Grant gripped my forearm tightly and dragged me past the others.
It was dark, and I stumbled occasionally; each time, he pulled on my arm sharply and grunted with annoyance. I was so terrified that my legs were shaking. It was an enormous effort not to fall to the ground and start screaming. Instead, I sobbed silently, tears running down my cheeks and into my mouth, splashing onto my collar.
There was a building in front of us. Some kind of corrugated-iron storage shed. Grant pulled on the door, which creaked loudly in protest, and pushed me inside. And then there was the crack of a bolt and I was locked in.
It was pitch-black inside. The place smelled of mold and dirt, a smell that reminded me of the cellar at my grandfather’s, a place that had always frightened me. As I heard Grant walk away, I fell to my knees and started to moan in terror.
“Please, God,” I whispered into the blackness. “Please, please, don’t leave me here. Please.”
My instinct was to scream—to scream and yell and bash and bang on the wall—to protest as loudly and as violently as I could. But I knew somehow that it would do no good, that no one would hear me. I’d only make Grant angrier and provoke him into hurting me again. Or he might hurt Rachel. It took all my effort, all my energy and self-control, to muffle my sobs.
I pressed my hands against the ground and felt dirt, damp and cold and packed down hard. I crouched on all fours and let my head hang for a moment. I breathed in and out, in and out, and tried to calm myself. It would be so easy to fall apart, so terribly easy, and in a way, it would be a relief to let myself succumb to mindless hysteria. But I needed to keep my head, I needed to think. After all, I was still alive, Rachel was still alive, nothing irreversible had happened yet. And the best—no, the only—defense I had was my brain. Grant and his friends were stronger than Rachel and I, but I had to believe that I was smarter. If I remained calm, surely there was a chance I could outwit them and find a way to help us escape.
I ran my fingertips along the ground, trying to feel out the edges of the shed, to work out how big it was and get a sense of where the walls were. I needed to learn if there was any possible source of light, any place from which I might escape.
I kept one hand against the wall and crawled along the floor. I went slowly, afraid, in the blackness, of crawling on something sharp or hitting my head. But it felt better to be moving, to be doing something. It felt much better to have a plan, however feeble and unlikely the plan might be.
The shed seemed endless in the darkness, larger inside than it had from outside. As I turned a corner along the second wall, my hands touched something. It was soft and had an odd texture. I recoiled in horror and put my hands to my mouth to muffle a sob.
My first thought was that it was some kind of animal, but I heard and felt no movement, no sound of breathing. Slowly, I reached out to touch it again.
It was soft but coarse. Not an animal at all but some kind of sack. Burlap. Probably filled with seeds or hay. I crawled farther and discovered that there were piles and piles of these sacks stacked against one wall.
I crawled around the rest of the shed and found no holes or gaps between the walls and the earth, no obvious way of breaking free. I sat back and tried to think, and as I looked around I realized that my eyes had adjusted to the dark. Except for the sacks, the shed was completely empty. The only source of light came from the gaps around the doorway. But I knew the door was locked, I’d heard Grant push several bolts when he left.
I could move the sacks. I knew the chance was slim, but perhaps there might be some kind of hole or way of escape behind them. Corrugated iron could be bent; all I needed was a small gap between the wall and the ground and I’d be able to squeeze out.
The sacks were heavy and hard to budge, but my fear and anger gave me a strength I didn’t normally possess. I didn’t care how much my arms hurt, or my back; the need to escape, to live, kept me moving. I didn’t move the sacks far, I just piled them, neatly arranged, just as they were, about a yard from the wall. As much as I wanted to shove them frantically out of my way, to toss them anywhere, I didn’t want Grant to notice that they’d been moved when he returned.
And I was rewarded. When I finally began on the last row, I saw a silvery reflection coming up from the ground. Light. I started moving much faster, suddenly even more anxious and afraid than I’d been only moments before. I felt my stomach twist, and had a sudden overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom. The possibility of escape only heightened my terror, made me conscious of how much danger Rachel and I were in, how terrified I really was. But I squeezed my muscles together and held on; I didn’t have time to stop.
When I’d moved all the sacks just enough so that I could squeeze between them and the wall, I crouched down on my hands and knees and studied the gap. The wall was very slightly bent up and outward at the bottom; that left a space about five inches high and almost a foot wide. If I could just bend it up a little farther, make the gap wide enough for my head and then my body to fit through, I’d be able to squeeze out.
I stood up, put my foot against the iron, and pushed out as hard as I could. It didn’t budge. I needed to be able to put the full weight of my body into it. I got on the ground, on my back, with my head against the sacks and, using my feet, I pushed with all the strength I had. The iron bent upward. A little.
Again, at the idea that I might actually escape, I felt hysteria rising in my throat. I stifled a sob, shook my head, and concentrated. I pushed again. I pushed so hard that it hurt. Beneath my feet, the wall started to move.
The gap now looked big enough to wriggle through. I lay flat on my stomach. Then I pushed my head through first, slowly, so that my cheek scraped along the earth and I felt the sharp points of pebbles against my skin. It was harder getting my shoulders out, but I pulled with my hands and pushed with my feet and forced myself to squeeze through. The rest of my body was easy. I shoved myself forward, not caring that the ragged edge of the iron was scraping my back, slicing through my clothes, bruising my skin. At last I was free.
And now that I was out, it was even harder to control my rising hysteria. I was free, at least for now, and I so desperately didn’t want Grant to find me that I was paralyzed by my own terror. I forced myself to breathe, my legs to move, and, groping in the shadows, I shuffled to the corner of the shed and peered around.
The car doors were open. Enough light shone from inside to reveal that Rachel was on the ground beside it. She was on her back, her skirt gathered messily up around her waist. Grant knelt between her open legs. He was moving back and forth, thrusting into her. Rachel moaned softly each time. The other boys leaned against the car, watching.
The bastards were raping her. My baby sister was being raped.
I had to bend over double and clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. I wanted to run toward them, hit them, scratch them, kill and maim and injure. But I had to force myself to be still, to think. There was no way I could overpower them, no way I could stop them.
An angry hatred so powerful that I could taste it, sharp and bitter, rose up in my throat. I crouched down in the dirt and gripped a rock, clenched it in my hand so tightly that it dug into my skin. But I was glad for the hurt of it, glad for its painful sharpness.
I looked around desperately, for something, anything. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, but my heart soared. Through the trees in the distance, I saw light.
I looked back toward Rachel, and just as I did, Sean lifted his head. He seemed to look straight at me. I don’t know whether he really saw me—I’ll never know. It was dark where I was standing, so perhaps he didn’t, but I didn’t wait around to find out. I panicked.
I turned and ran. Toward the light.
23
We ride down toward the harbor. Mick takes me to a pub where he says they serve good late-night food. We’re both starving, and we order huge meals—steak and potatoes and salad—and eat enthusiastically, grinning at each other across the table whenever our
eyes meet.
When we’ve finished our dinner and our table is clear and we’re each sipping on a Coke, Mick kisses me. It’s surprising and unexpected and yet totally wonderful, all at once. He stands, leans across the table, and puts his lips against mine. It’s not a passionate kiss, his mouth remains closed, but it’s tender and soft and lasts much longer than a brotherly peck. It’s a kiss that makes everything more certain, a kiss that makes it clear that he’s as attracted to me as I am to him.
“Why did you scowl when you first met me?” I ask him. “I thought you must hate me. I thought you were horrible, actually. Unfriendly and rude.”
“Because I felt weird. When I first saw you. As soon as I saw you, I knew something was going to happen between us. I knew it. Right away.” He smiles—looks shy for the first time. “You made me nervous.”
We’re both jubilantly happy, both astonished by the unexpected delight of finding each other, and when we leave the pub and head back to his motorcycle, Mick asks me where I live.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
We go to Mick’s place. He shares it with a student named Simon, who is out for the evening. We make tea and take our mugs to Mick’s bedroom. His bed is a mattress on the floor—but the duvet is pulled up tidily, the pillows arranged in a single pile at its head. Books are stacked against the wall; a guitar leans beside them.
We sit on his bed side by side, our backs against the pillows, legs crossed, knees touching. We talk about music, our favorite bands, our favorite songs. We drink sodas and share a chocolate bar from the near-empty fridge. At almost three a.m. Mick shuffles down the bed so that he rests on his side, facing me, his head on a pillow.
“Lie down, Katherine,” he says. “You must be getting tired.”
I wriggle lower so that we are next to each other, our faces close.
Mick touches my face with his fingertip, traces a line down my cheek, across my chin, down my neck.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
We kiss, pressing our bodies, our mouths, tight. And we fit together so well, so naturally, and soon we are breathless and tense with heat and need.
I pull away, suddenly full of a powerful and intrusive desire to talk, to tell my story. “I haven’t done this for … the last time I kissed a boy … the last time.” I pause, take a deep breath. “His name was Will. William Holloway. It was the night Rachel was murdered.”
Mick doesn’t move. Then he nods, waits.
“We didn’t do anything that night,” I say. And I remember Will’s face, how much I had loved him, how painful and awkward it was when I saw him afterward. “We were going to, though. We had great plans for losing our virginity together. But everything just turned to shit after that night. We were awfully uncomfortable around each other. I think we were embarrassed. Which seems a ridiculous thing to feel when someone’s been murdered. But we couldn’t even look at each other. He kept coming around to see me and he’d sit there, all stiff and unhappy, while I cried. Eventually I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore. He was so relieved.” I laugh sourly. “You should have seen his face. He was trying to pretend to be sad that we’d broken up. But he couldn’t get out the door fast enough.”
“I guess it was a pretty heavy scene for a sixteen-year-old.”
“I didn’t really blame him. I was relieved, too. It was horrible having him feel so sorry for me. But he was too polite and kind just to dump me.”
“And since then?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Nobody.”
“Then I’m lucky.” He smiles. “But we can slow down. There’s no hurry. I can wait. I don’t want to pressure you.”
But I know what I want, and the idea of waiting any longer is so frustrating it only makes me more certain. I shake my head and smile shyly. I take his hand and place his arm around me, sliding forward so that our bodies are close and tight. I press my lips against his.
“Katherine,” he says when we finish. We’re breathing each other’s air and are lying side by side, our noses almost touching.
“Mick,” I say.
“I love your name. It suits you perfectly. Katherine. Katherine. Katherine and Mick.”
And when he says my name like that, right next to his, everything is different. I’ve never really liked being called Katherine—all this time, despite what I’ve said, I’ve desperately missed being called Katie. I’ve missed being Katie.
But I’m no longer Katie, I’m Katherine—and tonight, for the first time ever, I don’t want to be anyone else.
24
You run and you run and you run. You run faster, harder than you’ve ever run before. You trip and stumble, fall hard on your hands and knees, scramble up immediately, continue running.
“Please, please,” you sob. “Help me. Please. Someone. Help.”
You are terrified that they are behind you, chasing you, getting closer with each step. Your own ragged breath is deafening in your ears, but you imagine you can hear them closing in on you, and so you run faster. You dare not turn around to check; you’re too terrified to do anything but run. Despite the pain in your sides, the ache in your legs, your fatigue, you force yourself on, force yourself not to slow down, not to turn around, not to collapse in a hysterical, helpless heap on the ground.
And as you get closer to the light, it becomes clear that it comes from a house, the miracle you’d hoped for. And as you get closer still, you see that the windows are open to the night breeze, the front-porch light is on, a car is parked in the driveway. Someone is home.
You run down the drive, fall onto the porch, pick yourself up, and run to the door. You pound and pound with your fists. You kick. You yell out.
After an eternity, the door opens. A woman stands there, framed by the light; she looks angry at your rude intrusion. But as she takes in your appearance, your obvious fear, her expression changes to one of alarm and concern. Her mouth drops open; she puts one hand on her chest, the other on your arm.
“What’s wrong?” she demands. “What’s happened?”
By the time the police arrive and organize a search, the four boys have gone. They’ve left her there, on her back in the dirt like an animal. One of the policemen reassures you that she looks peaceful, that the expression on her cold, dead face is serene and calm. It’s something, he says, something to help us hope that she didn’t really know what was happening.
She didn’t know that you left her there. Alone with them.
PART TWO
25
Alice is already seated at a table in the café by the time I get there. She is sipping on a mug of coffee.
“Hey.” I sit opposite her. Smile.
Alice rolls her eyes. “I’ve been trying to call you all weekend. Why don’t you ever take your phone with you?” She is irritable, but she can’t do anything to change my mood. Nothing can. I’m far too happy.
“What was it? What did you want?” I say pleasantly, ignoring her temper. I don’t bother explaining what has happened, where I’ve been. I don’t say a word about Mick. It’s still so new, so lovely, and I want to keep it to myself.
“I just wanted to tell you. I’ve got this new man.” She leans forward, her face alight. Her anger of only a moment before is apparently forgotten.
My immediate thought is of Robbie. How devastated he’ll be.
“Oh.” I pick up the menu, stare blindly at the laminated cardboard. “Is it serious?”
“‘Is it serious?’ God, you could sound a bit happier for me.”
I put the menu down and look at her. “I’m sorry. But what about Robbie? Does he even know about this yet? He’s going to be heartbroken. He really—”
“Robbie schmobbie,” she interrupts. “It’s not as if I ever promised him anything. Honest, Katherine. I never did. Never. In fact, I made it perfectly clear from the beginning that it wasn’t serious between us. He just made us up in his head. Anyway, Robbie will just have
to deal with it. He has no choice. He doesn’t own me.”
“I guess not.” And I realize that this is probably the best outcome in the long term, anyway. In a way I can only feel glad, for Robbie’s sake. This will force him to face up to reality—Alice doesn’t care about him. It’s going to hurt, but he needs to forget her and find someone else—someone who appreciates how fantastic he is.
“So?” I say. “Who is he? What’s he like?”
“He’s gorgeous. He’s wonderful, beautiful, sexy. I’m in absolute heaven. I think about him every minute of the day.”
I smile. I know exactly how she feels. “What’s his name?”
But Alice doesn’t answer; instead, she lifts her mug to her lips, peers at me over the rim. “He’s older.”
“Older?”
“Yes. A lot older.”
“How much older?”
“Guess. Guess how old he is.”
“Thirty-five?”
“No. Older.”
“Forty?”
“Older.”
“Forty-five?”
“Older.”
I stare at her. “Are you joking?”
“Nope. Come on. You’re nearly there.”
“Fifty?”
“Forty-eight.”
“Shit, Alice. That’s huge. He’s ancient. Doesn’t it bother him? Does he know how old you are?”
Alice smiles. “Maybe he thinks I’m twenty-seven.”
“You’re lying to him?”
She shrugs. “Just stretching the truth a bit.”
“But he’s thirty years older than you. He’s old. Isn’t that weird?”
“No. No, it’s not. You’d be surprised. It’s great. He’s really smart, Katherine, and unbelievably knowledgeable. It’s as if I’ve been looking for an older man all this time, you know, it’s just a million times better. He’s just so much more mature, so much more confident and independent. And he doesn’t act like a lovesick puppy around me, which is such a relief.” She laughs. “And he’s just so good in bed, so experienced. He’s just so fucking unbelievably skilled.”
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