Authors: Sam Baker
On a hunch, Gil skipped a few years and discovered that in the year Huntingdon’s daughter went to university she reverted to her mother’s name. The boy, two years younger, was still Huntingdon. His first wife kept the house. That must have hurt.
Gil wondered if that was relevant.
He decided it was and began to make notes the old-fashioned way, using pen and paper. As a hack-free medium it was pretty secure, short of someone nicking your notepad.
As he leaned forward to turn off his laptop, another thought struck Gil.
Clearing the Google search box, he typed ‘Domestic violence symptoms’ and watched the screen fill. As searches went, it was hardly specific. There were so many pages he didn’t know where to start. He was halfway down a long and boring report on clinical characteristics when a phrase brought him up short.
He cleared the search box and typed ‘Domestic violence PTSD’ instead. Thousands more links filled his screen. Gil scanned them one after another, scribbling notes as he did.
After a period of time
, he read,
it’s not uncommon for victims of domestic violence (like victims of all types of abuse and trauma), to develop the symptoms of PTSD, most often associated with wars …
As he read on, his shower forgotten, the breakfast news long since replaced by a mid-morning chat show, Gil began a list.
Symptoms
:
short-term memory loss
good long-term memory
avoidance
amnesia
nightmares vs insomnia
recurring flashbacks
migraines
later events may trigger PTSD months, even years, after source event
need to keep busy
obsessive behaviour like exercise
easily startled
detachment/tendency to dissociate
He forced himself to slow down as his notes grew less legible.
Causes:
fearing for life or life of others
loss of physical integrity
powerlessness/helplessness
witnessing horror
women more likely to experience high-impact trauma like sexual assault
20% risk of development in women
Gil circled the 20% twice and put down his pen. His head filled with Helen’s face, seemingly emotionless as she described in horrific detail the things she’d experienced. Helen had been witnessing horror since she was twenty-three, long before she got involved with Art. But if even half of what she said was true, going to bed with Art in response to a small boy’s death had been disastrous.
It was almost lunchtime when Gil realised he’d missed his chance to sleep. He could go to bed now, of course. He was retired, he could do anything he wanted. But he felt more awake than ever. He could go for a walk or visit the café at the other end of the village, which ran almost entirely on tourists, and nurse what passed for their cappuccino while eating a slightly stale croissant. The croissants were always stale, for the most Yorkshire of reasons. Instead of throwing away stale ones and serving fresh ones the owner insisted on selling the older ones first so as not to be wasteful. By which time the new ones had become old themselves. Gil supposed he should be grateful the café sold them at all.
Having talked himself out of all the options, he was left with what he’d been trying to avoid: calling his daughters.
At least, calling one of them.
He thought about what he could say, ran through what had been going on in his life, tried to think of amusing anecdotes. Short of embellishing stuff or making up outright lies, there wasn’t a whole lot to say. Except, Hello, how are you …
Not giving himself the chance to chicken out, he telephoned Lyn. Once he’d convinced her there was nothing wrong, and he meant that, there wasn’t anything wrong: his health was fine, the cottage was fine, he was enjoying retirement as much as could be expected, i.e. not at all; they had a conversation about daytime TV and what a waste of space it was; and, much to Gil’s surprise, about how little he knew about her life, and how sorry he was for that.
When he put the phone down half an hour later, Gil felt better than he had for years.
‘I should warn you: we’re having an affair. Which is outrageous, seeing as you’re young enough to be my daughter.’ Gil shrugged. ‘Actually, that’s entirely true. You are. But our affair is doubly outrageous because it’s barely a week since I took Liza to supper. And why would I have done that if I didn’t have designs on her too?’
‘Do you?’ Helen asked.
‘No,’ he said defensively. ‘Oh, I don’t know. She’s a nice woman. We had a good time. But I think she, you know, wanted more. My name is mud in the village. Mrs Millward asked Liza how it went, and read between all the wrong lines. Now I’m two-timing her with you.’
‘Mrs Millward’s saying that?’ Helen couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘
Everyone’s
saying that … You wouldn’t believe the number of people who think I should know every little thing that’s being said about me.’ Gil’s smile was grim. ‘And the number who want to know if the rumours about you are true.’
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘You came up here just to tell me that?’
Gil looked at her camera and there was something so wistful in his glance that she handed it over. He held it gingerly, turning it to look at it from the front. ‘I wonder if I’d be so impressed if I didn’t know it was a Leica?’
‘You do know.’
‘Exactly. No, I came up here because I’ve had enough of awkward silences when I walk into a room and people telling me things for my own good. Also, I thought I might see you.’ He blushed slightly. ‘I wanted to say a few things. Ask a few questions.’
Helen tried not to sigh. She’d been expecting him earlier. Him or the police. The only surprise was it took him so long. In a perverse kind of way she was beginning to find his presence strangely calming. Better the devil you know. Better than the one in her head, certainly.
‘Say away.’
‘I just wanted you to know I haven’t called the news desk,’ Gil said. ‘I haven’t called the police either. I wanted you to know that.’
There was something almost childish about his intensity, something that told her he found not going to the news desk far harder than not going to the police. Helen was grateful all the same.
‘Is that all?’
Gil looked uncomfortable, as if there was something he wanted to say but didn’t know where to start. She knew the feeling.
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
Helen had been perched at the base of the Scar when Gil found her, wondering what it would be like to climb. How likely she’d be to fall and whether, well, whether, in the circumstances, that would matter. Around them the Dales were a ragged patchwork of greens and yellows with frayed edges. The occasional hard-edged block showed where a building had intruded. Gil smiled when she said that.
‘Ah, the Dales are taking you in,’ he said. ‘They get everyone who lives here eventually.’
Helen nodded, surprised to find that not only did she live here but she liked the idea of living here. The only question was how long she could continue to do so. Whether or not Gil gave her away, it was only a matter of time before she would have to move on.
‘From this distance you can’t tell if the house is still lived in or a ruin,’ Helen said, pointing to the red-brick sprawl of Wildfell behind a veil of trees.
‘Both,’ Gil said. He grinned and she couldn’t help grinning back.
‘You know, you solved a lot of problems for a number of people. That house is listed but only Grade II, the owners are overseas and the council probably couldn’t enforce a maintenance order, even if they had enough staff left to issue it. The only way would be for them to issue a compulsory purchase notice – and that won’t happen because they’d have to find money out of a shrinking budget and pay for repairs … I can get a bit carried away,’ he admitted, having reeled off this information, ‘when I start digging.’
‘What else have you dug up?’ Helen asked.
Planting his hands in his pockets, Gil looked out at the horizon. For a few seconds Helen thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Your story …’ he said eventually. ‘It seems to stack up.’
‘My
story
?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but I need to ask a few more questions. What kind of journalist would I be if I didn’t?’
Helen nodded, resigned.
‘How long have you had PTSD?’
‘How long have I
what
?’
‘The specialist you told me you saw after Syria. Is that why you see her? Those pills you take, the ones in your kitchen you said were for migraines …’
Helen winced. She should have left while she had the chance. Moved on somewhere, somewhere she could be truly invisible. Bangkok, maybe, where she could have blended in with the other backpackers. Although there was the small matter of money. She couldn’t get hold of any more without exposing herself. Perhaps Gil …
No. She caught herself.
He’s not your friend. He’s a journalist. Don’t forget that.
He was looking at her, his head to one side, waiting for her to answer. ‘Helen?’
‘They
are
for migraines,’ she said.
‘And the migraines …?’ Gil prompted.
‘Are possibly a symptom.’ Helen pulled at the grass and stared into space for a few seconds, wondering how much silence would have to pass before he took the hint. He didn’t. ‘I’ve always had migraines,’ she said eventually. ‘But they changed after Iraq. Became part of my life.’
‘Like the boy?’ Gil asked simply.
Startled, Helen stared at him.
‘You mentioned him the other night.’
‘Oh.’ Helen wished she could remember everything she’d said the other night. Or even half of it. ‘Yes, I guess, like the boy …’
They sat in silence for a minute. ‘Does anyone else know about the PTSD?’ Gil asked eventually.
Helen shook her head. ‘No. Well, only Caroline. My doctor,’ she added when Gil looked vague. ‘Art thought I saw her for girl problems. God knows, I’ve had enough of those. My sister thinks she’s my therapist.’
‘And they’re both right?’
In lieu of an answer, Helen climbed to her feet. ‘You like living here?’ she asked, making no attempt to disguise the change of subject. She watched Gil wrestle with himself and decide to let her off the hook, for now. He clambered to his own feet to stand beside her, nodding south towards the patchwork moors, his gaze taking in the red brick of the house, the grey stone of the village beyond and the air-soiled shimmer of concrete on the horizon.
‘It’s complicated,’ he said finally.
‘Like a Facebook relationship status.’
‘I love the landscape. At least, I love it now. When I was younger I barely noticed it. It was just where I came from. The village though …’ He shrugged. ‘I came home, you know. My parents lived here and their parents before them and theirs before them. It had memories. A few good, a few not, but I find it …’ Gil hesitated. ‘Small. Small in every way. I grew up here; I thought I’d belong.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I’m not sure I want to belong.’
‘You miss living in a city?’
‘I haven’t lived in a city for decades. I miss my job. I have a leaving card full of people telling me to enjoy retirement. I want to ring them up and ask if any of them have any suggestions how. It’s not like I have hobbies. I don’t fish or garden. I don’t play golf or take photographs like you. Not that I think photography’s a hobby,’ he added hastily. ‘I’ve seen your work in the Sunday supps.’
‘Someone younger would have said
online
.’
He winced. ‘And to think you told me I was too truthful the other night.’
‘Did I?’ Helen didn’t remember. She had little memory of the night. Instead she had the dregs of a two-day hangover that told her she was older than she thought. The dregs of a hangover and no migraine, despite having drunk, despite having slept too little and eaten junk for days. She didn’t like admitting the stress link to her migraines. She didn’t like admitting to stress at all. But even thinking about Art tightened a band round her forehead. That band had grown so tight in the time she was with him she could barely think at all. She’d spent most of it lost in fog.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Gil said.
This time Helen did sigh. ‘Must you?’
‘I think so, yes. I asked you before and you answered, but I want to know more.’
‘Do I need to sit down first?’
‘Up to you. Why didn’t you just leave? I mean, I know you did. Twice. But sooner. The first time he hurt you? The second time? Why did you even marry him?’
The band tightened, her vision blurred. She could feel the coldness in her fingers and the landscape grow distant. Without even thinking about it, she sat down and clutched her knees to her chest, hugging them.
Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven …
When she glanced up, Gil looked frightened.
Ninety-three, ninety-two, ninety …
‘Helen?’
‘Art made sure everyone knew I was difficult. My family already thought so. It became common knowledge I was highly strung. Talent often is. Occasionally, very occasionally, he’d let the mask slip when my family were around and I’d find myself making excuses for him: he’d only just come back from somewhere hot and brutal; other men would be destroyed by what he’d seen.’
Gil said, ‘No one ever asked why you weren’t destroyed, too?’
She smiled at him gratefully. ‘I went everywhere Art went, and more. I was destroyed – only not by that. The friends who took me aside to ask if everything was all right were the ones Art hated. When my personal trainer noticed bruises on my legs when I was pregnant, I simply never went back. If he’d known what I talked to Caroline about he’d never have let me go there.