The Banishing Read online

  Sharon smiled—satisfied—and nodded.

  Chapter Three

  It was still raining. The sky above them was a dome of gray, clouds swollen with water hovering above them with the promise of more to come. Sharon had managed to arrange her lunch break at the same time as Melissa, but the canteen had been busy—too busy for them to talk properly—so they were standing outside, taking shelter by a cluster of trees that were situated behind the main hospital building.

  She hadn’t planned what to say. All morning, while cleaning patients, taking blood pressures and changing bedding, she had been devoured by two thoughts that were constantly battling for her attention. The first had been Mark. What to do about him and worrying about what he might do next. The second thought was what she was going to tell Sharon. She wanted to tell her but was frightened of what telling her might mean, and for that, she felt weak and stupid.

  Melissa had been with Mark for five years. They had started dating when she was 20. Now, she was 25—the age where she had expected to be happily settled into married life or perhaps planning the family they’d spoken of—but instead, she was tied up in this nightmare, and she didn’t know where to turn, what to do.

  “What happened? I want to know, because something is just not right with you. You’ve been like this for ages.” Sharon pulled out a lighter from her pocket and flicked it open. The flame sprung to life, and she lifted it to her face, lighting the cigarette that hung between her lips. She inhaled and released a small puff of gray smoke. It hung momentarily in the air, and then dissolved to nothing.

  “Been like what?”

  “A fucking zombie, that’s what. You’ve stopped coming out with me. You’ve been totally distracted at work. Now this? Jesus, Mel. You look awful.”

  Melissa leaned back against the tree, enjoying the feel of the cold air against her skin. “You’re right. I’ve not been myself for weeks. Well, probably months.”

  “Why?”

  “Mark.”

  Sharon’s eyes widened. Two twin spheres of blue that seemed to darken at hearing her friend’s words. “I knew it. He’s been hitting you!” Sharon motioned toward the cut on Melissa’s lip and fell silent, stunned.

  “For five years, he was the perfect man, perfect husband. He never laid a finger on me.”

  “Until now.”

  Melissa felt a tidal wave of relief as she began to loosen up, began to feel the weight of the truth fall from her. It was the first time she had admitted it to anybody, and despite her anxiety about where it might lead, what letting go of it all might mean, she felt good. “Until a few months ago. I think it started when we moved into the new house.”

  “You’ve been there—what? A year now?”

  Melissa looked over at her friend, nodding hesitantly.

  “He’s been hitting you the whole time?”

  Melissa rolled her eyes. “Keep it down. I don’t want people hearing.” Melissa fell silent as a group of nurses passed them, clustered together in a tight group, talking and laughing. After they disappeared around the corner of the building, Melissa finally said, “No, he hasn’t been hitting me the whole time, but he started changing around that time. At first, I thought it might just be the stress of moving. You know, it was a struggle, financially…” Melissa paused, thinking back to the time—a time when things were normal, good, even perfect. “It all just changed.”

  Sharon dropped her cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with her foot. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it went from him just being kind of moody and snapping at me now and then, to getting really angry over stupid things. Then, he got all funny about me spending time with you, like he didn’t want me having friends.”

  “Sounds like the guy is a nut.”

  “Then, the last couple of months he started…you know, pushing me a bit. At first, just a slap across the face—”

  “Just? There is no just about it, Mel. What he’s doing to you is—”

  Melissa raised her hand in an attempt to stop Sharon. “Yes, I know. Don’t you think I know? Anything you say, I’ve already thought it.”

  “So, he started hitting you?”

  “Yeah. A few weeks ago, but today was the worst.”

  Sharon leaned in close, putting her arm around Melissa’s shoulders. “Babe, you need to get out. You know that? If he can do this to you—the woman he is supposed to love—then he’s dangerous. Out of control.”

  “That’s what I’m scared of.”

  “You should be!”

  “Thanks,” Melissa said. “That makes me feel great.”

  “Seriously, he’s dangerous. Leave him. Even if you end up staying at my place. Or a hotel or something.”

  “You know, I’ve actually thought about leaving him,” she confessed, motioning for them to walk back to the hospital. It was almost 1:00 PM, signaling the end of their break, and Melissa knew she couldn’t risk being late. Again. Her ward manager was already pissed off about her late arrival that morning.

  “I feel a ‘but’ coming on,” she said, linking arms with Melissa as they walked.

  “There is a ‘but’. Of course there is. I’ve known him for years. We were best friends. So close. Closer to me than anybody has ever been. As crazy as it sounds, after what I’ve just told you, I love him. What if there is something wrong, and I can get him help? What if things can get back to the way they once were?”

  Sharon sighed and shook her head. “That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ and a hell of a lot of bruises while you’re waiting for your answer.”

  Melissa knew she was right, but something kept her back, stopped her from moving on.

  * * * *

  The rest of the shift passed uneventfully. Sharon had practically pleaded with her to not go home and to leave Mark, but despite her own fear and wanting to do everything she knew she should, she left for home with the promise of phoning Sharon if anything happened that night.

  It was almost dark when she left the hospital and stepped into the parking lot. The rain had eased off, dissolving resignedly into a light drizzle. Pulling out of the almost empty parking lot, Melissa wondered what the night ahead held for her. Which Mark will be there waiting for me? The real one, or the other one—the one I don’t know? She felt nervous and tried to fend off the feeling by turning up the radio. A song she didn’t recognize filled the car and the air around her, and she hummed along, trying to force some life—some energy—into her.

  The roads were busy. Rush hour. Melissa followed the trail of cars ahead, moving slowly. By the time she reached home, she felt the beginning of a headache twinge along her scalp. She pulled into the driveway and switched off the radio, staring up at the house. It looked gloomy in the dying light. The house. What Mark had always wanted for them, for their life together. Thinking of those long hours that Mark had put in, the way he would be out of the door first thing in the morning and would sometimes not get back home before she would already be in bed, Melissa wondered whether the house had been worth it at all. They had rented a small flat for the first few years of their relationship. One bedroom, tiny. It was nothing more than one large room plus a bathroom. Melissa had taken to calling it “the box”, but she had liked it, had enjoyed their time there. It had been the space where their relationship had grown from a tiny flower into a full, passionate blossom.

  That flat they had both lived in held wonderful memories for her. The night Mark had gotten down on one knee and proposed to her was the strongest—almost too perfect—one.

  Mark was the first one to suggest moving, though. They hadn’t even discussed it. It wasn’t something Melissa thought was in the cards. Happy at the place they were, content for the first time in years since her parents’ deaths several years before, she admitted to herself—she didn’t want any more upheaval. Anymore change. She had simply wanted to be
mellow in the bubble she and Mark had built around themselves, cocooned in a happiness that she never dreamt possible.

  She remembered him coming home from work one night. It was late, and Melissa had already changed into her pajamas when Mark sauntered into the room, a huge grin on his face and a newspaper in his hand. He ran into the lounge and tossed the paper into her lap. “Page fifty,” he had simply said.

  Melissa leafed through the pages until she came to the small ad Mark had circled in blue ink. A house. Two bedrooms. A large garden. Garage.

  “It’s perfect for us,” he had said to her, watching as she read over the estate agent’s description. “Don’t you think we deserve our own home? Our own home, Melissa! Think about it.”

  Thinking back on it now, on the way things had slowly crept toward this bleak reality in which she now lived, Melissa wished she’d said “no” straightaway. Yet even then, before she knew what she knows now, and before she knew Mark would change the way he had, she had felt strong reservations about the move. About the house. There were two main reasons: the first being financial. Melissa’s wages were meager, and although Mark earned a considerable amount as a courier, there were quiet periods. Dry periods, when he could easily go for days without being assigned any jobs. Taking out a mortgage felt like a huge step.

  She remembered Mark’s face when she had expressed her concerns and knew how much the concept of buying their own place must have meant to him. His face dropped, his eyes lost their warm sparkle, and he looked defeated.

  So she had, for his sake more than anything, agreed to take a look at the property the next day.

  Mark was right—it was a beautiful, little home. Nothing spectacular or grand about it, but she didn’t need that, didn’t want that—and more importantly, could not afford that. It was basic, in truth. Two small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a large (huge was probably closer to the truth) lounge, and a kitchen that had been newly remodeled. The place had obviously been redecorated by the current owners. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air bitterly, and the thick, wooden doors to each room were shiny and sleek, elegant.

  Melissa liked it. Mark loved it. They left the property after the estate agent locked up—she had seemed bored of showing them around the house and had waited outside, chain smoking—with the promise that they would be in contact that same day.

  Mark promised he’d work more hours. Melissa agreed to do some extra shifts at the hospital. It was going to be worth it, she now remembered Mark saying.

  If only they had both known the future that lay ahead of them.

  Melissa snapped out of her thoughts, blinking away the shadows of memories. How long had she been sitting there, staring? Grabbing her bag and coat from the passenger seat, Melissa stepped out and ran to her porch to protect her from the rain.

  The front door opened instantly, and she looked up and saw Mark, smiling warmly and holding a glass of wine in his hand. “You’re just in time,” he said, standing aside and letting Melissa pass into the house. “I’ve been cooking dinner.”

  So you’re the real Mark, are you? She wanted to ask, glancing at him nervously. She shrugged herself out of her jacket, threw her bag and keys onto the coat rack, and followed behind him into the kitchen.

  It smelled delicious. There were pots on the cooker, bubbling with heat, a basket of bread on the dining table, and a large bottle of Rosé wine in the center. Mark went over to the cooker, stirred something inside one of the pans, and turned to her. “Want a drink?”

  Melissa stood there in the doorway, feeling slightly stunned. After the morning they had and after the way he had turned on her, she could hardly believe this was the same person. “Oh…yes. I’ll have a wine, I suppose.”

  Mark smiled at her, his eyes warm and bright. “Why don’t you sit down and enjoy your drink? I’ll serve dinner.”

  Melissa forced a smile, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the dining table. She poured herself some wine and took a sip. “What’s all this for?” she asked, watching him as he poured food onto plates.

  “It’s only dinner. I thought I’d give you a break from the kitchen for once.” His voice seemed so normal, so casual, that she started to wonder if she’d imagined his rage that morning. She pressed a finger to her lips and sucked in air as a throbbing pain pulsed through them. She hadn’t imagined it; the man standing in front of her was really capable of that and possibly more.

  “So how was work? Did you make it in on time?” Mark placed two plates down on the table and sat down opposite his wife.

  “Vegetable curry. It looks gorgeous. Thank you.”

  “Enjoy it while it’s hot.” Mark lifted his fork and began eating. “So…your day?”

  Melissa lowered her eyes, afraid to look into his. Afraid to meet his gaze and afraid of what she might read beneath the surface. “It was quiet on the ward. Half of the beds were empty, so I didn’t have much to do.”

  “Was Sharon there?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.

  “Sharon? Why? Yes, she was there. She’s normally on day shifts like me.” Melissa caught a look on his face, a change pass over him. Worry? Fear? “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Did she say anything? About your face.”

  Melissa hesitated. If he knew Sharon knew the truth, he would explode. “She asked what happened, and I said I fell down this morning.”

  Marks eyes narrowed, fixed onto hers. “Did she believe you?”

  Melissa wanted to get away. Wanted to have a bath, to be alone. She wasn’t hungry, and she wasn’t a good liar. She took a deep breath, reached for the bottle of wine and topped off her glass. “Of course she believed me, Mark. She asked me, I answered, and it was left at that.”

  Mark pushed his plate aside and reached his hands across the table, taking Melissa’s hands in his. His touch was warm, comforting, at odds with his recent behavior. She looked up and smiled, but it wasn’t forced. In that moment, it felt real, almost genuine. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “You already apologized.”

  He fell silent, but his hand still remained over hers. She watched him, watched how his eyes filled with tears and knew then that she couldn’t just walk out. Somehow seeing him there, looking frightened and upset, meant that there was light at the end of the tunnel and meant that there was hope for them as a couple. If he got help.

  “What happened this morning scared me, Mark. You frightened me. I think there is something wrong, badly wrong, because this isn’t you. You…” her voice trailed off, and she felt suddenly aware that all it would take was one word that he didn’t like the sound of, and he could explode.

  “What? Go on,” he said, looking up at her, tears sliding down his rough, tired cheeks.

  “You need help, because how you’re acting isn’t normal.”

  Mark pushed his chair back, stood up, and went around to the other side of the table. He got down on his knees, stared up at her, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I am sorry. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why I’ve been like this, but I will sort it out. I will sort it out, because I don’t want to lose you.” He leaned in for another kiss, then pulled back, his eyes resting on the large cut on her lips. “My God…”

  Melissa pulled his face forward with her hands and leaned in so that their faces were inches apart. She was seeing—for the first time in weeks—the man she loved, the man she married. “I want us to survive this,” she said.

  “We will,” he replied, with a certainty she was surprised to hear.

  Chapter Four

  After dinner, while Mark was in the lounge watching some television, Melissa slipped upstairs to have a quick shower. The hot water pelted against her skin, warming her, waking her. She felt confused, torn between her despair over Mark’s abuse and her love for him. She remembered the way she had, in the past, heard stories of women
who stood by abusive men and how she thought them to be gullible, weak, and stupid. Yet here she was, reluctant to leave the man who was hurting her. One moment, he was the sweetest, mildest man, the next, red with rage. Who was he and what was happening? Should I leave?, she asked herself, as she lathered soap onto her skin. Or is there hope?, she wondered, smiling at the way he had knelt before her, desperate to make up for his actions.

  He seemed genuinely sorry, but they always did, didn’t they? Men who abused. They were clever like that, knowing when to pull back.

  Melissa switched off the shower and stepped out. She caught sight of the cloth she had used to clean up that morning, bunched up behind the sink. It was smeared in red—covered in drops of her blood—and the sight sickened her.

  She quickly dried herself off and pulled on her white, silk pajamas. Leaving her hair wrapped tightly in a towel, she unlocked the bathroom door and went down the hallway. She was about to go into her bedroom, when she heard something from downstairs, and she paused, hesitating there to listen.

  It was Mark, and he was talking. She hadn’t heard the phone ring, but maybe she missed it in the shower. She leaned quietly over the banister, trying to hear more from below. It wasn’t that he was talking, she realized, but the way he was talking. His voice sounded like a whimper, like a frightened child.

  Melissa tip-toed barefoot down the carpeted staircase and stopped just outside the lounge doorway. From there, she could see nothing except for the muted TV.

  The door was half-way open, and from behind it she stood, silently listening.

  Mark was talking, but his voice seemed small, weak, and wounded. It reminded her of the way her brother had spoken as a child after being told off by their parents.

  “I know I have to,” he was saying, his voice shaky and nervous. “I will do it. I’ll get it done.”

  Melissa pressed her ear to the door, wanting to hear everything.

  “Not a lot of time, I know, but I will do it. I promise.” Mark fell silent, then after a few moments, he added, “There was a lot of blood. I thought you would like that.” He sounded pleased with himself suddenly.