Saturday, 7th July 1990, 4.10 pm

Inside the van it is musty and warm. Bethany lies down on the mattress and Daniel half stands, half crouches. He takes off his T-shirt, his torso is thin and honed, almost hairless. He has a smattering of freckles on his chest and too-small nipples. He lies down next to her and kicks off his boots and socks. He unlaces her Dr Martens and removes them. Bethany thinks of the times her father has told her to take her shoes off when lying on her bed. It makes her laugh a little; perhaps it’s the pot. He puts his hands on her stomach.

‘What’s funny, baby girl?’

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘And don’t call me baby girl.’

He rakes his fingers up her stomach and onto her breasts. He squeezes them and tries to take off the Big Black T-shirt.

‘I’m keeping it on, okay?’ she says.

They kiss finally, his hands fumbling with her bra, finally unclasping it without her help. He starts then on her jeans, rolling them down her legs. She feels exposed.

She has bought new underwear for Daniel. She did not want to see her bra and think of Mark taking it off, her knickers having once had Mark so close to them. In Ethel Austin, she had felt somehow clandestine, as though anyone would be able to detect her intentions. Still, she had spent a while deliberating before settling on something black and indistinct. He pulls the knickers down without even looking at them, instead looking at where they have so recently been.

She has a small birthmark on the right of her groin. He kisses it. He puts his head between her legs, his tongue is inside her and then his fingers. She feels she should not be surprised, but nonetheless she is. His nails are too long and his stubble scratches at her skin. She will not tell him what to do. With Mark, she had given helpful tutorials. He seemed to have enjoyed them, Bethany’s voice explaining what was pleasurable and what was not. It had not taken him long to understand. She understands, as Daniel’s tongue plays along her, his fingers moving in and out, that this is not really for her benefit.

*

There are so many things that could have come to mind. The first time he made her come, or the night by the quarry where they talked about their wildest fantasies, or the sex they had on a Sunday morning while her father was out walking. It could have been the post-revision, post-sex conversations, the late-night whispers about their mothers, the increased speculation about her father and Hannah. It could have been any number of telephone calls, or random moments when one had told the other that they loved them. It could have been handing over all that money to the travel agent, the woman dabbing at her fingers as she counted out the notes. It could easily have been them imagining the brownstone in which they would live, the coffee shop they would go to on Sunday mornings and the bars they’d drink dry.

When it comes to it, though, Bethany does not think of anything specific. There is just a dull ache in her stomach; a reminder, like the Sunday evening feeling of not having completed her homework. Daniel is still between her legs, but he might as well be eating ice cream for all the sensation she feels.

She looks up to the roof of the van, the corrugated metal, the dirt that clings there. She knows exactly how she got here, but it still feels utterly alien. She watches his head bob up and down. He does not look up like Mark, checking that what he is doing is right. And it’s not that she misses Mark, or that she feels that she is letting him down. It is simply that this is not working for her. When Mark finishes, he always asks her if it was good. Sometimes it irritates her, but mostly she thinks it’s sweet.

‘Enough. Stop,’ she says. He looks up, his mouth moist and his eyes wide. He hitches himself up, unzips his trousers. His cock is straining and silverishly tipped. It revolts her. His smile revolts her.

‘No,’ she says. ‘No. I can’t do this. Not here. Not now.’

‘Oh come on,’ he says. ‘I can’t stop now.’

She kneels and starts to fumble around for her underwear. She is in front of him now and he tries to slip a finger inside her from behind. She slaps him away.

‘I said no, okay. Just fuck off will you.’

She feels arms around her. He twists her around and throws her down on the mattress. He holds her arms and she kicks her legs, kicks them hard. He is powerful though and uses his thighs to quieten her.

‘What’s wrong,’ he says. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Get off me, Daniel. Get off me right now, okay?’

She can feel his penis. She can see the burn in his eyes. She closes her eyes. She has been told about this. At school. By her mother. It can happen anywhere, any time. Be vigilant. Be sensible. Do not put yourself at undue risk.

He relaxes his grip, then rolls off her body. He buttons up his jeans and pulls on his T-shirt. Bethany wants to get up, to hit him, to kick him, but she is immobile. He picks up her knickers and bra and offers them to her. His breaths are shallow. She sees sweat at the corner of his brow, little beads.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . if I scared you, then I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

He looks pathetic and lost, nothing like the man in the pub, the lad with his mates. Is it shame? Or is it that he didn’t have the bottle to actually do it? Hurriedly she puts on her underwear. He opens the door and jumps down to the ground. From the cab of the van he takes a pre-rolled spliff and lights it.

As Bethany gets out, Daniel apologizes again. She shakes her head.

‘I just couldn’t, you know? It’s . . . I have a boyfriend and I thought I could do this. Wanted to do this, but I just couldn’t. It’s hard to explain.’

Daniel passes her the spliff and takes a can from a bag on the seat. He pops it open and drinks, then picks up a stone and skims it on the water.

‘Had a feeling it were all too good to be true,’ he says smiling sadly. ‘Still . . .’

She smokes the joint and passes it back. He hands her the can. Her mouth is dry and the lager is cool and refreshing.

‘So what now?’ he says. ‘What are you up to?’

‘New York,’ she says. ‘Mark and I are going to New York.’

‘I’ve never been,’ he says. ‘One day, you know? I wanna play a gig there before I die. Something small, anything really.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again.

‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘No harm done.’

He takes the can of beer from her and drains it. He crushes the can and throws it into the river. It floats for a time, then sinks.

‘I need to get off,’ he says looking at his watch. ‘You need a lift somewhere?’

Bethany shakes her head. ‘I think I’ll hang around here for a while. I don’t feel like going back, you know? You got a can you can spare?’

He nods and throws her one from the cab. He gets in the driver’s side and the engine takes on the third attempt. She waves goodbye. He toots the horn. There is silence. She stands there holding the beer. Around her everything is still. On the breeze she can hear the fairground. She feels relieved, lightheaded; her watch tells her that she has time enough to make it to the pub, perhaps enough to have a drink. But she wants to take stock, to pause for once. Her mother would be proud, she realizes. The relief turns into a sense of freedom, of being let loose. The van is gone, and so is Daniel. She can never return and she has not betrayed anyone, not really. She opens the beer and tries not to think of the moment he was on top of her, but instead the look of contrition that he shot her afterwards. The apology. She is grateful to him. She feels, at last, that she is truly ready to leave.

She takes her cigarettes from her bag and walks down to the river. She sits on the bank and puts her feet in the cool water. She lights a cigarette and closes her eyes. She has an hour or so before she needs to get back. An hour, just for herself.