When I Was Invisible (19 page)

It never grew quiet in here. It was dark, not pitch black, but dark enough to sleep, dark enough to have to wait for your eyes to adjust every time you opened them so you could make out which shapes were human, which shapes were not. It was dark, but not quiet. People coughed, people grunted, snored, moved on creaky beds, talked in their sleep. The air was heavy with the breaths of the twenty or so sleeping people, all curled up or laid flat on fold-out beds that were positioned a few feet from neighbouring cots.

The man who had checked me into this homeless shelter hadn't been that keen to admit me, had told me there were no other women there that night so he couldn't put me near any other females. I'd been so tired by that point, the exhaustion permeating every part of me so extensively, I'd just wanted to walk around in tiny circles to make the tiredness stop. ‘I don't mind,' I'd said to him. What I'd meant, of course, was that I didn't care. I wasn't there to socialise, to find my new best mate; right then, I'd just needed somewhere to sit down and think, to lie down and sleep, to not be disturbed and moved on for a few hours.

This shelter was in an old building, not far from where I'd stopped to look at the canal. It looked like a former religious building with its large stained-glass windows, but its outside shape was nothing church-like at all. Both sides of the building were flanked by other buildings under renovation, both of them covered in scaffolding and hoarding that was complicated and prominent, like braces on a teenager's teeth.

This place wasn't so bad. It was all right, actually. It was clean, no one seemed to bother with anyone else, it was somewhere inside and out of the cold and I had a blanket to cover me. I'd lain down fully clothed, with my jacket on top of me, the blanket on top of that, and the soft leather of my lumpy, bumpy rucksack under my head instead of the pillow. I would be finished if I lost my rucksack, so I had to keep it close.

Obviously for all the tiredness, now I couldn't sleep. Now I lay awake with my eyes open, listening to the never-quite-falling silence and trying to work out what to do next. I would check out what Nikki the librarian had said about the day centres tomorrow. I could do with drinking copious amounts of coffee, and starting a job search. I wasn't qualified for much: since leaving home I had worked backstage at the theatre and waitressed and then had become the infamous girlfriend of a man who could kick a ball around a pitch. Not much for the CV.

I could do it, though. I knew I could. I just needed a chance. I just needed to meet the right person, hear of the right job, and I would have the chance to start over. I was owed a break, I knew that. I was owed the chance to turn it all around. I closed my eyes and kept them closed.

The sounds around me slowly spun themselves like thread on a spinning wheel into a melody, a backdrop that was unusual but oddly soothing as I let go and drifted off to sleep …

Suddenly, a hand – calloused and hard – clamped down tight on my mouth, shutting off air. My eyes flew open, my chest expanded to try to pull in air, but it was useless. Another hand, pushing aside the blanket, moving away my jacket. Then a weight on top of me, pinning me down, fixing me to the bed. I couldn't see a face, not in the dark, not from the way I was being held down, but the other hand was inside my clothes, inside my jeans, my knickers; rough fingers, ragged nails were clawing away at me. I struggled, but the hand on my mouth, the weight on my body, made it impossible. I knew what was going to happen. The sounds of the room were the same as before, all normal, all the sounds you'd expect from so many people sleeping in the same room, and this was going to happen. Surrounded by so many people, this was going to happen to me.

His breathing, loud and heavy, filled my ears, and no one else could hear it, no one else could hear the noise of him forcing his fingers inside me, nor the sound of my desperate struggle, nor the silent volume of my ‘no' being shouted against his hand.

‘Get off her, you bastard!' a voice said in the darkness, and I felt the weight being shoved off me before I heard him landing loudly on the floor.

I was on my feet before the attacker could react. I snatched up my rucksack, held it against my body as protection, then snatched up my jacket, clung on to that, too. It was hard to see in the dark; the shape of the man who had been on top of me stayed on the floor, a lumpy, almost curved mountain. He swayed a little – maybe he'd hurt himself when he fell, although the fall wasn't from any sort of height. Around us others seemed to be making waking-up noises.

‘Come on, we'd better get out of here,' the man who had saved me said. ‘I just kicked him in the head. When he comes round a bit, he's going to be
pissed off
.' Before I could protest or properly react, he grabbed my hand and began to lead me out of the room, weaving our way around the beds at speed. Without looking back, we left the building and ran a little way down the road until we could turn the corner and move out of sight of the front of the building, throwing ourselves into the false shelter created by the scaffolding on the neighbouring building.

We flattened ourselves against the wall, trying to disguise ourselves in the shadows in case the man came after us. It was ridiculous, really, especially when we were both breathing loudly, our bodies shaking instead of being silent and stationary if we were to blend properly into the darkness. When nothing happened, no shouts, no loud, angry footsteps hurtling down the street, we stopped holding ourselves against the wall and relaxed forwards. The wind swirled around us, rattling the scaffolding, an eerie soundtrack to what had almost just happened.
What had almost just happened.

My legs went from underneath me at the thought of it, and I was on the ground, clutching my bag and jacket, shaking. ‘He was going to …' I couldn't even say the word. I'd never been able to say the word. Every time I saw the word it took me to a different place, a different time, a different horror that I'd tried to forget. ‘He was going to …'
Why? Why?
I buried my face in my jacket and rucksack, the full horror of it descending upon me.

‘I'm sorry about that, mate,' the man beside me said. ‘He's a bastard.'

‘Why me?' I asked myself aloud. The man beside me couldn't give me an answer, obviously. In fact, I didn't even know him. He could be as bad as the man in the shelter; he could be worse. Maybe they worked together to get women alone, away from any source of help. I stumbled quickly upwards, steadying myself on my feet as I moved away from him, checking behind me all the while in case someone was going to jump me from behind. I didn't know this place well enough to know where to run and escape. Would I be fast enough? Would my exhausted legs be able to carry me fast enough and far enough?

‘Nah, nah, I'm not working with him,' the man said when he saw what I was doing. ‘I wouldn't do nothing like that. He's just a bastard. Every time there's a woman in there he tries it on. We tried to get him banned but they say there's nothing they can do, everyone's welcome and no one's ever pressed charges. Like that was ever going to happen. There's always one of us looking out for the girls – tonight it was me.' He stared at me with his open face. ‘Felt good to give him that boot to the head.'

The man was only a fraction taller than me, with a wiry frame, his many layers of clothing hanging off him. He looked grimy; not dirty, just a bit grubby, his clothes coloured with the grey of city living, his shoes worn, and his surprisingly clean but yellow-stained fingers, peeking out of fingerless gloves.

‘You just arrived?' he asked. He didn't try to close the gap between us, seemed to know that I needed space from him. I liked that. It showed a modicum of decency and understanding.

‘I suppose so,' I said.

‘Do you want me to show you round?' he asked.

‘It's the middle of the night.'

‘All the best things happen in the middle of the night,' he said. Then stopped. ‘You know what I mean, sorry. That was thoughtless.' He didn't have a Birmingham accent, it was more cockney than anything, maybe a bit of south London, too. It was hard to place because it kept dipping in and out of various areas of London.

‘It's not your fault,' I said. ‘I just wanted somewhere to sleep. One night's sleep, that was all.'

‘It's hard for girls on the street, I won't lie to you … What's your name?'

‘Grace.' It was easier that time – it tripped off my tongue like people had been calling me that all my life. Grace, my middle name. Carter, my mother's maiden name.

‘I'm Reese. Well, that's what I call myself, it's not my real name. No one knows my real name, not even me, I don't think. I've changed it so many times to suit whichever situation. Right now, I've had Reese for three years. Saw it on a film once. Liked it, used it.' He paused for breath. ‘What was I saying? Oh yeah, it's hard out on the streets for girls. The mixed night shelters aren't that safe, and there aren't any women-only ones round here. The best way to get some sleep is to hide. Find somewhere hidden and sleep there. That's where all the girls are. They sleep out, but they hide at night. It's the best way.'

I was going to have to do it, I realised that then. I was going to have to sleep on the streets, on the ground, until I could find a way to make money.
People walk on those streets with their dirty shoes. Dogs take dumps on the street, wee up against walls. The streets, the pavements, the ground that I've always thought of as dirty and disgusting, are my only option – unless I want to go back to Todd, or go back to my parents.

‘It ain't so bad, ya know?' Reese said. He had probably worked out what I was thinking. How need was going to have to trump disgust. ‘There are some real bastards out there, but ya know, mostly, we look out for each other when we can.' He nodded to himself before hoisting up his once-green sleeping bag on to his shoulder. ‘I can take you to a café that's open twenty-four hours if you want? The owner's sound as a pound, he don't mind us lot coming and going as long as we don't take the piss, like. No dealing on the premises or crap like that.'

‘That sounds good,' I said.

‘Come on then, Grace,' he said. ‘And tomorrow, when the normals are awake, I'll find out about getting you some ID. A photo driving licence should do it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You'll see, Grace me old girl, you'll see.'

I had been wrong earlier when I'd thought I hadn't gone to the shelter to make friends: that night was the night I met one of my best friends.

I'm not sure how to dress for a date. Not that I have many clothes to choose from. I have visited the local charity shop and found myself a few non-dowdyish dresses, some flat, sensible shoes. I had to debate with myself over them, though. I wasn't sure if they were worth using the scant money I had to pay for them, nor whether they would suit me. I missed Mum so much at that moment. The mother I have is not the mother I have in my fantasies. The mother in my head would have come along shopping with me, would have told me what suited me, what I should simply put back on the rail and walk swiftly away from.

I stand in front of the hallway mirror, examining myself. I have chosen a pinstripe suit jacket, one of my usual blouses, and jeans. I'm not sure if I look like a nun in jeans or not. The chain of my crucifix is visible around my neck, but the actual cross is below the top button of my white blouse. My only other jewellery is the gold-plated watch my parents gave me for my eighteenth birthday. I'd left it behind because we were only allowed the absolute basics in the first convent I entered. It'd been one of the first things I'd put on when I got home. I stare at myself again: my brown hair's a bit plain, but there's not much to do with a cut like mine. It wasn't necessary to cut my hair short, but I liked it short and easy to manage. I suppose I could grow it out.

‘I'll be off then,' I say to Mum, who is sitting in the living room with her needlepoint on her lap, one of her quiz shows on the TV. ‘I don't think I'll be back too late. Say bye to Dad for me.'

Mum is openly horrified: her needle sticks upwards from her canvas, her glasses slip down to the end of her nose. This is her version of the scratch across a record when strangers enter a pub. ‘You're going out? What about dinner?'

‘I'll probably get something when I'm out,' I say.

‘You're not cooking tonight?' Mum asks, clearly aghast.

‘Sorry, I wasn't aware you wanted me to. You haven't been very happy that I've been cooking so I didn't think you'd mind.'

‘I simply wasn't best pleased with the mess you left behind.'

I don't like to call my mother a liar, but:
‘Liar!'
I wash up as I cook – it is second nature to make sure everything is as near pristine as possible when you sit down to eat in almost all the places where I have lived. ‘Well, you won't have to clear up after me tonight,' I offer as a halfway house to ease her indignation.

‘Really, you should have told me you weren't going to do what you committed yourself to. I would have made other arrangements. I wasn't aware that they taught you not to honour your commitments in that convent of yours. I'm very disappointed, to be honest. Very disappointed.'

‘You look nice, love,' Dad says, coming up behind me. I step aside to let him pass and watch him settle into the dynamic of the room. His chair is nearer the window than Mum's and looks altogether more comfortable, too.

‘Thanks, Dad.'

‘Off out?'

‘Yes. Look, I'm sorry about not making dinner. I didn't realise it would cause so many problems. Thing is, I don't have the number of the person I'm meeting so I can't call and cancel.'

‘Cancel? Don't be ridiculous. We weren't expecting dinner, were we, Margaret?' Dad says. He sits heavily backwards, picks up his newspaper from where it is resting on the armchair and shakes it open between his hands.