It was early evening and the sun had already started to fade when Adrian woke again. The street outside was washed with grey light. He didn’t feel rested. His sleep had been plagued with voices and with the ever-present pain in his body. In his dreams, he could feel himself clinging onto sleep, trying to stay inside the dream.
He was thirsty again when he finally opened his eyes. He got up slowly, his bones creaking into action, trying to ignore the places where it hurt most. His body jarred as he walked down the stairs. With every breath, his lungs pressed against his sore ribs, a sharp pain shooting through him.
He walked past a mirror but was too afraid to look, as though it would be written on his face, what he had been part of. Inside the fridge the smell of leftover Indian made his stomach turn again. He looked at the beer, but he didn’t want alcohol. As much as he wanted to be drunk, he also wanted to be sober, to keep his wits about him. He pulled out a carton of juice and opened it, his lip stinging as the citric acid infiltrated his cuts.
The doorbell rang and Adrian felt his whole body tense. Was it them? Were they back? They knew where he lived, he knew that much. Struggling to breathe, he grabbed a knife from the block on the kitchen worktop and held it out in front of him, unsure of who he was planning to use it on if anyone burst through the door. He half thought he might just cut his own throat if it was them.
The bell rang again, followed by hard thumping. Adrian’s heart beat faster. He backed against the wall with the knife pointed at the front door as the banging continued, the handle slipping around as his palms got sweatier.
‘Adrian,’ Imogen called. ‘I know you’re in there; I can see the lights on!’
He took a deep breath at the sound of her voice, wanting nothing more than to hold her right now, but he was still frozen in place, his body taking time to catch up to the fact that his attackers weren’t back.
She banged on the door again.
‘Coming,’ he said before he had time to think.
His primary concern right now was making sure she didn’t get suspicious. If he didn’t open the door there would be questions he didn’t want to answer. He put the knife on the counter and walked to the front door, wiping his wet cheeks before touching the handle. He pushed past every feeling inside that wanted to keep the door closed and stay locked in here for ever.
He opened the door.
Imogen took one look at him and a flash of annoyance passed across her face.
‘One of those nights, was it?’ she asked as she took in his appearance. ‘You could have answered your phone. I’ve been worried sick.’
She had obviously assumed that he had got into a fight on purpose; it wouldn’t be the first time. If anything, it was a perfect cover for him. Having bruises or cuts on his face was nothing new. No one would ask many questions.
‘Sorry, I don’t feel well.’
He held onto the door, partly to hold his broken body upright, partly blocking her passage into the house. He didn’t want company.
Imogen reached forwards to place her hand on his forehead and he involuntarily flinched backwards. She ignored him and continued.
‘You are a bit warm. You don’t look right.’
‘I’m just going to sleep it off. I’ll be fine.’
He tried to say the things that would make her go away.
‘Are you still annoyed? Is that what this is? I said I was sorry,’ Imogen said.
‘No, I’m not annoyed at all. I just feel terrible,’ Adrian said.
He desperately wanted her to leave, but he knew if he said that then she would push her way in. He was surprised she hadn’t already. At the same time, he didn’t want to be alone, either. He just wanted to be asleep, unconscious, dead.
‘Let me in; I’ll make you some soup,’ Imogen said.
He didn’t want a confrontation and so he let her through. He didn’t know his own mind anymore. He felt weak.
Imogen walked past him into the kitchen. By the time Adrian had followed her inside, she had a tin of soup out and was emptying it into a bowl.
‘I’m going to go back to bed,’ Adrian said, looking at the dining chair, not wanting to sit on it, knowing that he couldn’t.
‘I’ll bring your soup up when it’s done.’
Out of her sight, Adrian allowed himself to feel the pain. He winced as he walked up the stairs. He blurted out a sob, unsure where it had come from and hoping that Imogen hadn’t heard it. He walked over to the bed and noticed there was blood streaking his sheets. Imogen would be up any moment.
He quickly pulled the bedding off and rolled it into a ball, stuffing it in the bottom of the wardrobe. He grabbed a clean set from the cupboard and redressed the bed, covering the large red rose-shaped stain on his mattress with a towel before putting the sheet on. He would have to replace it. He couldn’t risk Imogen seeing it.
His body begged to be lying down again, but he was desperate not to be discovered. His eyes were streaming and he didn’t know how to stop them. He changed his tracksuit bottoms as well and climbed in bed just moments before he heard Imogen on the stairs. Wiping his eyes, he turned onto his side – lying on his back hurt too much and he didn’t want to get more blood on the sheets.
‘Thank you,’ he said as Imogen entered the room and put the soup by the bed.
‘You really look terrible, Miley. Have you been to see a doctor?’
She leaned over and put her hand on his cheek again. He braced himself as her hand touched him. He didn’t want any hands on him at all. Be normal.
‘I’ll be OK. I just need to sleep it off.’
He resisted the urge to push her hand away and just screamed on the inside.
‘Well, I’m staying here to look after you. I don’t care if you’re annoyed at me.’
‘I don’t want to give you what I have got. Maybe you should sleep in the other room.’
‘Nonsense. I never get sick. I’ll be downstairs. Call if you need me. Maybe a hot shower will make you feel better.’
‘Good idea.’
He smiled and she removed her hand. He could breathe again.
He waited for her to leave the room and then went into the bathroom. The black sack with his soiled things inside was still on the floor. He pulled his clothes off and stood in front of the mirror. Pale and bruised, the tears started to form in his eyes and dripped down without him even feeling as though he was crying. This was just who he was now. Pathetic.
He turned around and looked back in the mirror, checking his body. There were several bruises on his back. He daren’t look lower, but then he took a deep breath before casting his eyes down and then looking away immediately. He saw the dried blood at the top of his thighs and gagged. He managed to open the toilet just in time to throw up again. He clutched at his rib as he retched until his stomach was dry.
‘You all right in there?’ Imogen knocked on the door.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, panting, trying not to sound as fucked up as he felt.
He quickly turned the shower on again and got in, as though maybe this time he could wash the injuries away. Sobbing into the water, desperate to stop crying but finding it harder and harder to control, he gently rubbed shower cream between his legs, front and back. Even his own hands on his skin were making him feel worse.
Composing himself and getting dressed again, he took deep breaths until he felt he could pass for human again. He picked up the black sack and opened the bathroom door. Imogen was standing there.
‘You’re not right, Adrian. What have you taken for it?’
‘Nothing, I’ll be fine.’
He walked back into the bedroom and kicked the black bag under the bed before Imogen mentioned it.
‘Shall I get you some painkillers?’
He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that; maybe because the pain was incidental. It wasn’t the worst part of what had happened, it was the side effect. He could handle the physical pain – it hurt, of course – but it wasn’t what was upsetting him. The main source of his agony was inside and untouchable.
‘Yes, please. They are in the high cupboard next to the fridge.’
He felt he should be hungry, but somehow that was the last thing on his mind. The emptiness inside him was not a priority.
He climbed back in bed, careful to lie on his side propped up on the pillows to relieve the pain in his ribs, terrified of soiling the sheets again. Knowing full well if he told Imogen she would understand and that it might even relieve some of this internal pressure, the thought of saying it out loud made him gag. The idea of her thinking about him in that situation was not something he could entertain. He wasn’t sure if he could say it, wasn’t sure if his mouth would work enough for the words to come out.
Imogen reappeared with the painkillers. He leaned up on his elbow and took two, knowing that it would make no difference, not really. He lay back again and closed his eyes.
Imogen stood in the doorway for a few moments just looking at him. He could feel her wanting to say something but deciding against it. Eventually, she left the room and Adrian attempted to sleep again.
Sleeping was strange. There was an anxiety within him that didn’t switch off, a constant reminder that he was in danger. There was still pain but it was a little less intrusive than it had been before.
He drifted in and out of sleep, but not enough to open his eyes. Just enough to be aware and remember what had happened. Occasionally, the impulse to scream took over, but he suppressed it, he suppressed everything. He felt as though he were climbing into the smallest box, all his armour now removed, destroyed. He had to hide in the box to stay safe. They wouldn’t find him there.
He could hear sobbing. The familiar pain in his throat returned and then he felt hands on his shoulders.
‘Adrian! Wake up!’
This time he did push her hands away, as he woke with a start. He was breathless and his face was wet. He had been crying, maybe talking in his sleep.
Imogen was lying with him. The room was dark and he wanted to cry out, but instead he turned in the bed, putting his bedside light on, the extreme movement causing him to wince yet again. He took several slow, deep breaths as he moved, unsure why that eased the pain in any way. He looked over to Imogen, who looked as though she had seen a ghost – a concerned and surprised face.
‘Bad dream, that’s all.’
She reached across to put her hand on his face again to check if he had a temperature, but he got out of the bed before she could touch him.
‘You were crying in your sleep. Are you sure you’re OK? Let me see if you’re warm.’
‘I said I’m fine. Will you stop fucking harassing me!’ Adrian snapped before leaving the room.
In the bathroom, he ran the cold water and splashed it on his face. His cheeks and nose were wet where the tears had fallen. He felt so broken. No control. It was as though he had given it away by not fighting back. Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he fight to the death? Adrian wasn’t sure he could do this anymore. What alternative is there?
There was a gentle tap on the bathroom door.
‘Adrian?’
As the towel enveloped his face, he had the urge to scream into it, but instead he just dried himself off and opened the door. Imogen was standing with her arms folded, hugging herself for security. Her face was full of concern.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I feel like shit,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’m great company right now.’
‘I’m worried about you. What was your dream about?’
‘I can’t even remember,’ Adrian lied.
‘You were really sobbing. It was awful. I kept trying to wake you and you were freaking out.’
‘It’s just this bug and this case. I think you were right and it’s getting to me. I need more rest, that’s all. I might go and lie on the sofa for a while.’
Adrian walked past her and down the stairs. He grabbed a cushion and clutched it to him as he lay down again, propped up on the arm of the sofa. He picked up the remote and put the TV on – silence and darkness were not things he wanted to deal with right now.
The sound of the bed creaking upstairs as Imogen climbed in alone relaxed him a little. At least he didn’t have to pretend to be all right for a while. He found it impossible to pretend he was all right, even though no part of him wanted her to know what had happened.
He watched TV until the sun rose. But he couldn’t keep his mind on anything. His thoughts kept returning to that van, to specific moments in there. The overwhelming smell of his own blood as it pooled underneath him. The sensation as the man forced himself inside him over and over again. He could still feel the sting in his skin where it had split and ripped. The taste of the man’s grubby fingers in his mouth, pushing against the back of his throat. Nothing existed outside those moments for Adrian. Everything was gone. There was nothing else to think about, nothing else to remember. It had built a wall around him and trapped him inside.