Hilltop

By Beth Sullivan

The pain in my jaw was like heat growing rapidly over facial tissue, like a bush fire destroying valuable habitats. I stopped to look at my reflection and with the heaviest of self-pity and pain, did not recognise the woman staring back at me. How would I explain this to my mum? To my daughter? This time I couldn’t think of an excuse, I couldn’t think of a way to explain away my injuries. Not this time. He was able to blend in and control people’s view of himself in almost any social construct. Was he a chameleon or social manipulator? The fear he installed in myself and others was a method of control to him. I was truly unable to escape and petrified to even try.

I didn’t know left from right, right from wrong. Light from dark. Sober from drunk. Love from fear.

I felt I was in a constant revolving door, every time I tried to get off, it would spin faster and faster, I couldn’t get out of the unstoppable, erratic, and toxic encasement of my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398477438

Book preview

Hilltop

Beth Sullivan

Austin Macauley Publishers

Hilltop

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

August 2019 Miss? Miss? Can You Hear Me?

2018

Summer 2018: His First Face

September 2018: Pearl

October 2018: Gaffer and Gaffs

November 2018: Travis

December 2018: My Boyfriend Doesn’t Take That Shit

2019

January 2019: Hip-Hip Hooray

February 2019: Falling

March 2019: The Beginning of the End

March 2019: March Madness

March 2019: Jess-Ter!

April 2019: Uncle Dom

April 2019: Squeak

April 2019: Threshold

April 2019: Reigns

April 2019: Resistance

April 2019: April Showers

May 2019: Please Mind the Gap

May 2019: Cold

June 2019: Shallows

June 2019: Strife

June 2019: Cycles

July 2019: Blair

July 2019: Paper Cuts

July 2019: Interviews and Incidents

July 2019: The Funeral

August 2019: The Calm Before the Storm

Dedication

To my matriarch

Copyright Information ©

Beth Sullivan 2023

The right of Beth Sullivan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398477421 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398477438 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I wish to thank everyone who helped take this piece of work from scribbles to a publication. Without Olive and Peter, this would be worthless. Also, Mrs Fleming with your constant support.

August 2019

Miss? Miss? Can You Hear Me?

My body, automatically, slowly sat up but I didn’t.

What the fuck?

What was going on? My head was tremendously radiating pain. Was that George howling? Wait? My vision cleared to show me two police officers standing in front of me. Where was my dog? I could hear him crying, he sounded so stressed.

Don’t worry; help is coming. The ambulance is on the way.

I thought, why would I need an ambulance? It must be something to do with my head. And as I went to hold my face, my hands were instinctively pulled back. I couldn’t fathom why my face was so swollen. Why was my jaw in searing pain? It hurt to think, to breathe, to see. I was brought back to the present, with a loud, banging metallic noise and cautiously stood up and saw it. A police-issued riot van was sitting outside my garden. Questions couldn’t form until it hit me. Zach. Why was he in there? Adrenaline spiked through my bruised body, I had to see him, that was my boyfriend!

I ran past the bewildered police men out the door and ran to the van screaming for him—apologising, apologising, apologising. More police were outside and two grabbed me gently, as I got a quick glance at him, through the back window. The anger on his face brought bile to my throat, as I slowly remembered images of the night, brought forward to my now, awoken consciousness. He didn’t hurt me. Did he? Not again. He’s messed up, it must be bad this time, for this level of response. I felt my legs turn to jelly as my thoughts were too strong to gather. I gave in and let the policemen carry me back inside. Not before, I managed to see neighbours peering out of curtains, people standing outside in their dressing gowns whispering and staring. At that moment, they were the last things on my mind.

Back inside, I opened my bedroom door and hugged George, my big American bulldog, not even a year old yet and he saw tonight’s events. His eyes were sad and heavy. I couldn’t meet his concerned gaze. I couldn’t look him in the eye. What had he seen? Did he manage to hide? Maybe, he didn’t see anything. What impact would this have on him? I left him closed in the bedroom. The police informed me, when they entered the dog was in such a state, crying and barking next to my unconscious body, they couldn’t proceed until they could try and distract him away. They coaxed and comforted him and put him safely in the bedroom.

I was grateful for their patience.

The pain in my jaw was like heat growing rapidly over facial tissue, like a bush fire destroying valuable habitats—walking steadily back into the living room, I stopped to look at my reflection and with the heaviest of self-pity and pain, did not recognise the woman staring back at me. Who was she? That couldn’t be me, surely? Did he really do that to me? I hadn’t been knocked out in my adult life and I wondered, if the pain would ever leave my head.

My face was so swollen, I couldn’t even touch it, my jaw was so enlarged, my face was bruised already and I had cuts all over my face, neck and arms. As I touched every individual marking, the reason as to how, surfaced. Bobbing along the tide of my mind, images floated, waiting to be registered, waiting to be understood and analysed like all his previous behaviours.

The police asked me what had happened, when I went to talk, I realised the actual extent of the pain in my jaw. It felt like it had been ripped from each hinge backwards. I couldn’t talk; I just wept. The policeman crept down on his knees, Please tell us what he done, so we can make sure he never ever does this to you or anyone again, please, Emory.

I remember quietly talking, not being able to say the words, as my lips didn’t form the shapes properly to pronounce them. I couldn’t stop weeping, I felt like I had genuinely cried a river. I told them what happened briefly, what I could remember, snippets in a slideshow. The evening’s events blurred into one another. How could a couple of pints in a local pub result in this? Surely not. How could he have allowed it to escalate? How could I. Once I had told the police dribs and drabs of what I could remember. I could envision his face. His face the first time, the second time, what time was I on now?

I remembered his face. The blackness in his eyes and the fury on his face. The lack of emotion, pale and poisonous. It took him two attempts to knock me out the first time that night. I remembered members of the public fighting him off me. I remember running, running, running till I reached the house. Surely, what I said didn’t warrant the level of violence I received. How could he have taken it that far? I remember phoning the police and having to hang up as he came in and caught me. I remember fighting back and the last thing I remember was thinking: He’s going to kill me before being knocked unconscious for the second time, kicked, punched, being hit repeatedly with the phone receiver, a kind of irony, for what I had just used it for.

My mouth was dry, my head heavy, my body aching, please let me sleep. I begged, cried, whisperingly wept, begged for them not to press charges and not to tell him I had even muttered a word against him. I panicked about what he possibly could do further to me after tonight. I had fucked up now, he would be livid at what I had done, by calling for help. His eyes flashed through mine. His revenge would be my suffering.

Many questions I lied about. But they knew, they knew I was lying but their patience was endearing. I pointed out various and many holes in the wall, chips out door frames, stains up walls and on ceilings, the destructiveness of Zach and his temper around the house. I assured the police this was because of his addictions he didn’t mean it; it wasn’t his fault. They exchanged looks, they didn’t understand, at the time I didn’t understand and still I don’t.

I stopped answering questions, as I couldn’t manage it anymore. The pain was too much, my whole body throbbed and I wanted to sleep, I just wanted to sleep. Let me sleep, to shut my mind off. The police radio fuzzed through and one of them replied 26-year-old female victim of domestic incident…yes, suspected broken jaw.

If words physically held the weight they bore, a cartoon iron would’ve dropped down and crushed me.

I couldn’t even begin to try to understand any of the night’s events, the pain was unimaginable, I couldn’t ever remember being in so much pain, it was sickening. Physically sickening. Pain and vomiting. Vomiting and pain.

The ambulance arrived and I started to think, I had made a mistake by calling anyone. I can’t go to the hospital. How would I explain this to my mum? To my daughter? This time I couldn’t think of an excuse, I couldn’t think of a way to explain away my injuries. Not this time.

In my panic of denying this reality I had woken up in, I had stupidly called his friend, Gavin, who we were with earlier that night and he came running round. As soon as he came in the house, I realised he was on some sort of drug and he stunk of alcohol. I don’t know why I had called that parasite, he was the latest person, Zach was using to hang around with. Maybe, I thought Gavin would tell me it wasn’t as bad as it was. The wounds were superficial and I was being a drama queen. He told me I was fine, not to listen to the police, not to go with them anywhere and not to tell them anything. His mindset didn’t match with what was unfolding in my front room. Seeing the terror on my face a policeman quickly removed Gavin from the house.

Then, a paramedic cradled my hands and wiped the tears from the back of them. He informed me, with compassion in his complexion, this was the worst incident of domestic abuse he had seen. Once I had been persuaded that hospital was the correct next step,

I let him wrap me in a blanket and escort me into the ambulance.

I worried about Zach, if he had reached the prison cells yet, how badly he was kicking off in the van, what had they charged him with. How angry he was with me. What would happen next. But this pain he had given me was the reminder I needed, not to think of him and his well-being.

I remember lying on a hospital bed, in the hallway of A&E and overhearing the initial chat of the nurses, they thought I was sleeping and I thought maybe I was, as the conversation I overheard couldn’t be about me.

I tried not to listen, but that night all the words I heard were confusing and unreal. I had to have an X-ray to determine whether or not my jaw was broken. I felt my throat thicken, my mouth was bone dry and I was gasping for air. I couldn’t breathe, this was all too much. What actually happened tonight? I couldn’t breathe. I managed to locate a panic button and two nurses, one, equipped with a breathing mask sat with me and stroked my hands, until they were ready to take me on the next painful step in this ordeal. I was wheeled up to radiology, lying, staring, trying to count the lights in the ceiling, thinking distraction might help with the pain. As I lay, I was pushed through countless double doors until we reached the technician.

Ah love what mess did you get yourself into? She playfully asked.

I stood up to my alcoholic boyfriend she apologised and tucked my blankets. I didn’t mean to make her recoil—I recoiled myself saying it aloud. I felt guilty, for saying it so dryly and abruptly. Yet, saying it aloud helped me more than the heavy painkillers.

She helped me into a chair and wheeled me to the plates of metal, as to where I was to press my face to take the X-ray. As soon as my face touched the cold metal, I screamed and wailed and she held my hand until I was ready. Thankfully, my jaw wasn’t broken.

However, the strongest memory I have was, when I returned home and I had my pup, George, lying in my legs. It was calm. There were no drunk people climbing my veranda, knocking on my window, no drunk boyfriend high on whatever drugs he came home lying about, whatever he had been up to, or where he had been, no more. I listened to the silence and it was tranquil. It was just calm and quiet and it was perfect in a twisted, bitterly painful, sweet way.

2018

Summer 2018

His First Face

Zach had many faces. Many faces, many faces of deception, deceit and maybe, in the end defeat. The first face I remember, was when I first met him again after several years.

I had known Zach since high school, my best friend—Rachel’s cousin. In school, he was annoying, hung around the girls, not in a cliché, high school jock categorisation, but in a spotty, stick thin, almost creepy way. There was always a large group of us, rebellious and socially forward. He hung around with us at the weekend, around the town’s biggest housing scheme, drinking, being a teenage nuisance and he became, a lower tier member of the boys. If it wasn’t for Rachel, I doubt he would have had a look-in with us.

I remember him in various memories, attempting to join in with the boys. Yet, please don’t think we were yobs, we were just experimenting with alcohol and trying to sneak back into our parent’s houses undetected. I remember him there with us, when we were finding local pools, in the beautiful Scottish countryside. Little cliffs with water enclosed in fields with surrounding hills. We would dare each other to jump off into the water, sunbathe and moan about the impending exams.

As we grew up, Zach had moved away, and never finished high school with us. I learned, that he had a young son, (a strained relationship with his mother had made contact difficult) he had been in prison, when he was roughly 17, for fighting. A fact, that I had naively overlooked and determined, he was young at the time and learned his lesson. Most of us grew up and out of being annoying, naughty brats, that defied our curfews most weekends, and we all went off to college, university and work. I stayed in touch with most of our friends and especially with Rachel. She hardly stayed in contact with Zach after he moved.

I moved out of the area after I had my daughter, young, moved house to be nearer to the city’s colleges and obtained a university degree. I stopped drinking in parks and enjoyed a glass of red in a hot relaxing bath.

When I first saw him again, it was the summer 2018. I had recently moved to the Hilltop, (a large housing scheme, half an hour away or so, then the scheme Zach and I grew up in) the sun was abnormally hot for Britain and the world cup was in full swing. It was not always easy, being English and supporting your national team, living in Scotland. I was in a job I loved, happily single, enjoyed going out with friends and making sure my daughter, Daisy, kept that infectious innocent smile on her face.

The day I reconnected with Zach, I had made the amateur mistake of letting my daughter choose dinner, hot dogs and noodles, and of course in true Emory luck, I had neither in the house. We walked to the local shop and headed for the processed rubbish. I pretended to enjoy this meal, because it was and still is her favourite dinner. I noticed a tall, dark figure, leaning on the ice-cream freezer. I thought it was a bit rude to be leaning on the items in the shop with his top off, it wasn’t like those massive indoor markets abroad, where it didn’t matter if you just had a bikini on, also, he was being rather loud on the phone, so I turned round to get a better look at him.

His face changed shape completely, as his eyes narrowed in on me and his mouth dropped and made an ahhh noise. I realised, it was Zach, he had grown up, he wasn’t spotty and he had bulked out. I noticed a tattoo on his neck, as he checked me out up and down. He instantly finished his phone call and exacerbated how he hadn’t seen me in years and generally asked me how I was. I introduced him to Daisy and informed him, I did stay locally just right round the corner. He asked if we could catch up. He kept staring at my legs, I was wearing jean shorts and was starting to get self-conscious. He insisted I give him my number. We had arranged, after I had watched the world cup match—obviously, he should come up for a beer.

I made sure that Daisy would be in bed, as although he was an old friend, I didn’t have men around my daughter. It was me and her and that’s the way we liked it. Mind you, I was aware he was good looking, but I wasn’t romantically interested, just intrigued to see what he had been up to for all these years.

Later that night, after England’s win—I was jumping on the bandwagon now, could it really be coming home? No comment on that!

Zach came round and we had a couple of beers and I sat in my football kit. He complimented me twice, one, was that he rarely saw a girl in to football or beers and the second, was my legs, apparently, they were like weapons. Whatever that meant! He stayed for an hour or two, I teased him for being a weirdo at school and he wasn’t flirting, so I was quite confident that we were friends and never thought anymore. He never tried to kiss me when he left, he never tried to arrange another catchup.

I left it the way it was.

His relentless texting started a few days later. I tried to throw the friendship off, I would text back hours later, the following day or sometimes not at all. He asked if we could grab another beer soon. I gave in to his persistence. We met on the Friday, after as I was enjoying the sun in the garden and he came to join me. Again, no other vibes other than friends.

He came down on the Sunday and I was a bit hungover, from being out with the girls the night before. He was still sitting on my couch around eleven and I don’t know what came over me, why I decided to put myself out there. Just an impulse I had to act on. I just wanted to try something. I kissed him first. I was a bit confused, as to why he was still wanting to see me, yet no flirtation, blunt compliments and boasting about himself. The kiss grew and I remember thinking the night ended in the most passionate way. It brings vomit to the back of my throat and is very painful to put into words.

I obviously ignored many red flags, apparently, a whole mine field full of blowing red flags. One of the first ones I ignored was because of the constant blinding, of his non-existent personality, was when he promised a beautiful date in the city, sat outside a wine bar with a bottle and a parasol. I was so excited, no one had ever offered me such romance before, all I longed for, was fairy tale romance, the cheesier the better!

The date didn’t happen, as when I went to meet him, he was already at a family gathering, drunk, and insisted we just stay there. I thought, well my family loves a piss up too, so it’ll be fine. Yet, what about my date? What about my romantic vision of clinking wine glasses, the summer heat and gazing at each other’s expressions, trying to work out, if the next date would be more romantic than this?

I noticed how much I didn’t like him when he was drunk, how much his outgoing personality intensified, how he hung over everyone like an itchy scarf, how he seemed to want his family, to tell me flimsy sentimental stories over and over again. I put it down to, he had just mixed his drinks. He had been staying with his uncle Dom, who stayed in the same area as me although he owned his own house, over an hour, east, past the city. Normally, this would have put me off, as the imagination of my romantic traits would have deemed this a long-distance relationship but, my independence, fought that ideal. Eventually, after spending what seemed like every summer night at my house, he went back to his.

It seemed great! He was in college, told me sometimes, he sold weed over his way, so he always had excess money for date nights, he took care of himself, went to the gym regularly, did his own cooking, cleaning, washing. All my boxes seemed to be ticked, maybe it was too good to be true, yet, those red flags were not flying high enough yet, to get my attention. Most of my friends were school friends who remembered Zach and thought it was amusing we had met after so long and in a shop. Very soon the phrase I only went in for noodles, went from being a funny anecdote, to a way of using humour to round off his behaviours.

Zach never used to drink that much in the beginning of our relationship, he would drink at friends or occasions, mostly not coming back to mine. This progressed, into him turning up to my bottom floor flat and tapping the window to be let in. I wasn’t happy, as Daisy would be sleeping and I had work the following morning. Weeks went by, and this was happening at least once every ten days.

I was starting to worry about him, this wasn’t the person I had known for years, this wasn’t the person I lived with. His behaviour was erratic and uncharacteristic. He started ditching his friends to hang around with a slightly untrustworthy crowd, a crowd, I couldn’t imagine him, ever fitting in with, a crowd I didn’t want to be around.

September 2018

Pearl

Everyone has stories of, unhinged ex-girlfriends or boyfriends, that have pushed the limits of normal behaviour after a break-up. Stories, that make you gasp or glad that your break-ups have been safe and mundane. When I first started seeing Zach, he informed me that he had been single for 5 years, because of his ex-girlfriend. She had always interfered and scared potential girlfriends off. This should have bothered me more than it did. I had never cared much for what people thought, and have a naturally charismatic personality. So, I knew I could talk a situation down, if it ever did occur. Rachel had been friends with Zach’s ex-girlfriend, Pearl, when they were together, years before. They weren’t close, but would speak, odd messages here and there, mainly Pearl whining over Zach and asking about his whereabouts, which Rachel had no knowledge of.

I first encountered Pearl, when Rachel and I were on a night out. Photos taken, were put onto social media. Pearl started commenting on one of the uploads, she gained access to comment, as she was still friends with Rachel, telling me how she didn’t like the way I looked, how she thought Zach was cheating on me, and calling me every name she could think of. Her behaviour got worse after I wouldn’t argue back and forth with her. I ignored her and her persistence of trying to befriend me on several social media platforms. I didn’t have time for immaturity and nastiness.

I didn’t understand how Zach wasn’t bothered by her. His response was see, I told you, and he laughed. I didn’t think it was amusing at all. He suggested, we should not provoke her or publish much on our social media, until she had calmed down. I didn’t enjoy having to keep myself or our relationship quiet for her sake at all. I shouldn’t have to! If I was going to be with Zach, she should try to get to know me or be an adult and be civil, if she couldn’t be nice or still had feelings for him. I found it highly distressing as to why she acted like this.

Zach found visiting his child difficult with Pearl’s input. They would often make arrangements and she would contact him on the morning of, and deny his visit. She often went as far as to say the child had said no. I had met Zach’s son previously at Zach’s mum’s house. A quiet and nervous boy, very inverted, as to what I thought a child his age should be. Zach had expressed, that his son was a very fussy eater and would only eat, canned-processed food. Sure, there was nothing wrong with this kind of food once in a while, but using it for most meals, was morally questionable. I spoke to him about his eating habits, and we decided on a healthier breakfast alternative.

He ate all of it. He spent the day playing with local children and there no was no issue taking him home to his mother. Zach’s mother, Debbie, had told me, Pearl was not a very nice person and to stay clear. She informed me, that they had fallen out years before, on account of her constant goading and she didn’t want Pearl anywhere near her son or her house, but was more than willing to have her grandson stay over, as long as it didn’t cause Pearl to start on her once more. I didn’t dwell or pry as to why she had that opinion, that was none of my business and I was starting to get annoyed at Pearl’s hold over everybody.

They had a visit in place, Zach collected his child and brought him to my house for the weekend. Contact towards me from Pearl had stopped. We felt it would be suitable to bring him to mine, instead of Zach dragging him all the way to his house and back. I had no issues with him being at mine and thought it would be good for Daisy to socialise and play with his son. A nice, family orientated weekend. I could tell Zach was a bit nervous around him, as their relationship always depended on, whether Zach and Pearl were talking or arguing.

I helped him that weekend. I helped him, to show his son how to bake, how to play, how to go to the park, to cross roads and how to approach him without showing him he was nervous. I felt I helped Zach to overcome a few obstacles in their relationship. I was surprised to find out that his son had hardly done many of the things we did. He had never baked in a kitchen, never stirred mixture in a bowl, never put the mixture out and into the oven to make biscuits, never licked a spoon and never laughed at flyaway flour on his t-shirt.

Saturday afternoon my phone rang with a number not saved in my contacts. I answered the call to a very angry and high-pitched voice. I had never heard Pearl’s voice before and was surprised at her attitude. She threatened me down the phone multiple times, cruelly mocked my accent and questioned me on why I used big words and couldn’t I speak normally. Maybe, I was the only educated person she had met with an English accent…I put it on speakerphone, for Zach to listen to, whilst the children played quietly in another room. Now surely, he had to speak to her; to tell her to grow up or at the least to have a bit of respect. He didn’t do anything apart from stare at me, I was unsure of what he was thinking. I gathered he was shocked. His lack of input made me more annoyed and I snapped back at her on the phone.

I felt awful for speaking to her like that and I realised I had given in to her and sunk as low as she. I ended the call. She kept phoning and phoning, relentlessly. I blocked her number, whilst Zach and I figured out what to do next. I pondered over, as to how she got my number. Within 10 minutes, my phone was full of the vilest messages I had ever read. Telling me I lived in a drug den; I would regret my decision to challenge her and that I would also find out the hard way about Zach’s alleged cheating. She kept bringing this up and it was starting to grate on me if she had any standing with this matter. Zach denied everything she had said and I believed him.

I could whole heartedly understand her position on not being comfortable with her child around a stranger. I wasn’t a stranger. I had known Zach longer than she, and Rachel had spoken to her and assured her prior to this event. I wasn’t a bad person; a good mother and she could trust her son to be safe around me. I started to feel guilty, she had lashed out, as she was unaware that her child was at mine. In hindsight, she should have known he was at my house, but it wasn’t up to me to make sure she was comfortable with it, and I still didn’t find her outbursts to be justified.

I phoned her back, apologised and managed to talk her down. I told her she didn’t have anything to worry about, I sent her photos, ensured her, he had eaten properly and that even if she hated me for some inconceivable reason, I wouldn’t hold it against her child. Everything seemed fine afterwards and Zach returned his child to her care, as the weekend ended.

The week began off to a poor start, as I awoke with a phone call from a friend asking me if I had checked my online timeline. Before I could do so, I had many text messages from Pearl. Insults not towards me but towards my Daisy. Calling her a tramp and a nasty little bitch. Daisy was only a year into primary school. I couldn’t believe a mother could be so nasty to another parent’s child. It was an unwritten social rule, not to bring children into arguments that were caused by adults. My social media platform was full of more uncalled for babbling and ranting over Daisy! Apparently, her son had told her that he and Daisy had a disagreement and Daisy had said something that upset him.

If I had known about the situation, I would have corrected it. To take this approach over two infants bickering, was barbaric! This was the final straw! How dare she! Where did she get off! Rachel, myself and our friends were not going to have this at all and the more people that commented and pleaded