Hurt (26 page)

After a while Lola goes back into the room, chilly from the cool air coming in off the sea, and turns off the light, rolls down the duvet and slides under the thin cotton sheet. Hair spread out across the pillow, she seems to be waiting, curled up on her side, waiting and watching him, her eyes wide and bright in the moonlight.

‘Mattie?’ she says softly after a while. ‘Aren’t you tired?’

‘Yeah. I’ll come in a sec.’

He feels her pause, feels her mind working. ‘You mustn’t think we have to . . . I mean, I’m not expecting anything. We don’t need to – you know – do anything. Not until you’re ready, or – or
ever again
if you don’t want to—’

He turns to look at her, his breath accelerating. ‘What?’

‘After what happened, I totally understand if you never want—’

He comes in swiftly from the balcony, shutting the doors firmly behind him, and takes a shaky breath, leaning back against the glass. ‘You – you don’t want to have sex with me any more? I haven’t caught anything, you know. The first thing I did when I remembered was get checked out.’

Her expression changes and she props herself up on her elbow. ‘Of course I want to have sex with you! I just thought, after the last couple of, uh – tries, that maybe you’d prefer to wait a while.’

He turns back to look at the gathering darkness, his heart hammering, the blood pulsing in his cheeks.

‘Mattie?’

He doesn’t reply.

‘All I’m saying is that it’s entirely up to you.’

‘It’s not like I can’t – I can’t do it any more, you know!’ His voice comes out loud and shaky with humiliation and fear. The truth is, he doesn’t know. Maybe he can’t. Both attempts after that night – the night he was raped – had ended in disaster. Maybe his body will reject all forms of sex from now on for its own protection. Maybe he will never be free of the memories; sex will for ever be inextricably linked with pain and helplessness and anger and terror, and he will have to spend the rest of his life alone, locked into his painful secret.

He turns to half face her, fiddling with the net curtains. ‘I know what happened was pretty gross. So – so if you don’t want to, that’s – that’s perfectly understandable.’

The look on Lola’s face makes him flinch and he feels his throat contract.

‘Oh Mattie, of course I do. You’re still you.’

‘I just really don’t want you to stay with me out of pity or – or something!’ he says raggedly. ‘We – we could still stay friends. Best friends.’ He gives a short laugh in a desperate bid to lighten the atmosphere.

Stricken, Lola gets out of bed and moves tentatively across the room towards him. ‘You already are my best friend,’ she says quietly. ‘But nothing’s changed, Mattie. I still love you just as much as before. More, if that’s even possible.’

She moves towards him, but he holds out a restraining hand, terrified that if Lola so much as touches him, he will crumble. ‘But – but how can you, now that you know what happened? What – what I’ve done. Doesn’t it disgust you?’

‘God, Mattie, no!
You
didn’t do anything wrong!’ She stops a couple of metres away and stares at him with pink-rimmed eyes.

Jokingly, he waves his index finger at her. ‘Don’t you f-fucking start!’ He tries to laugh again but manages only a jagged gasp.

‘You shouldn’t have felt you had to keep it to yourself for so long.’ Lola’s voice quivers. ‘All that time you had to pretend—’

‘Stop it, it was fine. For ages I just couldn’t remember. I knew I’d done something terrible, but it wasn’t until I woke up in hospital after the diving accident . . .’ He shakes his head at her in mock exasperation, but as he attempts a reassuring smile, a tear escapes, skimming the edge of his cheek.

‘
You
didn’t do anything, Mattie! It was that sicko who—’ She breaks off and he sees her wince, reaching out for his hand which he quickly moves away.

‘Don’t. It’s in the past. I’m OK now.’ He takes a ragged breath and feels a second tear fall from his lashes, hot and heavy. ‘At least I think so . . . Damn!’ He wipes the tear away with an angry flick of his hand.

‘Mattie—’

‘It’s OK.’ His voice cracks despite his attempt to reassure her. ‘It’s just that I feel so – so dirty, you know? And however many times I shower, however hard I scrub myself, I’m scared I’m always going to feel this way.’

‘But that’s a normal reaction, sweetheart. I’ve read up about stuff on rape, and they say it won’t last.’ She steps towards him, reaching out for him, but he moves away quickly, banging his elbow against the balcony door.

‘Lola, don’t! I’m fine. Look, it’s – it’s just been a long day!’ He scrapes at his cheeks with his fingertips and presses his fist against his mouth, afraid that if she touches him he will fall apart completely.

‘I know, sweetheart. I just want to hold you.’

Cupping his hands over his nose and mouth, he presses his forehead against the glass, sliding just out of reach. ‘Just – just give me a sec!’

‘Mattie, what you went through was terrible! Anyone would be upset!’

‘You don’t understand . . .’ He claws at his cheeks. ‘I was such a – a—’ He takes a frantic gulp of air. ‘A fucking coward—’

‘Mattie! How can you possibly think that?’

‘I was so scared of dying that I let him – I
let
him, Lola!’

‘You didn’t! He gave you no choice!’

‘I – I asked for it!’

She looks almost angry, her eyes very wide. ‘Stop it, Mattie!’

‘But then, once he started, and – and after it was over, I wished – God, I wished so much he’d just killed me instead!’ A sob escapes him and, hands over his face, he presses his forehead even harder against the balcony door, imagining the glass splintering all over him, cutting him to ribbons. ‘Why – why did I let him?’

Lola suddenly seems possessed by an unworldly strength, her arms around his torso, pulling him away from the window, manoeuvring him firmly towards the bed, despite his efforts to push her away.

‘Mattie, stop – look at me.’ Her voice is calm but her tone is firm, laced with anger, and she firmly grabs his wrists and pulls them down from his face, her hands on either side of his head, forcing him to meet her gaze.

‘You weren’t given a choice. It would have happened whatever you said or did. None of it was your fault, Mattie. None of it! Do you understand?’

‘I should have—’

‘No. Look at me, Mattie!’ Her voice rises again. ‘None of it was your fault.
None of it was your fault!
Are you hearing me?’

She is shouting now, her face flushed with a mixture of fury and desperation, and for a moment it catches him by surprise and he finds himself staring at her, startled by the absolute certainty of her words.

‘None of it, Mattie! I want you to say it:
It wasn’t my fault
. Say it, for chrissakes!’

‘Shh, we’ll – we’ll wake the others—’

‘Then say it!’

‘It wasn’t . . .’ A tremor runs through him, and suddenly he feels exhausted, barely capable of speech. ‘It wasn’t . . .’

‘Say it, Mattie.’ Her voice drops slightly. ‘Deep down, you know it’s true.’

‘It wasn’t’ – he closes his eyes and inhales deeply – ‘my fault.’ He scrunches up his eyes and holds his breath as a silent sob shakes him from the inside. ‘Fucking hell, that bastard! It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t my fault!’

The anger and the shame, the guilt and the fear have run their course – for now, at least – leaving him empty and vulnerable and exhausted: so exhausted in fact that he can barely sit up, slumped against Lola, his head on her shoulder. His face is pressed against her hot, damp neck – her hair in his face, his tears soaking the shoulder of her nightie. He is kneeling close to her and she has one hand against the back of his head, keeping it from slipping off her shoulder, and the other pressed against the clammy skin between his shoulder-blades, stroking his back in small rhythmic circles. Slowly his breathing stills and the night regains its calm, the steady rush of the waves on the beach outside soothing the hurt, washing him clean. Lola’s breathing is quiet and rhythmic too, and barely perceptibly they sway back and forth, as if the bed were a small boat far out at sea.

He is falling. Free falling through the air. He jumped from the plane without his parachute. The sky is bright above him, and when he hits the ground, he knows it will be hard. Hard enough to shatter every bone in his body. Hard enough to crack open his skull. His only hope is that it will be quick. That there won’t be a brief moment of consciousness when all he can feel is intolerable pain before death’s riptide. The ground rushes up to meet him, punching him in the face. He wakes with a start.

He is wet, his T–shirt sticking to his skin in damp patches. Turning his head gingerly on the pillow to check Lola is still sleeping, he climbs stealthily out of bed. Dawn has just broken and the first rays of sun are slanting through the gap in the curtains, creating a golden puddle on the floor.

In the bathroom, he peels off his damp clothes and steps under the boiling water, aware of a tightness around his shoulders where they have caught the sun. He washes himself thoroughly, the soap and his hands taking the sweat of the night away. Making him clean . . . almost. Almost. And then he just stands there, forehead pressed against the tiled wall, letting the water beat down over the back of his head.

When he returns to the bedroom, Lola is still sleeping, face down, sprawled out diagonally now across the mattress. After drying himself and pulling on a pair of boxers, he rolls gently onto his back beside her, careful not to disturb her. Head propped up on his hand, he looks down at her sleeping form, her bare back exposed, the thin white sheet tangled between her legs. She is so painfully pretty with her translucent white skin, the delicate pattern of veins just visible beneath the skin of her neck. Her tousled hair catches the light slanting through the curtains, turning it golden brown, wisps hanging over her closed eyes. Lying there, she appears so young, so vulnerable. Asleep, she hardly seems to be breathing at all and it scares him. Awake, she has so much energy, is so full of life. Her speech is so animated, her gestures expansive, her laugh explosive. She is almost childlike in her zest for living. Running into rooms instead of walking, slamming doors instead of simply closing them, shrieking with mirth instead of merely chuckling. She is the girl who takes his breath away, who exploded into his life nearly two years ago like a small bright firecracker, fizzing with vitality, dynamism, spontaneity. Everything she does is filled with tangible exuberance – she only has to walk into a room for people to turn round, her presence like an aura of fire, igniting the air about her. She has a magnetic appeal for all those who come within her radar, her fervent lust for life contagious, her gregarious nature like a warm cloak of friendship, drawing everyone in. He has never met anyone like her before. Through her eyes, the world seems to come alive again. And he knows that with her by his side, he will get through this, and one day feel normal again.

His gaze travels the length of her jaw, down the curve of her neck, across the delicate line of her collar bone. The silver teardrop pendant nestles in the hollow beneath her neck, and he can barely resist leaning down and kissing that most delicate, vulnerable place. As his eyes travel up and down her sleeping form he thinks,
She is so lovely, she is so kind, she is so beautiful . . . What have I done? God, what have I done?

After a lazy morning and a late lunch, they all finally descend onto the beach. By now the sun’s rays have reached every corner of the sky, turning it a bright, startling blue. At the end of the garden, the grass gives way to stone and sand, and they scramble down the almost vertical path – steep, sandy steps cut into the rock. On one side, a high bank of tall grass stretches up into the sky; on the other, the ground falls away into the sea. Plateaus of rock jut out from the cliff like shelves, outcrops visible all the way down to the shimmer of blue water, so far below that it appears as still as glass, despite white froth forming around the rocks within its reach. The cool air has turned hot and dry, the sun pounding down relentlessly from a cloudless sky.

Mathéo turns and holds out his hand to help Lola down the last bit. As they emerge out onto the wide stretch of deserted beach, everyone stops for a moment. They are in the most beautiful place, golden sand stretching out to the foamy white line in the distance, almost blinded by the sun’s dazzling rays, reflected up from the smooth expanse of cobalt-blue water. For the first time since school ended, Mathéo suddenly feels a sense of release in the air: he is free and light, cut loose from the relentless routine of training, school and homework for the first time in years, relieved of the pressure of getting good grades and winning competitions. It may only be temporary, but for now at least, he is his own person, finally able to put the hell of the past month behind him, forget about the nightmare of that one night, and extinguish the flashes of horror that have followed him around ever since. Although the black thoughts are still present, he is aware of no longer dwelling on them. Surrounded by blinding sea and bottomless sky, he is too overcome by the beauty of it all to continue to indulge such feelings further, and for the first time they find themselves relegated to the side-lines of his consciousness.

All together, they start to run, and moments later they find themselves standing at the water’s edge, watching the wavelets inhale and exhale against the vast expanse of smooth, empty beach. Lola and Isabel squeal each time the water touches their feet, and even he and Hugo are hesitating to take the first plunge.

‘Fuck, it’s cold!’ Hugo has waded in as far as his knees, and turns to the others with a grimace. ‘Come on, Izzy, there’s only one thing for it!’ He exchanges glances with Isabel, and the two of them retreat several metres back from the water’s edge before counting to three and racing into the water, yelling as they go. Hugo splashes in as Isabel follows at a slower pace, shrieking as the water reaches her thighs. Hanging back a little, Mathéo glances over at Lola, who has begun to inch her way forward, arms hugging her chest. She is wearing a yellow bikini and has the beginnings of a tan, her hair lit up by the sun. Mathéo bites his lip and follows tentatively, not so much because of the freezing water lapping at his calves but because he is still trying to drink all this in. As he follows Lola into the icy blue, he gazes at her back and thinks,
I love her. I love her so much.