‘God, I wish mine were.’ You handed me the carton and leaned against the closed door. ‘That is, Mum doesn’t drink much but Dad . . . well, you know . . .’ You grimaced.
I nodded, trying to look like I understood exactly what you weren’t saying. I hadn’t been told anything directly about Uncle Graham and Auntie Sheila, but I’d picked up enough to know that your dad was a drunk who’d wasted all his money and treated your mother very badly.
I sipped at the carton. I was genuinely enjoying it now and, much to my surprise, I didn’t feel anywhere near so anxious any more. At the time I put this down to you being so lovely. Now, of course, I’m very aware the vodka had a lot to do with it. A warm, fuzzy feeling was creeping through me, emboldening me to the point where suddenly I felt able to ask you a question I would never have imagined voicing even minutes before.
‘Them getting divorced, Auntie Sheila and Uncle Graham . . . was that really hard for you?’ I took another sip.
You met my gaze. Even in the shadowy moonlight through the window I could see the intensity of your eyes, the strong cut of your cheek and chin. You were so gorgeous, I could hardly believe I was really here with you.
‘No, it was far worse before . . . when they were together.’ You swallowed the distance between us in a single step. You stood, close, looking down at my face. ‘That was really hard. You won’t remember, you were too little, but . . . but there were times when they were arguing, before Dad left . . .’
I gazed up at you, my throat dry, the carton clutched in my damp hand.
‘Dad did things . . .’ You carried on, your voice low and husky. ‘It happened when he’d been drinking. He . . . he hit Mum. Like there was this one time, I was watching from the stairs. He was trying to leave – I guess to go and see his latest squeeze, though I didn’t know that at the time – and Mum was upset and shouting. Horrible things she was saying. At the time I felt angry with her.’ he paused again. ‘Then before I even realised what was happening Dad grabbed her face and pushed her and she stumbled back and he . . . made a fist and said, “Shut it, you cunt,” and she leaped forward, right into his face and said, “You’re the cunt, you bastard.” ’
‘Oh, Dex,’ I breathed, unable to imagine meek, uptight Auntie Sheila either shouting or cursing. I’d never heard either of my parents swear and, thanks to our internet lock and Daddy being as strict about film certificates as he was about alcohol, I’d not come across swearing all that much online or in movies, either, though of course there were plenty of girls at school who seemed to think it made them look more grown-up to use bad language.
You closed your eyes, your face screwed up with pain. ‘Then Dad just lost it. He let out this roar and . . . and he punched her.’
I gasped. ‘No.’
‘She flew across the room and landed on her side and yelled from the pain. And Dad turned around and walked out and slammed the door.’
There was a pause. ‘That’s awful,’ I said.
You opened your eyes. ‘It was.’ You cleared your throat. ‘It wasn’t the only time either. Anyway, sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to say all that.’
‘It’s the drink,’ I said, remembering a phrase we’d learned in Latin a few weeks before. ‘In vino veritas. It means drinking makes you tell the truth.’
‘Does it, indeed?’ You took the carton from my hand and set it by the summer-house door. Tiny thrills ran up and down my body as you walked back to me.
‘Want to know another truth?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered, my heart beating so loud I was sure you would hear it.
You tilted your head closer to mine. ‘You’re very, very beautiful, Lucy Carr.’ Your lips hovered over my mouth. I held my breath. ‘In fact,’ you went on, your lips brushing mine, ‘I’d say you are the most beautiful girl in the whole of London.’
My breath came out ragged as you kissed me, soft, then stronger, your tongue pushing into my mouth, your hands running down my arms, over my back. I could taste something sweet on your breath, and every part of me was on fire, my legs threatening to give way.
And then you drew back. I stared up at you, my whole body trembling. Your breath was almost as uneven as mine now, your eyes hungry. You took the jacket off my shoulders and let your hands slide down my arms again, then across my breasts. You groaned with pleasure as you touched me and I swelled with pride.
‘Oh, Lucy.’ You kissed me again, more roughly than before, pressing me back against the only spare bit of summer-house wall. Your hands ran down my front again, then further down. Suddenly your hands were under my dress, on my thighs. Your fingers found my underpants.
I froze, shrinking back.
Instantly you stopped. Took a step away from me. ‘This isn’t what you want?’
I couldn’t speak, couldn’t look at you. Humiliation filled me.
‘You’re a good girl, Lucy,’ you said, and maybe I imagined it, but I thought there was an edge to your voice. ‘Your daddy’s good little girl.’
Tears filled my eyes. My cheeks were burning. I darted to the summer-house door, knocking over the carton as I did so. Liquid splashed out. Automatically I picked up the carton and fumbled with the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ you said, the harsh edge gone. ‘It’s just you’re so desirable and you don’t even realise. I mean I’ve never, literally never, wanted anyone more.’
I stood in the open doorway. Most of me wanted to dart away into the darkness to dry my eyes then go back to the safety of the house. But a voice in my head pierced through those fears.
This is what you wanted . . . all your life . . . Dex saying these things . . . wanting you . . . and you want him back, you know you do, and it isn’t wrong if you love someone and maybe you’ll stay together because you want each other so much and even though you’re cousins maybe the bishop will still let us get married and then it will be okay anyway . . .
I took a long drink from the carton, draining it to the bottom, then I threw the carton out onto the grass. Tomorrow Daddy would just think it was one of the party-goers. He would never know it was me.
Nobody needed to know.
Moonlight streamed through the summer-house window, lighting up your beautiful face. I had no idea what I was going to say until I opened my mouth. And then, suddenly, out came the truth:
‘I’m scared I don’t know what to do,’ I whispered. ‘And . . . and it won’t be any good . . . I won’t be any good . . .’
You smiled and held out your hand. ‘D’you have any idea what a precious thing your virginity is to me? There is no way that it couldn’t be anything other than the most amazing experience of my life.’
I walked towards you. The vodka was really kicking in now and I stumbled. Deftly, you caught me and held me tightly against your body.
This is what you want, I told myself again. Never mind Daddy and school and Sister Teresa’s morality lectures on how fornication was a second-rate choice: ‘Do not be deceived, girls, fornicators and adulterers will never inherit the kingdom of God.’
It was you. It had always been you.
‘Let’s lie down,’ you said. Without waiting for me to respond, you turned and dragged a lounger cushion away from the wall. You placed it carefully in the middle of the summer house then took your jacket and folded it into a pillow. You stretched out and beckoned me over. ‘Why don’t we just take off our clothes,’ you said. ‘I promise we don’t need to go further than you want.’
‘It’ll be cold,’ I said, perching on the edge of the cushion. Practical girl that I was.
You chuckled. ‘I’ll warm you up.’ You were already reaching for the zip on my dress. You drew it down and peeled it off my arms. I was wearing a plain white bra. A second later you had undone the strap at the back and the bra fell. I tensed with the shock of exposure, my breasts being hideously large and ugly in my eyes. You didn’t notice my discomfort, just stared at my chest, smiling. Suddenly I felt a rush of power. Confidence filled me. I could do this. You pulled me towa
rds you and kissed me. Gently at first, then harder. Your stubble was rough on my face. Your hands roamed over my chest, then down again. My dress bunched at my waist, the top half was down, the bottom half pulled up. I braced myself as you tugged at my underpants.
‘Lucy, you are so beautiful,’ you murmured. ‘This part of you is so beautiful.’
I closed my eyes, letting you touch me. I was starting to feel light-headed, I didn’t mind your hands now. The sensations from your fingers were waves of pleasure rippling through me. And then you stopped. I opened my eyes. You were fumbling with your belt, your zip, pulling down your trousers. I stared at your jockey shorts, suddenly anxious again. I knew about sex, of course. We’d covered the basics in biology, but my school was very much against any kind of sex education unless you counted Sister Teresa’s lectures and Mummy and Daddy hadn’t exactly filled in any of the gaps so I only had a bit of anatomy knowledge and a bunch of second-hand stories from girls at school to go on. Still, I knew what was inside your shorts.
‘Have you ever . . .?’ you asked, following my gaze.
I shook my head. You took my hand and placed it over the front of your shorts. It was harder than I was expecting. I gulped. Your breathing grew uneven again. You pulled down the front of the shorts and I stared, fascinated and horrified all at once. It was neither ugly nor beautiful, but it was surprisingly large.
‘That goes inside me?’ Again, the words were out of me before I could stop them.
I blushed, but to my relief you gave a low chuckle. ‘If I turn out to be the luckiest man on the planet.’
You drew me to you again, your fingers working away at me. I lay back and stared up at the ceiling. The summer house spun around me. Out of the corner of my eye the edge of the metal tin containing the boules set we used to play with when we were younger glinted in the moonlight. I don’t know how much time passed before you rolled on top of me. Still murmuring how beautiful I was, how amazing it was to be with me, you pushed yourself inside me.
‘Relax,’ you crooned in my ear. ‘You’re everything, everything.’
I closed my eyes, willing myself to make it work. Down there it hurt a little, but not more than I could bear, and anyway what did a tiny bit of pain matter if I got to hear you say such things.
You grunted, moving on top of me. And then with a sudden thrust you pushed harder. A searing pain shot through me.
‘Aagh.’ I caught my breath, embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I was pathetic.
You lay still. The pain lessened to a dull throb.
Maybe you were nearly done. I summoned all my courage and looked up at you.
‘Almost halfway in,’ you whispered, eyes twinkling.
Only almost halfway? My stomach contracted.
‘It hurts.’ The words almost squeaked out of me. I turned my face away, ashamed I was being such a child.
‘Just relax,’ you grunted.
I bit my lip, willing myself to do so. But it was impossible. The pain was building. I couldn’t see your face but you sounded like you were concentrating as you moved in small thrusts, each one leaving me in agony.
‘Please.’ A tear trickled out of the corner of my eye. ‘Please.’
I meant ‘please stop’. But I said it so quietly it’s possible you didn’t hear. Your mind was on what you were doing. With another thrust that seemed to tear me in two you let out a low, triumphant roar.
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, fuck, yes.’
I squeezed my eyes tight shut. ‘Please stop.’ Shame flooded through me as I whispered the words. I had failed to do this properly.
Again, you didn’t seem to hear.
You pumped into me. Each thrust more violent than the last. My head spun. I felt sick. My voice seemed lost deep inside me but somehow I found it.
‘Stop,’ I said, louder than before. ‘Stop.’
You thrust again.
‘Stop!’ I said, even louder.
This time you definitely did hear.
‘Soon,’ you crooned. ‘Soon, beautiful.’
‘Please.’ I was sobbing now, suffused with pain and shame. I couldn’t even get it right when it came to asking you to stop. ‘Please, Dex, it hurts.’
You ignored me and deep inside me something broke. I could feel myself withdrawing into myself. Silence consumed the summer house, the world. You were right inside me but the distance between us filled oceans. I was only the pain between my legs, radiating through my whole body. I willed myself not to be sick, counting the thrusts. One. Two. Three.
Soon, surely, it would be over.
On the ninth thrust you gave a loud groan. You stopped moving, held yourself above me, eyes closed and panting for a few seconds, then you rolled over. I lay still, locked inside myself. The pain was harsh and burned through me. But worse than the pain, even through my vodka-induced nausea and fuggy-headedness, was the deep, dark shame roiling through me like a wave.
There was dampness between my legs and under me. I knew from the textbooks that was the ejaculation, the semen. It felt like the dirtiest thing in the world. I pulled my bunched-up dress down, over the shame.
You sat up, tugging your trousers back over your hips. You stood up, adjusting the belt.
‘Dex?’ You must have been able to hear the miserable shake in my voice but you didn’t look at me. Just ran your fingers through your hair, brushed down your shirt and picked up your jacket.
I watched you, stunned. Where had the loving, crooning Dex of just a few seconds before gone?
‘Er, guess we better keep this under our hats,’ you said, looking at me at last. You sounded uncharacteristically awkward.
I nodded, covering my chest with my arms.
‘Promise?’ you asked.
‘I promise.’
You turned and left without another word. I got up, feeling numb. I could barely walk, partly from the soreness between my legs, partly from the drink. The rest of the night is a blur. I just about managed to get my clothes back on. The lounger cushion was stained with blood – I had a vague memory of wide-eyed whispers in the school playground that this was normal when you lost your virginity but it still frightened me, particularly the idea that my parents might see. I shoved the cushion behind all the others and folded up the chair. I locked the summer house, replaced the key under the stone, staggered over to a tree and was violently sick. I might have even blacked out for a few minutes, I’m not sure. But the next thing I remember is being back in the house and creeping up to bed and Mummy coming to find me about ten minutes later and exclaiming that I looked very pale. I said I had stomach ache – which was true. By this point I ached all over, and was desperate to wash but didn’t dare risk the questions that I’d generate if I ran a bath in a house full of party guests.
Mummy drew the covers around my neck and kissed my forehead. I expected her to smell the alcohol on my breath but what I didn’t know then – though you presumably did – was that vodka leaves no tangible scent. Then she left and I lay alone, still numb, still drunk, still hurting down there like I’d been ripped into pieces.
I closed my eyes but the darkness scared me, so I stared out of the window at the moon. I would like to say that I was planning to get up in the morning and tell my parents exactly what had happened, but it wouldn’t be true. I already knew that, whatever the future held, I would keep my promise to you. I’ve thought a great deal about why I kept quiet. Mostly, I think, it was pride. Two sorts of pride . . .
I couldn’t bear to admit to anyone, especially my parents, what I’d let you do. I was ashamed of how far I’d fallen from the standards that Daddy, in particular, had set for me and knew that it would doubly hurt him because he had already so spectacularly, in his own eyes, failed to get Francesca to live by those standards.
And I still, at that point, thought you might call me or want to see me the next day or soon after. I still hoped that you loved me. Which is a different kind of pride, but sinful nevertheless.
Of course now I�
�m aware that what I thought of as my failing, my ineptitude in your seduction of me, was in reality a rape.
Child rape.
A crime.
The murder of my innocence.
And the first time you killed. Though not the last.
HOME
Tuesday 19 January 2016
FRAN
I wake, groggily, aware only of my thick head and the dull ache around my wrists and ankles. It’s hard to force my eyes open. I have no idea where I am or what has happened, just that it’s dark and cold. I’m indoors, on the floor. Bare boards. Dust in my nose. Shadowy shapes rear up all around me. I kick out; my feet are bound together, the rope straining as I try to push them apart. There’s rope around my wrists too: tighter, cutting into my skin. It takes a huge effort to sit upright. Blinking away the sleep from my eyes I look around. What the hell?
Jesus. I’m in the summer house in Dad’s back garden.
How on earth did I get here?
A footstep in front of me. It’s Dex, a scarf in his hand.
And in an instant it all floods back:
Ruby taken. Harry dead. Uncle Graham’s flat. And Dex, so helpful, so supportive, urging me into his car, insisting on taking me to the police, offering me a drink . . .
‘The bottle of water?’ I gasp.
Dex gives a curt nod.
‘You?’ I gulp. Tears prick at my eyes. Dex is my cousin, my best friend from childhood. Why on earth would he want to hurt me or Harry or . . . oh, no . . . Ruby? I struggle to sit up, fighting the dizziness.
‘Where’s Ruby? Do you have her? Is she all right?’ I strain against the ropes that bind me.
Dex says nothing, just crouches in front of me, the scarf open in his hand. For a single, horrible second I think he’s going to strangle me with it. Then I realise he is trying to wind it around my mouth, to gag me.
I wriggle back, away from him. ‘I don’t understand.’ My voice rises as I picture my daughter, semi-conscious in Uncle Graham’s flat. ‘Where’s Ruby?’ I repeat. ‘What have you done to her?’
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