His pulse accelerates at the thought, the unbearable thought of never seeing Lola again. It makes him dizzy: the bright lights of the airport lounge begin to bleed around the edges, spinning and blurring like a Ferris wheel. He can hear his breath, shallow and shaky, and so he closes his eyes, tries to calm his pounding heart.
‘Jeez, what’s wrong with you?’ Hugo’s voice is too loud, too raw, magnified by the almost empty lounge and his own confusion. ‘Are you sick?’
Mathéo forces himself to open his eyes, look across at Hugo and Isabel, sprawled out in the seats opposite.
‘No.’ But his voice is just a whisper, unheard. He shakes his head instead.
‘Well then, why won’t you try calling her?’ Hugo asks him, his tone accusatory. ‘Not necessarily to apologize for whatever the hell happened, but just to make sure she’s OK!’
Mathéo forces his eyes to meet his friend’s. And shakes his head again.
‘Oh, for fuck sake!’ Hugo sighs loudly in exasperation. ‘This is nuts. It was meant to be an awesome holiday! I’m gonna get some coffee.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Mathéo sees Hugo get up and leave the seating area. Then, moments later, he is aware of Isabel coming over to sit beside him.
‘Mattie?’ She is looking down at his hands, twisting and pulling against each other in an attempt to disguise the shaking. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, eyes fixed on the lounge’s grey carpet.
‘Listen. Two members of staff confirmed that she was on that last flight, so we can be sure she’s back in London. You know how close she is to her dad, so I’m sure she’ll have called him and he’ll have taken her back home. They probably aren’t answering the phone because they’re having a long talk and don’t want to be disturbed. I’m sure she just needs some time to cool off, and then you can go over and apologize or sort things out or whatever.’ A pause, and he is aware of Isabel’s hands covering his, attempting to hold them still. ‘It’s going to be fine, Mattie. Lola rarely loses her temper, but when she does, she gets over it really quickly, and you know she’s very forgiving. I’m sure this will all blow over in a couple of days.’
The sudden, unexpected show of concern throws him. He swallows, unable to meet her gaze, clenching his hands together as hard as he can.
‘Jesus, you’re really shaking!’ Isabel sounds genuinely concerned. ‘I’m sure Lola’s got home all right.’
‘I – I know.’ He pulls his hands out from beneath hers and folds his arms across his chest, hugging himself tightly as the trembling spreads throughout his muscles and he finds himself barely perceptibly rocking back and forth. ‘I’m just – I’m just a bit worried we won’t get through this—’ His voice cracks on the last word and he turns it into a cough, staring hard at the ground and trying not to blink. He sucks in his breath and holds it as his eyes begin to brim, and suddenly finds himself terrified he will burst into tears.
‘That’s ridiculous. It’s just a road bump. I know you two will get over it,’ Isabel says gently. ‘You’ve been through this – this horrendous thing, and I know for a fact that Lola’s worried sick about you. She keeps asking us what she should do to help you, and she’s been borrowing my laptop every day since we arrived, looking up stuff about people who have – you know – gone through the same thing as you, to see how they got over it and how it affected them after. She’s been looking into different types of counselling, she’s anonymously joined this online support group and she’s even ordered a bunch of books off Amazon! I saw it all in her browsing history, so don’t tell her I said anything. But seriously, you’re all she talks about at the moment, and she keeps saying she can’t bear to see you hurting so bad. She thinks it was somehow her fault you felt you couldn’t confide in her right away, and she told me herself she feels so, so guilty she wasn’t with you that weekend—’ Turning to gauge his reaction, she abruptly breaks off, her expression changing to one of alarm and palpable unease. ‘Mattie!’
He wants to go and lock himself in a toilet cubicle but can’t even seem to move. Instead, he finds himself hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor and rubbing the side of his face in an attempt to shield his face from view.
‘Damn, I don’t have a tissue . . . Mattie – shit – I didn’t mean to make it worse, I just wanted to make sure you knew how crazy in love with you she is, and how much she hates to see you suffering! Fuck, shall I go and get Hugo?’
He manages to shake his head and a small sound escapes him as the air bursts from his lungs and is sucked back in again. His face is burning but the tears are even hotter, scalding as they track silently down his cheeks before he has time to wipe each one away. The touch of Isabel’s hand running up and down between his shoulder-blades makes him shrink back and forces words to the surface.
‘No, don’t – I’m – I’m all right, I’m just so tired!’ He rubs the heels of his hands up and down his cheeks, his heart thudding with embarrassment, fighting to get a grip.
‘I know,’ Isabel says awkwardly. ‘Rows are really draining, and you’re worried about Lola so it’s normal to be upset. But I know Lola: I know how much she loves you and how happy you make her and I don’t think there is anything that could ever change that!’
He tries to cough to muffle a sob and lurches to his feet, pointing at the TOILETS sign at the far end of the lounge; Isabel calls out after him as he heads blindly towards it. But thankfully the men’s is empty, and in front of the washbasins he catches sight of his flushed, tear-stained face and slams his fist against a metal tap, the cracking pain in his fingers strong enough to shock him into getting a grip. He spends the next few minutes splashing his face with cold water and concentrating on the pain in his hand until he is exhausted.
Returning to the seating area, he hovers by the window, keeping his distance. In the glass reflection he recognizes Hugo’s blurred shape, returning with a tray of paper mugs. He sees Isabel get up to meet him, stop him a few metres away and lean in to talk to him in hushed tones, occasionally glancing over at Mathéo. And after a moment’s hesitation the two of them retreat to the far row of seats, clearly keeping a respectful distance.
Mathéo concentrates on a plane coming in to land, pressing Isabel’s revelations about Lola into the furthest recesses of his mind. It appears to hover for ever, motionless in the night sky, and for a fleeting moment it seems to Mathéo as if time itself is suspended. He feels on the brink of something huge, and realizes that his life and Lola’s will never be the same again. He is no longer where he was; he is not yet where he will be; he is nowhere exactly. Simply adrift, a spinning atom in the ether, and although the thought horrifies him, he sees now, with utter clarity, that nothing more than chance has led him here. There is no meaning to be found in the random order of things; trying to predict the future is useless, a waste of energy. Hit with the revelation that he may never recover from the consequences of what has happened, he is increasingly aware of spinning out of control, descending into an abyss of his own making. It is the first time he has felt truly acquainted with madness, and as he wanders the dark caves of his mind, he realizes with a start that this madness, this insanity, is more than capable of carving its own reality.
By the time they board the plane at dawn, Mathéo has devised a way to keep himself in check, to keep himself moving. He fixes his gaze on a single point – the boarding gate, the seat in front, the rain-speckled window – and freezes out everything else around him. He feels drugged – when Hugo asks him a question, he is unable to even turn his head. But under his breath, he repeats to himself: I’m not going mad, I’m all right. I’m going to get through this, I’m all right. I’m on the plane home to find Lola, we’ll be all right. This is really happening, but it’s going to be all right. I love you, Lola. I love you so much. If I keep saying it, you’ll have to feel it. I know you can feel it. I love you, Lola. I love you. I love you . . .
In the taxi speeding down the M4 back into central London, he realizes that
some of the horror has drained from his veins. It is a bright, fresh morning, they are back on familiar ground, and he reminds himself of what Lola said to him, screamed at him, just hours ago on the beach. That of course she wouldn’t confront her father. That of course she would never believe Mathéo’s heinous accusations. And he realizes suddenly that this is good, that this will keep her safe: safe from being whisked away by a panicked Jerry, safe from disappearing out of his life for ever. And Jerry would never harm his own daughter – of that he is certain, has to be certain. Mathéo will plead amnesia, insanity, post-traumatic stress, anything – anything in order to be able to retrieve the accusations. And, with time, Lola will forgive him. She will, she must, because without her there is no life, there is no future.
For a moment he allows himself to imagine that Jerry never abused him at all. That it was someone who just happened to look like him. All those sleepless nights when he wished, prayed it could have been someone else – anyone but his girlfriend’s father. What if it had just been a stranger? There is no definitive reality, he reminds himself, only the individual’s perception of it. And if in his mind, in his memory, he replaces Jerry with someone else, then everything can go back to the way it was before. Everything has to go back to the way it was before. Perhaps, if he believes it enough . . . He wasn’t himself when he made those accusations, hadn’t been himself for ages. Lola knew that. So she will forgive him. She will give him another chance. Because she knows him, she understands him, she loves him in a way that no one else has ever loved him before, or possibly ever could again. His whole life is wrapped up in that one loving, kind, funny, bright spark of a girl, and he cannot, will not let her go.
The taxi has pulled up to the kerb. They have arrived outside Lola’s house. It looks bright and unfamiliar in the morning sun, and Mathéo hears Hugo breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Well, looks like she’s back all right,’ he says, pointing towards the front window at Lola’s bright red backpack tossed onto the couch inside. ‘Do you want us to come with you?’
‘No. No.’ Relief coursing through his veins, Mathéo stumbles out of the cab, his knees weak, the weight of his rucksack nearly knocking him over. ‘Look, Hugo, I’m sorry about the holiday. I really am.’
Hugo sighs. ‘Yeah, well, I’m just sorry about what happened to you, mate. But coming back and telling the police is the right thing to do. Good luck with Lola, OK? Give me a call when things have calmed down.’
The taxi pulls away, disappearing down the road, and for a moment Mathéo just stands there, absorbing the quietness of the street, the faint chirping of birds, the smell of the oak tree, its branches laden with lush, thick green leaves. The normality of it all. Everything so tranquil, so still. He feels his heart slow to its usual rhythm, his breathing soft and steady again. Even if Lola was thinking of mentioning the argument to her father, she won’t have had time. Jerry is on a shoot: the van with all his equipment is gone from the driveway. Rocky is barking at him from behind the garden fence, just like always. They wouldn’t have run away and left him, nor would they have left the kitchen window open . . . Thank God. Oh, thank God.
He knows he should be thinking through exactly what he is going to say, how he is going to explain his earlier madness and retrieve his crazy accusations, but right now he just wants to see her, reassure her that he has come to his senses. Let her know that it was nothing more than a blip in his crazy mind but that he is OK now, and in no way suspects Jerry. Never will again. The person in the woods has morphed into a stranger – someone he has never met before. Pushing open the garden gate and striding down the side path, he calls out to Rocky, then presses his finger to the bell.
Rocky is whining for attention now. Mathéo reaches over the garden fence to ruffle his coat. There is no reply at the door, no movement from inside – but that is to be expected. Lola is undoubtedly still furious and upset. He calls to her through the kitchen window.
‘Lola, it’s me. I’m so sorry. It was all a mistake. I was having nightmares, my mind was playing tricks on me. Open the door and I’ll explain everything!’
Still nothing, so he climbs into the garden to retrieve the spare key from beneath the rosemary bush and lets himself in.
‘It’s just me!’ he calls up the stairs. ‘I’m only asking you to give me five minutes. Just hear me out, Lola, OK? I wasn’t well, I went a bit crazy out there. Maybe it was post-traumatic stress or something, but I promise you I’m fine now.’
Rocky follows him into the cool of the hallway. Mathéo drops his rucksack to the floor and calls out again. ‘Lola, I know you’re in your room. Just hear me out. I know you’re really mad, and you’ve every right to be, but I was delusional, I lost my mind for a moment. But I realize that now, and I just want to tell you how terribly sorry I am for all the crazy stuff I said.’
His voice echoes in the penumbra of the small house, and after waiting a few more seconds, he takes the stairs. Her bedroom door is closed. He knocks, calls out again. Turns the handle, expecting to find it locked, but to his surprise it swings open. The clothes she was wearing yesterday lie discarded on the bed, her Birkenstocks creating a sandy patch on the floor.
He turns from the empty room in surprise. ‘Lola?’
Across the landing, the bathroom door is tightly shut. He recognizes the sound of water in the pipes overhead and knocks. ‘Lola?’
Still no reply. He listens for the sound of the shower but cannot hear it. Suddenly his heartbeat is picking up again. ‘Lola, just let me know if you’re in there and I’ll wait! There’s no hurry . . .’
Nothing. He turns the handle. Locked. ‘Lola, come on . . .’
Why isn’t she replying, if only to tell him to go away?
He raises his hand to knock again, and feels something give beneath his feet. The carpet. A spreading stain, moving out towards him. Water. Water trickling out from beneath the door.
He doesn’t give himself time to think. He moves back as far as he can go, takes a running jump and throws the full weight of his body against the bathroom door. The small bolt inside loosens from the wall but refuses to come off entirely. He kicks the door repeatedly with all the strength he can muster. Slams himself against it again and again. A splintering noise, and the door finally crashes open, its bolt hanging loose by a single screw. Mathéo trips over the threshold and goes skidding across the wet floor, smack into the basin, the enamel edge hitting him in the ribs. It’s just a trickle but the bath tap is still running, the tub overflowing, and in it . . . in it . . .
‘Lola!’
Submerged beneath the water, her hair spread around her head like a dark halo, she appears to be floating, her body white, wide green eyes staring straight up at him. For a second nothing happens – she doesn’t blink, sit up, or react at all. He waits a moment, waits for the splash as she emerges, waits for her laughter at giving him a fright. But there is no flicker of movement from her. A roar of horror fills the room, so deafening, so animalistic that it appears to come from some other being. He plunges his arms into the cold water, grabs her by the top of her arms and drags her out of the bath. She is unusually heavy, slippery, limp. Her head lolls back, and then she falls on top of him as he slips backwards on the wet floor. For a moment he thinks she is giving him a hug, her dripping hair covering his face – yet she is like a rag doll, her body weighed down as if filled with water. Kicking the towel rack out of the way, Mathéo shoves her down against the tiles, bumping her head against the floor as it falls back, her face white, still, lifeless. Gasping for air between repeated bellows for help, Mathéo kneels over her and begins compressions on her chest. Water begins to bubble from between her lips. Yes! He can pump it out of her. He can drain her lungs. She can’t have inhaled that much. He pumps and pumps and pumps – listens for a heartbeat, feels for a pulse. Nothing. He does it again. Her face is translucent, her lips a deep purple, the area around them tinged with blue. He tries to give her mouth to mouth, but no oxygen will go in, water merely tric
kles from the corners of her lips. He turns her onto her front, thumping her back to empty her lungs, but only a little comes out. He turns her back again, tries to pump harder, afraid now that he is breaking her ribs. But this doesn’t matter. He just needs to get her heart going, he just needs to get her breathing again. He has been taught how to resuscitate as part of his training, has been resuscitated himself with no ill effects. Any minute now and she’ll begin to cough – that’s how it happens, that’s how he’s seen it happen, that’s how it’s meant to happen – but why isn’t it happening yet? He pumps and pumps her chest again, but a thin line of water just continues to trickle down her cheek and there is no heartbeat, no coughing, no breathing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
It’s been ages now – he knows because his arms are so weak he can barely apply any pressure, and her body is limp and blue and cold – so cold. She must have gone into shock; she needs professional help.
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