Another message comes up on my phone. Then another. And another.
‘He’s been arrested a few times because other people have heard and have called the police. She always manages to convince them that he’s the violent one. And because he doesn’t want anyone to know, he never tells them what happened. You know she actually says, “It’s my fault, I did this,” and no one realises that she’s actually confessing. No one ever believes the man in these situations.’
My father ignores the boiling kettle and comes to the table, sits down opposite me.
‘It’s not that simple, Verity,’ he says. ‘Women are far more abused than men.’
‘Yes, but men are abused, too.’
‘I know they are. I’m not saying they’re not. But, Vee, it’s a reality that a lot of abusive men spend a lot of time convincing the world that they are the victim. They create a reality and a story that is completely separate to what the real victim is living with and they gaslight her, and friends and family, colleagues, and sometimes even the police, into giving them sympathy and support that they don’t deserve. At its core, abuse has manipulation, and abusive people are excellent at manipulating others.’
I go to speak but Dad continues, ‘And yes, abusive women do that, too. But I’m telling you, the “no one believes men” line is not helpful. Not for anyone. It pushes well-meaning people to start giving the benefit of the doubt even when all other evidence suggests the abuser isn’t the victim but the perpetrator.’
‘I see what you’re saying.’
‘Do you know where Howie is?’ he asks.
I shake my head. I really don’t and I feel awful for dragging him into it. Dreadful. I am literally full of dread about what happened and where he is.
‘Seeing what Howie went through, reading other stuff, that’s why I know Darryl – Mr Palmer – was wrong about Logan being abusive.’
‘Your solicitor thinks he was abusive?’
‘He wasn’t, Dad. Isn’t. Logan isn’t abusive. He didn’t do anything like what Beccie did to Howie.’ I shake my head. ‘She didn’t just hit him, she made his life a misery.’ I pick up my phone, show him the number of new messages that have come up. ‘This is nothing compared to what she’d send him if he dared to go out without her. I mean, I didn’t care. She could ring a million times when we were out together, it didn’t bother me if he was late or if he had to leave early. If she turned up unannounced, I welcomed her joining us. He was always trying to please her, keep her happy so she wouldn’t freak out at him. And also so she was happy. He wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. That was nothing like what I had with Logan.’
Dad nods while staring at my phone, which continues to flash up with message after message after message.
‘When was the last time you saw Zephie? Before the party, I mean.’
‘We’re both really busy.’
‘She’s your oldest, closest friend.’
‘We’re both just really busy.’
‘When was the last time you saw Howie, before all this kicked off?’
‘It wasn’t easy when Beccie was so controlling.’
‘But up until what, six months ago, Beccie’s controlling nature wasn’t a problem with seeing him, was it? I mean, he came for Sunday lunch that time and he was on the list for my party.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been really busy.’
‘And what about your brother? When was the last time you saw Conrad, Verity? You and him used to go to the same clubs, and you let him crash at your place whenever he wanted. When did you last spend time with your brother because you woke up and found him asleep on your couch?’
Dad stares at me so intently I have to redirect my eyes to the phone he was just staring at.
Logan wasn’t abusive; I wasn’t abused by him. I know what abuse looks like and it was what Howie went through, what Mum went through, it wasn’t the normal ups and downs of a relationship.
‘I know you’ve had your problems recently, but I think you should talk to your mother,’ Dad says gently. ‘Abuse isn’t always what you think. It doesn’t look the same for every relationship.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t,’ I say.
He stands. ‘And think about turning your phone off. It’s not going to do you any good seeing those messages one after the other.’
I nod.
But I can’t, of course, because Howie might call me. Text me. Find a way to contact me. And I need to know what’s happening to him. I need to know that he’s OK. And I need to know it wasn’t him who tried to kill my boyfriend.
August, 2018
‘She’s going to kill you, you know that, don’t you?’
I was angry with Howie. More frustrated, actually. And scared. So panicky my heart was fluttering in my chest. We sat in my kitchen with my first-aid box open on the table. His lip was split, his eye was going to be swelling very soon and his top was off because I’d had to tape up his ribs. He hadn’t done anything to defend himself except curl up into a ball and wait for her rage to burn itself out. ‘She’s going to kill you because – what was it this time? You didn’t put the guest towels away in the guest towel drawer?’
‘It wasn’t that simple, Vee. She’s told me so many times about doing that. It makes her life more difficult because she’s the one who has to get the flat ready when people come to stay.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then. I think it’s so much more important that it’s easy for her to get her hands on coordinating towels than it is for you to walk around with unbruised ribs.’
Howie grabbed my hand, stopped it dabbing at his lip and slipped his fingers through mine. ‘Don’t be angry with me,’ he said.
‘I’m not angry,’ I said. ‘I’m frightened. She’s getting worse; the cycle of good to bad times is getting shorter, and the violence is getting worse. She’s not even bothering to find proper reasons any more. I’m scared she’s going to kill you. Over fucking guest towels. Not even proper towels, guest ones.’
That made Howie smile, as it was meant to.
He dropped my hand and instead put his arm around my waist, pulled me towards him.
‘Why did we never get together?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we’re perfect for each other. How come it never happened?’ He was trying to distract me from bringing up the horror show that was his relationship, how he was defending his girlfriend’s right to beat him up because of towels. (This time it was towels, last time it was not wiping his shoes on the mat.)
He was trying that distraction technique with the wrong person – yes we could talk about this, but it wouldn’t stop me going back to the original conversation. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Howie, I guess it was never really meant to be. I mean, I wasn’t interested in a relationship, you don’t fancy dark-skin girls . . . So . . .’ I shrugged.
In the bright lights of my kitchen, Howie had the good grace to look thoroughly ashamed. ‘I do fancy dark-skin girls,’ he replied quietly, redirecting his gaze away from anywhere we might make eye contact.
‘All right, you don’t go out with dark-skin girls.’