Hurt (34 page)

Mathéo can hear the sound of his own breathing, shallow and unsteady, in the silence of the wood. His heart is knocking wildly against his ribcage like an animal trying to escape. ‘Jerry, I think you may have had a bit too much to drink or – or smoke—’ He lets out a startled gasp as Jerry pulls him into a fierce hug.

‘Jerry!’

‘What, I can’t give my favourite guy a congratulatory hug?’ Jerry asks, his arms wrapped tightly around Mathéo’s torso. But as Mathéo gives him a quick pat on the back and tries to step back, Jerry’s grip only tightens. ‘Easy, Mattie. What’s the rush? We’ve both been waiting for a moment to ourselves like this for so long.’

‘I – I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mathéo gasps raggedly, trying to push Jerry away. ‘Just – please let go of me. I think you’re drunk—’

‘Now come on, stop deluding yourself. I’ve spotted all your little signs,’ Jerry continues in the same syrupy voice. ‘Ever since we met you’ve been using my daughter as a reason to come round to see me, hang out with me, always staying as long as possible. Trying to spend as much time as you can on your own with me, having those private chats with me in the music shed . . .’ He turns his head so that his face is pressing against Mathéo’s ear, into Mathéo’s neck.

‘Get the fuck off me!’ What began as shock quickly changes to a burst of terrified adrenalin, and Mathéo tries to wrestle himself out of Jerry’s vice-like embrace. ‘You’re – you’re crazy! I come round to see Lola. I’m not – I’ve never been—’

‘Hey, no need to be shy.’ Jerry is beginning to pant now, struggling to keep hold of Mathéo. ‘It’s normal to want to experiment in your teens. And because I’m older, I can show you things, teach you—’

‘Fucking pervert!’ Mathéo shouts furiously. He tries to knee Jerry in the groin but catches the top of his leg instead, though hard enough to send him staggering back.

Then something snaps in Jerry’s expression, and as Mathéo turns to run, he launches himself at him, grabbing Mathéo by the throat and slamming him back against the nearest tree with brutal force.

It takes Mathéo a moment to react. But when he does, all he can manage is to loosen Jerry’s hand on his windpipe so that he can breathe.

‘Oh, I see, you like it rough.’ Jerry’s face contorts into a strange smile. ‘Playing hard to get turns you on, does it?’

‘You’re a fucking psycho!’ Mathéo manages to gasp. Then, sucking in a lungful of air, he starts to yell.

Jerry smacks a hand down over Mathéo’s mouth, and suddenly his smile is gone. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he begins, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. ‘Lead me on for nearly two years and then just decide to change your mind? Make me out to be the bad guy?’

‘I never—’ Mathéo tries to reply from beneath Jerry’s tobacco-stained fingers. ‘I wasn’t leading you—’

‘Listen carefully,’ Jerry says quietly, his face so close to Mathéo’s that he can feel his damp breath on his cheek. ‘I have a knife.’ One hand still pressed against Mathéo’s windpipe, he lowers the other from Mathéo’s mouth, reaches into his jacket pocket and flicks open a switchblade. ‘If you make any noise, or try to run or decide to play the innocent little victim, I will kill you, do you understand?’

Mathéo tries to respond, but Jerry’s grip on his neck is too tight and he is running out of oxygen. Black spots dance before his eyes. He manages to nod.

‘Good.’ Jerry releases his grip slightly; brings the knife to the level of Mathéo’s throat. ‘Now get undressed.’

Gasping for air, Mathéo finds himself pinned between the knife and the tree. He tries to move sideways and feels the blade split the skin on his neck.

He freezes and finds himself babbling. ‘Jerry, I’m sorry, it was my mistake. I never meant to— But look, we can work this out, I’ll pay you as much as you want. I’ve got my credit card. You can have it. I’ll give you my PIN. Or you can take me to a cash machine—’

‘Shut up. You know I don’t want your money. Get undressed or, I swear, I’ll stab you right here, right now.’

‘But – but why?’ He feels sure this can’t be happening. He is trapped in a nightmare. He just needs to wake up. ‘Jerry, it’s me, Matt. I’m your daughter’s boyfriend. Why – why are you doing this?’

Grabbing the collar of his T-shirt, Jerry slashes at it with the knife. Mathéo hears himself shout, expecting to be stabbed. But there is no pain – just the cotton splitting apart and falling loosely to the ground around his ankles. Jerry still has his hand against his neck, pinning him to the tree. Now, the tip of the knife is pressed against his chest, right over his heart.

‘You want to – to – to rape me?’ Mathéo can hardly believe he is saying the words. Barely recognizes the sound of his own voice, so faltering and shaky.

‘Take off your jeans.’

He finds himself beginning to beg. ‘Jerry, listen to me – you know me. You don’t want to do this. I never meant to – to lead you on. I – I really like you, but just not in this kind of way. Don’t do this. Please. I’ll do other stuff. I don’t mind what. Just d-don’t—’

The knife begins to cut his skin, and this time Jerry shouts. ‘Shut up and get undressed! I won’t tell you again!’

‘No!’ Mathéo suddenly finds himself yelling back. ‘You’re crazy! I’m not going to do this!’ He hits Jerry’s arm with all his might, and for a moment the blade is no longer pressed against him, and the struggle begins. Mathéo grabs hold of Jerry’s arm and, with both hands, wrenches it backwards. The knife drops to the ground. But before he can reach it, Jerry kicks him in the stomach, and as Mathéo doubles over, knees him in the mouth. Mathéo falls back for a moment, but as Jerry lunges again, he manages to block the blow and deals Jerry one to the chest, another to his shoulder, another to his face. He feels his knuckles meet bone. There is a crack and a roar of pain, a splattering of blood from Jerry’s nose, and suddenly he is stumbling back.

Mathéo starts to run. Makes it out of the clearing. Dodges trees
,
trips over the undergrowth. The road, the road . . . Is he even going the right way? Disorientated, he loses concentration for a moment and the toe of his shoe hits a small rock. He falls hard. Jerry is on top of him in a moment, grabbing him by the shoulders and bashing his head repeatedly on the ground.
He’s going to kill me
, Mathéo thinks.
He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die, right here, out in the woods. And Lola will never know. She’ll never know that her father is a – a . . .
Darkness engulfs him.

He comes round to find himself lying on his front with his arms pinned behind his back. When he tries to move them, pain shoots down from his shoulders and he can feel the bones in his wrists grinding together, bound by something so tight, it is cutting into his flesh. Jerry rolls him onto his back and Mathéo kicks out at him, but he is too weak and barely grazes his thigh. Before he can try again, Jerry crouches down, the full weight of his body on his knee, pressed against Mathéo’s chest, crushing it, so that Mathéo can barely inhale enough oxygen to keep from passing out again. As Jerry leans down and presses the knife against Mathéo’s neck, he feels a warm trickle of blood.

‘This is your last chance or I swear I’ll kill you,’ Jerry says, and it’s at that point that Mathéo notices there is something wrong with Jerry’s eyes. The pupils are dilated, huge, turning his irises black. Mathéo realizes he is high. On what, he has no idea, but he realizes that in this state, this man is capable of anything. Even murder. If he is to survive this ordeal, Mathéo realizes suddenly, if he is to stand any chance of surviving at all, he needs to comply and, in doing so, somehow remind the man that he is human, that he is just a teen, a teen who will be too ashamed to tell, who doesn’t need to be killed . . .

Looking down, Mathéo can make out the red pressure stain on his chest, the way his ribs stick out as he sucks his stomach in, his skin pale and white in the light of the moon as he clenches every one of his muscles. Jerry slides his hand down Mathéo’s stomach, beneath his jeans and the waistband of his boxers. Mathéo coughs to repress a scream and shuts his eyes tight as he feels Jerry’s cold, rough hand close around his penis.

With one hand he is stroking him, squeezing him, massaging him, with the other he is fumbling with Mathéo’s belt, the buttons on his jeans. After a few minutes he seems to get frustrated and stands up, yanking off Mathéo’s shoes, then dragging down his trousers and ripping open his boxers. Mathéo keeps his eyes closed.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
, he says to himself, and almost wants to laugh. Whoever invented that motto had clearly never been sexually assaulted. He fights to keep his mind elsewhere, occupied, as far away as he can from his body.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
. What song was that? Who was it by? He tries to remember the tune, the lyrics – he remembers playing it at full volume on his iPod after over-rotating his first dive. He has a whole playlist devoted to picking himself up in competition after a dropped dive. He needs it now. Surely he can remember . . .

Jerry grabs him by the hair and shoulders, and rolls him over onto his front. Mathéo tries to concentrate on the sharp rocks and pebbles cutting into his shins, his hips, his ribs, as a crushing weight descends over him. Jerry is on top of him, his belt buckle cutting into the small of his back. He is still dressed but his trousers are undone – Mathéo can feel something hard and prickly pressing against his left buttock – warm and wet too. Jerry is gasping, rubbing himself against Mathéo’s backside. Then, what begins as pressure turns rapidly into mind-numbing pain. Jerry is forcing his way inside him. Mathéo feels something tear and hears himself scream.

As Jerry continues to pump against him, Mathéo escapes into his mind. Waiting there he finds memories, snapshots of the people he cares about. Lola, Loïc, Mum, Dad, Hugo, Isabel. He remembers the first day of summer, the four of them chilling out in the park, Lola squealing as they swung her over the edge of the pond, threatening to let go. Threatening . . . OK, maybe that wasn’t so nice. What else, what else? Playing cards in the grass, Lola’s head on his lap. Yes, that’s good. The freckles across her cheekbones brought out by the sun. Her green eyes squinting up at him against the light. She is saying something, but he can’t hear her. Jerry’s grunts fill the air. The pain is of a kind he has never experienced before – he’s going to pass out, he’s going to die. Concentrate harder, for God’s sake! Lola, laughing. The sound of her laughter, the way her nose crinkles and her eyes shine. Why is she laughing? He must remember. It is imperative.
Keep laughing, Lola,
he tells her.
Keep laughing and I’ll remember.

And then, all of a sudden, it is over. The weight is lifted and Jerry is getting to his feet. He is zipping up his trousers and bending down to brush the dirt from his knees.

‘You’re not going to breathe a word of this to anyone, ever, are you, Mattie? Because you know you wanted it, you’ve been wanting it for ages.’

Mathéo tries to reply but can’t get his voice to work.

‘Answer me, dammit!’

‘No – no of course not.’ His voice is shaking, tearful. He sounds like a child.

‘You’ll never see Lola again if you do.’

‘I – I know – I won’t, I swear.’

‘And you enjoyed it, right?’

‘Yes – yes, I did.’ Tears are rapidly filling his eyes.

‘Tell anyone and I’ll put you in a hole in the ground. And your kid brother? Pretty little boy, just like you . . .’

‘Jerry, I’m n-never going to tell. I’d be t-too ashamed anyway. I’d never – please. I’ll pretend it never happened. I swear, Jerry. I swear.’

Jerry wipes the sweat from his brow and starts to smile again. ‘Then it’ll be our little secret.’

‘Yes – yes. Exactly.’

Jerry bends down to cut the rope binding Mathéo’s wrists with his knife. Then, with his foot, he rolls him over.

He gives a short laugh, staring down at Mathéo’s naked body. ‘Come on, get dressed then, Mattie,’ he says. ‘Make damn sure you don’t leave anything behind now!’ He sounds almost cheerful.

‘Yes. Yes, of course . . .’

And then Jerry is gone, striding off into the woods and vanishing into the darkness.

‘But you must have had some sort of fight! What the hell did you say to her to make her take off like that?’ Hugo is pacing between the seats of the near-empty airport lounge, mobile in hand. He has been trying to reach Lola ever since she left the villa by cab nearly five hours ago. Montpellier is only a small airport, and after quizzing several members of the check-in personnel, Hugo managed to find out that Lola had boarded the last flight of the day back to London. She must be almost home by now, leaving the three of them stuck here with their hastily packed bags, waiting for the next flight at dawn.

Mathéo isn’t talking, and both Hugo and Isabel are getting increasingly frustrated. He wishes he could at least fob them off with the excuse of some argument gone wrong – but his brain cannot find the sentences, his mouth cannot form the words. It should have been easy enough to make up a reason, but since dragging himself back to the house he appears to be in some kind of trance: every movement has to be carefully orchestrated – his body no longer appears capable of moving of its own accord. Sitting at the very end of a row of metal chairs, his rucksack slumped between his feet, he stares out through the glass wall at the rain-soaked runway, glistening with artificial lights. A large plane taxis slowly into position, the roar of engines filling the air. He watches it set off and quickly gather speed, racing down the runway until it appears to be flying on the ground, then slowly lift off, its front wheels leaving the tarmac. And just like that it is in the air, rising and shrinking, an exotic silver bird, disappearing into the night. He can still hear its rumbling echoes, just as he can still hear Lola’s anguished cry, and his mind – now almost running on empty – tries to catch up with her in thought. She must have reached home by now, must have called Jerry to come pick her up from Heathrow, and he will have asked, will have instantly sensed her distress, however much she tried to conceal it. She will have told him, blurted it out in her state of shock, hurt and anger, and so Jerry will know. He won’t risk hanging around to see if Mathéo actually does go to the police or not – he will surely hastily pack some bags, lock up the house which they were only renting anyway, and drive off with Lola, perhaps under the pretext that he doesn’t want Mathéo anywhere near her again. But he will run, of that Mathéo feels certain. And Lola will vanish with him.