Yeah, a glass of water would be amazing. With ice and lemon, please. If you’ve got it.’

Silenced, Daniel returns to the kitchen.

‘Rachel?’

I feel awkward addressing Rachel when she is crouched on the floor. There’s nothing for it but to crouch down too. She won’t meet my eye, so I find myself addressing the bottom bookshelves next to where she is crouching.

‘Rachel,’ I plead. ‘What happened?’

Rachel winces, as if I’ve touched an open wound.

‘I had an argument with somebody,’ she croaks.

I hesitate. ‘Was it … the father? Is this because you told him?’

Rachel shakes her head. I don’t know if she means no, or that she just doesn’t want to talk about it. I look again at her neck and find myself involuntarily touching my own. Someone did that to her. I can barely comprehend it. A young, pregnant girl. In my world, such a thing feels unthinkable. But elsewhere, apparently, things are different.

I open my mouth, but before I can think of another question, Daniel reappears, holding a glass of water. He hands it over awkwardly, glancing down at Rachel’s bump.

Rachel stands, somewhat shakily, and takes the glass in her left hand, allowing the swollen hand to fall to her side. She mutters her thanks, then looks past Daniel at the laid table, the dimmed light.

‘Am I interrupting?’ she asks. ‘Say if I am.’

‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Of course you’re not.’ Daniel glares at me.

Rachel buries her head in both hands and seems to sob, her shoulders convulsing, her breathing coming out in heaves. She rocks back and forth on her heels, ash dropping onto the floorboards.

I shuffle closer, place an arm tentatively around her shoulder. Without looking up, she grips my hand.

‘Helen,’ she says, ‘can I stay here tonight? A couple of nights, maybe?’

I find myself answering even before I have computed what the words will be.

‘Of course. Of course you can.’

Her face is so full of gratitude that I am forced to turn away. I dare not look at Daniel.

‘Rachel, why don’t you sit here for a second? We can all have something to eat.’ I glance at Daniel. ‘Maybe Daniel could find you a bag of peas or something for your … the swelling.’

Wordlessly, Daniel returns to the kitchen. I persuade Rachel onto the sofa. She lights another cigarette, her hands shaking less this time. I fetch a side plate from the laid table, and slide it under the ash dripping from her cigarette.

When I return to the kitchen, Daniel spins round, hands outstretched, the sinews in his neck visible, as if he is struggling to keep his head fastened to his body.

‘What is going on, Helen?’

I shush him. ‘She’ll hear you.’

‘I don’t care! What is she doing here? Can’t you just tell her it’s our anniversary? Asking for fucking ice and lemon!’

I stare at him, stunned. ‘Are you serious? She’s upset! Someone has assaulted her. Can’t you see what’s happened to her neck?’

‘That doesn’t mean you had to say she could stay here! For fuck’s sake, Helen!’

‘Daniel! Stop swearing! Can you just try and find something cold in the freezer, please? I can’t bend down that far.’

Daniel kneels, pulls a freezer drawer out too forcefully. It falls onto the kitchen floor in a smash of ice and plastic. I can’t understand why he is quite so angry.

‘Jesus, Helen. Are there even any peas in here? Do we even buy peas? Why are these drawers so full? What is all this stuff?’

He holds up a handful of freezer bags, shakes them like pompoms.

‘It’s chicken casserole,’ I say weakly. ‘The book says to batch-cook a selection of healthy meals. You know, for when the baby comes.’

Daniel just stares at me, at the bags, and then at me again. I might as well have just told him they contain human body parts. I kneel down next to him, holding on