You Then, Me Now

by Nick Alexander

  ‘I covered the bruises with foundation,’ I told him. ‘One of the few advantages of being a woman.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Conor said. ‘I didn’t hit you. I’d never hit you.’

  ‘Only you did. I tried to get you to stop drinking. And you punched me.’

  Conor laughed sourly at this. ‘I didn’t punch you,’ he said. ‘If I’d punched you, you wouldn’t have been able to cover it up with a bit of make-up, that’s for sure.’

  I thought about the truth of this and shuddered. ‘Only you did,’ I said coldly.

  Conor wrinkled his nose. ‘You’re saying, like, accidentally?’ he asked. The colour had drained from his cheeks. He was no longer finding this funny.

  I shook my head. ‘Look, I don’t need to convince you, Conor,’ I said. ‘In fact, I don’t give a shit if you remember at all. I just need to change my ticket so I can get out of here.’

  Conor squinted at me and squatted down so he was at eye level. ‘Let me get a shower, OK?’ he asked softly. ‘I’m feeling like shite here, so let me get a shower and we’ll discuss this over breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not going to discuss anything with you,’ I told him. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘OK,’ Conor said. ‘Then let me shower and change my clothes and we’ll do anything you want, OK?’ He sighed dolefully and reached out to stroke my cheek, but I flinched so, shaking his head, he stood and vanished into the interior.

  ‘I’ll wait for you in the restaurant,’ I called out. Because suddenly I was hungry. I would also, I decided, feel safer with other people around.

  I served myself two croissants and some orange juice and sat in the furthest corner of the restaurant, where people were less likely to overhear our conversation. The waiter came and filled my cup with coffee. ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he said, and momentarily I hated him for that.

  The sun was already hot enough to prickle my skin and the sky above was a deep-space blue. But the horizon this morning was a misty, powdery colour, as beautiful as ever and constantly changing hue. I watched two ferries cross paths in the bay. A cat appeared from nowhere and, when I fed her a chunk of my croissant, two tiny white kittens appeared to join her.

  After ten minutes or so, Conor appeared. He had changed into a baby-blue shirt the exact colour of the horizon. He pulled up a chair and said, sheepishly, ‘So, I’ve been a bit of a prick, have I?’ He winced as he said it as if his teeth ached.

  ‘I really don’t want to discuss it,’ I said. ‘But yes. In fact, being a prick doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

  Conor nodded and swallowed. He beckoned to the waiter and tried to order croissants, only for the waiter to remind him that the buffet was self-service.

  ‘Are you eating that?’ Conor asked, pointing at the half a croissant that remained on my plate. The thirty feet to the buffet were apparently too much for him this morning.

  I blinked slowly and shook my head.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Conor said as he raised my leftovers to his mouth.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re sorry.’

  ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘We’ve established that you’re sorry.’

  ‘So are we good?’ Conor asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

  I covered my eyes with my palms for a moment, then breathed into my hands before replying, ‘No, we’re not OK. We’re not OK at all. You hit me, for fuck’s sake.’

  Conor looked nervously around and, following his gaze, I saw that a couple three tables away had turned to stare. I felt myself blush.

  ‘Look,’ Conor said quietly. ‘I’m not saying that I didn’t, OK? I’m not saying that I don’t believe you . . .’

  ‘Good,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice level. ‘I’m glad you’re not saying that.’

  ‘But it must have been an accident. It really must have been. I would never, you know . . . I would never hit a woman.’

  ‘Only you did, Conor. Hit a woman is exactly what you did.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry,’ Conor said. ‘What more can I say?’

  ‘Unfortunately “sorry” doesn’t work here,’ I told him. ‘Sorry’s not enough. Not this time.’

  ‘Then what?’ Conor asked. ‘Tell me what I have to do.’

  I shook my head and looked into his eyes. I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think there’s—’

  ‘I’ll change your ticket for you, if you want. I’ll go and do it now, if that’s what you really need,’ Conor said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But at least give me one more chance.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s a beach,’ Conor said. ‘Your man, Mike, told me about it last night. It’s half an hour’s drive. It’s beautiful. It’s one of the most—’

  ‘I can’t, Conor,’ I said again. ‘You’re not listening.’

  ‘Let me take you there.’ He reached for my hand across the table but I jerked it away. ‘Give me one more chance to make it up to you. Let me give you the best day ever. What do you say? And then you can go.’

  ‘But you’re not listening,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Conor asked. There was real desperation in his voice, genuine tears pooling in the corners of those big, brown eyes. I could sense my resolve faltering.

  ‘Because I’m scared of you,’ I said brutally. ‘You change. When you drink. And I’m scared of you.’

  ‘Well, that one’s easily solved,’ Conor said. ‘I won’t drink.’

  I stared at him, flicking my gaze between one eye and the other as I tried to look into his soul. And I thought I saw a scared little boy hiding deep inside there. And I thought that was someone the scared little girl inside me seemed to recognise.

  ‘Please,’ Conor said again. ‘You love it here. You’ve been dreaming of coming here for years, you told me so yourself. And I’m . . . I’m really into you, you know? I’ll stay sober as a judge. I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise. Don’t let a nob like myself ruin your holiday, for Christ’s sake.’

  I sighed deeply. ‘Do you promise?’ I asked. ‘Do you promise you won’t drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ Conor gushed. ‘Yes, I promise. Jesus Mary, thank God for that.’

  ‘And if I change my mind at any point, you’ll help me change my ticket? No arguments.’

  ‘If you change your mind at any point, I’ll help you change your ticket,’ Conor repeated, nodding eagerly. ‘No arguments at all.’

  I sighed deeply and shook my head – in sadness, I think, at the decisions I was watching myself make. ‘This is the absolute last chance, Conor,’ I said.

  ‘I know that,’ Conor replied. ‘You know that I know that, right?’

  As I unpacked my beach gear from my suitcase, I almost changed my mind. I froze for a moment, my sun cream in one hand and my bikini in another, and I thought, You can still walk away from this. You can still just say ‘no’ and deal with this while Conor’s in a good mood.

  But then Conor called out from the bathroom. ‘This red beach is supposed to be incredible, you know?’ He sounded youthful and excited – boyish, even. ‘And the drive takes us right around the island.’

  And like a gambler who can’t stop gambling, like a gambler who pushes his chips back onto the board, I thought, Oh, what the hell?

  It was true that I’d been wanting to come here for as long as I remembered. And it was true I wanted to see the red beach. I’d read about it in the Aegean Airlines magazine.

  But what’s perhaps hardest to admit is that my fragile ego, battered by the constant criticism dealt out by my mother, felt sated whenever Conor complimented me. And he complimented me almost constantly. I was enjoying the idea (if not the reality) of having a boyfriend. I was even enjoying, in a strange, rather perverse way, the unpredictability, the danger, the risk of it all . . . I felt excited to see if Conor would keep his word and how I’d deal with it if he didn’t . . . That
will all sound completely mad, I expect. But then, don’t we all have moments of madness?

  The drive to the beach was incredible. It took us up into the hills and down to the coast, then up again, then down.

  I stayed silent for the first half of the trip, partly because I was still genuinely wondering about my own mental processes and partly because I was determined to make Conor pay. It all seems childish looking back, but then I was pretty much still a child.

  In the end, the scenery, which was stunning, and Conor’s dogged good humour managed to grind me down. I asked him to pull over for a photograph and found myself laughing, despite everything, as he ran comically to join me while the self-timer on his camera beeped frantically.

  We left the car in a dusty car park and clambered down the rocks to the beach. It was as beautiful as everyone said it was.

  It wasn’t called the red beach for no reason. The rock face, the sand, even the shallows were a deep-red ochre. Where the turquoise of the sea met the red of the beach, the outrageous colours seemed to shudder against each other.

  We rented sunbeds and parasols and Conor ran into the sea. I started to wade in gingerly. Not only did I not want any horseplay in the shallows with him, but the sea was much colder today.

  Conor swam back to encourage me. ‘I’m counting to ten and then I’m gonna splash you!’ he menaced.

  I waved him away with one hand. ‘Just go and . . . swim or something, will you?’ I said, irritatedly.

  ‘Still angry, huh?’ Conor asked.

  ‘Yep,’ I told him, unflinching. ‘Still angry.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to forgive me eventually,’ he said, then he laughed, turned, and swam efficiently out to sea.

  By one o’clock, the sun was scorching and any part of my body that wasn’t protected by the limited shade provided by the parasol seemed at risk, so I agreed with Conor that we should leave. As we clambered back over the rocks, I glanced back regretfully. It really was that beautiful.

  We ate in Megalochori, a traditional hillside village made of another thousand hobbit houses and blue-domed churches.

  The restaurant we chose was in a pretty little square, shaded by vines which had woven themselves around steel cables stretched between the buildings. Waistcoated waiters zipped in and out of the darkened interiors around the edges, bringing colourful Greek salads and pink carafes of wine – and then a prawn saganaki for me and ouzo-flambéed lobster for Conor. I debated with myself for a moment whether the ouzo in his meal violated the terms of our agreement but, because he requested a Coke to go with it, I decided to say nothing. When it came, my prawn saganaki – prawns steeped in a rich tomato sauce with lumps of melted feta – was delicious. Conor seemed pleased with his choice, too.

  After a sweaty meander through the village, we drove to the eastern side of the island, to a vast expanse of almost-black sand called Perissa Beach. It was covered with wall-to-wall parasols. Once again we rented sunbeds and again Conor drank Coke.

  ‘I know you haven’t forgiven me properly yet,’ Conor said on returning from a swim.

  I glanced up at him over the top of the novel I was reading and did my best to look circumspect.

  ‘But am I on the right track?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re on the right track,’ I said as flatly as I could manage. ‘But you still have some way to go.’ Was I starting to enjoy making him pay? Was I getting into the ever-shifting balance of who had the power? I think I probably was.

  ‘Thank you,’ Conor said. He leaned over me, dripping cold water from his swim, and kissed me on the cheek. I managed, just about, not to flinch. It was part of showing him that I still had the power.

  We stayed there all afternoon and ate dinner in the beach’s restaurant, our toes pushing into the sand. Conor remained good-tempered, sober, and drove calmly home. I told myself everything was going to be OK, even though, by now, I knew this wasn’t true.

  The sun had gone down by the time we got back; the last vestiges of red were draining from the sky.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a bit of you-know-what?’ Conor asked as he unlocked the front door.

  I sank into the deckchair to look out, as ever, at the view. ‘Any chance of a bit of wh— Oh!’ I said. ‘No! No chance of that whatsoever.’

  ‘Right,’ Conor said. ‘Fair enough. I fancy a ciggy.’

  ‘A cigarette?’ I asked, surprised. I had never seen Conor smoke.

  ‘Yeah, it grabs me from time to time,’ Conor said. ‘The idea of a ciggy. Especially if I can’t drink. Shall I nip up to the hotel and see if they have some?’

  I shrugged. ‘Do whatever you want,’ I said. ‘I never smoke, so . . . But do whatever you want.’

  ‘Right,’ Conor said. ‘Well, I won’t be a tick.’

  I watched the horizon until the final swathe of purple had vanished, until the sky was a deep uniform blue and the stars were twinkling above. And it was only then I realised that Conor wasn’t coming back.

  ‘What the fuck did you go and do that for?’ It was his voice that had woken me with a start.

  I sat up blinking at the bedroom light he’d switched on, then managed to focus on his face. He was sitting on the edge of the bed right beside me, staring at me crazily.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ I said simply.

  ‘You locked me out!’ Conor replied, sounding outraged. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t think,’ I lied. I had expected to be awoken by his knocking. I had wanted to be awake when he returned, that was all. ‘I’m sorry. But you’re drunk. You promised.’

  Taking in the fact that I was still fully clothed – I’d prepared myself for precisely this – I edged across to the far side of the bed and stood up. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was half past one in the morning.

  Conor stood with difficulty and started to lumber around the bed to where I was standing. I backed towards the front door.

  ‘You locked me out of my own fecking room,’ Conor said again. ‘I had to ask that wanker in the hotel for the key.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘Now just calm down and—’

  ‘Gimme a kiss and maybe I’ll forgive you,’ Conor slurred, stepping into my personal space. ‘Just a kiss,’ he added, ‘because, unlike yourself, I’m a forgiving kind of guy.’

  ‘I’m not kissing you,’ I said, turning my face sideways. He stank of ouzo and cigarettes. I fumbled behind me to unlock the front door.

  I wondered, momentarily, if this was a dream. Because it had all of the classic elements of a nightmare. The pursuer. The fear. The inability to escape. I looked around the room, checking for detail. I glanced at my open suitcase beside me hoping to spot something incongruous that might reveal this as a nightmare – something like, I don’t know, a leopard in my suitcase, or a hand beckoning, or a secret door. But my case was exactly as I had left it. My clothes were neatly piled and stacked in the two open halves. My fingers had found the lever on the lock by now, but when I tried to pull it open, it wouldn’t budge. It was locked and Conor had the key.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Conor said, following my gaze to my suitcase. ‘Not anywhere at all.’

  ‘I wasn’t even . . . I’m not . . .’ I spluttered, hesitating between submission and anger as the best way out. ‘Stop, Conor,’ I pleaded. But it was too late. He had hurled my case across the room with ease. The contents were scattered across the floor.

  I turned now to glance at the door lock but my fingers hadn’t lied. The key was missing. ‘Give me the key,’ I said, turning back to find Conor mere inches away. ‘Let me out.’

  He grabbed my wrists and, using his hips, pushed me back against the door so hard that I hurt my back on the doorknob. I couldn’t believe how strong his grip was. I worried he was going to break my wrists. ‘A kiss,’ he said in a mock-reasonable voice. ‘Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Let me out,’ I said again, struggling pathetically against his grasp.

  ‘Kiss
me,’ Conor said, his head now too close to focus on. He reached and forcibly turned my head to face him, pressing his fingers into my chin and cheek as he did so. The doorknob was digging so hard into my back now that I could barely stand the pain.

  ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll scream,’ I threatened, thinking of the hiker and his friend, just two tiny houses behind us.

  ‘You’ll scream?’ Conor repeated, laughing horribly. His mouth held a sneer and his eyes were so dark, they looked as if he were possessed. I know that’s a thing people say quite a lot, but they really did. I looked into them and wondered if evil, if the devil himself, didn’t exist after all. I had always assumed Abby was right and that these things were just metaphors.

  ‘Get . . . off . . . me . . .’ I said, starting to cry in despair.

  ‘The poor little thing,’ Conor said in a revolting tone of voice. ‘She’s crying.’ He was undoing his belt now with one hand, so I tried to take advantage of the fact that he only had one hand to hold me. I tried to break away.

  He yanked me back so fast and with such force that it left me breathless. He slammed me back against the door so hard that I wondered, just for a second, if he hadn’t damaged my skull.

  I went limp. Some instinct in me telling me to survive, to just stay alive, made me stop fighting. Men have a fight-or-flight response, they say. For women, it’s fight or flight, or freeze. Because in the face of overpowering physical strength, our overriding instinct is to survive, to not die here. I went numb, suspending my consciousness. It was a technique I had perfected as a child during beatings.

  All the same, I remember thinking both This is how women get raped and This is where Conor rapes me. Fight, or flight, or if all else fails, freeze.

  He unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down my legs. ‘I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk for a week,’ he said.

  ‘Conor,’ I whimpered. ‘Please don’t . . .’ I was trembling and crying. Snot was running from my nose.

  Unexpectedly, Conor paused and looked down at himself, losing his balance and staggering backwards a few paces in the process. ‘Aw Jesus,’ he said, sinking back onto the bed behind him, his jeans still around his ankles. ‘Now look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve put me right off my stride.’