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51. SUMMER 2013

Catherine has blood on her hands. Mixed with her sweat, the inside of both her palms are a filmy red. But it is her blood, from a cut on the heel of her right hand where she broke the glass and reached through to open his front door. She sits in her car outside Stephen Brigstocke’s house and wipes it off onto her jeans.

She hadn’t bothered to knock. She simply broke in and closed the door behind her. The curtains were drawn and in the dim light it took her a few moments to recognise that she was walking through the wasteland of a life. Dirty cups, plates, empty tins of beans still with the fork in them littered the table. The floor was strewn with bits of paper; an old Welsh dresser recoiled in humiliation, its drawers hanging out, its doors flung open. Her eyes were drawn to the only tranquil spot in the room: a desk, neat and tidy, with a silver-framed photograph of a young couple from the ’60s and a laptop, open but sleeping. She woke it up with a stab of her finger and then flinched as Nicholas’s Facebook page blinked back at her. There is a message on it from Robert giving an update on Nicholas’s condition.

She walked on through the filth and stink of the kitchen and stood at the kitchen window. She knew he must have heard her, knew he was probably upstairs, but she was in no hurry. She looked out at an apple tree laden with fruit, a garden neglected, but beautiful still. Wildflowers tickled through the unmown grass and mature shrubs stood proud against the weeds which threatened to strangle them. A bonfire smouldered, and she went outside and stood over it, looking down at the remains of the things he had tried to destroy.

She felt him before she saw him: a shrunken figure, hugging a woman’s cardigan around his scrawny, bare torso, standing at the open back door. He didn’t protest, barely blinked, when it poured out of her, but she saw him wilt and shrivel under her words.

Catherine remembers more than she told him. Unspoken words swam around her head, but she held them there, not wanting them to clutter up her story. Get to the heart of it. And she had. When she finished he was silent, looking down into his lap, his hands gripping the edge of his stool.

“I’m sorry.” The words surprised her. They came from her, not him. She hadn’t planned on saying them, they just came out. She left them there, got up, and walked out.

And now she allows herself to cry. Years and years of tears pour out of her.

SUMMER 1993

When Jonathan smiled at Catherine sitting on that bar stool, after her phone call with Robert, she smiled back. It was instinctive, but it embarrassed her and she ignored his gesture inviting her to join him and hurried instead to the lift up to her room. She locked the door and moved over to the bed, checking on Nicholas. He was fast asleep, spread-eagled in her bed. She opened the door into the adjoining room and carried him through to his own bed. Then she had a shower before going to bed herself. Nothing had happened that night. Nothing.

The following day she and Nicholas went to the beach. It was early, Nicholas had been up since seven, so they were there by about eight thirty. She remembers feeling lonely, but she remembers too the brilliance of the sun, not too hot, and the miles of sandy beach. A beach all to themselves, she remembers telling Nick. There were endless trips to the sea and back with buckets of water. They were building a town, or at least Catherine was. Nick hadn’t quite got the hang of it, and thought the buckets of sand she emptied out for the shops and the houses were there just to be knocked down. She remembers her patience, and also the twinge of guilt she had at being conscious of her patience. It hadn’t come naturally. She went with it though, went with him. And as he flattened down the buildings, she started on the roads, dragging a spade through the sand, creating winding streets through the heaps of sand he trashed.

After a couple of hours other people started arriving and by lunchtime the beach was full. By lunchtime too, Nicholas was hot and tired. They went to a café for lunch, leaving their towels, but nothing valuable behind. They were hand in hand and Catherine remembers being happy. She remembers the pleasure of Nick’s pudgy little hand in hers and giving it a squeeze, and him squeezing back. They were leaving the day after tomorrow and for the first time she found she had the heart to make the most of the time they had left in the sun.

Nick ate his lunch without a fuss, and after, she bought them ice creams. She had strawberry, he vanilla, and they shared them as they walked back to the beach, each taking a lick of the other’s. She remembers the blob of strawberry ice cream on the end of Nick’s nose where he lunged for hers at the same time as she held it out to him. He giggled, enjoying the cold on his face, and then daubed his cheeks and chin with vanilla. He tried to stretch his tongue round to lick his nose and chin, but it didn’t reach and Catherine used the edge of her beach dress to clean him up and stop the wasps homing in on his sweetness.

When they got back to their towels, they flopped down, hot from the walk. She remembers taking off her sundress and sitting with her legs apart, and Nick snuggling up between them and leaning against her bare stomach as she read to him. His body became heavier, and his head lolled against her arm. He had fallen asleep, and she carefully lifted him from between her legs and lay him on his side, draping her sundress over him to protect him from the sun. He slept for over an hour and she read her book, happy. Really happy. She fell asleep herself for a bit, curling around him, spooning her son.

When Nick woke, she woke. When she sat up, she saw Jonathan. There were people between them. He was closer to the sea than she and Nick, but he had a clear view of them. He was lying on his stomach facing them. She wondered how long he’d been there. She pretended she hadn’t seen him and turned her attention to Nick, getting a drink out of the bag. He must have taken some photographs of them then. She doesn’t remember him doing it, but she has seen the photographs. The snap of her and Nick sitting on their towel and her handing Nick his drink. The plastic bottle was warm and the drink must have tasted disgusting but Nick didn’t complain. She remembers feeling self-conscious about her near nakedness. She was exposing no more flesh than anyone else on the beach, and yet she felt exposed and moved her legs closer together and pulled up the straps of her bikini top when they slipped from her shoulders.

By about three, Catherine and Nick left the beach and returned to the hotel. She can’t remember what they did in the next couple of hours there, but the time passed peacefully. Then they took a taxi into the town. Catherine would have preferred to walk, but it was too far for Nick, so the hotel ordered them a taxi. They ate pizza in a café, and then they walked hand in hand around the small streets until they came to a square and she remembers Nick’s squeak of excitement when he saw the carousel. It was as if it had appeared straight out of the pages of a children’s book. He wanted to go on his own horse and for Catherine to sit on the one behind. She remembers putting her hands over his, making sure he held on to the pole thrust through his horse, and then she mounted her own, right behind him, just as he’d asked. She felt queasy as the horse went up and down, round and round, and she worried every time Nick turned round to look at her that he might let go but he didn’t, and he loved it. He had a wonderful time.

After the carousel was the helter-skelter. Not too high, just right for a child his size. She didn’t follow him up, certain she’d get wedged in the narrow slide, so she watched him go up the steps, carrying his mat, and then she stood at the bottom, smiling as he shot towards her, his face shiny and golden. He flew off the end into a heap of giggles. A soft landing. Safe. And then it was time to go back to the hotel, so they went in search of a taxi rank, Nick tired now and complaining. He wanted to be carried but she held his hand firmly and told him it wasn’t far. She promised they’d come again tomorrow, on their last night. They did do that. They returned to the little fair, but it wasn’t the same. She tried to make it the same, but she couldn’t.

They found a taxi rank. There were no taxis, just a sign with the word TAXI and a picture of one. They were the only ones waiting, but there were lots of people around, in cafés, looking into shops, walking out in the early evening. She picked Nick up and he snuggled into her, sleepy and smelling of sugar. And then she saw him, Jonathan, whose name she still didn’t know. He was sitting next to a girl in a café across the road. The girl was looking at a map and he leaned over and looked at it too. The girl seemed surprised, and Catherine remembers wondering whether they knew each other, or whether they had just met. Then he looked up suddenly and caught Catherine staring and she squirmed, turning away and looking up the road for a taxi. She remembers her relief when one came, three in fact, all at once. She put Nick down and leaned in to tell the driver where they were going. She remembers looking out of the window as they pulled away and seeing Jonathan watching.

She picked up the key from reception, and went to the room. Nick brushed his teeth, put on his pyjamas, and then she closed his shutters and sat on the edge of his bed and read him a story. He was happy to sleep in his own bed as long as she kept the door open between them and she promised she would. He could see her then from his bed if he woke up. He was asleep before she’d finished reading, and she kissed him, and went into her own room and lay on the bed. Her shutters were open and she could hear the street outside, busier now in anticipation of the night. She closed her eyes for a moment and felt a swell of happiness. One last treat, she had thought, and decided to finish her evening with a glass of wine and a cigarette on her balcony.

She went downstairs, locking the door after her, and ordered a large glass of white wine. The bar was empty, which wasn’t surprising. Why would anyone want to sit inside in this rather soulless hotel bar? She signed for her drink and took it upstairs, struggling not to spill it as she unlocked the door. She checked on Nick. He had kicked off his sheet and was lying with his arms up, hands against the pillow, in the way he had as a baby. They had had a special day together, she and Nick. Robert hadn’t been there but she hadn’t missed him. She had forgotten that. Only now does she remember that actually, she hadn’t missed Robert that day. She had relaxed into being with Nick and she had enjoyed it. The slight dread she’d felt when she’d woken in the morning, of a long day ahead trying to keep Nicholas happy, trying not to get irritated, had passed without her even noticing and she had slipped into just being with him, as she had always hoped she would. Only now does she remember thinking that perhaps it had been a good thing that Robert had gone. She had completely forgotten that. It had been wiped out. When she’d yelled at Robert recently, a few weeks ago, that he shouldn’t have left her and Nick alone, that she had been depressed and hadn’t wanted him to leave them, she had thought it was true. In a way it was, but she had forgotten how nourished, how satisfied she’d felt, from a day of simple pleasure with her son. Yes, she only remembers that now. It had been wiped out, until now.

She took her glass of wine and cigarettes onto the small balcony, sat down, and looked at the world passing by, for once not wanting to be part of it. She was happy. She recognises now, as she sits in her car outside Stephen Brigstocke’s house, that she had been happy at that moment. Her eyes brim up, and the tears begin again as she wonders whether, in truth, that was the last time she had been truly happy. Has all the “happiness” after that been a pretence? Not quite, not quite. But that happy feeling, she hadn’t told the old man about that. That wasn’t part of the story he needed to hear. She didn’t want to confuse things. She had got to the meat of it with him.

She finished her wine and went back into the room, closing the doors and shutters behind her. It was still quite early, but she was tired. Shower, book, bed. Her feet were already bare and she was taking off her top when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. She had pulled her top over her head and she turned to look, her arms half in, half out of the sleeves, held in front of her like a straightjacket. It was dark now the shutters were closed, but she could see someone standing in front of the door. Tall, broad. She could smell him. Maybe she smelt him before she saw him. That was possible because his aftershave was thick and sickly. The door was shut and she could hear the jangle of a key in his hand. She must have left it in the door when she was trying not to spill her wine. Her fucking wine. She pulled her arms out of the sleeves and held her top in front of her, trying to cover herself. Before she could shout, tell him to get out, his hand was over her mouth. His large, hot hand. She could taste the sweat on it. She can still taste it. She told the old man that. That she can still taste the fear, or was it excitement, on his son’s hand all these years later. Taste and smell: senses imbedded in the memory. Impossible to shake off. How sick that she had forgotten the happy memory so easily but remembered so clearly the foul ones.

His other hand grabbed hers when she tried to hit him, and her top fell to the floor. He looked down at her body and she struggled, trying to pull her hands away and he let go, and put his finger to his lips, glancing at the open door through to Nick. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a penknife. He pulled out the blade and rested the point on her left nipple. Pushed it down under the cup of her bra and pressed, lightly. His other hand grabbed her by the throat, and he dragged her with him as he went over and closed the door to Nicholas’s room and locked it with the hand holding the penknife, his other still on her throat.

“If you make a sound I will slash your face and then your son’s.”

He didn’t threaten to kill her. Maybe if he had she would have fought more. Perhaps she wouldn’t have believed him, but she did believe that he would cut up her face and then her child’s. He took the knife and ran it down the inside of his arm — a straight line, and then another, forming a cross, clean and red. He was showing her how efficient his blade was. Then he held his arm out to her and made her lick off the blood.

She was surprised when she heard him speak. She was shocked by the hatred in his voice. Before that moment, in the days before when she had been aware of him looking at her, when he had raised his bottle of beer to her from the beach, when he had smiled at her from his stool in the hotel bar, she had imagined other words coming from his mouth. And she had imagined his voice differently too. She’d thought it would be gentle. Stupid bitch. The shame of that: the shame of assuming that she was being admired. Why hadn’t she recognised that to him she was not human? To him she was nothing more than a small animal to be tormented, something to take his frustration and hate out on. She had assumed his desire was harmless, playful. She forced herself to remember these details, but she hadn’t told them all to the old man, to his father. She is the one who must remember the minutiae; she must excavate these details and blow away the dust then look at them and see them for what they are. She must spare herself nothing.

He turned on the light next to the bed so he could see her better and then he leant his back against the door into Nick’s room and told her to undress. He had a small rucksack over his shoulder and he took it off and put it on the floor at his feet. Then he took out his camera and hung it round his neck, his eyes never leaving her. Watching her. Making sure she stayed where she was. She remembers wondering whether he was planning on blackmail. He moved away from the door and walked across the room. She could see the key to Nicholas’s room in the lock.

“Take it off,” he said, pointing to her bra with the knife. She pulled down the straps, pulled the bra around and unhooked it. She could have just reached behind and undone it, but she was delaying. And she thought her pathetic tactic had worked. She thought it gave her enough time to lunge for Nick’s door, unlock it, get to the other side, lock it again, lock him out. But she fumbled, couldn’t get the key out of the lock before he grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her round, and slapped her hard across the face. She had never been hit like that before, only the occasional slap on the back of her legs from her mother when she was a child. Her ears rang, her teeth crunched against each other.

“Mummy? Mummy?” A small voice from the other side of the door.

He held the knife, point up, under her chin.

“You better get him back to sleep.”

“It’s all right, darling. Ssh now, there’s a good boy.” Her voice must have sounded strange to Nick, not right. He said he wanted to see her.

“You promised to keep the door open. Mummy…” He was getting upset.

“So open the door,” he hissed in her ear. “Then shut him up.”

And she did, hoping she could close it behind her but he was too quick and jammed his foot in the doorway then concealed himself in the shadows but she could feel him watching as she sat down on Nick’s bed and stroked his hair. Watching them both.

“What’s that smell?” Nick said.

The smell was his aftershave.

“Oh, just some smelly stuff from the hotel. I had a shower,” she said, kissing his forehead.

“Pooh. Stinks,” he said and she tried to smile.

“Go to sleep now, darling. I’m here. I’m going to bed now too,” she lied.

“You said you’d keep the door open,” he said, trying not to let his eyes close, but they were fighting him.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Look. It’s open now. Shh, ssh now, sweetheart, go back to sleep.” She carried on stroking his hair until his eyes won, and closed. It took only a few minutes. She heard him move behind her. She felt him standing over her and Nick. She saw him look down at Nick, and then take his knife and move it over Nick’s sleeping eyes. From left to right, the blade hovered over her little boy’s lashes. She held her breath then stood up and moved towards the door. She needed to get him out of Nick’s room. Thank God he followed her. If Nick had woken. What would he have done?

Back in her room she told him to lock the door, and he smiled as if he thought she didn’t want them to be disturbed again.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now. Where were we?”

She’d put her T-shirt on again when she’d gone in to Nick, and now she peeled it off once more. Slowly this time. She wanted to win him over. She didn’t want him to hurt her or Nick and she hoped that maybe he just wanted to look. She heard the click of the camera as she pulled the T-shirt over her head. She didn’t know what to do. Should she pose? What should she do?

He looked at her, standing there in her knickers. They were plain, white. Decent. Modest. He was disappointed. He went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer and rifled through. He found the underwear Robert had bought for the holiday and he held it out to her.

“Put these on,” he said. So she did.

“Sit down on the bed.” She sat down on the bed.

“Sit back a bit. Relax.” She tried to. She put her arms behind her, leaning back a little.

“Open your legs,” he said. She did.

He sat down on a chair and looked at her.

“Put your hand in your knickers.” Oh fuck, she thought. She took a deep breath and put her hand in her pants.

“Be nice to yourself,” he said. “Make yourself come.” How could she? She couldn’t. But she had to. Her fingers began to move and he put his eye to his camera and waited. She was dry. Nothing there. She moved her fingers faster and then she heard the click, click, click begin, then the whine of the zoom as he came in closer and closer and she shut her eyes and tilted her head back. She parted her lips, gasped, faked, bit her top lip, moved her fingers, groaned, and she knew she would never get there but he would never know and then a final groan, a sigh. And she waited. She kept her hand there, not daring to move, wondering if that was all he wanted. Would he touch her? Or had her touching herself been enough? Click, click, fucking click. Slowly she took her hand away. Slowly she turned to look at him. He was sitting down. He looked relaxed, the camera hanging round his neck. No sign of the knife.

“Please. Please go now,” she said. “Please.” And then suddenly he wasn’t relaxed and there was the knife again. She’d made a mistake. She shouldn’t have said that. She should’ve pretended it was what she’d wanted too. He took his knife and cut her knickers and then he grabbed her hand and shoved it down the front of his jeans, his underpants. Wet. She could smell it, the pungent smell of his spunk. And her hand felt him getting hard and her heart raced and her throat clenched and she knew it wasn’t over. She felt sick with terror. Panic. Fear for herself, fear for her little boy. Her hand gripped his penis and she wanted to rip it from his body. He pulled her hand away.

“Not yet,” he’d said, as if she was impatient for him. Then: “Turn over.”

“No, please don’t,” and she’d started to cry, hoping that somewhere he would feel pity for her but instead he walked over to the door adjoining Nick’s room.

“Shall we show him what mummy likes doing?” And she imagined, for a moment, what it would do to her son if he saw what had just happened, and what might happen. What would that do to him?

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He looked at her.

“Please, come back,” she said. He came back and she got on all fours and he pulled her pants off, which were only hanging by a thread.

“Smile,” he said. She did.

“So I can see you,” he said and she turned her head and smiled.

“Now do it again,” he said and he snapped away as she reached her hand back, taking herself from behind. She closed her eyes. She was hiding herself from him, and trying to think. What should she do? She had to get him out of there. She had to get him away from Nick. Maybe she could leave the hotel with him…

“Why have you stopped?” She hadn’t realised she had. She started again, faster, faster again, her wrist aching, and then he grabbed her, and pushed into her, the pain, blood, then he turned her over, kissed her, his teeth, his spit, she could taste his aftershave, bitter on her tongue. She couldn’t make a sound. He didn’t have to put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. How could she scream with Nicholas there? What? Was he going to come and rescue her? She had to take it. And then hope to God it would be over and he would leave. He pressed his knee into her thigh and pushed into her again, hard, hard, hard. But quick. It was over. Over quick, but he was young and ready to go again. And again. And then finally he had had enough. How long? Hours. It felt like hours and hours. It was three and a half. It lasted for three and a half hours. And she had let him brutalise her. She hadn’t fought, she hadn’t screamed. She had just thought of Nick. Don’t scream. Don’t cry. And then he lay next to her on the bed and took her hand and turned to her and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was nice.” And she wanted him to die. She would have given anything to watch him die. She did tell his father that. She felt he needed to know that. She couldn’t pretend to be sorry for that. It was real. It’s what she had felt.

He reached into his rucksack, took out a pack of cigarettes, and offered her one. She shook her head. He was about to light it.

“Not in here,” she said. Nick would smell it but she didn’t want to say that. She didn’t want to remind him about Nick. She pointed to the balcony. He opened the shutters, then the doors, and went out.

“Sure?” he said, turning back and offering her the pack again, and she thought she’d better and took one and followed him out, pulling the door behind them. They stood side by side on the balcony looking down at the party people, the happy people, the normal people enjoying a night out. Someone looked up as they walked past. Saw them, standing side by side smoking. Companionably. No idea they were looking up at a rapist and his victim. She remembers finishing the cigarette. He kissed her when he left, one more assault, as if he had no idea what he’d done.