Hurt (32 page)

‘I’m fine, Mattie, but you . . .’ She winces and draws in air between her clenched teeth. ‘Hold still and let me have a look at those cuts.’

‘I’ll live.’ But Lola ignores him, soaking a cotton swab in iodine and dabbing at his cheek.

His head jerks back in reflex.

‘Ouch, sweetie, I’m sorry. But you’ve got a nasty gash on your cheek . . .’

He tries to hold still, letting his breath out in a rush. ‘Fuck, I should never have . . . I’m sorry.’

But there is no anger in her face. As she leans in close to clean the cut below his eye, he feels her breath on his cheek, sees her eyes – wide, trusting, full of concern.

He turns away from her. ‘It’s OK now.’

The corners of her lips twitch into a small smile. ‘Will you stop being a wuss and let me clean it?’

But it’s not the physical pain he objects to. Having her so near, her hand against his face, the gentle pressure of her fingertips against his temples, the soft touch of the cotton wool against his cheek . . . He feels as if he might break.

Lola stops suddenly, drawing her hand back with a look of alarm.

‘It’s – it’s just the iodine,’ he tells her quickly. ‘Makes my eyes sting.’

‘But I’m using water—’

‘Well—’ His voice quavers. ‘Well, that – that stings too!’

She lowers her hand from his face and gives him a long look as he clenches his jaw and blinks back tears. Pushing the first-aid box aside, she reaches out for him. ‘Come here.’

‘I’m fine.’ He moves to get up from the bed, but Lola tugs him gently back down.

‘No, I mean come here. Come right here.’

He sinks back down onto the bed and she pulls herself across his lap. ‘You know what I was thinking when we were being pulled out by the current?’

‘No.’

‘That if I died – that if I had to die out there, drown at sea, at least it would be with you.’

Startled, he stares into her face, into her glistening eyes. ‘Goddammit, Lola! I would have never let you drown!’

Her bottom lip quivers for a second. ‘For a moment I thought that maybe – maybe you wanted to—’

‘
Drown?
’

‘You kept talking about leaving. Never going back. You were so determined to get away! I thought maybe the rape was making you wish you – you—’

‘No!’ He can feel his eyes filling, hot and heavy. ‘No, Lola, I don’t want to die any more. I want to live – but I want to spend the rest of my life with
you
!’ The tears hang heavy on his lashes, threatening to fall.

‘But that’s all I want too!’ Gently she slides her arms around his neck. ‘Come back to me, Mattie. Come back and tell me what happened. Don’t push me away any more. Tell me who hurt you. Tell me, Mattie. Please, darling, please . . .’

He must have fallen asleep, for when he wakes, Lola is gone and the room is filled with the thick, inky light of dusk. The balcony door is still open, the net curtains dancing in the breeze. The air has turned noticeably cooler, and outside the sky has begun to darken, the last rays of golden sunset falling in sparkled shards onto the glossy, deep blue of the sea. Mathéo can hear the distant buzz of voices rising from the floor below and wonders if the others have already had dinner. He thinks he can smell pizza or bolognese, and, still fuzzy with sleep, forces himself to sit up. He is famished after the day’s exertions: if they’ve started dinner he doesn’t want to miss it. Swinging his feet onto the floor, he rubs his eyes hard with the heels of his hands and then pads into the bathroom to use the loo and splash his face with cold water. Returning to the bedroom, he locates his clothes in the half-light and pulls them on, hovering by the mirror to run his hands through his unruly hair, rub the pillow crease from his cheek. Then he heads downstairs.

It isn’t until he reaches the bottom of the spiral staircase and finds them sitting on the sofas round the coffee table, plates on laps, that he realizes they have been talking about him again. He is not aware of even having heard his name, yet recognizes the look on their faces – that incriminating look of having been caught in the act. The startled expressions, the voices muted mid-sentence, the sudden, heavy silence, the atmosphere thick with the presence of embarrassment and guilt.

‘We didn’t hear you come down.’ Hugo is the first to break the wall of silence, his tone almost accusatory.

Mathéo pauses for breath, searching for a way to hold onto the feelings of relative peace and calm he woke up with only moments before.

‘Sorry, didn’t realize I was supposed to knock.’ He manages to keep his tone light, his response jocular, eager to give them an easy way out. A quick change of subject is all that is needed. He won’t probe – Lola will fill him in later: no doubt they were still digesting yesterday’s news. But that’s fine, that is the past; he has put it behind him finally, and now . . . He looks towards Lola and gives her a smile.

She doesn’t return it. ‘It’s just that we were worried . . .’

‘It’s my fault,’ Hugo says slowly, his tone strangely low and grave. ‘I suggested it first.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Mathéo shrugs quickly with a forgiving smile. ‘As long as you’ve left me some of that lasagne—’

‘So you agree with us?’ Hugo looks surprised.

‘About what?’

‘About what we were just discussing,’ Hugo replies. ‘Going back to London tomorrow and telling the police.’

Mathéo freezes. The stupid smile seems stuck to his face. ‘What?’ He can hear his heart.

‘Doesn’t matter. We can talk about it in the morning,’ Lola says quickly, glancing rapidly round at the others.

‘But if we’re flying back tomorrow, we’ll need to book our plane tickets tonight,’ Isabel protests.

Mathéo steps back unsteadily, meets a pillar, leans on it with some relief as his knees suddenly begin to feel weak. ‘What do you mean? Why do we have to go home tomorrow?’ Breath quickening, he searches for Lola’s gaze but she refuses to meet his eyes, turning anxiously to look at Hugo for guidance instead.

Hugo stands up slowly. ‘Matt, listen. Lola told us you know the person who – who assaulted you. This is really serious. If you won’t tell us, then at least tell the police or your parents. Unless it was—’ He breaks off for a moment, and Mathéo watches the horror dawn on his friend’s face. ‘Unless it was your own – oh, shit . . .’

‘I don’t – it wasn’t—’ Mathéo fills his lungs in an attempt to steady his voice, but he is breathing too fast, the air shuddering in his chest, making him shake. ‘It’s gone, it’s in the past, it’s done with, Hugo. I’m not talking to the police or anyone else!’

‘But, Matt, for God’s sake, man, you can’t just let this go! There’s a fucking predator out there and you know who he is!’

Lola jumps up, reaches towards Hugo. ‘Please let’s not argue – we can talk about this rationally—’

‘You don’t think I know that!’ Mathéo hears himself shout. ‘You don’t think that every waking second I’m living in fear that this psycho, this – this predator – might strike again?’

‘Then for God’s sake, do something about it!’

Lola is tugging at Hugo’s arm. ‘Come on, don’t. We agreed we’d all talk to him about this calmly.’

Mathéo feels the sweat break out across his back. Suddenly, even the pillar supporting him doesn’t feel altogether solid. ‘You – you . . .’ He stares at Lola, struggling to catch his breath. ‘You agreed with him? You planned to force me to go to the police too?’

Guilt washes across her face. ‘Not
force
, Mattie. But it’s – it’s – you said yourself it’s what you had to do!’

‘I said I didn’t know
what
to do! I thought you said you’d support me whatever I chose. I thought you understood, I thought you were on my side!’

All three of them are standing together now, ganging up against him. Three against one. His Lola, his darling, amongst them.

She breaks away, moves towards him. ‘Mattie, it’s not like that! It’s not about taking sides!’

Somehow, before she can reach him, he manages to move. Across the room and down the hallway and out of the front door. Through the garden, over the grass, right out to the cliff edge, and down the slippery, stumbling, uneven steps in the rock face – down, down, down towards the sea.

The tide is so far out it’s barely visible. Miles of darkened sand seem to stretch ahead of him, striated with beams of orange and gold from the setting sun. At first he is running, but this morning’s rowing has weakened him, and soon he is forced to slow to a stride, the muscles in his legs shaking with exhaustion.

‘Mattie, where are you going? Mattie, wait for chrissakes!’ He can hear the slap of Lola’s sandals on the hard sand behind him, hear her panting breath, hear the panic in her voice. ‘Mattie, wait for me, please. Just listen to me for a second!’

He feels her hand attempt to grasp his, but lengthens his stride. ‘You were talking to them about it? You were agreeing with Hugo’s shit?’

‘Only because I’m worried about you!’

‘Hugo doesn’t know fuck about anything! He has no idea! No idea at all!’

‘But he cares about you. And he’s right, sweetheart! We
do
need to go home, we can’t hide out here for ever! What happened to you was terrible – you need to tell your parents for a start. And Mattie, you said you know this guy so you’ve
got
to report him to the police.’

Lengthening his stride, he turns just enough to see her running, hair blowing across her face, cheeks flushed with exertion, eyes glistening with tears.

‘Oh my God! You don’t understand! Go to the police? It would be a disaster – a fucking disaster, Lola!’

‘You wouldn’t have to go through some dreadful court case. You are perfectly entitled to go to the police, say you don’t want to prosecute, but just give them a name—’

‘I’m not going to the police!’

‘Then just put it in a letter. If he was waiting for you outside the Aquatic Centre there’ll have been other people about – spectators and staff who can corroborate your story.’

‘You’re not listening to me! I’m never going to the police! I told you that right at the start – how can you turn against me now?’

Lola slows to a fast walk as the gap between them closes. He can make out the determination in her face, the rise and fall of her chest, the small puffs of exertion as she works to keep up. ‘You wouldn’t even have to be directly involved! Write it anonymously and I’ll hand it in for you! What the police do with him then is up to them, but at least you’ll have done
something
to try to stop him from abusing someone again!’

‘Why won’t you listen to me? I don’t
want
to do anything!’

‘But sweetheart, don’t you see? Hugo is right about one thing – this guy will attack again; maybe he already has! By doing nothing you are letting the sicko go free! You’ve been through hell already! How could you have that on your conscience?’

The line of the sea is gradually approaching, the shimmering white wavelets reaching out further with each exhalation, the water reflecting the light like glass, stunning in the evening sun. He will keep walking – keep walking until he reaches them, splash through the delicate veils of lace until they get deeper, covering his sandals, his ankles, soaking up the bottom of his jeans. He will keep wading until the weight of the water pulls him down, sucks him beneath the surface, wraps him up in the rising tide.

‘On my conscience? On my conscience? Do you have even the faintest idea of what I have on my conscience?’ He whips round to face her, walking backwards, sandals splashing in the shallows. ‘I am dying here, Lola!’ he hears himself yell. ‘I’m dying inside. I wish I was dead!’ He feels the punch of his fist against his own stomach. ‘I wish he’d fucking killed me!’

‘But – but why?’

‘Because I can’t tell. Not the police, not anyone! And by not telling, then yes, I’m fully aware I’ll have to live with that on my conscience – the fact that he will most likely continue to – to abuse.’ The wavelets wash against his feet, lapping against his sandals, working their way up the legs of his jeans. He turns round to see that Lola has stopped several metres back, still on dry sand, hugging herself against the wind.

‘But Mattie, you’re not making any sense! If you feel that way, why can’t you just give a statement, or simply his name?’

‘Because, Lola, that man – that man has a family! A family which will be ripped apart, destroyed, torn to shreds!’

They are both having to shout to be heard now, the wind out here so powerful it tugs at their hair, their clothes, almost threatens to knock them over. Behind him he is aware of the rising waves – the semblance of calm from a distance revealing itself as choppy sea and blustering air.

‘Who the hell is it?’ Lola shouts.

‘I can’t – I can’t tell!’

‘If he has a family, then all the more reason to tell! His kids could be in danger themselves!’

‘That’s why—’ Gritting his teeth, he runs his hands frantically through his hair, ready to pull it out. ‘That’s why I don’t know what the fuck to do!’

He chokes on a sob and stumbles backwards, the water was now almost reaching his knees. He thought it was going to be OK. She let him think he’d got away with it, buried it in the past. She allowed him to think he was safe – safe from ever having to tell, from ever having to live through it again. He puts his face in his hands. Between the cracks in his fingers he watches as, in the glory of the evening light, Lola approaches him tentatively, brow puckered with concern. ‘Mattie, sweetheart, please don’t cry. This pervert’s family is the least of your concerns.’

Slowly, painfully, he lifts his face from his hands, cheeks wet with tears, shaking hard. ‘Lola, oh God! It’s the greatest concern – the greatest concern of all!’

‘What?’ She wades through the shallows to reach him, takes his hand softly in hers, pulls him gently back onto dry land. ‘I don’t understand, sweetheart. What on earth do you mean?’

Mathéo stares at her through the kaleidoscope of light refracting through the tears in his eyes and realizes that this is it. This is actually going to happen. There is no turning back, no running away; he has run out of options, of excuses, he has no choice now. Perhaps he never did. Perhaps, after that horrendous night, every path available to him was always going to lead to this crucial, horrific point in time. One he wrestled and fought to escape without ever realizing that all along, it was totally out of his control. After that night there was never really any going back. The die was cast and, with the throw, this moment in time set by default on the trajectory of his new life. Unavoidable. Inescapable. Postponable for a time, but only until now. He bows his head and feels the acute pain of something breaking inside him – something permanent, something he knows will never, ever mend.