Still Falling

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  I try again. ‘I’d sort of – not forgotten – not really but – you know …’

  She nods. ‘Take your time,’ she says.

  She sounds older. Calm. The way she was on the first day of term.

  ‘My mum’s boyfriend. Stephen …’ My voice chokes to a standstill on the name.

  If she’s shocked she doesn’t show it.

  ‘He wasn’t like some gross pervert. Like Jimmy Savile or someone. I mean he was just normal. Nice even. When we went to Tesco he used to make Mum get me the mini-boxes of cereal – you know the selections? She’d never get them because she said they were a waste of money, there was always one I wouldn’t eat, and he said whatever one I didn’t like he would eat. God, it sounds so stupid.’

  I pull at the loose thread in my jeans, wind it tight around my middle left finger until the top of my finger starts to throb.

  ‘What age were you?’

  ‘Ten. He moved in. I was glad – he made Mum happy; she was crap on her own. She kept saying how lucky we were. He took me to football, bought me stuff – it was like having a dad. I’d never – she’d had other blokes but they never really bothered with me.’

  ‘You trusted him?’

  ‘I suppose. And then – he started coming into my room. He used to run Mum a bath – and she’d go in and close the door, and she’d have the radio on – and he’d come in.’

  I didn’t know I remembered all those details, but just saying it out loud – orange bubble bath smell stings my nostrils, sickens my stomach. I swallow. ‘At first he just talked to me and I – liked it. The attention. But then he asked me to – well, touch him. You know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t like it but I – I didn’t hate it. I sort of blanked it out. He gave me stuff. Trainers. Money. A phone. I know I shouldn’t have taken them.’

  ‘You were a child.’

  You let it happen. You asked for it.

  But the more I speak out loud, the weaker Stephen’s voice in my head gets.

  ‘But then it got – more.’

  ‘What kind of more?’

  I look down at her hands on my arms. The first time I was ever aware of Esther her hand was on my arm. ‘At first he was only getting me to feel him up – wank him.’ I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at her. ‘But then …’

  ‘Did he start to touch you?’

  ‘He said I would like it, he said I wasn’t a kid any more and I might as well learn what it was all about.’

  ‘You were a kid.’ Her voice, which has been so calm and reassuring, is suddenly fierce.

  ‘I was old enough to – you know – respond. I mean – physically.’ I swallow down a sudden hot sickness in the back of my throat.

  Yes, you were, you dirty little boy. The voice strengthens again.

  Esther makes a little movement. I wait for her to flinch away.

  Because you’re disgusting.

  But she lifts her hands and her fingertips blot the tears I hadn’t realised were on my face. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t matter how your body responded. That’s just – mechanical. Or something. You were a child and he was an adult and if I had him here I would – I would …’ Her dark eyes flash with indignation. ‘I’d kill him.’

  ‘You can’t; he’s already dead.’ I start to laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh that explodes into hacking sobs. I fall against Esther. I shatter into pieces, and every piece is jagged and every piece hurts. ‘I’m sorry,’ I splutter into her chest.

  And Esther just holds all the pieces together. She whispers into my hair that it’s going to be OK. She hugs me so hard it nearly hurts but it’s the kind of hurting that feels really good.

  We sit like this for a long time.

  Distantly I hear the clock strike again. Quarter past. I pull away, sit up and try to rub my face with my sleeve. I’m hot and sticky and my head’s pounding. I can’t remember the last time I cried. Or talked that much. Certainly not about –

  Stephen. I make myself think his name.

  I told her. She believed me. She’s still here.

  I fell apart but I’m OK.

  ‘I think we need a drink,’ Esther says shakily. ‘This house is an alcohol-free zone. Maybe just as well. Coke OK?’

  I nod and go into the bathroom to wash my face. A red-faced boy, shocked, battered, but whole, stares back from the mirror.

  In the living room, we sit side by side, drinking Coke.

  ‘Luke – have you never told anybody before?’ Esther asks, setting her half-empty glass on the coffee table, and threading her fingers through mine.

  ‘I told my mum. After the – what I just told you about.’

  ‘And?’ she prompts.

  I give a dry laugh that hurts my raw throat. I take another sip of Coke. ‘She didn’t believe me.’

  I close my eyes. I see me, just about eleven, and Mum, her long blond hair, her purple skirt, her big eyes pleading with me to stop talking, stop spoiling everything.

  ‘She said, Don’t be disgusting. Stephen’s been so good to you – to both of us. He treats me like a princess.’

  Esther shudders. ‘What about how he was treating you?’

  ‘She said I was a dirty little boy, making things up.’

  ‘Your mum said that?’

  I shrug. ‘She said I watched too much TV. She said I was just jealous. Because she was pregnant. They were getting married.’

  The diamond flashes in the corner of my right eye. I blink.

  ‘So what did you do?’ she asks.

  I grimace. Mum not believing me was far worse than anything Stephen did. ‘Acted up. Running away, getting into fights at school and with her – we had this big row one time and I – I well, I kicked her – and after that she told Social Services she couldn’t cope.’

  ‘And what about the baby?’

  ‘She lost it. She kept having miscarriages – it was a bit ironic. She had me when she was sixteen, after some random shag – and then when she met the love of her life she couldn’t give him a baby.’

  ‘And what about Helena? Did she never know?’

  I shake my head. I didn’t think I’d ever mentioned Helena to her, but my brain’s all over the place at the minute.

  ‘It’s not like I’ve gone round thinking about this every day of the last six years, you know. Sometimes I’d forget all about it for months – years, even. Living with Helena – it was good, really. When she realised I was quite bright she kept me at it, working hard, helping me with my homework. I didn’t have time to think about anything else. And best of all she wasn’t – well, I knew she wasn’t going to come snuggling into my bedroom any time. I knew where I was with her. Until …’ I trail off.

  Esther’s round cheeks suddenly blaze red. ‘Luke,’ she says, ‘I don’t know how you’ll react to this.’ She chews her lip. ‘I’ve met her.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You were unconscious. I felt – I needed someone to help me understand why you could have hurt yourself so badly. Brendan was away at some conference and then – I thought of Helena. I knew you’d lived with her for ages so I thought, well, whatever she’s like she must at least know you. So I – er – tracked her down and went to see her.’

  ‘You went all the way to Dublin?’

  Esther nods. ‘Do you mind? I didn’t tell her about Jasmine or anything. Just about the overdose. She – I think she felt bad about – how things had ended up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Thinking about that time is nearly as bad as remembering Stephen. ‘Helena was OK,’ I say, trying to be fair. ‘If it hadn’t been for her I’d never have got into Mansfield. She was always telling me the statistics about kids in care, dropping out of education, and she made me feel I could do anything, be anything – but then … it all changed. Mum died –’

  ‘And Stephen? Helena said it was your mum and her husband.’

  ‘Yeah. I was so angry with them for dying. It was like he’d got away with it. I we
nt crazy. Did some stupid stuff. Helena just freaked. She only knew me as this good, quiet boy who just wanted to do his homework and read and play a bit of football and suddenly she had to deal with this – I don’t know –’

  ‘Normal person?’ Esther suggests drily.

  ‘The epilepsy was the final straw. It was hard not to see it as some kind of – judgement.’

  ‘Luke, you know that’s daft. It’s a physical thing. It’s just electricity in your brain.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  This is what all the leaflets and doctors say. It’s what I’ve told Lauren, whose epilepsy is far worse than mine. But it’s different when Esther says it. And now – after everything that’s happened – the epilepsy doesn’t seem that big a deal.

  Esther squeezes my hand. ‘Luke – can I ask you something?’ Without waiting for an answer she says, jaggedly, as if the words hurt, ‘I totally get how you might have believed you could have hurt Jasmine. Because of that bastard making you think …’ She looks down at our twined fingers. ‘But when you were – when we were – together – you always seemed to be – well, pushing me away…’ She looks up at me, frowning. ‘Was that also because …?’

  For ages I don’t know how to answer. ‘I’d never been with anyone before. I kept hearing Stephen’s voice: You liked that, didn’t you? Don’t pretend you didn’t like that. I hadn’t thought about him for – years. Being with you – it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but it brought it all back too.’ I shudder. ‘Christ, Esther, I was so scared. Of hurting you. Of being – like that.’

  ‘You thought you’d hurt me?’

  ‘I suppose – I associated anything sexual with …’ I swallow. ‘I thought I wasn’t normal.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t fancy me,’ Esther whispers. ‘I thought you liked me and were – you know – comfortable with me, but that that was all.’

  I look down at our clasped hands and wonder how two people can love each other and still get things so wrong. And I realise I’ve never thought the word love before, but I know it’s right.

  ‘You’re beautiful. I did fancy you,’ I whisper. ‘I mean, I … I do.’ I cup the back of her neck with my free hand and pull her head towards me, very slowly.

  It’s a brief kiss, a nervous kiss, but for the first time it isn’t interrupted by Stephen’s voice.

  I wait. Nothing. Just Esther’s breath, and the thump of my own heart. So I kiss her again.

  Esther

  Luke and I walk into tutor group together. It’s his first day back. He was meant to wait until after half term, but Dad suggested coming in for one day, just to break the ice, sort out his new timetable now that he’s switched from economics to art, and let people get used to seeing him round. I know he’s nervous because he’s told me – we’ve done more talking in the last week than we have since we met – though he looks detached and calm. But when I find his hand and give it a quick squeeze his fingers close on mine tightly.

  Jasmine and Cassie perch on their desks in poses designed to show off their legs. They look up when we walk in, and Jasmine blushes so hard you can see it beneath her makeup. Cassie keeps on talking. The twins give identical small smiles and one of them says, ‘Hi.’ Nobody else bothers much. There’s a holiday buzz already.

  Toby makes space for us. He grins at Luke. ‘You’re so lucky you’re dropping economics,’ he says. ‘You should see what she expects us to learn over half term.’

  ‘Yeah, colouring-in’s going to be far better,’ Luke says. ‘Tell me what we did in maths.’ He gets out his homework diary and for a moment, as Toby starts talking incomprehensibly about maths, panic flits across his face.

  ‘Hey,’ I say softly, ‘you don’t have to catch up all at once.’

  ‘Are you going to the Halloween party tomorrow?’ Toby asks, tactfully abandoning maths.

  Luke and I exchange glances.

  ‘Hadn’t really thought about it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m going,’ Toby says, ‘with’ – his cheeks flame – ‘Mihai.’

  ‘Mihai?’

  ‘I know him from chess club. He – um – asked me last week. Says he thought I was gay but didn’t like to make a move because he wasn’t sure, and … anyway. You can come with us if you like.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Luke says. ‘Esther?’

  ‘OK.’ Fourth time lucky for the jade dress.

  Baxter comes in, sees Luke, accepts his absence note without any fuss – clearly the teachers have been briefed about how to treat him, probably by Dad – and packs us all off with stern warnings about being careful with fireworks. Like we’re seven.

  I have French; Luke has maths. We pause at the classroom door, and he rubs my arm, which I know means, Public displays of affection in school are tacky, but if we weren’t in school I’d kiss you.

  And in a few hours’ time we’ll be free of school for a whole week. Luke has counselling twice a week, and he says it’s like pulling scabs off a sore, but he supposes in the end it’ll make the sore heal better – but we’ve loads of plans for the other days: going to Dublin for a day on the train, meeting up with Ruth and Adam, going sketching along the tow path if the weather’s good enough. And I’ll do some girl stuff with Ruth too. She wants me to help her plan her eighteenth.

  Luke heads out with Toby. Mihai’s waiting outside, and I see Toby introduce him to Luke. I hear a quick burst of laughter, then the three boys walk away together.

  Luke turns just before they go through the double doors at the end of the corridor. ‘See you in art,’ he says, and he smiles.

  THE END