then I ran.
It was my own dance of survival as I dodged him, the broken furniture, and my dog Garp.
I made it past the veranda, back out into the garden, before he caught up and I felt his hands slam down on my back and shoulders. He threw me to the ground and Garp moved in to protect me. I was caught, tied up in a frenzy of my flailing arms, his kicking feet, and a black furry body with a wagging tail. It was impossible to fend off the blows and recoil from wet dog licks at the same time. So I tucked my head in deep, curled up small and hugged myself tight. I left Garp to his nuzzling and him to his heaving, kicking and grunting as I drew my arms in to shield me. Each time I gave in to a strike from his foot I was grateful that he was wearing his brown suede and not his usual heavy, leather boots.
I was still screaming when I heard voices from over the wall. My neighbours.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
Shouting. Muffled voices.
“Call the police.”
I heard pounding at my door, outside on the street.
“Open up. Open this door!”
Thump. Crack.
I heard the wood splintering and I knew it was over.
I was safe.
I stumbled to my feet and collapsed into the arms of my neighbour and his son. I sagged into them as they carefully lifted me and dragged me through the fractured wooden door. I dropped my head and brought my shaking hands up to hide myself from those who had already gathered on the pavement outside. My shouts had drawn passers-by. There were people standing on the other side of the road. The security guards had arrived and they too stood staring.
My neighbour and his son half dragged, half carried me past the gawking crowd, to the safety of their property. When they placed me gently on a chair it was only then that I looked up at them. They looked the same, both earnest and burly, just many years apart.
The kitchen was a cold, stark room, not the warm, cosy hub expected of a family home. It was immediately obvious there was no woman in the house. The linoleum floor was dated. So too were the chairs, with their spindly steel legs and black rubber tips. Remnants of an era long gone. But the kitchen was spotlessly clean, clinical almost, and I was glad. I didn’t want clutter. I wanted space and quiet so that I could try to gather my thoughts.
The son bundled a crumpled, wet dishcloth to my face, and I held it tight to my burning eye. The pain was throbbing through me and the cold cloth pressed against the heat of the swelling brought some relief. He then made sugar water but it sat swirling in the mug. I was unable to hold myself still enough to drink it.
Father and son had raised the alarm when they first heard my screams but the police were yet to arrive. I gave them my sister’s number. I knew my mother and her husband, John, were in Johannesburg for the afternoon and I wanted my sister to contact them so they could be with me.
There was no conversation between us as we sat there, waiting awkwardly. We just stared and waited.
I’d only met my neighbour a week earlier. When I’d knocked on his door, introduced myself and asked him to look out for me, it had been the first time I’d ever seen him. I had shamefully apologised for past disturbances and explained that I had a restraining order in place but that I feared for my safety.
As I sat there trembling, the pain stabbing at my temple, I wondered what would have happened had I not had that prefatory conversation. Would I even be sitting on his chair?
The police finally arrived and we made our way back to my home.
Again I kept myself tucked between my two neighbours. Passers-by still stood waiting and watching over the road and some of my other neighbours had come out too. I saw security patrol vehicles and police vans parked impatiently all along my grass verge.
The armed security guards had somehow prised open what was left of my door and had entered my property. They had also called for backup. Everywhere I turned there seemed to be men in uniform. I heard walkie-talkies and deep, unfamiliar voices.
My home had become a crime scene.
I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to see all the damage. I already knew that the lounge was strewn with shattered glass, smashed picture frames and ornaments, the splintered remains of furniture. I stayed outside. I left it to my neighbour to manage everyone around me and collapsed onto a chair on the veranda.
I needed to sit.
Garp followed me, but this time, as he moved in closer, there was no wagging tail.
We were both still. His head against my knee, my hand limp against his ear.
I leaned forward and held him tight before burying my head in the cold dishcloth, trying to numb the drilling pain and the horror of all that had happened.
Two
“Where is she? Where?” she shouted. “I need to see her!”
I was deep within my own place when I heard my mother’s words cut through the white noise that engulfed me. I lifted my head to see her bounding down the stairs toward me, her husband, John, close behind.
“I knew it,” she announced to no one in particular. “I couldn’t stand him from the moment I first saw him!”
As she moved closer I saw her expression turn from concern to horror. I could see in her eyes what I must look like.
“Look what he’s done to you!” she wailed.
But I didn’t want to see what he’d done to me.
I already knew.
Once John and my mother were confident that all was being managed efficiently, they quickly bundled me into the car. None of us spoke as we made the short drive through the leafy avenues to Rosebank, to the closest hospital. As the soft hum of the engine eased our silence and we passed the garage and the trendy restaurants with their revelling patrons I sat in the back clutching my eye. My jaw clenched, I was trying hard to keep myself together and saw nothing beyond what was directly in front of me. My mother, her shoulders square, resolutely holding onto the J88 and SAPS 308 forms the police had given her to be completed by the attending district surgeon. John alongside her, his hands firmly on the wheel, sitting tight in the middle of the lane steering us forward, his neck still flushed where his collar creased. John was angry and his parting words at my house played over in my mind.
My phone had rung just as my mother, John and I were heading to the car.
Him.
I had pressed the green button and held my hand open, allowing his invective to effortlessly ricochet around my palm.
His words were rough and coarse.
“You fucking bitch …”
I had passed my phone to the police officer to bear witness. I then passed it to John.
But John remained completely undeterred by the rant reverberating from the phone, and he joined the shout-down.
“You get to the police station now,” John shouted back. “Now!”
Garbled echoes from the handset against John’s ear.
“Do you understand me?” John’s finger struck at the air. “We will be laying charges.”
John was right. We would be laying charges. I would be laying charges. It was the only way, and I was calm in the knowledge that it was procedural and necessary.
John parked the car while my mother and I made our way to Casualty. The automatic doors opened slowly for us to pass through and, as they yawned closed behind us, my mother edged closer. She put her arm around my shoulders and held me tight to her side so we could move through the sterile, dustless air as one. Using her body, she closed me off from prying eyes. I kept my head low, my hands pressed tight to my face. I was trying to block the tears, but I also didn’t want