If You Love Me: Part 3 of 3: True love. True terror. True story.. Jane Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ pretending not to be in, as I would normally have done.

      ‘Are you Alice Keale?’ the woman asked as soon as I opened the door.

      ‘Yes.’ I raised my eyebrows quizzically.

      ‘We’re from the Metropolitan Police,’ the woman said. ‘The Domestic Abuse Unit. Your family and a friend of yours contacted us. They’re all extremely concerned about you and we’d like to have a word. Can we come in?’

      Someone once told me that if you ask a question that could equally well have the answer yes or no, you have to be prepared for either response. It was good advice, but I got the impression on this occasion that ‘Can we come in?’ wasn’t really a question at all and that I didn’t have much choice. It wasn’t police officers themselves I was afraid of, however, but what Joe would say when he found out that they’d been to the house. I’d have to tell him, and when I did he’d go crazy. I could feel my heart racing at the very thought of it.

      I knew my family and best friend were worried about me. At times when I felt as though I couldn’t take it any more, I’d started to let slip little bits of information to my sister – about Joe cutting my hair, and about him making me take long train rides almost-home, sometimes as often as two or three times a week. My worry now, however, was what they might have told the police.

      I led the way into the living room, where the two officers sat on the sofa while I perched on the edge of a chair opposite them.

      ‘People are very worried about you, Alice.’ It was the woman speaking again. ‘And I have to say, from what your family and friend have told us, I think they have reason to be.’

      ‘I know they’ve been worried,’ I said, trying to sound like someone who’s already done something stupid, rather than someone who’s about to throw away her one chance of getting the help she needs. ‘The truth is, everything’s been blown out of proportion. You know what mothers are like. I was emotionally unfaithful to my boyfriend during the first five weeks of our relationship, and when he found out he took it very badly. It’s just taking a while for us to work things out. But we’re getting there.’

      It sounds ridiculous to me now, but I imagine police officers working in a domestic abuse unit had heard it all before – or, at least, variations on the same theme.

      ‘But it’s nine months since he found out, isn’t it?’ Again, it wasn’t really a question. ‘Don’t you think your boyfriend might be overreacting by continuing to make it a bone of contention? I’d have thought that nine months would be more than enough time to work things out, if you’re going to be able to do so. Your sister says he cut all your hair off and threw away all your clothes.’

      ‘Clearing my wardrobe’ was something Joe had started when, in response to one of his early questions, I’d said that I was wearing jeans on the evening that Anthony and I first had sex. Joe had already thrown out all my underwear, and then specified the style and colour of bras and pants I was to wear in the future. So then he ripped up all my jeans, which I wasn’t allowed to replace, or, in fact, wear at all. Next, he made me throw out all the tops I had in certain colours, the dresses I’d worn on particular occasions, and eventually almost every item of clothing I possessed. When everything I’d chosen myself had been got rid of or destroyed, I wore only items of clothing I’d bought under Joe’s supervision and direction, none of which bore any resemblance to anything I might have worn at any time during the eighteen months when I was seeing Anthony.

      I didn’t say any of that to the police officers, of course. Instead, I lied to them, the way I seemed to lie about everything to everyone except Joe by that time, and told them, ‘It wasn’t my boyfriend who cut off my hair. I did it. I wanted a change of style, that’s all. He didn’t throw out my clothes, either. I did. And he doesn’t tell me what to wear. I know he overreacted to what happened, but it was understandable because he felt betrayed and was struggling to come to terms with it all.’

      ‘What do you do during the day?’ It was the first time the male police officer had said anything, and his question took me slightly off guard. ‘Your mum says he hasn’t allowed you to work for several months. That must be very isolating for you. So what do you do every day? How would you say things were between you and your boyfriend? Do the two of you argue a lot? Your sister said she overheard one of your arguments on the phone and that he sounded “dangerous and unhinged”. She was very frightened for you. Is your boyfriend violent with you?’

      The only question I answered was the last one. ‘No, he isn’t violent with me,’ I lied. ‘We do argue a bit, because he’s still working it all through. But of course he hasn’t forbidden me to work. I get depression, which has been made worse by what’s happened. That’s why I don’t work at the moment. I just don’t feel up to it right now.’

      I had been so programmed by Joe that the explanations and excuses were almost automatic, whereas what I really wanted to say to the police officers was, ‘Help me! Please don’t leave me here. Take me away with you. Yes, he’s dangerous and unhinged; he’s violent and irrational too. We argue all the time. I barely sleep or eat. I’ve lost count of the times he’s strangled me and threatened to kill me, and I’m really, really frightened about what he might do to me. Cutting off my hair and throwing out my clothes are only a small part of it. He makes me run naked through the streets at night. He won’t let me have any contact with my family or friends. Can’t you see that I’ve been lying to you and that I need help, but that I can’t admit it because, despite everything, I think I still love Joe. If you won’t take me away with you, at least tell me that he’s right, that everything is the way he says it is, and that I haven’t endured all this suffering for nothing.’

      I wondered later whether, if the police officers had persisted in their questioning, I might have told them any part of the truth – had my phone not rung at that moment.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I told them. ‘It’s my boyfriend. I’ve got to take this.’ Then, into the phone, ‘Hi, Joe. I can’t talk right now. The police are here. Can we speak later? Yes, of course. Bye.’

      Joe answered very calmly when I told him about the police. But I knew him well enough to be able to sense the seething rage that he was only just managing to control, and to know that I would pay for the police officers’ visit when he got home. And still I didn’t tell them the truth and ask them to help me.

      When they left, they took with them the statement I had signed confirming that everything in my life with Joe was fine and devoid of domestic abuse. They did tell me they didn’t believe me, but said they couldn’t force me to accept their help if I didn’t want it. So they gave me a number to call if I changed my mind.

      As soon as they’d gone, I picked up my phone and rang Joe. Although I had hoped he might be in a meeting, so that I’d have some time to collect my thoughts, he answered immediately and said, in a voice cold with anger and distrust, ‘I need you to meet me for lunch. Right now.’

       Chapter 13

      We were in Sardinia, on the last holiday I was going to be able to afford before my savings ran out, and I could hardly believe how well things had been going – ‘well’ for us, at least. On the third day we were there, there was a period of maybe two hours when Joe didn’t ask me a single question about the past.

      We had hired a small open boat with an outboard motor to explore the isolated coves and bays along the coast, mooring it offshore so that we could swim in the crystal-clear water. After we’d swum, we would СКАЧАТЬ