Freya heard the front door bang shut and she knew Brendan was home from work. It was 5.30:P.M and she’d need to be gone in half an hour. Drinks with her oldest and dearest friend, Emily, at the Grand Hotel at 7 o’clock. An excited thrill sparked through her bringing a lightness to her step. Brendan’s tea, a casserole, his favourite, was prepared in the fridge. She knew that would put him in a good mood, so hopefully he wouldn’t mind too much that she was going out. The apartment was immaculate.
Her mind danced as she imagined having a fun night. She hadn’t been out at night, dressed up, for so long that she could hardly remember the last time. She thought she even looked quite nice: the new navy and green tartan dress suited her dark hair, and the belt accentuated her small waist. People said she was petite, although she was reasonably tall at five foot eight. Even taller in the new heels she’d bought to match the dress. Walking into the lounge-room, she saw her husband’s briefcase tossed onto an armchair. He was leaning into the fridge and, as she entered, he removed the plate of food she’d prepared for him, and looked her up and down. Freya was aware that while she’d glammed up for the evening, Brendan always looked good. He resembled a cross between a professional footballer, the result of his daily workouts in the fourth floor gym, and a fashionable executive: he wore his Armani suits so well.
‘I’ll need the car tonight’, Freya said, trying to sound as pleasant as she could. Somehow she knew, after almost twelve months of marriage, that she needed to consider her words, and her tone, carefully with Brendan. He had developed such a quick temper.
‘No,’ he said casually. ‘I left something at the office, so I’ll need the car to get it.’
Freya felt like she’d been slapped in the face. She was fine with him borrowing her car, while his was having some work done, but she’d told him about tonight. She’d mentioned it many times during the last week. Emily was her closest friend. One of the few she had remaining, since she got married. Brendan had made so many demands on her time that her other friends had stopped asking her out. She felt her heart pound and she took a deep breath in an attempt to remain calm. What was he playing at. ‘It’s just tonight,’ she continued. ‘I’m meeting Emily at the Strand - ’
‘You can take a taxi.’ He was watching her intently. It reminded her of the way a cat watches birds through a window. His expression was … not quite right. Freya wasn’t sure, but it was … somehow … was he smiling? Did he enjoy upsetting her?
‘Your a casserole’s in the fridge. Just microwave -’
He pulled out the Gladwrap-covered dish and glared at her across the room.
‘Bren, I want to show Em my new car,’ her voice was the pitch of a pleading child. This fact almost registered in her mind, almost made her recognise that she was diminished to begging for the use her own car. He’d changed, since they married. She’d told herself that he was finding marriage an adjustment; he was confusing home with work. He probably made similar demands on difficult witnesses in the courtroom, or lazy clerks. Yet, a deeper part of herself began to suspect he was doing this on purpose to dominate, belittle, and intimidate her. To control her. Surely not. He was stressed in his new job, at the larger Law firm. That was all it was. Six months now in a stressful job. Long hours. Difficult cases.
Yet, almost beyond her consciousness, danger warnings were being triggered. Her husband was not being reasonable. Possibly, she wasn’t even safe in this marriage. Bad dreams, the details of which eluded her on waking, had disrupted her sleep in recent weeks. Yet, she pushed them aside. She was grateful for her privileged life. Brendan was a good man. If her husband was stressed and upset, as his wife she must support him. In sickness and health. Marriage is sacred. Remember you love him, she told herself.
So, using a softer tone, she made an effort to be both kind and understanding… yet still assert her right to use her own car. ‘Brendan,’ she crossed the room to join him in the kitchen, ‘I’ll need the car, just for tonight. I’ll catch the bus to work tomorrow. You can keep my car as long as you need, but tonight … couldn’t you catch a taxi to work. Or even leave whatever it is until tomorrow to pick up -’
‘To Hell with that. You do as I say!’ His voice was thunder, echoing through the apartment and out into the corridor.
Freya was stunned. He’d never yelled at her before. He’d raised his voice, but not like this. He was tired. Yet, his face was distorted and burning with rage, the vessels at his temples pulsated visibly, and he balled his free hand into a fist, his knuckles white.
Then, lifting his plate like a grenade, he hurled it at the wall. The violent explosion sprayed shards of crockery and food in every direction, covering the walls, cabinets, and floor.
Freya backed into the lounge room and Brendan followed, shoving roughly past her as he marched to the coffee table and grabbed her leather satchel, ripping it open with such force the zip broke. He rummaging through its contents, triumphantly pulling out her phone and tossing the bag to the carpet. He punched numbers into the screen.
‘What are you doing?’ she cried.
‘You can stay home.’
‘No, I won’t. I’m meeting Emily.’
‘She’s a bad influence on you,’ he growled, with the authoritarian tone of a prison warden.
‘I think you need to choose your friends more sensibly!’ He continued to punch out a message and, in doing so, he broke her connection with the one last friend she was permitted to see. Within moments, like a knife slashing through the air, the message whooshed into the night. Her night out was cancelled. Her freedom to choose for herself as an intelligent and independent adult had been severed. The effect was painful. Physical. Shocking. And, final.
More calmly now, he placed her phone into his suit pocket, and smiled at her. ‘She knows you can’t meet her, Frey. She’ll understand. I told her you're busy. And you are. You’re spending time with your husband. Like you should … not dressing like a tart and going out with your slutty girlfriend.’
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and firmly directed her to sit beside him on the couch. ‘You’ll see I’m right. You do look nice, but I want you to dress like that for me. Only for me. No-one else.’ He stoked her arm and kissed her cheek. ‘We’re happy together. Just the two of us, Frey. Remember that. No more outings with single, slutty friends.’
Freya’s mind was numb. What had just happened? She felt like she’d been punched hard in the face but, before the pain arrived, she felt only numbness. She existed in a timeless, weightless, floating place somewhere between a misunderstood past and an uncertain future. But, she also knew that this was a turning point from which she could never go back.
In dragging steps, her mind scrambled back into a renewed clarity, and the pieces of her life from the first year of her marriage came together now as a puzzle which finally made sense. The answers, which had haunted her dreams but eluded her consciously, now made themselves known: From a deep, primitive and defensive part of her brain, an area specialised to deal with safety and survival, nerves fired more strongly and persistently than they ever had before.
Transmitted along millions of neurons, a tiny voice began to repeat a single word. It was a very important word. A word which might save Freya’s life, if she headed its warning. Little more than a whisper - buried as it was under the louder voices reminding her to be grateful for all the material comforts and financial security her husband provided, and warning her of an uncertain and lonely future if she ever left him – the message penetrated the din regardless. Freya could hear the word - softly but clearly. She could not forget the word, even if she tried. She also knew she must act on the word's warning.
In a persistent whisper, refusing to ever be silenced, the word repeated: Danger!
