Free Without Consent by Frances Fyfield Page A

his skills. Mostly, it was his money that went on improvements.
    I don’t resent it, Shell, how can I? he would say as she demurred every time another length of wood appeared. It’s our future I’m building.
    A future in bricks and mortar, shelving and three-piece suites stretched before her. Matching crockery and washing machines to save them from falling into animal behaviour. Ready-made, machine-washable curtains inpastel shades to make sure they could distinguish themselves from the creatures in the jungle outside. Shelley was twenty-two and worked in a shop in the West End. She got a discount on clothes of which Derek approved; he didn’t like her shopping anywhere expensive, so that when she did, she scrunched the garment into a small parcel and hid it away. Brick by brick, Derek built their future; she could feel the walls of it surrounding her. Sometimes, the prison had the comfort of a padded cell; at others she wanted it bulldozed to the ground. Derek was so kind. Everyone approved of him. She had everything she wanted.
    â€˜I think I’ll go to work tomorrow,’ she said.
    He looked up in surprise. On the floor between his feet, sitting neatly on a double thickness of newspaper to save the carpet, were the innards of their vacuum cleaner which Derek was mending.
    â€˜Oh, no, I wouldn’t. It’s too soon, lovey, after all you’ve been through. It’s only a couple of days since … You need your rest.’
    â€˜Two days. I don’t need rest. I need something to do. I feel much better, honest, and if I don’t go to work, the old bat will think it’s time she got someone else …’
    Shelley could hear the whine in her voice; a rising note of panic singing along tunelessly behind it.
    â€˜There are laws against unfair dismissal,’ he said primly.
    â€˜I know there are, but they don’t count for nothing if you get the sack. You can spend weeks fighting it or you can put up and shut up, the manager knows that. Anyway, a couple of days on the sick is all I can get away with before anyone asks questions. And we’ve got a sale this week.’
    Shelley liked work, usually; work was a laugh. Thecorollary of not going to work was having to stay at home, in this flat, cleaning it, fussing round it, making custard for apple pie. Derek worked on the vacuum cleaner. Silence reigned, apart from the sound of a screwdriver, tapping the filter free of dust.
    â€˜I don’t want to tell them, at work, I mean, Derek. I just don’t.’
    â€˜No, of course you don’t. Why should you?’
    He dusted his hands, stepped across to her and patted her head indulgently. Then he sat down again and continued tapping the filter. The small sound grated on her nerves. She knew his industry did not imply any criticism of her for fouling up the machine in the first place, but that was what it felt like.
    Between them both, the television glowed and people were murmuring at one another. A police officer appeared through a door on the screen and Shelley squirmed at the sight of him. The trembling spread throughout her limbs; she pulled her knees into the chair and clasped her hands around her calves.
    â€˜What’s going to happen, Derek? What are they going to do to him?’
    He looked at the screen, puzzled.
    â€˜Sorry, love, I wasn’t watching.’
    She wanted to shout.
    â€˜I don’t mean the man on the telly. I mean that copper. Ryan.’
    Derek’s hands ceased moving and he gave her his full attention. She had had the benefit of his 100 per cent solicitude for forty-eight hours; he never seemed tired of giving, darling Derek.
    â€˜Charge him, put him on trial, lock him up and throw away the key, I hope, after what he did. But we don’t know, love. Most likely they’ll cover it up, just because he’s a copper. They stick together, you know.’
    â€˜I don’t want to give evidence,’ she said, her voice