Im not going to put up with this any longer, the voice of my late grandmother repeats as the lift shudders between floors of the sixteenstorey tower block on the outskirts of Manchester.
James has been my husband since we were barely out of secondary school. He never lets me finish a course, forces me to stay at home, and only when he finally lets me drive does he get a permit for me because his dad, who runs a garage, swears by his friend, the driving instructor.
I only leave the flat when I have to shop for groceries. My alternative to a stroll is to hang the laundry on the balcony rail.
James checks everything: whether I take out the rubbish, whether I have my mobile in my coat pocket at all times, in case he needs to call and check.
Weekends start on Friday night and I dread them. James arrives home, demanding dinner, and a chilled bottle of his favourite gin must sit on the table. After we eat, he drags his words through contempt, sneering, Whats the matter, you fool, you useless little thing? When will we have an heir? He then retreats to the kitchen, finishes his gin, and after the last shot asks, Wheres the beer? I know hell ask later, so I pretend to be busy buying it, buying myself a few minutes of fresh air.
The lift lurches to a stop. My grandmothers voice pushes me, Do you like how your husband treats you?
No, I whisper, He wipes his feet on me.
Just for now, she says, It will get worse. Do you want him to loosen his grip?
God, no! I choke, my throat dry.
Then run, love, run!
Where? To my mother? She lives in a onebed flat with a new husband. To my father? Hes with a new wife. Im a cutoff piece, Gran. I have no one. My eyes sting, my nose runs.
Being alone is a blessing. Full freedom, a chance to start again. Imagine if you had a child, what then?
My options? I ask, my eyes widening like saucers.
An opportunity will appear soon. Dont miss it. Keep looking out of the window.
What will I see?
Ive told you enough. Figure it out yourself. The lift will move. Dont be scared. Go for the beer, for your husband. And one more thing, the spectre in my head whispers, Open the little box I left you after I died. It isnt empty; it has a double bottom. Search it, but dont leave witnesses. If you run, take only the contents. Leave the box so James never suspects your escape.
Whats inside?
Answers to your questions.
The lift jerks upward. I feel a shiver despite the voices warning. It stops at the ground floor and the doors open onto a street where the evening snow is melting into rivulets. The world feels ready to be reborn, just like me.
James, now a drunken mess, sprawls on the kitchen table, snoring like a bulldog. While his snores rumble through the flat, I tiptoe to the wooden jewellery box on the nightstand. Its lid feels lighter than it looks; there must be a hidden compartment. I shake it hard. Threads, needles, crochet hooks, buttons and a jumble of odds and ends spill outnothing a tidy housekeeper would ever touch.
James wakes, rolls his eyes, and mutters, If you leave it out Ill toss it. Your gran was a proper eccentric, hiding things for a granddaughter. No point in keeping it.
I turn the box over, feeling for a seam. The wood is solid, but a faint click tells me theres a secret compartment. I press harder, and a thin panel slides aside, revealing a stack of envelopes, a set of old keys and several tiny packets labelled in my grandmothers handwritten script: Turn on the brain, Freeze fear, Light up attention, Dont be a fool, Kill the weak streak, Feed the meat.
I open the first envelope. Inside are deeds to a cottage in Yorkshire and a registration for an old Vauxhall Victor that Jamess dad kept in the garagea relic worth more than its looks suggest. Another envelope contains a letter, its ink tiny and cramped, sounding just like my grans voice:
Granddaughter, the hour has come to open the box. All my property, apart from the flat, is yours. If youre reading this, the time is now. Grab the documents, the boxs contents and the car. Leave for the cottage. Money for the first few weeks lies under the glove compartment. After that youll have to earn your keep. Perhaps youll finally learn something. Love, Gran.
I fold the papers into a separate folder, tuck the contents of the box inside, and notice the first instruction: Take the packet Light up attention, stir its powder into a glass of milk and drink. Dont discard the paper; keep it with the folder. No other steps follow, but Gran insisted I keep the instructions, so I place the powder in the same folder and swallow it with milk.
Morning arrives early. I sit up, eyes and ears sharp as a hawk. Beneath the mattress I find the folder, just as Gran described. The second instruction reads: Drink a glass of milk on an empty stomach with the Dont be a fool powder.
I slip into the kitchen, where James still snores, and quietly sip the concoction. I crack the window for fresh air, then return to the bedroom and check the folder again. A third note says: Dont lose the folder; youll meet an enemy. In an hour, drink a cup of tea with the Kill the weak streak packet.
A fourth note adds: An hour later, drink a cup of coffee with the Feed the meat packet. Stay alert.
I follow each instruction, feeling a strange heat coursing through me. My previously soft, unathletic frame tightens; muscles surface, my posture straightens. I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the wardrobemy body now resembles a trained athletes, toned but not overly bulky. My cheekbones are sharper, my eyes brighter, a faint strength radiating from me.
A sudden clatter on the laminate floor draws Jamess attention. He lunges at me, eyes wild.
Were you in a salon? he snarls.
No, why would you think that? I reply, voice steady.
You look like someones been working on you. Did you get a lover? he hisses, stepping closer.
No lover, I say, stepping back, a surge of confidence pushing me forward.
Where were you while I slept? he growls, advancing again.
I was in our bed, I answer, feeling a sudden surge of power.
Jamess fists swing, but I block each blow with practiced ease, never letting his hands touch my face or body. I deflect his punches, and finally, with a swift move, I land a strike to his nose. Blood spurts, he collapses, pale, onto the floor.
I stare at him, feeling no pity, no fear for his future. I pull the folder from my pocket.
The next instruction reads: Well done, Im proud. Look out the balcony, dress similarly, leave the balcony door ajar, place your bag where you see something. Then drink a glass of juice with the Freeze fear packet. When you collect Granddads car, stop at a café, order a milkshake, add the Turn on the brain packet. Leave the other packets untouched. Get away as fast as you can. Gran.
I dash to the kitchen, mix the powder into orange juice and gulp it down, then rush to the balcony. My eyes scan the street below. A young woman lies facedown on the pavement, her hair, height and build exactly like mine. Shes barefoot, shivering in a thin black Tshirt and grey jeans, no coat despite the early March chill.
I grab my bag, slip on a pair of battered boots I find in a discarded parcel near the dustbin, pull on a down jacket I nab from a nearby bin, and slip out of the flat barefoot, the cold nipping at my feet. I discover a pair of winter shoes in the rubbish chute, enough to get me to the garage.
Inside the garage, a gruff security guard recognizes me.
Morning, love. What can I do for you? he asks.
I show him the papers for the Vauxhall Victor.
Not a problem, dear. Why would you want such an old clunker?
Its my grans car. I need it.
He nods, Call your dad if you like; he can sort you a proper motor. But if its the Victor you want, the keys are here. He hands me a set of keys.
I slide into the drivers seat; the seat feels surprisingly comfortable, as if my grandfather had refurbished it himself. I tuck the folder and the remaining packets into the glove compartment, where a few notes promise enough cash for the first weeks.
I pull out of the garage, the road buzzing with a mix of cars.
Look up, love, see the signs? Grans voice whispers in my head.
I see them, I reply, a smile tugging at my lips.
Turn left at the roundabout, head towards Sowerby. Youll find what you need there. Safe travels, my girl.
I glance at the rearview mirror; the seat behind me is empty, but I can almost see Grans ginger curls, her fluffy scarf, her smiling eyes.
The engine hums, and I drive toward a fresh start, the night air filling the car as the promise of freedom finally feels real.
