Hurt (16 page)

Silence has enveloped them. The words continue to hang unspoken in the air, creating a vortex of unasked and unanswered questions swirling between them. He can tell that Lola has run out of words, is at a loss over what to do next. He feels consumed by the terrible feeling that he is losing her, that the gulf of misunderstanding between them is widening by the minute, washing her away from him, out to sea. Like the girl in the bath, her eyes are locked onto his, desperately trying to hold on. But it’s no use, he sees that now. Whatever efforts he may make to hold on to her, she will ultimately be swept away from him. They do not belong together any more. He feels it with such earth-shattering certainty that it takes his breath away. He wants to scream at her not to abandon him here but knows that it’s useless; that despite her efforts, she cannot reach him now. Her face, bleached in the moonlight, appears before him as if sunk in deep water – as in his nightmare. Gradually her attempts to reach him begin to weaken – she is slowing down. The last few bubbles escape from her nose and rise to the surface, and she is still, staring up at him, her eyes wide in horror.

He skips school the following day. Texts Perez with the excuse of a bad cold and persuades Consuela, after his parents have left for work, to phone Greystone. She seems to believe him and tries to bring him soup, but he keeps his bedroom door firmly locked and only goes down to gather snacks from the kitchen after everyone has gone to bed. He tries listening to music, tries reading, tries playing computer games, but cannot concentrate on anything. Most of all he tries to sleep; he craves oblivion – the absence of thought, of fears, of memories that constantly threaten to pierce through the fragile membrane of his subconscious. He no longer wants to recall what happened that night in Brighton. He knows he did something terrible, and that is as much knowledge as he can bear. At times he thinks he has some idea of what it might have involved, but whenever he tries to face it, his thoughts go skidding off in another direction, terrified of the images that lie buried deep down in the darkest recesses of his mind.

That morning he’d left Lola’s sleepover early with the excuse of training, and texted her later to apologize for his behaviour, using an excess of alcohol as his excuse. He senses she doesn’t believe him, though, and she calls to check up on him in the evening. He presses the handset hard against his ear, as if trying to bring her closer to him, absorb the sound of her voice, fill his empty chest with the warmth of her words. He already misses her desperately – clenching his hands into fists and biting his knuckles to stop himself from jumping up and going round to see her. There is a gaping hole inside him, a yawning void where she should be – at his side, in his arms, snuggled up against him. Yet she fills his night with terrors: obscure, twisted dreams of her trapped underwater and drowning.

The next day, however, he has no choice – his mother is going to work late and, despite his protestations, decides she will drive both sons to school on her way. Loïc is delighted at this unusual turn of events, and chatters non-stop until they reach his school gates. As they pull away, however, leaving him still waving on the pavement, their mother turns to Mathéo with a sharp crease between her thin, perfectly plucked eyebrows.

‘Perez called last night. Said you took yesterday off.’

‘Had a cold. Didn’t want to risk it affecting my balance.’ Mathéo turns away quickly from his mother’s stare, propping his elbow against the edge of the open window and chewing his thumbnail. He can tell from her silence that she is unconvinced. ‘Did – did you tell Dad?’ He cringes inwardly at the note of anxiety creeping into his voice.

‘No,’ she answers slowly. ‘I expected you to.’

‘I didn’t want to worry him.’ His voice comes out brittle and defensive. ‘You know what a fuss he makes if I ever miss a session.’

‘I think he’d have been sympathetic if you weren’t feeling well.’ Her voice softens slightly. She sounds disappointed, hurt even.

He tears at a hangnail.

‘You seem kind of . . . distant, lately,’ his mother continues quietly, turning the wheel with a soft, velvety sound beneath her perfectly manicured hands. ‘Is everything all right?’

It throws him, this unexpected display of concern, and for a moment he is unable to reply. Perhaps, despite her workaholic lifestyle, she notices things more than he gives her credit for.

‘Mattie’ – she hasn’t called him that for ages – ‘if there’s something bothering you, I’d like to think that, as your mother, I’m someone you’d trust enough to tell about it.’

‘There – there isn’t,’ he says too quickly, hating his giveaway stammer. ‘I’m just a bit tired after the, um – the – the, you know . . .’ His mind goes blank suddenly. He is overcome with the strange feeling of falling through space, like a dive with no form. ‘Mum?’ He looks at her, breathing hard. Suddenly he wants to tell her – all of it. The blackout the night after the competition, the overwhelming feeling that something terrible occurred, the nightmares, the certainty that something within him has irrevocably changed.

‘
Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas, mon chéri?
’ She has pulled to a halt outside the emptying school grounds. He feels himself flush, his throat constrict. Perhaps if she hadn’t used that term of endearment, perhaps if she hadn’t looked so very unusually . . . caring for a moment, he would have been able to tell her.

‘No, it’s – it’s nothing. Thanks for the lift. See you tonight.’

She reaches out to touch his cheek, but he grabs his bag and ducks out of the car before she has a chance to make contact, slamming the door behind him and giving her a reassuring wave before jogging across the asphalt to class.

Although it has only been a couple of days, Mathéo feels as if he has not seen Lola for weeks, and spends the first half of the morning counting down the minutes until break. But Lola is nowhere to be found. Despite having arranged to meet her at their usual hangout before saying goodnight to her on the phone last night, he ends up spending the whole of morning break sitting on one of the benches at the bottom of the cricket pitch alone like a fool, pretending to watch the inter-school match while calling her mobile and repeatedly getting her voicemail. He goes in search of her at the auditorium and then the school gym, but no musical rehearsals appear to be taking place today. He walks past the cell-like window in the door of the drama department more than a dozen times, until some of the pupils begin to notice and turn their heads. With a sigh of exasperation, he checks his mobile for a reply to his text, a missed call – but still nothing, and he is beginning to get antsy now. Lola always has her phone on her – if for some reason she wasn’t able to come in to school, she would let him know. Anyway, she sounded perfectly fine when they spoke last night. Something must have happened this morning. Something serious enough to stop her from even answering her phone. He is beginning to feel sick, filled with a terrible sense of foreboding, as if he will never see her again.

When lunch finally comes around, Mathéo grabs his tray and hurries towards their usual table at the far end of the canteen, but finds only Hugo and Isabel seated there. He drops his tray onto the table with a clatter and performs a thorough scan of the busy hall before scraping back a chair and throwing himself into it.

‘Where the hell is she?’

‘Well, hello! Good to see you too!’

‘What?’ He forces himself to meet Hugo’s questioning gaze, his voice coming out sharper than intended.

He is aware of Hugo and Isabel exchanging glances. ‘Earth to Matt . . .’ With a highly irritating noise, Hugo clicks his fingers in front of Mathéo’s face in an overblown attempt to get his attention.

‘We’re right here – can you see us?’ Isabel laughs. ‘Lola’s not in today.’

‘What? Why?’

They both look so startled that he realizes he is no longer speaking in measured tones.

He takes a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I – I just need to talk to her about something important. Have you got any idea where she is?’

‘Whoa – a very important question?’ Hugo performs his infuriating eyebrow wiggle and Isabel snorts.

‘Look, do you know where she is or not?’ Shouting was a mistake: a couple of students at the next table turn at the sound of his raised voice.

‘Mate, what’s going on?’ Hugo’s expression merges into a mixture of annoyance and concern.

‘Nothing, I – I’m just trying to ask you a simple question—’

‘We don’t know,’ Isabel cuts in swiftly. ‘We haven’t seen her today. She’s probably just got a dental appointment or something and forgot to let us know. Have you tried her phone?’

‘Of course I’ve tried her phone!’

‘Hey, c’mon – chill, man!’ Even usually laid-back Hugo is beginning to look discomforted by the unwanted attention. ‘What’s the emergency?’

Mathéo empties his lungs, trying to bring his tone back down to a more acceptable register. ‘I thought you were supposed to be her friends! Don’t you give a damn about her?’

Hugo’s head jerks back in surprise and he stares at him, stung. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back off there, buddy. You’re being a dick!’

‘Why?’ He finds himself shouting again, despite his efforts to stay calm. ‘Because I’m the only one who is concerned about Lola’s whereabouts when she doesn’t turn up at school and switches off her phone?’

‘She often skips school at the last minute to go on one of her dad’s shoots, you know that—’

He feels his heart skip a beat. ‘Jesus, how can you just say that? Something could have happened to her!’

Hugo stares at him. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid, mate? Not to mention possessive?’

Mathéo stops breathing for a moment, feels the blood rush to his face. He pins his friend with a look of undisguised fury. ‘Possessive?’ He takes a painful breath. ‘Fuck you!’

Before he has a chance to think, he has jumped to his feet, kicking back his chair and sending his fork clattering across the table, overturning Hugo’s glass. There is a sudden hush around them as pupils at neighbouring tables turn to watch the commotion.

Hugo’s eyes widen and he takes a breath to reply, but before he has the chance, Mathéo grabs his bag and strides out of the canteen.

Damn them, damn them, damn them!
He paces the empty classroom, fist pressed against his mouth, knuckles pushing his lip hard against the ridge of his teeth. He breathes in slow, rhythmic breaths, trying to calm down. He is not going to get upset over Hugo’s stupid big mouth and mocking banter. But in spite of his efforts, the irrefutable knowledge slowly sinks in that he has only succeeded in cutting himself off from his friends even further. They have been talking about him behind his back ever since he returned from Brighton – of that he is sure. They even treat him differently now – as if he is a little fragile, a little unstable, a little broken. It’s almost as if they
know
. And yet that is impossible. Who would have told them? Unless they have guessed; unless he has betrayed himself with his own demeanour and they have read the guilt in his eyes . . . Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps Lola has found out what happened and . . . If she has, it’s not surprising she’s not answering her phone and is skipping school. She won’t want to see him again. Not ever. She won’t be coming back. Oh God!

‘Hey—’ Mathéo turns from the window with a start at the sound of Hugo’s voice in the doorway. ‘She’s just started rehearsals in the gym.’

‘What?’ He takes a step back in surprise, banging his hip against the windowsill. ‘How – how do you know?’

‘A couple of Year Sevens in the canteen just told me. They had a late start.’

Draining his lungs, Mathéo sags back against the sill, the anger suddenly ebbing from his veins, his body weak with relief. ‘Oh . . .’ He feels the blood rise to his cheeks. ‘Oh, OK . . . Um, thanks.’ He tears at a hangnail, stares at the floor, breathing hard.

Hugo is watching him carefully, eyes narrowed in concern. ‘Are you OK?’

Mathéo takes a sharp breath, attempts a conciliatory smile. ‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry I snapped. I just – I just . . .’ He shakes his head, his voice tailing off as he finds himself unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for his earlier outburst.

He is aware of Hugo closing the classroom door and slowly crossing the room. ‘Matt, what’s going on?’

‘Nothing! I – I just . . . Nothing!’ Keeping his head lowered, Mathéo raises one arm slightly to keep Hugo at a distance.

Hugo stops. Leans against the whiteboard. ‘Come on. We’ve been mates for years, but suddenly I feel like I don’t know you any more. You storm off in the middle of conversations; there was that crazy nightmare; you look like shit—’

‘Thanks!’ Mathéo forces himself to meet Hugo’s gaze and manages a brief laugh.

But Hugo’s expression remains serious. ‘You know what I mean. You look like you haven’t slept properly in ages. Don’t tell me you’re already stressing out about our A-level results! Or are things not working out between you and Lola?’

Mathéo feels himself flinch. ‘No!’

‘Jeez, come on – it’s Lola, isn’t it? I tell you everything about Izzy—’

‘It’s not what you think, Hugo.’ His voice has begun to rise again, he can feel the constriction in his throat. ‘It’s – it’s fucking complicated, OK?’

‘Then tell me. I’m not gonna blab.’

He winces as if struck, sucking in air through his clenched teeth. For a moment he thinks he’s going to lose it completely, break down in front of his oldest friend.

‘Damn it, Hugo!’ He slams his fist against the windowsill behind him. ‘Just – just stop asking me fucking questions I can’t answer.’ He feels his voice catch, tears swarm into his eyes. ‘Please! Jesus . . .’

Hugo looks suitably stunned. ‘Hey, buddy, come on. I didn’t come here to make it worse—’

‘Then stop it, OK?’

Hugo holds up his hands. ‘Fine! Take it easy, Matt. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

With ragged breaths, Mathéo turns back to the window in an effort to recover his composure. Biting the corner of his lip, he stares down at the cricket match on the pitch below, blinking rapidly.

‘Do you want me to go?’ Hugo asks after a long moment.