Everyone was watching us so I couldn’t be as forceful as I felt like being. “Why didn’t you ring me?” I snapped.
He stared at me. “You haven’t got your phone any more, remember? And I don’t know your landline or your new number. Why didn’t you contact me?”
I ducked my head. “Ditto, I suppose,” I muttered. “I did ring your phone once but it went to answerphone and I didn’t want to leave a message in case the police still had it. And I didn’t dare ring your house cos your mother made it clear she hated me, and Sappho never answered my text when I asked how you were, so I figured she didn’t want to hear from me…”
He smiled slightly. “Sounds like we’re quits then! Run tonight? Call at mine after work?” He got up again without waiting for a confirmation, obviously assuming it was a done deal, and I followed his progress across the room with my eyes with mixed feelings.
Someone leant over my shoulder and said quietly in my ear in a warning tone, “Mission creep, Eve.”
I glanced round, startled. It was Keith from Aerodynamics. He gave me a significant eyebrow raise, then moved on. I realised he was warning me that I was giving myself away with my expression. Drat it! I thought. What if he was right?
I’d eventually got my bike back off the police, and thankfully it had been none the worse for wear. But as Nish had pointed out, I’d been obliged to replace my completely trashed phone. So the first thing we did when I arrived at his flat was exchange phone numbers. Then we got into his car and he drove us up on the downs for a run. The nights were drawing in, so we only had an hour, and the last half an hour we were jogging back into the sunset.
“Shall we get a take-away?” Nish suggested.
We discussed the Singapore Grand Prix and the Malaysian starting tomorrow. He wanted to know if I’d heard any gossip. It was free practice tomorrow and we’d sent an upgrade for the engine.
When I got up to go he looked pleadingly at me.
“Why?” I defended roughly.
“I just keep getting these nightmares. Well, not nightmares exactly… seriously creepy threatening dreams and I wake up with my heart hammering in my chest…” His eyes dropped away from mine as though he was humiliated by having had to ask me.
I sighed. “Spare room,” I said sharply. “And no-one must know…”
But when it came time for bed he said, “Please Eve, just a cuddle for a few minutes till I get to sleep…” He interpreted my expression correctly and looked miserable. “I’m so sorry about that night, Eve,” he exclaimed. “Every time I think about it, I feel so embarrassed. I’m so ashamed of myself! And now-” He came to an abrupt halt and shook his head. “And now you don’t trust me, and when I did it, you’d only just lightened up with me… ”
I remained silent.
“I absolutely promise I won’t ever make a move on you again. I promise, Eve.” He sounded desperate.
“Maybe we should talk about it some more,” I suggested suddenly. I rubbed at my temples. Talking about things wasn’t really my scene, but this unfortunate event was like a running sore between us that we both found painful and were both trying, without success, to ignore.
His eyes flickered away as though he too didn’t really want to deal openly with it, but he nodded abruptly.
I sighed. “All I was doing was trying to comfort you. I thought we were friends. I thought it was ok. I didn’t mean it as an invitation. If I’d had the slightest suspicion that you’d take it the wrong way I’d have helped you into bed and then walked straight out.”
Both his fists were clenched on his lap. He was biting his lip so hard I was expecting to see a bead of blood appear. “I’m sorry, Eve. I hate myself.” He leant forward and put his head despairingly into in his hands. “I knew not to do it, even as I was doing it, and I can’t understand why I just carried right on going!”
“You were very upset,” I said. I don’t know why I was still feeling the need to comfort him now, and make excuses for him.
“That’s no excuse though, is it?” He said roughly. There was a long silence. “You could report me, you know. You could ruin my career with one word to the police.”
I should have pushed him off, I thought. Why the hell didn’t I?
He glanced up at me to gauge my response.
“I was stupid,” I condemned myself harshly. “I shouldn’t have stayed. I shouldn’t have got into the bed with you. I shouldn’t have taken my clothes off. I could have given you a hug fully clothed from on top of the covers if I’d wanted to comfort you. And I should have shouted at you and pushed you off.” I looked him directly in the eye. “Would you have stopped if I’d shouted at you and pushed you off?”
“Yes,” he said. His tone was definite. He didn’t seem to doubt himself. He looked me straight in the eye. “Yes, I definitely would’ve.” He grimaced then. “Why didn’t you? Were you scared of me?”
I shrugged. “Not particularly. I wouldn’t have got into bed with you if I’d thought you were dodgy.” I sighed again. “I was so shocked, I just froze. And I was upset too because of all the grief and emotion that was flying about that day. And then I suddenly thought, ‘oh, who the hell cares? Maybe it’ll help him calm down and go to sleep’. And so I consciously decided to let you do it.”
He stared fixedly at me. “A pity fuck?”
“Yep,” I agreed coolly. “A pity fuck.”
His response was complex. Chagrin, offence, mostly relief.
“It kinda felt like a rape afterwards though,” I admitted. “But I really mean it when I say that it wasn’t. I chose to do it.”
“I’m wondering right now, if the sisterhood wouldn’t be shouting at you not to let me off the hook so easily…” Nish observed, his eyes still anxious.
I suddenly laughed. “Yeah, they’re screaming at me to skewer you, but in my opinion I made a conscious decision of my own free will.” I shrugged, “One that unfortunately I wasn’t aware until afterwards was the wrong decision for my own emotional health. But what’s done is done, and I’m prepared to live with that.”
He quartered my face for signs of what was really going on.
“So how about we properly forget it this time?” I suggested firmly. “And never mention it again?”
Relief flooded his face and he flopped against the sofa back. “That’s a deal I can live with,” he agreed.
Later, I lay beside him in his bed, and massaged his neck and head for him. It my way of indicating to him that I’d forgiven him. But the topic of sexual assault seemed to still be wafting around at the surface with him.
“They asked me if you’d been raped by the men,” he volunteered suddenly.
I stiffened and pulled away from him. “Who did?” I demanded sharply, leaning up on my elbow.
“Whatever lot were interviewing me in the debriefing,” he explained, his tone betraying nervousness about my instantly negative reaction. “They kept awfully tight lipped about which department they came from, didn’t they?” He added.
“What’s it got to do with them, whoever they damn well were?” I exclaimed crossly. “The terrorists are dead, so it’s not like it’s ever going to court. What did you say?”
“I told them that as far as I knew you hadn’t, but that I was unconscious for a lot of it, and that some of the time they’d taken you elsewhere… And when I said that, they gave each other a significant look and my heart sank. And I thought, God, I’ve been so naïve – that’s what she meant when she said it would be better if I didn’t know what was happening or I’d only try to fight them. You didn’t want me to see what they were doing to you, did you?” His sounded distressed.
I sniffed and said nothing.
There was a short silence as though he was steeling himself to something. “So did they?” He asked at last in an awkward tone.
“What’s it got to do with you an’ all?” I snapped brusquely.
“I just-” He stopped short.
“Why do you need to know?” I challenged.
“Well they didn’t, and I wasn’t,” I informed him roughly.
And then I saw him realise that because he’d tacitly asked me to reassure him, he now had no idea if I was telling the truth, or whether I was just saying what he wanted to hear, to relieve him of further anxiety. Well, tough. Even if I swore now that they hadn’t laid a finger on me, he’d never be completely sure. I watched him tussle with himself, clearly desperate to make me repeat my assurances, but realising that any further protestations would be just as tainted by his suspicions.
Finally he reached out and hugged me for a change. I remained stiffly resistant in his arms, so he let go again.
“How’d you feel about Shafif being blown up?” I asked at last, my voice a bit wobbly.
He hesitated. “Not much to be truthful…”
“I was gutted,” I admitted. “I felt so sorry for him. He was so scared and he was only eighteen and his older brother had wired him up to that bomb. He didn’t have a chance! And after all, it’s only because of him that we’re both still alive…”
Nish said nothing.
I wanted Nish to show a bit of compassion for him. But he didn’t.
Sometime in the middle of the night, alone in my bed in the spare room, I woke up with a start to see a figure standing there in the dark.
“Shit!” I exclaimed crossly. “Fuck it, Nish!” My heart was pounding wildly.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I woke up in the dark and didn’t know where I was and for a moment I thought I was in that cellar. I think I must have been conscious at some point, because I seem to remember dark and cold, and hard floor, and damp smell, and being in terrible pain and not being able to move my hands and feet…”
“The drugs probably wore off at times,” I agreed. I felt too exhausted to wake up properly so I just wordlessly pulled back the duvet and let him get in. I put my arms around him and then fell straight back to sleep.
In the morning I had to rush into work. All the stats being gathered in the free practice sessions would be beamed straight back to us here. Working to support the engineers and mechanics who were physically present out there in the Williams’ garages at the track, all the numbers had to be crunched to help them work out the most perfect set-up, and to narrow the myriad of choices down to fix on the ideal strategy for the expected conditions, and the best sequence of tyres for the race. Malaysia was boiling hot, and the qualifying sessions and race would be held in the evenings to bridge the time difference between the Far East and Europe, where fans on both continents would want to be able to watch it live. But evenings in Malaysia mean the constant threat of unpredictable thunderstorms which can be accompanied by torrential rain.
As we watched, in the second practice session, Bottas seemed to suddenly lose control while passing over a kerb. We saw a tiny piece of carbon flying off the back left suspension and the back left wheel started to wobble wildly. We all groaned. I found I was holding my breath. The whole car spun round, slewing across the gravel and hitting sideways into the wall. When we saw Bottas moving to lift the wheel off while radioing in “Sorry guys,” we all let out a sigh of relief that he was un-harmed, before instantly breaking into heated discussion about what exactly had happened, how much damage had been caused, and speculating whether it could all be rectified in time for tomorrow’s qualifying sessions. It was gutting. But also a big adrenaline hit. The engineers and mechanics out there would working their socks off, maybe all night now. Nothing remotely as serious had happened when I’d been out with the team, and we’d worked non-stop even when things were going right.
Nish had arranged for me to have a role in this weekend’s live race experience. All the talk was of the struggle to get Bottas’ car ready in time, and the five place gear box grid penalty that would be inflicted as a result of the replacement needed due to the damage caused in the crash. Nish came up behind me and listened in as I was talking one of the attendees through the 500 different settings available to the driver – which combination you might use for what situation, and why. The guy had a reasonable basic grasp and wanted to understand more, so I didn’t spare him from the detail of the figures. You have to trust that people are capable of being stretched.
Nish raised humorous eyebrows at me. “You’ve not been slacking have you?”
“So what do you imagine we’re all getting up to while you’re working out in the gym and slurping your chocolate milk?” I said a bit sarcastically. “Some of us are applying our brains instead of our brawn…”
“Woo,” he mocked, doing the miaow claw sign.
I stalked off. Trouble with Nish was he never actually saw me at work. Not sure what he thought I was doing all day, but I certainly wasn’t sitting around painting my toenails.
A week passed. I continued staying over in Nish’s spare room. One lunchtime he mentioned apologetically that Sappho would be staying over tonight. I got the message that I wasn’t welcome, and I certainly wasn’t to let on that I’d been staying over. He knew really that he was just using me, I could tell that from the way he avoided my eyes when he mentioned Sappho. When I was expected to report for duty again the following night I found he’d swept up the toiletry items that I’d begun to leave there and hidden them at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Then there came a couple of nights where he hadn’t felt the need to creep into my room in the early hours, and I said casually, “Think I’ll stay at mine tonight.”
He said nothing, so I returned to my own flat and over the next few days he didn’t make any hints to the contrary.
The racing calendar continued on its inexorable way. The relentless rhythm to prepare for each next race. I got into the swing of it and without noticing exactly when or how it happened, everything just became clear to me. Once you install the basic hooks to hang your knowledge on, everything begins to fit seamlessly together, and starts to effortlessly fall into place.
And similarly, without me quite noticing, Nish started to become stronger. We no longer ran at lunchtimes because there wasn’t enough time to go far enough, we did a power work out in the gym instead. He had me running up to two hours in an evening, now in the dark. Then he had me borrow a bicycle and cycle bloody miles at the weekend, which started out as a real killer but I soon got used to it. I felt the most superbly fit I’d ever been and it felt great. I felt invincible. Then he started to moither me to go swimming with him. Repeatedly nagging me come to the early morning pool sessions in town. I tried it once, decided I’d rather die than flap around like a dying herring in stinky chlorine, and told him so in no uncertain terms. Finally he started to mention open water swimming at the Eynsham reservoir and in the river Thames. At that point I put my foot down in advance. There was no way I was setting foot into scary dangerous dark cold outside water. No way!
We were walking along together after our lunchtime gym session, arsing about, when I said something joking to him and he responded with a hard playful shove. Unfortunately, he didn’t realise his own strength and we were both at the top of the stairs at the time.
“Fuck it, Nish!” I exclaimed. I lost my footing and fell backwards. It seemed to take forever to fall. I scrabbled with my feet to regain balance but I was definitely falling. Nish looked shocked and horrified and tried to step forward to grab me, but his reactions were too slow. Suddenly my downwards trajectory was arrested by a strong arm and I was set back on my feet. I turned round to find Massa’s dark brown eyes twinkling at me.
“God, thanks for that!” I said. My heart was still beating fast in reaction. I glanced back at Nish. He was smiling delightedly at Massa. I now remembered that Massa had come in for a new fitting of his seat. Each driver had their own one moulded specially for them to fit their body exactly. They have to drive the car lying on their backs to stay as low as possible and it�
�s bloody uncomfortable. I could see that Nish absolutely adored him.
“See y’later,” I threw to Nish and jogged off quickly down the steps to allow them a moment to themselves. I glanced back up to see them stopped on the stairs mid-flight, talking intensely.
Twenty minutes later, I was just finishing my lunch in the canteen, when I saw a group of top bods wandering in with Massa. They hung around in a group, heads together, chatting. I stood up and wandered over and put myself in Massa’s line of sight. Every time he glanced or half glanced in my direction, I jerked my head at him. Finally he said something polite to the group and came over to me.
“I need to talk to you about Nish,” I explained, my hands on my hips.
He looked amused but accomadating.
“Thing is, he’s getting better now and he needs a manager, but he just refuses to replace his father and jumps down the throat of anyone who suggests it. And I figured that if you could find him a manager then he’d take it from you…”
Massa listened.
“…so I wondered if you could do me a massive favour and sort him out? I can’t keep up any more – he needs a proper trainer and such like. I don’t mind doing the running and cycling but please don’t make me have to swim with him-” I pleaded in hollow tones.
Massa raised his eyebrows in a quirky enquiry.
“Triathlon,” I explained. “That’s what he’s into…”
He smiled slightly.
“So I figured if you walked up to him and said, ‘Nish, mate, time for you to have a manager again – how about so and so..?’”
Massa’s eyes twinkled. “Nish, mate…” he repeated obediently.
I laughed. “Ok, you’re right, that does sound a bit weird in a Brazilian accent… Feel free to say whatever…”
He smiled. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
“Thanks!” I said gratefully.
The Way Back (Not Quite Eden Book 6) Page 19
