Kesey searched for a satisfactory response. Something positive, something hopeful, anything to alleviate the young woman’s angst even for a minute. Sometimes the suffering of others was almost too much to bear. Kesey used a line she’d used before. Something she felt she could rely on. ‘We can’t rewrite the past, but we can change the future. How about I talk to the hospital social worker?’
Sally looked back with a sneer. ‘Is that really the best you’ve got?’
‘Come on, Sally. It’s not something you should dismiss out of hand. I’ve found her very helpful in other similar cases. There’s always a high demand for accommodation in this part of the world. I can’t guarantee she’ll come up with something suitable. But she may do. Her name’s Karen Hoyle, I can talk to her today if you’re in agreement. Hopefully, she can help. I know she’d try her best. She always does.’
Sally turned to her side, picking up her smartphone, scrolling through the various music tracks on offer. ‘Yeah, go on then. I suppose so. I had one half-decent social worker back in the day, a young bloke with a beard and glasses. Although, most of the others were shit. I may as well give this Karen a try. It’s not like I’ve got a lot of choices. What have I got to lose?’
Kesey nodded twice, relieved Sally had finally relented. It was a small victory but a victory nonetheless. One small triumph in a sometimes insurmountable world of woe. ‘Okay, that’s good to hear. I’ll talk to Karen before heading back to the station. I’ll put her fully in the picture and stress the urgency.’
Sally placed her headphones back in her ears, humming quietly as she closed her eyes tight shut. Kesey looked back at her for one final time before finally leaving the ward, one thought after another tumbling in her mind. The unfortunate young woman had seen and experienced so very much in her short lifetime. No wonder the girl was cautious. No wonder she was scared to trust. She appeared to be drifting away, living in the moment. It sometimes suited victims to forget for a time. It seemed Sally was one of those people. And who could blame her for that?
2
The middle-aged, pencil-thin helping professional stood close to the edge of Sally’s hospital bed, smiling warmly, her horsey face framed by long, curly auburn hair, which tumbled over her shoulders in a tangled web that looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in years. She was holding a well-thumbed A4 notepad in one hand and a yellow plastic biro in the other. She tapped the nib of the pen against the pad three times before speaking in a singsong Welsh voice rising and falling in rhythm. ‘Hello, Sally, my name’s Karen Hoyle, I’m the social worker here at the hospital. Inspector Kesey asked me to call in on you. She’s put me fully in the picture, as promised. Are you happy to talk to me? I want to help you if I can.’
Sally adjusted her position, first one way and then another, groaning quietly under her breath, unable to get comfortable. Her bruised ribs ached as the painkilling drugs gradually lost their power. She was hoping for the best but still fearing the worst. It didn’t serve to get your hopes up, not in her world. The disappointment could be crushing.
Sally glanced out of the window as the rain began to fall, large droplets running down the pane. ‘I’m being kicked out of here sometime tomorrow morning. Some doctor said they need the bed. Like I don’t! I’ll be on the streets again. It’s a fucking nightmare in the summer, let alone when it’s pissing down and bastard freezing. Where the fuck do I go?’
When Sally emitted a long, deep audible breath, the social worker thought it was one of the saddest sounds she’d ever heard. Hoyle pulled the pale blue privacy curtain around the bed, thinking it next to useless, but better than nothing at all. Hoyle smiled again as she sat herself down, but her tone betrayed her concern. ‘You’re not going to be on the streets, Sally. You’ve been through more than enough already without that abomination. I’m not going to let that happen.’
Sally raised herself in the bed, suddenly more animated, using her hands to support her slight nine stone frame. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying? Can you talk to my consultant? Can I stay here a little longer? It’s not great, but it’s better than the streets.’
‘That’s not an option, but there is a women’s domestic violence refuge here in town. It’s in Curzon Street, on the hill close to the park. Do you know it?’
‘Um, yeah, I think so. I know the street, maybe not the building.’
‘It’s a large converted Victorian terraced house intended for survivors in your circumstances – women and children in need of support and protection. I gave the manager a ring about half an hour ago. A wonderful, caring lady named Ivy Breen. She was in the same situation in which you find yourself not so very long ago. Her abuser was killed in an accident about five years since. The brakes failed on his car just before he hit a wall at sixty miles an hour. Ivy’s helped a lot of women since then. Young women just like you.’ Hoyle paused, a beaming smile on her angular face. ‘I would never celebrate any human being’s death, but I do sometimes think of the accident as karma. Such things give us hope for the future. Wouldn’t you agree? Maybe there is a God after all.’
Sally’s eyes widened, the whites flashing. She had no real understanding of what Hoyle had talked of, but she’d taken an instinctive liking to this unusual woman with her positive vibes. But life had taught Sally pessimism. False hope was no hope. She was very much wishing for the best but still fearing the worst. ‘Can Ivy help me? What– what did she say?’
Hoyle beamed, the smile lighting up her face. ‘You’ll no doubt be glad to hear that a vacancy has just become available. It’s a real stroke of luck. I can’t stress that sufficiently. The timing really couldn’t be better. It wouldn’t be a long-term answer, of course. That’s not how these things work. But it would at least give you a safe and secure place to stay for a time until you can find a suitable long-term alternative. What do you think? I can make the necessary arrangements if you’re in agreement. Ivy knows I’m discussing the offer with you. She’s awaiting my call.’
Sally’s relief was evident, her shoulders slumping as her tears began to flow. She raised her open hands to her face, speaking through her fingers. ‘Would I have my own room?’
Hoyle nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, absolutely, you would. There are six women in residence at any one time, some with children. I don’t know how many little ones there are, exactly. It changes from week to week. You’d have your own bedroom, with a shared bathroom, lounge and kitchen. And there are excellent security features too. As you’d expect given the building’s purpose. The refuge can only be accessed via a high steel security gate with a four-number access code, which is changed regularly. And there’s a panic alarm located on the wall in the hallway, linked directly to the local police station. It’s a big red button. You can’t miss it. If it’s pressed, the police respond immediately. They’re there in a matter of minutes. It’s a simple, tried and tested system that works well. Ivy has developed an excellent working relationship with the other local services. That benefits the residents as well as her.’