Meghan walked over to the door, turned the lock and flipped the sign to read ‘CLOSED’.
‘You need a break,’ she said. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea.’
*
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ said Meghan. Celeste had calmed herself down and they were sitting together in the office sipping mugs of tea.
‘It was like I was there, Meghan, a waking nightmare, the old PTSD coming back. I was OK with what we were doing, until that damn song started playing… then I was back there, down in the mud, with “him” on top of me, and smoke and flames all around, burning, burning… and I was fighting to get free and suffocating and screaming to break away.’
Meghan looked at her with concern. ‘Did he put you under pressure…’ She nodded towards the shop front. ‘Try to force you?’
‘No,’ said Celeste ruefully. ‘Steve was a perfect gentleman. I was the one who was out of order. Oh God, Meghan, I just can’t do it. It was good… and then it wasn’t… His hands on me felt… I can’t be with another man… He’s still here… that bastard… He’s still in my hair, in my skin, in my hands, in my head. I can see him… I can taste him. I can’t get rid of him. How am I ever supposed to be with someone else? Just that song, playing on his CD, and suddenly I’m shaking and gagging and fighting to get away.’
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ said Meghan, clearly not wanting to say too much. ‘After what you lived through… the trauma you have suffered… You’re going to find it hard to trust someone ever again. But if you take it slowly… one step at a time…’
‘No,’ said Celeste. ‘I’ll never get over it because I don’t want to get over it. I can never forgive myself for what happened that night. It is my fault. I was so weak; I always gave in to that bully. His word was my command. I should never have gone to the party. I should never have let him ply me with alcohol and drugs. I should never have let him treat me like a whore.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Meghan. ‘You are not to blame. You were a child… Just seventeen years old. It was a tragic accident.’
‘I was the one who locked the door, Meghan!’ cried Celeste. ‘I was the one who turned the key… How can I ever forgive myself for that?’
‘Things don’t happen in a vacuum. Let’s call this out. That boy subjected you to mental abuse. There’s a term for it now – coercive control – months and years of it when you were both teenagers and at a time when you were particularly vulnerable and impressionable because, let’s face it, you were living in a broken home. If anyone is to blame, it’s Ben. Why should you suffer all your life for what happened that night? You shouldn’t be torturing yourself like this.’
Meghan took Celeste’s hands and looked into her eyes.
‘Ben’s the one who deserves to be punished!’
PAST
21
Although she resents having to babysit her little brother on a Saturday night, things are so much calmer when their alcoholic mother is out of the house, so it’s a relief to be just the two of them together. There’s always some kind of drama kicking off when’s Stacey’s at home – if she’s not fighting in the kitchen with her sleazy new partner Mike, she’s slumped on the sofa watching TV with a bottle of red by her side, and a bottomless wine glass in her hand. In her mother’s world ‘wine o’clock’ seems to be at any time of the day! Celeste feels like she has to babysit her mother too.
Stacey’s round at Mike’s tonight, thank God, so she won’t be back at least until after lunch on Sunday. Celeste’s been left to hold the fort with a long list of chores, cooking the supper (the first time all week they’ll be eating a proper meal instead of the microwave meals that her mother serves up when she remembers and can be bothered), washing the school uniforms and sports kits, supervising Tom’s homework and monitoring his screen time. Her mother’s good at issuing orders if nothing else!
She’s got her own homework to catch up with now. The sixth form workload is heavy, and she’s got exams coming up in two weeks. This evening, the chores done, she breathes a sigh of relief to have a break from her mother and the toxic atmosphere that hangs over all their interactions.
Now Tom and Celeste are happy in each other’s company, sitting together at the kitchen table. She’s got an essay to write this evening for her English A level on Tennessee Williams’ play A Streetcar Named Desire. ‘How far is Stanley’s rape of Blanche DuBois a premeditated attack and how far was it precipitated by her own behaviour? To what extent can she be described as a victim?’ It occurs to Celeste that there is inbuilt bias in the framing of these questions. She bets they were written by a man. She’s fully engrossed on her laptop planning out her arguments and Tom’s fully engaged on his Nintendo lost in some alien universe survival game, when a text comes through on her phone. Her pulse races even before she opens it.
‘Fr’ouse at mine tonight. Come over’
She types back:
‘Sorry babysitting’
followed by a sad face.
He types back:
‘Don’t be wet!’
She types back:
‘Sorry, Mum’s out all night. I can’t leave Tom home alone!’
He types back:
‘Got to see you. Driving over to get you now. Tom can come too’
And that’s it. He ignores the rest of her texts. She knows he won’t take no for an answer. She knows his plan. His parents are away. He’s got a free house for the night and he’s throwing a party. And tonight, she’s the one he’s got in his sights. He’s a player. He’s played around with every other girl in their friendship group. After the nudes, he’s got the hots for her. And now that he’s finally decided to pay her some attention, he expects her to drop everything for him. It’s her turn tonight.
She’s stressed out of her head. Her hair could do with a wash. There’s no time for a shower. Thank God she shaved her legs yesterday. She runs upstairs, rips off her sweatshirt and jeans and puts on the red dress that her mother says makes her look slutty – she’s a fine one to talk! Then she puts on her make-up – foundation, black mascara and the brightest red lipstick in her drawer. She goes into her mother’s bedroom and grabs the tallest pair of heels from the jumble of shoes in the bottom of her cupboard and squirts herself liberally with Stacey’s Chanel No 5. She stands awkwardly in front of the full-length mirror fixed to the back of the wardrobe door.
That’ll have to do.
Coming down the stairs, she sees his car lights in the distance through the kitchen window. She hands Tom his coat and a can of Coke from the fridge and grabs a half-empty bottle of vodka from behind the breadbin (one of many hidden bottles stashed away by her mother).
‘I’ll make it up to you,’ she says.
But Tom doesn’t care. He hero-worships the older boy. He’s beyond excited to be getting a ride in his car. And he can’t wait to tell his mates at school on Monday that he went to Ben’s party! It’s sick!
Celeste watches the car pull into her driveway. He’s driving his dad’s vintage MG. His dad would go insane! He doesn’t bother to cut the engine or come to the door. He just leans on the horn. WTF will the neighbours think?
PRESENT
22
This should be my moment of triumph. I taught that man a lesson and if You only knew what I have done, it could change everything. I waited, You see. I waited around the corner while he shaved and took a shower, changed into his chinos and navy polo neck, and came out of the flat again carrying your black coat. I knew where he’d be going because he had your coat. I was in no hurry to follow.
When he turned the corner of the street, I broke into his flat with the help of a rusty spanner that some careless builder had conveniently left behind in a neighbour’s skip. It didn’t take me long to trash his place. An ‘economy size’ five-litre bottle of bleach from under his kitchen sink and one of the sharp little vegetable knives from his kitchen block were all it took. First, I walked around the flat starting with his neatly made bed, sl
ashing his clean white duvet cover, his feather pillows and his one hundred per cent Egyptian cotton sheets. Then, I moved on to his brown leather sofa and his all his matching cushions. After that, I walked around once more, trailing the open bottle of bleach over the grey woollen carpets of his open-plan living room, spelling out the word ‘RAPIST’.
I think that will deter him from going to the police. I suspect that Steve (yes, I found out his name) isn’t the sort of guy who would risk tarnishing his reputation or damaging his career. No smoke without fire. He won’t want to get into a conversation with a detective about what happened in his bed or on the floor. Even if he does report my crime, I calculate that the police won’t be too thorough in investigating a simple break-in when they’ve got more than enough in the way of teenage knife crime and counter-terrorism raids to keep them busy on the streets.
I put the rusty spanner, the empty bleach bottle and the knife in my rucksack and leave, disposing of my tools in the skip before making my way to Seventh Heaven just in time to see him coming out the door of the shop. Your flowers are like his parting gift. I retrieve them from the bin and take them back to my place and arrange them in an old beer mug on the shelf above my bed so that I can smell You when I go to sleep.
You are here and suddenly I don’t know what to do with You. All I can think about is that the dried-up bunch of flowers You sold to Steve, is now in my wastepaper bin under the desk, and I am terrified that any minute now You are going to want to throw your chewing gum away.
You are here in my bedroom.
You are sitting on my bed and without even looking I know You are beautiful.
I could turn around and touch You.
You set me on fire… and turn me to stone. Both.
You are strong and I am broken.
I thought I was in control, but You have taken me apart.
*
Theo was sitting at his usual place in class when she took her seat the next day for the Friday session. She smiled at him, but he didn’t say hello. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, yet so painfully shy and socially awkward that it was hard to notice. Now that she looked at him properly, she could see that he had smartened himself up recently with new jeans, a sharp haircut and a pair of trendy black-rimmed glasses. It was perhaps because she was a few years older than him that he was so intimidated. The lesson dragged. Celeste struggled to keep her eyes open. She’d had a bad night. The confrontation with Steve had stirred up so many painful memories. And she couldn’t get Meghan’s words out of her head. Ben’s the one who deserves to be punished. She had lain there, looking up at the black ceiling, and hearing Meghan’s words over and over again… deserves to be punished… an insistent refrain burning into her brain that unsettled her as if she had unfinished business.
As they filed out of class two hours later, Theo hung back. She heard footsteps behind her as she walked down the corridor. When she turned around, he was there, almost in her shadow. He couldn’t meet her gaze.
‘Two pm. You’ve got the address.’
She smiled briefly. He nodded then he turned off to the library.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she called after him.
She wasn’t sure why he didn’t take her straight back to his room after the lesson. He’d mumbled something about needing to spend a couple of hours working on his weekend assignment. She wasn’t in the mood for academic work, so she bought herself a coffee and a sandwich at the college bar and went to a nearby garden square to have her lunch. She sat down on a park bench. The spring sunshine was warm and she closed her eyes, feeling the soft glow of sunlight on her eyelids and listening to the sounds of birds, and leaves rustling in the breeze and the cries and laughter of little children coming from a nursery bordering the square, and beyond this the sounds of this great capital city that were never silenced – the traffic and the builders’ drills and the planes passing overhead.
Theo’s flat was just a short cycle ride away. His student accommodation was in an ugly concrete block newly clad with bright orange panels. It was an eyesore standing out against the attractive Regency architecture of the other buildings on the street – one of the incongruous post-war structures built on the site of bomb craters created by the Blitz. She could see from the list of names posted on the communal entrance that he shared his flat with three other male students. He buzzed her up and opened the door. The accommodation was dingy and functional. Four doors led off from a dark hallway to the bedrooms.
She glanced into the shared bathroom, and a sitting-dining area fitted out with basic kitchen equipment, table and chairs and a small sofa. The place was a mess. There were used breakfast mugs and plates and food debris on the table. The kitchen surfaces were piled high with clutter and packets of food that no one had bothered to put away.
‘My flatmates live like pigs,’ he said. ‘This is me,’ he opened the door to his bedroom.
It was in the style of a shoebox with nothing but a single bed and a desk and a chair and storage cupboards. Unlike, his flatmates, Theo appeared to live like a monk, thought Celeste. His pinboard was empty. Though dotted with discarded Blue Tack, there was not a poster or a picture on the walls. He had a few files lined up on his desk and his desktop was covered with expensive-looking IT equipment – computer, printer, laminator and headphones. Clearly, he didn’t skimp on that!
Theo powered up his computer while she sat down on his bed, opened her own laptop and put in her password.
‘You can leave it here, if you like,’ he said. He couldn’t make eye contact with her. ‘It’s going to take me a while to run some tests.’
‘No, I’ll stay,’ she replied, reluctant to let the laptop out of her sight for too long. ‘I might learn something.’
Theo went to fetch another chair from the kitchen and motioned to Celeste for her to sit beside him at the desk.
The room was claustrophobic and disconcertingly quiet. At least she didn’t have to worry about what was on his playlist. He didn’t seem the type to listen to music while he worked. She sat down next to him. Due to the shoebox-sized proportions of the room, she felt uncomfortably close to him. Her thigh was inches away from his. She could see the stubble on his chin and a patch of pimples on his lower cheek where his skin had been irritated by shaving.
It was airless in the room. Theo was sweating. She could see a patch of darker blue at the armpit of his denim shirt and though not offensive, his pungent male odour permeated the room as he punched at the keyboard. It couldn’t always be easy being a teenage boy. It crossed her mind that Theo could not be much older than Ben had been at the time of the horrendous party – but they were very different animals. And Tom would now have been almost exactly the same age as Theo… if only… but she couldn’t dwell on that. Irrationally, these thoughts made her rage against Theo. That way lies madness, she reflected, calling to mind some Shakespearean quote or other she remembered from school as she struggled to contain her anger.
‘Can I open the window?’ she said. ‘It’s so muggy in here.’
She reached up to undo the catch for the window, the stretch exposing her flat stomach and pulling her blouse taut across her chest. She could feel Theo’s eyes on her. When she sat down beside him, he squirmed awkwardly and pulled his chair in closer to the table. His discomfort was palpable. He started tapping away jerkily on the keyboard. She noticed his fingers shaking, causing him to miss-hit the keys. It was curiously thrilling and unexpected to realise that her presence could exert such a power. She had always cast herself in the role of victim in her dealings with the opposite sex. This new thing opened up a world of possibilities that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with as yet. His features were rigid as if he were holding back some intense emotion, on the verge of tears.
She would put him out of his misery… for now.
She stood up.
‘I’m going to make myself a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Is that OK? Would you like something too?’
*
Most of the shelve
s in the kitchen unit were either bare, or stacked with a jumble of tins, jars and sauces. But the top shelf was neatly ordered and marked with a label, printed and taped proprietorially to the laminated edge: ‘THEODORE PETWICK.’ She stepped up on the rung of a chair to look for teabags and coffee. As she moved the jars around, another label caught her eye. It was a jar of marmalade, pushed to the back of the cupboard. It was the logo that had captured her attention, and the words:
Fitzbillies
Organic Seville Orange
Marmalade
Thick Cut
She stared at the jar. Strange coincidence? There was a loaf of sliced bread in the cupboard too. Suddenly she felt hungry. She put two slices of bread in the toaster and boiled the kettle. Two minutes later, she headed back to Theo’s room, his coffee in one hand, and in the other, her mug of tea with her toast (slathered with Fitzbillies marmalade), balanced precariously across the rim. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see his reaction.
When she crossed the hallway of the communal flat, she was in for another reality-check. She hadn’t noticed on her way in – perhaps because her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloomy interior after the brightness outdoors or perhaps because this section of the wall would have been hidden by the open door. But she saw it now, a row of pegs screwed into the wall, and hanging from one of them, a brown leather jacket, and on the floor below, a motorbike helmet and a pair of leather bikers’ boots.
The smoke was beginning to clear. Could the kid have followed her to Cambridge? Should she confront him? CelestialHeadstones.com would be dead if the website crashed again. She wanted his help to ensure the continued success of her business but not at any cost.
She pushed open the door to Theo’s room with her foot. His eyes were glued to the screen of her laptop.
‘How’s it going?’ she said.
Her words didn’t break through Theo’s concentration. He tapped ‘Return’ three times without taking his eyes off the screen. He seemed to be fully engrossed in restoring her system to life.
No Smoke Without Fire Page 12