Hurt (14 page)

He stares at her, his pulse thrumming. ‘I’m sorry—’

Her eyes flash with hurt and bewilderment. ‘If that’s what you truly believe, then we might as well—’ She starts to get up.

‘No!’ He grabs her by the wrist, pulling her back down hard against him.

‘Mattie!’ She sounds shocked.

He feels that darkness sucking him down again. ‘I didn’t mean to say those things. I’m just so tired—’

‘So tired of what?’

He swallows in an attempt to push back the rising pain in his throat. ‘Tired of feeling like this!’ His voice rises. ‘Like I don’t deserve you! Like I’ve done something terrible and I’m going to lose you!’

He takes a ragged breath and holds it. Silence stretches out between them, so taut, so fragile that he feels sure it will snap. Gazing away from her into the darkness, he forces himself to take another deep breath. He inhales sharply and turns his head, trying to escape Lola’s gaze as he feels his eyes sting.
I need you
, he wants to say.
I need you to stay with me and hold onto me and make me feel real and alive again. I need you to help me, tell me what’s wrong with me, help me get back to the person I used to be, explain to me what the hell is happening!
But he can’t – can’t say any of it. He can’t even move, staring down at the grass, breathing hard. A sharp pain has risen behind his eyes, a constriction burning his throat. As he takes a deep breath, he feels the tears force their way into his eyes like knives. With all the will in the world, he cannot hold them back.

‘Mattie?’

He recognizes the alarm in her voice. Presses his thumbnail into his lower lip.

Lola reaches out a hand and touches him. With a shake of the head, he pushes back the comforting arm. Tears, hot and heavy, crowd his eyes. A ragged breath escapes him as one skims the side of his cheek. He brushes it away quickly with a flick of his wrist.

‘Jesus, Mattie!’ Lola is staring at him, aghast, her chest rising and falling rapidly, as if panicked.

‘I’m OK. It’s n-nothing—’

‘Sweetheart, how can it be nothing?’ Lola sounds breathless, almost frightened. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘I – I don’t know!’

‘Has your dad been giving you a hard time again? Did something happen in training? Or – or at school?’

He shakes his head and turns away as another tear follows, and then another; presses the heels of his hands hard against his eyes and holds his breath in a desperate attempt to stop them.

‘It’ll pass,’ he says frantically, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘I’m – I’m going to sort it out. M-maybe I’m just going through some kind of phase.’ He gives a small laugh but feels another tear spill.

‘It’s not a phase – you’re upset about something.’ She strokes the side of his face, her voice coming out softly desperate. ‘Is it something you don’t want to tell me about?’

‘I don’t know. Gah – fucking hell!’ He rubs viciously at his face, using the sleeves of his shirt, the palms of his hands. ‘Maybe I need to go for a walk or something to sort myself out. Maybe—’

‘Shh, hold on, stay here with me,’ Lola says softly, her hand firm around his wrist. ‘We’re going to work this out. You’re going to be OK.’

‘I’m – I’m scared I’m falling apart.’ He presses his fist to his mouth to muffle a sob. ‘All these things seem to be happening to me. And – and they’re completely out of my control!’

Lola puts her fingers to his lips to silence him. ‘Hey, it’s all right. No one can be in control all the time,’ she tells him gently. ‘Right now you’re just upset, that’s all. Everyone gets upset sometimes. You’re not falling apart. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’d still be here, wouldn’t I? You wouldn’t be on your own.’

‘I just have this t-terrible feeling—’

‘About what, sweetheart?’

‘That – that things have changed. That we can’t stay together—’

‘Oh Mattie, you’re just overthinking. Maybe you’re overtired because you’re still recovering from Brighton.’

Recovering from Brighton
. . . A chill runs through his body. No, he will never recover from Brighton, never recover from what happened there, never find his way back from the terrible person he became. A flash of red skims across the surface of his vision, the smell of blood and earth and sweat, thudding feet pounding the dry ground, ransacked breath bursting from his lungs. He presses his hand against his eyes.

‘Mattie, listen to me, sweetheart. I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always love you.’ Lola’s voice is gentle, too gentle. He nods, draws the back of his arm across his face and takes a jagged breath. Then looks at her and manages an embarrassed smile.

‘Come here.’ She leans forward and breathes the words against his shoulder, puts her arms around him and pulls him close, holding him tight as he disintegrates beneath her touch, covering his face with his hands. Rivulets form down the cracks between his fingers; the tears hurt, his head hurts, everything hurts. He presses his face against her, trying to halt the onslaught, trying to stem the flow, but it’s as if his body has a will of its own, forcing him to communicate with Lola, show her how bad he feels, even though it’s the last thing he wants to do right now . . . But gradually, after several minutes of silent, painful tears, he senses an easing of the pressure in his chest, of some of the pain in his mind. Lola just holds him quietly, her head resting against his, and slowly he begins to pull himself together, firmly burying the pain – still present, but weaker now – deep down inside him. Deep down, back down where it belongs.

He has found the answer. He might be unable to suppress his feelings, he might be unable to go back to his carefree life, he might be unable to return to the person he was before that night . . . but he can pretend. He remembers enough of his old self to be able to summon up a pretty good impression, so long as he keeps busy. Filling his days with training – pool diving, dry diving, acrobatics, gymnastics and home workouts – as well as spending time with his friends and, most importantly, Lola, allows him to pretend to everyone, including himself, that everything has returned to normal, that the black wave has subsided, the thick veil has lifted; that the suffocating bubble has burst, allowing him once more to step back into the real world. A world where the most he has to worry about is perfecting The Big Front, putting in extra hours at the pool to satisfy his parents, finding excuses for coming home late in order to hang out with Lola. And, for the moment, it seems to be working. He is careful to spend as little time alone as possible – he works out with the music blaring, Skypes Lola late into the night, even starts spending time with Loïc before his parents get home. Nearly two weeks have passed since Nationals, school is almost at an end. The dark thoughts are still there, the black waters are still simmering, but they are kept below the surface, deep below the surface, forced down into the darkest recesses of his mind.

Jerry has an overnight photoshoot in Paris, and Lola decides that having the house to herself calls for a sleepover.

‘Aren’t we a bit old for sleepovers?’ Mathéo protests as she brightly springs the idea on him across the canteen table.

‘No, it’ll be very grown up!’ Lola giggles. ‘I’m going to cook!’ She throws her arms out in an expansive gesture and knocks over the pepper shaker.

Mathéo begins to laugh. ‘You – cook? You can’t even eat without sending things flying.’

She takes a large mouthful of yoghurt and sticks out a white tongue.

‘Very mature, Lola!’

She starts to laugh, spattering yoghurt across her tray. He ducks beneath the table. ‘Look at you! You’re a public health hazard!’

She scrunches up her eyes in a desperate effort to swallow before bursting into guffaws. ‘Stop making me crack up, then!’

‘I’m not doing anything. You’re the one flinging pepper about and showering me with yoghurt!’

‘Mattie!’ She wipes her streaming eyes. ‘Stop mocking me, you bastard, and listen!’

‘Are you sure you want Hugo and Isabel copulating on your new sofa-bed—?’

‘Will you just listen? There isn’t going to be any copulating!’

‘At all? Then I’m rapidly losing interest in this—’

She whacks him on the arm. ‘Stop it! I thought we could all spend the night in the living room, drag some mattresses down and have a movie night.’

‘And paint our nails and braid each other’s hair?’

She starts spluttering again.

‘Can you try swallowing before cackling like a demented witch?’

‘I swear, Mattie. Your hair may be too short to braid, but I’m going to paint your nails if it’s the last thing I do!’

Fortunately, by the time the day comes round, Lola has things other than nail-painting on her mind. Namely trying to salvage the dinner she is busy incinerating. After a morning of acro and an afternoon of diving, Mathéo goes home to change, leaving a note for his parents in the hope of avoiding a row. Famished, he joins Lola in the kitchen as soon as Jerry departs.

‘Are you actually cooking, Lola?’ Isabel exclaims in disbelief as soon as she and Hugo arrive.

‘
We
are,’ Mathéo points out, sitting at the kitchen table and wrestling with the bottle opener. ‘Although I had no part in that evil burning smell.’

‘Shut up, everyone!’ Lola yells from the cooker. ‘Of course, Izzy. What did you think? That I was going to feed you hot dogs?’ One of the saucepans begins to bubble over and she quickly snatches off the lid. ‘Ouch! Fuck!’

‘D’you want some help?’ Hugo asks, suppressing a laugh.

‘No! I can do this! Now will you just leave me alone and – and chat amongst yourselves or whatever!’

‘All right, keep cool, Lola.’ Isabel turns to Hugo. ‘I think the hostess is getting a touch stressed, so perhaps we should act as if everything’s under control and—’

‘It
is
under control!’ Lola shouts.

‘We’re ignoring you, Lola!’ Isabel shouts back.

Mathéo opens the bottle of red and turns his attention to the white. ‘Right, what’s everyone drinking?’

‘Whisky!’ Lola declares, dropping a spoon.

‘Uh-uh – no alcohol for you until dinner is sorted or the whole house is going to go up in smoke,’ Mathéo tells her.

Lola swears. Isabel laughs and holds out her glass for some red. Hugo goes over to fetch the beers from the fridge.

‘So, what’s it like making dinner together like an old married couple?’ he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Mathéo accepts a can of beer, opens it and props his bare feet up on the corner of the table. ‘Incredibly stressful,’ he replies, taking a deep swig.

‘Yeah, we can see you’re right on the edge of a breakdown there, Mattie!’ Isabel laughs.

‘I’m not kidding! She actually hit me with a spoon.’

‘A wooden spoon!’ Lola calls over her shoulder, still juggling pans. ‘He kept trying to eat everything.’

‘Well, I was starving. I’ve been training all afternoon!’

Lola summons Mathéo to help her dish up, and finally the four of them gather round the kitchen table.

‘So, what is this exactly?’ Hugo looks down at his plate, an eyebrow raised in mild concern.

‘I don’t think it has a name,’ Mathéo puts in.

‘Bangers and mash?’ Isabel suggests helpfully.

‘But there are baked beans,’ Hugo says doubtfully, forking up a spoonful of sausage and beans and observing it warily.

‘I made it from a Nigella recipe!’ Lola exclaims in outrage.

‘Uh – babe . . .?’

She turns towards Mathéo in annoyance. ‘What now?’

He fights back a laugh. ‘Is the mash
supposed
to be orange?’

‘Some of the baked beans fell in, OK?’ Lola yells in mock annoyance. ‘Just leave me alone, you ungrateful pigs!’

‘Wait, wait, I think we should make a toast,’ Mathéo says tactfully, shooting Lola a reconciliatory smile. He raises his can. ‘To the world’s most well-meaning cook!’

‘Absolutely!’ Isabel agrees.

‘And to the end of fucking Greystone!’ Hugo adds.

‘Jeez, yeah. Less than one week left!’ Isabel exclaims.

‘Hey, I think we’re going a bit off topic,’ Lola protests.

They all laugh, raising their glasses to her. ‘Cheers!’

A warm fug of love and camaraderie seems to envelop the room. Despite the mattresses waiting for them in front of the television in the living room, this all suddenly seems quite grown up and exciting.

Hugo is talking animatedly about the upcoming holiday. ‘First time without the parental unit – it’s going to be wild!’ he exclaims. ‘Matt, please tell me you’ve managed to persuade your parents to let you come for at least a few days.’

‘No, I’ve really got to get stuck into this new training routine,’ he answers quickly. ‘But next year, after the Olympics, definitely!’

‘Oh, bugger,’ Hugo complains. ‘Not even for the weekend?’

‘No, but Lola’s going to go,’ he informs Hugo lightly.

‘Really?’

Lola’s gaze meets his across the table. ‘I said I’d think about it.’ Some of the brightness suddenly leaves her face.

‘Persuade her, guys!’ Mathéo turns to the other two. ‘She’s never been to the South of France before and it’s her only chance to go on holiday this summer—’

‘Oh, come on, Lola! Lola, please!’ Hugo and Isabel instantly pitch in.

But her eyes haven’t left his. ‘But I’d rather spend time with—’

‘There won’t be any time,’ Mathéo says, forcing himself to keep his tone light. ‘Perez will have me training eight hours a day.’

‘You’re coming, then,’ Hugo declares.

Lola glances back at Mathéo. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! I want you to go – it’s wonderful there!’

Lola begins to smile and turns back to the others. ‘OK, then. I’d better hurry up and book my ticket.’

‘Yay!’ Whoops and cheers from Hugo and Izzy. Mathéo forces himself to join in.

The conversation soon turns to other things, like Lola’s show and the final inter-school cricket tournament. Hugo gets up and grabs a broom to demonstrate a particularly tricky cricket stroke, narrowly missing decapitating Isabel in the process, and laughs at Lola’s warning that if he doesn’t start being more careful, he will eventually find himself on trial for manslaughter. Everyone is chatting, but as they do, Mathéo feels himself – at first gradually, and then suddenly – slipping out of the conversation. It is as if something inside him has shifted, a thought or memory has returned, and he suddenly feels out of sync with the group, as if they are all part of a play and he has forgotten his lines. He doesn’t even feel left out of their holiday plans: he is used to such sacrifices. Yet out of nowhere, he is back to being the perennial outsider with his nose to the window, looking in on a world from which he is excluded. The others are in high spirits and increasingly talkative, but he starts having to make a concerted effort to focus on the conversation and try to chip in whenever he can, a task not made any easier by the fact that the girls are becoming shrill and Hugo never seems to stop talking. Their words cannon through his brain, making his head hurt. He feels heavy with thoughts, weighed down by them; and terribly tired – tired of wit and intellect, everybody’s little displays of genius. Tired too of misspent and knotted energies, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of feeling he has something to hide. Yet he does, he knows he does, even though he still can’t remember what it is. Can’t remember or won’t remember? It is almost the same thing. Brighton. A cool night and a sky full of stars. The crunch of twigs and the crack of his fists against skin, his fists against bone. And the blood – always, always the blood, so bright and red beneath the light of the moon . . .