by Jennie Ensor
They found a table by the window. While Rachel went to get the drinks, Laura watched people scurrying for shelter. She was getting scared now. What if her father found out? Had she done the right thing, telling someone? Gusts of wind ruffled the surface of the river, creating vast silvery lakes. A pelican landed on the cabin of a moored boat, bobbing crazily.
‘I got us mojitos, it’s two for one. I could do with a drink after what you told me.’
She thanked Rachel and took a gulp of the drink.
‘I find it hard to believe your father could do those things and your mother didn’t know,’ Rachel said all of a sudden, as if she’d been dwelling on it for some time. ‘Surely she had an inkling what was going on? What planet was she on, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Well, if she did know, she’s never said anything. Dad’s clever. I think he made sure she never had any reason to be suspicious. But I suppose it’s a bit odd she never twigged what was going on.’
‘Aren’t you angry with her for not protecting you?’
Laura slammed her glass on the table. ‘It wasn’t my mother who did those things! He did.’
But wasn’t Rachel right? That was part of the reason she avoided seeing her mother, wasn’t it? She was angry with her mother for not seeing the truth, for not being a stronger person. Because her mother couldn’t stand up to him, he’d thought he could get away with anything. Her mother hadn’t seen what was wrong with Dad. Why hadn’t her mother protected her – why had she been the one to protect her mother? Even now, I’m going around on tippy toes to save her from the harsh reality.
Laura lowered her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel. It’s so hard to explain. Things aren’t right between me and my mother. I guess part of me does resent her. I’ve always hidden things from her. Maybe it’s because I’ve had to keep this big secret. I just can’t imagine telling her about all this.’
An uneasy silence.
‘I’m glad you told me,’ Rachel said at last. ‘It must have been really difficult for you.’
‘I had to tell someone. It seemed like the right time.’ She waited, summoning the long-stored question to her lips. ‘I’ve been thinking. Do you think my dad could do the same thing to someone else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s started taking this girl swimming. Emma, her name is. She’s twelve. Her mother’s on her own, her husband left her. My mother’s been friends with her for ages.’
‘This woman must be very trusting.’
‘Dad’s friends with her too, she trusts him. Do you think I should tell someone about what he did to me? Emma’s mother, maybe?’
Rachel stabbed her straw into the ice at the bottom of her glass. ‘I think you should tell your mother about everything your father did to you. Tell her you think he might do it to Emma too.’
‘What if she can’t deal with it? What if something happens to her? She loves him, Rachel. She’d be devastated.’
‘And what if he does do something to this girl? After what he did to you …’
‘I know. But he probably won’t get the chance to do anything. He’s only going swimming with her. There’ll be other people around—’
‘All the time? What if he does do something? How would you feel then?’
She shook her head, unable to put her feelings into words. An icky swirl of foreboding, brooding and strengthening.
From above, a long, deep rumble.
‘That can’t be thunder, can it? In January?’ Rachel’s voice was charged with excitement. They both turned to the window. Another flash of lightning forked in the sky, causing a stir around them. ‘Let’s get out of here before it buckets. I’ll come with you to the station.’
They went out, onto the street. Rachel stopped and struggled to open her tiny umbrella, jabbing at buttons and shaking it. The wind tossed an empty crisp packet high into the air.
‘It’s stuck. Hold on, let me fix it.’
‘We’re going to be soaked, hurry up!’
Finally, the umbrella opened. They huddled beneath its inadequate canopy.
‘Hold it straight, will you?’ Laura clung on to Rachel’s arm. ‘I’m getting a river of water down my neck.’
‘It’s hard to hold it straight in this wind.’ Rachel started laughing. ‘You try.’
They narrowly missed crashing into someone running umbrella-less towards them.
‘Slow down, we’ll crucify someone! There’s a vicious spike on the end of this thing.’
A fierce white light bathed the street. Almost immediately, a crack of thunder. Rachel looked up.
‘Shit, it’s right on top of us, we’ll be struck! Let’s wait here till it’s over.’
‘No, let’s run to the station. We’ll be alright.’
‘We’d better be,’ Rachel said. ‘It’ll be your fault if we’re struck by lightning.’
It would be his revenge. The thought had slipped out before she could stop it.
They ran past the shops, reached the station and stood dripping inside the entrance hall, laughing and panting. Her jeans were soaked. Rachel’s fringe clung to her forehead and she had a dark smudge under one eye.
‘Look at us.’
‘Your mascara’s running!’
When the rain eased, Rachel readied her umbrella.
‘Good luck with the job hunting. And I’m glad you told me about your dad and everything. Let me know what happens, won’t you?’
The train was waiting at the platform. Laura sat down in the first empty seat, smiling to herself. Her head felt light. She was cold and damp but she didn’t care. Finally, she’d revealed the truth about her father. Why had she got so anxious about telling Rachel? She’d even wondered whether Rachel would still want to be her friend.
Of course, if she had other close friends, Rachel wouldn’t be so important. She’d never made friends easily, not since the end of primary school. Back then, she’d gone around with her three closest friends. The four of them would always be over at each other’s houses, having parties and sleepovers, playing with Lizzie’s karaoke set and Allie’s roller skates, or acting in Alex’s plays. Then, the year she turned twelve, everything changed. Her closest friends went to a different school and drifted away, and new ones didn’t come. She went around by herself in the breaks, longing to be included. But something stopped her from getting close to the others, an invisible cloak separated her from the world, containing within it all the bad things her father had done to her, and all the bad things inside her that she couldn’t let anyone see.
Even as an adult, looking at the world with adult eyes, she sometimes felt like that withdrawn and lonely schoolgirl. On some days she felt utterly alone. But those days were fewer, thankfully, since Rachel had come into her life.
Laura smiled. They would never have met if Rachel hadn’t started chatting to her on a bench at Wimbledon station, while they waited for a delayed train to Waterloo. She’d been prickly, not in the mood to talk. Rachel had persisted, asking questions about her life with a peculiar ease and openness she had, which made meeting people seem natural and inevitable rather than a chore you did your best to avoid.
It had been like discovering an unsuspected sister. They’d talked on the phone for hours about the books they’d read and films they’d watched, the things they disliked the most, what they would most like to do but had never dared, what they would do if they won a million pounds. They’d confided in each other about their bodies, their jobs, their relationships. She’d shared more with her friend than she had with anyone else – including her mother and her brother, and every one of her past boyfriends. And now she’d shared the secret about her father, too.
She’s in her room, back at the house. The sky is dark and branches flail in the wind, scratching and tapping against the window. Her mother has gone away, won’t be back for a long time. Outside, a light flickers. Her father is calling, she realises.
‘Laura! Where are you?’
He thuds down the hall and starts climbi
ng the stairs. She runs out of her room and into the bathroom, bangs the door shut and slides the bolt across, leaving the light off so he won’t know she’s there.
Thud, thud, thud. He’s on the landing now.
A tap on the door. ‘Laura! I know you’re in there! Open the door, sweetie.’
She turns on the bath taps so the gushing water will block him out. But she can still hear the tapping at the door.
Tap, tap, tap.
A flash lights up the room, brighter than any lightning she’s ever seen.
Tap, tap, tap.
‘No! Don’t come in!’
A scream pierced her head. Her own scream.
Laura jolted upright. Sweat drenched her skin. Her heart was beating wildly and irregularly, as it must do when one is in the throes of a heart attack.
Then, slowly, her body returned to normal. She was safe now. She was an adult again, back in her flat. She’d dozed off against the beanbag. Outside, rain was beating against the roof and the wind was gusting. But inside was warm and cosy, just as it should be.
5
Paul
5 February 2011
‘Bet you can’t catch me!’ With a splash, Emma vanished.
‘OK, missy, I’m coming to get you!’
Her head bobbed to the surface, way down the pool. Another shriek and she was off again, churning up a wake with her frenzied kicking. Paul launched himself towards the flash of red costume, dodging shoals of bodies. He was catching her up. Any second now he’d have her.
He reached out and grabbed her foot but she wriggled free. He stood up, pretending to give up the chase, then flung himself at her with all his strength, managing to grab a flailing arm. ‘Gotcha!’
He reeled her in, held her tight around the waist. Suddenly she was helpless in his arms.
‘Okay, you win,’ Emma said, pulling away. ‘Let me go.’
He drank in the slippery, fluttery feel of her body against his and let her escape.
‘Time to go home, little mermaid.’
She floated away from him, a smile curling her lips. Of course, she wouldn’t want to leave just yet.
‘Your mum will be wondering where we’ve got to. I said we’d be back by four.’
No answer.
‘Come on, Emma, let’s go.’
She stayed floating, ignoring him.
‘I’m going in to get changed.’ He turned away as if he didn’t care what she did. ‘See you at the entrance.’
‘Wait, I’m coming!’
Paul closed the door of his cubicle and pulled a towel from his bag. It was their fourth swim together, and she was finally starting to let down her defences. He was getting glimpses of a laughing, mischievous Emma. The sullen stares and long silences were on their way out and Little Miss Wilful was getting an airing instead. He was up for whatever games she wanted to play. He could play games too.
He imagined Emma’s glistening body as she stepped out of her wet costume, her tresses clinging to her back. The small breasts and the tender slope of her stomach leading to a dark patch above her legs. He was getting a hard-on. How could he help it? She was a wispy, sulky, feisty little thing, her flesh secretly moist, ripening with each passing week. And just out of reach.
He finished dressing and went outside to wait. Emma would be a while yet, messing around with her hair and her lip gloss, trying to look like the models in her Glamour magazines. In her head, she was a woman already.
Suzanne would go nuts, he thought, if she knew how much time he spent picturing Emma undressing. She was getting a tiny bit suspicious now, since that girl with the tattoo at the party. But in all these years, she had never picked up on anything untoward.
He had been careful, cunning even; Suzanne wasn’t stupid. He had one big advantage over her, though. At heart, his wife was a good woman, kind, affectionate and loyal, the sort who could see only good in others.
He’d fallen in love with a sweetly shy, girlish, tender-hearted twenty-four-year-old. He’d been something solid for her to cling to. In her gratitude and love, she’d dedicated herself to him – in those early years, at least. Her naivety had appealed to him, her foolish fears and fancies had amused him, her giggles had loosened the crust around his heart. He’d known from the start that she wouldn’t see there was another part of him, which needed more than she could offer. Hadn’t he even hoped, for a while, that she could crush this demon inside him, that marriage and a family would be enough – or at least would prevent him from placating the hunger for something more?
For a few years it seemed to work – or perhaps he just kidded himself it was. As Suzanne’s lure diminished, the resentment and hostility built up inside him. She came to embody the reason he could not satisfy his deepest desires. And these days …
He sighed, thinking back to last night’s sight of Suzanne’s bare backside before she draped her pyjamas over it. She was no longer young and curvy. Her breasts hung towards her thickened belly. Sometimes it was like going to bed with his mother, not his wife.
He rubbed his hands together and put them inside his jacket pockets. It was fucking freezing out here. But the ache of cold in his hands and feet wasn’t nearly as bad as the ache in his groin when he looked at Emma. The grinding, useless ache of wanting something you couldn’t have. He kicked the concrete bollard in front of him, scuffing the leather of his shoe. The craving was as strong as ever. He could no longer ignore it and pray it would go away.
He’d been drawn to young girls since he was a fresh-faced trader on the money markets, back in Canada. The ones just beginning to ripen, delighting in their newly-found femininity, sunning themselves in the park on hot days in the latest show-all fashions. Just looking. Casually, but carefully, so no one would notice. He’d had girlfriends his own age, but none had done much for him. Then Maxine swaggered into his life, that spoiled, rich kid desperate to get back at her parents. She’d told him she would be fifteen in two months and she needed to find out about sex because her parents were absurdly strict and didn’t like her even looking at boys. It was only when her parents found out about the late-afternoon sessions in his apartment, and threatened to call the cops, derail his career and generally make his life hell, that he found out she was actually thirteen.
He’d escaped to London and found Suzanne. He’d wanted a normal life, to have a wife and kids like other guys. He told himself he wasn’t going to turn into some saddo, sneaking off to do things in secret, perpetually looking over his shoulder for cops and deranged parents.
And then came Laura.
Laura was his adored little girl. He read her stories, and built her a doll’s house and a tree house. He took her to ballet and swimming lessons and he comforted her when she fell over or came home crying. He loved her as a father should love his daughter. Only, when he carried her on his shoulders and she would scream with excitement, or she looked at him with serious eyes as he read to her, he would imagine her freshness, her softness, her willingness to please.
He’d done everything he could to resist her.
After his wife had gone to bed, or while she was out for the evening, he feasted on clips of girls he’d downloaded from the internet, putting his sessions down to eBay or Amazon, or networking with ex-colleagues on LinkedIn. Occasionally, usually during business trips, he’d sought out girls in the flesh, girls who looked younger than they dressed and never gave their real age. He went to terraced houses in the back streets of cities, places far enough from home that he wouldn’t be recognised, where you could get girls of indeterminate age – runaways or illegals – with broken English, half of them on drugs, judging from their robotic responses. He never saw the same girl twice and he never told them his real name or anything about himself.
Only, it began to feel like he had a drug habit. The relief was always short-lived and spoiled by his desire, which came back stronger than before.
Then one day, he hadn’t been able to resist Laura. It had been easy, that slide down. It had felt quite nat
ural, like stepping into a hot bath at the end of a long journey that had left you mentally and physically exhausted.
At first, he’d limited himself to kisses and caresses. The thought of going further had crossed his mind, of course. He’d resisted that temptation, mostly. Laura had been hard to resist, though. It was only when she began to show the first signs that she would soon reject him, maybe even out him to Suzanne, that he’d been able to stop. Otherwise, he might have gone all the way with her.
The thought of it had freaked him out. He’d vowed never again to let himself get hooked like that. He’d told himself that Laura would be the end of it. From now on, he would steer clear of girls: girls on the game, girls walking in parks, girls coming home from school, friends’ daughters, neighbours’ daughters, girls on the internet. He could never again take the risk of being found out, of being hounded by the police, or, heaven forbid, dragged before a court and locked up.
He’d not wavered, until now. Day by day, hour by hour, his will was eroding. Emma was awakening the same yearning inside him that Laura had. She was indefinable, contrary, quiet yet mischievous, fragile yet tough. Something in her called out to him, yet at the same time pushed him away.
He had to find a way out of this, before it was too late. He could go to prostitutes again, couldn’t he? He could get it up for some girl who’d already done it with so many guys, doing it with one more wouldn’t matter. A girl who would do whatever he wanted. He could save Emma from the demon inside him. That would be useless, however, he knew in his heart. There was one inescapable fact: the girls he could pay for were nothing compared to Emma.
Emma was the real thing. Not an image on his computer screen, or one of those dirty, desperate girls doped to the eyeballs, thinking only of her next fix as she passed herself from man to man. This girl was untouched by other men. And it wasn’t just that – he would get to know Emma gradually. He would find out how she ticked, get past her defences. With the right encouragement, she would come to him willingly, bit by bit.