The Date

by Louise Jensen

  ‘Leave her alone,’ says a different male voice, and I’m grateful, until they continue: ‘You look great in those pyjamas but they’d look even better on my bedroom floor.’ There’s nothing funny about the sound of their pealing laughter. ‘I’d show you a good time.’

  ‘She’d need a microscope to see your “good time”,’ the girl shouts, dropping her cigarette butt into an almost-empty bottle of cider. It sizzles as the red tip turns dark. ‘Leave her alone, knobhead. You okay?’

  ‘I’m looking for a man…’

  ‘Look no further!’ A guy leaps in front of me, grabbing his crotch.

  ‘Fuck off.’ The girl pushes him away.

  ‘My brother,’ I say. ‘He was chasing someone.’

  ‘Yeah, they shot down the alley.’ The girl nods to the right of the pub. I hope she’ll offer to come with me, but she totters inside on her spindly heels, the men following like sheep.

  In daylight the alley streams with kids using it as a cut through to the local secondary school. At night it gapes like a mouth, ready to swallow me up. At first I can’t see anything; I can’t hear anything. I take a step forward towards the chip of light at the other end. Another step.

  Bang.

  I spin around, my heart pounding, but voices drift and I realise it was the pub door swinging shut. The slamming of a car door. The revving of an engine.

  A third step.

  An unidentifiable sound.

  A fourth step.

  A movement about halfway down. I narrow my eyes, but I can’t quite make it out.

  ‘Ben?’

  A groan.

  ‘Ben!’ This time I can hear it’s him. I rush forward. He’s lying on the ground in the foetal position. I crouch beside him, fumble for his hand, my fingertips seeking out his pulse. ‘Are you hurt?’ It’s a rhetorical question, born out of helplessness. It’s an effort for him to speak, but when he does he slowly says ‘not as much as the other guy,’ and my panic begins to abate.

  Ben pulls himself to sitting, and then stands, wobbling as he does, slinging his arm around my neck for balance.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he says, although he obviously isn’t.

  We make our way home slowly. Ben leaning heavily against me. My knees buckling as I try and support his weight, trying not to think of all those years ago when I could swing him effortlessly into my arms, his legs wrapped around my waist. Pain shoots from my shoulder into my neck. My ankle throbbing once more – adrenaline has ebbed away. There’s no one smoking outside of the pub now; but: two people are heading for the entrance. ‘I’ll have what he’s been on.’ Sarcasm sits on my tongue, but I grit my teeth and don’t let it out. We’ve had enough trouble for one night.

  Once inside the house I settle Ben on the sofa. Branwell lets out a happy yap as I open the kitchen door to fetch a bowl of warm water. From upstairs I lift a bottle of TCP and cotton wool from the bathroom cabinet.

  Ben is chalk white. Glasses skewed. Blood staining his white work shirt. A criss-cross graze covering his swollen cheek, a bruise already forming on his forehead.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I kneel beside him and dampen a cotton wool ball. Dab it against his broken skin.

  ‘It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I let him get away.’

  ‘What happened?’ I gently press my fingertips against the wound, feeling for gravel, but I think it’s clean.

  ‘He took me by surprise. I rounded into the alley and he grabbed me and threw me against the wall. Must have hit my head because I don’t remember anything else until you appeared.’

  ‘We should probably take you to the hospital and get you checked over.’ I unscrew the lid from the TCP; the smell stings my nostrils.

  ‘I’ll live,’ Ben says. He winces as the disinfectant seeps into his wound. ‘I remember you doing this to my knees when I was small.’

  ‘You were forever falling over.’ Emotions rise. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me. It’s you I’m worried about, Ali-cat. I think we should call the police.’

  I sit back on my heels, dropping the cotton wool onto the floor, pushing Branwell’s nose away as he sniffs at it.

  ‘Did you get a good look at him?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I didn’t see his face at all. But we should have reported what happened to you last Saturday. Even if you couldn’t remember anything, something would have been on record.’

  ‘You know why I didn’t want to go to the police.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the same this time. It’s not the same situation. Please, Ali. What if he comes back and I’m not here?’

  I chew my lower lip, weighing up the options. What about the gloves? The blood? In case you can’t live with what you’ve done. I’m so scared. Afraid of what they might find out if they start digging around. Afraid of what I might find out. But as I look at my brother, pale and shaken, his cheek glistening red, I know he’ll be worried sick about me if I don’t make a statement and it feels selfish somehow to put myself first.

  ‘I’ll fetch my phone,’ I say.

  My mobile is charging in the kitchen. I unplug it from the wall and, as I unlock it, a text alert flashes from an unknown number.

  If you want to keep your brother safe don’t go to the police, Ali. Imagine how he’d feel if he knew what you’d done, let alone if he sees this.

  At first I’m confused. Sees what? But then my phone pings with another message, a video this time. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach as I press play. The footage is dark, grainy, but there’s no mistaking it’s been filmed in the lounge, flickering tea lights appear to be the only lighting. From the angle, I’m guessing it was filmed on a phone placed next to the TV somewhere. There’s the pastel pink wallpaper patterned with dove grey birds, the faceless angels, the bookcase with my pink floral box on top but I barely register the details, all I can focus on is me. I’ve my back to the camera, blonde hair spilling down my naked back; the green strapless dress I was wearing that night bunched around my waist. You can see the sides of my breasts bouncing up and down. A man’s bare legs are visible beneath me, his trousers around his ankles, his hands gripping my waist as he drives himself deeper inside me as I thrust my hips backwards and forwards. He’s looking directly into the camera, his face in shadows, and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to identify him. I can’t show this to anyone else. It must have been taken last Saturday but I don’t remember, and although I don’t look like I’m protesting, I know I wouldn’t have consented to sex with a virtual stranger, I just wouldn’t. I feel dirty. Violated. Instantly ashamed. There’s another alert. Again, those four words:

  Enjoy the date bitch?

  Bile, hot and sour, floods my mouth and I hunch over the sink, the lemon chicken rising in my throat. Sex. I’ve been filmed having sex. What if Ben sees it? Matt? What if it ends up on the internet? I vomit again and again until my stomach is empty of food, filled instead with rage.

  How dare he threaten me. Blackmail me. Bring Ben into this. How fucking dare he.

  Another alert.

  Who knows what else I filmed that night, Ali?

  I can’t go to the police now, I can’t, but tomorrow I’m going to find out exactly who Ewan is and what he wants, even if it kills me.

  I think once more of the video.

  Even if I end up killing him.

  SATURDAY

  22

  Orange and scarlet ribbons streak the sky as the sun begins to rise. In the eight hours since Ben left, my anger hasn’t abated, although my determination to track down Ewan is, admittedly, now tempered with fear. Ben eventually accepted my decision not to call the police, putting it down to my reluctance to relive the past. Of course I couldn’t tell him about the video, the bloodied gloves, the damage to my car. The threat that I might have done something terrible and been filmed doing it. Although it may seem foolish to want to track down a man I know is clearly dangerous, I c
an’t just sit and do nothing. After last night’s attack on Ben it seems personal in a way it hadn’t before – again I feel that red hot burn in my veins when I think of the bruising on Ben’s face – and I almost, almost wish the blood on my gloves is Ewan’s. That I have hurt him. This idea takes shape until its edges are pointed and sharp. Perhaps that is what happened? Perhaps Ewan attacked me and I fought back. Fought back hard. Perhaps all this is nothing but hurt pride intent on scaring me. If so he’ll get bored soon, surely. He has to. I tell myself this, but it doesn’t ring true. The video doesn’t show me protesting and again I wonder if I was drugged. Feeling dirty once more as I think of the footage, I shower for the third time since watching it, and dress.

  * * *

  I am chiselling two slices of bread from the loaf out of the freezer when the doorbell rings. I hover in the doorway, knife still in hand, when the letterbox rattles.

  ‘Ali,’ shouts Matt, and instinctively I pat my hair as I hurry to let him in, as though that will make me more presentable.

  ‘This is a surprise.’ I’m not sure what to say. Matt has never come here before. Branwell squeezes between my legs, tail wagging so fast it’s a blur.

  ‘Thought I’d better come and walk him with your ankle and all.’ He crouches down, and Branwell rests his front paws on Matt’s knees as he licks his face. ‘I’ve had a wash, thanks.’ Matt holds him at bay as he raises his head and, flustered, I step back and pull Branwell’s lead from the cupboard along with his treats and some poo bags. I can’t bring myself to look at Matt, almost as though he’ll be able to read my expression and know I’ve had sex with another man. Regret crawls across my skin.

  ‘Are you okay? Have you remembered something?’ Matt asks, as he snaps the lead onto Branwell’s collar.

  ‘Why does everyone keep asking me that?’ I say, sharper than intended.

  ‘Okay.’ He straightens up. ‘Perhaps a coffee when I come back then?’ he says and, embarrassed by my brusqueness, I offer to have a cooked breakfast waiting.

  Sausages and bacon sizzle as I think how odd it is the way things work out. Matt is being nicer to me than he has been in ages. I slice mushrooms, quarter tomatoes – an edible version of the olive branch I am offering – and I’ve just laid out plates when Matt returns. He washes his hands and drops bread into the toaster, buttering the slices after they pop.

  ‘You’ve become domesticated,’ I say to fill the space between us.

  ‘Don’t believe everything you see!’

  We fall into an awkward silence once more when I don’t answer. I can’t. I can’t believe anything I see.

  It feels odd to have Matt here, and I think he feels as uncomfortable as me as he sips from the mug of tea I have pushed towards him and makes a face, looking around for the sugar I have forgotten to add.

  ‘What have you been up to then?’ he asks, and my guilt rises before I realise he is fumbling for conversation too. We’re both at a loss to know how to be with each other. Who to be with each other. ‘Silly question,’ he says, filling the silence when I don’t. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘My head’s still sore but I’m getting better. The painkillers make me woozy though. I keep napping.’

  ‘And your memory? The proso thing?’

  ‘No change.’ I stab at a mushroom. ‘An appointment letter came this morning, though, for the research programme into prosopagnosia at Stonehill University, for next Thursday.’

  ‘That’s great, although it’s a bit of a trek. What happened to your car, by the way?’ Matt asks. ‘I didn’t notice the damage at the front when you picked Branwell up.’

  I chew slowly while I formulate an answer. ‘Someone clipped it in a car park.’

  ‘Probably not worth an insurance claim but you shouldn’t be driving with only one mirror. I’ll take it in and get a new one, and get the bumper replaced.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to. You need looking after, Ali. Keeping out of trouble.’ He nudges me with his elbow to prove he’s joking, but the bacon sits greasy and heavy in my stomach. I push my plate away. Why now? Why is he being so nice when I’ve slept with somebody else and potentially ruined any chance we might have had at getting back together? Momentarily, I consider whether I should tell him, but then I think how I’d feel if I knew he’d touched someone else and I know this is a secret I must keep. Another one.

  Matt mops up the last of his egg yolk before he stands and pulls on his coat.

  ‘Stay.’ One word, though there are a thousand ‘I’m sorrys’ and ‘I need yous’ hidden under the surface.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve somewhere to be.’ He doesn’t elaborate. ‘Where are your car keys?’

  I fetch my spare set and drop them into his outstretched palm, and as my finger brushes his, a jolt of electricity shoots through me.

  He drags his heels as he ambles down the hallway, as though he’s reluctant to leave, and he turns to face me when he reaches the door, and I am sixteen again with first-date-first-kiss flutters.

  ‘Matt, I have something to tell you.’ My words fall out in a gibbering rush. ‘I’ve been thinking since the hospital and—’

  ‘Me too.’ I fall silent and study him but his expression is unreadable. ‘I could have lost you. I mean properly lost you. Alison.’ My name is warm and soft as it falls from his tongue. My heart racing again but this time it isn’t through fear. Matt takes my hand in his, kissing my palm before drawing me against him for a hug. His body is still familiar to me and I allow my rigid frame to relax into him. My head fits perfectly in that hollow between his head and shoulder. I feel the warmth of his arms wrapped around me, and despite the shame that crashes over me in sickening waves every time I think of that video, I am disappointed when he lets me go.

  ‘We’ll talk soon, I promise, Ali. There’s things you should probably know.’

  ‘What things? Why can’t we discuss them now?’

  ‘Because I have somewhere I need to be. Sorry.’

  I feel a pricking sensation at the back of my eyes and I will myself not to cry as he leaves. He’s still not putting me first. In the kitchen, I carry our plates over to the sink to wash up and find a Terry’s Chocolate Orange next to the taps, and I don’t know what to think, but I don’t have time to dwell. I need to get changed. It’s exactly a week after my date.

  Mr Henderson had said: ‘It’s possible going back to Prism could trigger your memories.’

  That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  23

  Normally if I’m going out on a Saturday night I take care over my make-up, my hair, my outfit, checking out my reflection from all angles. Tonight, I’ve pulled on plain black trousers and a long-sleeved T-shirt that covers my bruises. I can’t bear to look in the mirror still, but even if I could, I wouldn’t be contouring my cheeks, darkening my brows. The thought of another man even looking at me, let alone touching me, makes me feel sick to my stomach. The taxi beeps its horn outside, and I wish I had my car so I could make a quick getaway if tonight gets too much for me.

  I lock up and hurry down the path, tell the driver I won’t be a minute, and I stride towards Jules’s front door. She must have heard the horn. Through the lounge window I see her and James. She’s gesturing with her hands as she speaks, and her voice is raised, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I rap sharply on the window and point at the cab behind me.

  ‘Sorry.’ She’s breathless, seconds later, as she opens the door, slams it shut behind her.

  ‘Where’s James?’ He had said he’d come with us.

  ‘He has a migraine.’

  I glimpse through the window again, he’s sitting with his head in his hands. I feel a lurch of trepidation. I’m apprehensive about returning to the bar – having James there would have settled my nerves.

  ‘Look, Ali,’ Jules still hasn’t moved, keys dangle from her finger, ‘do you think this is really a good idea? Especially as James can’t come now?’

  ‘I don’t kn
ow what else to do.’ I shrug. ‘It’s exactly a week later, so I’m hopeful the bar staff will be the same. Somebody must have seen me. Remember me. Maybe know who Ewan is.’

  ‘It’s turning into an obsession. I don’t mean to be blunt, but so what if you find out who he is? He’s hardly likely to tell the truth about that night, and it’s all over now. Can’t you just move on?’

  ‘No.’ I don’t elaborate. I can’t tell her about the gloves, the car. My vague, amorphous suspicions that I might have done something terrible and Ewan might have filmed me doing it. She’d definitely try to talk me out of going then, and in this game of cat and mouse I’m sick of being the mouse.

  ‘What if he’s there?’ she asks. ‘You wouldn’t know him if you saw him. He could—’

  ‘He won’t.’ I cut her off, already nervous enough. ‘Besides you’ll be by my side all night. Please, Jules. I’m going with or without you. I’d rather you came.’

  She sighs. ‘Okay but I’m getting bladdered and you’re paying.’

  It crosses my mind that if I was honest with Jules about all the things Ewan has done she might not drink, remain vigilant, but then again she might change her mind about coming with me and I don’t want to be alone. I stride towards the taxi, telling myself that even if she doesn’t know the full story there’s safety in numbers, but even before that thought has properly formed I know I am deluding myself.

  * * *

  The freezing air stings my lungs as the taxi drops us off outside Prism, but as soon as we step inside heat hits me. There’s a girl handing out leaflets for cut-price pitchers, and I study her but I’ve no way of knowing if I’ve seen her before. I remember the tips Dr Saunders gave me and I search for distinguishing marks, tattoos, distinctive jewellery, but last week I probably wouldn’t have been looking for any of those things and she remains unfamiliar to me.