Don't Get Caught

Flashback 4 - Christina

2015

Whitby, England

I hurried along the cobbled streets, darting between the quaint seaside shops as I dashed home from work to be back in time for Malcolm. The wind whipped my hair in my face with a sharp sting.

Despite being a teenager, it worried my son if I wasn't home when he got in, and he'd been coming back earlier recently due to no longer wanting to attend his art class. I couldn't get him to explain why.

Malcolm was on the autistic spectrum which, for him, meant he was brilliantly smart and talented, but he struggled with human interactions. As a result, many situations would make him anxious. I was sure my own anxiety in relation to spending time at home with Bernard must be rubbing off on him too.

I knew my son had, thankfully, not been witness to Bernard's violent outbursts, but he wasn't stupid; he knew something wasn't right. And I couldn't even have a meaningful conversation about what was bothering him as he wasn't able for that.

So my usual wander home from work, taking in the sea air and the beautiful buildings was now a stressful sprint—disturbing the peaceful way of life Whitby residents were accustomed to.

I arrived home to find I needn't have rushed as Malcolm wasn't there and even half an hour later, he still hadn't shown up. He must have gone to art club after all.

I had another hour before Bernard was due home and before the fear kicked in. I never knew anymore what the evening would bring but subconsciously I was always expecting a fight. Most of the time it was a verbal fight, in which case I was more than a match for him. But when he was mentally beaten, he turned physical. In these instances, I didn't know how to fight back and, instead, would freeze. He liked to go for the throat as he had on the first occasion, but sometimes he'd throw me to the floor so he could stand over me.

His violence was never enough to leave lasting damage - not visible damage anyway - which often led me to convince myself it couldn't be that bad. Perhaps I was overreacting; Bernard never seemed to be disturbed by his outbursts. We loved each other and I genuinely believed when whatever was causing him stress passed, he would go back to his normal self.

I used the free hour I had to busy my mind with the latest TV series I was watching. Bernard didn't approve. He found men dressed in drag doing challenges - dancing, lip-syncing, posing, over-acting, talking about their feelings - an embarrassment. They should all be lined up and shot, was his remark the first and only time I watched it in his presence.

I was partway through an episode when there was a knock on the door. I paused the show and went to investigate.

I swung the front door open to find Malcolm, flanked by two police officers. The early evening sun shone behind them making it hard at first to make out their expressions, but I didn't need to. My blood froze in my veins as my eyes darted between the three of them. As my eyes fast became accustomed to the light, it was clear no one gave anything away with their blank expressions. My mind raced through every possible explanation in those brief, torturous seconds.

I gritted my teeth when the larger of the two officers roughly pushed Malcolm over the threshold and into the hallway.

"Go upstairs," I instructed my son, who hadn't yet looked at me.

He disappeared past me and the two men entered without an invite, forcing me to take a couple of steps back.

"You'd better come through." I led them into the kitchen.

"Christina?"

"Yes."

"You don't mind? I just know Bernard well so it seems unnecessarily formal to call you Ms Clarke." The one with the shaved head who had shoved my son gave me a warm smile.