It’s Wednesday morning. Marie should be excited about Anne’s party but she is numb. She’d stayed in her room all day yesterday. Pushed a chair up against the door, wedging it under the door handle. She could hear Graeme skulking about. He seemed to flip so easily from light to dark, and she’d been scared he was ready to lose it completely. She had no real idea how to deal with him. His episodes seemed to start without warning, and afterwards it was almost as if he had no idea what had just gone on. That slack, vacant expression on his face was almost as terrifying as the horrible things he said. Not to mention that bubbling undercurrent of what he might do next. Sooner or later it was bound to turn physical. He’d tried to get in, just once. Then he’d gone quiet. She heard the TV. Heard the cat, scratching at her door. Then nothing. Sometimes she thought she could hear him breathing. Imagined his face pressed up close to her door. His eyes blank and staring. She’d barely slept.
She stares at herself in her dressing-table mirror. She looks like shit. Everything is falling apart. She thinks about texting Davie. But what is she going to say? Part of her wants to tell him everything. Ask for his help. But it’s too late for that. It was stupid of her to let Graeme into her flat. Ridiculous to think she could handle this herself. She’s a fool. An embarrassment. She’s made the whole thing worse for everyone. She wishes she could tell him. She wants to tell him. Everything. But she made her choice.
She chose her brother.
Even after all that he’s done, he still has that hold over her. That bond that she can’t seem to break. Idiot. You’re such an idiot, Marie! Disastrous clichés tumble through her mind: the wheels are already in motion, she’s created a rod for her own back, she’s made her bed . . .
She can’t ask for help. Not now.
The day passes in a blur. The lunchtime shift is busy. Quinn shouts at her when she drops a plate of steak pie, chips and peas, smashing it on the floor. Bill asks her if she is OK, and she says nothing. Just nods.
She’s not OK. She needs a drink. Hasn’t got anything at home. Didn’t dare touch anything in the pub.
She thinks about going straight to the party. Trying to block it all out. But then she remembers. Cadbury. She hasn’t been feeding the cat. It’s quite capable of sorting itself out, but she starts to worry about it being there around Graeme. Worries about what he might do. He’d never liked animals. They’d had hamsters as children, but they’d always died out of the blue when they were barely weeks old. She suspected at the time that Graeme was responsible, but like her mum and dad she’d pushed the thoughts away. Not Graeme. Not my brother.
He loves me.
Graeme is sitting on the couch, his face directed towards the TV. He doesn’t even flinch when she walks into the room. One of those crappy antiques programmes is on, where people flog their dead relatives’ jewellery for the price of a couple of CDs.
‘Hey. I’m back,’ Marie says, standing in the doorway.
Nothing.
‘Graeme? Are you OK?’
He turns around slowly, and he looks confused for a moment, as if he can’t work out who she is or what she’s doing there. ‘Hi,’ he says, eventually. Blinks. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
He’s retreated back to the placid man she met in the hallway upstairs. The dark, accusing eyes and the disapproving tone from the day before have disappeared. She wonders how long it will last. ‘Tea would be lovely,’ she says. Marie feels a strange sadness washing through her. Feels herself regressing back to her younger self. The one who gave in. The one who let Graeme do what he wanted to her. The one who wanted it as much as he did . . .
They’d become as close as two people could be, and it had felt right. Once. Until it didn’t. Until it felt wrong. Sordid. Graeme disagreed. Graeme felt rejected. She knew that now. But what was she supposed to do? She could’ve told their parents. Should’ve. But she’d wanted it as much as he did. That word . . . that horrible word . . . incest. It made it all sound so dirty. So wrong. But it hadn’t always felt wrong. That word didn’t explain how they felt. That bond. That closeness.
That love.
She thought she’d done a good job of growing up, moving on – but his very presence brought her right back to the past.
She sits down on the sofa, where Graeme has clearly slept again. The blankets are folded up at the end, but different to how she left them.
She remembers the last time they shared a bed.
‘Can I get in? I’ve got us a video to watch. You’ll like it,’ he’d said. ‘It’s scary.’
Marie pushed her nightie under her legs. She was wearing knickers underneath – something she’d taken to doing since she’d started her period. It felt weird to be naked under a nightie now, even though it was only her in her bed and it wasn’t like anyone was going to see her. Graeme hadn’t been coming into her bed for a while, and she realised she missed it. She always enjoyed the warmth of another body squeezed up next to her in the narrow bed. Touching each other. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut while he guided her hand, gently spread her legs . . .
Things hadn’t been the same since the night they’d watched that dirty movie and Graeme had got a hard-on. Marie had felt a wave of disgust. Suddenly, things felt different. It didn’t feel right that he should be sitting next to his sister like that. The memories of what they’d been doing together since they were young slithered through her, making her flesh creep. They’d joked, but Marie had felt something strange and scary wash over her, and for a while afterwards Graeme had spent most of his time on his own. He’d started to smoke weed, usually in the shed at the bottom of the garden. She didn’t know where he got it from, didn’t ask. But when he was spaced out on it, his eyes went straight through her, and she didn’t like it at all.
He’d pushed the video into the player under her TV then climbed into bed beside her. He wriggled around, plumping up the pillows and getting himself comfortable. The video had trailers on it for a couple of horrible-looking slasher movies and Marie knew she was going to be terrified.
‘What film is it?’
‘Carrie . . . you know, teenage girl with telekinetic powers goes on a rampage after she gets bullied for being a freak. Right up your street.’
Marie punched him in the arm. ‘What’re you trying to say?’
‘That you’re a freak, Freak.’
‘What does that make you, then? Double Freak?’
He threw an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her tight. Kissed her on the head. She could smell the musty smell of cannabis coming off him and felt herself pull away.
‘Have you been smoking?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, why? You should try it some time, little sis. You might even like it.’
The film started. The girls in the shower room. Naked. Graeme’s hand went under the covers. She heard him groan. He moved in closer to her again and Marie tried to shift away, but there was barely any space left on her side of the bed.
‘Graeme, I’m pretty tired actually. Can we watch this another time?’ She tried to keep the fear from her voice, but she heard it shake. She tried to push away the images that burned inside her brain. Little hands rubbing and tickling. Exploring. Graeme put a hand on her knee, pushing her nightie up – just a little bit, but still too much. ‘Graeme . . .’ She pulled her leg away, and she went too far, slid off the edge of the bed onto the floor.
Graeme jumped out of the bed. She could see a hard lump straining through his thin pyjama bottoms. He thrust a hand inside and pulled it out, shaking it, tugging it. Marie turned away. She was glad she was on the other side of the bed from him. Glad that he wasn’t standing right next to her like that. She turned back to face him, trying not to look at what he was doing. ‘Please, Graeme, can you just go?’
He leered at her. ‘You didn’t used to be so shy, Marie. You used to love playing with Mr Wiggle once upon a time, didn’t you?’ He continued to touch himself.
‘Please . . .’ She was crying now. Curled up on the floor on the other side of the bed, terrified of what he might do next. His eyes were wild, his hand moving faster and faster until eventually he groaned. Spurted over his clenched fist, let it drip down his hand and onto her bed.
She held her breath. Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . She closed her eyes tight. By the time she got to zero, he was gone.
‘Marie? Here’s your tea. Are you OK? Seemed like you were miles away . . .’
Marie blinks. Back in the present. She takes the mug from his outstretched hand. It’s shaking slightly and she wonders if it’s because of his medication. Or because he isn’t taking his medication. Or because he’d been sharing her thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘I think we need to talk,’ she says.
‘What about? Have you got any biscuits? I’d like a biscuit—’
‘Forget the bloody biscuits, Graeme. You scared me yesterday. Like, really scared me.’
‘Why? What did I do?’ His face softens and that vulnerable little boy peers out.
She blinks. Did she imagine it? No. He’d definitely tried to stop her from leaving. His tone had been threatening. His words hurt. ‘You told me I wasn’t allowed to leave, Graeme.’ Her voice is barely a whisper.
He stares at her. He blinks, and then the hard, glazed look is back.
‘It’s your fault! If it wasn’t for you acting like a stupid little girl, everything would’ve been fine. I wouldn’t have had to hurt you. They’d have never put me away.’ He pauses, and she can see his chest heaving. His breathing has quickened. ‘I don’t think I’m safe around you, Marie.’
‘What do you mean?’ She can feel her heart beating through her chest, trying to push its way out. She needs to get away from here.
She walks past him, through to the kitchen. Takes the carrier bag with the pills from the cupboard, stuffs it into her pocket. She glances at the knife block, the knives are all in there, lined up correctly. Small ones at the front, large ones at the back. She runs a finger across the handles. Selects the carving knife. Pulls it out, hears the metal shearing against the sides. Slides it back in. Her hand hovers over another.
‘What are you doing, Marie?’
He is standing behind her. Too close. She can smell him. Sweat. Unwashed.
‘I’m going out, Graeme. Stay away from me.’ She turns around slowly, edges along the worktop. He is too close to her. She can smell his sour-milk breath.
‘Aww, Marie . . . Sweet Marie. Don’t be like that.’
She feels the edge of the worktop digging into her back as she recoils from him. ‘Get out of my way.’
He pushes against her, and she can feel the hardness pressing through his trousers. The hardness at her back. Panic rises in her chest, spitting and hissing and trying to choke her.
‘You used to like this . . .’ He pushes his face up to hers and she turns her cheek, bites back tears. She needs to be away from him, but she is scared to push him. Doesn’t want to provoke him. He will kill her one day. She is certain of it.
‘Please . . .’ she whispers. ‘Don’t do this.’
His grubby paws grab at her breasts, rubbing and mauling, until finally she snaps.
‘No! I said no!’ She shoves him hard. He stumbles backwards across the small room, crumples and slides down the wall at the other side. He looks up at her, and his eyes are wide with surprise. He didn’t expect her to stand up to him. He glares at her. He didn’t expect it, and he doesn’t like it. Anger flashes. His face contorts with rage.
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ He stands up straight, his hands are raised in front of him like claws. He is an animal. A wild cat, ready to pounce. Ready to tear her to pieces.
A single tear runs down her cheek and she closes her eyes. She holds her breath. She stands, paralysed.
He makes a small whimpering sound.
The air shifts around her. The storm has passed. She opens her eyes.
He slumps into a kitchen chair. He has his head in his hands. A low whine is coming from somewhere deep inside him. His hands rub at his head. Frustration. Agitation. He starts to methodically pull out great clumps of hair. She hears the sound of flesh ripping. Sees the blood on his hands.
She has to try hard to stop her voice from shaking.
‘I want you out of here when I get back, or I’m calling the police.’
She doesn’t give him a chance to reply. She scoops up the cat, who protests by spitting out an annoyed mewl and scratching her on the arm. She walks calmly out of the flat. Gulps in mouthfuls of fresh air. She turns back. He hasn’t followed her. She hesitates, waiting for him to appear at the front door. After a few minutes, it’s clear that he’s not coming out. She exhales a long, slow breath. Wipes a solitary tear off her cheek. She’s safe. She’s free.
She drops the cat on the grass.
‘Off you go, puss,’ she says. ‘Off you go and play. Mummy will be back later. Don’t you worry.’
The plastic bag is still in her pocket. She pulls it out, drops it into her bag. Walks to the party, stopping at the off-licence on the way. She needs a quick livener. Something to lift her up and calm her down. The little angel inside her head says, Call Davie. It’s not too late . . .
No, she thinks. I can handle this by myself.