Ray wandered off without a backwards glance, his shoulders hunched, while Tess walked over to Alex. ‘Ray just needs some space,’ she said. ‘He’s taken it very hard. Do you want to get some air?’
Alex nodded and they walked outside and stood in the shade of a large melaleuca tree.
Tess took Alex’s arm and rubbed his forearm with her other hand. ‘Alex,’ she said, ‘it’s okay -’
She hesitated. Alex was silent, unsure what she meant.
‘- I don’t know if… if you are thinking along these lines, but it’s not… it’s not your fault, what happened. There was nothing…’
Even though he had berated himself a million times in the past forty-eight hours – if only, if only – he was shocked to hear her say this, and turned to look at her, searching her face to see if she meant it. He wanted to shake her off, to tell her of course it wasn’t his fault, he had done everything he could to keep Amy safe.
‘Thanks,’ he said instead, standing stiffly, looking at the floor.
‘It’s okay,’ she replied sadly, dropping his arm.
43
When Mark had woken up the morning after the law ball he had had that blissful momentary void as he moved between states of consciousness before his memory kicked in, along with a particularly aggressive hangover.
With rising indignation he remembered Chloe supporting him up the stairs to her flat, and rolled over, realising he was in Chloe’s room, with Chloe next to him, snoring softly. He reached over to the floor and grabbed his jacket, pulling out his mobile and seeing that it was only six forty-five. The movement made his head groan with pain, so he rolled back and lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.
There was no avoiding it. He kept replaying the moment he’d overbalanced; the crash of the drum kit behind him; Chloe’s surprised, shocked face as she almost came with him but managed to right herself, as he’d used both his hands to try to break his fall and keep any percussion from falling on top of him.
Then the walk of shame to the entrance, the replay now accompanied by the slow clapping of his throbbing head. Seeing Risto Kiesi, the new guy, smirking at them both, and passing David and Neil, who both had heavy scowls on their faces. Being glad he hadn’t spotted his father as Chloe dragged him outside, then hearing Henry’s voice, the rage in it, the humiliation.
He pulled himself up again. His mouth was dry and disgusting, he needed water. He made his way slowly down the poky hallway of Chloe’s flat, body aching, to the kitchen, ran the tap and pushed his mouth straight under the flow, not even bothering to look for a glass.
He wiped his mouth and sighed, looking out of the kitchen window, straight at someone else’s curtains on the opposite side of the road. What should he do?
Wearily, he made his way back down the hallway, grabbed his clothes from the floor and started putting them on. Chloe didn’t stir. Her arms were flung out from her sides like she had fallen onto the bed and straight into a deep sleep. Her long brown hair fanned out across her pillow, a section of it across her face, the rest of it framing her neck and graceful shoulders. His gaze continued down over the soft mounds of her breasts under her T-shirt, the rest of her enveloped in a duvet.
He had an urge to ease himself down onto her, hug her tightly into the softness of her covers, kiss her lips, her neck and that sweet button nose. But he was dressed now, a dishevelled version of the previous night, bow tie in his pocket, and ready to leave.
He moved towards the door, then turned back to look at Chloe once more, so peaceful and still; hesitating, feeling that somehow this one decision of leaving was a defining moment in his life.
He walked back over to the bed, sat on the edge of it, and kissed Chloe lightly on the lips.
She didn’t stir, even though he willed her to. He needed her to wake up and see him there with his mussed-up hair and his stinking breath and his bloodshot eyes, even though he wasn’t quite sure why.
‘Chloe,’ he whispered.
She murmured something unintelligible, and he began to smile, anticipating her eyes opening, but she rolled away from him and half-buried her head under the pillow he’d used.
Mark remained where he was for a moment. He ran a hand lightly down her arm. He tried to think, though his sore head made it difficult. He pushed away the edginess that jostled with his hangover for attention, and slowly got up, turned away from Chloe, and made for the door.
44
Each time Amy opened her eyes there were a million fluorescent pin pricks dancing upon the dirty white ceiling. At first she had thought they’d strapped her down, but apparently it was the bruises on her stomach that felt like a dead weight. Her shoulder was swathed in bandages and when she moved it produced a sharp shooting pain. The whole of her ached and ached, inside and out.
It was surprisingly easy not to think. Just to stare in front of her and let all conscious thought drift into the misty recesses of her brain. Now and then the fog cleared a little and then she cried, wretched, gasping sobs beyond her control.
Alex sometimes looked at her with a strange expression on his face. At one stage she had met his gaze to find him studying her like something that had dropped out of the sky and landed at his feet. She was searching for disgust in his eyes, but he was hiding it well.
She needed him. But not like this – him mute and staring out of the window. She needed him to find the right words, the ones she so desperately needed to hear, even though she herself had no idea what they were. She wanted to tell her mum and dad to go away half the time, but also to cling to them and try to disappear inside the cavern their arms made.
She needed them all. But not like this.
Her mother was soothing, helpful, but persistent, like those outback flies that wouldn’t give up until they had attached themselves to you. And Alex… Alex was distant and tense, full of latent rage that might only be assuaged by inflicting pain on someone. She could sense him trying to mentally move away from these surroundings, this reality. She couldn’t blame him for that; she was doing the same.
Her father, on the other hand, was quiet, anguish written on his face; and a growing frustration in his movements and his sharp words for anyone other than his child. His distress was like an invisible cord stretching across the room, drawing her to him. When he’d arrived, for the first time since it happened she had been comforted. She had realised with a shock that what she had been waiting to see on someone else’s face was not empathy but the companionship of unmitigated suffering.
He had refused to leave the hospital since they’d got there, though he told her mum to get rest. He’d barely said a word to Alex, who usually left when her mother did. A lot of the time when Amy was awake in the amber-lit hours her father was folded over in the chair beside her bed, snoring softly. But if she caught his eyes watching her, she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t think he did either.
When she thought of the person she had been just a few days ago, she felt like she was watching a film of another girl with plans and hopes and dreams. She spent most of the time now trying not to think, not to conjure up images she didn’t want to see, not to dwell on the future, when she couldn’t possibly imagine how she would ever get beyond this point. For the rest of her life she would be a girl who had been raped. She didn’t want to be that girl. She wanted to tear off her skin and climb out from beneath the bloodied mess of it and run away. She didn’t want Alex to see her like this. Defiled. She wanted him to tell her it was all a lie, all just a nightmare, but every time he looked at her she saw in his eyes that the nightmare was real.
45
When Chloe had opened her eyes on the Sunday morning it was to a feeling of lightness: the events of the evening before suddenly looked a lot funnier. Sure, it was extremely embarrassing – and despite her desire not to replay it, it seemed her mind had a will of its own and kept doing so anyway – but it wasn’t the end of the world.