by Karen Cole
‘Well, well, well. Abigail Brooke, isn’t it?’ He smiles as she approaches. It’s a lazy, teasing smile which makes her stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the baby inside her. He’s a man who’s used to getting women’s attention, Abby thinks. She can’t imagine he finds it difficult getting a sober woman into bed. Why would he resort to taking advantage of someone who was paralytic? But maybe he was as drunk as she was. That would explain a lot.
‘You remember me?’ she asks carefully.
He grins wolfishly. His eyes are dark green and seem to bore into her. ‘How could I forget?’ he says. ‘Danny’s party, New Year’s Eve, right?’
Jesus. How could he forget what? She clasps her hands behind her back. There’s something threatening about him, like the air before a thunderstorm. She’s attracted and repelled at the same time.
‘You were a very entertaining drunk.’ He leans on the bar, smiling.
Abby knows this is her opportunity to find out exactly what happened that night. But she finds herself tongue-tied. She wishes she were drunk now. That would make this a whole lot easier.
‘Well, what can I get for you, Abby?’
‘A pint and a Diet Coke please.’ Abby props herself up awkwardly on a bar stool.
‘How the hell is Danny, anyway?’ he asks, pulling the tap handle. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘You can ask him yourself. He’s over there.’ She points to the table where Danny is just visible through the crowd, sitting fiddling with his phone.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Alex plonks the glasses on the bar. ‘I might just do that. How long do you think you’ll be here?’
‘We weren’t planning to go anywhere else.’
He grins. ‘Good, Stick around. I’ll see if I can get some time off later.’
*
‘Well?’ says Danny when she comes back with the drinks. ‘Did you remember anything? Did seeing him jog your memory at all?’
‘No. That’s the scary thing. It’s like meeting a complete stranger. If I don’t remember talking to him, I suppose I could easily have had sex with him and forgotten about it.’
Danny sucks in one cheek. ‘I’m telling you, if you were so drunk that you don’t even remember meeting him, I just don’t think Alex would have slept with you.’
‘Maybe he didn’t realize how out of it I was?’
‘Hmm, maybe.’ Danny looks unconvinced. ‘Anyway –’ he takes a small notepad out of his jeans pocket – ‘I made that list you asked me to make.’ He tears a page out and hands it to her.
Abby looks at the paper. It’s a list of about twelve men’s names, written in Danny’s large flamboyant handwriting. Some of the names have been highlighted in yellow.
‘It was a busy party – is this everyone?’
‘I left out the women – for obvious reasons – and as you can see, I’ve highlighted some names for you. The rest of them are gay, so you can probably rule them out.’
‘Probably?’
He sighs as if he’s explaining the obvious. ‘Well, some of them might swing both ways. It’s not impossible, you know. Even I slept with a couple of women in my early twenties when I was still in denial about my sexuality.’
‘Really?’ Abby leans forward, intrigued. ‘What was it like?’
He shrugs. ‘It was a bit dispiriting, actually. It’s difficult to explain. I had to imagine I was doing it with a man to get any satisfaction, and there was no emotional connection.’
Abby absorbs this. It’s not hard to imagine women being attracted to Danny. He’s handsome and charming. She’s embarrassed to admit it now, but she was attracted to him herself, when she first met him, before she knew he was gay.
She stares into the fire, the flames licking at the logs. Then back at the list Danny’s given her.
There are four highlighted names:
Alex Taylor
Chris Baker
Andrew Wilson
Hugo Langley
Chris is a big teddy bear of a man married to her friend Thea, an English teacher at the school. She can’t believe that he could be the man they’re looking for. She can’t imagine him cheating on Thea for a start.
‘Who are Andrew Wilson and Hugo Langley?’ she asks.
‘Hugo’s a friend of mine from uni.’ Danny’s mouth curls a little. ‘I use the term “friend” loosely. He’s a bit of an arsehole, to tell the truth.’
Abby nods. ‘And Andrew Wilson?’
‘He’s Mark’s friend. About his only friend, as far as I can tell. They met at the medieval re-enactment society he belongs to.’
‘Mark’s a re-enactor?’ Abby can’t help smiling. She’s still trying and failing to imagine Mark in a suit of armour holding a sword when Alex comes over carrying a couple of tequilas and a pint.
‘On the house,’ he says. ‘I remember you like these.’ He winks at Abby, pulling out a chair between her and Danny.
‘How are you, Danny?’ Alex asks. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages. I think the last time must have been New Year’s Eve. It was a great night, wasn’t it?’ he adds, looking at Abby.
‘I don’t remember much about it,’ Abby says, as casually as possible. ‘I was so drunk, I don’t even remember getting home. I think someone gave me a lift. It wasn’t you, was it?’
Alex shrugs. ‘No, it wasn’t, unfortunately.’ He smiles at her. ‘You blew me off. You told me I was the best-looking man in the room, told me you wanted to have my babies, then you went to the toilet and didn’t come back. The next time I saw you, you were leaving with some arsehole.’
Danny’s eyes glitter with attention. ‘Who was it?’ he asks, leaning forward.
‘I don’t know his name. He works at one of the estate agents in town. He spent the whole evening handing out his card to everyone. Come to think of it, I’ve probably still got one.’ Alex fishes in his back pocket and brings out a wallet, pulls out a selection of business cards, and flicks through them. ‘Ah, yes here we go. Andrew Wilson, Estate Agent, Brown and Lowe.’
‘Andrew Wilson?’ Abby repeats, exchanging a look with Danny.
‘Yeah, that’s the guy. He looked like he was pushing forty, going thin on top. God knows what you saw in him. Wouldn’t have thought he was much of a catch. But there’s no accounting for taste.’ Alex grins. His green eyes meet Abby’s, and then he looks down at his beer glass, the liquid swirling. The old man at the bar is getting worked up about something. His voice raises as he bangs his fist on the bar.
‘Anyway, how are you, mate?’ Alex slaps Danny on the back. He turns to Abby. ‘Has Danny told us we went to school together?’
‘He did.’ Abby looks at Danny, who is smiling uncomfortably.
‘We’ve been mates since . . . God, since we were eleven, right? How many years is that? I’m telling you, Abigail, I could tell you a few stories.’
‘Please don’t,’ says Danny. His tone is light, but Abby thinks she detects an edge to his voice. Danny has told her before that he was bullied at school, and she knows it must bring back painful memories. She has sometimes wondered why he chose to come back and work in the very same place where he had such a bad time, but maybe it’s his way of squaring the circle.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell her anything too embarrassing.’ Alex grins. ‘We used to call him Spielberg. He was really into making movies. Do you remember when we made a horror movie? What was it called?’
‘The Ashridge Witch Project.’
Alex snorts with laughter. ‘Yeah, that was it. He made us all go to Ashridge Park at night. We didn’t have to act much. We were scared shitless.’
Danny chuckles. ‘Remember Jess, when we found the severed hand you made? The look on her face!’
They both laugh.
‘You were going to be a great movie director, do you remember?’
‘Yeah
, and look at me now.’ Danny grimaces. ‘Reduced to directing the school play.’
‘Well, we all had dreams. I was going to be the next Jimi Hendrix.’ Alex laughs ruefully. ‘And instead I’m stuck in a dead-end job pulling pints.’
‘You started that band in the sixth form and were too cool to hang out with me,’ says Danny. ‘The Impossible Moon. Whatever happened to that?’
‘Yeah, well, life takes over.’ Alex starts ripping up a beer mat. ‘How about you, Abby? Did you always want to teach Art?’
Abby starts, surprised. ‘How do you know I’m an Art teacher?’
‘You told me at Danny’s party. We were talking for ages. Do you really remember nothing?’
Abby shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ She wonders what else she might have told him. She has a horrible out-of-control feeling, not knowing what she said or did that night.
The conversation drifts onto other topics until Alex drains his drink and stands up. ‘Well, I’d better get back to work. Graham is giving me evils.’ He takes his phone out of his back pocket.
‘Do you have a phone number, Abby? We should get together sometime. Go see a movie or something.’
‘Er . . . yes.’ Abby is taken aback. ‘That would be nice,’ she says automatically. She tells him her number and he adds it to his contact list.
‘Great.’ He grins, and saunters away.
‘That was quick work,’ Danny comments once he’s out of earshot. ‘Are you really going to go out with him?’
Abby fiddles with her beer mat, tearing at the corners. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, he’s a great guy, but he’s not exactly boyfriend material. You know I told you he was in trouble with the police before.’
‘I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now.’ Abby shrugs. ‘I just think it might be useful to meet him again and talk. I need to find out if anything happened between us.’ As she says this, she wonders if it’s entirely true. She does want to find out what happened, but she wouldn’t be being honest with herself if she didn’t admit that she’s also more than a little attracted to Alex Taylor.
Danny sighs. ‘It wasn’t Alex, Abby. You heard him. He said you left with Mark’s friend, Andrew Wilson. Isn’t it much more likely to be him?’
Abby turns this idea over in her head. ‘But I was flirting with Alex all night. Why would I sleep with someone else? Unless . . . you were right. About me being raped, I mean.’ She breaks off.
‘Abby, I shouldn’t have said that before. I really think you would remember someone attacking you, no matter how drunk you were.’ Danny’s voice is sympathetic, but Abby can detect a hint of impatience.
‘Not if I was already unconscious,’ she says.
‘You really think you drank that much?’
Tears prick at the back of Abby’s eyes as another idea, even more horrible, occurs to her. ‘Someone could have slipped something into my drink.’
‘You mean like a date-rape drug?’ Danny looks incredulous.
‘It would explain why I don’t remember anything.’ It would explain, too, why she didn’t come back from the toilet after talking to Alex, when she was obviously so into him.
‘I don’t know.’ Danny shakes his head, his leg jiggling nervously. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but surely you would have noticed something at the time?’
Abby nods. ‘You’re probably right.’ She wants to believe Danny. But the idea won’t go away. She’s been drunk before, she has even blacked out before, but she’s never had such a giant hole in her memory. If she’d been drugged, it would explain a lot. She looks down at her drink, feeling dizzy. The atmosphere in the pub is suddenly suffocating, like there’s not enough air to breathe. It’s too hot, and the room feels too small, as if the walls are closing in on her. Someone laughs loudly, and the sound makes her shudder.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ she gulps down her Coke. ‘I’ve had enough of this place.’
‘Alright,’ Danny agrees, draining his beer.
Danny’s right, of course, Abby convinces herself as they walk to the car through the rain. What are the chances she was raped? Isn’t it much more likely she was simply drunk?
APRIL
By the end of the third month, your baby already has arms, hands, fingers and toes. Tiny hands open and close. Fingernails and toenails are growing, and external ears develop. Reproductive organs are developing as well, but it will not yet be possible to determine the sex of the baby from an ultrasound.
Seven
Abby is fighting back nausea. The children are using oil paints and there is a strong smell of turpentine in the classroom. With an effort of will she controls the urge to throw up. She stands up and walks around, looking at the children’s work, giving encouragement and advice where needed.
At least so far, the lesson is going well. The rain of the past few days has finally stopped, and a weak, cold sun is seeping through the grimy windows painting haloes around the children’s heads. Nine Yellow are far from angelic, but they are unusually subdued and compliant today. Even the biggest troublemakers, Carl Hunter and Kiera Brown, are quiet. Okay, Carl has chosen to paint a phallus rather than the still life in the style of Manet that he’s supposed to be doing, but Abby is choosing to ignore this. At least he’s not being disruptive.
But it turns out to be the calm before the storm. Ten minutes before the end of the lesson an argument breaks out between Kiera Brown and Hannah Logan. Abby tries her best to ignore them, but soon their voices are raised so loud she’s forced to go and intervene.
‘What’s the problem, girls?’ she asks, wrapping her cardigan around her belly. She hasn’t bought any maternity clothes yet, and under her baggy top, her trousers are held together with a safety pin because she can no longer do them up.
‘Kiera says you’re pregnant – you’re not pregnant, are you, miss?’ says Hannah, her grey eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure.
The question catches her off guard.
‘What?’ she says.
‘There’s a rumour going around that you’re pregnant. But I told her it weren’t true. It ain’t, is it?’
Now the whole class is silent, listening. They’re all staring at her. Abby feels the heat rise in her cheeks. ‘That has nothing at all to do with the lesson,’ she says. ‘Now, will you please get on with your work.’
‘I told you, it is true. She’s pregnant,’ says Kiera gleefully, sensing an opportunity to create trouble. ‘How many months are you, miss?’
‘That’s really none of your business . . . Now, can you all just get on with your work.’ Abby realizes she’s getting flustered, and predictably Carl pounces, enjoying her discomfort.
‘Who’s the father, miss? Is it Mr Campbell? Is he your boyfriend, miss?’
‘No, of course not. He’s my brother-in-law.’
‘Mr Thomas then, it’s Mr Thomas, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be dumb, Mr Thomas is gay,’ Aaron Rowe interjects, pushing his glasses up his nose. He’s usually a quiet, studious boy and it’s so unexpected, him challenging Carl Hunter, that for a moment everyone is silent. Even Carl looks taken aback.
‘Like you, you mean,’ he hurls back after a couple of seconds. Then he stands up. He’s about six feet tall and broad, too, with serious anger-management issues. Abby has no idea why Aaron, who usually wouldn’t say boo to a goose, has chosen to provoke the biggest, meanest kid in Year Nine, but she wishes he hadn’t.
‘Sit down please, Carl,’ she says, as calmly as possible.
‘But, miss, you heard him, he called me dumb. That’s well out of order, that is.’ But even as Carl is about to do as he’s told, Aaron opens his mouth again.
‘Idiot,’ he mutters under his breath.
‘What did you say?’ Carl’s
face is red now with anger. He stands up again and stomps over to Aaron. ‘Say that again to my face.’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ Aaron says.
‘Sit down please, Carl, or I’ll have to give you a behaviour point,’ Abby says, desperately trying to avert a disaster.
But it’s too late. Carl has gone beyond listening to reason. He wrenches Aaron out of his chair. Then he tears the glasses off his face and holds them up above his head, laughing.
‘Give them back!’ Aaron tries to grab the glasses, but Carl pushes him away. Then Aaron pushes him back and they start punching and kicking each other.
‘Stop that right now!’ shouts Abby, but her voice is shrill, and it’s drowned out by the shouting that erupts from the kids.
This is getting out of control. Abby tries to fight back panic, unsure what to do. On the one hand, she’d like to be able to handle the situation herself. On the other, somebody might get hurt if she doesn’t do something quickly. She needs to get help.
‘Skye, can you go and get Mr Campbell,’ she says urgently to one of the more responsible girls.
‘Yes, miss,’ says Skye, wide-eyed, and she scampers off.
By the time the girl returns out of breath, with Rob in tow, the boys are on the floor and Carl is pummelling Aaron’s face, while Abby and a couple of the children are trying to pull him off. With Rob’s help they manage to separate them. Rob does some bellowing, which silences the class, and then frogmarches Aaron and Carl down to the inclusion unit. The class settles back down and a few minutes later, thankfully, the bell goes for lunchbreak.
*
‘Are you okay?’ Rob asks in the staff room.
Abby nods, nursing a cup of tea. She feels embarrassed that she had to turn to Rob to control the situation.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I just don’t know what happened. One minute they were getting on with their work and the next, well, it was pandemonium, as you saw. God, please don’t tell Gina about this. She already thinks I’m incompetent as it is.’
‘Don’t worry. It was bound to happen sooner or later. If it hadn’t happened in your class it would have happened in someone else’s,’ says Rob filling his cup from the urn. ‘Carl Hunter has been asking for trouble since the beginning of term.’
