Hurt (15 page)

Appearing to notice his flagging social skills, Lola flashes him an encouraging smile, and suddenly he wishes the other two would simply disappear and he could just be alone with her. As the conversation turns to the evening’s movie schedule, Mathéo reaches for her hand beneath the table, slipping his fingers between hers, gently squeezing them. The kitchen seems to have become very small, overheated and claustrophobic. Even though the food actually turned out pretty well, he finds he has no appetite. Talking and gesticulating, Lola withdraws her hand from his and the brief moment of solidarity between them instantly evaporates. He aches to reach back for her, but she has picked up her knife again. He pushes his fingers into the cool hollow of the chair-back. Fatigue, both physical and emotional, presses down upon him like an invisible force. As the other three wax ever louder, his own silence appears increasingly pronounced, and the more aware he grows of his reticence, the more paralysed he feels by it. Lola is making stalwart efforts to draw him into the conversation, but he keeps missing the bait. Perhaps because he suddenly feels painfully attuned to what the others must think of him as he just sits there in silence. Moody, strange, crazy even. And that’s the thing. They are right. Of course, they are absolutely right.

Isabel produces brownies for dessert, and Mathéo slips his hand around Lola’s again, curling his fingers round her thumb and pressing the heel of his hand against her palm.
Don’t pull away
, he wants to say.
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but suddenly I need you, I really do.

After dinner they load the dishwasher and pile into the living room, fighting over mattresses, still arguing over which films to put on. Mathéo feels as if he is watching it all from a very great distance. He wishes he could just find some excuse and leave, but knows that Lola wouldn’t buy it, would be really upset if he just walked off yet again. With a concerted effort, he manages to dredge up answers when addressed, but otherwise feels completely incapable of initiating any kind of conversation. Fortunately Hugo is too tipsy to notice, but Isabel asks him if he is feeling OK more than once, and Lola keeps shooting him looks of alarm that set his pulse racing.

Collapsed in front of
Skyfall
, a relative calm descends as the evening draws to a close behind the curtain-less windows. Sprawled out on his front, propped up on his elbows and staring blankly at the television screen, Mathéo is aware of a rising pain within him. Everything hurts. He can barely lie still. He feels caught. He wants to run, but where? He feels certain he will always remain like this – trapped within his own body, his own mind. The emotional pain is so strong, it becomes physical. He feels it knotting and twisting inside him, ready to crush him, suffocate him. He is losing his grip, he is losing his mind. He thought he had it all back under control, but suddenly nothing makes sense any more. Does anyone else know what it’s like to be stuck somewhere between dead and alive? It is a half-world of incoherent pain where emotions you put on ice start slowly thawing again. A place where everything hurts, where your mind is no longer strong enough to force your feelings back into hibernation. His arms suddenly feel unable to support him and he drops his head between them, resting his face against the mattress. He is coming undone. And he is trapped, literally – there is nowhere he can go without making a scene. A caged animal with nowhere to run.

‘I think Mattie’s asleep,’ Isabel says suddenly.

Mathéo presses his face into the pillow and slows his breathing down to a deep, steady rhythm. Yes, let them think he is asleep. At least like that he won’t have to join in the conversation, pretend to be interested in their chatter, force laughter at the comedy the others are now enjoying.

‘Matt?’

‘Leave him, Hugo. He’s knackered from training.’ Lola’s voice, coming from the mattress beside him.

Moments pass. Hugo and Isabel go back to their running commentary. Mathéo is aware of the brush of Lola’s hair against his arm, her warm breath on his cheek. It takes all the willpower he can muster to stop himself from responding when he feels her lips against the corner of his mouth. ‘Love you,’ she whispers.

He holds his breath. Does she know he’s faking? But then Hugo makes some coarse remark, Lola laughs and threatens to thump him, more alcohol does the rounds. The second film comes to an end, chatter becomes interspersed with periods of silence, and gradually they all fall quiet beneath the darkened glow of the television, and someone begins to snore. He sinks into the mattress, overwhelmed with sadness, the feeling so strong it seems to be in his bloodstream, like a drug. The weight of it fills him up, pins him down . . .

She starts screaming. Really screaming. The kind of scream that comes from more than just fear. It’s a scream of horror; it’s a scream of someone who knows what lies in store. She is trying to get away, bleeding from a blow to the head, crawling over the hardwood floor. She reaches a white wall – reaches up. But she is cornered, trapped as the shadow falls over her. She is grabbed by the hair and dragged down the corridor to a bath – it is deep and full, and water spills over the edge as she is plunged inside. She fights and kicks and thrashes, splashing up water, soaking his shirt, but his grip on her neck is too strong. Gradually her attempts to free herself begin to weaken – she is slowing down, deprived of oxygen, lungs filling with water. The last few bubbles escape from her nose and rise to the surface and she is still, face white, lips blue, staring up at him, her eyes wide with horror and disbelief.

He can still hear the screaming, still hear her screaming, but now there are other sounds as well. Shouts and yells and hands pulling him this way and that, shaking him by the shoulders, and he sees eyes and faces and heads swarming above him against the bright yellow glow of the ceiling. The yells are now coming from him, bursting from his lungs and into the chaos of the room, rising above the voices.

‘Matt, Matt, stop it, you’re dreaming!’ Hugo is the one gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him, pulling him up and shouting in his ear.

‘Wake up, wake up!’ Isabel looks distraught, eyes huge in her face.

‘Mattie, come on. Look at me, look at me!’

He is sitting on a mattress in the Baumanns’ living room. He turns to look at Lola and tries to stop the anguished yell of terror erupting from his mouth. He tries to hold his breath, covers his mouth with his hands, tries to stop, manages to stop – leaving in its place a gasping, choking sound.

Hugo and Isabel shrink back, still staring at him in shock. He feels Lola’s hands on either side of his face, holding him still, trying to stop the rocking, forcing him to look at her.

‘Mattie, look at me. It’s just me. It’s Lola. You’re all right,’ she says. ‘You’re all right.’ Her tone is hushed but her eyes betray her distress. She begins to gently stroke his back, and he is aware that his T–shirt is drenched in sweat.

‘No!’ The word bursts from him like a bullet. ‘No!’

‘No, what?’

‘She’s all right! She’s all right!’

‘Yes, she’s all right,’ Lola nods earnestly. ‘She’s all right. You’re all right. Everybody’s all right.’

He hears his breathing grow ragged, feels himself shake. His cheeks are wet. He seems to be crying, muffled sobs breaking the taut, shocked silence.

Hugo is saying something. ‘Hey, buddy, it was just a dream!’

‘You’re awake now,’ Isabel informs him. ‘You’re awake, Mattie! It’s OK!’

‘Jesus!’ Hugo sounds vaguely appalled. ‘What the hell’s happening to him?’ He looks at Lola. ‘Do you think he can hear us?’

‘You can hear us, can’t you, Mattie?’ Her eyes are still fixed on his as if willing him back to the present. ‘You know you’re awake, don’t you?’

He nods, still trying to quell the gasping, sobbing sound.

‘Jesus,’ Hugo says softly, again. ‘Should we call someone?’

‘You just need to calm down, sweetheart. You just need to calm down . . .’ Despite her wide-eyed expression, Lola’s voice is soothing. Sitting on the mattress beside him, she strokes her fingers up and down his cheek, holding him close.

‘I – I want—’ He takes a deep breath in an effort to steady his voice. ‘I want . . .’

‘What do you want?’ she prompts him quietly.

‘I just want to f-forget—’ He reaches out for her. ‘I just need to forget. Lola, you’ve got to help me forget!’ His voice sounds strange: brittle and panicky.

‘What the fuck . . .?’ Hugo asks, his voice rising again.

‘Is he still dreaming?’ Isabel sounds bewildered.

‘Mattie, we can do that,’ Lola says earnestly. ‘I can help you forget.’

He looks around at the three blank faces. Realizes they have no idea what he is talking about. He rubs his cheeks hard and takes a deep, steadying breath.

‘It – it was just a nightmare.’ Breath. ‘I was just imagining things, as usual.’ Yet he can’t remember ever having a nightmare as vivid as this before.

‘We know!’ Isabel exclaims.

Mathéo swallows, forcing himself into some semblance of calm. ‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ he says, trying to keep his tone off-hand. ‘But I’m fine, OK?’ A certain hardness enters his voice and it comes out defensive.

‘You don’t look fine.’ Hugo still sounds deeply shocked. ‘What the hell was the nightmare about?’

He finds himself sliding back on his mattress, wishing Hugo and Isabel would just disappear. ‘Look, just give me some space, OK? I’m fine – you don’t all need to make such a fuss. Jesus!’ He is no longer speaking in measured tones, the anger burning in his cheeks. He wishes they would all disappear. He wishes he could just disappear. They don’t need to see him like this. They don’t need to act all concerned. They are driving him mad!

‘Dude, come on. We’re just trying to help!’

‘I don’t need your help!’

‘Mattie . . .’ Eyes sharp and watchful, Lola raises her palms in a peace-making gesture. ‘No one’s making a fuss, OK?’

‘Fine. Then just go back to sleep!’ He registers the hurt in Lola’s eyes and it makes him want to scream. ‘I’m going to get a drink of water. Goodnight.’

He exits the room, flipping off the light switch as he goes and banging the door behind him. Immediately, the voices start up again from behind it: Hugo saying he has never seen Mathéo like this before, insisting they should call someone. Lola responding that it would only make things worse . . . In the privacy of the kitchen, he leans heavily against the closed door and bends down, hands on his knees. He bites down hard on his lower lip and screws his eyes shut, fending off a deep, dark desire to fall to the floor and weep. He is starting to feel he must be going insane. His mind seems to be full of angry, red, spitting sparks, making him want to hurl things, smash plates, hurt someone: punch Hugo, smack Isabel, hurt Lola badly so that she understands how he is feeling. He straightens up and wipes the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He is going crazy. He is evil, truly evil, evil and dangerous. He shouldn’t even be here.

He starts violently, jumping away from the door as he hears the handle turn behind him. He goes over to the counter and tries to pour himself a glass of wine, but little goes into the glass and the alcohol forms a small crimson pool around the base, like blood against the white tiles. His fingers are trembling, casting shaky shadows on the table. His breath catches in his throat as he feels Lola approach from behind, sliding her arms around him.

‘Don’t—’ He starts to move away, trying to prise her arms from around his waist.

She holds on resolutely, pressing her mouth into the dip between his shoulder-blades, her breath hot against his skin. ‘Please tell me what’s going on. You’ve been in this strange mood for weeks, and it’s getting worse.’

He reaches for a sponge to mop up the spillage, drops it and presses the back of his hand to his face. ‘I don’t know—’ His voice cracks. ‘I feel like I’m going crazy!’

She hugs him tighter, her cheek pressed against his back. ‘Jesus, you’re trembling!’

He lifts the wine bottle to his lips and takes a deep slug, the liquid burning the back of his throat, rivulets running down the side of his chin and onto his neck. He gulps – spluttering, choking.

Lola releases him and tries to prise the bottle out of his hands. ‘Come on, Mattie. What are you doing?’

He steps back, holding the bottle out of reach, and a bark of laughter escapes him. ‘What does it look like? Getting wasted. I wanna pass out, forget all this shit—’

‘What shit?’ Lola’s expression turns from one of concern to one of anguish.

He winces and moves away, leaving the kitchen and opening the door into the garden, trying to lose her in the damp cool of the night. He waves the question away with the back of his hand, aware of her following him, rubbing her lower lip with the tip of her index finger the way she always does when worried. He wishes she would go away, leave him alone, sick of being the cause of her anxiety.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know!’

Silhouetted against the heavy, dark sky, the neighbouring rooftops have the unreal, one-dimensional look of figures pasted in a collage. He stops at the end of the garden, leans against the damp of the brick wall and slides down to sit against it, elbows on knees, his torso limp and yielding. He swigs wine from the bottle as if it were water, hoping it will anaesthetize him. Lola sits down on the grass and hugs her knees to her chest, her white nightie ghostly in the moonlight.

‘Is getting drunk really going to help?’

He takes another long swig, half laughs, half chokes. ‘Yes! Especially if after I’ve finished you hit me over the head with this bottle!’

She doesn’t smile. Instead, stays huddled with her knees under her nightie, the whites of her eyes luminous in the darkness. He finishes off the wine, tips back his head and watches the stars expand and retract above, aware that a chill has risen around them, a cold breeze carrying the promise of cooler days. Goosebumps rise beneath his damp clothes and he seems to drift in and out of consciousness. It lasts for ever, or only a minute, or it passes so quickly that it barely happens at all. That it’s the middle of the night makes little difference. If there is no real beginning, and no real end, what does time really mean?