This Is Not Forgiveness

by Celia Rees

  He turns his Mac round and starts a promo video of what it’s going to be like. The virtual tour sweeps up to the new Academy buildings off to the right, all smoked glass and wood cladding. The sixth form college will occupy a space on the other side of the drive, so the school reaches almost to the main road. The school is on a rise. The grand front entrance is up a flight of steps (ramp to the side), all glass and chrome. Impressive. Over his shoulder, out of the window, it appears to be a building site. He sees me staring.

  ‘It will be finished by the end of the summer,’ he says, reassuring. ‘Ready for the opening ceremony on the first day of term. We are expecting a very important visitor . . .’

  He mentions a name and sits back in his chair with this self-satisfied look, like we are supposed to be impressed. It’d take more than that, I think to myself and smile. I can hear the chants, like a chorus in my head: Shame on You, Shame on You, Liar, Liar, Out, Out, Out . . .

  That’s when I have the idea.

  It’s like a vision, wonderful in its purity. It’s a gift. I play it in my head and want to laugh out loud.

  Fantasy? Maybe. But I can see a way to make it a reality.

  Charlie always falls asleep directly after and I’m as far from sleep as it is possible to be without chemical assistance. I never sleep in the same bed as someone else, that’s too high a level of intimacy for me, so I leave him and walk back through town. It’s after midnight. I quite like it at this hour. I like the sense of dislocation. The difference between daytime and now.

  The traffic lights turn from red to amber to green and back again, but apart from the occasional taxi, there is no traffic to stop. The pedestrian alert sounds out and the green walking sign flashes, although there are no pedestrians as such, just gangs of lads and girls walking up and down the middle of the road, laughing, shouting, talking loud, carrying on some kind of running argument that will probably develop into a fight.

  ‘Who you lookin’ at?’ a girl shouts at me from across the street, her mouth slack, her eyes black holes inside her sooty make-up. She’s big. One strap of the skimpy top she’s wearing hangs down showing her breast bulging out of her black bra. The rest has ridden up during the long night exposing rolls of flab, livid white in the orange street lights.

  ‘You. You fat bitch!’

  I want to yell, but I don’t answer, just shrug and stare back. They don’t frighten me. This could be seen as a provocation, but they always back down. Boys don’t interfere. They don’t fight girls and the girls confine their fights to people they know.

  I see him sitting on the bench in front of the town hall. We haven’t seen each other for a while but he isn’t really in a fit state for a catch up. His speech is more or less incoherent and every time he opens his mouth he looks like he might throw up. I’m no Florence Nightingale. I don’t do puke and I’m not terrific on blood and drool so I’m glad when his brother shows up.

  Good thing I didn’t leave him, though, or I would never have found his phone.

  It is like the lock on a safe, as though I’m turning the dial for the right combination and the first tumbler falls into place.

  Chance and serendipity hardening towards destiny; moving from what could happen to what is meant to be.

  I weigh his phone in my hand. I can make the connection. Everything I’ve seen on it lends strength to my idea, pushing me from theory towards action. I toy with it. Moment of decision. As I look at it, the light flashes, the buzzing vibration startles me. He’s sent a message to himself. The message is mostly expletives, but I get the gist: he has noticed that his phone is missing and he wants it back.

  That’s a sign. He’s made my mind up for me. I tap in a text back to him.

  Ur bro has ur fone

  I put the phone in my bag and get ready to go out. I have no intention of giving it back just yet. Propositions are so much better put in person. I want to know where he’s living and Jamie will lead me right to him. I select my wardrobe carefully. Striped vest, white pedal pushers, espadrilles, suitably nautical. I add a hat and dark glasses and I’m off down to the river. Sunny Saturday in July. Perfect for a boat ride.

  Chapter 14

  I’m not consciously thinking about her but ever since the first time I saw her, she’s been in my head. I’m talking to Steve, he works on the boats with me, but part of my brain is ticking through possibilities. How I can meet her? Where does she live? Can I get her number? Would it look weird if I called on her? Where will I find her? Where will she be?

  Steve nudges me. ‘We’ve got a customer. Get a load of that. She’s well fit!’

  I look up and she is there.

  He steps forward to greet her, ready with the patter. I pull him back. ‘Don’t even think about it. She’s mine.’

  I hop into the nearest punt and hold my hand out to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Like the hat.’

  I’m wearing this stupid boater, white shirt and black trousers Alan makes us wear on Saturdays in the season. I go to take it off.

  ‘Don’t.’ She looks at me, appraising, head on one side. ‘It suits you, makes you look French. Italian. Something. Different, anyway.’ She smiles. ‘Oh, here.’ She reaches into her bag. ‘I’ve got something. Oh, no!’ She searches through her bag. ‘I’ve left it at home! It’s your brother’s phone. I found it on the bench where we were sitting. It must have fallen out of his pocket. I thought you might be down here. I was going to ask you to give it back to him.’

  ‘I’m disappointed. I thought you’d come here cos of me and my punt.’

  ‘That as well.’ She holds a £20 note, folded. ‘How long will this buy me?’

  ‘As long as you like.’

  I take her where we went before: down the river as far as the weir. I moor the punt and we cross on to the island. This time I’m not so shy.

  I lose track of time. We are late getting back and I’ve lost my hat. Steve smirks and points to his watch. There’s a queue. Alan is less than pleased.

  ‘She’d better have paid you,’ he says, as I get the punt ready for the next customers. ‘Saturday afternoon is our busy time. I don’t want you giving away no freebies. I’m not paying you to go punting pretty lasses up and down the river for free like some poncy student. Where’s your hat?’

  My hand goes to my head. There are willow leaves in my hair. ‘Branch caught it. Went in the river. I tried to get it, but . . .’ I shrug.

  ‘That’s coming out of your wages. Them hats are expensive. They don’t grow on trees, you know. Belt and Braces had to order them specially.’

  Belt and Braces is this old man’s shop in the High Street. His brother-in-law runs it. Alan gets his clothes there. I can’t look at Steve. It began with the boaters growing on trees, but the mention of Belt and Braces cracks him up.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re smirking at.’ Alan glares at us. ‘The two of you, bad as each other, giggling like a couple of girls.’

  ‘Sorry, Alan.’ I swipe away tears. ‘Private joke. I’ll make the time up. Come in early. Help you open up. How would that be? And I’ll pay for the boater, no problem.’

  Alan’s anger modifies to grumbling. ‘All right. But I won’t have you two larking about.’ He’s not very tall and he pulls himself up to his full height. ‘You’re here to take the customers for a ride, not me.’

  He turns on his heel and goes back to his booth, well satisfied that he’s had the last word. That sets Steve off again and I join in. I can’t stop grinning and I’d laugh at anything. I’ve got a date. She’s going to pick me up at eight.

  I make sure I get into the bathroom before Martha. When I come out, I find her standing on the landing in her dressing gown, scowling at me. Without her make-up, she looks about ten.

  ‘What were you doing in there?’

  ‘Getting ready. All yours now.’

  Her scowl deepens. ‘I hope it’s not all wet and messy and I hope you’ve cleaned out the basin. I can’t stand it when it’s all scummy
and full of little bits of stubble. And you’d better not have been using my shampoo.’

  ‘I’ve got my own, thank you. And I wiped out the basin. Just for you.’

  My mood is too good for her to shake it.

  ‘Zoe’s having a party,’ she says as she’s passing my door. ‘Lee will be there and I said I’d ask you. Do you want to come?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got plans.’

  She stops in her tracks and walks back.

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘Since this afternoon. I’ve got a date.’

  ‘A date?’

  She’s in the room now. I’m standing there, half naked. She doesn’t care.

  ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to get dressed here.’

  I zip up my jeans and pull on a new T-shirt. Change my mind. Strip it off and grab a shirt from the wardrobe.

  ‘You can’t wear that!’ Martha’s nose wrinkles. ‘You look like you’re going for a job interview.’

  I pull out shirts, one after another. Martha rejects them all – too smart, too casual, too school, too beach party . . .

  At last she goes for a plain dark blue. Tommy Hilfiger. No wonder she likes it. She bought it for me last birthday.

  ‘So?’ She asks as I button it. ‘Who’s the date?’

  I tap my nose. ‘None of yours. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to finish getting ready.’ I scoop up some hair product and turn to the mirror to arrange my hair. ‘She’ll be here at eight. I don’t want to be late.’ I pick up my watch. ‘It’s nearly eight now.’

  A car horn sounds outside. She’s on time. I take that as a good sign. I’m out of the door and down the stairs. When I look up at my window, I see Martha staring, mouth open, catching flies. I laugh and wave. Martha does not wave back. Her mouth shuts like a trap. Her lips compress into a thin line.

  ‘I’ve brought your brother’s phone,’ Caro says as I get in the car. She holds it out for me to see. ‘It is his, I take it? I thought maybe we could drop it off on our way.’

  ‘On our way to where?’ I ask as I fasten my seat belt.

  ‘On our way to wherever we are going.’

  I give her directions and she drives off. She’s driving the cream-coloured Mini convertible with the top down. It’s a nice ride. If I had a car, this is the kind of car I’d like to have. I sit back and enjoy the novelty of being driven about by a girl. Some guys wouldn’t like that, but I don’t mind it at all. She’s not a bad driver. A bit fast, but sure and decisive. Better than me, that’s for certain. I’ve only just started taking lessons. They are expensive and Martha gets priority. Haven’t even put in for my test yet.

  ‘How come you have a car?’ I ask.

  ‘Trevor bought it for me. Seventeenth birthday present. He taught me to drive. We used to live in a place where there was a private road. He’d take me out on that. I passed my test just after my seventeenth birthday.’

  ‘Who’s Trevor?’

  ‘The man who is married to my mother.’

  ‘Don’t you call him Dad?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  She speaks without taking her eyes off the road. She’s wearing a short dress. Low-cut with thin straps that fall off her shoulders. Her tattoo shows black. She’s driving barefoot. The slippy material rides up as she uses the pedals. I try not to look at her legs.

  My brother answers second ring. He’s in Adidas shorts and his Villa shirt. There’s a beer in one hand, a joint in the other, a pizza box open on the coffee table, football on the widescreen telly.

  ‘Not going out then?’

  ‘Nah.’ He takes a swig from his can. ‘Can’t be arsed. Having a quiet night. Want to join me? I got pizza. Diablo with extra cheese. Villa versus Juventus has just started and I’ve got plenty of beers.’

  ‘Nah, I’m good.’ I shake my head. ‘Another time. I’ve got a date tonight. Just brought your phone round.’

  ‘Ha. One mystery solved.’ He grins. ‘I sent a text from Carl’s phone to the arsehole who took it, and got this message saying you had it. Weird or what? I couldn’t text you cos I didn’t have your number.’

  ‘Here.’ I give it back to him.

  He looks at it like it’s the Rossetta Stone.

  ‘Thanks, man. My entire life is in here.’

  ‘You should take better care of it.’

  ‘When you’re shit-faced, you kind of lose track.’ He continues to stare at it, flicking through the apps. ‘Who’d got it?’

  ‘The girl who found you last night.’

  ‘What girl?’ He really must have been out of it.

  ‘She’s sitting in the car outside.’

  ‘Oh, that girl.’ He looks past me. He does remember. ‘I was wondering who would go out with you. Second mystery solved. Where you off to?’

  ‘She’s taking me for a ride.’

  He grins with the good side of his mouth. ‘You be careful, then. Got enough of these?’ He scoops packets of condoms from a dish Gran used to keep sweets in for us.

  ‘For God’s sake, Rob!’ Despite myself, I blush. ‘I’ve got some.’

  ‘You can never have too many.’ He stuffs a wad of them into my shirt pocket. ‘Here. You might get lucky. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. That doesn’t leave you with much.’

  His phone goes.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  He checks the number. ‘Yes, sure.’

  I glance back through the window as I go down the path to where Caro is waiting for me. The big TV is a patch of vivid green. The screen changes to a blur of team colours. The crowd rises. I can hear the roar through the glass. Someone’s scored but Rob’s not looking. He’s still talking on his phone, staring after me. Sometimes he looks just like Martha.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asks.

  She slips her phone into her bag as I get into the car.

  ‘Sure. Everything is good.’

  I lean forward to get into the low seat and the condoms spill out of my shirt pocket, falling into the foot well in a multicoloured cascade of little foil-covered packages.

  ‘Came prepared, I see,’ she says, with one eyebrow raised. At least I’ve made her smile. She hasn’t smiled all that often.

  ‘It was Rob. He, er –’ I sound like a kid blaming his big brother. I scrabble to retrieve them, more to hide my blushes than anything else.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I ask as I stuff the packets I can find into my jeans’ pocket and try to rewind to the moment I got into the car.

  ‘It’s a secret,’ she says.

  I turn back and see Rob’s still at the window watching as she drives off.

  Chapter 15

  I’ve driven past Beldon Hill plenty of times, but never climbed up it, especially not at night carrying a hamper and a blanket. It’s set off the main road. She turns on to a farm track and follows that until it more or less runs out. We have to walk then. She climbs a stile. I follow her into a field. The hill rears above us. At the top, the grass glows golden in the last of the sun. A few solitary trees crouch at the summit, bent by the wind. Their shadows are lengthening. The wooded flanks are already in semi-darkness.

  ‘Are we going all the way to the top?’

  ‘It’ll be worth it, you’ll see,’ she replies over her shoulder. ‘There’s a full moon tonight. We won’t need a torch.’

  She points and there’s the moon, hanging huge in the sky like a pale balloon, the seas and mountains showing clearly, puckering the surface. I hadn’t noticed it before. I stand for a moment, gazing at it.

  It’s a struggle to get to the top, but she is right. It is worth it. A few sheep regard us with strange, slotted eyes, then turn back to cropping at the drying grass. She spreads the blanket for us. The sun has nearly gone now. Just a red gleam in the west, contained within a lens of pinkish clouds. The sky above us is darkening to purple, the first of the stars newly visible. The motorway shows way in the distance, a snaking necklace of lights, its roar reduced to a low-grade hum.

  She take
s off her sandals and walks about, arms wide, as if she’s about to fly.

  ‘I love it up here,’ she says. ‘I love high places.’ She comes back to me and sits opposite, arms clasped round her bare legs. ‘This place is special, do you know that? I come here as often as I can. Different times of day. Sometimes in the very early morning. I come to watch the sun rising, or in the evening to see it set. I’ve been taking photographs, trying to capture the moment of transition night to day, day to night. I like margins. It’s different depending on the time of day, time of year. It can be weird, spooky here, especially in fog or mist, or when the clouds come down. You see things . . .’

  Her voice tails off. I look around. It seems perfectly normal to me.

  ‘Some people won’t come up here in the daytime, let alone at night. There was a notorious murder. Years ago. A woman was found hanging inside a hollow tree. Some say it was witchcraft. Witches gather here . . .’

  ‘What? Nowadays?’ I laugh, wondering if she is having me on. ‘You’re kidding me!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Look at that.’ She points to a circle where the grass has been blackened by fire. ‘That’s left from Midsummer.’

  ‘You’ll be telling me that there are fairies here next.’

  ‘Of course there are! See that lone thorn?’ She nods towards the top of the hill. ‘That’s a fairy tree. It’s very old because no one dare cut it down.’

  ‘Even now?’

  ‘Even now. They live under the hill. Can’t you feel their presence?’

  She comes crawling towards me across the blanket. I can’t tell if she’s serious or teasing and I don’t care. She’s very near and I can’t decide whether her eyes are brown or green, or a mixture of the two, then she’s kissing me.

  I go to hold her but she’s up and out of my grip. She strips off her dress. She’s not wearing knickers or a bra. I wish I’d known that before. She walks away, to the edge of the hill, then she comes back towards me, stepping lightly on the springing grass, her body silver in the moonlight, the tattoo on her shoulder like a tarnished star.