Entangled

by Cat Clarke

  When I woke up in the morning, Nat was already dressed and downstairs, leaning against the kitchen work surface and munching on a piece of toast. I wandered over to him and put my arms around him, kissing his neck.

  ‘What’s with the early morning?’

  ‘It’s hardly early! It’s eleven thirty and I’m going to be late for work.’

  Crap. Forgot about that. ‘Aww no … work? Really? I was thinking … maybe … you could phone in sick. We could spend the day in bed,’ I said in maximum-allure mode. I went to kiss him, snaking a hand around his waist. Nat moved his head at the last second, so I got a mouthful of cold ear instead. He gave me the slip and ended up on the other side of the kitchen, hands raised as if he was surrendering. But he wasn’t.

  ‘No no no no no. That’s not going to work – not this time. I really have to get to work. I’m sorry – I know it sucks.’

  ‘But, Nat …’ Even I didn’t like the whiny tone I could hear in my own voice.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be back at about seven.’

  I knew when I was beaten. I sighed. ‘OK, but you’d better make it up to me later.’ I was only half joking. I really was pissed off that he’d rather go and work in some poxy pub than spend the day with me.

  ‘I will. I’ll see you later.’ He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead and was gone.

  As I trudged upstairs, I caught a look at myself in the mirror on the landing. Petulant expression and a serious case of bed hair. No wonder he’d scarpered so quickly – who could blame him?

  The best-laid plans turn to shit.

  My mood didn’t improve until I’d had a shower and dealt with the hair situation. I decided it was a good thing that Nat took his job seriously. It showed he was grown-up and responsible and lots of other things that I’m not. It didn’t mean that he was a boring goody two-shoes who wouldn’t know rebellion if it came up and spat in his face. And he wasn’t going to be gone that long anyway. I just had to find something to fill my day – that was all. No big deal.

  I wolfed down some cereal and spent a couple of hours watching TV, surfing a gazillion channels, trying to stay ahead of the adverts so that I never had to watch one. Then I headed upstairs and sorted out my nail varnishes, chucking out the ones that were too crusty for words. That took all of five minutes, but I did line them up in order of colour, which I found strangely satisfying. Then I downloaded some songs onto my iPod. Then I listened to them and wondered why I’d bothered.

  Then there was nothing else to do.

  That interminable Saturday afternoon, as the clock stubbornly refused to fast-forward the way I wanted it to, I did something inexplicable. I cut myself.

  Ethan and I haven’t spoken today. Not surprising really. He’s been in a few times, but it’s the same each time: he looks at me; I look at him; he looks away. The cut above his mouth looks bad, and the skin around it is swollen and tinged with yellow. It’s hard to believe that I did that. I don’t feel good about it, but every time I opened my mouth to apologize, something stopped me. You can’t keep someone locked up for this long and not expect them to go a bit mental. He brought it on himself. Kind of.

  After each Ethan visit I listened hard, in case I heard him inside my head again. I didn’t. Then I realized what a fool I was being and laughed out loud.

  day 26

  Another day dawns, or maybe it doesn’t. For all I know the sun has stopped shining and the world has come to an end. Maybe Ethan and I are the only ones left. Not a comforting thought. But if we are the only ones left then I’m going to have to talk to him at some point. Might as well start today if I don’t want to die of loneliness. Besides, it might be down to us to repopulate the planet. Or something.

  It’s when I’m alone that the doubt sets in. It’s been that way for years. As long as there are people around, I can pretend that everything’s OK. But I need that audience to pretend for, otherwise it doesn’t work. Alone, I’m not that easy to fool.

  It’s not that I mind being alone, not really. I can distract myself with silly fantasies and daydreams for hours, but in the end it always comes back to me. That’s what I’m left with: just me. And that’s what scares me more than anything. Me. The thoughts I try to purge by cutting. The memories that seem to get louder and brighter the harder I try to forget. The whys and what ifs. And always crouching somewhere in the background, waiting to knock me down whenever things seem OK for once, is the thought – the knowledge – that breaks my heart: my father would be ashamed of the person I have become.

  Sometimes I used to feel glad he was dead, just so I didn’t have to see the look on his face when I stumbled home completely off my face, clothes a mess, mouth red-raw from kissing some random. She never cared. She never waited up. Dad would have though, I’m sure of it. He would have worried about me and shouted at me and grounded me and told me I couldn’t see those boys any more. And I would have cried and slammed my bedroom door and begged to be allowed out. But inside it would be different. Inside I would be secretly pleased, comforted by the knowledge that someone cared. I wouldn’t go out every weekend. Sometimes I would stay at home and watch telly with him, even those crappy old sitcoms he loved so much. She might be there too, but we wouldn’t care either way. It would be different. Everything would be so different. I might not have gone to the park that day, armed with a bottle of cider. That’s where it all began – that’s where I began.

  I was fourteen and clueless. It was all down to Tanya. She sat next to me in English and we’d become almost-but-not-quite friends over the past few months. She was pretty (but wore too much mascara), clever (but could never be bothered to do any work) and bitchy as anything (but she was nice to me, so that was OK). One Friday in May, Tanya asked me what I was up to at the weekend. ‘This and that, y’know’ was my particularly eloquent answer, not wanting to admit that I was headed for another weekend in front of the telly. It was around the time that Mum had started going away and the TV was my constant companion – anything to stop the silence from suffocating me. But Tanya was having none of it. ‘Fuck “this and that”. Why don’t you come out with us tonight?’ The thought of going out with Tanya and her friends scared the crap out of me, but I found myself saying yes in spite of myself. She told me about an off-licence near the park that would sell to anyone, no matter how young they looked, and said everyone was meeting at the kids’ play area at eight. I had no idea who ‘everyone’ was.

  I nearly chickened out when I was getting ready. It would be so much easier to stay at home. I could take my duvet downstairs, curl up on the sofa and order a pizza. But I didn’t. I changed into a shortish skirt and a pretty black top that I’d never worn before. I pulled on my boots and checked that my make-up was OK. My face looked different, maybe because I’d gone a little bit overboard on the kohl. I felt different too. Maybe this was going to be the start of something for me. These people didn’t know me, not really. I could be different; I could be anyone.

  Buying the booze was as easy as Tanya had said, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The lady behind the counter was about a hundred years old, with the thickest glasses I’d ever seen. She asked if I was eighteen, and (surprise, surprise) I said I was. I’d never drunk much of anything before, so cider seemed like a safe choice: apple juice with a bit of a kick.

  I approached the play area with caution. I could hear laughter coming from the den at the top of the climbing frame. Suddenly a bottle came hurtling out of one of the windows. It sailed over my head and smashed on the path behind me. I nearly bolted, but Tanya’s head poked out right at that second.

  ‘Grace! Hi! Come on up!’ So I did as I was told.

  It was a tight squeeze inside the den. There were seven people already in there: Tanya and two of her friends from school, and four boys I’d never seen before. I sat near the entrance and Tanya introduced me to everyone. I recognized Zoë and Kirsty, but of course they had no clue who I was. The boys had ridiculous nicknames that I found hard to remember. But the one next to m
e was Kez and I could remember that. His leg was pressed against mine in the confined space.

  It was awkward at first. I could feel the judgemental stares of Zoë and Kirsty, but Tanya did her best to make me feel comfortable, talking at a zillion miles an hour about how I was one of the only cool people in her English class, and that if it wasn’t for me she’d have died from boredom already. She passed me the bottle she’d been swigging from and I took a big gulp, which burned my throat as it went down. But it felt good; it made me feel strong somehow.

  They’d all had a bit of a head start on the drinking, so I did my best to catch up. I cracked open my cider and passed it around. As the others joked and laughed, I mostly listened. One of the boys was clearly a loudmouth joker, and the others (Kirsty in particular) thought he was hilarious. I wasn’t convinced. After a while it became clear that the girls weren’t in the least bit bothered that I was there; they were one hundred per cent focused on the boys. That suited me just fine.

  Later, it dawned on me why Tanya had invited me: I was there to make up the numbers. I felt stupid for not realizing straight away. Kirsty was with Loudmouth, Zoë was already snogging the nondescript one in the corner, and Tanya was clearly interested in the best-looking one of the bunch. I was there for Kez. That was my purpose. But I was sort of drunk, and I didn’t mind one little bit. I turned to Kez and tried to look at him impartially, but things were already getting a little blurry. His hair was bleached blond and styled with a lot of gunk. The roots were starting to show through. He had a nice enough face, but a nasty patch of acne on his chin. Shiny white teeth that stood out in the darkness of the den. He looked to be quite slight, but it was hard to tell with us all squished together. Only now did I notice the way he’d been looking at me – sort of wolfishly. I was a lamb to the slaughter and I hadn’t even realized. The sacrificial virgin.

  One by one, or rather two by two, the others gradually disappeared. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were doing. And then there were two.

  Kez put his hand on my thigh and said, ‘So, how come I haven’t seen you round here before?’ I turned to face him as his hand crept higher. Instead of answering his question, I kissed him, because that was what he expected. I’d kissed a few boys before – boys I’d been out with for a week or two – but this was different. Kez tasted like beer and oranges and something kind of musky and grown-up. Kissing him was strange. I felt like he was trying to eat me up, like he couldn’t get enough. Not exactly unpleasant, but it took a bit of getting used to.

  Before long I was lying on the floor with Kez on top of me. How did that happen? I didn’t really care. Kez was kissing and touching and rubbing me and it felt … well, nice. He was breathing hard and starting to moan a little as he was grinding against me. I knew full well what was about to happen – unless I stopped him. I didn’t stop him. I think he expected me to stop him.

  I remember thinking something along the lines of … So this is it? This is really it. I am actually having sex. Huh. Yes, it felt odd to be so very close to someone I had barely said two words to. But it was also weirdly comforting – this strange, sweaty boy who wanted me so much. For those few minutes I felt like he needed me. And I needed him. He seemed so grateful too. It didn’t last long. At the time I wondered if he’d been so fast just in case I changed my mind. Of course, now I know better. And of course it had hurt a bit, but it was a good hurt – a badge of honour.

  Afterwards, we hardly spoke. I sorted out my clothes and Kez rifled through a plastic bag for a can of beer. He drank greedily and then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He watched me in silence. I didn’t know what to say. What could we talk about? We didn’t know each other. We had nothing in common, and probably never would. Suddenly I wanted to go home and snuggle up in my own bed – all alone, the way it was supposed to be.

  Before I could move, Kez shuffled closer to me. He put his hand on my waist and kissed me, ever so gently. And everything felt good again, until he whispered in my ear, ‘Tanya didn’t think you’d be up for it. But I knew you would the minute I saw you.’ I pulled away and asked him what he meant.

  ‘I knew you wanted it. I could just tell.’

  I could feel my face redden. ‘How? How could you tell?’

  ‘I dunno. Just a feeling, innit? Some girls, you can just tell. Don’t look at me like that! It’s a good thing, knowing what you want. Not like those girls who lead you on and on till you’re ready to explode and then they change their mind. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’ He moved to kiss me again and I didn’t stop him. I didn’t think he was trying to hurt me with his words. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true: I got the distinct impression that he was trying to compliment me.

  So I was one of those girls. It was official. And if I hadn’t been one before, I certainly was now. There was no going back for me.

  I talked to Ethan. Asked him if his mouth hurt. He looked confused for a moment, and then he touched his fingers to the cut, as if to remind himself it was there.

  ‘No, it doesn’t hurt at all.’

  ‘Good. Look, Ethan, I’m sorry. It should never have happened. I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, I mean, clearly I wasn’t thinking. I don’t go round randomly hitting people, you know. I just … it’s hard being here. There’s too much time to think. Anyway, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Grace.’

  ‘Of course it matters! I attacked you! I’m clearly losing my mind in here.’

  Ethan shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

  Here we go again, I thought. I didn’t have the energy to go round in circles with him. ‘I’m sick of thinking about stuff. And I’m sick of writing it all down. Why am I even bothering? No one’s going to read it.’

  Ethan leaned against the door. ‘Have you read it, Grace?’

  ‘Er … no. I don’t need to – I know what it says.’

  Ethan shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. The meaning was clear: That’s what you think.

  I turned to the pile of scrawled pages beside me. It couldn’t do any harm, could it? I started to read, and soon forgot Ethan was even there. I don’t know how long it took, but eventually I reached the last page, about that night in the park with Kez. I sighed and looked up. Ethan wasn’t standing by the door any more. He was sitting on the bed with his legs crossed.

  ‘Well?’ He looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Grace …’ He sounded like a teacher, disappointed when his star pupil gets an answer wrong.

  ‘Sad. I feel sad, OK? My life’s a fucking mess and I screwed everything up and I’m a terrible person. Happy now?’

  ‘It doesn’t make me happy that you’re hurting. Why would it?’

  ‘Why else are you doing this to me then? You must be getting some kind of kick out of it.’

  Ethan’s next words were unexpected. ‘You miss your father, don’t you?’

  ‘Dad? What’s he got to do with this?’ I said cagily.

  ‘What was he like?’

  I decided to play along. ‘He was … just Dad. A typical dad, y’know?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  I decided to play along; what harm could it do? ‘Well, he used to embarrass me all the time. He’d do it on purpose. Like in the supermarket, he’d start doing monkey impressions for no reason. And the more embarrassed I got, the louder and more embarrassing he’d be. He didn’t care who was watching – he never cared what other people thought. Not like me – I was always looking around, worrying that someone from school would see me. It was all right when I was younger. I used to join in and we’d have such a laugh.

  ‘He was so good with people. Everybody loved him and laughed at his stupid jokes. He was the only person who could make Mum laugh. She never laughs at stuff on TV, even when it’s really funny. But Dad could make her laugh just by wiggling his eyebrows.’

  I stopped talking,
suddenly aware that this was the most I’d said about Dad for years. Even with Sal I’d always been vague, claiming that I couldn’t really remember what he was like. She never questioned how blatantly ridiculous that was, and I was grateful.

  ‘It sounds like you loved him very much.’

  ‘He was my dad – of course I loved him.’

  ‘That’s good, Grace. You’re doing really well.’

  I shrugged, not really sure what he was getting at.

  I told Ethan about Dad’s terrible cooking and how he used to invent mad dishes by chucking a bunch of leftovers in the pan and adding Worcestershire sauce. I told him about going to the cinema with Dad and getting hotdogs and nachos and the biggest box of popcorn you’ve ever seen (and throwing up in the car on the way home). I told him things I thought I’d forgotten. Things I hadn’t thought about for years and years. Silly, inconsequential things. But it felt good to say them out loud, to speak the words to someone who listened and nodded and smiled in all the right places. Ethan never looked bored or tried to change the subject or talk about himself. He let me go on and on and on, for God knows how long.

  And then he stopped me in my tracks with one question. His voice was ever so quiet, his face the very picture of sympathy as he uttered six words:

  ‘Tell me about how he died.’

  Wasn’t expecting that. No one ever asked me that. Nat never asked me.

  ‘There was an accident. A terrible accident.’

  ‘What happened?’ Ethan spoke so softly it felt like he was inside my head again.

  Deep breath. ‘He was coming back from a business trip. It was my birthday …’