by Katie Lowe
I stared at the blood clotted in black wads but for the bubbles that wept when I moved my fingers. I ran the water once again, flushing the last of the blood down the sink, and looked around, carefully, for spots I might have spilled as I entered the room. My sweatshirt was hard, dried to a crisp, black sheen; but I had avoided making any mess as I entered.
I peeled it off, gingerly drawing my hand through the sleeves, and moved to put it on the toilet lid as I wrapped my hand in tissue paper. On the lid, however, was a thin seam of blood. I stared at it. Grabbing a wad of paper to wipe it up, the realization revealing itself, I became aware of a dampness, a warmth between my legs. I turned to the mirror, and saw a dark circle of blood on the back of my skirt.
I was a ‘late bloomer’, Mum had reassured me, when I asked why I hadn’t yet had my period. ‘You’re lucky,’ she’d said, an answer that failed to satisfy my curiosity. Now I rolled down my tights, and saw a knot of blood, soaking through my underwear, the smell tannin and animal. I rooted through the bathroom cabinet, read the instructions on the tampon box (successful only on the third attempt), rolled my tights into a ball, and stuffed them into the bin.
Finally, I padded back into the living room, the evidence cleaned away. It looked almost as though nothing had happened but for a half-print of blood on the light switch. I wiped it away with my sleeve, and lay on the sofa, gathering a blanket around me. It’s a coincidence, I told myself. It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.
Winter
Chapter 6
I sat at the base of the mermaid, the stone as cold as a mortuary slab. I had been early, and now he was late. I watched the Christmas shoppers through misted breath, the air heavy and bristling with life: the first day of the holidays, lights flickering over crowded streets. My palm itched, and I scratched through my dampened glove; finding no relief, I peeled it off, and stared down at the welt, still sticky, clotted black.
In the weeks after the night at Alex’s house, I’d grown used to its dull throb, hot and damp with sweat. It had never quite healed, bleeding occasionally on my schoolbooks, or leaving a sticky smudge around coffee cups and wine bottles. Neither Robin nor I had said a word to Alex and Grace, though each glanced at the scars or the prints they left, tight-lipped, refusing to ask. I felt their irritation with us both, like parents annoyed at a misbehaving child.
And in this way, I suppose, the spell had worked. Robin and I were by now inseparable, our own unit. We did everything together, though over the last few days I’d become preoccupied, distracted, a little lost to her.
Because I had met a boy. Or rather, I had met a boy again, and had, on our second meeting, been kissed. The specifics were a little hazy, happening as they had in the early hours, after no small quantity of drink in Andy’s room, stolen tinsel littered around the floor. Tom and Andy, it seemed, were now friends, though the two of them barely spoke; it was Robin who drove the conversation, the mood, every movement in the smoke-filled dorm.
When she and Andy threw us out, wanting time alone, Tom and I had stood by the lake in the freezing cold, just as we’d done before (though my memory of the night, still, was blurred, shrouded in the furred glow of intoxication). ‘I’d like to take you out some time,’ he’d said, and I’d told him I’d like that, too.
Later, remembering that first kiss, I tried to remember whether his spit had tasted different from my own, tried to pinpoint the musky smell of his hair. Tried, too, to pick apart the doubts that followed. Was being kissed a pleasurable sensation, or was I doing it wrong? And why, exactly, was he kissing me?
It doesn’t matter, I told myself, blinking the thought away. I have been kissed. It was a milestone reached, my first, thrilling entry into adulthood.
When Robin asked, I shrugged, and told her nothing had happened – that I wasn’t interested, didn’t know what she was talking about. And as we’d left campus for the Christmas break, she’d asked me what my plans were. I’d said I couldn’t meet today, the kiss still sugar-sweet in memory, the thrill of remembering biting at my skin; a secret I would think of only when I was in my room, like my sister’s box of baby clothes, which Mum kept hidden under the bed. I’d tell Robin tomorrow, when it was done: when we would pore over every detail, and she’d be proud: this, too, another thrill.
‘There you are,’ Tom said, as though I were the late one. He ran a hand through his hair, a move I was certain I’d seen on TV, and I wondered if it was an affectation; I blushed, caught looking just a moment too long. ‘Want to go for a walk?’
‘Sure.’ I shuffled in line with him, and we walked, him talking, me murmuring in response. He’d been studying hard, he said. I wondered the same mysterious things I wondered about other boys, when one brushed up against me, or sat beside me on the bus.
Did they think the same way I did? Or were boys fundamentally different, wired so they were our opposite? Did they notice the brush of body parts like I did? Did they notice me at all?
‘What about you?’
I’d lost myself. ‘Sorry – what?’
‘How’s your school-work going?’
‘It’s … Yeah, it’s fine. You know. Boring.’
He looked at me, narrowing his eyes a little. ‘You strike me more as someone who’s kind of into it.’
‘Into what?’
He laughed. ‘School-work. I have a suspicion you’re playing it cool.’
I shrugged, and looked out to the water, caught in a lie. ‘Have you sorted things out with your girlfriend?’ I’d been trying to work out how or when to ask; now the words simply spilled out.
‘Yes and no, I guess,’ he said, eyes cast down at his shoes. ‘It’s over.’
‘Oh,’ I said, wincing. ‘I’m sorry.’ I wasn’t sorry, of course. I was relieved.
‘It’s fine. We both knew it was coming.’ There was a note of bitterness in his voice.
I looked at him. ‘Shall we get a drink?’
‘That sounds like a very good idea. Hang on a sec, though. I need cigarettes.’
He ducked into a dimly lit shop, while I waited outside. I pretended to read the posters tacked to the window, cards advertising services nobody wanted; slips of paper, cats lost, dogs found. Finally, Tom appeared in the doorway, stooping below the frame, though he didn’t need to. I thought better than to point that out.
‘Supplies, mademoiselle,’ Tom said, raising a carrier bag, clinking as he lifted it.
‘What’s that?’
‘Drinks,’ he said, without sarcasm. ‘You’re not old enough to go to the pub, are you?’
I stared at him. ‘We could … I mean, if you went to the bar.’
‘Nah,’ he said, grabbing my shoulder and guiding me down the promenade. ‘Al fresco is much more fun.’
Through the crowds by the pier, past the flickering signs and sideshow freaks, towards the park, with its grand old bandstand shot through with holes. The shade of the crematorium, thin whirls of smoke above; boats whirring by on the broads at impossible speeds. I’d walked this way hundreds of times and, much as I’d hoped it might be some way transformed, it felt no different today as I walked alongside Tom, talking of his favourite music, the books he adored. I had a vague sense that I was supposed to be impressed, he erudite, knowledgeable, old, and wise – but it seemed as though every observation was one I’d heard before, told better, by someone else. Still, I nodded.
‘And Bukowski – I mean, that’s a genius. You read Post Office?’
‘No,’ I said, though I’d leafed through a copy once, in a library, and found it dull, self-absorbed.
‘What? How? It’s the best. The best.’ He stopped, looked around, and threw his coat down on the grass, sitting squarely on it with a thud. I lowered myself down beside him, gingerly tucking my coat beneath me without taking it off. The grass was damp, my fingers cold.
‘Let’s try another one,’ he said, opening a bottle of cider on the edge of his shoe and handing it to me. ‘Slaughterhouse-Five.’
I shrugged.
I’d seen it. I’d read the back. I thought it sounded silly. Boyish. Dull.
‘Christ. What are they teaching you up at that girls’ school – embroidery?’
‘Something like that.’ I smiled. I suppose in some instinctive way I knew the role I was supposed to play here. I’d be passionate about his interests, coy about mine (uninteresting, bland, boring); I’d listen intently, hang on every word, respect his expertise. I don’t know how I knew this. I suppose every girl does.
But the more he talked, the clearer my own thoughts became, revealing themselves one by one. I didn’t want to be here. I was bored. I didn’t want to kiss him, though before I’d thought I had, didn’t want to entertain his endless thoughts. I sipped my drink, and wondered when I could leave. ‘I’ve got a dinner thing with my parents,’ I’d say, parents plural, in line with my resolute dullness.
‘It’s been fun,’ I’d say, and disappear, enigmatic, never to be seen again. His feelings, if a little hurt, would soon recover, and I’d go home, never to make the same mistake again. A wasted afternoon, nothing more.
In fact, two hours later, I would sit in the blue-lit toilet of the bus station, all stinking citrus and vomit tang, flypaper and neon bars. I would wash my hands, sit back down, paw through my skirt, looking for traces, leaves, blood in the seams. The light bleaching everything, I closed my eyes, pulled a crisp leaf from my hair, crushed it between my finger and thumb. This, I realize, makes it sound more dramatic than it actually was. The reality of it, I suppose, was rather more banal, my thoughts reasoned, logical. I couldn’t go home like this, and for the first time in a while, I very much wanted to go home.
‘What are you doing later?’ he had said, leaning back on his elbows. Casual. Relaxed. A little removed.
‘I’ve got a dinner thing,’ I replied, looking at my watch. ‘Parents. Can’t get out of it.’
‘I see.’
A silence fell.
‘What?’ I said, finally.
‘Nothing.’
Silence again.
‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’ He turned with a half-smile, exposing yellowed bottom teeth, greased with tar.
‘Okay, it’s nothing.’
‘Okay.’
‘… You’re kind of an asshole, you know.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Any time.’
‘Except tonight.’
‘Except tonight.’
I felt the ground shifting below. I couldn’t quite place what was happening, what strange territory we were in. Was this flirting? It felt a little like flirting might, my heart fluttering in my throat; and yet there was something else, a vague guilt I couldn’t place. Somehow, I felt I’d let him down. I’d disappointed. I’d failed to be the cool girl I’d suggested I might be. I’d not lived up to expectations.
It should be said, however, that this analysis is the benefit of hindsight. In the moment, it was simply a feeling buried deep in my gut, the knowledge that I’d done something wrong.
‘I should probably get going,’ I said, finally.
‘Okay, then.’ He didn’t move.
I brushed off the damp leaves and blades of grass sticking to my hands and legs. He looked up at me for a moment, before doing the same, a low sigh as he shook out his jacket.
A frisbee sailed between groups of screaming children, mothers arched over pushchairs, whispering secrets. We walked through the park into the arboretum, no more than a few rows of trees beside a boarded-up construction site, glossy signs advertising a new, doomed hotel. He was talking again, as though nothing had happened, and as I told myself, reasonably, nothing had. I listened, agreeing with more enthusiasm, more grace, more impressed with his ideas than I’d been before, attempting to offset my slight.
‘So I was thinking about spending the summer doing some kind of activism. I just don’t know what for, yet. Maybe Greenpeace or something.’
‘Cool,’ I said. ‘That’d be amazing.’
He stopped, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, planted a kiss on my head; stayed there a moment, his nose and lips in my hair. I moved, laughing a little as I shrugged him off. He took my hand.
‘Come here a minute,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to …’
He squeezed a little tighter; I followed him, arm stiff, shoulders tight, my whole body caught rigid. It’s fine, I told myself. Shouting, shaking him off, would be stupid, melodramatic. It’s nothing. It’s fine.
We stopped between the trees, light flickering through the leaves. He looked at me, smiled, and kissed my cheek, breath catching with a yeasty tang. I leaned away a little; he kissed again. Maybe this is romantic, I thought. Maybe I’m just too uptight. A child ran past, laughing, tugging some growling, rolling toy. We moved a little deeper into the trees, the brush thickening, faded crisp packets and broken bottles crunching underfoot.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, still too aware of the hot, damp grip of his hand around mine.
‘Shhhh …’ he said, smiling. Sometimes, looking back, I imagine some sign, something sinister in that smile, but I really don’t think there was. It was just a smile, though I felt my heartbeat quicken, skin flush with fear.
‘I’ve got to—’
‘Shhh … five minutes,’ he said, squeezing my hand again.
We reached a dull clearing by the boards, surrounded by trees; we stopped. He pulled me in, kissed my cheek again, first one, then the other.
‘You okay?’ he whispered.
‘I need to go.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and wrapped an arm around my waist, the other digging fingers into my shoulder blade, under my backpack. I felt my knees bend, lowered to the ground, where twigs crackled underfoot.
‘I don’t …’
‘Shhh …’ he said again, a hush I’ll never cease to hear. I could’ve struggled, perhaps, clawed, fought, bitten, pushed away, shouted, screamed … all the things a girl’s supposed to do in a situation like this. But I didn’t. Duly hushed, I shut up, closed myself off, and didn’t say another word.
‘Is this okay?’ he said, pushing my skirt up to my waist, his other arm pressing my shoulder into the dirt, supporting his weight. I said nothing, closed my eyes; he kissed my forehead in response.
The rest comes to me only in flashes, fragments of memory.
My neck softly nuzzled, a hot breath in my ear, every twig and stone beneath digging into my back. A kiss on each cheekbone, hair pushed away from my eyes, hand spilling dust and dirt. The dank, yellow smell of him, damp, sour sweat. The sharp first stab, a knot rising through me, burst in a moan; another gentle ‘Shhh …’
Closing my eyes, feeling hands try for tenderness. His face, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my neck, expression contorted, like skull creeping through skin. The ugly, animal shape of us, the shame of what we were. I wondered if this was what I’d wanted, told myself it was, clung to reassuring thoughts that at some point, that day, I’d considered the kiss. Perhaps it was my fault. Maybe I’d wanted too much. Confused things. Confused him.
And then, he was done. Done with a gasp and a sigh, and he slumped forwards, his chin sharp in the curve of my neck. Counting the seconds as they passed, I listened to him breathe. He pulled away, stood, extended a hand to help me up.
I brushed myself off and followed him, silent, as we walked back the way we came; he was still talking, again, as though nothing had happened. And I didn’t lead him to believe otherwise. I laughed, nodded, agreed, as we walked back through crowds, towards the bus station, where the light caught in scratches on the plastic shelters, and I sat, waiting to go home.
The university bus pulled in farther down the stand; he looked at it, then looked at me.
‘You should get it,’ I said. I knew what he was thinking. He should wait. See me off.
‘You sure?’ he said, turning towards it.
‘Yeah, definitely. Mine won’t be long.’
‘Okay. Cool.’ He smiled, leaned in, kissed my cheek; I felt a wave of
nausea at his breath. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘Okay,’ I said, and watched him leave. I dug my fingers into my stomach, pressing nails into flesh, and stood, a moment, waiting. Then into the blue-lit toilets, trying to make myself clean; then onto the bus home, conscious of a dampness in my lower back, fingers pulling a knotted stick, releasing blood.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, seeing her standing in the living room, lights off, curtains closed, TV flickering white.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said, not turning to see me. ‘How was your day?’
I thought about it. I ran a hand through my hair, matted thick; shook my hand loose. ‘Fine,’ I said, smiling even though she wouldn’t see, as though that made it less untrue.
‘Good,’ she said, still rapt in the show.
Upstairs, I stuffed my clothes into a pillowcase, eyes determinedly averted from the stains. I couldn’t put them in the laundry basket, for fear of being seen, and yet the look of them – their very presence – sickened me. I tied the pillowcase shut, and stuffed them into the bottom of the cupboard, slamming the door behind.
I ran a bath, scalding hot, and stepped in, feeling my skin burn feet-first, and I lay there, staring at my body, sickened, until night fell and the cold set in.
It’s nothing, I told myself, watching a spider crawl across the ceiling, black with mould. It’s fine, I said, drawing lines with my fingers; the string around wax paper, case around butcher’s meat. It’s really no big deal, I willed as I lowered myself underwater, feeling thunder rolling in above, and was grateful for the storm: the rain began to pelt the window, echoed by my racing, tired heart.
I saw her before she saw me.
She was hunched over a book, her back rounded, shoulders sunk low, as she held a sandwich in one hand and a coffee in the other. It never ceased to amaze me, when I saw Robin on her own, how small and close to invisible she could be but for the shock of her hair and – when she saw you – her wide, snaggle-toothed smile. It was as though the girl I knew was an act, a staged excess of personality which shrank away the moment she was alone, leaving the shell of her behind.