It’s the floral scent of her perfume that grounds me when I wake. The air is black, not a chink of light through the velvet curtains, not a whisper of morning beyond them. I slide my fingers across the sheet but she is out of reach. As I roll over, the muffled ache in my head slides behind my eyes and it takes a second to focus and another to register the crashing disappointment when I see the empty space beside me. I know she never misses swimming and I don’t know what I expected. Not a kiss goodbye or a declaration of love, just some sort of nod to what’s happened.
My breath stutters when I think of them together, the power he has over her, how brittle she is in his hands. The sickening thought of his fingers on her wet skin. It’s personal now, urgent, and I have to believe she meant what she said, that she really does want to be saved.
The red glow of the alarm clock shows 6:55 a.m. I need to get out of here. Soon, Shauna’s dad will be up for work and, without her, I’m just an intruder in this vast and hollow house. What would I say to him? “I stayed over to drink your wine and fuck your daughter.” Jesus. And it’d probably be my accent that would freak him out the most. I sling my legs onto the carpet and my ankle brushes against a glass I don’t remember leaving there. It’s a highball filled with water, still cold. A nod.
I dress in darkness and I’m about to leave when I remember the photos. I flick on the bedside light and there they are, a near-naked Shauna smiling up at me, the two of us lost in a passionate kiss. It’s real; there’s proof. I put the photo of me in a drawer and slide the other two into my coat pocket.
I open the door slowly and I’m startled to see a man frozen on the stairs below me, like a burglar caught in the act. He’s wearing suit trousers and a white shirt open at the neck and his cold blue eyes are more ragged than mine. We’re locked in a silent stare until I remember I’m definitely not supposed to be here, whatever about him.
“I’m a friend of Shauna’s,” I say. “I was just leaving.”
“Oh,” he says, shoulders straightening now that balance has been restored. “I’m Mr. Power.” And then, in case it wasn’t clear, “Shauna’s dad.”
He climbs to the top of the stairs and, when he passes, I smell a mix of stale booze and expensive perfume, and I wonder if he gets the same from me.
AT HOME, MAM IS CRASHED out on the sofa, face tucked into her chest like a baby. The dregs of vodka sit in the belly of an overturned bottle and the air is thick with that old familiar stench of alcohol seeping through her pores. I bring a glass of water upstairs and try to sleep off the hollow void of my hangover, but there are too many conflicting thoughts rolling around my head and I can’t calm the fear that I’m not in control of any of them. All I want to think about is Shauna, the curve of her hip, the quickening of her breath in my ear, but I can’t unshackle her from him no matter how hard I try.
After a while, I hear Mam creeping up the stairs and I drag my duvet down to the sofa and try to numb my brain with the hum of daytime TV. Floella Benjamin shows us how to make our own Christmas decorations on Play School and there’s trouble in the Ramsay household in Neighbours. By mid-afternoon, I’m starting to doze when the phone rings, and adrenaline has me on my feet before I know what’s happening. I’m so elated at the thought of talking to Shauna that I don’t even try to hide my disappointment when I hear Melissa’s voice.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says.
“Nothing. Actually, I’m sick.”
I am sick. I haven’t eaten all day and I’m shivering with the bitter cold that creeps into the hall at this time of year.
“What, like vomiting and stuff?”
“Yeah.”
I sit on the stairs and huddle my elbows to my knees.
“I caught Shauna barfing in the loos on Friday,” says Melissa.
“Oh. Was she OK?”
“No. But it wasn’t because she had a tummy bug.”
“What do you mean?” I say, even though I’ve felt the jut of her hip bone, the skin taut across her ribs.
“If you have to ask that question then you don’t know Shauna as well as you think you do.”
I want to tell her everything then, steal the smugness from her voice, but I’ve no doubt she’d destroy me with it.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah. But I just called her house and she’s already left for swimming so she must be OK. Listen, I’ve been thinking, it has to be this week. It can’t be during the holidays, like, what excuse would we even have for being at the school? And there’s no way we can leave it until next year. I mean, could you enjoy your Christmas dinner knowing what that fucker is doing to her?”
She pauses to let me picture it, and I do.
“She has her private half-hour lesson with him at half six tonight, Wednesday and Thursday. Take your pick.”
“Not tonight.” I can’t begin to explain to Melissa how things have changed, and I can’t take the risk that she will go ahead without me. Or worse, tell Shauna we conspired behind her back.
“So Wednesday then?” she says.
The free local newspaper flaps in the breeze that slides under the front door and the cold goes right through me.
“I dunno. Can we wait and see?”
“Look, Lou, I’m going over there this week, with or without you, so you better make your mind up quickly.”
After that, everything Melissa says fades to a distant mumble and all I can think is, I’m going to have to confront them tonight, alone.
AS SOON AS I TELL Mam I’m going to Shauna’s later I know I’ve made a mistake. She’s lying on the sofa, eyes dark and hooded, the angry stage of drunk already, and Countdown hasn’t even started yet.
“This is what I was afraid of,” she growls. “They’ve taken you away from me.”
She sits up, pulls a slouched jumper back onto her shoulder and reaches for the glass of vodka on the coffee table.
“Don’t forget, I know these people.” She sinks a mouthful and smacks the glass onto the table. “You can’t trust any of them.”
I know there’s a sermon coming if I engage and I’ve only forty-five minutes to get to Highfield.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I put my hand on the door.
“Was it her that put you up to it?”
My heart sinks. She’s determined to do this now and I’m going to have to let it play out. I can’t risk leaving her with her own destructive thoughts.
“No, Mam. Shauna’s a friend.”
“Well, somebody in there’s got to you. Why else would you say those things about Maurice?”
“Please, can we talk about it later?”
She stares into space for a second before her eyes flare with urgency.
“I’m going to ask him myself.”
She starts to get up and then falls back onto the sofa.
“I don’t have his number,” she says with a pout. “He never gave it to me. Do you have it?”
“No.”
“Then I need to go and see him. I’m coming with you.”
“No, you can’t,” I say. “I’m cycling.”
Her lip starts to tremble and I can’t tell if she’s going to snarl or surrender.
“Well feck off then,” she shouts.
She flicks her wrist at me with such force her arm swipes against the glass and it shoots off the end of the table and smashes against the radiator.
“Oh Christ,” she says, sinking to her knees, leaning over the broken fragments.
I want to run, let her clean up her own mess, but a latent dread stops me. Mam and booze and sharp objects shouldn’t be left alone. I crouch down beside her and reach for the glass, but she shoos me away.
“Just go,” she says. “Leave me.”
I stand up slowly and she holds my gaze, and she must have forgotten about the glass because she leans back and I shout, “Mam, no,” but the palm of her hand falls flat against the upturned shards, and maybe it’s the vodka or the fact that she’s got my attention but she doesn’t seem to notice until the blood is soaking into the cuff of her jumper.
“Oh shit,” she says, holding her hand up to the light.
I run into the kitchen to grab a tea towel and, when I get back, she’s on her feet, walking across the carpet, blood painting a trail to the door. I lead her to the kitchen, sit her down, and she’s almost serene, barely flinching as I clean and dress her wound. My eyes flick to the clock on the cooker—thirty-five minutes to make the seven-mile cycle to Highfield. I could skip Mass completely, but then I wouldn’t have a reason for being there at all, and somebody’s sure to see me somewhere on the grounds.
“Will you talk to him?” she says, head lolling to one side, and I wonder if I can get her upstairs to the safety of sleep.
“Yeah. I will.”
I clasp my arm around her waist and lift her off the chair.
“Let’s go and lie down for a bit.”
“Tell him I’ll be up there later,” she says. “After I’ve had a bit of a rest.”
As I help her up the stairs, I try not to think about my fingers on the ledge of her ribs, the sharp angles of her arms, how everyone I love is fading away. When I’ve tucked her in, cleared the glass, half-scrubbed the blood from the carpet, I’ve less than half an hour to make it. I take off into the biting cold and pedal like my life depends on it.