As she moved with Tim, Mark’s shadow darkened the room. As she kissed her husband’s neck, as her hands gripped his shoulders, tugged at his hair, his was always a body she had betrayed. Her body had been his for so long. Her kisses were sticky with guilt; every caress covered a lie. Her body was taut with secrets, with everything she’d locked up so tight it could never squeeze out.
It was surely the smell that was new to Lily. The deepness of male scent, when it is not hidden. Teenage boys smelled of so many things – layers of synthetic scent, sprayed on to avoid the shameful smell of themselves. Mark smelled of man. It might be too much for her. The salt of him, the rich umami Rachel knew so well on the back of her tongue. Her mouth dry, then the gush of saliva when she most needed it. He must be able to hear the blood sluicing through each chamber of her heart.
Lily would curse herself for not racking up more experience when she’d had the chance, wishing back those nights at parties when she’d faced advances, but demurred. She could have been more prepared for when it mattered. She’d try to dredge back memories from films, the man looming, all shoulders and sinews, the woman’s mouth open, her jaw slack then tight, but would only have smudgy recollections to go on. She couldn’t have been ready for his visceral, grown-up maleness. The hair that smattered across his chest, the height of him.
It could be the first time she’d seen him in his entirety. Their previous fumbles would have been hurried, partially clothed, elementary. This would be real. She’d have to take in the man who stood in front of her. It might be the first time not a stitch had come between them. Would it be lingering? Would she have time to let the moment settle, or only seconds to get up to speed? The surprising warmth of his neck. The gap behind his ears that neither his hair nor stubble quite stretched to fill. The weight of him on her.
The light from the blinds would zebra-stripe her skin, painting her in contrasts. He would be harming her. He would be doing something destructive. Even if he was gentle, the act itself was savage. Her consent was not hers to give. Her appetite was irrelevant. Her pleasure was forbidden.
She could only be passive for so long, but she wouldn’t know the tricks. She’d be aware of her clueless fingers, her chapped lips. He’d stroke the tendons of her neck and she’d consider it elegant for the first time. She’d struggle to navigate him, to chart his tides. She wouldn’t know what each noise meant. She’d feel different even whilst it was happening. It would feel as if the act had visibly stained her, tattooed her skin for all to see. Ink forced beneath the layers where it could never be scratched away. She’d worry that he’d notice. She’d struggle to enjoy his breath on her cheek, the wonderful rasp of his face.
The preparation had taken Rachel days. She’d needed it to look like she didn’t care. She’d shunned anything that reeked of the suburban. It had proved a challenge. She’d essentially had to redecorate. The books she’d stacked by her bed were books she hadn’t read for years, savagely bent so the spines showed wear. The objects on the dressing table were carefully scattered, the bracelets dropped from a great enough height that they splayed casually. She was braced for his judgement. She found a black dress she hadn’t worn since she was twenty-three and squeezed it on, sat down in it to crease the middle, then pulled it off and draped it deftly over her chair. The bedroom still depressed her, so she shopped. She bought a black sheepskin rug she could lose her hand in entirely, an outrageously expensive candle, matching underwear in delicate leopard print. Mark might not notice the room, if he only looked at her. The room no longer held Tim. His presence was erased by her seductive flourishes. He had been there so little, it no longer felt like his domain.
Rachel didn’t believe Mark would arrive until he was there in the room. Several times they’d sketched a potential date, only for him to be suddenly detained. He was impossible to grasp. She had to wait for a day Mia was out, then pin him to a time. But he was there. In her space. He’d wanted to sneak. Stealth came naturally to him; his voice kept to a breath, slinking up the stairs, mouse-light on his feet. Although the house was empty, they stifled their voices to nothing, their movements to whispers. She was happy to do whatever made him eager. He held his hand over her mouth, so she didn’t so much as moan; she bit down on the juicy flesh of his finger buds, willing him to shout out. Then, suddenly, a key in the door and Mia’s greeting called up the stairs.
‘It’s me, I just forgot my trainers.’
‘Okay, love. Have fun.’
They moved slowly, torturously slowly so no spring in the bed would creak. Another heartbeat had entered the house. There was a risk. His eyes in the dark, in her room, in her bed. Then Mia’s voice again.
‘Mum?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You okay?’
It had taken everything Rachel had to modulate her voice, to let a few beats hang before her casual reply. ‘Yeah, yeah, just a bit of a headache.’
Mark beneath her, within her, unbearably still. In her bed, the bed she shared with Tim. His breaths on her chest, the sound of his swallows. She wanted Mia to leave, to turn her key in the lock and walk off to her netball practice.
Mark, motionless between her thighs, his hands on her back, her sides, fingers on her skin, not moving.
‘Okay. See you later.’ The slam of the door, the grate of the key. Rachel’s blood was rigid in her veins. Danger had come so close. So few seconds had stood between her and her destruction, the destruction of Mia’s world. But Mark was real and hot and damp, and there with her, bright in her dark. His eyes twinkling with the glee of it.
Mia’s room was stark for a teenager’s. Each surface held only the objects it needed, her dressing table displaying a rose-gold make-up bag, a hairbrush, and a bottle of the sweet perfume she was devoted to, the baby-blue liquid in a crystal star. Rachel loathed the way the smells she associated with Mia were masked beneath its thick sugary veil. She picked the top pillow from Mia’s bed and hugged it to her. It was the closest she’d been to holding her for a long time. If she pressed her face into it, there was something of the bready realness she craved, something that had secreted from her child’s pores, not covered them. Rachel rocked the pillow-Mia back and forth, comforting it the way she wanted to soothe her daughter. The girl who used to live in that room was gone now. Rachel’s role was all but redundant. She’d assumed it would be gradual; a slipping-away she’d be able to keep pace with, but by the time she felt the moment creeping up, Mia was already gone, even when they were in the same room. She’d assumed it would feel like sadness, a dull ache she’d have to carry with her, but it had manifested more as anger. Rather than mourn her departure, Rachel was furious with Mia for wanting to go.
Mia was so ruthless in her instinct to minimise that Rachel had to sieve through her culls, rescuing the objects she couldn’t believe held such low emotional value: the blue melamine bowl Mia had eaten almost every meal from for three years; the tiny stuffed mouse she was given before she was even born. Rachel saved the most precious things, hiding them in a shoe box at the top of her wardrobe. Mia found no meaning in plastic, but she wasn’t entirely devoid of sentimentality. A carved wooden box she’d been given for her tenth birthday sat in the middle of a bookshelf.
Rachel lifted it out and sat on the bed. It used to house a few letters Mia had been sent by her older cousins: a silver locket they’d prised open to hold a picture of the cat; a handful of once-glossy conkers. Rachel hadn’t opened the box for years, and never alone. She sat for a moment with it on her knee before committing to look. It made her temples tighten, but she needed to know. She needed to know what Mia found important. The box was stuffed now, unfeasibly full of ticket stubs and wristbands and hairgrips. It would take hours to sift through it all, and if she took everything out there was no way it would fit back in, it had been arranged in some fluke of physics that could never be recreated.
But she didn’t need to look far. There it was. There they were:
a strip, held together by perforated edges, four silver squares, each the size of a circled thumb and forefinger. Rachel held them, their familiar feel, the squirm of something inside, the sharp corners. She knew they’d be there, but that didn’t stop it slamming into her like a punch. Four was the wrong number. The packs held three or six. Two were missing. It could imply nothing but bravado; it might be savvy now to carry them in your wallet. They might still be a hilarious curiosity, to be stretched over a banana, a cucumber, thrown into Keira’s hair. Or Mia might have used them. They could be a habitual purchase; she could be adept at their primary function. Rachel’s teeth clenched. She didn’t know her daughter well enough to know. Mia could have closed her eyes in the bed Rachel was now sitting on. Under that duvet, she might have breathed in Aaron’s chewing-gum breath and the disinfectant tang of his deodorant. She might have played the roles she’d seen on television, on the internet, coaxing him and cooing, all thoughts on his enjoyment. Mia might have grimaced, pressed to do something, to be something, she didn’t want.
Even if she’d been all too eager, it was legally troublesome. Only one of them was of age. Aaron was nudging seventeen, whilst Mia sat months shy of consent. Aaron wielded all the power. His position was not so very far away from Mark’s. Not so very far. Rachel squeezed the metal wrapper in her hand until the serrated edges bit into her skin. That blue-eyed bastard was every bit as reprehensible. He had ripped from her daughter something she wasn’t able to give.
7
‘Mother, it’s a party. You don’t need to know anything else.’
Mia was packing a bag of make-up, stuffing several choices of outfit into a backpack. It had been agreed that curfew should be extended. The WhatsApp group had been ablaze. Midnight for a house party on a Saturday night was deemed reasonable.
‘Mia, I need to know that you’re safe.’
‘I’ll be with everyone else.’ Mia spoke slowly, as if her mother might not understand the words. Her tone was flat. ‘We’ll just be at Sean’s.’
Rachel had no choice but to go along with the consensus. Sean Turner’s parents were away for the weekend and, in an act of extraordinary masochism, were allowing him to host a party in their empty home.
Mia turned away, tucking into her bag a dress so tiny it could barely be folded. It was as if she couldn’t bear to meet Rachel’s eyes. ‘Why are you being so uptight? What’s wrong with you?’
Rachel kept her voice low, so Tim didn’t hear from upstairs. He’d be all enthusiasm for the party. ‘I’m not being uptight. I just want to know Sean’s home phone number. That’s not unreasonable.’
Mia sneered, winding the cord of her hair straighteners around their bulk. ‘You’re being ridiculous. No one uses a landline. Why don’t you understand that? Why is this such a problem for you?’ Her words were staccato, her jaw tight.
Rachel felt it as a physical ache that she couldn’t follow the girls that night, that she had to let Mia out of her sight. Ella’s had been chosen as the pre-party venue, so Rachel could only wave Mia goodbye and wait.
‘Why does it upset you so much when I have fun?’
Tim had gone to bed by eleven. His flight was the following afternoon and the jet lag would still be dragging at him when he set off again. These weekends were always swift, always stymied. His sleep made the house precarious. Rachel and Mia had learned where the rebel floorboards were, which steps sent a scream through every room. When Tim was home, they trod softly.
Rachel couldn’t sleep until Mia returned. She poured a glass of sweet, pink wine, then another. It tasted of lemonade, of roses. She tried to watch a film, but the images just flickered; the actors’ words garbled to nothing. She must have drifted off, resting on the cushions, because when she opened her eyes it was dark beyond the open curtains. Her phone digits were blurred – 12:36 – then suddenly, horribly sharp.
No matter how careful Mia had been, she’d surely have heard her coming in. Rachel crept up the stairs and saw what she knew she’d see. Mia’s room was dark and empty. Rachel grabbed for her phone. There were no updates in her messages or calls. She dialled Mia’s number. There must be some hold-up. She’d be on her way. Rachel expected the thrum of dials, but there was nothing. It went straight to her automated answerphone. I’m sorry but the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. The voice was stilted, bloodless. It had no idea what it was conveying. She dialled Ella’s phone. The same message monotoned from it. I’m sorry but the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. They couldn’t both be broken. It was implausible. Could the network have failed? Or had they both switched them off? Rachel cursed herself for not insisting that Aaron’s number live in her phone. She dialled Keira. Keira would answer. The phone sprang to life with rings. Keira’s phone would be trilling. Rachel’s name would be flashing. Not her real name, but whatever Keira had logged her as. Mia’s mum. Mia’s mum. The rings continued. But it was ignored. This was deliberate. The girls were following some demand of Mia’s. She was hiding something. Sleep was still misting Rachel’s eyes, her focus, her reactions. She sent the same text message to them all. Get Mia to call me immediately.
The girls knew the rules. They knew what freedoms would be removed if they contravened the agreed code. It wasn’t worth it. Rachel rang round them all again, constantly checking the time, checking the door. She didn’t know Sean Turner’s landline. She wished she had Dominic’s number. Dominic would answer. Dominic would take her to Mia. The adrenalin rattled her veins. I’m sorry but the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. 12:42. 12:48. At 12:50, with no answer, she grabbed her car keys. Then threw them down again. She’d drunk two glasses, three, deep and full. Her blood was toxic. She couldn’t wake Tim. He’d be in no state to drive. She left him asleep in their dark room. She made no noise. The shirt she was wearing came off in one motion. Her gym clothes were in a neat pile; she pulled on her already-tied trainers, grabbed her mobile phone, locked the front door and, with one item in each hand, she ran. She ran, not manically, but calmly and evenly, as if on the treadmill. She ran for a regimented twenty-five minutes three times a week. She knew how to pace herself, how to clear a few miles without even feeling it.
Rachel ran out of the cul-de-sac and down the main road, hands full of phone and keys, legs rhythmically pumping. She could feel the asphalt beneath her feet, the distance becoming shorter with every stride. Fear and rage fired her muscles, made her lungs grab the oxygen with ease. The pavement was better than the car. She could peer into corners as she ran, stare at the shadows between buildings. There was no way a cluster of errant teens would escape her. A glimpse of pale thigh, or the reflection from a pair of trainers. There was nothing. The roads were empty, the tarmac bare.
She reached Sean’s road in little over fifteen minutes. It became clear when she ran up Wells Avenue which house she was looking for. There were balloons on the gatepost, presumably tied by Sean’s parents, still thinking of parties from six years, seven years ago. The temperature was a little cooler now it was night, but Rachel was slick with sweat. Her breathing was calm, trained, but her body bore the strain. No one was outside the house; no one was visible in the windows. Rachel dismissed how she must look and flew to the door. She pressed the bell until her fingers hurt, a constant blaring buzz that couldn’t be ignored. After long, loud seconds, a dishevelled boy opened the door. It wasn’t Sean; it wasn’t anyone she’d ever taught. Rachel didn’t even say hello.
‘Is Mia Collins here?’
He stretched before answering, filling the whole doorway with his flexing arms. ‘Mia? No. That lot left ages ago.’
‘Who? Who left?’
Debris from the party was visible behind him, littering the room: bottles, plates that must once have held food, plastic cups with cracks down them, a little lacy shawl some girl had left behind. It had the acrid smack of tequila. ‘You know, Ella, Mia, that lot.’
�
�Where did they go?’
‘No idea, just all left. I can’t remember that much.’ He puffed his chest out, pushing the strands of blonde that had flopped over his eyes, so impressed with himself.
‘When?’
‘No idea. Midnight?’
‘Were they going home?’
He smirked, ran his hands over his hair again. ‘Dunno.’
Rachel didn’t stop to reply. She ran around the corner, slumped onto the pavement and just sat there, wired with hideous energy. Every cell was jangling. She knew she should phone the other mothers, but they couldn’t know about this. They couldn’t see how far Mia had strayed from her. They were so close to their own daughters. She needed to deal with it alone. She sat on the ground, her shoe tapping the kerb, insistent, unrhythmical, irritating herself but unable to stop. She had to do something.
Marianne. She could face Marianne. Marianne might still be up. She might know where Keira was. WhatsApp felt less alarming than a text. Hiya. Casual, ever so casual. Just checking Keira’s home okay. Non-committal, no sense of urgency. The second tick, to indicate arrival, took so long Rachel worried Marianne’s phone was dead, and the message stuck in the ether. Maybe the phone networks had collapsed altogether, shipwrecking them all. Then, as soon as it arrived, the ticks turned blue. The blessed blue ticks that showed Marianne had read it. She replied immediately. Keira got home about quarter past twelve . . . in lots of trouble for breaking curfew, but asleep now. Hope Mia’s okay. Talk tomorrow xx. Rachel didn’t respond, she just leapt to her feet and ran, faster now, no longer pacing herself, no longer taking sleek, measured steps, but pushing her muscles until they screamed, until she was sure she was doing them damage. When she arrived – ragged, burning – at their silent home, she raced to Mia’s room, as if she might have been hiding the whole time, playing some elaborate game. Rachel didn’t modulate her steps to protect Tim’s sleep this time. She knew where Mia was, or at least who she was with. The others had gone home, marginally tardy, but safe. Mia was wherever Aaron was.
Heatstroke: an intoxicating story of obsession over one hot summer Page 18