After a while, the isolation of being alone is too much and so I follow the routine I have learnt. It goes something like this. First, fuck him off. Really piss him off to the point that he wants to hate me. To leave me, bags packed, tickets booked. Next, fuck him, a positive feedback loop. The anger brings the sex, which brings the joy, which brings the anger. So I follow him upstairs, strip, slip into bed, where I begin sliding my hand up and down his back. He flinches at first, tenses his muscles, but then I whisper, ‘I’m sorry,’ and I feel him relax. I reach around to the front of his body and touch him in ways I know he likes as the first rumble of thunder ambles across the moist summer sky. Flashes from last night come to mind as Antonio’s skin touches mine: Matt on top of me, squeezing me, licking at me. His breath against my ear. I push the images away.
Antonio turns to me and strokes my face. But before long his gentle touch turns rough, his fingers sliding into my hair, gripping at the strands to pull my head back. But it is Matt’s face I see when I open my eyes.
No, no, no. Antonio, Antonio, Antonio, I tell myself. Think about Antonio. He is the one here with you now.
‘Antonio,’ I say aloud, as a reminder more than anything, but I try to make it sound like desire. His soft lips trace the curves of my crooked body. Yet it does not respond as it normally would. There is no tingle, no fire. No rush of blood. I try to focus on him as he moves across me. He kisses my lips, and for just a second he opens his eyes. He catches my stare before drawing back as if he sees something he has never seen before. He flips me over and pulls me to my knees, dragging me back by my hair. My hip throbs as he pushes into me, my scars hot as his hand pulls against them. I moan in a way that sounds like pleasure, but only because I think I should.
I don’t know if it is the comedown from the drugs or the memory of the night before that has numbed me, but I feel no pleasure as he pulls me into the positions he favours. He knows that bent back on my knees like this is painful for me, but he continues regardless, jabbing himself against me. Spears of pain rip through my hip and into my belly. I open my eyes, see the shattered remains of the picture lying hopelessly on the floor. Tears come, a mixture of mental and physical pain. But I do not blame him.
That night Antonio fucks me twice. Both times I am pulled back like an animal, dogged from behind. The second time he wakes me, already on top of me, already halfway there. I make the right noises, do the right things. I smile and stroke his skin afterwards, and whisper his name like an actress in a 1950s movie. ‘Antonio, Antonio,’ I say. But it isn’t the Antonio I know. It is a new one, a vindictive one. One capable of selfish needs. I have created in him the things I despise about myself. For the first time ever it is all about him, and I am just a vessel from which he drinks. I am reminded what being an extraneous character in somebody’s life really feels like. I remember just how much it can hurt.
22
It was Elle’s plan, and I went along with it at the time because I was desperate. She was still angry about my thievery, and I wanted so much to go back to how it was before, when she was my hero and we belonged together. She felt bad about it too, I think, because she started asking me what she could do to make me happy. Like she wanted a way to put things right. So during our secret Saturday meetings I told her all about Margot Wolfe, and how she had bullied me ever since I’d stuck a pencil through her hand as a child. This was my chance, I thought, to make Margot pay, and to put things right with Elle.
I told her that Margot sang in a choir. That she played the flute. That her neat little sweaters had been replaced by oversized jumpers with the word TOMMY printed on them. Elle told me that made them expensive. I mentioned that she wore black G-strings in gym class that even her friends thought were slutty. That she still hadn’t started her periods, because she always took a shower. Getting your period was the only excuse, because no teacher wanted a Carrie-style disaster in the cubicles. Oh yeah, and one last thing that I would live to regret: all the popular boys at school told tales of how she was frigid, and that not one of them had been able to nail her. The only one to have stuck anything in her was me.
I spent a few weeks initiating rumours as per Elle’s plan. There were plenty of kids in the lower social ranks of the school who would trade gossip for a temporary elevation in status. Word soon spread that Margot had set her sights on having sex at the next party. By the time I had finished, there were at least four, maybe five boys who thought they were her target. Jessica had told her friend Becky, who had told Hayley, who had told Samantha, who was dating Jack, who subsequently told Nathan that he was going to get laid. Just keep your mouth shut about it. Who told Jessica? Oh, some girl. That was all I was.
There were four or five other versions of this story; some included Margot giving blow jobs. Some suggested she wanted to take it up the ass so that she could technically remain a virgin. I can’t remember what I said, or to whom I said it. Most of the stories were Elle’s and I was just the messenger. The one about the ass, though, that was mine.
A few weeks later there was a party in the park. It was June, school was ending, and there was an open invite where everybody could turn up to get wasted on cheap cider. I nearly chickened out when it came to it, scared about how I could slip the Rohypnol in her drink without being noticed. Elle was the one who gave me the drug. I had no idea what it was, but she told me that it would make Margot act crazy, wild, and that everybody would laugh. I was only fourteen, and still a virgin. What did I know?
So I kept my eyes on Margot and saw my chance when she placed her bottle on the grass to start a faux-lesbian chase with her best friend. There were plenty of horny onlookers, naturally. So I spiked the drink when nobody was watching. It was dark. Nobody saw me. Nobody ever really saw me.
Within half an hour she had disappeared with Alex Robinson, the highest-ranking alpha male in our school year. He came back with a swagger less than five minutes later, red-cheeked and sweating. When he pointed to the bushes, another boy made his way over. Then another. Then another. I would love to tell you how I intervened, regretted what I had done. Regretted that she got fucked by at least four boys, if what they said was to be believed. But I didn’t do anything. Instead I just watched from a safe distance and then laughed about it with Elle for weeks afterwards.
Margot got the nickname Margo-go-go, and the use of Peg Leg Irini slowly faded out. I even made friends with her after that, when the other girls wouldn’t hang out with her because they said she was a slut. I was her hero, and I felt pretty good about it. I apologised about her hand and she said it didn’t matter, that it didn’t even hurt. There was a police investigation into the party, but most of the boys said it was all bravado. That none of them had actually done anything with her. But Margot and I both knew that wasn’t the truth. The police examined her for evidence, but too much time had passed. They took blood, but the toxicology reports were clear. Of course they were.
After the police got involved, people gradually started to forgive Margot, started to believe that maybe she had been raped. Then it was the boys’ turn to suffer. Teachers marked them down, excluded them from class for minor offences. It didn’t matter that they were never charged. Eventually Margot became popular again. Everybody loves a victim. And she took me with her and I became popular too. My grades improved. Aunt Jemima praised me, told her friends when she thought I was out of earshot that she had finally got through to me. That finally I had learnt how to integrate. That I wasn’t all Harringford. And who made it all happen? Elle, of course.
The gravity of what I had done didn’t hit me until I was much older. I lost touch with Margot when we left school, but I often thought about looking for her again, telling her what had happened. One time I even found myself outside the clothes shop where she worked, my intention to admit my part in the ruin of her life. But I chickened out, didn’t even make it inside.
* * *
Antonio hasn’t been home in two days, hasn’t even called me. He’d gone by the time I woke up
the day after arriving home. I have left eight messages from a new phone number, and another eight from the old one. He isn’t replying, and he doesn’t want to see me. But he hasn’t taken much of anything with him, so I am sure he is coming back. I really hope he is coming back. I wish I could undo all the shit I have done and make him come home. Otherwise, what am I going to do? I wish I could bring myself to go to work, but I can’t. I wish I could un-jab that pencil from Margot Wolfe’s hand and instead just tell her that the drawing she did was pretty and try to be her friend. But once something is done, there is no undoing it, and you just have to find a way forward through the mess left behind.
23
It is late on the fourth night that I hear the key in the door. I recognise Antonio’s heavy boots as they scuff over the doormat, and then as he tiptoes through the hallway, trying not to wake me. I shuffle up on the couch, grab the TV remote and try to make it look like I’ve hardly noticed he has been gone. I start flicking channels as he arrives in the doorway to the lounge. He doesn’t say anything at first, but I feel him staring at me, and I grit my teeth to stop a nervous smile from creeping across my face. My first thought is, Thank God it’s over. How quickly I have forgotten how to be alone.
It has hardly stopped raining since he left. On and off, constant storms. One minute sunshine, one minute rain. I have only been out once, in order to get a new phone. From the corner of my eye I see him shaking off his raincoat. It is new. I wonder if he spent my money in order to buy it. But I remind myself that I have done worse, and bite my lip.
‘Hello,’ he says. I flick the channel, ignoring him. I have flicked so much that I have arrived at the God channels, where literally everybody is either getting saved or doing the saving. There are people falling over each other as they crumple to the floor under God’s might. I recall the time Aunt Jemima took me to an alternative healer in an effort, she said, to help my hip. But the healer kept talking about the evil inside of me, that he would cast it out and reduce my suffering. Looking back, I think they were trying to exorcise me. Afterwards she told me not to say anything about the visit, so naturally I told Uncle Marcus that night. They argued and she stopped speaking to me for a month. She never took me again.
Antonio takes a step forward and I channel-hop with renewed enthusiasm, pushing the remote towards the television. Freeview Preview appears on the screen, all tits and pouty lips in extreme close-up. Every now and again a girl gets flipped over and fucked from behind, with another guy edging into view to work on her face. My hip is still sore from where Antonio did the same to me the other night. I try to tell myself that he didn’t mean to be an asshole, but it’s hard to feel convinced. I switch off the TV and set down the remote.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call,’ he says as he edges into the room. His oil-black hair is dripping wet, his shoulders hunched and apologetic.
‘Did you get my messages?’ I ask. He nods. ‘Where have you been?’ The images from the television sex creep into my mind, and I picture him in some seedy strip club, spending my cash and getting his cock sucked in a room out back. Vomit rises in my throat, so I reach for a near-empty glass of wine and drain the remainder. Irrespective of what I have done, it would really hurt if that was true. I see him cast his eyes over the three or four empty bottles at my feet. Might be five or six. He doesn’t say anything; just sits down next to me.
‘I’m sorry I left. I was very angry. I’m calm now. I don’t want to upset you.’ I take my first glance at his face. His eyes are sunken in deep sockets, circles of black like smudged eyeliner. Not even his long lashes can pretty them up.
‘Where have you been? It’s four nights since you were here.’
‘Italy.’ He edges further back on to the settee and turns to look at me, his body still facing away, as if he has one foot poised ready for a sharp exit.
‘Italy? For four days?’ I set the wine glass down next to his research papers, which are still lying on the table. ‘Why?’
‘I couldn’t be here. Not with you. When you came home, I was so pleased. I wanted so much to help you and look out for you. I thought maybe it would be a new start.’ He reaches across and picks up the research work and tidies it into a pile. ‘But you were just like before. And you were right, I was ready to leave you. I didn’t want to stay here any more, fighting and fucking. That’s all we ever did.’ He is crying now and wipes a tear from his cheek. It isn’t the first time I have seen him cry. ‘We used to be so good, Rini. It was so nice to be with you. But as soon as I mentioned having a family, you changed.’ He gets closer to me, risks a touch on my arm. I don’t push him away. ‘I want a normal life, Rini. Marriage and babies. I want them with you. I came back to tell you that. I will give you time. I will help you if I can. But I want you to be honest with me.’ He reaches out, takes my hand. ‘If you don’t want me, just tell me. I can get my things and go. But I want you to know that I do love you. I don’t care about your past, or any problems you or I may have had. I can make today number one. The first day. If you want it.’ I wonder how many times I am supposed to restart my life. I’m like a damned cat. He stops, takes a breath, and then, as if he thinks he might not have demonstrated that he is steadfast in his decision, adds quickly, ‘But you have to really want it.’
I take the prepaid phone from the table and toss it into the nearest waste-paper basket. It doesn’t mean anything really, because all I have done is move it from the table. But it is supposed to be symbolic. It means I am tossing away the old life, the old contacts, and eight of the sixteen unanswered calls to Antonio. Somewhere on that SIM card are Margot Wolfe’s details. It is also the number that Elle knows. He understands my actions, moves in closer and holds me in a tight embrace. I should feel relieved, but for some reason I don’t.
He whips up some pasta in a carbonara sauce, and while he is cooking, I use the time to check my online bank account. I find that he made a withdrawal of £340 from my account the morning he left. Which means I paid for the coat, and no doubt the ticket to Italy. It matters, but I decide that it doesn’t matter enough to raise it and cause an argument, revisit the whole I support you thing. We’re on thin ice as it is, and I don’t want to be the one to stamp my foot and watch as we drown. I’m not ready for him to walk out on me. What the hell would I do? Being alone is fine when you’ve never known anything different, but now that I have, I can’t go back to work-sleep-repeat. Maybe in time it will get better between us. If not, maybe I will get stronger and find a way forward without him.
So I sit and smile and wait to eat. He tells me that the days without me were hell, and I reply the same, which they kind of were. We eat, and then he gives me the look that I know means he wants to kiss me. He does, and we end up in bed. This time it is back to expectations: Antonio being gentle with me because I am fragile, his hand moving up and down over my scars. Afterwards I get up to look at my hip in the mirror, thinking how the marks seem to take on a shape I have never noticed before. I know it is just from where they ground out my bones and fixed my tendons, but they look like the arch of a butterfly’s wings, a gentle V shape with a body carved in the middle. I look down at the torn painting and tell myself that tomorrow I will put it away.
Not long afterwards, Antonio gets up and sweeps up the broken glass from the floor. He tucks the painting in a drawer, knowing it must be important if I brought it back with me. It’s like he can read my mind. The storm outside still rages, but at least the one in here, inside me, seems to be settling. We fall asleep together that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, and I think I am glad he came home. It’s the first time we have slept like that in months, and I wonder if finally the demons inside me have found their way out.
24
Over breakfast the following morning, Antonio announces that he is going to open the bistro he has always dreamed of. He has long talked of this. He envisions a small place, beat-up tables and expensive white linen. Like old Rome. Recycled glasses and silver cutlery, only without the view of the Co
losseum.
‘The bank will lend me half, and I have the other half saved up.’ He tucks into a rasher of streaky bacon and shovels in a spoonful of scrambled eggs. I remember Joyce’s, and how salty they were. I smile at the idea of Elle driving her crazy now that she is lady of the manor.
‘That’s a fantastic idea,’ I say, doubtful about the bank loan and the savings. But again, as if he is able to read my mind, he gets up, produces the paperwork from the bank. As I scan the page, he steals a rasher of bacon from my plate. On the table there is a carnation in a slim vase, which I assume he put there.
‘I organised the loan during the time you were away,’ he says, smacking his lips, licking his fingers. ‘The first day, when I thought we were finished.’
I smile, reach up and kiss him, not really reading what he has given me. He backs away, surprised, before slowly relaxing into my lips. ‘The eggs are great. If you serve these, I’m sure it will succeed.’
Afterwards we sit together on the couch, snuggle up and watch the Discovery Channel. A lion pride, and how the young survive. Later on, he cooks pesto pasta with chicken and we eat it from our laps underneath the duvet, which we dragged downstairs after we made love earlier. Yes, that’s what we did. It was nice, kind, gentle love. The kind I used to back away from but the only kind that has the ability to heal old wounds. Which is, after all, what I am. Or at least, according to my father, what I open up.
But it all feels a little like we are following a script, some made-for-TV movie about how to patch over mistakes and pretend everything is all right. We smile a lot at each other when we don’t know what to say, hold hands from a distance. But he is trying, and I suppose for once I am too. It’s enough for now. Eventually we fall asleep.
If You Knew My Sister Page 17