Hurt

by Tabitha Suzuma

  It takes him a moment to recognize the voice, the surroundings. Lola. But something has changed. He is cold; so cold he has to hold himself tight to stop himself from trembling. Something is very wrong: he hasn’t come, all earlier arousal completely sapped from his body. He has retreated, his penis limp and useless in the sudden cold, the sudden fear, the sudden emptiness of the room.

  ‘Fucking hell . . .’ He rolls away from her, quickly removing the empty condom and reaching for the duvet on the floor. Drags it back over them both, then rescues his T-shirt and boxers and pulls them on hurriedly. He looks up into a face that is almost as shocked as his. ‘Damn, I’m sorry, I – I really don’t know what happened!’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Pulling the duvet up to her chin, Lola is flushed, her lips stained red with the strength of his kisses. But she is looking at him with a look of nervous uncertainty and he presses his fist against his mouth and realizes he is trembling. ‘Sweetheart . . .’

  He starts, the touch of her hand like a burn. He raises an elbow as if in self-defence. ‘Wait – just give me a second here!’

  She recoils immediately, huddling against the pillows. ‘Sorry—’

  ‘No, it’s OK. It’s not your fault. It’s just – it’s just—’ His heart is racing. He can’t seem to catch his breath. He bites the knuckles of his fist in an attempt to stop himself shaking. OK, get a grip, he tells himself. These things happen. Except that he is overcome with a feeling of horror, of utter certainty. He will never be able to have sex again. He will have to leave Lola. It wouldn’t be fair not to. He will lose her for ever because he will never be able to make love to her again.

  Through blurred vision he is aware of Lola pulling on her underwear, going over to his drawers to fetch a dry top, then sitting down beside him on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take his hand and wincing as he instantly pulls back.

  ‘Lola, I’ve – I’ve got training. I’m late—’

  ‘Mattie, don’t be like this. Please don’t be upset!’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘You’re angry, then—’

  ‘No, I’m just late, I have to go.’ He swings his legs off the bed and stands up, pulling away from her attempted embrace.

  ‘I don’t care about what just happened. But I care about you!’ Tears spring into her eyes. ‘Something’s wrong. Something’s been wrong for weeks now. That’s what I care about. And it kills me that you won’t tell me!’ She bites her lip, tears spilling over the edges of her lashes. But he forces himself to turn away, cross the landing to the bathroom and get ready for training.

  There is a red exclamation mark next to today’s date on his iPhone calendar. It’s been there for several weeks now – Perez knows better than to spring things on him at the last minute. This particular red exclamation mark has only ever meant one thing to Mathéo: a new dive. This afternoon, for the first time, he will attempt the reverse handstand triple tuck off the ten-metre board. He has been practising it for several weeks now as a dry dive, into the foam pit down at the gym. He has spent several sessions practising it off the five-metre board in the safety harness. But today there will be no rig to control his fall, no pit full of soft foam to absorb the shock of entry. Today he will be launching himself backwards from the handstand position off the highest board – higher than two double-decker buses – and twisting and somersaulting through the air, legs flexed, toes pointed, then knees bent, hands gripping his ankles before straightening out and hitting the water like an arrow.

  Mathéo knows only too well by now that thinking about what could go wrong when diving is always a recipe for disaster. But after what happened with Lola, his mind only seems capable of dwelling on the negative – dark, self-destructive thoughts he can no longer relegate to the side-lines of his consciousness. Arriving for training ten minutes late, he takes his time getting changed, spending longer than necessary strapping up the wrist he injured back in January, lingering for a while under the hot shower and going through his stretching routine and warm-up dives with a thoroughness usually reserved for competitions. The session is already well underway and the other divers are already going through their sets. His father, who always comes home early to watch him perform a new dive, is striding impatiently along the bottom row of the bleachers, looking typically out of place in his business clothes, despite having removed his jacket and loosened the knot of his tie. His face glistens with sweat. Now he is leaning over the rail of the bleachers, talking earnestly into Perez’s ear, forcing the coach to stand back against the wall with his head half turned to listen, while simultaneously keeping an eye on the squad’s three other divers, shouting out the odd instruction and blowing into his whistle to let each one know when the pool is clear. Mathéo already knows how the conversation is going: his father will be badgering Perez to tell Mathéo to hurry up; Perez will be trying to persuade Mathéo’s father that it is safer to let Mathéo take his time. But after a while, even Perez’s patience begins to wear thin; he emits three sharp blasts from the whistle around his neck and everyone stops.

  ‘Right, let’s get moving! Aaron, in the warm-up area loosening up your lower back! Zach and Eli, go through your sets on the lower boards! Matt, get started on the reverse triple tuck from the ten-metre right now, please!’

  However, as is the custom when one of them is attempting a new dive, the other squad members hang back to watch.

  ‘Good luck, man,’ Aaron says with a lopsided grin as he goes over to the warm-up area and stretches out on his towel at a strategically positioned angle. Zach and Eli come over, as is customary, to give him high-fives before going to sit down on the ends of the lower boards and lean back on their hands, getting comfortable. A group of girls from the synchronized swimming club cut the music to their routine and gather to sit with their coach in and around the hot tub. Several lifeguards appear as if from nowhere to join the two already on duty – Mathéo senses rather than sees them in their matching tracksuits, gathered on the far side of the diving pool. Even the recreational swimmers pause for a break, hanging round the ladder in the shallow end for the best view. The regulars all know him by sight, recognize his name, and those who don’t know him stop anyway to see what all the fuss is about. All it takes is for Perez to raise the megaphone to his mouth, go through the standard safety procedure of announcing his name and the fact that he will be attempting a new dive for the first time, and everyone stops to watch. There must be at least thirty pairs of eyes on him as he steps out from beneath the poolside shower and briskly shakes the water from each ear. Thirty pairs of eyes follow him as he picks up his chamois cloth, walks over to the boards, and begins his ascent.

  It might be a scant audience compared to competition days, but here almost everyone either knows him by name or knows him personally, having watched him train and dive over the years. They know his idiosyncrasies, are familiar with his body language, can tell in an instant whether he is feeling confident, cautious, or downright terrified. Some have even witnessed his meltdowns as a kid, when he would run from the pool, sobbing in fear. But over the years he has learned to control his emotions – is known on the team for never bottling out of new dives. So the focus here feels much more intense, much more direct, much more personal. In many ways, when attempting a new dive for the first time he is at his most vulnerable, his most exposed, his most defenceless. Even though he is well-liked by most of these onlookers, he knows only too well that their bated breath stems as much from speculation that he may crash and burn as from a desire to see him nail the dive. Much like watching a stuntman attempt a crazy feat, they hope either for a spectacular dive or a spectacular catastrophe.

  Usually he doesn’t give this quite so much thought, but usually he feels prepared, confident, in charge. Not since he was a child has he ever felt this goddamn nervous. But today, as he climbs the long chain of ladders, he feels his pulse increase with every rung. He can sense the muscles in his legs beginning to shake; when he reaches the top, it’s as if he has already scale
d a mountain. The air seems thinner up here, less oxygen; his breathing is fast and shallow. He knows his body is reacting to stress and that, if he is to stand any chance of completing the dive without incident, he must turn that stress into determination, turn the nerves into adrenalin. He knows all the techniques, has been through them countless times over the years with the sports psychologist, but today he struggles to bring them to mind. The nerves and synapses in his brain are coping with a much bigger problem, trying to fight back a very different kind of memory, although the two seem somehow interwoven – as if performing this dive were symbolic of another, far more harrowing experience. But he can’t think about that now. He won’t think about that now . . .

  He forces himself to walk over to the edge of the platform, to look down at the pools and miniature Lego figures below. Today, the ten-metre seems higher than before, the water a long way further down, and the board feels slippery and flimsy beneath the soles of his feet. He takes a deep breath and conjures up the image of the dive the way he is supposed to, trying to feel each twist and turn in his body, mentally going through every little movement in his mind. But there is something blocking it, something in the way, and sweat rises to the surface of his skin and his lungs feel ready to burst. He wipes his face with his cloth, pressing the soft fabric against his closed eyes, willing himself to visualize the dive. But he is pacing the board now and breathing too fast, twirling his cloth frantically between his hands – ten times one way, ten times the other; another ten times before he reaches the end of the board and he’ll be OK; another ten times before he walks back to the wall and he’ll nail it. His heart is pumping like machine-gun fire, shooting blood around his body as if he were already flying through the air. He can hear his half-whispered affirmations as he mouths them frantically to himself – faster and faster, until they all blend into one word and make no sense at all. His whole body is buzzing with uncontrolled energy now, the electric grid of his nervous system firing at random. He can feel the electricity in his veins: he is a live wire, he is alight and on fire and shaking. Shaking!

  Shouts of encouragement rise up to greet him: his squad mates, the synchro girls, the lifeguards, even the recreational swimmers.

  ‘Go for it, Matt!’

  ‘You can do it, mate!’

  ‘We know you can do it, Mattie!’

  ‘We love you, babe!’

  Giggles from the synchro girls, but Perez’s voice echoes above them all.

  ‘Switch off the thoughts now, Matt,’ he booms into the megaphone, ‘and count yourself in. Get yourself into position and just count yourself in. You’ve practised it more than enough. Your body knows exactly what it has to do.’

  Your body knows what it has to do, your body knows what it has to do. But no, no, no, he doesn’t want to do it! Didn’t they hear him the first time? Didn’t he shout? Didn’t he fight? Didn’t he beg and plead, beg and plead, like a little child. No, please no. Don’t make me do it. I’ll do anything else. Not that, please not that, please stop it. Please, God, please! . . . They are all looking at him. At his body. High up here, in full view of everyone. Naked, apart from his Speedos, his body exposed to them all. He can feel their eyes on him, willing him to obey. Yes, his body knows what it must do. After you’ve done it once, you never forget, never forget, never forget.

  ‘Mathéo, for God’s sake, just do the bloody dive!’ His father now. He has left the bleachers in frustration and has joined Perez at the side of the pool, both men with arms folded and heads tilted back, united in their frustration. ‘You’re over-analysing it, you’re winding yourself up! Just get a move on, for chrissakes!’

  He spins his cloth, pacing, still pacing. Every time he reaches the end of the board, his mind screams, Not yet! and he turns and makes his way back to the wall. Just one more time and then he’ll do it. Just one more time, just one more second, and then he’ll be OK, then he’ll be ready. He runs his fingers through his hair, scraping his nails against his scalp. He can hear the sound of his panicked, shuddering breathing. Oh God oh God oh God oh God . . .

  It’s gone very quiet down on the ground below. The audience holds its collective breath, waiting to see if he is going to bottle out of it – come back down the ladders and disappear off into the changing rooms in shame.

  ‘Deep breath, buddy.’ Perez’s voice is gentler now, clearly aware he is at breaking point. ‘Shut out the thoughts. Take it nice and easy. As soon as you’ve done it once, you’ll know you can do it again.’

  You’ll know you can do it again. The first time, you think you’ll die. The pain is so great, you hope you’ll die. But you don’t, and it happens again, and then again, and then again . . .

  They are all watching him, feeling for him, willing him to go for it, and he knows now that he has no choice, he never did have a choice, his body is no longer his own. Others tell him what to do and he obeys; he obeys or they get frustrated, they get angry. So angry. Yes, he will do it and he will get hurt – so badly that to others it will be unimaginable; so badly he may never recover.

  Slowly he makes his way to the edge of the platform. Finds his spot, takes a deep breath. He slides his feet apart, lowers his arms and searches for the perfect grip on the edge of the board. Gradually he transfers the full weight of his body onto his hands, his wrists, his arms, his shoulders. His ankles begin to loosen, and with great care he raises his feet off the ground. No wobble, no fall. Slip now and it’s all over. With flexed legs and pointed toes, he brings his feet together straight above his head. His body is stretched upwards by his toes – he is taut, he is tight, he is strong, he is all muscles and sinew. His back to the water, he prepares to launch himself into the void. Ready? Never, but it’s time to count himself in.

  One: he is hit from behind, sent sprawling to the ground. His body tightens, he does not move.

  Two: he is grabbed by his hair, face smashed against the damp-smelling earth. He takes a deep breath, stretches himself up as high as he can go.

  Three: he is pinned to the ground, crushed by a weight from which there is no escape. But this time he can get away – he can fly. With a flick of his wrists, he launches himself away from the board and into the air. Away, away, away. He doesn’t care where, as long as he is free. And then he remembers: begins his first somersault, eyes searching for the slash of blue. But it’s not where it’s supposed to be: he finds the platform edge instead. And he is rotating straight towards it. Close, too close! Too. Damn. Close . . . BANG!

  And just like that, he’s dead. This time it’s easy. Why wasn’t it before? He had wanted it, begged for it, prayed for it even. But no, just the pain, again and again. This time, however, as he spins down ten metres in freefall, he feels the world just skid away. He hits the water. Sucked into darkness. Plummets down, down, deep down. Feels only relief. Absolution. It’s all over. Never again. He is free, he has flown. At last he has found what he was looking for. He has found peace.

  8

  Down, down, down. Deep beneath the surface. He is trapped underwater, drowning, but has neither the energy nor the desire to pull himself free. Echoes in the distance: the sound of people talking, the rattling of a trolley, rhythmic bleeping of machines, strains of music interspersed with laughter, someone crying out in a low plaintive wail. Like radio static or interference, voices cut in from a distant, foreign station. He is rocking on the surface of life. Someone is saying his name; he tries to open his eyes but they seem held down by weights. No, no, no. He doesn’t want to wake up. He will stay down here for ever, adrift in a timeless ocean. The world can go on without him; he wants no part in it any more. But words and phrases and snatches of conversation are seething all around him. Voices that tear at his ears, reverberate in his skull; he feels he will scream if they do not shut up. The world is garish, sharp; it cuts at his brain. He tries to slide back under, but his mind is spitting and fritzing, its wires burned out. He can feel the proximity of oblivion, can touch it, can taste it even, yet his mind insists on turning thi
s way and that, slogging in and out of consciousness.

  He is beginning to rise, to struggle, blinking and gasping, to the surface. Blotches of life and fury. He opens his eyes to a harsh white room, and a light that screams in agony. He is in a world of hurt, his head pounding, full of static and cracking pain. He gets a hint, a glimpse of his surroundings; a blurred image, like a poster seen from the window of a speeding train. He is aware of a poorly defined human shape hovering nearby. A pulse of fear runs through him: the shadow’s edges are splintered, ragged, like something lost at sea. He is struggling to open his eyes now, to move his head. A crackling, fiery bonfire flares up in front of him, illuminating whatever he looks at. He is disorientated and confused, his senses overstretched, aching.

  He is aware of another sound now, something between a groan and a whimper.

  A placatory hand pats his arm. The sound of a woman’s voice. ‘Mateeo?’ She mispronounces his name. ‘You’re OK. Can you look at me? That’s it. Good! Look at me, right here. Do you know where you are?’

  His eyes slowly focus on a woman in nurse’s uniform. He is lying in a bed, a machine bleeping to his right. His hand feels fat and heavy – he looks down to find several tubes running into the back of it, taped down and bandaged up; a plastic clip is attached to his finger and a blood-pressure cuff is wrapped around the top of his arm. There seem to be an awful lot of wires.

  ‘Hospital?’ His voice sounds cracked and feeble; his lips are sore and dry.

  ‘That’s right. You’re in Duke’s Memorial – you were brought in about an hour ago with a head injury. Do you remember how that happened?’

  He tries to nod. Winces sharply. ‘Training.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Diving. I mistimed the – the . . .’ He makes a circular motion with his finger. Such an effort to speak. ‘The rotation,’ he manages. The pictures seethe and swing in front of him: shards of memory that he has to reconstruct from the mayhem in his mind. He can’t seem to go back in time, but neither can he move forward, his memory too capricious to trust. There is no chronology inside his head. Instead, it is composed of myriad images which spin and mix and part like sparks of sunlight on water, then vanish entirely, no more substantial than a dream.