This Is Not Forgiveness

  Did I think she could go on for ever, doing everything? Did I think one income was enough? She was still a young woman (well, comparatively). Didn’t she deserve a bit of companionship?

  I let her follow the well-worn grooves of her complaints against me, against life in general and the hand it had dealt her. Everything was my fault. I’d ruined her life just by being born. That was when it all began to go wrong. Everything was fine before that. Perfect, in fact. I was a mistake.

  She used to go on about that in her rows with Dad.

  I wasn’t really listening. I’d heard it all before. I wore the guilt like a pinching shoe. You can get used to anything in time.

  Not long after that the whispers started, the messages, notes passed around, magic marker in the toilets, at the bus stop.

  Vanessa Carington is A SLAG

  What do I care? It wasn’t me up there. They couldn’t even spell my name correctly. Martha was behind it, I’m pretty sure of that, although she never said anything to my face. She sowed the seeds. No one ever knew what I’d done, or who I’d been with, to earn the sobriquet, but then nobody cared. Gossip creates its own reality. I am a slag because everyone says I am. Impossible to defend yourself against that, so I didn’t bother. It amused me that people called me that but didn’t know exactly why. That was not the reaction Martha expected. The campaign intensified. It didn’t work, because I simply didn’t care.

  When I told Jamie, he lied and said it didn’t matter. I didn’t know whether to love or despise him for that. I ought to finish with him. Now. Stop dragging it out. It seems like every time I see him, I hurt him. He doesn’t deserve that. I still haven’t told him everything. That would finish it for good and I need him. He’s my lode-stone, the compass that points me towards normal. I’m not ready to let him go. I want to make it up to him, so I begin downloading music: The Vaccines, Arcade Fire, Cold War Kids, Friendly Fires, Crystal Castles, along with older stuff: Libertines, Smiths, Stone Roses. The kind of thing I think he will like.

  What I didn’t tell him is that Rob and I went on seeing each other. He was there one day outside school, waiting for Martha. He had a car and was supposed to take her somewhere. He went home with me. We began meeting. In secret. He had a girlfriend back then so it was all very clandestine. The secrecy made it doubly exciting. We’d hook up when he was home on leave. I’d get a text and meet him. We’d go somewhere no one would see us, like the allotment shed or al fresco out on the ait. Sometimes a cheap motel on the ring road or off the motorway.

  When he was away, he used to send me stuff. Video diaries. He’s not one for writing. The early ones were funny – montages spliced together with a soldier’s blunt, black humour. They got progressively less humorous until they were harrowing. Brutal as a bayonet.

  And then I didn’t hear from him any more. I only knew he was home because of Martha. She’d begun Avon Against the War by that time. How they trembled in Whitehall and Washington. She organised petitions, went on demonstrations. I joined just to piss her off. There was nothing she could do about it. Societies were open to any member of the school body. Some of the staff were doubtful about the politics (they do tend to the conservative) but they were keen on anything that would encourage the girls to think about something other than boys, going out, MTV and vacuous TV series.

  Rob was her prime exhibit. Look what’s happened to my brother. His leg’s shattered, he has post-traumatic stress disorder. He might never be normal.

  I’d smile to myself. Who said he was normal in the first place? Then I’d think about how he’d react if he knew she’d told the whole school about him.

  He won’t be returning to the front line, but others will, she’d say, fixing us with her steely gaze. Boys like him. To brutalise and be brutalised in turn on war’s eternal carousel.

  She’s right about that but petitions and peaceful protests aren’t going to change a thing. No one cares. Even Martha has moved on to other causes: eco issues, wind farms, carbon footprint. They must be made to care.

  The front line is always somewhere else. Never here.

  But it’s getting closer.

  Time to bring it right back home.

  Chapter 24

  I don’t hear from her. It’s because of the thing she told me. Has to be. I want to tell her it doesn’t matter, but I can’t text her or call her because I haven’t got her number. I jump every time I hear my phone’s ringtone or the buzz of an incoming message. I sleep with the phone right next to me in case she calls in the middle of the night, in case she messages me. I’m on it before the first ring ends, just as it begins to buzz, but it’s never her. It’s always Cal or one of my other friends. As soon as I see who it is, I shut off the call and don’t answer.

  I’m in agony thinking that she must have finished with me.

  I don’t go round to her house to try to see her. I tell myself that it’s because she wouldn’t like it, but really it’s because I’m afraid of who I’ll meet.

  I can’t sleep. I begin to get up super early and ride out on my bike, or just walk. You hit countryside about a hundred metres from our house. There are paths out across the fields, down to the river. I wonder what it would be like to keep walking and never go back. I wave to a guy out on a tractor. He waves back. The next day the wheat field is all stubble. The summer is turning.

  Sometimes, I take the path down to the river and return through town. I see people walking to work: office workers, girls with summer jobs in the shops. Work on the bridge is still snarling up the traffic. Drivers sweating in shirtsleeves, swearing, talking on their mobiles. One day, I see Rob coming out of the multi-storey car park that’s being redeveloped. He’s wearing workman’s clothes and has got a bag with him. I wonder if he’s got a job there. It’s been boarded up for ages. According to the local paper the developers ran out of money. It’s turned into a bit of an eyesore. Maybe they are starting on the demolition. I don’t go near him and he doesn’t see me.

  Just when I’m certain that I’ve been dumped, I get a message. She’s picking me up tonight.

  Martha’s back from Cornwall and she’s going out, so I’m playing bathroom guerrilla warfare again. When I hear her going to her bedroom to get something, I’m straight in there.

  ‘Hey! I haven’t finished yet!’

  ‘You have now!’

  I lock the door while she hammers and fumes and calls for Mum like we were little kids again. Eventually she goes away and I carry on shaving. I like shaving. I like the ritual. Rob taught me like Grandpa taught him. We use a brush and soap, not that squirty stuff. I have to hide my razor so that Martha doesn’t use it to shave her legs.

  I smooth my chin. No nicks. Pretty good job.

  ‘All yours now.’

  ‘About time.’ She comes out of her room. ‘I hate to think what you’re doing in there.’

  ‘Shaving. It’s something men do.’

  ‘I’m amazed you need to.’ She sniffs. ‘Grown-up aftershave, eh? Lynx not good enough for her? I take it she’s the lucky lady.’

  ‘Might be.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe you’re still seeing her. I’d have thought she’d have dumped you weeks ago.’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready.’

  I think she’ll take this opportunity to move into the bathroom, but she doesn’t.

  ‘Going to her place? Don’t start getting ideas above your station.’ She makes a face. ‘Those houses are soooo naff. Talk about conspicuous consumption.’ She looks through the door into our shared facilities, lip curling. ‘I bet she’s got an en suite, and everything. No expense spared.’

  ‘You’re right there. She has, with marble basins and gold taps.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. I lied about the gold taps.’

  She follows me into my room.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I look down. I’m only wearing a towel.

  ‘I can’t believe you are still seeing her.’
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  ‘You’ve said that once.’

  ‘You ought to find someone more . . . suitable. Lee really likes you,’ she says, sitting on the end of my bed. You’d be better off with her.’

  ‘Lee’s a nice girl,’ I say, non-committal. That’s not going to happen. It would be like trading in a Harley-Davidson for a trail bike. ‘What do you care who I go out with?’

  ‘I do care. I care about you.’

  I laugh. ‘Since when?’

  ‘You’re my brother. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’

  ‘Double ha, ha.’

  I know from the signs that she’s got something else on her mind. I take some product and start working it into my hair.

  ‘She’s seeing someone else.’

  I don’t stop messing with my hair, even for a second, but I feel suddenly numb inside, like I’ve swallowed a chunk of ice and it’s lodged somewhere near my heart.

  I keep staring into the mirror, making sure Martha’s eyes meet mine.

  ‘If this is a wind-up, or gossip from your bitchy friends, I’ll kill you. And them.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Lee said it and she’s not like that. She says she’s seeing someone.’

  ‘I never said we were exclusive.’ I try to make out I’m completely unfazed. ‘Who is it, anyway? Not the Art teacher. I know about him.’

  ‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘Not Charlie Hands.’

  ‘How does Lee know?’

  ‘She lives near her. She was taking the dog for a walk, or something, and saw him leaving.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had a dog.’

  ‘Well, she does.’

  ‘Does she take it for a walk every morning?’

  ‘How would I know? How’s that the point? She saw someone leaving Caro’s and –’

  ‘It could have been me leaving,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what she thought. At first. You look kind of similar.’ She looks at me. ‘Especially from a distance.’

  Everyone says how much I look like my brother. That is the killer shot.

  ‘I mean, she couldn’t be certain, but . . . I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’ She’s drifting towards the door now. ‘I hope you haven’t been using my shampoo. I told you about that before.’

  I hear the sound of Caro’s car but I can’t make myself hurry. I check my pockets: keys, phone, wallet. The numbness is spreading through me, making it impossible to move quickly.

  I get into the car.

  ‘You took your time.’

  I shrug.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiles. ‘Because I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  She starts the car, then kills the engine.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, I told you.’

  ‘Yes, there is. Tell me.’

  ‘Nothing. Like I said.’

  I’d got in the car thinking of ways to confront her, but when it comes to it, I can’t think how to do it, can’t think what to say.

  ‘We’ll stay here, then.’ She puts both hands on the wheel.

  ‘It’s, well, it’s something Martha said.’

  ‘Martha, eh?’ She drums her fingers. She’s wearing red nail varnish. ‘And what did Martha say?’

  ‘She said you were seeing someone. Someone else.’

  ‘Did she say who this someone might be?’

  ‘Well, not specifically. It was more of a hint.’

  ‘I see. And what was she hinting at?’

  ‘She was hinting that it might be Rob.’

  She’s quiet for a moment, taking in the information. ‘Where did she hear that?’

  ‘Lee told her.’

  She nods her head slowly, taking in what I’m telling her.

  ‘So, you got this from Martha, who hates me, and sad little Lee who desperately wants to be her friend while equally desperately fancying you. I see. Impartial sources, both of them.’

  ‘If you put it like that . . .’

  She’s offering me a get out and I’m quick to accept it.

  ‘Who’s it to be? Them or me?’

  She starts the car but leaves the engine idling. Deep inside, I know what Martha says could be true but against my better judgement, against all my instincts, I choose her. Besides, what was I going to do? Where would I go? Back home to a gloating Martha? Out to see Cal and my mates, all of them saying, ‘I told you so’? I stay put. I don’t get out of the car.

  She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me. Just drives off.

  I don’t ask her anything more, just listen to the music. The playlist is all bands I like. I look over at her.

  ‘Did you do this for me?’

  ‘Who else?’ She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. ‘Not exactly my kind of thing.’

  ‘Hey, thanks!’ I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she says. Then she smiles at me.

  After that, I don’t care where we are going. I just want to drive. Sometimes that’s enough. I don’t like to arrive. I refuse to think about what Martha told me. I keep pushing it out of my mind. Right now, there’s just her and me going into the dark tunnel of the night, lit only by the headlights. I don’t want to think about anything. I glance over to steal a look at her profile, at the way the hair curls by her ear, the curve of her neck, how the muscles move under her skin every time she turns the wheel or changes gear. She’s wearing the spotted dress I like and thin silver bracelets on her arms. They slip and slide up and down as she drives. I’m too absorbed to take in our direction. Then we are on the motorway.

  ‘Nowhere local, then?’

  ‘We’re going to the seaside,’ she says, and laughs.

  The nearest sea is at least a hundred miles away, but I’m not arguing. We stop at an all-night services for petrol and to drink coffee to keep awake. After that it’s through the night. I fall asleep and fight it and fall asleep again. I dream that we’re racing down a steep hill on bicycles. Her, me and a guy I can’t see. We’re abreast of each other. The road in front has collapsed. Wooden barriers block off a deep, dark chasm. None of us can stop.

  I jerk awake just as I crash through the barriers and over the edge. I apologise for sleeping while she’s driving.

  ‘You were snoring. And drooling.’

  I wipe my chin and swig some water. Offer her some. She takes the bottle off me and sips it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. Are we nearly there yet?’ I sound like a kid going on holiday.

  ‘About eighty miles.’

  I fall asleep again and when I next wake up I’m shivering. It’s early morning and we are there.

  I know the place.

  ‘We used to come here when we were kids,’ I say. ‘Cal and I came camping last year.’

  It was a good laugh. After GCSEs. Down on the beach, every night was party night. I met a girl called Nia. She lived up here. I really liked her. I messaged her all the way home and was on Facebook every night. We made plans to meet but after a bit she stopped messaging me. Her Facebook page showed her down on the beach with some other guy. The next week, there she was with another. The party was still going on for her without me.

  I start telling Caro about it as she drives down to the harbour front, but she’s not really interested.

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  She gets out of the car and disappears. She comes back with coffee and bacon rolls.

  ‘There’s a stall down by the quay where the fishing boats come in.’

  She takes a bite of her roll, sauce and grease oozing down her chin. She’s obviously been here before, too, but doesn’t seem inclined to share her experiences. We sit and watch as the night fades and the day comes on. The sea gives off a sequin glitter as the first light ripples over it. When the town is coming to life, she starts the car.

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘Beach further down the coast.?
??

  She drives past the main beach with its campsite sprawl of bright nomad tents, and takes a winding track to a little bay. The inlet is still in shadow, although the far headland is lit by the sun. There are tents dotted around in the dunes but it’s still very early and they are all firmly zipped up. She strips off her dress and runs down the beach, diving straight into the breaking waves. She’s a powerful swimmer. She swims crawl with long, strong strokes until her head is a dot breaking through waves like a seal. I strip off and follow her. The water is freezing. Not even OK when you get used to it. I only stay in a couple of minutes.

  I stand by the car and shiver in my wet Calvins while I wait for her to get out.

  ‘There are towels in the boot.’

  I drape one round her and begin to rub her dry. She does the same for me. I’m still cold, can’t stop shivering. We grab our clothes and she leads me into the dunes, away from the tents and the sparse scattering of cars. We find a place and she spreads the blanket for us. She offers me brandy from a silver flask and puts her arms around me, pulling me to her. I feel the fiery spirit spreading through me and I am no longer cold.

  Afterwards, we dress and climb to the top of the nearest dune and sit looking out at the sea. The sand is cool, silky to the touch. I sift the grains through my fingers. The beach is just one monochrome, but each grain is different in shape and colour. How many are there? Even here, running through my hands? I take a handful of sand and let it trickle down on to her foot, half burying it. She wriggles her toes, letting it sink further. She’s wearing that thin gold chain round her ankle. On the inside, below the bone, there are those lines that I noticed before. I can see them better now. Striations, straight little white marks, slightly raised, scored across the skin. She notices me noticing.

  ‘I used to cut myself.’ She says it like that. Completely matter of fact. ‘It’s a place people don’t notice. I used to do it here, too.’ She pushes the thin silver bracelets up her arm to show the inside of her wrist. ‘I did it with a razor blade. The old-fashioned kind. They are the best. Quick cut.’ She grips finger and thumb together, as though holding the blade, and makes a quick cutting motion. ‘Doesn’t hurt. Well, not much. Like a paper cut.’