Behind Closed Doors

by Elizabeth Haynes

  At least this time nobody could accuse her of inflicting it on herself.

  That one time, stressed with schoolwork and Dad and home life and worrying about Juliette and how she didn’t seem to talk anymore, she’d just forgotten to drink enough and before she knew it she was in agony every time she had to pee. And the inevitable visit to the doctor with her mother, and the shame of it—discussing it over the kitchen table with him, in front of Juliette too.

  “She’s doing it for attention, of course; she always does things like this.”

  “This isn’t about you, Clive. She hasn’t deliberately timed it to coincide with your work project.”

  “Every time—every time something big is going on at work, Scarlett has to come down with some illness. And this one’s because she’s not drinking enough water? It’s drama, pure and simple. All about the drama.”

  She’d sat at the kitchen table between them with tears rolling down her cheeks, not making a sound, not commenting even though she wanted to tell them both where to stick it, and even though she kept her silence this too became a focus for them.

  “Oh, do shut up, Scarlett. You’re not a baby.”

  “See? See? It’s all about her. All about her and her petty little manipulations . . .”

  Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone. . .

  She could feel it now, that gnawing ache in her lower back, the dragging feeling in her lower abdomen. Her bladder was full but brewing infection. She wanted to cry but had no tears left—what good would it do? It just gave her a headache to deal with along with everything else.

  She had two options: try to talk to Yelena, or retreat into her own head and think of other things. Anything. She tried to remember something that had made her happy, a time when she had felt free and relaxed.

  At the leisure center, with Cerys. Laughing because some of the boys from the college had been mucking around in front of them with some older girls—girlfriends, probably—and then one of them had gone to pull another one into the swimming pool and in revenge had had his shorts pulled down while his arms were occupied in the wrestling. Rough and tumble. All good fun. Lifeguards whistling to draw attention to it even more. And they’d seen his bum and as they’d pushed him over his cock was wobbling around too. And Scarlett had actually recoiled and hidden her eyes behind her hand. Cerys had laughed at that even more than she’d been laughing at the wrestling match. The group had been asked to leave.

  They’d walked home from the bus stop the long way around, because Cerys had bought a pack of ten Marlboro and wanted to smoke on the way home. She’d offered them to Scarlett, who had refused. The thought of them—ugh. No way. They strolled along the pavement, kicking at bits of gravel, sending it skittering ahead of them. Scarlett’s All Stars dusty, Cerys scuffing a pair of her eldest sister’s kitten-heel boots. She didn’t care, although Aimee would most likely kill her when she saw them. That was the price Aimee paid for having small feet.

  In the back of the van, the refuge Scarlett had taken in her daydream came to an end.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

  It hadn’t been that bad so far, after all, had it? They’d given her water, and yes, they’d kept her prisoner and made her piss in a bucket; they hadn’t given her proper food—just the pizza—but apart from that one fist in her face they hadn’t hurt her. It could have been worse, far worse, after all. And the fist had been because she had started screaming. Since then, since she’d complied with them and behaved herself, nothing.

  So that was it. She would go along with it, see what happened next. She had the choice to fight back, make it difficult for them, try to escape—but equally she had the choice to comply, keep her head down, bide her time.

  Nico had betrayed her, of course.

  She’d been denying it, but the fact that the men had mentioned him by name meant that they knew him. And they were bad people, so it must mean that Nico was bad, too. Nico had said he had a baby sister, and that made her think about Juliette. How would she be coping, with Scarlett gone? Maybe she hadn’t even really noticed; after all, most of the time she was in her own safe little bubble. Scarlett thought it was just the way Juliette was: the real world was less enjoyable to her than the worlds she inhabited while she was reading. Good luck to her, Scarlett thought.

  There had been discussions, before the holiday and even more fervently now that she was so obviously not quite right. Scarlett had heard them, sitting out on their patio next door with clinking bottles of beer, while Juliette read her book in bed and Scarlett was sitting by the open patio door, gulping at the fresh, still air, biding her time.

  “You’re too tough on them sometimes, Clive,” her mum was saying. “Juliette hardly speaks at all now.”

  “She’s just being a teenager,” her father replied.

  “Scarlett wasn’t like that at her age.”

  “Scarlett’s the other way. Talks too much. Doesn’t know when to keep quiet.”

  “Even so,” her mother said, “you should be careful. The school notices things; they’ll ask questions.”

  “Now you’re being hysterical,” her father said.

  Scarlett had read about Sigmund Freud at school, about hysteria. She had thought then that her father had been born in the wrong century, that he would be well suited to the Victorian era when women did as they were told and any deviation from the norm, any sign of determination, or even just expressing an opinion, could be diagnosed as part of the female condition. Her father seemed to find it by turns fascinating and repugnant, living in a houseful of women.

  Her mum wasn’t hysterical at all. She was speaking quietly. “And you’re not taking me seriously.”

  “That’s enough.”

  There was quiet for a moment, and then some odd noises—breathing, a chair creaking. A minute later, an abrupt scraping noise of one of the metal chairs being pushed back from the tiled floor, and then the other. The patio door opening, and the whir of the air-conditioning inside their beautifully cool apartment next door, and then the sound of it sliding shut again.

  Scarlett waited, her heart thumping. Just the noise of the insects, the rattling song at a hundred different notes and pitches.

  SCARLETT

  Thursday 21 August 2003, 23:58

  Nico was waiting for her in the doorway where he’d taken her that first night, sitting on the step, his feet splayed. When he saw her approach, he got to his feet and held his arms out for her to run into.

  And then, the kiss. She had been longing for it all day. And all the things she had wanted to say to him, the conversations she’d played out in her mind, all evaporated in an instant and she had nothing, nothing but the kiss and the way it made her feel.

  And, later, they sat on the beach, talking and kissing. He kept distracting her; kissing her neck, running his tongue along her skin until it made her shiver.

  “That tickles!”

  “Yes,” he said. “Good, yes?”

  “No, not good.”

  He laughed and did it some more.

  “Can’t we go to your place?” she asked. She had asked this already. Sooner or later, she reasoned, he would give in.

  “No,” he said. “I told you. My family is there.”

  Nico lived with his brother, who was called Yannis. He had a big family who lived in Athens but Yannis worked in one of the bars in town. Scarlett had asked to meet Yannis, but Nico had said this was not possible. He was working, working. Nico lived with him here, during the summer. In the winter, they packed up and went back to the mainland. And then, when Scarlett had asked if they could go to the house, for some privacy, Nico had told her about the sister-in-law and the children. Three of them. There wasn’t a lot of room in the house, and consequently no privacy at all.

  “But I want to be with you,” she protested again now. “I want to be with you properly.”

  He didn’t seem to understand what she was getting at. “We are together,” he said. “Together now.”
He stroked his fingers up and down her bare arm. Inside she felt hunger for him.

  In the end, she sat astride him, her hands on his chest. “You don’t get it,” she said, desire making her bold. Making her into something she was not. For a moment she thought of Cerys—what would Cerys do? Cerys would not be in this situation, she thought. Cerys would have slept with him on that first night, on the beach, in a doorway, wherever the mood took her.

  I am Cerys, she thought. You want to fuck me, Nico, don’t you?

  She could feel him getting hard. The thrill of it: that she was making it happen. “You want me, don’t you?”

  “Scarlett, of course I want you.”

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  He laughed, which she hated. He was laughing at her because she was just a kid. She pushed her hands against his chest and climbed off him, sitting with her knees drawn up. It was dark down here but they were not alone—people were walking along the sand by the waves. There were couples, too, sharing the sunbeds. Not close enough to see what they were doing. Some of them had brought towels to hide under, as though that made a difference.

  He sat up next to her, stroked her cheek softly. She ignored him.

  “Hey,” he said. “Of course I want you. I said that. You did not hear?”

  “Why won’t you?”

  He put his arm, heavy across her shoulders. His skin was hot, and she could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her. “You haven’t done this before? It is your first time?”

  She thought for a moment about lying to him, about what it would mean. But he was concerned about how she felt, of course. So she nodded.

  She saw the gleam in his eye, although he hid it immediately. And she took it to mean that he wanted her even more. They all did, didn’t they? All men wanted to be the one to take a girl’s virginity.

  “Your first time should be special,” he said to her.

  “It will be, with you. I want it to be you.”

  And he kissed her again, more forcefully this time, his tongue pushing into her mouth immediately, claiming her. She felt breathless with it. He pushed her back onto the sand, his hand stroking the skin of her belly. She felt for his hand, trying to guide it lower. And this time he did it: put his hand inside her shorts and his fingers inside her knickers.

  It was rough, though, and she flinched. She had a sudden flash of fear, of panic. He must have felt it because he withdrew. Then he put his hand on hers and led it down to his jeans, to the growing hardness that was straining at the denim. “You see how much I want you, Scarlett?” he whispered against her mouth. And then, quickly, as though he couldn’t wait any longer, he unbuttoned his fly and put her hand inside.

  This was safer territory: she knew this, knew how to get him off. It took a while. And her arm ached like hell, even though he kept putting his hand in a vice-like grip over hers, and muttering, “Faster, oh, yeah. Baby. Faster.”

  You wanted this, she was telling herself. This is what you wanted to happen, isn’t it?

  And afterward, when he pulled up his top so that the semen pumped over her hand and over the skin of his stomach, he kissed her deeply, roughly.

  “You can clean me up,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Lick me, baby. Lick me clean.”

  And she thought about saying no, but of course she didn’t; she thought about offering him a tissue from the pocket of her shorts, but in the end she did as he asked because she didn’t want him to think of her as a kid, disgusting as it was. Maybe this was a test. Maybe if she passed the test he would make love to her properly next time.

  “You are good,” he murmured.

  “Am I?”

  “Very good, baby, very good. You do this before, with English boys?”

  “Not really.”

  “You are sad?” His fingers traced over her face, touching the corners of her mouth. “Don’t be sad, baby. I look after you. I make you smile.”

  “I wish I could stay with you,” she said. “I wouldn’t be sad with you.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow so he could look at her.

  “It’s my stupid family,” she began. “My mum thinks I’m still just a kid. She tries to make me wear kids’ clothes. She won’t let me go anywhere. And my dad—he’s—he’s . . .”

  Nico stroked her cheek. He was listening. Nobody had ever listened to her before, properly listened, and now that she had someone she didn’t even know how to put it into words. She snaked a hand around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Another time, she thought. She would tell him everything. But for tonight she just wanted to enjoy being with him, being kissed, being loved.

  He walked her back to the apartment after that, and this time he had his arm around her—not just holding her hand, casually—he actually had his arm around her shoulders. Scarlett felt as though something important had happened, something momentous. She felt brave and adult all of a sudden.

  He kept stopping to pull her close for kisses, his mouth smiling against hers. He felt it too, she knew it. And, when the apartments came into view, he asked the question before she had the chance to. “Tomorrow evening, yes? I see you at the same place?”

  Yes, yes! Yes, Nico.

  And maybe tomorrow—maybe tomorrow he would make love to her, and he would make her complete.

  “Scarlett.”

  She didn’t hear at first, didn’t register that the word referred to her; she was too involved in kissing him. But he heard, and pulled away from her sharply. Right away.

  “Scarlett!” This time the voice was urgent, angry, and she recognized it.

  “Mum!”

  Her mother was standing in the gate that led to the apartment complex, arms crossed over her chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She started to say, “Mum, this is Nico . . .” but when she looked around he was already walking away, fast, along the dark side of the street. As she watched, he broke into a long, loping run.

  “Get inside. Now.”

  Scarlett was shivering now, although it wasn’t cold. “Don’t tell Dad,” she said, quickly, tears starting. “Please don’t tell Dad, please, please!”

  Her mum took hold of Scarlett’s elbow and yanked her through the gate. “Shut up,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare make any noise. You’re in enough trouble as it is!”

  Scarlett was stumbling, her knees shaking with fear, which made her mother tighten her grip even more. She stopped just inside the gate, gripped Scarlett by her upper arms as if she was about to run.

  “Please, Dad’ll kill me, I know he will—please, I’ll just go to bed, I’ll be good, I’ll . . .”

  “What have you done?” her mother demanded. “What did you do with that boy?”

  “Nothing!”

  “You were kissing him!”

  “That’s all, that’s all, I promise, I haven’t done anything!”

  “You’re a child, Scarlett, you’re just a child. What the hell you’re doing out at this time of the night—”

  “I’m not a child!”

  Her mother started to say something else but then they both heard a noise. Across the other side of the pool, the glass door slid open and her father stood on the patio, looking across to where they were.

  “No, no,” Scarlett whimpered.

  “See what you’ve done now?” her mum hissed, although Scarlett couldn’t see that she’d made a sound or alerted him in any way. She took her by the upper arm again and dragged Scarlett around the pool, back to the room. Her father stood aside to let them both in.

  Scarlett had seen her father angry before, many times. It was such a regular thing that she should not have been surprised, but his fury now was fierce. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, as though they were itching for contact.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “I just went for a walk,” Scarlett said, her teeth chattering. “I got lost. This boy showed me how to get back. That’s all, that’s all, I pr
omise.”

  “What boy?” he asked, looking at her mother.

  “She was with a boy.”

  “You don’t understand what you’ve done,” her dad said. “You filthy child.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Scarlett said, quietly. She was looking at him, not with defiance, but with tear-filled eyes, beseeching. She knew that avoiding eye-contact was one of the triggers, one of the worst things she could do. So she kept looking at him even though the mere sight of him filled her with terror.

  “You’d better not have,” her mum said. She was sitting on the sofa next to Scarlett, which was less a show of support and more about staying between her and the door in case she tried to run for it.

  “I haven’t. I really haven’t. He’s lovely, you’d like him, he’s—”

  “She’s lying,” her father said.

  “I’m not, I’m not lying, I just—”

  “She’s slept with him, she must have,” her mother said.

  “Just because that’s what you would have done,” Scarlett said.

  “How dare you!”

  It had provoked him still further, of course, as she had known it would. Maybe she actually wanted it. Maybe she wanted him to kill her, to get it over with. Or for Nico to come and rescue her. That wasn’t going to happen, was it? He had run away. Not even looked back.

  “Go next door,” said her father to her mother.

  “No, Dad, please,” Scarlett said.

  “Why?” her mother asked.

  “Go and check on Juliette, Annie.”

  “She’s asleep, she’s fine.”

  “I said, go and check on Juliette. I will come and get you in a minute.”

  “Clive,” her mother said, “don’t.”

  “Go!”

  Her mother stood. Scarlett watched her sandalled feet, her thin tanned legs, as they passed. The patio door slid open and slid closed.

  In her head, she took herself down to the beach. It would be sunny, the sun would be shining warm on her face, and she looked down to see she was wearing white shorts and a floaty chiffon top over a bikini, and she was tanned and fit and she felt happy, and free. She looked down the beach to see Nico coming toward her, waving. She waved back and she saw that he had a small child with him, a small boy with dark hair like his father’s, a big smile that showed white teeth, and he was waving too, as hard as he could. The sand under her feet was hot and she walked to the water’s edge, little waves coming in and cooling her toes. She stopped to pick up a shell, split in half, the inside of it a perfect spiral; it was pale and glistening with seawater, shining in the sunlight like a jewel.