I peer through the long windows at the courtyard at the back of the main hall, which is full of smokers. As I stand, looking at them, thinking about joining them, my elbow is nudged from behind and I turn to see George Craddock beaming at me.
‘Oh hello,’ I say brightly, relieved to see a friendly face. ‘Is Sandra here?’ I don’t know why I assume they always come as a pair, just because they work together.
‘She left a while back,’ he says. He lifts his glass towards the courtyard. ‘I saw you earlier but I couldn’t get to you, going outside?’
I really, really need to sit down. ‘Good idea…’ I say, and lead the way.
George and I get outside and sit down on a low brick wall. He is wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a pattern of tiny flowers – a designer-type shirt. It suits him. He has a packet of cigarettes in his hand. He takes one out and gives it to me and, stupidly, drunkenly, I put it to my lips and then lean forward into the lighter that he holds up to my face. It’s something of a flame-thrower and I inhale deeply then sit up straight before I singe my eyebrows. I break into a fit of coughing.
‘I knew you’d be a secret smoker!’ he says.
I shake my head, laughing a little. ‘I’m not, I promise!’
‘Yes you are,’ he says, ‘you’re one of these people who thinks it isn’t smoking gives you cancer, it’s going into the newsagent and buying them.’
George is definitely more witty when he’s had a drink or two, I think.
‘God weren’t the speeches awful…’ he says.
We launch into a tirade against the University authorities and those who fund them, starting with the Dean and ending with our current Minister for Education. George has always struck me as somewhat conservative and I’m surprised to find out he agrees with me about the current problems in higher education funding. Much as lecturers like him moan, though, our field remains well-funded in comparison to the arts – I think of how much easier my daughter’s career path has been than my son’s – and we discuss how the Head of Science probably has some fairly romantic delusions about the private sector. Yes, there’s a lot more money sloshing around but it’s a lot more brutal as well. Those paymasters expect results.
We are outside for a long time. Even without my coat, I don’t feel cold. At one point, a group of people join us and they talk for a bit, then melt away. The wine servers don’t bring the bottles around the courtyard but George goes in and refills our glasses a couple of times. Inside the building, the lights are dimmed and music begins to boom. Unfortunately, the lights are not dim enough for me to avoid seeing the Swedish bacteriologists letting their hair down. Frances comes over to me while George is getting me another drink and says, ‘I’ve got to go, darling, I’m completely plastered.’
‘Me too,’ I say, ‘I’m going soon too.’
‘See you next week,’ she says. ‘Don’t end up dancing, will you?’
‘No chance.’
George returns from refilling my glass and as he hands it down to me, I stand, staggering a little, and say, ‘You know, I really shouldn’t drink any more of this I don’t think.’
‘You’re probably right,’ he says. ‘Shall we go? I’ll walk to the Tube with you.’
‘Yeah, definitely…’ I say, opening my handbag and realising that my chances of locating the ticket I had torn from the metal coathanger as I hung up my coat are zero.
There are blank bits, then. I remember being in the corridor. I remember struggling to get the coat from the hanger. I remember George holding my bag as I put my coat on, shrugging it on to my shoulders but not bothering to do it up. I remember the sound of my heels as we crossed the foyer and I remember George saying, ‘I’ve just got to get my briefcase from my office.’
I remember leaning back against the wall of the lift and closing my eyes.
Then, George and I are walking along a darkened corridor. The Dawson Complex was built in the sixties and above the main, high-ceilinged ground-floor rooms is a warren of offices, ill-lit. At one point, my shoulder scrapes along the breeze block wall. George catches hold of my arm, ‘Come along,’ he says, in a friendly, amused kind of way. ‘You need to sit down for a bit.’
Inside George’s office, he closes the door behind us with one foot and goes over to his desk. There is a small, two-seater sofa along the opposite wall and I drop down on to it, my coat askew. Oh crumbs, I think, I haven’t been this drunk in years. I should have eaten something in the café with you, and as I think this, the memory of you and what we did earlier comes into my head and I give a small smile to myself, thinking of all the illustrious scientists downstairs and how I walked around the party with my job and my degrees and if only they knew….
George turns on a small lamp on his desk and busies himself with some papers, putting them into a battered brown suitcase. Then he clicks the switch on the electric kettle that sits on a corner of the desk. He turns and I’m aware of him looking at me but I let my head flop back against the sofa. When I sit up again, he has walked over to the light switch by the door and turned off the overhead light. The light on his desk is dim. The kettle is making a bubbling sound. ‘What are you smiling about?’ he says, and something about the tone in which he says it makes me a little uneasy, but before I have time to really register this thought, he has knelt down in front of me, on the floor in front of the sofa, and put his mouth on mine.
Oh shit… I think, oh dear… I put both hands against his chest and push him away, very gently. I feel mortified for him.
‘Look, I’m sorry, no,’ I say, giving a half-laugh. How stupid of me to have given him that impression. God, what an idiot I am. ‘I’m really sorry – my life’s quite complicated enough as it is.’
He sits back slightly on his heels – I too am sitting up by then and his face is quite close to mine. He puts his head on one side. ‘How’s Guy?’ he says then. He knows my husband’s name – well, of course, I suppose he would, we’re all in the same field, but as far as I know, they have never met.
‘Fine…’ I say.
‘Does he know you’re fucking someone else?’
I look at him, the trim beard, the thin-rimmed glasses – similar to the ones you wear – his friendly smile. I am bemused, far too bemused, and too drunk, to pull off the ridicule that this question warrants if I am to give a convincing denial.
His smile broadens, his face still close to mine. ‘Why else would you describe your life as complicated…?’
I shake my head, still baffled by the turn this encounter has taken. I don’t say anything, I just shake my head.
‘I’ve always thought you were greedy,’ he says, and his voice is low and dark, but he’s still smiling, and I’m still confused, and then he hits me.
There is an explosion inside my head – it feels as though the blow has happened inside my head – then a moment of stunned unreality, followed by a split second of unconsciousness. I give a yelp of pain and disbelief as I fly sideways off the sofa. My left ear is singing. And then I am on the floor, with my head against the back of the sofa, and he is fucking me.
His weight is pinning me down and he is grunting with exertion. I feel a pain in my ankle and realise it is pressed against the square metal leg of the desk opposite the sofa. I do not believe it is happening.
George Craddock looks at me as he fucks me. He still has his glasses on. ‘If you lift your head off that sofa, I’ll hit you again,’ he says.
He pushes into me hard and my head moves upwards but it is a short, involuntary movement, not a serious attempt to get up or resist.
He hits me again, a good, hard, open-handed slap across the face. My head snaps back. I get the message. I use my neck muscles to press my head against the sofa. I close my eyes and put my hands over my face.
It feels as though it goes on for a very long time, but in truth, it can only be a matter of minutes. After a while, still at it, he says, ‘Why have you got your hands over your face?’
I don’t answer. I keep my hand
s over my face, tensing all my muscles to remain as still as possible despite what he is doing. I want to protect my face.
‘Take your hands away from your face,’ he says. When I don’t move, he repeats, his voice low with threat, ‘I said, take your hands away from your face…’ I still don’t move. I am like a tortoise that has withdrawn into his shell, or a hedgehog in a ball.
He pulls my hands away from my face and holds them to one side with one hand encircling my wrists. With the other hand, he slaps me again.
After this, I begin to plead with him. ‘Please…’ I say. When he doesn’t stop, I try using his name. ‘George, please… please…’ I say.
‘Please what?’ he says. My eyes are open now and I am looking up into his face. He is smiling down at me. ‘Please what?’
When I don’t answer, his face darkens and he draws back his hand, high in the air. I cower down, as much as I am able. ‘Please don’t hit me,’ I beg.
It is the right answer. He smiles at me again, and lowers his hand.
His exertions increase then, he lowers his head until it is beside mine, his face pressed into the edge of the sofa cushion next to where the back of my head is pressed. I see the white oval of light on the desk opposite, staring down at me. I see the swivel chair in front of the desk and his battered leather briefcase sitting, still open, on the chair, the normal objects in the room. He is muttering into the sofa cushion, ‘Fuck, fuck…’ and pushing into me with desperate vigour. After a while, he lies still. He is wearing his name badge from the party and the metal clip on it is pressing painfully into my chest.
‘Shit…’ he says then, and slips out of me, small and limp. The feel of him brushing my thighs makes me shudder. As he raises himself, I manage to lever up a little on my elbows. He kneels for a bit, between my thighs, his trousers hanging down, his shirt and jacket loose, his face shiny with sweat. He plays with himself slowly as he smiles at me. Then he says, in a chummy tone of voice… ‘Too much wine I think… sorry…’
‘You hit me…’ I say.
He is still grinning as he gets to his feet. He picks up his briefcase from the swivel chair and drops it to the floor, where it falls sideways. ‘Thought you’d like that,’ he says, pleased with himself, then adds, ‘I liked hearing you beg.’
I haul myself up to the sofa where I sit for a moment or two. I am shaking from head to foot. My teeth are chattering.
He is still looking at me. ‘Better not go down just yet, eh?’ he says. ‘Too many people still about.’ As he watches me, he begins to touch himself again, holding himself between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Those boys…’ he says. The stroking is working. Dear God, I think, we’re going round again. He gets off the chair and approaches me. ‘Give me your mouth.’
*
It is gone 1 a.m. before he falls asleep, briefly, his forearm resting across my neck. I lie very still for a long time before I attempt to move and when I do, he wakes immediately. I am careful to smile. ‘I’d better go…’ I say lightly. I am taking the risk that his falling asleep means the adrenaline has drained away. He will be tired.
I have judged accurately. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he says sleepily. ‘Going to have a bit of trouble explaining this one at home, aren’t you?’ His tone of voice is openly nasty now, which is less threatening than that smile. It’s going to be OK, I keep repeating inwardly, as long as you’re really careful now, he won’t hit you again.
He stands up and rearranges his clothing, then bends and picks up his briefcase, righting it, lifting it on to the desk, opening it and peering in.
I am fairly certain it is over but I can’t be sure, so I am very calm, almost casual, when I say. ‘Well, I’ll see you soon then,’ standing as I speak, smoothing down my dress and pulling my coat together, shaking my hair. My knees are knocking.
‘I’ll walk down with you,’ he says.
He locks the office door behind him and I wait in the corridor while he does. It all has an air of unreality now. I want to be home: the best way to get home is to be as normal as possible. I stand next to him while we wait for the lift. In the lift, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. When I open them, he is looking at me and smiling. The lift doors open and we walk swiftly out into the deserted foyer. Along the corridor, there are a few stragglers talking but the double doors to the Events Hall are open and I can see that it is brightly lit and empty but for the students moving around with black plastic dustbin liners. I pray we will not see anyone I know. As we cross the foyer, George Craddock takes hold of my arm, holding it by the elbow. ‘We’ll have missed the Tube by now,’ he says. ‘We’ll share a cab.’
Outside, the light rain has started again, fine and cool. I stand, swaying with shock, on the pavement. After a few minutes, a black cab with its yellow light on draws to a halt before us. George Craddock speaks to the driver and I hear the driver reply, ‘I’m only going south.’ The cab pulls off and George turns to me and says, ‘It’s against the law for them to refuse, you know. We could report him. He had his light on.’ As if by magic, another cab pulls up, and George opens the back door and ushers me in. I obey. He speaks to the driver, then gets in next to me.
In the cab, I huddle as far away from him as I can get, pressed into the corner, my face turned away. We don’t speak as the cab speeds through night-time London. I am beyond speech. The roads are empty of traffic; the rain has stopped; it is a clear black night. Buildings loom and rush by. Streetlights flash at me. After a while, I close my eyes.
It is only as we are driving through Wembley that it comes to me that he must not discover where I live. I open my eyes, turn to him, give a small grimace. ‘My husband will still be up, waiting for me I expect,’ I say.
‘It’s OK,’ he says, ‘I’m getting out first anyway.’
We drive for a few minutes more.
‘Lucky we live in the same direction,’ he says. Then, ‘I’m not that far from you as the crow flies.’
I feel sick.
‘You didn’t know that, did you?’ he adds. Then he leans forward and taps on the glass divide. The driver slides it back.
‘You can let me out at this intersection here,’ George says.
The cab pulls up just before a light that is flashing amber. A lone dog trots across the road ahead of us, thin and loping, its head down. George has undone his seatbelt and raised his backside from the seat in order to be able to root in his pockets. While the cab’s engine idles, he fiddles around, then drops a ten-pound note and some pound coins onto the seat behind me. ‘There,’ he says. ‘It won’t be half but you’re going further than me.’
Then he is gone.
The cab moves off again. I exhale, very slowly, closing my eyes again.
I still have my eyes closed when the cab halts outside my house. The driver must have asked me which road at some point but I have no memory of it. My head is full of blanks: the blanks are filling it so full that there is room for no more than the demand of the present moment, and that is that I pay the cab driver and get into my home and lock the door behind me and go upstairs and get under my duvet and hide. I scoop up George Craddock’s money from the seat next to me, get out of the cab, slam the door. The driver has lowered his window. I hand in George’s money and then say, ‘Just a minute…’ and lift up my handbag, scrabbling in it for my purse. The driver watches me all the while. My hands are shaking. After a moment he drawls, ‘Want a receipt, love?’
‘Yes please,’ I say. Be normal, then it will be normal.
I give him some more money, he gives me change and the receipt, looks at me as he does and then says thoughtfully, ‘All right, love, good night then.’
‘Thank you, you too,’ I say, turning away.
My house is in darkness. I let myself in the front door and, even though Guy is away, stop and stand in the hallway, listening. I do not put on the light, but there is a little streetlight shining through the glass panels above the front door, weakly illuminating the familiar objects there, the stand
in which we put umbrellas, the side table with the glass bowl we bought in Sicily. I know that if I stand there any longer, my knees will give way, so I walk into the house. Then I remember I haven’t put the chain on the front door, so I go back and do it. Then I go into the sitting room and put the light on and check that the windows are securely fastened and close the curtains. I go from room to room throughout the house, doing this in each one, checking the windows again and again. Go to bed, I think. Just get under the duvet, go to bed.
In the bathroom, I tip the toothbrushes out of the toothbrush holder and fill it with water. I fill it and drink three times. I do not look at myself in the mirror above the sink.
In the bedroom, I shed my clothes, leaving them on the floor beside the bed. Thank God Guy is in Newcastle. I get into bed, then get out again and take the chair from in front of the vanity unit in the corner and put it up against the back of the bedroom door, even though it doesn’t reach the handle. Then I get back into bed, turn off the bedside light, pull the duvet up to my shoulder as I am shivering from head to foot. My last thought, before I tumble into unconsciousness is, how could I have been so stupid?
After five hours, I snap awake and know instantly what happened to me the night before. I fall into the shower. I turn the water on full, very hot, and feel the fine needles of it pierce my skin, scrub myself over and over until I am red and raw. When I am soft, clean at last, I stand beneath the scorching water for a long time, letting it run down my back while I lean my forehead against the smooth white tiles. If I don’t tell anyone, I think, clearly and calmly, I can make it go away.
It is only when I am downstairs, wrapped in a towelling robe, with coffee brewing, that I check my phone. My handbag is on the kitchen table. I don’t remember leaving it there the night before, but then I can remember very little about what I did when I got into the house.
Apple Tree Yard Page 13