This Is Not Forgiveness Page 15

Jamie is a nice boy but I’m a bitch to him. The nicer he is, the more I want to hurt him. I can’t seem to help it. It’s like cutting myself. It’s a similar sensation, a similar relief, although I’m watching someone else bleed. He doesn’t deserve to be with me. He deserves to be with someone who’s nice, like him, someone like Lee or Jesse at the Rendez. They both fancy him rotten but he can’t see it. He’s not vain, or conceited, or self-centred, like his friend Cal. He’s good. A good person. Too good for me.

  Rob is different. We deserve each other. We are perfectly matched.

  Jamie would be better off with both of us out of his life. I’m glad he’s found out about us. It’s a relief. I was getting tired of the pretence. I couldn’t think of a way of telling him without it causing a scene. Contrary to popular myth, I’m not a drama queen and I hate scenes – too many emotions on display and too many words spoken that should be left unsaid.

  He was bound to find out sooner or later. I’m going to miss him but it’s best that it happens now. Later could get complicated. The days are counting down.

  Chapter 28

  I haven’t seen her for more than a week now. I think about her every minute, rehearsing what I would do, what I would say. I haven’t seen Rob, either. My bike appeared in the middle of the lawn. Other than that – nothing. Now that the numbness has receded, I want to kill him. The anger has solidified around me like lava flow.

  Alan has taken me back and I work hard because it stops me thinking. I punt and row up and down all day like a wind-up toy and stay late to stack the deckchairs in the shed and secure the boats for the night. After that, it’s straight down the pub with the lads from the boats. Every night, I get well and truly trashed; get into arguments, the occasional fight.

  People are coming back from wherever they have been. I’m here waiting for them. It’s all a bit mad. Everyone has been somewhere things were happening: Cornwall, festivals, Ibiza, travelling abroad, wherever. They want to be back there – or anywhere that isn’t here. There are midnight picnics in the park, beach barbecues by the side of the municipal boating lake, cookouts on the common, house parties where people’s parents are still away. Facebook and texts direct us to where it’s happening. Awesome fun, Cal calls it, but it isn’t really. Just endless excuses for piss-ups, ways of denying that term’s coming on fast, the holiday’s nearly over.

  Cal and the other guys are in long shorts and flip-flops; Sophie and her friends stride about in pink wellingtons and teeny tiny shorts, or drift in floaty dresses desperate to carry on the summer, to do things before the tans fade, before the weather changes, finding ways to keep the illusion going that bit longer.

  I’ve been nowhere. Done nothing except get my heart broken. I welcome them back, looking for diversion – anything to take my mind away from Caro. I’m free now. I can do what I want. ‘You look different,’ girls say, meaning more attractive all of a sudden. I’m deeply tanned from a whole summer on the river; I’ve got muscles from all that rowing and pushing the punts up and down. The OK-looking-but-nothing-special slightly shy but well-meaning kind of a guy goes without a goodbye. I don’t care any more about anything very much and recklessness is attractive. The less interested I seem to be, the more girls fancy me. I’m doing OK, I tell myself. I’m having a good time. No. I’m having a great time. It’s Saturday night and I’m at the sort of party I never got invited to before. I don’t need Caro in my life, I’m thinking, while helping myself to a beer from a bin full of ice. All she’s done is bring me trouble. I’m doing all right.

  ‘Hi, Jamie.’

  The voice is low and quiet. I think for one freezing second that it’s her, but turn around to find Lee looking up at me.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say.

  ‘No need to look so disappointed,’ she says with an ironic half-smile.

  ‘I’m not. Honest. Here.’ I hold up the bottle. ‘Do you want one of these?’

  She nods, so I grab another beer. Everyone is outside in the garden of the house. It’s noisy and crowded up on the patio, so I take her hand and guide her across the lawn to a bench between big rhododendron bushes. It’s getting dark and I put my arm round her, ready to make a move, but she edges away.

  ‘You’re not with Caro any more?’

  ‘Nah,’ I take a drink, ‘it’s over. It didn’t work out. Partly thanks to you. What you told Martha.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

  I shrug, like no harm done, but she sees through it.

  ‘I wasn’t spying, or anything, and I didn’t mean to cause trouble.’

  ‘That’s OK. I believe you. Martha did that for you.’

  ‘I don’t live far from her. I go for a run every morning. I saw someone leaving her place. I thought it was you. He looked like you, I even said hello, but it turned out –’

  ‘Not to be me. Yeah. Seen him since?’ I hate myself for asking.

  ‘No,’ she hesitates. ‘I’ve seen you, though.’

  Her voice is quiet, serious, with none of the brittle banter that’s going on up on the terrace. She looks at me. Her dark eyes say she knows. She knows it’s not over. Not over by a long way. For me, at least. What’s the point in pretending? I have been out there, in the dead of night, in the early hours, watching until dawn and beyond, until the rattle of the one remaining milk round, the first commuters’ cars starting in the drives, paper boys, postman, recycling trucks. Sometimes stoned out of my mind, sometimes so pissed I could hardly walk, sometimes completely sober.

  I haven’t talked to anyone about her, about how I felt. Now I find myself pouring my heart out.

  ‘She’s not a bad person,’ Lee says when I’ve finished. ‘She’s just not like anyone else. She plays by her own rules and she won’t change. You have to decide to go along with it or leave the game.’

  ‘Yes. I guess. I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet.’ That’s the first time I’ve admitted that, even to myself. I look down. The bottle in my hands is empty. I get up to go and get another. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I think I’ll be going.’ She looks to the terrace where the laughter is getting louder, the behaviour more boisterous. ‘Don’t know why I came. I don’t really like parties.’

  I follow her gaze. Cal’s having a mock fight with Suzy’s new boyfriend. The girls are squealing as if they mean it. There’s a chugathon going on round the beer bin, can cricket on the lawn.

  ‘Yeah.’ I laugh. ‘I know what you mean. Hey, thanks for listening, though.’

  ‘That’s OK. I understand her better than most people. We were friends. Still would be if it was up to me. Still are in a weird kind of way. She cuts herself off, won’t let anyone near her. It’s not what people think. They say she’s arrogant, that she thinks a lot of herself, that she’s better than everyone else. It’s the opposite of that. She’s worried that if she let’s anyone in, then they’ll find out what’s she’s really like and run a mile. It’s a deep-down hurt. You did well to get so close to her. She must really like you.’ She reaches in her pocket for her phone. ‘If you want to talk any time.’

  We swap numbers and she goes. I don’t stay that much longer. There is nothing for me here.

  For once, I go home relatively sober and straight to bed. I go to sleep thinking of her, as always, but in the morning it is Rob who’s in my mind. In the night, I’d woken up suddenly, like I’d been shaken, my body covered in sweat, the bedclothes twisted around me. I knew I’d been dreaming, but the dreams disperse quickly, like smoke in the wind, going beyond my conscious recollection. All I know, the only thing I can say for sure, is that Rob was in them all.

  Chapter 29

  I go looking for him. This thing between us has to be settled one way or another. I cycle round to his place. No sign of him. I go to the pubs he uses and draw a blank there as well. I even buzz past hers. Her car isn’t there, which I take as an indication that she’s not, either. I don’t want to see her, I’m not ready for that, so I d
on’t go knocking on the door. The last place I try is the allotments. The plot is deserted.

  I can’t think where else to go. All that cycling has dissipated some of my energy. I decide to call it a day. The plum tree is laden and some of the apples look ready. While I’m here, I might as well do something useful, like pick some fruit for Grandpa. Mum can take it with her the next time she goes to the nursing home.

  There should be plastic bags in the shed. I go to open the door and find it secured with a brand-new padlock. I look through the bleary little window. There are bags of stuff on the floor inside. Rob must have been down doing something. Looks like fertiliser, maybe he plans to dig the ground over and make it ready for next year, although Grandpa always preferred manure because it’s more natural. There are some bottles with the skull and cross bones poison signs on the side. Must be weedkiller for the brambles.

  I can put the fruit in my panniers. I start picking from the little orchard at the back of the plot. It’s quiet here, peaceful, just the chatter from a couple of magpies and the distant sound of an engine being started, a mower, or a rotavator. I’m absorbed, selecting fruit. Not too soft – I don’t want it squashing – not too green or it will be sour. I don’t hear him until he’s right behind me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he breathes in my ear.

  Despite myself, I jump.

  ‘Picking fruit. What does it look like?’ I try to sound casual, but his sudden presence makes me shaky.

  He steps back. He looks different. Sober and dressed all in black. I’ve never seen him wear black like that. Out of uniform, his taste runs from garish to ghastly. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is cut short. He looks extra fit, like he’s been working himself really hard.

  ‘What have you been doing down here?’ I ask, nodding towards the shed.

  ‘Oh, this and that.’

  ‘Why the new padlock?’

  ‘Security. I’m storing some gear. I don’t want it interfered with.’

  ‘Break-ins?’

  ‘Always the risk.’

  I don’t believe we’re talking like this, with everything that has happened between us, that we’re talking allotment business when all I really want to know is:

  ‘Why are you screwing my girlfriend?’

  He steps back, the sudden change of topic taking him by surprise. He looks at me, eyes shuttered.

  ‘First off, she ain’t your girlfriend, Jimbo. Mine, neither. Nobody owns a girl like that. Second –’ He’s grinning now, thumbs in his belt. ‘Second, she offered. She’s a great piece of ass, let’s face it. Would have been rude to turn her down. Anyway, takes a man to handle that. I told you before.’

  He turns with a shrug, as if that’s it, as if my feelings in the matter count for about as much as the piece of fallen fruit he’s toeing with the point of his boot.

  ‘You can’t just say that and walk away!’

  ‘Can’t I?’ He doesn’t even face me.

  ‘It’s always the same with you, Rob, isn’t it?’ I yell after him. ‘Things get a little bit difficult and you bail. Maybe you don’t want to know about the damage you do to people, or are you just too thick to see?’

  He stops walking. I drop the pannier I’m holding, ready for his turning on me. All the anger, all the rage, I’ve been keeping in check, begins to flow. From some chamber deep inside, comes all the hurt, all the resentment I’ve ever felt, at every time I’ve been beaten, every time I’ve been bested. The two streams come together, seething and bubbling, rising and rising, ready to blow.

  I take a run at him, bring him down in a crunching tackle. He’s not expecting it. He’s strong but I manage to hold him. Soon we’re rolling around on the dusty ground and I’m getting some good punches into the ribs and kidneys but it’s not enough. He turns me. I don’t know how, but suddenly he’s on top of me. He has his knee in my back and my neck in the crook of one arm. He tightens the lock until I’m fighting for breath.

  He leans down, hissing the words close to my ear.

  ‘I could kill you now. Break your neck. You know that?’

  I struggle but it’s futile. I can’t shift his weight and every movement tightens his grip. It’s like a steel hawser wrapped around my neck.

  ‘Go ahead.’ I choke the words out in a rasping cough. ‘It’s the only thing you know how to do. You psycho!’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’

  The pressure increases until I nearly black out. He’s pushing my face down so I taste the earth, feel the grit of it between my teeth. I can’t breathe and I’m choking. Then he lets me go. I get up, spitting out a wad of mud. This is ending like every other fight we’ve ever had, with me beaten, eating dirt, and him walking away. He’s almost at the end of the patch of ground. I take another run at him, launching into a two-footed flying tackle. I catch him on his bad side and he goes down, his face contorted in a howl. He rolls around, clutching at his leg and I’m on him. I’m sitting astride him, forcing him down. It’s his turn to have his face in the dirt. The pain has sapped him, but he is struggling under me. He’s so strong. I can’t believe how strong he is. In a second he’ll topple me and our roles will be reversed. What will he do to me then? I reach out, groping around until my hand closes round the sharp angles of a half-brick. I pick it up, holding it rough edge pointing down, ready to smash it into the back of his head.

  ‘Enough!’ A woman’s voice shouting. ‘That’s enough!’ I look up and she’s standing on the path, watering can poised, ready to empty the contents over us. ‘It works with cats. Dogs too. Why not young men? Get up the both of you.’

  I roll off him and scramble to my feet. Rob’s having trouble standing but I don’t help him. The woman offers her hand instead. I recognise her. It’s Brenda from the next allotment.

  ‘You’re Fred’s grandsons, aren’t you? I remember you scrapping like that when you were lads but you’re a bit big for it now. Pity you don’t use some of that energy getting the place tidy for your grandfather. Now shake hands.’

  We stare at each other, reluctant, but she’s not going to budge until we do. He puts his hand out. I take it.

  ‘Properly now.’

  I grip harder.

  ‘That’s better.’ She nods, satisfied, and she goes on her way.

  Her intervention has dispelled the anger between us. I don’t want to fight any more. Neither does he.

  ‘You had me there.’ He nods towards the brick. ‘Thought I was a goner.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done it. Not really.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you need to finish what you start. That’s what they teach you in the Army. You got balls, though. More than I took you for.’ He points a finger like a gun at my head. ‘Respect.’

  We sit on the rickety little bench in front of the shed and he lights a cigarette.

  ‘I wasn’t that bad to you, was I? When we were kids?’

  ‘Yeah. You were.’

  ‘Not all the time, surely? I used to give you stuff. Tell you stories. I got you that Genesis bike you’re riding.’

  ‘It was knock-off! The stuff you used to give me was bust half the time and the stories you told me were lies.’

  ‘There is that.’ He laughs, like it’s a joke that we can share now. ‘Sometimes it’s better than knowing the truth.’

  ‘Is it? I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘Believe me, there’s things you are better off not knowing.’

  ‘Like about Dad? About him killing himself?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Caro told me.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m glad she did. Have you always known? Is that what the stories were about?’

  ‘No. The stories were about something different. I only found out about the old man recently. Grandpa told me when he’d had too many Johnnie Walkers. Ma doesn’t know I know. She should have told us, though.’

  Yeah, she should, but I can kind of understand it. Tell a l
ie long enough and you begin to believe it. We all have to find our own way to keep our sanity.

  ‘Maybe she was saving us from feeling any kind of stigma.’ I automatically seek to make excuses for her. ‘Especially because he was a soldier. Shouldn’t be, but for some people there’s still a certain amount of shame attached.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be. You’re right there. But with so many guns about, it’s more common than you’d think.’

  ‘Did you – I mean, did you ever –’

  ‘Not when I was in. Never crossed my mind then, but I know it happens.’

  ‘Now?’

  He doesn’t answer straight away.

  ‘Perhaps. Maybe I’m cursed that way. Like the old man. Some things you can’t break, you know? Like I was mean to you, even when I didn’t want to be. I couldn’t seem to help myself. The old man was the same way with me. Maybe it’s in our genes.’

  ‘No!’ I don’t like him talking like this. ‘That’s bullshit, Rob! Genes don’t work like that. And, anyway, if they did, if you’ve got them, then I’ve got them. Martha, too.’

  ‘You two take after Mum.’ He looks down at the cigarette. ‘She don’t smoke, neither do you. The old man did, though. Could run that way with me. Through the father, like. People don’t kill themselves for nothing.’

  His reasoning is all over the place. It doesn’t make sense, but if it’s what he believes, it will be hard to talk him out of it. He’s stubborn like that.

  ‘Is that how you feel?’ I have to ask him straight out. ‘That you want to kill yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes. Maybe. Or . . .’ He shakes his head and puts his hand up to his temple, as though the action hurt him. ‘I’m telling you, Jimbo. The drugs don’t work no more. Booze, neither. I’ve gotta find some way to ease it.’ It’s as though he’s talking about a physical pain, something that can be alleviated. ‘All this shit inside me. It’s building. Like how you feel before a battle, or a firefight, but there’s no way for it to come out . . .’