Hurt (23 page)

He sags back against the wall, but feels little relief. Now that he has uttered the words, now that his horrific secret is out, he realizes he can never retrieve it, never erase the confession. Just as, try as he might, he has never been able to erase fully the events of that night from the deepest recesses of his mind. They were always present, lurking like shadows, but he’d never been able to unveil them, or perhaps had just been too afraid – until the diving accident had forced him to crash back in time and face the truth of that night . . . that night he’d been such a coward he’d let the unthinkable occur, then come home, got drunk and trashed his room in fury – fury at himself for allowing it to happen.

Lola keeps standing there, frozen, staring, and he realizes that she will never again see him in the same light. From now on, for the rest of his life, he will always be
that guy who was raped
, for ever defined as a victim.

‘Oh Mattie, no . . .’

The sight of the tears in her eyes hits him like a fist in the stomach. He sees her pity. Senses her pain for him. It makes him feel so dirty, so ashamed, that he wants to scrape off his own skin. He wants to run, but is trapped. Taking a step back, he hits the bottom stair tread with his heel, his legs buckle abruptly beneath him and he slides down against the banister, muffling a sob with his clenched fist.

‘Mattie . . .’ She approaches gently, tears tracking down her cheeks. She kneels down in front of him, tries to take his hand.

He pulls away. ‘Don’t!’

She reaches for his cheek.

He turns away. ‘Please don’t!’ He is crying hard now, both hands cupped over his mouth as if to prevent himself from ever speaking again.

‘Mattie – oh God – just tell me – tell me what to do.’

He cannot answer her, sobbing silently.

‘Let me touch you. Can I touch you? I just want to hold you—’

He tries to fend her off with a raised elbow.

‘Please!’ Tears spill down her cheeks. She puts her hand over his, gently squeezing his fingers. ‘Let me hold you. You’ll get through this, I promise! I’ll do anything. You just have to tell me . . .’

Exhaustion begins to press down on him. He allows Lola to push away his arm, slide over beside him, circle his neck with her arms and hug him tight. He can feel himself crumbling, breaking into minute pieces, and only the strength of her embrace seems capable of keeping him from falling apart for ever.

As soon as he manages to bring himself under control, he tries to leave with the excuse that his parents are expecting him home for lunch and that he doesn’t want Jerry to come back and see him in this state. The truth is, Lola’s shock is beginning to fade just enough for her to start asking questions. She wants him to go to the police; she wants to know whether he got a look at the man’s face, whether he could describe him, or pick him out in a line-up. She starts asking whether he thinks the man could have been a fellow competitor, or a spectator, or a crazy fan, or a stalker.

He has already said too much.

‘I can’t talk about it right now. I need to go,’ he informs her, rubbing his face viciously with his sleeve, heading resolutely for the front door. The relief he expected to feel when he told her has failed to materialize. He should never have done it. But what choice did he have?

She holds him back in the hall. ‘But Mattie, you’ve waited too long already. We’ve
got
to go to the police—’

‘You’re not listening to me!’ He shakes her off. ‘I said I’m not going to the police – not now, not ever! Too much time has passed, and there is no way I’m going through the interviews and statements and – and medical exams and—’ He gasps for breath. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like to have to describe every second, every detail to a courtroom of strangers? Describe what happened? How he – he . . .’ He shuts his eyes tight for a moment.

‘OK, Mattie. OK, sweetheart. But maybe they could interview you in private and film it for the court case. I’ve heard they do that for minors—’

‘By the time it got to court I wouldn’t even be a minor any more! And the psycho could try to turn it on me! Say I agreed to it, or something. Or that I was making it all up because I was angry at him for – for – anything . . . I don’t know!’

‘But no one would believe you’d willingly have sex with some random stranger in a wood!’

‘But what if he wasn’t a stranger! I – I mean, what if he
claimed
he wasn’t a stranger?’ He feels a sharp pain in his chest, as though he’s been stabbed. He is losing it, needs to keep his thoughts in order. ‘I mean,
of course
he was a stranger! But – but—’

‘Shh, shh.’ Lola strokes his face. ‘Sweetheart, why on earth would he pretend he knew you? What difference would it make?’

‘He could make out I did it willingly! And – and do you have any idea what would happen if word got out? The media would have a field day! I’d become better known for – for
that
than for my diving. I could never go back to it. The press would ask questions at every interview. My fans, my supporters – the whole diving world would know!’

‘OK. Shh. OK . . .’ Lola runs her fingers softly up and down the side of his face. ‘But sweetheart, you’re going to tell your parents, right?’

‘No!’ He shouts in desperation. ‘They’d force me to go to the police!’

‘But Mattie, you need some support – you need some kind of help. What happened to you was traumatic! You can’t just keep it a secret and carry on as if nothing’s happened!’

‘I can.’ With great effort, he forces himself into a semblance of calm. ‘I have been for weeks already. It was tough at first, but now I’m fine. As long as I’ve got you in my life and you understand why – why some things are difficult right now . . .’

‘But Mattie—’

‘No! Listen, if – if you still love me, if you want to help me, just promise you won’t tell anyone, Lola!’

Her bottom lip quivers. ‘Of course I still love you.’

Tears of relief crowd in his eyes. ‘Then you promise?’

‘OK.’

‘You won’t tell anyone, ever?’ he insists. ‘Not even your dad, or Izzy?’

‘I promise. Not anyone. But Mattie—’She reaches for his face again, but he dodges her, terrified of what he might say, what he might do.

‘I’ve really, really got to go.’ He presses his fingertips to his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and opens the front door. ‘I’ll speak to you later, OK? I’m – I’m sorry, Lola!’

She shakes her head and swallows, eyes brimming. He squeezes her hand and ducks quickly through the door before the sight of her stricken face can unhinge him further, braving the remorseless sunlight of the early afternoon.

Back home, in the safety of his bedroom, he locks his door, closes the curtains, and gets into bed fully dressed, pulling the duvet tightly around him. Despite the warm breeze drifting in through the net curtains, he is shivering hard. So now Lola knows. How long before she realizes she doesn’t want to have sex with a rape victim, let alone be in a relationship with one? How long before she actually starts picturing the attack for herself? How long before her pity turns to disgust . . .? He burrows his face into the pillow, silent tears soaking the fabric. He tries to console himself with the thought that now at least she understands why he pushed her like that; now at least she realizes it had nothing to do with her; now at least she has an explanation for his erratic behaviour over the last few weeks – but it is of little comfort. Lola won’t leave it at that. Gradually she will ask more questions, require more details, request answers he can never provide. Images, sounds and smells flash through his mind, swirling, snaking, churning like snatched visions from the seat of a roller coaster. He feels wildly sick and tries to force himself to breathe slowly, to think calmly, to bring the spinning memories to a stop and purge them from his mind. No one else will ever know, he reminds himself. He can trust Lola. He will
never
have to go through that confession again.

He spends the next forty-eight hours holed up in bed, dozing fitfully, plagued by nightmares that leave him gasping and shivering, bathed in cold sweat. He turns off his mobile and informs Consuela that his head hurts whenever she calls him for meals or tells him Lola or Hugo are on the line. He even ignores Loïc’s worried voice, calling through the door to ask him if he is all right. Mercifully, his parents have a busy start to the week . . . But then, on Monday evening he is roused by a short, sharp rap on the door, which he recognizes instantly as his mother’s.

‘I’m in bed,’ he calls out quickly. ‘I’ve got to get up early tomorrow.’

‘Open this door right now, Mathéo, or I’ll call your father.’

‘Wait! No, Mum, don’t—’ He throws back the duvet, pulls on a T-shirt and pads across the room. The moment he turns the lock, the door swings open. Mathéo retreats to the safety of his bed, hunching up against the headboard, knees clasped against his chest. His mother closes the door behind her with a sharp metallic click, snaps on the light, hesitates for a moment, then comes to perch on the bottom corner of the bed. She smells of expensive perfume and red wine. Her hair is done up in an elaborate chignon and he can tell by her kohl eyes and dark red lipstick that she has just come back from an evening function. Wearing a sleeveless black dress embroidered with sequins, a burgundy chiffon scarf and three-inch heels, she looks awkward and out of place in his bedroom. He cannot remember the last time she has been in here, and he senses her taking in the clothes on the carpet and the collection of empty coffee cups on his bedside table with a disapproving crease of her brows. Her wandering gaze finally settles on him, and he is suddenly painfully aware of his crumpled T-shirt and unwashed appearance. He presses his back against the wall, wishing it would swallow him up, and avoids his mother’s eyes by picking at a loose thread on the knee of his pyjama bottoms.

‘So, what’s going on?’ As usual she is short, sharp and to the point. But despite her brusque tone, he is aware of something else – a note of genuine concern. He feels it threaten to pierce the fragile bubble with which he has attempted to seal himself off from the rest of the world.

‘Nothing, I’m just tired. I was trying to have an early night!’ His voice comes out shaky and defensive, belying his apparent calm.

His mother lets out a quick sigh. ‘Consuela says you’ve been in your room since the weekend. She’s worried you’re not eating.’

‘Well, if
she’s
the one who’s worried, you can tell her she’s wasting her energy.’

‘Mathéo, stop it. Obviously I’m worried too. Your father and I both are, especially after the argument at breakfast on Saturday.’

‘Oh, so Dad sent you up to check I’m not really planning to quit diving?’

She purses her painted lips in a gesture of annoyance, but her eyes give her away. ‘That was
one
of his concerns,’ she replies.

‘Did he go ballistic?’

‘A bit – you know what he’s like. And Perez warned us you might go through a phase of not wanting to dive after such a nasty accident. But it’s not like you to let that stop you. Diving has always been such a big part of your life. Why would you want to throw away all that hard work and training, all the sacrifices we’ve made?
You’ve
made? What’s going on, Mathéo?’

He cannot look up. Cannot answer.

‘I know your father pushes you – he is very ambitious for you; we both are,’ his mother continues, undeterred. ‘You have an exceptional talent and we would hate to see it go to waste. But believe it or not, we only want what’s best for you. Yes, I know when you were a child your father pushed you too hard, especially when you were scared of trying a new dive. But that was only because he saw how talented you were and how much you loved winning! These last few years though, you’ve been allowed to work out your own schedule with Perez. Your father respects that. Yet you have chosen to train harder than ever until – until a few weeks ago. Then something seemed to change.’

‘So? People change. I’ve been diving most of my life; maybe I want to do something different!’

‘But it’s all been so sudden,’ his mother says, her tone carefully measured. ‘What on earth prompted it? Up until a few weeks ago you were your usual competitive self. You were really excited about next year’s Olympics. Now, all of a sudden, ever since you won that medal in Brighton, you’re pretending to be sick all the time. Perez said you had a panic attack on the diving board and that’s why you hit your head—’

‘I didn’t have a panic attack. It was just an accident!’

‘OK.’ His mother emits a sigh of exasperation. ‘I haven’t come to argue about that. What I’ve come to say is that your father and I are worried about you. Something’s clearly upset you. Consuela says this is the third time in a month you’ve locked yourself up in your bedroom like this. Your friends keep ringing the landline sounding upset. You refuse to take their calls. Even Loïc seems worried—’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. But he keeps asking where you are. Consuela says you haven’t been eating properly and I noticed on Saturday that you’ve lost a lot of weight – those jeans were practically sliding off you. And you look like you haven’t slept for a week.’

‘I told you, I’m just tired—’

‘You’re also clearly upset.’

He flinches and feels the blood rise in his cheeks. Pulling out another thread from his pyjamas, he starts picking at the small hole he has created above the knee. ‘I’m not . . . It’s not . . .’ His voice quavers and he takes a steadying breath.

Silence. It hangs in the air between them, heavy and opaque. After a while his mother tries again.

‘Are you worried about hurting yourself during training?’

‘No.’

‘Hitting your head like that must have given you a fright.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that.’

His mother shifts further up the bed and reaches for his hand. ‘
Chéri
, what’s happening?’

For a moment he pictures telling her. Imagines offloading the whole sordid weight onto her shoulders and shouting at her: demanding to know why she has never been there to watch over him, why she has always just let him go off to diving competitions here and abroad with Perez and his father, why she has never come too – if not to support him, then at least to protect him, to look after him, to make sure nothing like this could ever happen. But he knows it’s no use. Instead, he just shakes his head and looks away.