What Doesn't Kill You Read online

  Chapter Twelve

  Tess

  January’s leaving the way it arrived – grey, fierce and short-tempered.

  I’m in the kitchen, looking through the window over the sink. The bushes opposite keep lurching, like they’re threatening to get me. If they weren’t home to half the wildlife of Weymouth, I’d have taken a pair of shears to them. No, that’s harsh. They’re providing shelter and a splash of colour on a rotten and stormy day. I just don’t like the shadows they’re casting.

  From the corner of my eye I can see a glass container sitting on the terracotta-tiled sill. It’s Mum’s Happiness jar, and it has two measly slips of paper languishing at the bottom. To the inexperienced, they could be dead, decaying moths. It’s sad. I pray it’s not a reflection of her life. She deserves so much more. She deserves a greenhouse filled with happiness, Crystal Palace even, not an old, empty jam jar.

  I’m tempted to add my own positive notes. I imagine writing them out.

  One: I fought and beat the last urge to cut.

  Two: I’ve left a message on a self-harm forum.

  Three: I received a reply.

  They’re all true and worthy of going in the jar.

  About a year ago, maybe eighteen months, certainly a while after I first cut, I found this self-harm website. I’ve dropped in from time to time, and lurked in the background, but only recently plucked up the courage to post a message. I gave an account of when I started cutting.

  Hi. I’m fifteen and I’ve been self-harming for two years.

  It was a lame opening, but I went on to explain that, when I was thirteen, there was this boy in the year above at school who kept asking me to go out with him. I knocked him back every time, but he kept hounding me, said he had a soft spot for redheads, and in February, he sent me a Valentine’s card. I’d not had one before.

  Mum was seeing Griff by this point – I didn’t mention any names on the forum – and despite my misgivings, he made her happy. They’d just had Dylan. I was forced to accept that some men, and therefore some boys, were okay.

  I agreed to go out with the fourteen-year-old.

  We’d meet in town and mess about in the video game shop, or hunt for two-pence pieces in the machines at the arcades. He’d buy me a sausage roll, or a burger, or a bar of chocolate. Sometimes we were alone and sometimes we’d hang about with his mates.

  He kissed me. A lot. Especially in front of his gang. I was indifferent. I didn’t dislike kissing, but it didn’t set my world alight. It was an experience.

  Then one day, he pushed it too far. I didn’t like where he put his hand, and when he refused to take it away, I brought my knee up and belted him in the balls. Then I ran.

  I got a shit-load of grief from his mates at school, calling me a prick teaser, the camp vamp, redhead-head-deader. Even the girls joined in.

  That’s when I started self-harming. I had so much crap clogging my brain, and so much pressure, I needed a way to get it out. I was so angry. I ran home, locked myself in the bathroom and started pulling at my hair. Then, in the mirror, I saw Mum’s razor on the side of the bath. She must have changed the blade and forgotten to throw the old one away. Purely on impulse, I picked it up and … well, like I said, that’s when I started. I wish I hadn’t.

  The next time my head was set to explode, I did it again. Then again. And again.

  No one knows I do it.

  The person on the website who replied knows, but she’s in the same boat. Besides, we have usernames, so we’re incognito. The only info I have on her is that she lives in Manchester.

  She’s given me some ideas on how to distract myself when the urge to cut is strong, like drawing or origami, and told me to make sure my equipment is sterile, which I do, and always have clean bandages available. She called it harm minimisation.

  She also said if I want to stop and I have someone I trust, I should tell them. I could write it all down first, get it clear in my head, and then choose a time to talk, when there’d be no interruptions.

  Having the support of her best friend has given Manchester Girl the strength to confront her demons. They go to counselling together. She’s been clean for two months.

  I’m pleased for her, but confronting demons is a hell of a big step.

  She’s waiting for my reply.

  I’m not going to add anything to Mum’s jar. My notes wouldn’t be beautiful butterflies of happiness; they’d be clues to my secret addiction. If it is an addiction.

  I’ve read a few personal accounts on the website from teens. Most say they wish they’d never started because now they can’t stop and they live in this vicious circle of guilt, distress, release, guilt, distress, release. I suppose it could be to do with the adrenalin rush, but I don’t know. I’m no doctor and I’m a long way off truly understanding my behaviour. I am recognising the triggers, though, and if I can avoid them, there’s a chance I’ll stay clean like the girl in Manchester.

  Mum crying is a trigger. She’s called out in her sleep a number of times since Griff left. Nothing distinct, more a yelp than a word. It’s chilling in the darkness of night. I always check on her. Sometimes I sit with her until she’s settled. She doesn’t know, and I don’t tell her.

  She shouted out Dad’s name last night.

  That properly freaked me out. I haven’t heard her do that since Griff’s been on the scene.

  So, at two in the morning, I was drawing stars. Six sheets of them. Worst representation of the solar system I’ve ever seen, but I’ve kept the pictures, because they kept me from cutting.

  I’ve hidden them in the back of my wardrobe.

  Perhaps I should get those glow-in-the-dark stars and stick them to the ceiling. I could arrange them into constellations and learn them off by heart. That would give me something other than shadows to fixate on at night. Might suggest Mum has some, too.

  If I’m honest, all she really needs is Griff.

  And I never thought I’d say it, but I miss him, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Griff

  February was a mean month. The meanest of the entire year. Not hard or difficult. Mean.

  Griff shut down the car engine, checked in the rear-view mirror to see Ozzy licking the condensation off the back window, and then braced himself for the wild walk ahead.

  ‘I don’t want you going in the sea today, Ozzy. Do you hear?’

  Rubbing the glass with his sleeve, Griff peered through the makeshift portal. Apart from the washed-up debris strewn across the stones, and a luminous pink speck in the distance, Chesil was empty. ‘All hiding in the pub,’ Griff murmured.

  The storms and high tides, though abating, weren’t ready to quit; the chilling easterlies attacked any skin Griff was careless enough to leave exposed, and work was punishing and unforgiving.

  Two lives had been lost at sea; both local fishermen from the same crew. It hadn’t happened on Griff’s watch, but every loss was personal. He knew the family of the fishermen – they were much-loved Weymouth folk, always first to put their hands in their pockets for the RNLI, always involved in fund-raising committees, always in the newspaper praising the work and courage of the rescue services. The town would pull together for them. The memorial service would be well attended.

  Thorough searches for both men were executed, but neither body was found. Those deaths were the worst. There was no closure. No physical entity over which to grieve.

  Griff was comforting his mother when she died.

  In her few remaining days in the hospice, he spent as much time with her as his shifts and Logan’s presence allowed. Both men had agreed the tension between them needed to remain outside Marilyn’s room. For Griff that meant waiting in the communal area until Logan had left the building. He wasn’t avoiding the problem; he was reducing the risk of it being compounded by an outburst of emotion.

  Much like he was doing with Evie.

  They’d crossed paths a handful of times since he’d taken Ozzy away, each occasion awkward
and stilted. It was as if Evie was a ghost, the way she passed by Griff in the cottage – a brush of a cobweb, an unsettling breeze, as she drifted from one room to another. No eye contact, no touching.

  In some ways, he was grieving right now – grieving for the loss of his marriage, the loss of Evie’s love.

  Griff flicked the wipers on and tracked the blades as they swished at the rain and salty spray.

  It rained the day his mother died. He remembered thinking how fitting the wretched weather was as he held her hand, and brushed her hair. He said his goodbyes as her last rattle of breath shook his resolve not to cry.

  The hospital called Logan back in, but he arrived a minute too late, frustrated and shocked, demanding answers from Griff, expecting him to relate every second of the last half an hour in explicit detail, questioning why he hadn’t been notified of Marilyn’s sudden deterioration. Unable to speak, Griff removed himself to the back of the room and watched the nurses prepare his mother’s body for her next journey. Their solemnity and dignified manner brought calm to the room, and they spoke to Marilyn in soothing tones. The words didn’t matter to Griff, it was their humanity that touched him. And quietened Logan.

  When it was time to go, he gave a final squeeze to his mother’s hand and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. He stood side-by-side with his father as the porters wheeled her body along the sterile corridor to the waiting morgue.

  She never liked the cold.

  Griff wrapped his ranger’s coat over his knees and considered reviving the engine. It was bitter out there. It was biting in the car.

  Ozzy snuffled as a Labrador hurtled down the beach, a flying stick following close behind. Griff waited, assuming the animal’s owner was bringing up the rear. A vibrant, pink smudge, brightening the landscape, scuttled past his fogged-up window. ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen,’ he muttered, thinking the song clearly applied to women too. ‘And not just in the midday sun. Reckon it could snow.’ Ozzy’s tail whacked against the inside of the Land Rover with a rhythmic pat-pat-pat, and Griff turned to him. ‘We’ll go out in a minute, mate.’

  By the time he faced forward, the cerise rain mac and black wellingtons were heading for the foot of the cliffs, the Labrador long gone.

  ‘I’ve seen it snow over the sea. Only once, but it was worth the frostbite. It was down in the cove – where those beach huts are. The cove with the steep steps you hate.’ Griff wasn’t that fond of them himself. They’d left him and Ozzy panting on numerous occasions.

  ‘It was Easter, late March, early April, fourteen, fifteen years ago.’ He glanced in the mirror. Ozzy’s nose was pressed up against the window, and his tail wagged in and out of view. ‘I’d gone down there with Imogen, Kieran’s sister. I’ve told you about Kieran.’

  Griff shifted his gaze to the sea. ‘I hadn’t spoken with Imogen since Kieran’s funeral. I tried. I called by the Joliffe house the next day and the day after, but was turned away by her mum, and told in no uncertain terms to stop hounding the poor girl. The family were grieving and I should respect that. My being there was upsetting and I wasn’t to bother them again. It hit me hard. I wanted to be there for Imogen, look out for her, take responsibility for what had happened. I owed Kieran that.’

  The Land Rover rocked as Ozzy, yapping and pacing in the confined space of its boot, displayed his eagerness to hit the beach.

  ‘All right. I’ll cut it short,’ Griff said. ‘Ten years later, having kept my distance, I heard Imogen was having a party for her twenty-first. I gatecrashed. Not the most mature way of gaining her attention, but it worked. I tell you what, Ozzy, she has a death stare to match Tess’s. Anyway, she agreed to hear me out and met me the next day at the cove. It was one of Kieran’s favourite places. Just as Imogen and I reached the waves, the air changed and there was a sudden flurry of snow. It instantly disappeared into the water. Of course it would, but I found it fascinating to watch. I was mesmerised. There was this sheet of snow stretching from the sky to the sea, and because it left no evidence of its arrival, it was like a net curtain was hanging from the clouds. The flurry stopped as abruptly as it began, and when I turned to speak to Imogen she was at the top of the steps. By the time I got back to the car, she’d gone, along with my chance to make amends. She’d led me on, letting me think there was a chance she’d forgive me.’

  Ozzy ramped up the barking.

  ‘Okay.’ Griff clambered out of the car, crunched his way to its rear and set the excitable dog free. ‘It was odd seeing her again. She wasn’t the stroppy, skinny girl who’d followed Kieran and me everywhere. She’d grown into a young woman. It suited her.’ Griff paused. ‘I just wish she’d have let me help her. Especially later, when her mum died.’

  He reflected on a newspaper report he’d read from a few years back.

  ‘She was killed in a car accident,’ he said as Ozzy barked at him to play. ‘All I wanted was to offer Imogen comfort and support, but the Echo said the Joliffes had left the area years before the accident and they were living in Somerset. I didn’t know.’ He’d assumed his local paper had deemed Mrs Joliffe’s death newsworthy on the basis of the family’s Dorset connection and their tragic history. ‘All I could do was send a wreath and a card to the crematorium.’ The details of the funeral service had been listed in Mrs Joliffe’s obituary. ‘It was a pitiful attempt to let Imogen know I was thinking of her, but turning up out of the blue at the cremation would’ve been wrong. She didn’t get in touch. It was clear she still wanted nothing to do with me.’

  He sighed and drummed his fingers on the car roof, inciting himself into action. ‘I met Evie shortly after and confined thoughts of Imogen to the back of my mind.’ As he slammed the door shut, Ozzy charged to meet the white horses head on. ‘Don’t go in the water,’ Griff yelled.

  Too late. The Old English Sheepdog had all four paws firmly sunk into the Old English Channel, and he was challenging Griff to join him.

  ‘Are you daring me to come in?’ Griff laughed. ‘You’re a nutter. And you’re good for me, Ozzy. I’m glad I have you.’ The words dragged the smile from Griff’s lips, taking with it his temporary delight.

  The night before, while Griff was putting Dylan to bed, Tess had mentioned Ozzy, remarking how quiet it was without him lumbering through the cottage. She hadn’t said she missed him, in the same way she hadn’t added anything about life being different without Griff at home, but he hadn’t expected her to. The only times she verbalised her feelings was when she was upset or angry. He took it on the chin. She was a teenager, after all. And no doubt hormonal. Not that he’d had much experience in that field. It was Evie’s area of expertise. He’d promised to guide Dylan through the Y chromosome milestones, although with no man in the house, the poor boy would only ever know how to pee sitting down.

  If this was how it was going to be, even in the short term, there had to be a structure put in place. Dylan and Tess needed stability, and it was important to Griff they both knew he was there for them. With all the will in the world, he knew Tess would never take him at his word, but if she needed his help or a place she could go to be alone, he’d sort it. He could start by asking her if she’d like to walk Ozzy at the weekends; invite her and Dylan to stay at the flat once in a while – Griff would sleep on the sofa, Tess could have the bed and Dylan could use the travel cot that was gathering dust in the cottage attic. They could go out for a burger.

  The idea brought a sliver of light to Griff’s dull day. Making plans was good. Positive. A signifier he was moving on.

  The light dimmed.

  Griff didn’t want to move on. Not without Evie, and not without getting to the bottom of why she’d thrown their marriage overboard. Moving on without her was as good as giving up.

  Ozzy plunged further into the water. He was a large, strong dog, capable of holding his own, but the waves were gathering power. ‘Hey, boy. Back to dry land before you disappear.’ Griff followed his instruction with a whistle.

  If only rectifying his marriage was
as simple. He was drifting in an ocean of unknowns with no one to throw him a lifeline. He’d been out at sea too long, and with only himself to rely on, it was time to swim ashore.

  ‘Jeez, Ozzy,’ Griff said as the shaggy, soggy dog careered towards him. ‘My life’s full of clichés.’

  Moving on, acceptance, pushing forward, they all equated to the same thing – giving up, and despite his self-deprecation, surrendering was not part of Griff’s make up.

  He squared his shoulders, filled his lungs with the cold, clarifying air, and advanced along the beach, a sense of purpose building with each stride.

  ‘We’re going to see Olivia,’ he said to Ozzy. ‘Come on.’ He rattled the lead and the dog came to heel. ‘We’ll stop by for a cup of tea and, with a bit of luck, Olivia will dish out a serving of her sage advice.’

  Griff had taken to Olivia DeVere the first day they’d met. She was the wise woman of Portland. He was relaxed in her company, able to talk about any subject, general or personal, without embarrassment or fear of judgement. Her outlook on life was not dissimilar to his. She cared deeply about the environment, believed the best things in life were free, and refused to buckle when the odds were stacked against her. In fact, Griff thought, those times were the ones she revealed the full extent of her strength and determination.

  He smiled. She’d told him her daughter-in-law had called her indomitable. It was a great word. It summed Olivia up to a tee.

  Aware of a presence either side of his legs, Griff looked down. Ozzy was in his usual position to Griff’s left, but to his right, with a stick in its mouth, was a Labrador, trotting with an air of triumph.

  Griff stopped, crouched and received a lick to his ear from Ozzy. ‘Thanks, mate.’ He scuffed the slobber off with his shoulder. ‘Who’s this, then?’ He reached for the silver disc on the Labrador’s collar and angled it to read the name. ‘Honey.’ He scratched the top of her head. ‘All right, girl? Where’s your owner?’