I look in the direction he indicated. She is lying on the other side of the fire with one of the boys who I’d helped carry a log. They are locked in an uncomfortable clinch, her lean leg hooked over his, one of his hands thrust up her top. I look back at Greg. Without taking his eyes off me he reaches over and wedges his can of lager into the sand, then he takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and leans closer.
My heart is racing.
He kisses me. Hands strong on my shoulders, he kisses me gently, as if kissing for my pleasure rather than his own. David has never kissed me like this. He kisses me likes it’s a boring chore he has to do before he gets to unzip his fly, before he gets to claim his wife. I realise now that I was wrong not to have kissed other people before I said yes to him, and this realisation goes some way to helping alleviate the guilt I feel for my disloyalty.
Greg stops and leans away from me, his hand searching the sand beside him for a bottle of vodka. He twists off the lid, tips it to his mouth, and then he puts his lips to mine and as we kiss the neat liquid spills from his mouth into mine. He bends his head and kisses the skin on my chest. With one hand he undoes the buttons on my shirt, then runs the flat of his hand over my breasts, cupping each one as he does.
‘Not here,’ I whisper then. ‘Let’s go somewhere more private.’
His eyes are glazed with lust, his lips wet with saliva and vodka. He takes my hand and leads me away from the rest of them, some sleeping, some dancing, some kissing, and in the shadows, behind a rock, we drop to the floor. It’s cold away from the heat of the fire and I shiver.
I’m scared.
But you want this.
I fumble with the buttons on his jeans, then undo my own. His shirt is off, and though I can’t see his tiger in the darkness, I know it’s there. I can hear it prowling. I run my hands over his back, pretending I can feel its soft, dense fur. Greg kisses me again, harder this time, and I kiss him back, pulling him down on top of me.
This is what you want.
And as he pushes into me, I bite down on my lip to stop myself from crying out and tears gather in my eyes.
FORTY
When I wake I am cold and damp, and I ache all over. I ease my stiff bones into a more upright position, then pull my shirt closed and do up the buttons. I look down at Greg sleeping next to me. In the half-light he resembles a Greek statue, all chiselled features and classical proportions, serenity blanketing his comatose face. I have flashbacks to last night and feel a mix of emotions. There are echoes of how thrilling it felt to have my body awakened in a way it hasn’t been before. There is guilt as my wedding vows echo in my head, promises I made to David, promises I never thought I would break. And there is also a new sense of fortitude, the conviction that when I finally return to David things will be different, that I have changed a little, that I am somehow stronger.
I don’t know what the time is, but I imagine it’s getting near to five as a hazy light has begun to flood the sky. The colours around me are muted, painted from a palette of light greys and blues then covered with a layer of muslin. I walk back towards the fire. The large log still smoulders, flameless, a giant bite taken from it, then the whole sprayed black with charcoal. Bodies litter the sand, partly hidden beneath whatever rug or jacket was chosen as a bedcover.
My mouth feels dry and my head throbs and waves of nausea pass through me. Greg and I drank, had sex, and drank some more for most of the night. I can’t have had more than an hour or two’s sleep. I look around the carnage in the hope of finding a bottle of water, but there are only empty bottles, cans and plastic bags stuffed with food wrappings.
Shrouded in silence, I walk across the sand towards the sea. The dawn sky is streaked with slashes of light, like the marks of a rubber through pencil shading. Everything is so quite. Even the crashing waves seem noiseless, as if I’m watching them on Dawn’s silent television. The sand becomes wet beneath me as I walk closer to the break and my feet sink into it. I walk on until the reach of the sea runs over my numbed feet and disappears into the sand in a mass of foamy bubbles. The water is an extraordinary colour, neither grey nor blue nor green, but at once all three. I imagine Morveren and Matthew watching me from somewhere out in the depths. I can feel them staring, their hands clasped so tightly it hurts their bones. I thought they might be disappointed by my infidelity, but I feel no judgement from them, which is a relief.
Something in the shallows catches my eye. A black rock perhaps, but it can’t be because when I look again, it’s no longer there. Moments later it reappears and my heart jumps with childish joy. It’s a seal. She hangs suspended in the water, her head above the waves, her body below, and she watches me for a minute or two before ducking back into the sea.
No, don’t go.
I scan the cove. Where is she? And then there she is, this time only metres from the shore. She dances back and forth in the breaking waves, a special show just for me. She lifts her head clear of the water, her black body rising and falling in the swell. But then something catches her attention and she pitches backwards into the water and is gone.
Greg comes to a halt beside me.
‘Did you see her?’ I whisper.
‘See what?’ His voice rasps against his parched throat.
‘The seal.’
‘They love this beach, it’s nice and quiet.’ He steps away from me. ‘I’m taking the van back with whoever wants to go. I’m teaching at eight and fancy a couple of hours kip in a proper bed. You coming?’
‘Yes, please. I don’t feel that great.’
Greg leaves me but I don’t follow him immediately. The tide must be coming in because the waves now run further up the beach. I take a few paces back and watch the sea claiming my footprints, erasing them as the waves break then pull back, leaving unblemished sand, as if I’ve never been there.
Those who have to work pull themselves into semi-wakefulness when Greg announces we are heading back.
‘What about the mess?’ I ask, surveying the debris-littered sand.
‘The others will do it,’ says Greg, as he starts towards the path. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t leave it.’
Five of us trudge slowly back like weary camels in a train. By the time we reach the top of the hill, it’s all I can do to stop myself curling up in the long grass on the verge and falling asleep right there. Greg and I say goodbye in the reception of the hostel. He doesn’t kiss me but thanks me for a great time, which makes me feel slutty. I pull the room key from my pocket and struggle to unlock the door, battling cold fingers and a now pounding headache, the type that makes your vision blur. When the door opens, I fall inside and collapse on the bed, but as soon as I close my eyes, the Campbells appear, spinning around in my head as if on a fairground ride.
Elaine is angry.
Her arms are crossed, upset with me for behaving so badly, for putting myself at risk. How could I drink so much? Get into a van with a drunk driver? How could I have sex with a stranger?
‘You’re married for God’s sake!’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’ I start to say, but she doesn’t want to hear my excuses. She turns her back on me.
I glance at Henry, but he shakes his head and turns away too. I reach out to them, my fingers nearly touching them as they whip around and fly towards me, their faces bloodied and rotten, their tongues swollen, their skin falling from their bones.
I wake up with a jolt, terrified, and push myself off the bed. I trip over something. Then stumble and fall. I try to catch myself, but my hand misses and I hit my head on the corner of the bedside table. There’s a sharp pain and when I touch my forehead and look at my fingers there’s blood. I am going to be sick. My vision falters. I grab at the bedpost to steady myself and then everything goes blank.
FORTY-ONE
My head feels as if it has been sawn in half and my brain scooped out. I try to open my eyes but the sunlight streaming through the windows is blinding. The bedcovers are tucked around me and there’s a
glass of water beside me on the table. I reach for it and drink. For a second or two it helps, but at the last gulp everything begins pounding again.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying like this, trying to breathe slowly, hoping it will help the pain that has spread from my head throughout my body, but I am roused from my half-sleep by a knock on the door. Then the door creaks open a fraction.
‘Tori? It’s Fi. Are you OK?’
I want to cry out that I’m fine, that she can leave me, but don’t manage it. Fi, her purple hair tied off her face with a brightly coloured scarf, arrives at the foot of the bed.
‘I wanted to make sure you’re alright,’ she says. ‘You were in a bit of a state a few hours ago.’
‘I’ve felt better.’
‘I heard a crash and came in. I found you on the floor. Do you remember?’
I shake my head, which doesn’t help my headache.
‘You hit your head. There was blood. You talked to me, well, I say talked, it was more a mumble. You don’t remember?’
‘No.’
‘God, I should have called a doctor. I thought because you were talking you were OK. I put a plaster on the cut. It’s not too bad, but I think you might be a bit concussed though. Maybe you should pop into the surgery? You shouted something out after I put you into bed. I came back but you were asleep or at least I thought you were.’
‘I have nightmares.’
‘I know you do,’ she says. ‘My room’s above this one. I hear you.’ She sits on my bed and rests her hand on mine. It feels intimate, but not uncomfortable, and I have to resist the urge to curl myself into her.
‘Thank you for looking after me.’
‘No problem. You’ll see a doctor, won’t you?’
‘I’m sure all I need is a bit of sleep. I’ll be fine tomorrow—’ As I close my eyes I remember Dawn.
I sit bolt upright.
‘What’s the time, Fi?’ Each word jabs at my temples.
‘Just gone ten,’ she says. ‘Maybe nearer half past.’
‘I have to get up.’
‘You should stay in bed. That was quite a nasty knock. You need to look after yourself. I don’t think you’re looking that well. I—’ She stops talking mid-sentence and looks downs at her hands. ‘Sorry, it’s probably none of my business.’
Ten minutes later I am walking as fast as my body will let me up the hill towards the flat. I have another flash of last night, Greg’s hands on my waist, his stubble rough against my neck. David appears, his disapproval like a vice. I recall my wedding day when, in front of a handful of people, I’d sworn myself to him – and him alone – for the rest of my life.
‘I was someone else back then.’
David’s face clouds with anger; he doesn’t understand.
‘Don’t look at me like that. It was Tori. Not me. Greg hasn’t even met your wife. He had sex with Tori. Ask him.’
And his face fades.
I knock on the door and wait for Dawn to open it. When she does, she immediately runs back down the corridor without saying anything. I stroll after her, and find her repositioned on a kitchen chair watching her television programme. I sit at the table and rest my head on my hands and listen to the shrill voices of the television women as they discuss immigration and its effect on the products stocked in supermarkets. When the end credits roll, I lift my head.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Dawn stands, pushes in her chair, mutes the television, and then picks up a J-cloth and wipes the already clean table, pausing by my hands. I lift them so she can clean beneath them. ‘Did you just get up?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘You look like you just got up. And what did you do to your head?’
‘It’s nothing.’
She turns her back on me and runs the tap to rinse her cloth. ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what?”
‘That I need to go out.’
‘No, I didn’t forget. That’s why I’m here.’ My head feels like it’s splitting open with the effort of speaking. ‘You can go now.’
‘Can’t. It’s the wrong time. Mum needs lunch.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Dawn shakes her head.
‘Why? We’ll be fine.’
‘Really?’ She begins to twist her fingers into her T-shirt.
‘Yes. I’m nearly thirty, you know.’ I stand to switch the kettle on. ‘I can make soup.’
Dawn nods her head, slowly at first, then more certain. A smile spreads over her pale face. ‘Yes,’ she says, suddenly convinced. ‘OK. I’ll go. You’ll be fine. Of course you will.’ Then she disappears into her room.
By the time I’ve made a cup of tea she’s back. She’s wearing a stone-washed denim jacket and jeans of the same colour, with white trainers that look like they’ve never been worn.
‘What time will you be back?’ I ask, as I stir in my sugar, watching the whirlpool that forms around the spoon. I remove the spoon and the whirl fades to nothing.
She looks at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone eleven-thirty. I reckon no later than two?’
‘Enjoy.’
‘And you’re sure?’ Her face suddenly appears wracked with doubt again.
I manage to stop myself telling her not to fuss, and instead I nod. ‘I’ll see you at two.’
Dawn’s smile returns, and she walks out of the kitchen. She says goodbye to Alice, the front door slams and the flat is plunged into quiet.
I let the cat in the back door then sit back down at the table and flick through a clothing catalogue that is lying on it, stroking the purring animal and drinking my tea. My body is aching more now, rather than less, and I can’t keep my eyelids from closing. I look at the fluttering television in the hope that it might wake me up. There’s some sort of craft programme on, though without the sound it’s hard to be sure why they are covering perfectly good chairs with what look like black bin bags.
I push the catalogue across the table and stare into the distance. I think of Mark Tremayne alone with this kind of silence for days and weeks and years. The presence of this man in my thoughts, my father, a stranger who makes me feel sick to the pit of my stomach, feels like a violation, and I shake my head in the hope that it will rid me of him.
I wander through to my mother’s room, leaving the cat watching me from the threshold. I turn back to look at her. ‘You could come with me, you know. Curl up on the bed in Alice’s room?’ I bend down and making a clicking sound and reach out to her.
But the cat doesn’t move.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Suit yourself.’
In Alice’s room I walk over to her chair and kneel beside it, resting my chin lightly on the back of her hand. ‘How did they get me out of France, Alice? How come nobody noticed? Why did nobody think it was strange they went on holiday and came back with a child?’ I pause and sigh heavily. ‘Is that what you think about too? I imagine it is.’ I draw in a deep breath. ‘Would you like me to read to you?’
She doesn’t say no, so I take our book off the shelf and begin to read. But the reading is soporific and soon my words being to slur.
I must have dozed off, because I wake with my head on her knee, and the book on the floor. I wince as I sit upright; my muscles feel like they’ve fused. I check my watch and realise with horror that it’s twenty minutes past soup-time. I stand and am sent reeling by a now blinding headache. In battle with my aching body, I limp through to the kitchen like a wounded soldier. Without thinking, I empty the contents of the soup into the bowl rather than the pan, then realise what I’ve done.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I mumble to myself. ‘There are worse things in the world than cold soup.’
Ten minutes later, we are done. I take the bowl back to the kitchen, then wander into Dawn’s room and pick up the photograph of our grandparents. I lie back on her bed and hold the frame to my chest. Her bed is soft and comfortable and her pillow smells of Dawn, which is strangely comforting.
And
the next thing I hear is the sound of Dawn’s key in the lock.
I glance at her clock. It’s just before two.
‘Shit,’ I mutter, as I leap off the bed.
‘Hello!’ she calls.
‘Oh, hi!’ I shout back as I straighten her covers, and run into the kitchen, rubbing under my eyes and pinching colour into my cheeks. She walks into the kitchen and smiles at me. She looks great, the fresh air has done her a power of good, and I smile.
‘How was your day?’ I ask.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Yours?’
She is carrying a large parcel and walks straight through to her bedroom, returning without it.
‘No problems at all.’
Dawn switches the kettle on. ‘Fancy a cup?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘I’ll go and say hello to Mum. It’s so odd being away from her like that. Can you believe I actually missed her!’
Dawn is gone only a few minutes before she reappears with a face like a storm. She shoves past me and drops to her knees to open the cleaning cupboard. She reaches in and pulls out some bottles, slamming each onto the floor then banging the door shut, which bounces back open defiantly. She flies out of the kitchen back to Alice’s room.
‘What’s the matter?’ As I follow her, my heart beats faster and faster; something is terribly wrong.
Dawn is kneeling beside the armchair, which is moved to one side. Alice stares straight ahead. Everything looks fine to me at first, nothing different, but then I see Dawn blotting a towel angrily over a dark patch of carpet.
‘She’s been sat in it for ages,’ spits Dawn, biting back angry tears. ‘It’s drained all the way through to the floor. She must have been desperate.’ She turns on me, her eyes burning. ‘You didn’t take her to the toilet? How could you leave her to wet herself and not even notice?’
‘I … I didn’t… Oh God, I’m sorry. I was … I was tired.’
Trembling with anger, she helps Alice to her feet and they walk slowly past me. I avert my eyes from the dark patch on her once-was-lilac dressing gown. I begin to walk after them, but Dawn turns and shoves me backwards hard. ‘Leave us alone,’ she says, her mouth twisted into a hateful snarl.
In Her Wake Page 21