by Maria Goodin
I rub my forehead.
What’s the matter with me? I’m such an idiot.
“What do you think?”
I jump slightly to find Libby standing next to me.
I hook my hands in my back pockets and avoid eye contact.
“Looks like you’re almost finished,” I tell her.
“Hopefully this week, if the weather holds.”
“And then I guess you’ll be done here.”
“Yeah, and Irena’s doing much better now so… yeah, I’ll be done here.”
I feel a wave of relief wash over me. A week from now she’ll be gone and I’ll have one less thing to deal with.
“Look, I know you have far bigger things on your mind,” says Libby, sheepishly, “but when we were in the van the other night looking for Josh… I just… I shouldn’t have said what I did. About how you could have given us a shot. I don’t know why I said it. It was stupid. I’m sorry. It’s been kind of confusing coming back here, there are so many memories and… I think I just… it might not have been the right thing to come back here and—”
“So why did you?” I interrupt, my tone blunter than intended.
“Because you wanted to meet with me,” she frowns.
“We could have met anywhere. You’re the one who said you’d come here.”
“Well, I suppose I thought coming back to Timpton might be good for me. But maybe I was wrong.”
“Well, another week and you’re done, aren’t you?”
I can hear how abrupt I sound, but I can’t stop myself. I stare out at the dark water of the canal.
“You’re the one who came looking for me, remember?” she says, clearly offended.
“But I never asked you to stay.”
I can feel her staring at me.
“Perhaps you would have preferred it if I hadn’t?”
I don’t answer, but I guess my silence speaks volumes.
“You know, I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time, but you’re not the only one with past hurts you want to heal,” she says bitterly, before turning and walking away.
I close my eyes and clench my jaw, wanting to be somewhere – someone – else.
I lose myself in Rachel. I don’t even care about the sound of her housemates drinking and playing music downstairs, I’m just here in this moment. I can smell the alcohol on our breaths, feel my heart racing with anticipation as we pull off each other’s T-shirts. It’s warm in her room and her hands are hot against my back as she pulls me towards her, starts to unbutton my jeans. She pushes her hips against me and I clutch at her bare waist.
And just then I think of what I said to Libby. The tone I used with her.
I concentrate on the feel of Rachel’s smooth, tanned skin beneath my palms. She kisses me with a sense of urgency, running her hands over my chest, through my hair…
Why the hell did I talk to her like that? She’s done nothing to deserve my anger.
Rachel kisses my neck, starts to tug down my jeans.
My feelings towards her are my problems, not hers.
“I can’t do this,” I hear myself murmur.
“What?” whispers Rachel, reaching to unhook her bra.
“I can’t… I’m sorry,” I say, pulling away and buttoning my jeans.
“You what?”
“I need to go. I’m so sorry, it’s not you, I swear. It’s me, I’m… I’ve got stuff going on, I’m sorry.”
She looks understandably affronted.
“God, d’you know what, Jay? I’m done with you!” she says, throwing my T-shirt at me.
“Hey, you’re the one who kept coming on to me, remember?!”
“And you weren’t playing games?!”
I don’t even bother answering her. I’m already halfway out the door.
I’ve never been back to the canal path at night, but tonight I want to torture myself, remember the mistakes I made. As if I ever let myself forget.
I stride through the darkness and the pounding of my trainers against the path reminds me of that night; running fast and yet moving too slow.
Which way? Left or right?
My breath, which that night rasped with the effort of my race, becomes laboured again now, my chest tightening, fighting for air.
Sixty seconds too late.
I quicken my pace, welcoming the surge of pain in my lungs, willing an attack to come on. The lights along the canal path seem to sway and blur, and I remember the sound of shattered glass, a cry of pain, and then blood. Blood on Libby’s face. Blood from a knife sliced across my palm. Blood on the pub carpet from my wound.
Out of the darkness, I see a group of men approaching: three of them, one taller than the others. They’re talking and laughing, a bit worse for wear. They have accents of some kind and I instinctively know it’s the one in the middle who’s their leader.
My heart thumps, desperate to break free from the squeeze of my tightening ribcage. There’s no escape. I put my head down and plough forwards, my breath coming in wheezy, short bursts.
“You all right, fella?” asks the leader when I reach them.
I don’t talk, just stride forwards, but they’re taking up the entire path and my shoulder knocks against one of theirs as I try to pass.
“Hey, watch out!” he says, and I think I see him make a grab for me. Without a thought, I lash out, shoving him away from me and into his two friends, who stumble backwards.
“Hey, what the hell?!” shouts the guy I shoved.
“Leave him, Joe,” says the third man, nervously.
I stride on, hearing them mutter behind me.
“…just asking if the nutter was okay…”
“…off his head on something…”
None of them has an accent, and none of them is the Leader.
As soon as they’re far enough behind me, I stop and lean over, my hands resting on my knees, trying to drag in air.
I climb the steps that lead from the towpath up to the back of the Canal House. Stu spies me crossing the terrace just as he’s closing the back doors for the night.
“You all right, mate?” he calls.
“Is Libby around?”
He takes a step to the side and I see Libby and Irena perched at the bar eating a very late dinner of whatever leftovers have come from the kitchen. They both peer at me, forks in the air.
“Can I talk to you?” I call to Libby.
“What about?” she asks, clearly still annoyed.
“I just want a quick word.”
She looks to Irena, who gives her a little nod. I have a feeling they’ve been discussing me.
Libby slides off her stool with a sigh, making it clear that this is an inconvenience at the end of a long evening.
I wander to the side of the terrace, out of view of Stu and Irena, and she follows me. The outside lights have been switched off and I can only just see her in the darkness. I feel agitated and tense, my heartbeat still accelerated.
“Look, I’m sorry about how I spoke to you earlier. I was out of order.”
“Yes, you were,” she says, arms crossed defensively.
“It’s been a horrendous week, and I know that’s no excuse—”
“You want me gone, don’t you?”
I stare at her. Her eyes shine in the darkness, wide with hurt and confusion.
“Yes.”
She shrugs, forlornly. “Why?”
I shake my head and sigh. I don’t want her to leave here feeling hurt and rejected. I’d rather tell her the truth than allow that to happen. Besides, I’m too exhausted to lie to her anymore, and she’ll be gone soon anyway.
“You and I have a history…”
I stop, unsure whether to proceed. But I’ve already lost my son, my father, my identity… What else do I have to lose?
“…We have a history, and it’s like you said earlier, memories can get stirred up…”
I stare down at my feet, although I can barely see them in the darkness.
“…Feel
ings,” I fumble, trying to explain, “feelings can get stirred up. I thought I could leave the past behind, but seeing you again, all these feelings have resurfaced and—”
“Oh,” says Libby quietly, as if she suddenly understands, “oh, I see.”
I hold my breath, unable to meet her eye.
“It didn’t occur to me that you might feel—”
“No, it’s me, my problem,” I interrupt, “I know you and I could never—”
“Of course seeing me would bring it all back. I mean, everything you went through around that time, what happened that night…”
It takes me a moment to realise that she’s misunderstood me entirely.
I open my mouth to set her straight, but then I stop. This is better, I think.
I nod. “Yeah, I guess I just associate you a bit with—”
“I get it,” she says, “I can see why you wouldn’t want me around.”
“That sounds so—”
“It’s fine,” she says, holding up her hand to stop me, “I understand.”
We stand awkwardly and I don’t know what else to say.
“I should go,” she says, quietly.
She walks past me, her head down, but stops at the doors.
“I don’t know if I’ll see you before I leave,” she says.
I stare at her face, illuminated by the light from the bar, and realise that this could well be the last I see of her. I drink in her brown eyes, the curve of her lips, the freckles on the bridge of her nose. I feel a mixture of sadness and relief.
“I hope everything works out for you,” she says, sounding a little emotional. She turns quickly and heads inside, sliding the glass door shut behind her.
I lean against the cool brick of the wall, taking deep breaths of the night air, feeling like I have nothing left to give.
Just then my phone buzzes. I’m so drained that for the first time ever I consider leaving it, but I can’t.
It’s Josh.
“You all right?” I answer, worried that he’s calling at this hour.
“Dad, I need your help,” he says, his voice panicked.
Immediately I go from dead on my feet to high alert.
“What’s the matter?”
I can hear shouting around him, swearing, a girl shrieking.
Images flash through my mind of all the threatening situations he could be in, all the people who could be closing in on him, trapping him, wanting to harm him.
“Where are you?” I demand.
“I’m at home. Can you just come? I really need—”
I’m running before he’s even finished his sentence.
Chapter 21
Decisions
As soon as I get near our block of flats, I know Josh wasn’t exaggerating when he said things had gotten out of hand.
There are teenagers milling about on the pavement, shouting and laughing, bottles in their hands. I can hear the boom of the music from outside on the street, blaring loudly and then fading as if people are fighting over the volume control.
Helen, from the floor below, is standing in the lobby in her dressing gown, having a row with a group of kids I don’t recognise. Helen’s a good neighbour as long as you don’t piss her off, then she comes at you all guns blazing. And tonight she’s clearly had enough.
“Get this under control, Jay, or I’m calling the police!” she yells at me as I bound up the stairs.
Chloe, Amelia and the other one – Jasinda? – are huddled anxiously outside my open front door.
“The boys are inside,” says Chloe when she sees me. “They’re trying to get people out. They told us to stay out here.”
I head inside, pushing past teenagers laughing, drinking, swearing and making out in my hallway. My home smells of body odour, cheap fragrances, beer and weed.
As I pass the kitchen, I see Alex and Sam arguing with some other boys and pointing them towards the door.
I shove my way through to the darkened lounge and flick the light switch on. There’s a cacophony of groans and swearing as I kill the music.
“OUT! EVERYONE GET OUT!”
For a second I wonder if they’re going to obey, or whether I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. A couple of them look closer to twenty than fifteen, and I wonder whether calling the police would have been a better option. But then a voice booms from behind me—
“COME ON, YOU HEARD HIM! GET OUT! MOVE IT!”
Michael normally avoids confrontation like the plague, but he’s in his comfort zone here, using the two skills that earn his livelihood: working with difficult teenagers and using that powerful voice.
Slowly the kids start to move out, blurry-eyed and ratty, mumbling in disgust.
“… thought he said his dad was looking after his old man for the night…”
“… fuck’s sake, this sucks…”
“… I was so nearly in there with her…”
“Thanks for the back up,” I say, patting Michael on the shoulder as I walk past him.
“I’m sorry, he told us he was—”
“It’s not your fault. You can’t keep an eye on him twenty-four/seven,” I say.
Finding both bedrooms locked, I hammer on the doors until a couple emerges from each, looking both sheepish and disgruntled at the interruption. They slink off, unapologetic.
“Dad?”
I turn to see Josh looking flushed and stressed out.
“I’m so sorry.”
Another time I might have blown my top, but I’m so pleased to see him, and so relieved he’s safe, that I just want to grab him and hold him tight. I’m not stupid enough to do that in front of his peers though. Instead I just shrug.
“Don’t worry. It happens.”
My miserable-looking son and his equally miserable-looking friends work in silence under Michael’s supervision, throwing bottles into bin bags, uprighting furniture, wiping up spillages. The coffee table is singed and scratched, the curtain rail’s hanging down, the money from the cash jar is gone, there are burn marks all over the sofa and stains on the carpet I can’t imagine will ever come out. The stains on my sheets don’t even bear contemplating and I can’t tear them off my mattress fast enough.
“Jesus Christ, what a mess,” I sigh, throwing the bedding into a pile on the floor and sitting down on my bed next to Chloe. She has a headache and feels queasy.
“It was all my fault,” she says, teary. “I was the one who talked Josh into having a party. It was just meant to be, like, ten people from our year and I told them not to put anything on social media. I’m so, so sorry. I just wanted to cheer Josh up. He’s been so down and I hate seeing him unhappy like that.”
She puts her head in her hands and cries, her long, blonde hair falling around her face.
“It’s not your fault,” I say, “we all mess up. I know I have lately.”
She wraps her arms around herself and shivers. She’s wearing a pink, strappy top and her bare arms are covered in goosebumps. I go to my wardrobe and pull out a black hoodie.
“Here, put this on,” I tell her.
She pulls it on. It’s huge on her.
“So, how do you think Josh is doing?” I ask, sitting down beside her again.
She wipes at her eyes with the sleeves of my top.
“I think he’s stressed out and confused,” she says. “And I think he’s scared.”
“Scared?”
“I think he’s scared of meeting his mum. And also scared of not meeting her, like, if she just drops contact again. And I think he’s scared of upsetting you.”
“Me?”
“I think he feels like it would be, like, sort of disloyal to meet up with her? Like, he’d be betraying you or something?”
I close my eyes and shake my head. It had never crossed my mind he might feel that way. But I suddenly realise that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling: that even acknowledging that Jack’s my biological father would be somehow betraying my dad, let alone meeting with him.
�
�I’ve been trying to talk things through with him and be supportive,” sniffs Chloe. “He’s always there for me when I’m down, you know? He’s always, just, like, really sweet and kind.”
“He is?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to try to make him feel better, like he does with me.”
I try to imagine my son in this role, providing a comforting shoulder to cry on, knowing just what to say to make an unhappy girl feel better. I’ve always known he has that empathy in him, but most of the time it’s hidden under the swagger and backchat, the cockiness and jokes. I feel proud that he’s able to show such sensitivity.
“You’re a good friend to him,” I tell Chloe, gratefully.
She smiles at me, her make-up smudged around her eyes.
“He’s a good friend to me.”
I know it’s not my place, but I would hate to see these two lose their chance. One of them needs to make the first move.
“Are you sure friends is all you want to be?”
She looks at me, confused.
“Me and Josh?”
“Yeah. I thought maybe…”
“No,” she laughs, “I don’t feel that way about him. And he’s not interested in me like that, either.”
You’re wrong, I want to tell her, Josh’s words coming back to me clearly.
We’re already friends and I don’t want to put my feelings out there and risk ruining our friendship.
His secret’s safe with me, but whatever he feels for Chloe it clearly isn’t reciprocated, and my heart aches for him.
“Come on,” I sigh, wearily, “let’s get you home.”
As we stand up, Chloe sways on her feet and leans into me. I put my arm around her narrow shoulders to steady her, and feel a warmth spreading down my side. At first I think it’s the heat of her body, but then I realise what’s just happened.
“Oh, come on, give me a break,” I groan, looking up to the merciless heavens.
She’s just thrown up all over me.
“We’re majorly pissed off with you,” Michael tells Josh, sternly. “You told us you were going out to the cinema with some friends and you came here, threw a party, didn’t return my calls… I was just about to call your dad—”