The Mirror World of Melody Black

13

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Another bar, another Friday. The circumstances very different.

I’m a little high, but not so much that it’s a problem. I just have that extra zing, that bit more energy and imagination. Two double vodka and Cokes have been placed before me as I rifle through my purse, searching for usable currency. I don’t have any cash – I know that already – but I realize too late that I don’t have my debit card either. ‘I must have left it in my other jeans,’ I explain to the barman, who absorbs this extraneous information as impassively as a slab of granite. ‘Can I put it on my credit card?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ He thrusts the card reader towards me.

‘I don’t know my PIN,’ I add.

‘You don’t know your PIN?’

‘No. I mean, I hardly ever use this card, except online. I’ll have to sign for it.’

The barman groans loudly, a noise that is echoed at least twice in the crowd behind me. It’s early evening, it’s central London – so of course everywhere is frantic. ‘You can’t sign for it,’ he tells me. ‘If you don’t know your PIN you can’t use that card.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘It’s company policy. Prevents fraud.’

‘Well, look’ – I shove my open purse towards his face – ‘I have my driving licence here. See? Same name.’

He shakes his head and grips both vodka glasses, as if I might run off with them. ‘No PIN, no drinks.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! I could buy a diamond over the internet without needing my PIN. So why do I need it to buy a bloody drink?’

‘Excuse me?’ I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round angrily. It’s the guy next in line at the bar. He’s tall and I’m wearing flats, so the first thing I see is his stubble. It’s not designer stubble; it’s too-busy-to-shave stubble. He’s not much older than me – twenty-four, twenty-five perhaps – but he looks fraught, vaguely exasperated. He’s still wearing work clothes – shirt, tie and trousers. The shirt has a couple of creases and has come untucked on one side. He looks as if he has come straight from a very long week.

‘Yes, I know!’ I snap. ‘I’m holding everyone up. But unnecessary interruptions aren’t going to help matters.’

‘Er, no. Probably not,’ he agrees, with a slightly worried grin. ‘Actually, I was going to offer to buy your drink for you.’

‘Oh.’ I fumble for a few moments. The barman tuts loudly. ‘Thanks. That’s extremely kind of you. Or it would have been kind of you. I assume the offer has expired?’

‘The offer still stands.’

‘Well . . .’ I open my purse again to demonstrate its emptiness. ‘I do have a bit of a cash flow situation at the moment.’

‘Yes, I heard.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s happened to all of us at one point or another.’

‘Thank you. That’s a lie, I’m sure, but it’s a nice lie.’

The barman coughs and drums his fingers.

‘You’re sure?’ I ask, but a twenty-pound note has already been handed over the bar with no further debate.

‘Listen,’ I tell him. ‘I’d like to pay you back for this. If you give me your address, I’ll send you a cheque.’

‘Oh, no. Not necessary. Really. It’s just a drink. No big deal.’

‘Actually, it’s two drinks,’ I point out. ‘I’m with someone. My flatmate,’ I add quickly. ‘She’s had kind of a lousy day. Her boyfriend dumped her, and I promised I’d take her out and get her good and drunk.’ I nod towards my purse. ‘Except it looks like she’s going to be buying for the rest of the evening. Turns out I’m an awful friend.’

‘No, not awful. Just slightly incompetent.’

I laugh, and it feels warm and wonderfully unforced. ‘Yes, exactly.’

‘But your intentions were good.’

‘They always are.’

The barman hands him the change, along with the two vodkas and a pint of something, and the crowd starts jostling to fill the space we’re vacating.

‘Look,’ I say once we’re clear of the serving area, ‘usually I’d ask if you’d like to join us, but it’s not a good time, like I said. We’re probably going to spend the next two hours talking about what shits men are.’

‘Then I’ll happily give it a miss.’

‘I’d still like your number, though,’ I persist. ‘Or email – whatever.’

‘No, really. It’s fine. Completely unnecessary. Take it as a random act of kindness.’

I give him a patient smile. ‘Yes, I know it’s unnecessary. That’s no longer why I’m asking.’

‘Oh.’ I think he blushes a bit, and at that moment I can’t imagine anything sweeter. ‘Um, yes, that’s different, then. Sorry – I’m bumbling. Let me try again: I’d love to give you my number. Do you have a pen?’

‘Er . . .’ I reach into my bag. ‘Yes. Four pens, in fact. No money, but four pens. Perhaps I should have tried bartering for my drinks?’ I flash another smile and hand him a ballpoint and a beer mat, on the back of which he scribbles his details – phone and email. I read it as he writes – stephen.beckett113@gmail.com – then pop the beer mat in my bag.

‘Well, Stephen Beckett,’ I say, raising both vodkas, ‘thanks again for these. I’m Abby, by the way. You shall be hearing from me soon.’

Then I turn and squeeze back through the crowd.

This memory is one of many that surface all at once, like the bubbles in champagne, like the thousands of bubbles in my blood. Alcohol hasn’t dulled me; it has just muddled things, turning racing thoughts into overlapping thoughts, a jumble of tightly knotted contradictions.

We’re stumbling back to my room in a blur of corners and corridors. He has his hand on my lower back, pushing more than guiding, his fingers grazing my buttocks; and he keeps calling me Julia, since that’s the name I gave him at some point. He told me his too – Matt or Mark or Mike – but I’ve already shut it out. He probably has a wife and kids tucked away somewhere.

In the lift, he kisses me and shoves me back against one of the mirrored walls, hard enough that I feel a sharp pain shooting up my spine. The pain feels so much better than the kiss. There’s a thrill, too, in the fact that he wants me so badly, but I can’t begin to comprehend what that means. All I know is that I have no real desire for him, this man whose name I can’t even remember. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I don’t care enough to stop this from happening.

When we reach my room, I break away from him to unlock the door, and it gives me the momentary illusion that I’m still in control of this situation. But soon he’s pushing me again, backwards to the oversized bed. I feel my calves hit the base and I’m immediately off balance. My legs fold and I topple back, but manage to roll and find my feet again. I quickly undo and remove my dress – not because I want to; only because I don’t want him to. It’s absurd, but the thought of him ripping it with his clumsy, aggressive hands is more than I can bear. I can hear Francesca’s voice in my head, telling me that I mustn’t damage it. It’s much too precious to risk.

He’s on me again, the second I’ve let the dress slip to the floor, his shirt unbuttoned and his shoes kicked halfway across the room. He doesn’t attempt to remove my bra; he just shoves it over the top of my breasts, where it cuts into my flesh like a noose. There’s more shooting pain, but this time there’s nothing pleasurable about it. I let out a yelp which he ignores. His mouth is on my left nipple and there’s an awful burning as his thumb presses into the still tender skin around my tattoo. My heart wrenches in my chest. I manage to scrabble backwards and get a raised arm between us.

‘No!’ It comes out as little more than a hysterical pant, but it’s enough to stop him for a moment. ‘Don’t touch me there.’

He stares for a second, then gives a sharp laugh and grabs for me again.

‘Stop!’ I manage to get some volume, some authority into my voice. ‘You can do whatever you like to me, but do not touch me there. It isn’t for you.’

He continues to stare, his expression somewhere between anger and disbelief, I pull my bra back into place, making sure my tattoo is safely concealed once more.

‘Fuck! You can’t be serious?’

‘I’m completely serious,’ I tell him, slapping his hand away a third time. ‘If you touch my breasts again, I swear to God I’ll scream.’

He looks me straight in the eye, his lip curled and his face red and blotchy. Then, with a deliberate, mocking slowness, he reaches for me, his fingers splayed. The moment he makes contact, I scream. I scream and I don’t hold back. A second later his hand is clamped across my mouth.

‘Are you fucking crazy?’

I wrench my head back; his hand slips and I manage to get my teeth into the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Fuck!’ He slaps me across my left cheek, making my ears ring and my vision reel.

I scream again and again, at the top of my lungs, as loud and uninhibited as a wounded animal. Through eyes flooded with tears, I see him retreating. He scrabbles for his shoes, then runs, slamming the door behind him.

My scream dies the instant he’s gone. I collapse into a foetal heap on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.