فصل 54

54

JULES

I sat down on the bed, the photo frame in my hand. You and she smiled up at me, bringing bright hot tears to my eyes, and finally I cried for you as I should have done at your funeral. I thought of him that day, the way he’d looked at Lena—I’d misread that look completely. It wasn’t predatory, it was proprietary. He wasn’t looking at her as a girl to be seduced, to be possessed. She already belonged to him. So maybe he’d come for her, to take what was rightfully his?

He wasn’t hard to find. His father used to have a string of flashy car dealerships all over the northeast. Cannon Cars, the company was called. That didn’t exist any longer, it had gone bankrupt years ago, but there was a smaller, sadder, low-rent version in Gateshead. I found a badly designed website with a picture of him on its home page, the photo taken some time ago, by the look of it. Less paunchy then, still a hint of the handsome, cruel boy in his face.

I didn’t call the police, because I was sure they wouldn’t listen to me. I just picked up the car keys and left. I was feeling almost pleased with myself as I drove out of Beckford—I’d figured it out, I was taking control. And the farther I drove from the village, the stronger I felt, the fog of tiredness clearing, my limbs loosening. I felt hungry, savagely hungry, and I relished the sensation; I chewed the side of my cheek and tasted iron. Some old part of me, some furious, fearless relic, had surfaced; I imagined myself lashing out at him, clawing at him. I pictured myself an Amazon, ripping him limb from limb.

• • •

THE GARAGE WAS in a run-down part of town, under the railway arches. An ominous place. By the time I arrived, I was no longer brave. My hands shook whenever I reached to change gear or flick the indicator switch; the taste in my mouth was bile, not blood. I was trying to focus on what I had to do—to find Lena, to make Lena safe—but all my energy was sapped by the effort it took to push back against memories I hadn’t let surface for over half a lifetime, memories that rose now like driftwood out of water.

I parked across the road from the garage. There was a man standing outside, smoking a cigarette—a younger man, not Cannon. I got out of the car and on trembling legs crossed the road to talk to him.

“I was hoping to speak to Robert Cannon?” I said.

“That your motor, is it?” he said, indicating the car behind me. “You can just bring it in . . .”

“No, it’s not about that. I need to speak to . . . Is he here?”

“It’s not about the motor? He’s in the office,” he said, jerking his head to indicate behind him. “You can go on in if you want.”

I peered into the cavernous dark space and my stomach contracted. “No,” I said as firmly as I could, “I’d prefer to speak to him out here.”

He sucked his teeth and flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street. “Suit yourself,” he said, and strolled on inside.

I slipped my hand into my pocket and realized that my phone was in my handbag, which was still on the passenger seat. I turned to go back, knowing that if I did I wouldn’t return, that if I made it to the safety of the driver’s seat I would lose all courage completely, I would start the engine and drive away.

“Can I help you?” I froze. “Did you want something, pet?”

I turned around, and there he was, uglier even than he had looked on the day of the funeral. His face had become heavy and hangdog, his nose purpled, mapped with blue veins that spread to his cheeks like an estuary. His gait was familiar, listing side to side like a ship as he approached. He peered at me. “Do I know you?”

“You’re Robert Cannon?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m Robbie.”

For a fraction of a second, I felt sorry for him. It was the way he said his name, still using the diminutive. Robbie is a child’s name, the name of a little boy who runs around the back garden and climbs trees. It’s not the name of some overweight loser, some bankrupt running a dodgy garage in a shitty part of town. He stepped towards me and I caught a whiff of him, body odour and booze, and any pity evaporated as my body remembered the feeling of his, crushing the breath out of me.

“Look, love, I’m very busy,” he said.

My hands clenched into fists. “Is she here?” I asked.

“Is who here?” He frowned, then rolled his eyes, reaching into his jeans pocket for his cigarettes. “Ah, fuck’s sake, you’re not a mate of Shelley’s, are you? Because, as I told her old man, I haven’t seen the slag in weeks, so if it’s about that, you can just do one, all right?”

“Lena Abbott,” I said, my voice little more than a hiss. “Is she here?”

He lit his cigarette. Behind his dull brown eyes, something sparked. “You’re looking for . . . who now? Nel Abbott’s girl? Who are you?” He looked around him. “Why d’you think Nel’s girl would be here?”

He wasn’t faking it. He was too stupid to fake it, I could see that. He didn’t know where Lena was. He didn’t know who she was. I turned to go. The longer I stayed, the more he’d wonder. The more I’d give away.

“Hang on,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, and I spun round, shoving him away from me.

“Easy!” he said, raising his hands, looking around as though for backup. “What’s going on here? Are you . . . ?” He squinted at me. “I saw you—you were at the funeral.” Finally it dawned on him. “Julia?” His face broke into a smile. “Julia! Bloody hell. I didn’t recognize you before . . .” He took me in, head to toe. “Julia. Why didn’t you say something?”

He offered me a cup of tea. I started laughing and I couldn’t stop, I laughed until tears streamed down my face while he stood there, half giggling along at first, until his uncertain mirth petered out and he stood, dull and uncomprehending, watching me.

“What’s going on?” he asked, irritated.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Lena ran off,” I said. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere, I thought maybe . . .”

“Well, she isn’t here. Why on earth d’you think she’d be here? I don’t even know the kid, first time I laid eyes on her was at the funeral. Gave me a bit of a turn, if I’m honest. She’s so like Nel.” He rearranged his features into a facsimile of concern. “I was sorry to hear about what happened. Really sorry, Julia.” He tried to touch me again, but I pulled away. He took a step closer to me. “I just . . . I can’t believe you’re Julia! You look so different.” An ugly smile smeared across his face. “Don’t know how I could forget,” he said quietly, his voice low. “I popped your cherry, didn’t I, girl?” He laughed. “Long time ago now.”

Popped your cherry. Pop! A joyful sound, of balloons and birthday parties. And cherries, sweet on the lips, delicious and sticky; these things were a million miles from his slimy tongue in my mouth and his dirty fingers pushing me open. I thought I would gag.

“No, Robbie,” I said, and I was surprised by how clear my voice sounded, how loud, how steady. “You didn’t pop my cherry. You raped me.”

The smile slipped from his ruined face. He cast a glance over his shoulder before stepping towards me again. My head swimming with adrenaline now, breath quickening, I clenched my fists and stood my ground. “I what?” he hissed. “I fucking what? I never . . . I didn’t rape you.”

He whispered it, rape, as though afraid someone might hear us.

“I was thirteen years old,” I said. “I told you to stop, I was crying my fucking eyes out, I . . .” I had to stop because I could feel the tears filling my throat, drowning my voice, and I didn’t want to cry in front of the bastard now.

“You cried ’cos it was your first time,” he said, his voice low, wheedling, “because it hurt a bit. You never said you didn’t want to. You never said no.” Then, louder, definitive, “You lying bitch, you never said no.” Now he started laughing. “I could have whatever I wanted, don’t you remember? I had half the girls in Beckford trailing after me with their knickers wet. I had your sister, who was the hottest girl around. You honestly think I needed to rape a fat cow like you?”

He believed it. I could see that he believed every word he said, and in that moment I was defeated. All this time he’d never felt guilty. He’d never felt a second of remorse, because in his head what he’d done wasn’t rape. All this time, and he still believed he’d been doing the fat girl a favour.

I walked away from him. Behind me, I could hear him coming after me, swearing under his breath. “You always were a mad bitch, weren’t you? You always were. Can’t believe you coming in saying this kind of shit, saying—”

I stopped suddenly, a few feet from the car. Wasn’t there some part of you that liked it? Something shifted. If Robbie didn’t think he’d raped me, how could you have done? What were you talking about, Nel? What were you asking me? Some part of me that liked what?

I turned around. Robbie was standing behind me, hands hanging at his sides like slabs of meat, his mouth open. “Did she know?” I asked him.

“What?”

“Did Nel know?” I yelled at him.

His lip curled. “Did Nel know what? That I fucked you? You’re joking, aren’t you? Imagine what she’d have said to that, if I told her I’d banged her little sister just after I was done banging her?” He laughed. “I told her the first bit, how you tried it on, how you were drunk and sloppy and leaning all over me and looking up at me with your sad fat face and begging, please? Like a little dog, you were, always hanging around, always watching us whenever I was with her, spying on us, even when we were in bed you liked to watch, didn’t you? Thought we didn’t notice, didn’t you?” He laughed again. “We did. We use to joke about what a little perv you were, sad little fatso, never been touched, never been kissed, liked to watch her hot sister getting it.” He shook his head. “Rape? Don’t make me laugh. You wanted some of what Nel was getting, you made that very fucking clear.”

I pictured myself, sitting under the trees, standing outside the bedroom, watching. He was right, I did watch them, but not with lust, not with envy, with a kind of horrible fascination. I watched the way a child does, because that was what I was. I was a little girl who didn’t want to see what was being done to her sister (because that’s what it looked like, it always looked as though something was being done to you), but who couldn’t look away.

“I told her you tried it on with me and then you ran off crying when I knocked you back, and she ran off after you.”

There was a sudden tumbling of images in my head: the sound of your words, the heat of your anger, the pressure of your hands as you held me down in the water and then grabbed my hair and pulled me to the bank.

You bitch, you stupid fat bitch, what have you done? What are you trying to do?

Or was it, You stupid bitch, what were you doing?

And then it was, I know he hurt you, but what did you expect?

I made it to the car, fumbling for my keys with trembling hands. Robbie was still behind me, still talking. “Yeah, run along then, you lying slag. You never thought that girl was here, did you? That was an excuse, wasn’t it? You came to see me. Did you want another taste?” I could hear him laughing as he walked away, delivering his parting shot from across the street. “No chance, pet, not this time. You might have lost a bit of weight, but you’re still a fucking minger.”

I started the car, pulled away, stalled. Cursing, I started the engine again and lurched off down the road, putting my foot down, putting as much distance as possible between him and me and what had just happened, and knowing I should be worrying about Lena, but unable to think about that because all I could think was this: You didn’t know.

You didn’t know that he raped me.

When you said, I’m sorry he hurt you, you meant you were sorry I felt rejected. When you said, What did you expect? you meant that of course he would reject me, I was just a child. And when you asked me, Wasn’t there some part of you that liked it? you weren’t talking about sex, you were talking about the water.

The scales fell. I have been blind and blinkered. You didn’t know.

I pulled the car over to the side of the road and started to sob, my whole body racked with the awful, horrible knowledge: you didn’t know. All these years, Nel. All these years, I attributed to you the most vicious cruelty, and what had you done to deserve it? What did you do to deserve it? All those years, and I didn’t listen, I never listened to you. And now it seemed impossible that I could not have seen, could not have understood that when you asked me, Wasn’t there some part of you that liked it? you were talking about the river, about that night at the river. You wanted to know what it felt like to abandon yourself to the water.

I stopped crying. In my head, you muttered: You don’t have time for this, Julia, and I smiled. “I know,” I said out loud. “I know.” I didn’t care any longer what Robbie thought, I didn’t care that he’d spent all his life telling himself he did nothing wrong; that’s what men like him do. And what does it matter what he thought? He was nothing to me. What mattered was you, what you knew and didn’t know, and that I’d been punishing you all your life for something you didn’t do. And now I had no way to tell you I was sorry.

• • •

BACK IN BECKFORD, I stopped the car on the bridge, climbed down the mossy steps and walked along the river path. It was early afternoon, the air was cooling and the breeze was getting up. Not a perfect day for a swim, but I’d been waiting so long and I wanted to be there, with you. It was the only way now that I could get close to you, the only thing I had left.

I took off my shoes and stood in jeans and T-shirt on the bank. I started to walk forward, one foot after the other. I closed my eyes, gasping as my feet sank into the cool mud, but I didn’t stop. I kept going, and when the water closed over my head, I realized through my terror that it did feel good. It did.