Don’t Turn Around: A heart-stopping gripping domestic suspense. Amanda Brooke
recognised mine. We’ve never met but during our previous calls, I’ve conjured an image of a young woman not dissimilar to Meg. Her gentle lisp is achingly familiar. ‘Hi, Gemma. How have you been?’ I ask as I bring the call log back up on screen.
Our information system isn’t particularly sophisticated but we do log every call; from the simple requests for information, the put-downs when the caller loses their nerve to speak, to the calls where we can and do make a difference in someone’s life. Some of those calls are straightforward, often young women in first relationships who want advice on how to dump boyfriends whose only crime is not meeting their expectations. And then there are the callers like Gemma, who are in toxic relationships but aren’t able to recognise or accept that they are being abused. Except we all thought Gemma had seen Ryan for what he was. When she broke up with him two weeks ago, I was hoping she wouldn’t need us any more.
‘I’ve been so busy at work lately and I’m exhausted,’ she says. ‘I could have gone to an Arctic Monkeys gig tonight but I’m giving it a miss.’
As she talks, I tap through the call sheets as quietly as I can. All our information is anonymised unless our callers need us to act on their behalf with other agencies, and only then will we create a case file. Gemma’s calls don’t fall under that category and haven’t been cross-referenced. Discounting the cluster of five put-down calls on Monday, there have been only seven calls since my last shift and I quickly dismiss the ones from previous callers who had seen Ruth on TV and wanted to thank us for our help, and another from a young man.
The two remaining sheets clearly relate to Gemma; one is the call Ruth mentioned Alison taking last Friday and the other is a call Gill took on Monday evening. The details in each are scant but the message is clear. Ryan wants back into Gemma’s life.
‘I should have given you the tickets,’ Gemma continues.
‘I’m more of a Harry Styles girl myself,’ I tell her.
Gemma laughs. ‘Eugh, I forgot you liked him. Well, if ever I get tickets for Harry, they’re yours,’ she says, making me smile. We don’t give out personal details to our callers beyond our first names, and any contact outside of the scope of the helpline, even to pick up concert tickets, wouldn’t be condoned, but despite these limitations, Gemma and I have formed a friendships of sorts.
‘So why didn’t you want to go to the gig?’ I ask. ‘Were you just tired or was there another reason?’
‘Did you know Ryan’s been messaging me?’
‘I was just checking the note of your last call. Are you still ignoring him?’ Please say yes, I silently pray as I wait for her reply, which isn’t immediately forthcoming.
‘I keep looking at the checklist on your website about how to spot dating abuse and it’s not like Ryan did anything particularly bad. OK, it was a bit overwhelming sometimes but that’s only because I’m not used to people paying me that much attention. I’m not saying Mum doesn’t do her best, and she made all these promises about us doing more stuff together after I split up with him, but it turned out that meant joining Tinder, so if anything, she’s the one taking risks by going out on actual dates and I should be getting her to phone you.’
I wait until Gemma takes a breath. ‘Have you replied to him?’
‘He was the one who sent me the tickets. He said they were for me and Mum but I’d told him ages ago that she hates music gigs. I know what he’s like,’ she says with not nearly enough alarm in her voice. ‘He would have bought an extra ticket and been there waiting for me.’
‘What do you think would have happened if you had gone?’
‘I’ll never know,’ Gemma says softly. ‘I told him I wasn’t going. It was only fair. I said I’d leave the tickets at the box office if he wanted someone else to use them.’
So she has replied to him, I realise. ‘How did he react?’
‘He was fine about it, and said he didn’t want anyone else to have them. He said, if I was too tired to go, he’d pay to have the Arctic Monkeys come to the house for a private performance.’
I try to form an image of the man who loves Gemma too much, but it’s Lewis’s leering face that springs to mind. ‘How old is Ryan?’ I ask. ‘I can’t quite picture him.’
‘He’s in his late twenties, and he’s really fit. You should see him, Jen. He has a six-pack and everything,’ Gemma says, making my heart clench. ‘It’s not like he tries either. It’s because of his job.’
I don’t want to ask. I really don’t want to ask. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a builder, so he doesn’t earn enough to pay a busker off Church Street to serenade me, let alone the Arctic Monkeys.’
With some relief, I let go of my paranoia and concentrate on picking up where Gill left off on Monday, by reminding Gemma of the behaviours that made her call us in the first place. ‘How often is Ryan texting you?’
‘Well, I’ve had two messages since I’ve been on the phone to you,’ she says by way of an answer.
‘That sounds familiar. I remember how often he’d interrupt our calls when you were actually dating, and back then he’d expect an immediate reply.’
She makes a non-committal noise. ‘Or he’d start panicking because he was scared something had happened to me. I know he has insecurities, Jen, and I’ve told him if he wants me back, things have to change.’
I’m shaking my head as I see where this is leading. ‘And how do you imagine things changing if you did get back together?’
‘For a start, I’ve told him he can’t interrogate me every time I go out with friends.’
‘And do you think he would be comfortable with that? I wonder how he’d react to you going out for a pub lunch with your work mates,’ I ask, knowing this was something he had put a stop to early on in their relationship.
‘He knows his jealousy was part of the problem,’ Gemma says. ‘I’m not daft, Jen. You must hear the most awful stories about women who get fooled into thinking their boyfriends will change, only they don’t and the abuse gets worse. But that isn’t me. I’m not rushing into anything. I promise.’
‘Just remember that he’ll be on his best behaviour until he has you back under his control.’
‘I know,’ Gemma says, but there’s a note of resignation in her voice that I don’t like. ‘Sorry, I’d better go.’
I want to ask how many more messages she’s received, but I don’t. Gemma can recognise the familiar patterns of obsession for herself.
‘You will call again, won’t you? Before you make any drastic decisions.’
‘You’ve all been so good to me. Of course I will.’
The phone cuts off and as I replace it gently on the receiver, I’m replaying our conversation in my head. Did I say too much, or should I have said more? We’d built up a good relationship over the last month or so but that doesn’t mean I can tell her what to do. She has to decide for herself.
As I write up the call sheet, I notice a message flash up on my muted phone. It’s from Mum, inviting me and Charlie over for Sunday dinner. I’m still annoyed with her for what she said about Ruth and if I go over there, one of us is bound to say something we’ll regret and it will probably be me.
I send a swift excuse before returning to my computer to check my Facebook page. Meathead has accepted my friend request so I go straight to his list of friends. Lewis’s name isn’t amongst them and none of the thumbnail photos jump out at me. I go through the list again, line by line until I come across someone called Lewis McQueen whose profile picture is a team photo – very sporty. I click on the name to reveal a small collection of public photos and my heart leaps in my throat. Lewis has aged, unlike my Meg.
I