Hurt (36 page)

He doesn’t give himself time to think. He moves back as far as he can go, takes a running jump and throws the full weight of his body against the bathroom door. The small bolt inside loosens from the wall but refuses to come off entirely. He kicks the door repeatedly with all the strength he can muster. Slams himself against it again and again. A splintering noise, and the door finally crashes open, its bolt hanging loose by a single screw. Mathéo trips over the threshold and goes skidding across the wet floor, smack into the basin, the enamel edge hitting him in the ribs. It’s just a trickle but the bath tap is still running, the tub overflowing, and in it . . . in it . . .

‘
Lola!
’

Submerged beneath the water, her hair spread around her head like a dark halo, she appears to be floating, her body white, wide green eyes staring straight up at him. For a second nothing happens – she doesn’t blink, sit up, or react at all. He waits a moment, waits for the splash as she emerges, waits for her laughter at giving him a fright. But there is no flicker of movement from her. A roar of horror fills the room, so deafening, so animalistic that it appears to come from some other being. He plunges his arms into the cold water, grabs her by the top of her arms and drags her out of the bath. She is unusually heavy, slippery, limp. Her head lolls back, and then she falls on top of him as he slips backwards on the wet floor. For a moment he thinks she is giving him a hug, her dripping hair covering his face – yet she is like a rag doll, her body weighed down as if filled with water. Kicking the towel rack out of the way, Mathéo shoves her down against the tiles, bumping her head against the floor as it falls back, her face white, still, lifeless. Gasping for air between repeated bellows for help, Mathéo kneels over her and begins compressions on her chest. Water begins to bubble from between her lips. Yes! He can pump it out of her. He can drain her lungs. She can’t have inhaled that much. He pumps and pumps and pumps – listens for a heartbeat, feels for a pulse. Nothing. He does it again. Her face is translucent, her lips a deep purple, the area around them tinged with blue. He tries to give her mouth to mouth, but no oxygen will go in, water merely trickles from the corners of her lips. He turns her onto her front, thumping her back to empty her lungs, but only a little comes out. He turns her back again, tries to pump harder, afraid now that he is breaking her ribs. But this doesn’t matter. He just needs to get her heart going, he just needs to get her breathing again. He has been taught how to resuscitate as part of his training, has been resuscitated himself with no ill effects. Any minute now and she’ll begin to cough – that’s how it happens, that’s how he’s seen it happen, that’s how it’s meant to happen – but why isn’t it happening yet? He pumps and pumps her chest again, but a thin line of water just continues to trickle down her cheek and there is no heartbeat, no coughing, no breathing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

It’s been ages now – he knows because his arms are so weak he can barely apply any pressure, and her body is limp and blue and cold – so cold. She must have gone into shock; she needs professional help.

When the paramedics come – he doesn’t remember calling them – they have to forcibly drag him away. Their radios fizz and crackle and they are rushed and noisy, crowding into the small bathroom all together, all at once. They have equipment: machines, pumps, defibrillators – thank God! They will get her heart started again, drain the water from her lungs, give her some oxygen. But gradually the buzz and commotion begins to dial down: he can see one paramedic just standing there, unmoving. From somewhere the words
sleeping pills
and
drowned
and
dead for hours
swirl around him, and he starts to protest, starts to shout: why have they stopped? Why isn’t she coughing? Why is it all taking so long? What the hell is happening?

They carry her out on a stretcher – good, she is stable enough to be taken to hospital, she must be breathing unaided now. He tries to follow them so he can hold her hand in the ambulance, stroke her hair, reassure her that she’s going to be all right. But they have covered her in a white plastic sheet – not just over her body but over her face as well. Her face, Lola’s face, Lola’s beautiful face, he can’t see her any more! Why are they doing this? She won’t be able to breathe, she won’t be able to see, she will be terrified! He needs to get to her, he struggles to get to her, but he is being restrained by someone so strong he can barely move.

‘She’s gone, buddy. We did everything we could but her heart had stopped a long time ago. There was nothing anyone could have done to help her.’ One of the paramedics is standing in front of him, his face looming large as the sun. ‘Are you family? Is there someone we can call?’

‘She’s not dead.’ His voice sounds harsh, loud and hurts his head. ‘You’re wrong. She’s not dead.’

‘She is dead, son. I’m so sorry. She’s been dead for some hours.’

Shrouded in white plastic, strapped down against the stretcher, Lola is beginning to disappear down the staircase as the other two paramedics manoeuvre her round the tight bend at the bottom.

He tries to get to his feet, tries to run after her, but is still being held back against the wall and so starts to scream. ‘She’s not dead! She’s not dead! Look at her, for fuck sake – she’s not dead!’ But they ignore him, and the stretcher carrying Lola, his Lola, so witty and fun, so loving and full of life, disappears from sight.

‘Lola, don’t do this!’ he screams. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. I love you! Come back, Lola, come back! I’m so sorry! Come back!’

Come back, come back, come back
. . . He has been saying those words for what seems like an eternity, like some kind of mantra, even though he has almost completely lost his voice by now. Someone gave him a shot in the arm, and as a result he can barely move, sitting on the landing propped up against Lola’s bedroom door. One of the paramedics squats down in front of him and asks him questions – his name, age, next of kin, a parent or guardian they can call. Another emerges from the bathroom wearing white rubber gloves, says something about a bird and holds out a folded piece of paper to his colleague. A pale blue origami crane. For a moment he cannot move, then Mathéo throws himself forward, managing to snatch it from the paramedic’s clasp. With clumsy hands, he unfolds its wings. At first his eyes won’t focus, but then slowly Lola’s neat, slanted handwriting swims into view.

Mattie, I’m so sorry. You were right. He broke down and told me. I don’t understand, I don’t know what I feel or who I am any more. But I do know that I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry for what he did to you. I’m so sorry for not believing you, for saying all those hateful things, which even at the time weren’t true. I’m so sorry about everything – me, coming into your life and almost destroying it. If we had never met, this would never have happened to you, but as selfish as that may be, I still can’t bring myself to wish for that. I never stopped loving you, Mattie. I never will. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You are the kindest, sweetest, funniest person I’ve ever known. You made me happier than I ever deserved to be. Even with everything that happened, I’m still glad I was born and had this life because it meant meeting you, loving you and being loved by you. And being loved by you was the best feeling in the world and one I can’t imagine living without. Even though it’s over now, you made it all worthwhile, you brought me the greatest joy a person can experience. I just hope that before this happened, I made you happy too. All I want now is for you to get better, my darling. All I want is for you to forget him, and to do that you need to forget me too. Once I’ve gone you will be free to move on with your life. Free to love again, but this time without getting so brutally hurt. Oh, I so wish I could wash away what happened along with myself, but at least without me you will one day find a way of putting all this behind you. This is the best way I can think of, this is the only way. I can’t continue to live with his blood inside me, I can’t continue to live with the knowledge of the suffering my love for you ultimately caused, and I can’t continue to live knowing I can never see you again. So this is the best way. One day, I hope you’ll understand. I’m not afraid, Mattie, honestly. I don’t care about myself any more, I don’t even know myself. I only care about you. I just want you to live a long and happy life, and without me, you will. Please find happiness, my darling. Please find love again. Find the life you deserve. Live it to the full, for what we dreamed of, for what could have been. Live it for us. Live it for me.

I love you.

Lola xxx

It would appear that summer has arrived again. Another summer, another end to an academic year. He is sitting in the long grass at the edge of the university campus, down by the water, down by the river. Between lectures most of the students hang out on the lawns behind him, in pairs or in groups: guys with their arms slung proprietarily around their girlfriends’ shoulders; amoeba-like clusters picnicking from pizza boxes and beer cans, celebrating the end of exams. It’s a particularly warm day in June, and today feels like the first proper day of summer – the kind of weather where you can kick off your shoes and enjoy the feel of the soft, cool ground beneath your soles. The sun is a pure, transparent gold, stroking the campus with light and filling it with delirium. His friends are in the distance, beneath the shade of an oak tree – they know not to disturb him when he comes to sit here.

Next year will be his last one as a student. He will miss university life. St Andrews, up here in northern Scotland, has been good to him. Overall, he has enjoyed studying English Literature – has made good friends, ones that he will probably stay in touch with, even when this chapter in his life comes to a close. He sees little of the ones back home in London: Hugo went to college in Boston on a sports scholarship; they drifted apart over time and rarely speak now. He lost touch with Isabel too – the last he heard she was doing voluntary work in Africa. She used to send him emails and an occasional postcard, but they petered out when he failed to reply. Jerry’s parole date must be coming up – he turned himself in when news reached him about Lola, but Mathéo rarely thinks about him now. There was a trial: Mathéo signed Jerry’s statement but refused to give evidence, refused to attend.

His parents found out about the rape when the paramedics called them, that terrible morning, when he was still slumped against the wall of the Baumanns’ landing, clutching Lola’s paper crane. They both took the news hard, but in very different ways. His father initially reacted with fury, demanding to see Jerry, threatening to kill him. But when he found there was nothing he could do, he retreated, burying himself back into his work, as if trying to forget it had ever happened. His mother explained that he blamed himself – for having pushed Mathéo into diving, for not having been able to protect him. But when his mother took a year off work to look after him during his illness, Mathéo became acquainted with her gentler side. Although he doesn’t often go back to London, Mum and Loïc fly out regularly to visit, and Mathéo enjoys their company, enjoys showing them around. Loïc likes it here, says he wants to come and study architecture, and he probably will.

Mathéo likes this part of the river, likes watching the swans glide by with their long, slim necks, their heads held high. Lola’s paper cranes come to life . . . He likes to sit in exactly this spot, close enough to see the sequined light dancing off the water, listen to the gentle trickle of the moving current. But no closer. It reminds him of too many things . . . He was once a competitive diver, tipped for Olympic gold. Not many of his friends here know about that part of his life, although some claim to have heard of his name. But although he still gets team updates from Perez, he hasn’t been back in the water since that summer, three years ago. Three years . . . Time has passed so quickly, yet in some ways has not passed at all. He took a gap year, but not to compete in the Olympics – he didn’t even watch his old teammates on TV. For a while he was quite unwell – maybe eight or nine months. Glandular fever, some doctors claimed, others said it was chronic fatigue syndrome. Of course, no one wanted to accept the truth: that he was bed-bound out of choice. That he chose not to eat rather than was unable to. That for many months he refused to leave the house, rather than being too weak to do so. He lost so much weight that he had to spend nearly two months in a specialist hospital. His parents paid for him to be treated by top psychiatrists, psychologists and therapists, all specializing in abuse. But no one ever suggested bereavement counselling. Perhaps because he refused to talk about her – still does. Some things are too painful to put into words, too personal to hope that anyone could possibly understand. Lola now exists only in his memory and he will do everything to protect that memory, will share her with no one. Many times he thought seriously of ending things, but Lola’s note held him back. It still does.

They say he is better now. He gets good grades, pursues other sports, has become a keen wildlife photographer. His doctor is even talking about tapering off the anti-depressants and sleeping pills. He doesn’t think about dying so much these days. But ‘better’? It is a strange word. He isn’t even sure what it means any more. How do you get better after losing someone like Lola? He has learned to function again, yes. Has learned to have fun again, at times. Has learned to mix with others, to make new friends. And he has a new chapter in his life waiting for him, plans for what to do after university – a time he is beginning to look forward to. People talk about moving on after losing someone, and that is what he has done – is doing. But nothing takes the pain away. You learn to live with it, that’s all. You find new ways of getting through the day, new people to talk to, new friends to trust. But the pain is always there. Not a day passes when he doesn’t long to see her smile, feel the touch of her hand, hold her in his arms, even if it is just for a moment. Not a day passes when he doesn’t think of her and ache for her all over again. The hurt will never go away – he understands that now, and he wouldn’t have it any different. Lola will always be his greatest love, and not a second will pass when he doesn’t long to be with her again, wish beyond everything that she were by his side. He only has to close his eyes to see her, watch her smile, hear her laugh, feel and remember how much she loved him. And he realizes how lucky he was to have known her, to have had any time with her at all. He doesn’t always cry, but sometimes, like today, he does a little.