by Mark Morris
‘We’d always come back. We’d always look forward to coming back. I’d lie in bed at night and the thought of it would give me a delicious thrill. This place existed on the boundary for us. It was full of ghosts, but they were our ghosts. We controlled them. We defined their limits. They scared us, but they couldn’t hurt us. It was the best kind of fear. Our fear.’
Matt’s tone was flat, his body as motionless as the chair on which he sat. I shivered and told myself it was the chill that the rain, now pattering outside, brought with it. Matt’s story seemed to have taken him over so completely that he had become oblivious to his surroundings. I thought that even if the ceiling above his head suddenly started to groan, or an avalanche of sodden plaster started crashing down around him, he’d just sit there, staring into space, his story running out of him.
‘One Monday morning I got to school,’ he said, ‘and Steve wasn’t there. I hadn’t seen him all weekend. He lived a couple of miles away from me, so sometimes it was hard for us to get together. I wanted to come here. I was aching to come. You know how, as a child, you sometimes want something so bad it hurts? But Steve was off ill. I wanted to cry. I spent the morning in a daze, thinking that my whole world had been shattered. It sounds silly now, but when you’re ten having to wait an extra day for something you’ve been longing for can seem like an eternity. And what if it was more than a day? What if Steve was away for the whole week? The thought of having to wait that long made me so angry, made me hate Steve even though he was my best friend. And then in Maths that afternoon an idea came to me. It was like a revelation. Just because Steve couldn’t go to the station didn’t mean I had to stay away too. What was to stop me coming here on my own?
‘Once I’d realized that, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I felt sick with excitement. When the bell went at the end of the day I was off and running, my stomach doing cartwheels. It took me twenty minutes to get to the station and when I reached the bottom of the dirt track and saw it, I thought straight away that it was waiting for me.
‘I was hot and sweaty, panting because I’d run all the way, and the strap of my satchel was digging into my shoulder. It was summer term. May. The days were warm and long. There were flowers among the weeds. Butterflies and bees flying about. The station still seemed to squat, though, like a dark secret in amongst the long grass, hidden away to everyone but me.
‘I stood there for a while, scared to go in, because once I went in I’d be giving myself over to it, trusting it not to hurt me. Without Steve it felt as if the balance of power had changed. Steve was my safety valve and I was his. For the first time I wondered whether coming here on my own had been a mistake.
‘Then I heard a noise behind me, a rustling in the grass, and I turned round. I didn’t see anything. I nearly called out Steve’s name, but I was worried about drawing attention to myself. It sounds odd, but hearing that noise behind me gave me the impetus to move forward, towards the station. I went the way I’ve always come, through the main entrance, across the waiting room, through the turnstile on to the platform, until I finally ended up here.
‘I shut the door behind me, wondering all the time why I’d come. I was already regretting it. I couldn’t help thinking that it seemed an awful long way to go back if things started to … go wrong. I didn’t feel good being here without Steve. I didn’t feel excited. I put my satchel on the floor and sat down on one of the seats, wondering what to do for the best. I’d brought a book of horror stories to school with me and I’d been looking forward to reading a story I’d read in bed the night before, about a man who is dared to spend a night in a waxworks museum. Only now that I was here on my own, I didn’t feel like reading it. Didn’t even feel like getting the book out of my bag and looking at the cover. I thought if I did that it would wake up the ghosts, and without Steve here I knew I’d have no chance of controlling them.
‘So I decided to leave, and I was just picking up my satchel when I heard a noise outside. It was the sound of someone moving about. I saw a shadow blot out the line of sun under the door. The next moment the doorknob started to turn.
‘I was petrified. Everything went tight and dry inside me. I couldn’t move. I just stood there staring at the door as it started to open.
‘The door opened all the way, and I saw a figure standing there. It was bulky and shapeless, made of the dark. I looked into its face and saw only black. And then it stepped forwards into the room. The light it had been blocking shifted and fell on it and I saw that it was a man.
‘He was about forty-five. Fat and red-looking. Nice suit. Shiny shoes. Glasses. He had a brown leather briefcase in his hand, which he put down carefully by the door as if it had something fragile inside it. He was looking at me all the time, and he looked sort of nervous, as if he thought I might attack him or something. Then he smiled and said, “Waiting for a train, are you?”
‘When he spoke my terror seemed to sag out of me. My head began to swim and I thought for a moment I was going to faint. I felt sick and I staggered, but I managed to shake my head. Too strung-out to realize he was joking, I said, “There aren’t any trains. No one uses this station any more.”
‘He smiled. Not a nice smile. It seemed forced somehow. Like he was just stretching his lips apart to give his teeth some air. I knew straight away there was something creepy about him. He was giving off some sort of vibe that made me want to get out of there. But he was between me and the door. He said, “So why are you here?”
‘“Me and my friend come here after school sometimes,” I told him.
‘“Ah,” he said. “So where’s your friend now?”
‘“He didn’t come to school today. I think he must be ill,” I said.
‘“So you decided to come here on your own,” he said.
‘I nodded and he just looked at me. Looked at me as if he were a teacher who’d caught me out of bounds and was trying to decide how I should be punished.
‘I moved to pick up my satchel. “I have to go home for my tea,” I said.
‘Straight away he took a step back towards the door. “Not yet,” he said.
‘That was when I started to feel really scared. A big thick ball of fear started moving around in my stomach like the oil in one of those lava lamps.
‘“I have to,” I said, and I could feel my voice cracking.
‘“Do you know why I’m here?” the man said, and all at once his voice was soft and intense and there was a little tremble somewhere behind it. And his eyes stared at me and they didn’t blink. And I said, “No,” and he said, “I’m here because I followed you.”
‘“Oh,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else. I didn’t want to talk to this man. I knew things were badly, badly wrong, but I couldn’t see a way out.
‘“Do you know why I followed you?” the man said.
‘“No,” I said.
‘“I followed you because I wanted to talk to you.”
‘“Oh,” I said again. I wanted to say, Well, I don’t want to talk to you, you big, fat pig. But I’d been told to respect my elders. And I’d been told not to talk to strangers. And I was afraid that he would get mad.
‘“I wanted to talk to you about what you and your friend do here,” he said.
‘“I have to go home for my tea,” I said again, and my voice was so quiet even I could hardly hear it.
‘“Soon,” he said. “You can go home soon. First I want you to tell me what you and your friend do here.”
‘I shook my head. “We don’t do anything.”
‘“You must do something,” the man said.
‘“We read,” I said. “And we talk. And we just … muck about.”
‘“And how do you muck about?” he asked.
‘I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
‘“Do you masturbate?”’
I gasped. I couldn’t help it. I’d become mesmerized by Matt’s telling of the story, by how he’d gradually, unconsciously, come to adopt the two personas – the fat, middle-a
ged man and the frightened younger version of himself – during the course of his narrative. I’d been expecting something like this, but the bluntness of the fat man’s question, as Matt told it, still came as a shock.
Matt, as before, didn’t even register my reaction. He was no longer with me. He’d travelled twenty years back in time. He was ten years old, and about to relive the ordeal that would drag the rest of his life – and the lives of those he touched – hideously out of shape.
‘I didn’t answer him,’ Matt said, my gasp merging with the T of his sentence. ‘He leaned a bit closer to me and his eyes were jumping, dancing. They were dark, but they seemed so bright, so shiny. He was sexually excited, but I didn’t know that then. To me he just looked crazy.
‘“Do you know what that word means?” he said, and he gasped out the words, as if he were trying to talk after he’d run for a bus. “Do you know what it means to masturbate?”
‘I did, of course, but it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to get into, so I didn’t say anything.
‘“Masturbate means wank,” he said. “Do you and your friend wank when you come here? Do you wank each other off?”
‘I think I started to cry then, but I was trying not to. I could feel the tears crawling up my throat, pushing at the backs of my eyes. I picked up my satchel and bolted for the door, but he reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me back.
‘“Where do you think you’re going?” he said, and he sounded not angry but … indignant. As if by trying to leave I was the one doing something wrong.
‘“Home,” I managed to say, and I tried to twist away from him, but his grip was too strong.
‘“Not yet,” he said, and he still sounded indignant. “I haven’t finished yet.”
‘I tried to tell him again that I had to go home for my tea, but my tears were breaking out of me now. I was crying and shaking and I couldn’t get my words out.
‘He pushed me right back against the wall, his big fat hand on my chest. With his other hand he started fumbling with his trousers, and as he did it he carried on talking, each word gasping out of him. “When I was a boy,” he said, “I used to come here too, with my friend, Simon. We used to wank each other off. It was the best time in my life.”’
All at once Matt fell silent. He didn’t alter position, didn’t bow his head; the expression on his face didn’t change. But the oily shine in his eyes started to run down his cheeks. He was crying.
I was about to go to him when he started speaking again, his voice even softer, more measured, than before.
‘I tried to struggle, tried to fight him off, but he was too strong for me. He grabbed me round the back of the neck and forced me down on to my stomach. I felt the weight of him on the back of me and I thought I was going to suffocate. I could smell him; he smelled of heat and aftershave – something sharp and pungent.
‘I didn’t know he’d got my trousers down until he shoved his hand between my legs from behind and grabbed me. He started to pummel and yank at my cock. I suppose he was trying to wank me off, but he wasn’t having much luck. After a bit he gave up and I felt what I first thought was a fist forcing its way into me from behind. The pain was horrible, unbelievable. I started to scream and he shoved his fat, smelly fingers into my mouth to stop me.
‘Halfway through the rape I blacked out – or at least I went into a sort of world of my own. I could hear him somewhere above me, grunting and snorting like a pig. At some stage he must have taken his hand out of my mouth because I threw up on the floor and then just lay in it until he had finished.
‘I don’t know how many times he raped me, but it seemed to go on for a long time. Afterwards he tied me up and left me there, me still naked from the waist down, lying in a pool of sick. He kept telling me to promise not to tell anyone, like he was some schoolkid who’d done something a bit naughty. Then he left and I lay there for the next seven hours until the police found me. It was Steve who told them where I might be. I was cold with shock and bleeding from my anus and the circulation had virtually stopped in my hands, which were tied behind my back. Another few hours and I might have had to have one or both of them amputated. I might even have died of hypothermia.’
Matt sighed, shifted slightly in his seat as if to denote that the main body of his story was over, that the rest was simply epilogue. ‘They never caught the man that raped me. To this day I have no idea who he was. I recovered slowly, but I was off school for a long time and ended up having to drop down a year, which meant that Steve and my other friends moved on to the secondary school and left me behind. By the time I got there they’d all made new friends – which is something I lost the knack of doing before I got to drama college.’
He glanced up, registering me for the first time since he’d sat down. ‘So now you know. My big secret. Hi, I’m Matt. I was fucked up the arse by a pervert when I was ten. Bit of a conversation-stopper, isn’t it?’
I went to him, put my arms around him, stroked his short hair, pressed his face against my belly. ‘Oh, Matt,’ I whispered, ‘oh, Matt.’
two
The hardest thing about people who have problems – and I’m talking about real problems: health-threatening, life-threatening problems – is getting them to admit what they are. Not what the problems are; I don’t mean that. I mean getting people to admit what they themselves are. You know what I’m talking about, I’m sure. You’ve seen the films and the soaps and the TV dramas. You’ve seen some much-loved character standing up in front of a roomful of people and (usually after a dramatic pause) announcing, ‘I’m Joe Bloggs, and I’m an alcoholic.’ And if it’s done well, you feel like applauding or weeping. Because that’s it. That’s half the battle.
Well, here goes me. Get ready to cheer.
My name is Ruth Gemmill, and I’m a victim.
All that I’ve told you so far – that afternoon in the station with Matt – took place three years ago. Almost to the day, in fact. October ’97. I can’t remember the exact date, but I know it was early in the month, just like it is now. The first hint of a winter chill in the air. Leaves turning to fire on the trees. The darkness muscling in on the light, taking an increasingly larger share of each passing day.
That afternoon changed my life, or at least began to, but I didn’t know how devastating and terrible the change was going to become until later. At the time, as I’ve mentioned before, I felt flattered once I’d got over the initial shock. Flattered that he had confided in me, that he had shown me trust enough to divulge his darkest secret.
Day One. Over a thousand days ago now. Plenty of time for wounds to heal, you might think, and yet there were still days, like today, when those wounds had to be bathed and tended, days when I had to constantly remind myself that it was finally over, long behind me. And my relationship with Matt was over; it was merely its ghosts which walked within me now. They were restless spirits, but I was doing my best to cope with them, and most of the time I think I coped pretty well, thank you very much. It was just occasionally, when my mind didn’t have enough to occupy it, that the spirits grew bold. Idle moments; the vulnerable time before sleep; long car journeys like this one.
I was on my way from London to Greenwell, a small market town in North Yorkshire, to look for Alex, my brother. Some people might welcome four hours’ thinking time, but not me. For the first hour or so I’d tried to quieten the ghosts with the happy clamour of Radio 1, and when that didn’t help, with the more cerebral entertainment of a talking book – E. Annie Proulx’s The Shipping News, if you want to know. Yet even though it was a good book, it wasn’t long before I could barely hear it above the clanking of chains and the wailing of tormented souls.
In some ways I hate Matt for this more than anything else. Hate the way he’s crushed and killed the simple pleasure of being relaxed enough to allow my mind to drift. In my old life there was this cafe I used to go to near Covent Garden. I’d sit there with my cappuccino, staring out of the window and watching the world g
o by. If I tried to do that now, it wouldn’t be very long before the ghosts, sensing the silence, would creep out of their hidey-holes and begin their restless roaming. They like the quiet, lonely places. They don’t like bustle and clutter. Thanks to Matt, I have to take medication before I go to bed every night to help me fall asleep. The pills are bitter, and though I’m ashamed of my hatred, I can’t help but revile his name each time I swallow one.
If it hadn’t been for Alex, I wouldn’t have got through it all. Alex is two years younger than me. We’ve always been there for each other. Even when we were kids we didn’t fight like siblings are supposed to. Instead, like lovers, we opened ourselves up, made ourselves vulnerable. We told each other our hopes, our desires, our dreams. And, a long time before Matt took me to the abandoned railway station, Alex and I were telling each other everything.
I knew Alex’s greatest secret long before anyone else did. Sometimes I think I knew even before Alex had admitted it to himself. Certainly I found it far easier to accept than he did. I remember the words he used when he first told me. He said, ‘I think I might have something wrong with me.’
He was seventeen and I was nineteen, and in my second year at university. I’d come home from London to spend Christmas with my family. But home didn’t feel much like home any more. I found it parochial and stifling. My parents’ lives seemed stagnant to me. I spent my time trying not to allow my feelings of superiority to manifest themselves as contempt, trying not to allow their dismal, petty concerns to drag me down to their depths. That makes me sound like a snotty cow, I know, but I was simply at that age when we all think we’re God’s gift. Funny how time shifts us round in a slow circle. Back then all I wanted was the bright lights, the noise and smell and heat of life. Now, twelve years later, I find I’m beginning to tire of that. London is beginning to seem transient. It’s not the place where I want to spend the rest of my life. A few months ago, when Alex told me he was getting out, that he’d got a job in a small market town I’d never heard of, I felt a touch of wistful envy.