by Simon Lelic
“Have sex?” Susanna stares, and as she does some of the phrases Adam has used come back to her. He’s spoken of Jake’s “feelings” toward Alison, of their “relationship.” He’s talked about love, for pity’s sake!
And sex. Sex!
“It wasn’t sex, Adam. It was rape. Rape. Sex is beautiful, joyous. Rape is . . . It’s the opposite. It’s vile. It’s violent. It’s about the most awful thing you can do to someone and afterward leave them still alive.”
“Oh, please,” Adam responds, and as far as Susanna is concerned, he might as well have slapped her across the face. “Sex, normal sex, can be rough too. It can be forceful. Even inappropriate. And I admit their relationship was inappropriate, Susanna. But what I’m saying is, maybe, based on all the evidence, it wasn’t actually rape. Not really. Maybe what happened is that he and my mother had sex and it was Jake who saved my mother from the fire. That’s the only story that makes sense. He loved her, remember? He practically says as much in his letters!”
And there it is: evidence, as if Susanna needed it, of how damaged Adam really is. Deranged, even. His judgment is as twisted as his logic.
Susanna, watching him, is aware what she must look like. Adam sees her staring at him, the disbelief in her eyes, and he looks back at her with outright contempt.
“You see,” he says. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Susanna forces her mouth closed. She watches as Adam resumes pacing around the room, faster this time, like there is something he is trying to escape.
“Your mother . . .” Susanna starts to say. Adam gives no indication he is listening but Susanna forces herself to continue even so. “Your mother, Adam: she dropped the charges because she was ashamed. Rape, for a woman . . . It’s not just the act itself that’s so hard to bear. It’s the humiliation. It’s the prospect of having to live it all again. In police interviews, in court, in cross-examination. And that’s before you even consider how to explain it to your friends and family. How you can hope to get across that it wasn’t—even partly—your fault. Because that’s what other people invariably think, you know. That a woman who’s been raped, she must have done something to encourage it. To deserve it, in fact.”
Susanna speaks as though from experience. And though it’s true Susanna has never been a victim of such a horrific crime herself, she feels as passionately about the subject as she would if she had been. How could she not?
“That’s why she dropped the charges, Adam. That’s why she changed her story. She said she’d lied, then ran away, disappeared, because it was easier to do it that way than to relive what happened to her in court, and every day of her life after that. To subject herself to—”
But then it strikes her: she was pregnant.
Of course.
Alison was pregnant.
Susanna has always assumed that the reasons Alison changed her story, why she withdrew the accusation she’d leveled at Susanna’s son, were those she’s outlined to Adam. Shame, humiliation, fear. But the real reason she ran is because of her baby. Because she found out that she was pregnant. She was Catholic. She was a woman, for heaven’s sake; an expectant mother. And she wanted to protect her child.
Adam.
Adam is the reason his mother ran. He’s the reason they had to let Jake go. Public enemy one day; a victim himself the next. All because of Adam.
“You don’t understand. I knew you wouldn’t and you don’t.”
Susanna didn’t notice Adam moving so close. He is looming over her, a silhouette against the window in the darkening room. The knife flashes in his hand.
“What do you mean?” Susanna manages to say.
“I mean, my mother changing her story isn’t the point. Whether or not it was rape doesn’t even matter.”
“So what is the point? If you don’t think it was rape, why are you so angry about what Jake did? Why are you even here?”
Adam shifts and his smile, when Susanna sees it, is all fury.
“This. This is the reason I’m here.”
For a second Susanna assumes he is talking about the knife—that they have come to it, finally: the bitter end—and it is all Susanna can do when Adam moves to stop herself screaming.
But then he tosses a sheet of paper into her lap. The same thin blue airmail paper, the same slipshod scrawl. One final letter—which, when Susanna reads it, explains everything. What Adam thinks, why he’s here, how he knows. Because it is all right there, written down in front of her: every detail of Susanna’s darkest secret.
EMILY
13 SEPTEMBER 2017
It’s weird. Somehow, when I heard the knock on our front door this morning, I just knew it would be Adam. Even so when I opened up and saw him standing there, I couldn’t help looking a bit alarmed. Just because of Mum. Because of the whole sneaking around thing, what she’d say if she found out me and Adam have been seeing each other, let alone the fact we’re going away together tomorrow morning. (I still don’t know where Adam’s taking me, or how we’re getting there, or anything really, other than it’s finally happening!)
But anyway that’s my point: I panic when I open the door because I don’t want to ruin it, our secret trip, not when it’s getting so close. Plus, the other thing is, I’ve got to leave to get to school in like ten minutes, otherwise I’m going to miss my bus.
Adam laughs when he sees my face. “You look almost disappointed to see me.”
“What? No!” I say. “I’m surprised, that’s all.” I can’t help peering across his shoulder.
He smiles again. “Don’t worry. I saw her drive off.”
“What? Who?”
“Your mum. I hid over there, behind that van, until I was sure she was gone.”
“No, I know. It’s just, she might come back.”
“Doesn’t she work today?”
“I guess.”
“Then she won’t come back. Trust me.”
I want to ask him how he can be so certain but the fact is he’s right. Mum left twenty minutes ago, just before eight, which means if she hasn’t come back by now—like, if she’s forgotten something or something—then she won’t be home at least until lunchtime, probably not till gone six.
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Adam goes, and now he’s the one who’s peering past me.
“Right. Of course. Come in. Sorry.”
I get out of his way and he squeezes past me. I take a quick glance at our neighbor’s house but the windows are empty and their car’s gone from the drive, so they’ve probably all headed off to work too.
I try to relax.
“So what are you doing here?” I say, making an effort to sound pleased this time.
I turn and see Adam’s already disappearing down the hallway. He’s looking left, right, up, down, like he’s just stepped into some museum or something rather than our totally dull 1980s semi.
“Adam?”
I shut the door and hurry after him. He’s heading toward the kitchen, at the back of the house, and I can’t remember what state it’s in.
“What are you doing here?” I ask again when I catch up to Adam. Then, because it suddenly strikes me, “How do you even know where I live?”
“What?” Adam’s leaning through the doorway to check out the kitchen. He turns to face me. “Oh. You told me.”
“Did I?”
“Sure.”
I frown. I remember telling Adam roughly where I lived but not the exact address. But I guess I must have, and anyway I don’t get a chance to think about it because Adam’s off again, into the kitchen.
“Wow, this is nice. Really spacious. Your mum’s doing pretty well for herself, huh?”
Our kitchen’s just a normal kitchen. Frankie’s is way nicer. They’ve got this island where you can sit and have breakfast and this humungous American-style fridge that shoot
s out ice through the door, plus this, like, pan rack or whatever, which dangles from the ceiling in the center of the room. Sort of like art, or a chandelier or something. Ours is just, you know. Your basic kitchen. White cupboards, gray surface, crappy laminate floor. And yeah, there’s space for a table but only just, and to me it always feels kind of poky. Me and Mum, we’re always bumping into each other around the sink.
And that’s the other thing: there’s stuff all piled in the washing-up bowl. I was supposed to clear away the breakfast stuff before school but I got distracted upstairs (packing, in theory, which basically involved piling everything I owned on my bed. It’s like, how are you supposed to pack for a trip away when you don’t even know where you’re going?).
But the kitchen, it’s a bit of a tip, is the point. There are even clothes hanging on the airer. Sheets, thankfully, no knickers (!), but even still.
Adam sees me watching him and there must be, like, an expression on my face.
“What’s wrong? Should I have taken off my shoes? God, sorry.” He bends to untie his laces.
“No, no, no, it’s not that. I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. It isn’t always such a mess in here, I promise.”
“Mess?” Adam checks around, as though he’s missed something. He looks at me after that like I’m crazy. “Trust me, this isn’t messy. Not in my book, anyway. It’s nice, actually. It looks real. You know, like a proper family home.”
I remember about his childhood then, his upbringing. His mum dying and his stepdad being such an arsehole. And I realize, what’s the big deal? So there are a few cereal bowls in the sink. So what? So finally I do relax. I smile, properly this time, and I remember: it’s Adam. As for school, thanks to my failed attempt at packing I was probably going to be late today anyway. Plus, if I’m ditching the next two days, what difference will an extra hour make this morning?
So what I say is, “Would you like a tour? Of the rest of the house, I mean.”
And Adam, he smiles back at me. “You know what?” he says. “I really would.”
* * *
• • •
Half an hour later we’re in my bedroom. It’s taken that long to show Adam around, even though there’s basically nothing to see. That’s what I thought, anyway, but I guess . . . I don’t know. Maybe it sounds all bigheaded to say this but I guess I underestimated how much Adam’s into me. You know? He was acting the way I would if I’d been looking around his home. All interested in every detail. Even Mum’s room. Especially Mum’s room. Although I figure that’s another part of his whole mum thing. You know, being . . . not jealous exactly, but . . . envious. Sad and that. About his own mum. So he was looking at Mum’s stuff, where she slept, the books on her bedside table, just everything really. He wasn’t obvious about it. He made out like he was looking at the view. Because he was embarrassed, I suppose. One thing I’ve learned about Adam is that he’s not exactly open with his feelings. So it was kind of sweet, I thought. Which is why, even though I knew Mum wouldn’t have liked it much, I let Adam look for as long as he wanted.
But after that we’re just sitting in my bedroom.
“Whoa,” Adam goes, when he sees my bed. Not my bed so much as the stuff on it. I told you, I’d pretty much emptied out my entire wardrobe. Jeans, dresses, tops, shoes, it’s all on there, like I’ve spent the morning building an indoor bonfire. Which is pretty much what I feel like doing with all my clothes because basically I can’t stand any of them. Some of the dresses in particular, I don’t even know what I was thinking.
“Is this all for tomorrow?” Adam asks me, which when he says it I have to return his grin.
“Not all of it, obviously,” I say. I spot some underwear (clean!) on the floor by my feet and I kick it under the bed. “But it’s hard, you know? Deciding what to take when I don’t even know what we’ll be doing.”
And what I’m hoping is Adam will give me some sort of clue then, just a hint even, but instead what he does is he keeps grinning.
“I wouldn’t sweat it,” he says. “Just take whatever you feel comfortable in. Maybe a jumper. It’s possible you might get cold.”
Which is odd, a bit, because the forecast for the entire country is sunny and twenty-five degrees. But I guess he’s just thinking of at night.
“You sound like my mum,” I say, which, again, he just smiles at.
“But you’re all set?” Adam asks me. “Not with the packing clearly. But with Frankie? That’s really the reason I came round. Just to check we’re all systems go.”
“Yep,” I say proudly, “all set. Mum thinks I’m staying at Frankie’s, as per, and Frankie thinks Mum’s making me stay at home.”
I don’t know how much Frankie believed me, but as long as no one starts looking for me until I get home on Friday evening, that’s basically all I care about.
“What about music?” I ask Adam. “I’ve got this little speaker for my phone. Should I bring that? And what about Wi-Fi? Should I download some playlists before we go? What kind of stuff, do you think? Like, acoustic maybe?” Romantic, is what I mean.
“Sure,” Adam goes. “Whatever. Although to be honest I doubt we’ll have that much time to listen to music.”
“I just thought when we’re . . .” In bed, I almost say! “Chilling out or whatever. Maybe in the evening?”
“There’s not going to be much of that, either,” Adam says. “Chilling out, I mean. The next two days: they’re going to be pretty exciting. For both of us.”
“Really?” I’m smiling so much at this point I can hardly get my mouth wide enough.
“Really.”
“Oh,” I say, remembering. “What about money? I was going to head to the cashpoint after school. How much do you think I’ll need?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Adam goes.
“But . . .”
“Seriously. Don’t worry about it. Forget about music and forget about money. Just bring yourself. That’s really all either of us is going to need.”
I drop onto the bed beside him. “So where are we meeting? What time?”
Adam seems pleased to be getting down to business. He angles toward me.
“You know where the station is, right?”
“Like, the train station?”
Adam nods.
“Course,” I say. “Why, are we going by train? I love train journeys, like . . .”
“Emily . . .”
“But seriously, this one time, when I was young, me and Mum took the train all the way to Brighton. I told you about our day in Brighton, right? But the journey, on the train, it—”
“Emily.” He says it sharply. “Just listen. Will you?” I guess I jerk back or something, because it is, it’s like getting snapped at by a teacher. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just, this is important. You know?”
I do know. It’s my fault for prattling on like some excited little kid.
“Of course,” I reply. “Sorry. Go ahead. I’m listening, I promise.”
Adam takes this deep breath. “So tomorrow,” he says. “Behind the station there’s that old warehouse. Do you know the one I mean?”
“The old perfume place? With those big faded letters on the wall?”
“Right. There.”
“What . . .” I start to say but I catch myself. I wait for Adam to explain.
“There’s a hole in the fence beside the gates where you can squeeze in,” he says, “And then, around the back, past the entrance to the main building, there’s a row of lockups. Like, garages almost. Meet me there. Outside the unit with the yellow door.”
“The yellow door?”
“Right. And make sure no one sees you. The lockups are all empty, and obviously the warehouse is abandoned, so there won’t be anyone around anyway. But technically no one’s supposed to be there, and anyway you don’t want anyone to recognize you. Come early,
like for eight thirty or so, and you’ll be fine.”
“Er . . . OK,” I say. “Got it.” I salute, and Adam likes that, I can tell. It’s an odd place to meet but I don’t say so because I don’t want Adam getting angry again. And anyway he explains in the end without me even asking.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, taking my hand, “but it’s kind of where I’ve been staying lately. Just until I get a job.”
“You’ve been sleeping in a garage?” I say. It just blurts out of me, before I can stop it. And to think I was worried earlier about what Adam would think of the way I lived here!
Adam just smiles this lopsided-looking smile. “Just for the past few weeks. I had a room in this house for a while, but it fell through. And it’s not that bad, actually. It’s dry and secure and no one bothers me. Plus, best of all, it’s totally free. There’re even showers at the leisure center round the corner. You can use them and nobody stops you.”
Oh Adam. Oh you poor, poor thing.
I stop myself saying it this time but it’s there in my head even so. My free hand covers the top of his.
“Hey, it’s cool, I promise,” Adam insists. “And next week . . . Well. I’m pretty sure I’ll be moving on anyway.”
“Moving on? Like . . .”
“I don’t mean leaving.” He raises my hands to his lips. They’re cold and kind of dry but even so I go all tingly. I shiver in fact, and Adam grins. “Trust me,” he says. “You’ll be stuck with me for a good while yet.”
I smile then, and this time I kiss his hand.
“Tomorrow, then,” I say.
“Tomorrow,” he says back, and I can tell he’s just as excited about it as I am.
7 P.M.–8 P.M.
18.
The aftermath.
Susanna recalls precisely how it played out.
The first she knew that something had happened—something worse than the fire—was when she got home that evening. There was a police car parked in the driveway and lights were burning throughout the house. She’d lost track of Jake’s sleeping habits of late but it would have been unusual for him to be out of his room at this time of night. Neil too should already have been asleep. Either that or locked away in his “playroom,” where the only illumination would have come from his computer screen and the fag smoldering in the ashtray on the arm of his chair.
