Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [70]
It had been a hotel at one point, quite a grand one judging by the remains of the original features, but that had been years ago. Then some landlord had converted the rooms into self-contained bedsits and begun charging the council to put people up there. Now its only occupants were retired, older blokes on pensions and benefits. It was honest enough, but it was hardly the Ritz.
If it’s not a hotel, I wondered, then how can Peter be the manager?
Simple answer: he wasn’t. At best, I could describe him as odd-job-man-cum-janitor. The old boys pretty much looked after themselves, so all Peter had to do was make sure the cleaner turned up, organize the annual fire check and fix anything that went wrong. Apart from that, there was a little bar in the hotel where Peter would serve the tenants their whiskies. It wasn’t to be sniffed at, but no one would call him a manager.
Another thought occurred to me. If Peter’s not the manager and there isn’t a huge staff under him, what job is there for me?
He seemed surprised when I mentioned it.
‘A job? You don’t have to work.’
‘But I want to work. You said you had something for me here.’
He thought for a moment.
‘Yeah, of course. But you don’t have to, you know.’
The silly young girl in me was flattered that he didn’t want me to get my hands dirty. I saw it as him offering to look after me. That really didn’t fit in with my need to earn my own money and control my own destiny, but it was almost sexy that he wanted to.
Even when I realized that there was no job as such and I’d only be helping out with the cleaning and doing a few hours behind the bar, I didn’t care. I certainly wasn’t going to make a fuss and storm out. After all, whatever my circumstances here, they were a damn sight better than where I’d been a few days earlier. If anything, I was flattered that he’d lied to impress me. Mainly though, I’d be staying because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.
There was always Saltdean, but, just like my mother before me, the last thing I wanted to do was admit defeat. I couldn’t face the disapproving glare in Granny’s eyes or, worse, the idea that Grandpa would say those four damning words: ‘I told you so.’
For years since her death, I’d wondered why Mum had never asked for help. Why hadn’t she gone to Grandpa when we were living in fear, with no electricity, no heating, no food? Those questions had eaten me up for eight years. Why, why, why?
And now I knew. Mum’s parents were proud people and they’d made her proud and, in turn, me proud. Too proud for my own good, as it turned out. But I didn’t know that then.
But there was another reason why I turned a blind eye to Peter’s false promises. I would never have admitted it then, but it’s pretty easy to spot all these years later, isn’t it? There was me, who hadn’t known my dad until I was fourteen, abused by a string of evil men, and all the while my life had been crying out for a hero to ride to my rescue. It had been crying out for a father figure. And now I’d found him.
Everyone has 20/20 vision in hindsight. Apart from the father figure thing and my insistence on demonstrating the same character flaws that had done for Mum, there was another obvious clue to what was just around the corner staring me right in the face. I was making excuses for him
I thought nothing of it at the time. Peter had lied about his job. That’s fine, I told myself, he’s just trying to impress me.
He’d lied about being able to find me work. No problem, I said, he’s just being chivalrous. He doesn’t want his young lady to work.
Two lies, two justifications. I know now that it’s a classic trait of domestic abuse victims. They gloss over the problems and somehow dress up the bad things as inevitable. Often they convince themselves it was