This Is Not Forgiveness Read online

  ‘Come on. Take yours off, too.’

  I hadn’t been expecting that.

  ‘What, me? Someone might see!’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’

  Her laugh is like silver bells chiming. I look up at her. The night is coming on fast now. She glimmers in the half-light. This place is so quiet, even the sheep have stopped cropping. There’s a mist creeping over the grass, low to the ground and curling round her ankles, like she’s bringing it with her. I move back slightly, flinching away, as though I’m afraid of her, and maybe I am a little bit. She’s a strange one. I’ve never met anyone like her. All that talk about fairies. A little part of me is left wondering if she is quite real.

  ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

  She interprets my movement, but keeps on coming towards me with the same slow, light, undulating step. She smiles. Even that is disconcerting. Slightly too wide; the eyes too knowing. It is the smile you would give to a child.

  ‘’Course not.’ I find myself regressing, growing petulant.

  I move back a bit more. I am afraid, but for a whole other reason. One I can hardly admit to myself, let alone to her.

  ‘What is the matter, then?’ She’s almost on me now.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I pull her down on top of me and I don’t feel like a child any more.

  We kiss for a while. Her mouth is soft and warm. I move to shift our positions, but she stops me.

  ‘Let’s get rid of this lot.’ She pulls at my shirt and my belt buckle. As I take my jeans off, all the condoms fall out of my pocket again.

  ‘Good thing you came prepared . . .’

  She laughs and I join in. Joke shared. The laughter dispels my awkwardness and I’m soon as naked as she is. I forget that people might be watching. What people? Where? I forget about the sheep, I forget about everything except the feel of her skin against mine, the smell of her hair, the prickle of the grass against my back, the hardness of the ground beneath my knees. Then every other sensation is erased and I’m concentrating on one thing and one thing only.

  When it’s over, I lie back and stare up at the blackness above me. The stars are fully out now. They seem nearer up here, thickly scattered. I look for the ones I know.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  I show her Venus, bright in the west. Deneb, Vega, Altair, Arcturus, the Twins – Castor and Pollux.

  ‘Do you know the zodiac signs?’

  ‘Of course. There’s Leo.’ I point to the west. ‘Virgo, Libra and Scorpio going down to the south.’

  ‘Leo. That’s me.’

  ‘Do you believe in all that?’

  ‘Used to take an interest. What’s your sign?’

  ‘I’m Sagittarius. Down there near the southern horizon. You can’t see me too well from here.’

  She is sitting up, arms wrapped round her knees looking down at me. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t look at her. I have to look back at the stars.

  I’d never been naked with a girl. Isn’t that weird? My past encounters had been in bedrooms at parties, in the woods, in the park, behind the garages, anywhere private and dark. Only the most necessary garments removed or loosened. I had more than a rough idea. I’ve seen plenty of porn mags, DVDs and Internet sites, some of it pretty hard core. But she is different. She has grace and beauty. Her body is delicate and slender; her breasts small but perfectly shaped, her belly concave under ribs defined by shadows. She is the finest thing that I have ever seen. It makes all the rest false and tawdry, like one of those blow-up dolls. I hadn’t been with many girls. Technically, I was a virgin. Suzy would always panic at the last minute and push me away. That’s what I was afraid to tell her. Afraid she’d know. That she would guess. She’s been with lots of guys. How do I measure up?

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she says, as if she knows what I’m thinking.

  We put our clothes back on and she opens the hamper. It contains a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘It’s my birthday,’ she says, pouring until the bubbles run over. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Your birthday!’ I raise my glass to her. ‘You didn’t say anything.’

  ‘It wasn’t my birthday then. It is now.’

  We drink the champagne.

  ‘Empty.’ She holds up the bottle. ‘Time to go.’

  We walk back across the fields. There’s light from the moon and stars, but it’s still pretty black. She leads me, like she can see in the dark.

  ‘You don’t have to go home, do you?’ she asks when we get to the car.

  I shake my head. I have my cover story if needed. Stayed over at Cal’s.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘My mother won’t notice. She never gets up ’til it’s time to go out. Sunday is brunch day.’ She starts the car, the sound of the engine sudden and loud. ‘Let’s go somewhere.’

  When she gets to the motorway, the road opens in front of us, wide with possibilities. I want her to drive for ever, never go back.

  Of course, that doesn’t happen.

  She drives for a while, then says, ‘I’m hungry.’

  She pulls off the motorway and stops at a greasy spoon caravan parked in a lay-by. The Snack Shack Phil’s Grill’s – Open All Hours. The sign is hand-painted on the side of the van; the menu in Dulux gloss on a broken piece of hardboard: Breakfast Roll’s Everything On, the letters drippy like their eggs.

  The man smiles and gives her an extra slice of bacon. There’s a bit of chat going forward and back. He knows her. He winks at me over the top of her head. He says something, but I don’t hear him. Instead I hear Rob’s voice sneering.

  You didn’t think you were the only one?

  I juggle the roll, piled up with bacon, sausage, egg and a ladle of beans. The bean juice trickles warm on my wrist and I spill sauce down my shirt. The sign was right about ‘everything on’. I’m hungry, too, starving, but the food wads in my mouth. I choke and can’t swallow. I have to spit it out into the bin. I take a swig of scalding coffee. It’s watery and tastes of nothing. The top is filmed with grease, specked with grit from the lay-by. Traffic flashes by. I breathe a mix of dust and diesel and wish I’d had tea instead.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ I ask her, making it sound light like a joke but I really want to know. I want to know if she has come here with other guys after a night out under the stars or in some other place, like a motel, say. There’s a sign for one, pointing down the road. I don’t ask her anything like that, of course. I just smile a bit weakly and pretend to tear another chunk out of my roll all the time wondering when I can chuck it.

  ‘Now and again,’ she says.

  ‘Who with?’ I ask.

  I didn’t mean to ask that. It just came out.

  She throws away her roll which gives me the excuse to bin mine, too. She wipes her mouth, then her hands. The napkins are shiny and thin, not likely to mop up much of anything.

  ‘What do you care? I’m with you now.’

  She kisses me, her lips sweet with ketchup.

  We drive back into town. They are doing work on the bridge, replacing a section of the parapet. Part of the road is coned off. The temporary traffic lights stay on red for an age. I want them to stay that way, just so I can sit in the car with her.

  She drops me at the end of the road with a ‘See you’.

  ‘When?’ I ask but she doesn’t seem to hear. She just checks the mirror and she’s gone.

  Chapter 16

  Sorry to do it to you Jimbo but you did lead her right to me. She’s been round to see me since and I have to admit to giving her one for old times’ sake. Got to hand it to you – I thought you were on to a loser with that one when I saw who you were eyeing in the bar – so it was a bit of a surprise when I saw her sitting in the car outside the house. She called me while you were busy stuffing the rubbers in your pocket. I hadn’t seen her for a while but I knew she’d be back.

  She’s different. This isn’t the Caro I remember. Some things don’t change. S
he’s still mad as a box of frogs but she’s gone all political. She’s telling me all this stuff and sounding like Martha – but a lot more extreme – if you know what I mean. That’s the thing about her – she don’t do things by halves. I try to shut her up but she’s not having any.

  ME: I’m not interested in all that shit.

  HER: You ought to be. Look what they’ve done to you!

  Then she’s off again so I zone out and I’m thinking what a lucky little dog you are to pop your cherry with her. None better. This goes on for a while then she stops.

  HER: Have you even been listening?

  ME: No I ain’t.

  Looks like she might start again – so I distract her only way I know how.

  Afterwards she’s looking at my scars tracing them with her finger and asking how I got them – wanting me to tell her what happened exactly.

  ME: Don’t really remember.

  This is what I generally say.

  HER: Course you do.

  ME: Yeah – well – I don’t like talking about it.

  HER: You’ve got to get things out sometimes.

  I look to see if she’s taking the piss – you never know with her – but she’s acting like she’s genuinely interested and really wants to know – like she cares about me and I want her to care. Sometimes I surprise even myself.

  ME: I’m keeping a video diary, y’know? Like I used to.

  HER: That’s a good idea – people ought to know what’s going on, what’s really happening, from the people on the ground out there. People like you.

  ME: My memory ain’t altogether reliable. Time runs differently for different people – fast for some – others see it all in slo-mo.

  HER: Yeah. I understand that. How does it run for you?

  I start to tell her and I’m back there.

  We are out on routine patrol approaching some little shit town. The WMIK drops us and we fan out each side of the road – me and Mac on the right. The house on our side looks deserted – two small windows either side of a door like a kid’s drawing. The entrance is covered by one of those plastic curtains – red and yellow strips slightly moving – clashing softly together – like there’s a through breeze or maybe someone moving in there creating a draught displacing the air or a muzzle stirring the strips. Something’s not right about it. I motion for Mac, who’s in front of me, to go down to the side of the building out of the direct line of fire and edge along the walls. He takes one more step and I hear a series of little tiny tones like someone dialling on a mobile then a metallic click. I know what it is – the pressure plate of an IED making contact – but too late to do anything about it. I’m thrown back right up into the air. Mac’s in front of me. He takes the full force. I can’t hear anything – my head’s ringing with the blast and the dust is so thick all around us that the sun is just a smudge of light. I can smell cordite and burnt fabric and something else – like Sunday roast. It catches in my throat – makes me cough and gag as I grope towards where I think he might be – feeling with my hands cos I can’t see. I can tell he’s hurt bad. He’s lost his leg – blown right off halfway up the thigh. I get a tourniquet on to him, all the time with rounds coming in. I still can’t hear a thing but I can see little puffs in the dust and chips flying off the wall. My right leg is pretty mashed – numb and useless – but I can crawl. He can do nothing at all – I grab him by the webbing and begin pulling him back. The WMIK’s coming under heavy fire itself, the lads pinned down fully engaged laying down rounds. All I’m thinking is to get Mac back or near enough for them to come and get us – which they did.

  We got him out of there and he lived. He lost one leg completely – the other off at the knee. Seemed all right last time I saw him – looking to the future. He’s coping better than me – ironic really. They gave me a medal for what I done – so I’m a genuine hero – but like someone said – medals cast deep shadows. I kept both my legs but I lost something else out there. When the thing went off right in front of us – the noise deafened me – I couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see. A kind of darkness came over me and everything seemed very far away – like I was in a tunnel so full of dust it’s like the light had gone out and I couldn’t breathe. When I dream about it that’s what wakes me. I snapped out of it then cos I had to help Mac but now it’s like the darkness is back – creeping over me a bit more every day. I don’t see a future – there is no future. I have no purpose – no reason to be. All I’m doing is marking time. I got no right to feel like this. I’m still here ain’t I – with two arms, two legs, tackle intact. I think about Johnny Boy – not coming back – and Mac and I feel shame for being the way I am. I don’t feel entitled to help of any kind. If I believed in that sort of thing – I’d say I was damned. As it is I might be all right on the outside but inside I’m broke beyond anybody’s fixing. There’s no help for me.

  I don’t mean to tell her the last bit. It just comes out – she don’t act shocked or surprised. She don’t say anything. She gets out of bed and goes – not even a ‘See you’. Then after she’s gone I lie there and it’s like she’s opened a valve in my head that I can’t shut off. It’s like the nightmares I have but worse cos I’m awake. My ears are ringing like after the explosion and I ache – not just my leg but my back and my arms and my head. I wasn’t even wounded there but my head hurts worst of all.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Protest is when I say this does not please me. Resistance is when I ensure what does not

  please me occurs no more.’

  Ulrike Meinhof (attrib.)

  We tried protest. Now it is time for resistance. Time for action. The plan is coming together in my mind. At first, it seemed like a mad dream but now it seems eminently possible. I can see a way to achieve it. Everything is falling into place, like it has been preordained. They’ve gone to France. No idea when they are coming back. So I have the house to myself and can do exactly as I like. I can sleep all day, if I want to. Stay out all night. Go away without telling anybody where I’m going, without having to explain. I hate explaining. I can eat what I like, or not eat anything if I don’t want. Drink as much as I like and what I like. I’ve already started on the Moet.

  I’ve got plenty of cash. She’s left me £300 guilt money and Trevor’s given me my very own credit card. He gave it to me on the quiet, imagining a public announcement wouldn’t go down too well. He imagined right there. She’d go apeshit. But she’s not going to know.

  ‘Our little secret.’

  I will put this card to very good use.

  ‘I know I’m not your real dad,’ he says, but I think he wishes he was. He likes to spoil me. When we are out together, he looks proud, like he wants people to think that I belong to him. And he buys me things; he likes to spend ‘just us’ time without her. I make sure the things he buys are expensive, very expensive, and that the things we do together are things that I want to do.

  He’s taught me to drive and he’s bought me a car, so I have independence. He’s also into shooting and he’s taught me. Useful things to know.

  Back to the matter in hand:

  PRAXIS

  An interesting word.

  Praxis: the process by which a theory, lesson, or skill is enacted or practised, embodied and/or realised.

  I interpret this to mean that I need an expert, someone who has the skill to put theory into practice. I’ve got just the guy.

  Chapter 18

  At first I’m happy, really, really happy. Then I’m not. I go home in a daze, get through that day, just waiting for the night to come. But she doesn’t show that night, or the next, or the next. I go from euphoria to deep depression. I check my phone every five minutes. No messages and I don’t know her number. I look her up on Facebook. She’s not even on it. Everyone I know is on it. Everyone in the whole world is on it. I check all the other sites. Nothing. She doesn’t exist in cyberspace.

  I mope about, Martha calls it sulking, but Mum doesn’t even notice. She’s stopped worrying about R
ob for the time being. He went with her to see Grandpa and even thanked her for her latest food parcel. She came back beaming.

  ‘He seems different. More settled. He’s got Grandpa’s car back on the road and he’s been working the allotment. He seems much more focused, as though he’s gained a sense of purpose.’

  ‘Like what?’ Martha asks.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Getting himself a job, by any chance? He’s perfectly capable.’

  ‘I dare say he will when the right opportunity comes along. He certainly seems to be steadying down. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Girlfriend! Rob!’ Martha snorts her astonishment. ‘What makes you think that!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Something. Call it mother’s intuition.’

  ‘Well, I’d get it checked if I was you. What girl would be mad enough to go out with him?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. He’s smartened himself up quite a bit. He can look very handsome and he can be charming when he makes the effort.’ Rob is Mum’s favourite, no doubt. ‘It’s about time he settled down. Started thinking about a family, even. Lots of boys his age do. Are you going out tonight?’ she asks. I shake my head. ‘It’s just me and Jack are going out to the Miller’s for a drink and a bite to eat. We won’t be late. You can come if you like.’

  I shake my head again. I don’t go out at night, in case she turns up for me, or in case I see her out with somebody else. I fantasise about seeing her with the Art guy. I think about ripping his face off.

  This goes on for a week. Two. I think she may turn up at the boats. I’m there early and leave late. Alan thinks it’s devotion to duty. It’s hardly that. I scrutinise the crowds who come down to the river, hoping to see her, my heart thumps hard in my chest every time I spot a girl who looks anything like her. When I get a fare, I sweep up and back, poling like a maniac, just in case she’s waiting for me back at the station.