Free Losing Me by Sue Margolis

flat-screen TV looked out of place in the bedraggled living room. There was a tatty leatherette sofa, a couple of sad mismatched armchairs, a few tenth-hand baby toys scattered over the floor. There were no pictures, no photographs, no tchotchkes. Barbara lowered herself into one of the armchairs. Tiffany sat on the sofa, Lacie on her lap. The baby immediately started to grizzle. Barbara reached into her pocket and took out a miniature pack of chocolate digestives that she kept for low-blood-sugar emergencies. “Do you think she’d like one of these?”
    “Lacie never says no to a biscuit, do you?”
    “Here you are, sweetheart. Try this.”
    Lacie grabbed the biscuit and began munching. In a few seconds her mouth was covered in chocolate. Barbara wondered when she’d last eaten.
    “What’s really been going on?” Barbara said gently.
    “You really want to know?. . . OK . . .” Her voice was raised now in what was probably a combination of fear, exhaustion and fury.
    Tiffany lowered her dressing gown to reveal livid purple bruises over her shoulders and arms. “It’s the same all over my back. He knew not to touch my face. Bastard didn’t want anybody seeing what he’d done.”
    Barbara grimaced. “Have you seen a doctor?”
    “It’s nothing much. I’ve had worse than this.”
    “Christ, Tiffany. It’s not nothing.”
    “I’m fine. Don’t start getting busy.”
    “And just to be clear—Wayne did this?”
    She nodded. “Troy was so brave. He kept kicking and punching and trying to stop him. Wayne would turn on him and stick him with his cigarette.”
    “What about Lacie?”
    “He never laid a hand on her. . . . When I said I was calling the police, he threatened to kill me. Said he’d cut my throat.”
    Barbara sat stunned. Tiffany took her silence as an attack.
    “You think I’m weak, don’t you? You think I’m a terrible mother.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t.”
    And she meant it. She had no idea how she’d cope as a young, practically destitute single mother.
    Tears were falling down Tiffany’s face now. “Let me tell you something. I love my kids. They’re my life. I’d do anything to protect them. And I’ve done my best. . . .”
    “OK, what if we called the police right now?”
    “Are you having a laugh?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “People like you actually think the police are going to give a fuck. You think I can waltz into the police station, tell them what’s been happening and they’ll put Wayne right at the top of their to-do list.”
    “They’ll do something.”
    “No, they won’t. They never do. That’s why so many women end up dead. And you know what? Even if they found him and locked him up, he’d send somebody to get me. I’d never be safe. It’s better like this.”
    “Then at least let me call social services and ask them to find you a place in a women’s refuge.”
    “No point.”
    “Why?”
    “He’s gone. Wayne’s a bricklayer. He got a call about a job up north.”
    “But what if he comes back?”
    “He won’t. He lives up north. He was only down here for a few weeks working. But the bastard went off with my spare keys, so I borrowed some money and had the locks changed, just in case.”
    Barbara tried to convince her that she still wasn’t safe and urged her again to call the police or think about going to a refuge, but Tiffany was adamant that she was doing the right thing.
    “How did Troy hurt his leg?” Barbara said.
    Tiffany said that Wayne had got angry with him and pushed him down some steps at the park.
    “It’s fine though. The hospital said his leg was just bruised.”
    “But what if Wayne comes back?”
    “He won’t,” Tiffany said. “He’s hundreds of miles away. He’s probably found another woman to batter by now. It’s how these blokes operate.”
    Barbara wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or petrified for some other unsuspecting girl. She reached into her bag and took out her purse.