Escape Beyond the Tide: Beyond The Tide

LOU

Wiping the cloth over the kitchen counter for the fourth time tonight, I keep my movements slow and careful. As I hear the sound of keys fumbling in the front door, I quickly give the area another check. Cupboard doors closed, counters wiped, towels straight. I rattle off a checklist in my head and visually check again—yes, everything is in place. Slowly, I release the breath I was unconsciously holding. One last glance confirms everything is spotlessly clean. The stainless-steel appliances shine like beacons in the white kitchen, topped with a sparkling black granite work surface. It looks sterile and unused, although this is far from the case. I used to love cooking, especially in this kitchen, all modern and set out just so. Now even that has lost its appeal. Constant criticism will do that to you. This place looks like the show home and prison it has become, unloved and discarded.

The door opens with a bang, making me flinch. Show no feeling, Lou, I think as he stumbles in, clearly drunk, dragging a wide-eyed girl in behind him. She looks like she can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen! What do they see in him? I look him over, careful not to meet his eyes. He has short, dark hair, and an average build which is just starting to show signs of his excessive lifestyle. His slightly rounded jaw sports an untidy five o’clock shadow and the shirt he is wearing hangs partially untucked from his suit trousers. It’s hard to remember, but I must have found him attractive at some point. Now I only see his faults, his imperfections, and his cruelty.

Pushing the door closed with his foot, he yells, Louisa, I’ve got a surprise for you! The girl giggles nervously by his side. Making my way around the kitchen counter into the open-plan living room, I go to meet him and whoever the hell he has brought home. It’s not like he can’t see me from the door, he just chooses to yell, as is his wont when he is drunk, or angry, or generally being an arsehole which is pretty much all the time.

This is Chloe, he continues loudly and slowly, Damon enjoys belittling me in any way possible, including making me feel like an fool, she has come to join us for the night, let’s see if she can help re-ignite your interest in sex and make you less frigid in bed.

Well this is new, and proves once more that he has no idea what would make me interested in anything other than sleeping in our bed. Even that I do with one eye open. Our sex life, such as it was, took a nosedive within a year of us being together. Even in the beginning when relationships are supposed to be new and exciting, being intimate with him hadn’t been great and his preference in the bedroom wasn’t to my taste, I had hoped it would change. I tried everything to make it more appealing, with no success. Eventually, I had been unwilling to try and he had finally just given up and left me alone. Fortunately, he now comes home too drunk to perform, smelling of cheap perfume. I’m not even angry that he’s getting his enjoyment elsewhere if it means he isn’t trying to persuade me that sleeping with him would be anything other than torture at this point.

The girl, Chloe, starts to look slightly unnerved. My bet would be that she didn’t know what she was getting into when she agreed to go home with him. I cannot show her pity or any other emotion at this point, but I will have to think fast. He was supposed to have been out a lot longer than this, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to have company when he returned. This night out with corporate clients at a restaurant in the centre of Bristol had been planned for months, to ensure everyone could attend. Damon is supposed to still be there, on the other side of the city and out for another couple of hours, at least. I had hoped he would do his usual and find another club to go to after the restaurant, meaning that he wouldn’t return until the early hours of the morning.

I touch the pocket of my jeans, reassuring myself that it is still there. I had hoped I wouldn’t need it, that he would stay out as planned, only Damon has always been unpredictable.

Would you like a drink? I ask, keeping my voice steady. Chloe looks at me wide-eyed, fear beginning to creep in.

Erm, maybe just water? she replies, her eyes darting around, obviously picking up the tension in the air.

Water?! She’ll have vodka! Damon bellows, swaying slightly as he navigates his way around the sofa, coming towards the kitchen.

Open that new bottle and get me a whisky! he commands, colliding with the counter as he attempts to move past me to the bedroom.

Oh, and, Louisa, he turns back, grabbing my wrist in a painful and surprisingly tight grip given the state he’s in, get yourself something to drink, and for God’s sake do something with your hair!

Letting go, he pushes me towards the kitchen. I manage to steady myself with the counter top before colliding with it, wincing slightly as pain radiates through my side. Damon continues to the bedroom, heading for our ensuite. Damn it! I’d put my hair up and out of the way whilst I was cleaning and forgotten to take it down. I pull the elastic band out and place it around my wrist.

I’ll get you that whisky. I try to keep a level voice, throwing my words at the closing bathroom door, at the same time running my fingers through my hair, hoping to tame it into some semblance of order. I would have rolled my eyes if I had the energy. My hair is always unruly, refusing to be tamed into any sort of style. When I briefly check my reflection in the shiny chrome surface of the kettle, a distorted image stares back. Skin too pale, sunken blue eyes nestled in dark sleep-deprived circles, topped off with waist-length wavy auburn hair. Damon has tried on numerous occasions to persuade me to cut it and have it layered, he even suggested lightening it—but this has been one thing I have so far managed to have control over. I’ll take that little win.

Chloe looks at me as Damon disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

I should go. I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was married, she starts to ramble, looking close to tears. I move towards her so I can speak to her without him hearing.

We aren’t married, I say quietly, not trying to hide the relief in my voice. I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can. Do you have Uber on your phone?

I glance at the closed bathroom door. Chloe sits down carefully on the edge of the sofa. She looks around the room at the pictures and the few purposefully selected ornaments arranged in a precise manner on the shelves. I take a look around at the familiar sight, trying to see the place through her eyes. Does it look idyllic to her? The perfect apartment, the perfect couple, in the beautiful settings portrayed in pictures. It’s all just an illusion, a glamour over reality, disguising the pain behind the smiles.

Yes, she says finally, in an equally quiet voice. Funny how fear can sober you up so quickly.

Right, order a taxi for about twenty minutes’ time. I need to take control of the situation.

Why twenty minutes? Chloe gives me a questioning look and starts to pick nervously at the short skirt she is wearing. Not answering her, I take a moment to look her over, dishevelled top and too tight short skirt. At least she has a jacket and sensible shoes on.

Did he hurt you? I recheck the bathroom door and move over to the kitchen, beginning to fill three glasses with ice from the big American-style fridge freezer. At least the noise from that should convince him I am doing as he asked.

No, he was a bit handsy, but he didn’t hurt me, she replies, keeping her voice low and glancing towards our bedroom.

My stomach is churning, but I know what needs to be done. I have been planning this for weeks. Okay, so Chloe was not part of my plan. Learn to adapt Lou, I admonish myself. Plans change, and you need to flow with them. I take a deep calming breath to steady my nerves. Tonight must be the night.

I’m going to give him his drink in the bedroom, I state matter-of-factly, to myself more than Chloe, you order your Uber and then play along with me. If he comes out of the bedroom, pretend you are still very drunk. I need him to stay in the bedroom. If he doesn’t and sees her leaving or worse that she has left, I know there will be hell to pay. If he comes out of the room, I will not be able to execute my carefully thought out plan, and it needs to be tonight. It has to be. All the parts are in place, and I just can’t stay here a moment longer. It isn’t safe. Keeping my inner thoughts from my face has become my only defence over the last year, so I turn to her, knowing my face is impassive.

We need him to think we are going to join him. Give him a bit of time and he’ll probably fall asleep. It will be easier to sneak you out then.

I fill mine and Chloe’s glasses with sparkling water and a slice of lemon from the fridge. Ordinarily, I can’t stand fizzy water but needs must at this point. At a glance he won’t be able to tell we aren’t drinking, should he leave the bedroom. Putting the whisky into Damon’s glass, I slip my hand into the pocket of my jeans, pulling out the sleeping tablet. I had crushed it an hour ago and put it into a tiny plastic zip bag. It was my back-up plan in case he came back before I was ready. I’m so glad that I had the foresight to prepare it earlier. Emptying the powder into the whisky, I stir it, making sure it is completely dissolved. All the while, I keep an eye on Chloe, who is still busy on her phone. I continue to listen out for Damon, who it appears will be leaving the bathroom shortly, judging by the sound of the flush. I add a can of ginger ale to the whisky, hoping the fizz will disguise any powder that might be left. I have absolutely no idea if this will work. I took one of Mum’s old sleeping tablets last time I was able to visit her. It’s a long shot, but I am running out of options.

Catching Chloe’s eye, I gesture towards the bedroom. She nods. Bless her for her courage. She has no idea what she’s unwittingly walked into. I bet she thought she was getting lucky after a night out with her friends. Taking more calming breaths and promising, if nothing else I will get this poor girl out of here, I leave our ‘drinks’ on the side and take Damon’s into the bedroom.

He is lying on the bed and looks to be close to passing out. However, having made that mistake before, I approach with caution. Placing the glass on his bedside table, I quickly move out of arm’s reach.

Your whisky, Damon.

I manage to keep my voice relaxed despite my nerves being shot. It’s one thing planning this sort of thing in your head, but quite another to actually do it. He opens one eye, and I step further away, closer to the door.

Where’s that girl? Get in here and get your clothes off! Damon demands, all the while slurring his words. He smells of alcohol and garlic, the odour permeates the room leaving me feeling nauseous.

Chloe is in the lounge, Damon. We will be with you in a minute. Have your drink and relax.

I keep my voice neutral. Any slight sign of emotion would make him suspicious at this point. I learnt some time ago that emotion was not my friend and could set him off.

Hurry up, you stupid bitch, he slurs, reaching unsteadily for his glass, sloshing the liquid about before glugging the whisky as if it were water.

Leaving him drinking whilst he curses my many failings, and there are a multitude according to Damon. I walk back into the lounge, pulling the bedroom door behind me so that it is only slightly ajar. If I were to shut it completely, he would want to know why. With the door partially closed, I should be able to get Chloe out without him seeing.

He’s an absolute bastard, Chloe whispers vehemently, startling me out of my thoughts.

Yes, he is.

No need to elaborate. She’s not wrong.

My Uber will be here in ten minutes, Chloe continues whispering, wise enough to keep her voice down. A little earlier than I would have liked, but we can work with this. What will happen when he finds out I’m gone?

Chloe looks at me with concern. Quietly I walk over to the sofa and sit next to her. I’m not sure if I’m there to reassure her or simply to take a breather myself.

You don’t need to concern yourself, just get out of here. I suggest you don’t drink at the same place for a while.

I keep my words as kind as I can, hoping she is sober enough to heed my warning. She looks at me with intelligence, showing a maturity beyond her years, as if she knows what could happen.

I don’t want to leave you here. Come with me?

Thoughts churn in my head—stick to the plan, Lou. Sure some changes have been made with Chloe’s arrival, but this has to be done the way I planned. I no longer have the confidence of my youth, where a quick change of plans had seemed easy to deal with—fun, in fact. Never knowing where life would lead you with each changing circumstance. I am wiser now and feel much older than my twenty-six years. Has it really only been two years since this all started?

I had just turned twenty-four when I first met Damon at a work party. He was at the same restaurant with some friends, and I had been impressed by his maturity, his looks, and his money. Shallow I know, I would blame it on the drink, but even after I had sobered up, I met up with him again.

He took me out to the countryside around Bristol and treated me like a princess, taking me to little out of the way pubs and lavishing me with attention and gifts. Within a few months, he had encouraged me to move into his apartment on the harbourside. Giddy and enjoying his undivided attention, I thought I might finally be in love again. I had been so confused about what I wanted out of life. His offer had seemed an answer. Sure, it was not a soul-reaching, passionate relationship, but there was a future there, or so I thought. His behaviour had seemed slightly strange, but I assured myself that he was only being protective. I convinced myself that his obsession with knowing where I was and who I was with all the time was just his way to show he loved me and wanted me to be safe. As our relationship progressed, so did the criticism, and the stifling, overbearing, and sometimes violent behaviour.

Pulling myself out of the past, I look at Chloe again.

How long now, until your taxi is here?

She checks her phone, About three minutes it says.

I clear my thoughts, reminding myself to stick to the plan. Standing up, I smooth my shirt down over the bandages which circle my ribs, covering a multitude of bruising and causing my movements to be slower than normal. Chloe looks at me in horror. She must have caught a glimpse of them.

Are you hurt? Did he do that?

She is wiser than I first thought. Why on earth had she fallen for his charms? Then I remember to others he is charming. These days he no longer hides his true self from me.

I don’t bother answering. Instead, I motion for her to get up, glancing at the door of the bedroom to check it is still closed. Listening carefully I hold my finger to my lips indicating she needs to be quiet. We move as silently as we can towards the front door. Pulling it open slowly, I silently thank anyone listening for the smooth and squeak-free double-glazed door.

Take the stairs to the ground floor and go out of the main doors. You will be on the road, and hopefully, your Uber will be right there waiting, I whisper close to her ear.

Chloe nods, I asked to be picked up from the bar across the street, she replies and hands me a piece of ripped paper with a hastily scrawled phone number on it.

Just then I hear a smash from the bedroom. Shoving the paper into my jeans, I push her out the door with a shooing motion and mouth, Go. Go now!

She doesn’t need to be told twice and runs down the hall to the stairs. Gently, I close the door and reluctantly make my way to the bedroom.

LOU

I stand in the doorway, not wanting to step into the room, but breathe a silent sigh of relief after peering into the bedroom. Damon is passed out on the bed, one arm hanging over the side. The whisky glass, which must have been in his hand, is on the hard wooden floor in pieces. Bits of broken glass are scattered all over the place. They mix in with what must be the remains of his whisky, already starting to stain the fake fur rug by the side of the bed. Okay, Lou, do you risk checking his pulse? And can you resist the urge to tidy up that mess?

No, and yes. I cannot risk him waking up.

It’s now or never!

Slight snoring startles me out of my erratic thoughts. This answers the first question as to whether he is alive still. Did I wish he wasn’t? Maybe, but I’m no murderer. I just need to get out of here. I’m not going to clean up his mess, he can damn well do that himself, and maybe he will stand on it before he realises it’s there. Really, Lou? Where did you get this fighting spirit?

With that thought in mind, I close the door, leaving it as it was before and move to the cupboard by the front door. It is just a small cupboard to hang coats in and store bags, plus the vacuum cleaner. It’s not particularly full, which is a good thing as I have hidden a black backpack at the very back and I don’t have time to pull everything out. Inside the backpack is my new coat, not a thick one but at least it’s waterproof and black, easy to blend in and not something I would usually be allowed to wear. I pull that out first and put it on. Easier said than done with a bruised side. Next, I pull out my new phone, nothing smart or expensive. It’s a pay-as-you-go which I purchased from a local market trader with some of my saved cash. There’s no chance of Damon being able to track me that way. I slip it into my coat pocket and then, struggling a little with the straps, I secure the bag onto my back.

Putting on my old trainers, I briefly relish the comfort of them, not something I wear outside the gym anymore as Damon prefers me to wear heels or stylish flats. I had hidden them at the back of the cupboard, black and very used with no labels. They are definitely not fashionable, just functional. Okay, this is it, Lou, I check around the apartment. My phone, which Damon bought me and tracks constantly, is left on the kitchen worktop along with my keys to the apartment. I always leave them there in a bowl, so they can stay there. I have no intention of needing them again. Pulling off a piece of paper from the notebook by the telephone, I notice the corner missing, which must be what Chloe used to write down her number. I quickly scribble a simple message, no need for long drawn out goodbyes, a simple: I’m leaving you and not coming back, don’t try to find me. I place the note with my keys.

Moving to the door, I listen for Damon one more time, then open it gently. Cautiously, I step through and pull the door closed behind me. Taking a deep breath, I hurry down the hallway towards the stairwell. Again, opening and closing the door without letting it bang shut by itself. I take the stairs in a hurry. The adrenaline is pumping through my body. My side stings with the jarring movements down the stairs, but I ignore it. I need to get out right now. This knowledge keeps my speed steady. Who knows when he will wake up and start looking for me. I can only hope it won’t be until the morning, but who can say for sure, so I need to work on the premise that this is urgent, and make my escape quickly. If he finds me, I don’t think I will have another chance to get away. In the last six months, he has moved from using mental abuse, with the odd shove and grabbing or holding me down until it hurt, to actually hitting me, leaving bruises or making me bleed. I have been too embarrassed to tell anyone and worried that it would just get worse if I did.

I had had to think long and hard about what I was going to do. If I went to Mum’s, he would find me. So, that left leaving Bristol. Before I even had a solid plan, I started keeping back a little of my money here and there, nothing that would warrant Damon’s attention. It is my money, but both of our wages go into a joint account—which he controls. He gives me cash every week saying that I don’t need to be worried about bills and such things, that he will take care of me. With the money I managed to squirrel away, I had enough to buy my bag, coat, and phone, plus enough extra cash to help with my plan.

The stairs are well lit and empty. Most people opt to use the elevator to their apartments. There is a slight scuffing sound as my trainers make contact with the stairs, other than that it is silent. My laboured breathing sounds loud to me as I descend as rapidly as my body will allow. We live on the third floor, so there are quite a few stairs to take, giving me ample time to run over my plan in my head. I have logged out of all my social media accounts on my phone and changed the passwords. I have no intention of using them again. I only have a few friends, none of whom I am close with anymore. Damon saw to that. He didn’t like me going out with my friends, not even for coffee during the day. After a while and many excuses as to why I couldn’t meet up, they stopped asking. Now I am lucky if they like or comment on my random social media posts. This will work in my favour now, as disappearing without a trace would be a lot harder with people to miss me.

Finally reaching the exit, I pull my hair back in a ponytail and leave the lobby. I take a right turn and head for Millennium Square. The route I decided on may not be the quickest, but it feels the safest to me. I’m avoiding the most obvious roads whilst staying in populated areas so I can blend in and make my way to the train station unnoticed. Walking as fast as I can, I weave my way around crowds of people outside of the restaurants and bars along the waterfront.

Crossing Pero’s bridge, glancing up as always at the impressive horn-shaped sculptures, I look with longing at the many padlocks adorning the bridge. I wonder what it must be like to love someone so much that you want such a permanent and public reminder of your love. My inner sceptic steps in with a refusal to believe that such a love is possible. I head along the river on the other side, past the fountains and crossing the road to Baldwin Street, again taking the busy side of the road. My breathing is getting heavy as I’m no longer used to such exertion, and it’s quite a trek to the station.

Keeping my pace fast, I use the time to calm down a little and think about the next step. I know exactly where I am going. A place I have always felt safe. A place I can hide away, at least whilst I plan my next move. Somewhere Damon will not think of looking.

We have not shared much about our pasts. He never seemed interested in my childhood or where I spent my summers with my parents, and I never felt the need to enlighten him. Now I’m going to use his disinterest to my advantage.

Along Baldwin Street and on to Victoria Bridge, I walk, head down, intent on my destination. The crowds have thinned out now, and the traffic is light but constant. There are still plenty of people heading home from a night out after work or simply heading towards the station. I can feel myself getting sweaty, whilst I try to maintain my speed. This is so much harder physically than I thought it would be. I don’t know if my heart is beating double time from the exertion or the adrenalin and fear of escaping.

My life consists of walking to work in a local bakery and back to our apartment. When I’m allowed, I take a few classes at the gym where Damon has a membership. It depends on his mood and whether he is taking issue with my appearance. Occasionally Damon used to take me out to a restaurant. This became less and less frequent. He prefers to go out with his colleagues or to schmooze potential clients for the Solicitors firm where he works. There are a lot of business lunches, afternoons and evenings spent in restaurants and bars or on days away for team-building exercises. Thankfully, they don’t require my attendance.

I stopped enjoying our life together within the first year, all the drinking, late nights, endlessly talking to people I didn’t know. My smile became fake, and I no longer listened to the conversations