This Is Not Forgiveness

by Celia Rees

  I feel for where the key is hidden and unlock the heavy brass padlock. It’s warm inside, stuffy. I prop the door to let in some air and let out the signature shed smell: a mix of seed, fertiliser, weedkiller with an undernote: a heady, pungent, bittersweet reek.

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘Can I smell cannabis?’ she asks and smiles.

  ‘Yeah.’ I smile back. ‘My brother. He uses it as a curing shed. He’s got little plantations of it dotted about, hidden in the orchard out back and on plots that aren’t worked any more.’ Feathery fronds growing up behind corrugated iron enclosures on deserted allotments, tall plants thrusting through the nettles and brambles down by the river. ‘He brought the seed back from Afghanistan, last tour but one.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He’s in the Army, right?’

  ‘Used to be. He got invalided out.’

  ‘I heard that. What happened, exactly?’

  ‘He was caught by an IED. Roadside bomb. His leg was pretty smashed up. Reckons he needs the weed for medicinal purposes.’

  She nods, taking in the information. Most people express shock, sympathy. She’s not most people.

  ‘He’s pretty much all right now,’ I add, as if she’d asked.

  His leg wasn’t the only thing that got damaged, but I don’t go into that. There’s a patch that’s been newly worked. The weeds cleared. Freshly dug. That must have been hard for him. I’d have come down to lend a hand. We used to work on the allotment together, helping the old man, but times change. Back then, I was always in the way, doing the wrong thing. Just a nuisance. Now he needs my help but asking is beyond him. That’s how it is.

  The shed is like a time capsule. There are the books I was thinking about and propped up against the wall is the table tennis table we begged off a bloke who was taking it to the tip. There’s a broken settee and a whiskery old wicker chair, the sprung seat covered by a faded cushion. A couple of empty bottles are down by the side of it. A pyramid of cans in the corner. A different kind of recreation. I look out again. The light is changing to the gold of evening.

  ‘Time to go,’ I say to her. ‘Alan will be sending search parties out soon. He’ll think we’ve gone over the weir. It’s the punt he cares about more than us. They’re very expensive. Hard to replace.’

  I settle her back in the craft and begin poling us back to the boat station. She goes distant on me. I can’t tell what is going on behind her shades. We’re back to punter and passenger. That moment under the willows might never have happened, it’s sliding away like the water under the till.

  ‘I thought I might’ve seen you around,’ I say, shoving the pole into the river. ‘At college, I mean. I heard you were transferring.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ she asks, suddenly alert.

  ‘Oh, um.’ I realise my mistake. A little too late. ‘Martha. Didn’t you used to be friends with her?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You came to one of her birthdays. Don’t you remember?’

  She doesn’t answer, just stares down at the water. The distance between us widens. I try another tack.

  ‘It’s just that I was, um, well, you know . . .’

  ‘Making enquiries?’

  I thought she might be annoyed to know I’d been asking about her, but she smiles, like she’s flattered and, anyway, she’s used to people talking about her and isn’t bothered.

  ‘Yes.’ I grin. ‘I guess. Someone said you were moving to ours.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘That’s why I thought I’d maybe see you . . .’

  ‘Haven’t started yet. Don’t intend to go until next term. I might not go at all. I hate schools.’

  ‘Ours is a sixth form college.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘What will you do instead?’ I ask. We seem to be steering into safer water. At least she’s talking.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’

  She stretches out her legs. She’s sitting facing me. She wears a thin gold chain on one ankle. In the delicate blue hollow, like the shadow of the bone, there are striations, straight little marks, slightly raised, scored across the white skin, like a bar code. She touches the place as if rubbing an itch activated by my looking.

  ‘I might go travelling,’ she says. ‘Or go to London, try modelling. Go to Paris. Or Berlin. Get a job there doing anything. I’m pretty good at languages. Pick them up quickly.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go to uni?’

  That’s all the rest of us think about. We never consider other possibilities. She makes us seem like a bunch of sheep.

  ‘Who said I didn’t? I just don’t want to go yet and I don’t want to go here. I’d prefer the Sorbonne, or Tübingen.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Germany.’ She looks at me like she wants to add ‘stupid’. ‘I want to do Politics, but I want to study abroad.’

  I don’t know anyone who’s planning to study abroad. Compared with her, we seem ordinary, unambitious, provincial. She knows about places we’ve never heard of. I think she’s going to ask about what I’m planning to do, my choices of university, like most people, but she doesn’t ask me anything. Instead she remarks:

  ‘You’re pretty good with that pole.’

  ‘I’ve had plenty of practice. I’ve worked down here since I was fourteen. I’m here most nights once the season has started and most days in the holidays.’

  We’re nearing the station. I tie up and help her out.

  ‘Most nights, eh?’ she says as she takes my hand. ‘I’ll have to remember that. See you again sometime,’ she says over her shoulder as she walks away.

  Why didn’t I say something to detain her? Why didn’t I ask her out? Ask for her number?

  I watch her go, cursing myself for a fool.

  Chapter 7

  Perthro: a secret matter

  Elder Futhark – Runic Alphabet

  Jamie Maguire. I don’t see him for years then it’s twice in a few days. The power of coincidence, you could say. The workings of chance. Although chance didn’t make me hire him. Chance didn’t make me go on a boat ride with him.

  I had to pretend I’d never been on the ait, of course. Never crossed the weir. Wasn’t that strange the way I knew to look out for the rocking stone? Spooky! As though I really am psychic. I had to pretend that I’d never been to the allotment, that I’d never even seen the cute little chalet, let alone been in it. That I didn’t know Rob. I can’t mention that. It would make everything too complicated, and I don’t like complicated.

  And then there’s Martha’s birthday. What made him bring that up, I wonder? Maybe he’s the one who is psychic.

  Do I remember? Of course I remember. Martha’s fifteenth. I was fourteen. I’m nearly a year younger than her. It’s an awkward age for birthdays. Too young to go out properly, too old for jelly and ice cream. We all went out for a pizza, then to the multiplex and back to hers. I remember perfectly, I have an excellent memory, but even if I hadn’t, even if I had the memory of a single cell amoeba, I’d remember that night. You always remember the first time, don’t you?

  Chapter 8

  End of term. The Big Night Out. She’s bound to be around. Cal’s calling round about eight. He’s been let off the leash. He’s allowed to go out with me because Sophie is having a night with the girls. I’ve got plenty of time. I always like the getting ready. Having a shower and a shave, getting my hair right, picking out clothes. There’s a fight for the bathroom. Martha is going out, too, and she’ll take an age. When I hear the door chimes go, I’m ready. I run down the stairs and out. I’m always away first. Martha will be hours yet.

  The day is tipping towards evening, the blue sky darkening, the street lights coming on. It’s warm. There are kids out playing on the front lawns and the barbecues are on the go again. We walk quickly. I wave away the half-bottle of vodka that Cal takes from his pocket. I need to keep sharp. I don’t want to get wasted in case I run into Caro. He snaps open his tobacco tin
and lights up a thin spliff. Definitely kicking out tonight. ‘Your brother’s home-grown is good stuff.’ He squints at me through the smoke.

  We cut across the park. Groups of kids are gathering in circles. The ones who are too young to get into the pubs. They are passing round bottles of cider, WKD, Breezers, cans of Carlsberg, anything they’ve managed to get their hands on. We walk past, chatting about when we used to do that. I had the same feeling then. Excited to be out. Anticipation. The feeling that anything could happen. This time, it just might. It might just be the perfect night.

  Along the High Street, gangs of girls walk together, strung in lines across the pavements, arms linked, high heels clicking, in a uniform of tight tops, short skirts, bare shoulders, bare legs, bare midriffs spray-tanned the colour of caramel. Boys swagger in tight groups, eyeing the girls and each other. T-shirts, polo shirts, short-sleeved checks, make of jeans, how they are worn, sneakers, basketball boots, trainers, all mean something, mark them as belonging to one tribe or another. The students have all gone home for the summer. It’s our town now. Bouncers stand outside the pubs, legs apart, necks bulging, sweating in their black, muttering into their head sets, adjusting their mirror shades.

  We are standing outside one of the cool bars. It used to be the Rose and Crown but now it’s called MoJo and has a cocktail menu on every table and big squashy sofas, as opposed to one of the vertical drinking sheds that Cal favours, with offers on all the drinks, big screens and loud music and no one looking too closely at the fake ID.

  ‘There’s a queue,’ Cal objects. ‘We’ll never get in. There’s bound to be a dress code and we’re wearing jeans and T-shirts. Anyway, that kind of place, they won’t let anyone in underage. Our cards will never fool them.’

  The bouncers are a cut above the average. Sharp suits and designer shades. Not fat like most of them, but definitely powerful. There’s a woman with them, checking names for the VIP area. Bad sign indeed.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. We’ll get in. Just chill.’

  I’m by no means certain, but I’ve just seen Caro go in with that Art teacher guy. So much for that being over. I’m beginning to wonder about Lee as a source of information. The woman with the list waves them in, no problem. I’ve been on the hunt for her all evening and I’m not about to give up now I’ve seen her. I drag Cal into the queue.

  My confidence wanes the nearer to the front we get. Most of the other people are older than us, and not so casually dressed. The doormen are already assessing with their eyes, looking along the line, deciding who’ll get in and who won’t make it. I’m pretty sure we come into the latter category. The lady with the list doesn’t even look at us. We are beneath her notice. Her smile and her, ‘Hi! Nice to see you!’ switch on and off automatically, alternating with a snotty, ‘Your name’s not here. So sorry.’

  Cal’s getting restive.

  ‘We’re wasting valuable drinking time, man!’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘I said I’d meet Sophie later . . .’

  So much for the lads’ night out.

  ‘We’re near the front,’ I say, reluctant to give in and lose face, having to slink off with everyone staring and knowing why, quite apart from losing my chance with Caro, that’s if I ever had a chance, which when I really think about it, isn’t very likely . . .

  Cal’s phone goes. A message from Sophie. He looks at it, frowning, apprehensive, as if it could bite him, as if she’s looking at him straight out of the screen.

  ‘It’s Soph.’ As if I need telling. ‘Gotta go, man.’ He peels off from the queue. ‘Are you coming, or what?’

  I shrug. I don’t want to spend the night being ignored by Sophie and her crew. Cal looks at his phone. Another message coming in.

  ‘Gotta go, man!’ he says again. ‘She’s in the King’s.’ He’s off at a trot. ‘See you later!’

  I’m just about to follow, when I hear, ‘Hey, Jimbo! Wait up!’

  It’s Rob. Nobody else calls me Jimbo. If I object to that, he calls me Jim. I don’t like that either, but he doesn’t take any notice. ‘It’s your name, man. What am I supposed to call you?’ When I say James, or Jamie, he cracks up laughing and says, ‘I’m not calling you that! It’d mean my brother is a poncy middle-class twat.’

  He’s with his mates. They are marked out as Army by the short hair and the way they are built. They make everyone else look puny, even the guys who work out. Bronzed from their last tour. Biceps bulging, tattoos showing, shirts open and flapping, exposing their rock solid six-packs. Rob’s not Army any more but he still has mates in and he drinks with them when they come into town.

  ‘All on your own?’

  ‘Cal’s left.’ I say. My eyes flick up the line to the bouncers. ‘He was worried that we won’t get in.’

  ‘’Course you will.’ Rob pulls me to him, his arm on my shoulder. ‘I want to buy a drink for my little brother. You come with me.’

  The doormen are ex-Army. One nod and we are in. Just like that. Rob’s good-looking and can be charming when he wants to be. His smile is wide and the bullet-graze scar on his cheek dints in like a dimple. The woman with the list is unable to resist that smile and the faraway, pale blue eyes focusing down on her. We’re not just in, we’re VIP.

  There’s no one I know, so I stick with Rob and his mates, all the time keeping watch on Caro. She’s with the Art teacher guy and his friends. They’ve got a whole corner, sitting on a horseshoe of sofas round a big table, drinking wine. They are all much older than her. Teachers of the less boring kind. People with jobs in things like design and consultancy. They are talking loud. Fancying themselves. He’s perched on the arm of a sofa, like a king talking to his court. He’s ignoring her and she looks bored. I’m wondering how to get to her, when Rob gives me a pint.

  ‘Here you go.’

  Rob’s glass is already two thirds empty. Someone hands him a shot and he downs it with a quick grimace and a shake of the head. His mates keep the rounds coming. Security are sending them over, too. It’s not pity. It’s recognition of what happened to him. What he was like out in Afghan. He’s a bit of a hero.

  ‘Drink it!’ he says to me. ‘Don’t sip it! You’ll get behind.’ I take a couple of gulps.

  He’s looking round, eyes never still, assessing: ways in, ways out, who’s here: male, female, type, age, dress, distribution about the room. He notices everything. It’s like he’s still looking for assassins. He’s jumpy. Nervous. His good leg won’t keep still. The fingers on his left hand drum against his thigh, keeping his own time, faster, more frenetic than the music being played by the DJ. He needs drink to relax and he needs a lot of it. He stops doing the whole room and concentrates on the women. His eyes flick from group to group. Girls on a night out; girls just with a friend sharing a bottle of wine, girls in mixed groups, girls with their boyfriends. He whispers comments in my ear, assessing availability, physical attributes. I have to be careful not to spray my drink everywhere. Definitely funny but not PC.

  ‘There’s a lot of posh crumpet in here tonight. Anyone you fancy, young Jamie?’ He drains his pint. ‘I prefer slappers myself. Less trouble.’

  He used to have a girlfriend, Sonia, they were going to get engaged, but she dumped him after he came back. So much for tie a yellow ribbon and stand by your man. The experience may have coloured his feelings towards women.

  ‘What about her?’ He’s pointing at Caro. ‘Do you fancy that?’

  ‘Might do.’ I take a drink.

  ‘Thought so. You’ve been eyeballing her non-stop. What are you going to do about it?’

  I shrug again.

  ‘If you won’t, I will.’

  He makes to go over. I catch his arm.

  ‘No, Rob! She’s with people?’

  ‘So?’ He turns to look at me, eyes mixed with pity and puzzlement. ‘She is not with people. How many times do I have to tell you? She’s with a bunch of arseholes! There’s no point in standing here crying into your pint. You got to strike, little bro, or you won’t get any.’


  He’s gone before I can stop him. I watch as he leans over and whispers something to her. She looks up and smiles. He says something else and she laughs. He jerks his head in my direction and she looks at me. I give a wave, feeling really stupid. I don’t know what he’s said, but it looks like she might come over. That’s when the Art guy gets involved. He steps in front of Caro and squares up. I guess he expects Rob to back down, he’s a big guy and Rob’s quite a bit shorter, but that is not going to happen. Rob steps up to him, fists closed, arms corded. His head goes back, just a fraction. I know what he’s going to do. My eyes close in sympathetic reflex action. I’m expecting to hear the crunch of cartilage, hear the guttural howl through a throat thick with bubbling blood. But that is not what happens. Caro pushes Rob back with the flat of her hand. She gets the Art guy away. She handles it. It’s as if she has guys fighting over her every day.

  The friends move with them. The place they left is immediately filled by another group. Rob doesn’t come back to me. I lose track of him temporarily as I finish my drink. Bryn, one of his mates, hands me another so I chat to him for a bit.

  I’ve met him before. Him and Rob were in the same platoon. He’s Welsh. Tall and dark, deeply tanned from his recent tour. His hair is so short that his scalp shows white under the changing lights; the black bristling cut glistening with sweat and gel. He has calm brown eyes. He looks tough but kind. He’s just been made sergeant and I can see why. He was Rob’s best mate when he was ‘in’. Looked after him. He’s a sniper. They all are. He was Rob’s Number Two, his spotter, finding targets, checking things like range and wind direction, covering his arse. They worked together, close as brothers. He crosses his arms and I see the sniper’s tattoo, a pair of crossed rifles with an ‘S’ above it, that he has on his upper arm. Rob’s is on his thigh.