(untitled)

I am asleep by the time he skids us to a halt, the wheels spinning and screeching beneath us, a spray of mud crashing against the windscreen. The sudden jolt awakens me and I pull my feet onto the polyester seat beneath me. They are freezing. Nick unclips his seatbelt and I am mildly amazed he has bothered to put it on to begin with. He is less concerned about me now and I am irritated. He swings out of the car and pushes at a battered gate, temper getting the better of him and causing him to lash out. I am grateful that it is not me on the receiving end of his savage mood. Not tonight. I still bear the bruises across my ribs, fading now to a pale, sickly yellow. I try not to look at them. They are easy to hide; my face, less so.1

I tell myself he did not mean it, keep telling myself. He did not mean to strike out, shatter my lip, blacken my eye. It is a haze of deep purple and green, grazed with red, the claw marks across my cheek. He did not mean it, he could not mean it.2

He meant it.3

I scrabble out of the car and scramble over to the gate he is now attacking. Together, we battle it open and return to the car to drive a few hundred yards, scraping it into a barn.4

“Is this a wise idea?” I would not normally ask, for fear of what he may respond. Tonight, I could not give a damn. I do not wish to be found. Not like this. Not with bruises on my cheeks and ribs and mud in my boots and jeans, with a weather and fist beaten face, smeared with tears. 5

I am, in part, protecting him, thinking of how bad it would look for him to be found in such a state. Another part of me, a smaller part, is fearful of how it will look for me. 6

Tonight, I am in no fit mood to be shown to be a fool.7

“It’s alright. It’s been derelict for years. Ben told me.”8

Ben. Of course. Nick keeps telling me how helpful he’s been, how good to us. I outwardly agree but cannot stop myself thinking that, had it not been for Ben, we would have no need to be here at all. 9

Suddenly, I am too tired to argue. I simply let him pull out our sleeping bags and climb over the haystacks, in order to settle for the night. I do not care about the things that would previously have bothered me, like beetles and flies and mice. Even the thought of rats does not concern me, not now. I just let him settle down and pull out a stale sandwich, which we share. Tuna. I hate tuna. So what? I have lost weight, my clothes sag off me and my normally pale skin is now a silvery blue. We eat and smoke and crawl into our bags. I am almost asleep when I feel his breath hot on my neck. I roll over and stare at him. He kisses me and I unzip my sleeping bag, then my jeans. There is no passion, nor affection in our sex. He grunts and rolls into his sleeping bag. I pull my trousers back to cover my buttocks and close my eyes, scrunch them tight to try to shut out the despair that I have gluttoned on.10

“Lizzie?” I sigh and turn back to him. “You believe me, don’t you? You believe I didn’t kill him?”11

“Would I be here if I did?” I reply, tartly. I let my voice soften a little. “Of course I believe you.” He crawls over to me, laying his head on my lap. I let my fingers play with his hair, the gold now dulling to a greasy dirt-ridden straw, the strands flopping into his eyes, ridiculously long. I let my whispers soothe him, a twisted lullaby. “Of course I believe you, of course I do.”12

But I’m not so sure any more.13