Hurt

by Tabitha Suzuma

  He can tell that she still thinks he is joking and a feeling of panic begins to rise in his throat. ‘I’m serious, Lola. I don’t want to wait four years. Let’s do this now!’

  ‘Fine!’ she laughs. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘I’m not kidding.’ He lowers his voice suddenly. ‘I’m not kidding, Lola. I’m not going back. I can’t.’

  Placing one foot in the middle of the boat, Mathéo then gently transfers his weight and follows with the other. He is busy working at the knot as Lola approaches.

  ‘Mattie, what are you doing?’ But despite her words she looks excited, her cheeks pink from the wind, face and eyes alight. ‘We can’t just take Hugo’s boat.’

  ‘They won’t be up for hours!’

  ‘It’s getting blowy!’

  ‘It’s not – it’s beautiful out there at this time!’

  After a moment’s hesitation, she takes his outstretched hand and gingerly climbs in, seating herself on the damp bench at the stern. Mathéo grins and tosses the heavy rope on the floor where it slides and coils of its own accord, like a snake. He places the oars in their rowlocks, sits down on the cross seat, braces his wet sandals against the footplate, and allows the oars to drop and catch the water. A few strong strokes later, and they are well clear of the jetty. Moving swiftly away from the shore, the prow pointing out to sea, they head towards the glistening pink of the eastern sky. The choppy water makes for a bumpy ride: opposite him, Lola swings in reverse to him – up and down and side to side as if they were on a faulty seesaw. She grips the edge of the bench on either side of her to keep from sliding, but he can see the flush of adrenalin, the spark of excitement in her eyes as she gazes over his shoulder towards the rising sun.

  ‘Wow, Mattie. The sky – the colours on the water – look, it’s so beautiful!’

  Grinning, he allows himself a quick glance behind before resuming the rowing – settling into a good, steady rhythm, careful to pace himself but also to keep the boat nice and central in the ragged semicircle of the rocky bay. Lola keeps pointing at the sunrise on the horizon, urging him to look, but he is content just rowing, putting as much distance between them and the shore as possible, watching the dawn light, soft and roseate, wash across Lola’s sun-kissed face. She raises her arms as if to stretch, but tilts her head back, hair streaming across her face. ‘I’m free!’

  He laughs at her, into the rising wind. Yes, that is exactly it. They are free! Free of Hugo and Isabel back at the house, so serious and heavy with concern; free of all their ties back home in London – his father, Perez, his diving, his life . . .

  Lola lowers her arms and grabs the sides of the boat as the prow smacks against a particularly big wave, jolting her off the bench for a moment, causing her to squeal in surprise.

  Mathéo feels overcome by a sudden, unexpected rush of joy. It is the joy of freedom, of having a boat of your own. It is the joy of pulling on oars and feeling the boat surge forward with the rustle of tearing silk; it is the joy of the morning sun gently warming your back and making the sea surface flicker with a hundred different colours. Despite the choppy waves, this morning the sea seems bluer, more limpid and transparent, its surface striped with silver and gold. The sun-drenched coastline is remote, distant and beautiful. They are floating, just the two of them, floating in a void of space. A flock of gulls fly over, and one pauses to soar just above their heads – Lola stretches an arm up towards it and laughs.

  ‘Will you row away with me?’ he asks her.

  Lola smiles. ‘Like The Owl and the Pussycat? I wish’ – she sighs contentedly – ‘I really wish we could . . .’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes!’

  She laughs.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  She blinks at him. ‘Mattie—’

  ‘I can’t go back, Lola.’ Suddenly his heart is thudding, his pulse thrumming in his ears. ‘You have no idea what’s waiting for me back home. I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘You could go to the police. But you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I do!’ The words explode from his lungs. ‘Dammit, Lola, you don’t understand. I do. Otherwise someone else could get hurt!’

  She stares at him, her body very still. ‘Hurt . . . Like you were, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’ll go home, sweetheart. You can give the police a statement, a physical description.’ She leans to look over her shoulder, and when she turns back, some of the colour has drained from her face. ‘Mattie, we’re too far from shore. We need to turn back.’

  ‘Not just a description. I’d have to turn him in.’

  ‘Shit! Mattie, I’m serious. Turn the boat round.’

  ‘Are you listening to me? I’d have to turn him in!’

  Lola looks back at him and freezes, her knuckles white against the sides of the boat. ‘Turn who in?’

  ‘The guy – the guy who raped me.’

  ‘You know the guy who raped you?’

  The word bursts like a sob from somewhere deep inside his chest. ‘Yes!’

  The clash of two opposing waves sends a cap of white spray over the gunwale, jolting them out of their momentary stupor, drenching them both.

  ‘Turn back! Turn back!’ Lola shouts. Her hands are on his, struggling against the movement of the oars, fighting to turn the boat round. But maybe it would be better for them both just to keep on rowing . . . Her face is suddenly very close and he notices how large her gold-flecked irises are, how pronounced the freckles on her cheeks. It is as if he can suddenly see everything in much more detail, as if out here, in this wild freedom, a veil has been lifted, uncovering the tiniest details of life.

  ‘Mattie!’ Lola screams in terror.

  Stunned back into reality, Mathéo feels his heart skip a beat as the boat lurches to one side and he almost loses an oar. He has managed to turn the boat round but the tide is tugging them out. He has been rowing enough times in his life to know that the swirls created by the oars should be fading behind the stern of the boat, but now they are barely moving. After several minutes of strenuous rowing on the spot, the swirls began to move to the front. The boat is being pulled backwards, out to sea.

  ‘Fuck!’ His arms feel like lead. He lifts the oars out of the water for a moment to try to catch his breath. ‘I can’t!’

  Lola moves to swap places. ‘I’ll try, I’ll take over!’

  ‘No . . . You can’t . . . The current’s too strong. Just – just give me a sec—’

  ‘Mattie, we need to keep rowing.’ Her voice is eerily calm, but when he looks up, he sees the panic in her eyes.

  ‘Lola, it’s OK, I can do this! I’m going to get us back to shore, I promise!’

  Kneeling on the floor of the boat, she covers his hands with hers, helping him row against the current. Her jaw is clenched in effort, eyes narrowed in concentration, the colour returning to her face as they struggle together against the tugging tide.

  ‘Fucking hell!’

  ‘Just row, Mattie. Just row. Keep the rhythm steady. We’re starting to move forward now – look!’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking – I’m losing my mind—’

  ‘You’re not. Your mind is fine. And you’re strong, you can do it. We’ve just got to—’ She is cut off as another wave breaks over the stern, soaking her to the bone and throwing her to the side. When she regains her balance he sees blood trickling down from her lip.

  ‘Lola, get down on the floor and brace yourself against the bench! Get down, now!’

  She does as he says, eyes wild with fright.

  ‘It’s going to be OK!’ he shouts at her desperately.

  ‘I believe you. Save your breath. Just keep rowing!’ she yells back over the shrill whine of the wind.

  The wave hits with so much force that it throws him off the bench and back against the bow, knocking the air from his lungs. For a moment it is simply impossible to inhale; then his rib mee
ts something hard, the air forced back in by the shock of pain. The boat is rolling dangerously now; Lola is doing her best to lean towards the upturned side to try to weigh it down, but water begins to splash in as the waves repeatedly smack against the stern with terrifying force. Mathéo is hit by pain and adrenalin in dizzying waves. Down on the floor, Lola is managing to brace herself against the bench and the sides, shouting encouragement up at him, sea water streaming down her face.

  Mathéo can feel his whole body shaking now – whether from terror or cold or exhaustion, he cannot tell. Every few strokes he compulsively turns to look over his shoulder at the shore, wasting precious time and energy, but it has to be getting closer – it has to! He can just about make out Lola’s shouts of encouragement over the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves. ‘Keep rowing, keep breathing – you can do this! Come on – you can do this, Mattie!’

  But he is slowing down, he can tell. Can no longer feel his arms, his back, his legs – his muscles all turned to pulp. As the boat continues to pitch back and forth, waves sweep over the sides, more and more water accumulating at the bottom, weighing them down. Occasionally a large wave caps off, washes over them, drenching them and leaving them gasping. The spray coming up from the water hits his face like needles, making it near-impossible to see. He is so exhausted, the boat is so water-logged and they are so wet, it’s as if they have already drowned. He finds himself having to fight the impulse to grab Lola and swim with her to the shore – he knows too well that abandoning the boat would be the most dangerous thing of all, but right now it feels like the only option. The muscles in his arms and shoulders scream in agony and he bites down hard. I won’t let her drown, I won’t let her drown, he repeats to himself from between gritted teeth – but what starts off as an affirmation soon becomes a frantic, pleading prayer.

  The boat falls off a wave and slaps down so hard, the top of the oar makes contact with his cheekbone. The crack sends him reeling. Waves whack at his kneecaps, and as spray rains down, he is reminded of a different kind of struggle, a different battle, a different kind of pain, and his mind screams against the repellent memories . . .

  A fold in time. He is slumped forward against the side of the boat, the wooden edge cutting into his neck. The oars are inside the boat, wet and glistening, and the boat seems to be moving of its own accord, buffeted gently by the waves. The howl of the wind has died down, the sky has cleared and the sun is brighter. He squints against its light and sees that Lola is wading waist deep in water, pulling the boat along by its rope. In a daze, he watches her haul herself up onto the jetty, brushing wet hair back from her face, and secure the rope around its metal loop with a thick knot.

  He wills himself to move, climbing out of the boat, following Lola down the wooden path, across the beach, up the cliff path, and back to the house. There are sounds from the pool, shrieks and laughter, but Lola keeps on upstairs and, dazed, he simply follows her. Showering and pulling on a T-shirt and boxers uses up the last of his energy, and he collapses onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

  The edge of the mattress sinks slightly and he looks up to see Lola sitting on the bed beside him, cross-legged, with a towel and what appears to be a first-aid box.

  ‘Christ, Lola, are you OK?’ He levers himself up painfully and runs his eyes over her, folding his arms tightly around his waist to stop himself shivering. Apart from a small cut on her lip, she appears relatively unharmed.

  ‘I’m fine, Mattie, but you . . .’ She winces and draws in air between her clenched teeth. ‘Hold still and let me have a look at those cuts.’

  ‘I’ll live.’ But Lola ignores him, soaking a cotton swab in iodine and dabbing at his cheek.

  His head jerks back in reflex.

  ‘Ouch, sweetie, I’m sorry. But you’ve got a nasty gash on your cheek . . .’

  He tries to hold still, letting his breath out in a rush. ‘Fuck, I should never have . . . I’m sorry.’

  But there is no anger in her face. As she leans in close to clean the cut below his eye, he feels her breath on his cheek, sees her eyes – wide, trusting, full of concern.

  He turns away from her. ‘It’s OK now.’

  The corners of her lips twitch into a small smile. ‘Will you stop being a wuss and let me clean it?’

  But it’s not the physical pain he objects to. Having her so near, her hand against his face, the gentle pressure of her fingertips against his temples, the soft touch of the cotton wool against his cheek . . . He feels as if he might break.

  Lola stops suddenly, drawing her hand back with a look of alarm.

  ‘It’s – it’s just the iodine,’ he tells her quickly. ‘Makes my eyes sting.’

  ‘But I’m using water—’

  ‘Well—’ His voice quavers. ‘Well, that – that stings too!’

  She lowers her hand from his face and gives him a long look as he clenches his jaw and blinks back tears. Pushing the first-aid box aside, she reaches out for him. ‘Come here.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He moves to get up from the bed, but Lola tugs him gently back down.

  ‘No, I mean come here. Come right here.’

  He sinks back down onto the bed and she pulls herself across his lap. ‘You know what I was thinking when we were being pulled out by the current?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That if I died – that if I had to die out there, drown at sea, at least it would be with you.’

  Startled, he stares into her face, into her glistening eyes. ‘Goddammit, Lola! I would have never let you drown!’

  Her bottom lip quivers for a second. ‘For a moment I thought that maybe – maybe you wanted to—’

  ‘Drown?’

  ‘You kept talking about leaving. Never going back. You were so determined to get away! I thought maybe the rape was making you wish you – you—’

  ‘No!’ He can feel his eyes filling, hot and heavy. ‘No, Lola, I don’t want to die any more. I want to live – but I want to spend the rest of my life with you!’ The tears hang heavy on his lashes, threatening to fall.

  ‘But that’s all I want too!’ Gently she slides her arms around his neck. ‘Come back to me, Mattie. Come back and tell me what happened. Don’t push me away any more. Tell me who hurt you. Tell me, Mattie. Please, darling, please . . .’

  16

  He must have fallen asleep, for when he wakes, Lola is gone and the room is filled with the thick, inky light of dusk. The balcony door is still open, the net curtains dancing in the breeze. The air has turned noticeably cooler, and outside the sky has begun to darken, the last rays of golden sunset falling in sparkled shards onto the glossy, deep blue of the sea. Mathéo can hear the distant buzz of voices rising from the floor below and wonders if the others have already had dinner. He thinks he can smell pizza or bolognese, and, still fuzzy with sleep, forces himself to sit up. He is famished after the day’s exertions: if they’ve started dinner he doesn’t want to miss it. Swinging his feet onto the floor, he rubs his eyes hard with the heels of his hands and then pads into the bathroom to use the loo and splash his face with cold water. Returning to the bedroom, he locates his clothes in the half-light and pulls them on, hovering by the mirror to run his hands through his unruly hair, rub the pillow crease from his cheek. Then he heads downstairs.

  It isn’t until he reaches the bottom of the spiral staircase and finds them sitting on the sofas round the coffee table, plates on laps, that he realizes they have been talking about him again. He is not aware of even having heard his name, yet recognizes the look on their faces – that incriminating look of having been caught in the act. The startled expressions, the voices muted mid-sentence, the sudden, heavy silence, the atmosphere thick with the presence of embarrassment and guilt.

  ‘We didn’t hear you come down.’ Hugo is the first to break the wall of silence, his tone almost accusatory.

  Mathéo pauses for breath, searching for a way to hold onto the feelings of relative peace and calm he woke up with only moments b
efore.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t realize I was supposed to knock.’ He manages to keep his tone light, his response jocular, eager to give them an easy way out. A quick change of subject is all that is needed. He won’t probe – Lola will fill him in later: no doubt they were still digesting yesterday’s news. But that’s fine, that is the past; he has put it behind him finally, and now . . . He looks towards Lola and gives her a smile.

  She doesn’t return it. ‘It’s just that we were worried . . .’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Hugo says slowly, his tone strangely low and grave. ‘I suggested it first.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Mathéo shrugs quickly with a forgiving smile. ‘As long as you’ve left me some of that lasagne—’

  ‘So you agree with us?’ Hugo looks surprised.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what we were just discussing,’ Hugo replies. ‘Going back to London tomorrow and telling the police.’

  Mathéo freezes. The stupid smile seems stuck to his face. ‘What?’ He can hear his heart.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We can talk about it in the morning,’ Lola says quickly, glancing rapidly round at the others.

  ‘But if we’re flying back tomorrow, we’ll need to book our plane tickets tonight,’ Isabel protests.

  Mathéo steps back unsteadily, meets a pillar, leans on it with some relief as his knees suddenly begin to feel weak. ‘What do you mean? Why do we have to go home tomorrow?’ Breath quickening, he searches for Lola’s gaze but she refuses to meet his eyes, turning anxiously to look at Hugo for guidance instead.

  Hugo stands up slowly. ‘Matt, listen. Lola told us you know the person who – who assaulted you. This is really serious. If you won’t tell us, then at least tell the police or your parents. Unless it was—’ He breaks off for a moment, and Mathéo watches the horror dawn on his friend’s face. ‘Unless it was your own – oh, shit . . .’

  ‘I don’t – it wasn’t—’ Mathéo fills his lungs in an attempt to steady his voice, but he is breathing too fast, the air shuddering in his chest, making him shake. ‘It’s gone, it’s in the past, it’s done with, Hugo. I’m not talking to the police or anyone else!’