Read This Is Not Forgiveness Online
Authors: Celia Rees
This Is Not Forgiveness (22 page)
I lie up with the whole town spread out on four sides of me – I could stay here for hours.
There will be security – no doubt – but he’s not exactly the President of the United States. They won’t be patrolling every high-rise in the town – they’d judge this out of range in any case. Plenty better spots a lot nearer than this – not many would be able to make the hit from here.
Not many. Except me.
It’s the bank holiday. One of our busiest times. The weather has just been getting hotter. Everyone says there has to be a storm soon, that it can’t last. It’s all as per normal down by the river: kids playing, babies crying, people picnicking. There’s the smell of onions from the hotdog stand. I’m wondering whether to go over and get one, and for once I’m not thinking about her, when, suddenly, there she is. All sounds, all other senses recede, as I watch her walk down from the bridge, bag slung over her shoulder. Her skin is brown, as though she has spent the intervening time sunbathing. She’s wearing dark glasses against the sun’s glare and a short dress with thin straps and bright red flowers all over it, made of some silky material that ripples in the breeze coming up from the river. She looks wonderful, mysterious and glamorous but I’m not ready to forgive her, even when she walks up and kisses me on the cheek, just like we are the couple I wanted us to be. She puts her hand on my arm and whispers, ‘Are you for hire?’
‘No,’ I say, trying to keep myself steady. The boat is rocking, water slapping against the side of the dock. ‘If you really want to go on the river, you’ll have to take one of the other boats.’
I load up and push off.
When I get back, she’s still there, waiting. Sitting on a bench, eating an ice cream. Vanilla. It’s her favourite. She doesn’t like other kinds. She always has vanilla.
She comes down to the station to meet me.
‘I’m next in line and I’ve paid my money.’ She steps into the punt. ‘What are you going to do? Throw me out?’
I want to. I think about it. That’s what I
should
do. But I don’t. We do need to talk and it would be better to go somewhere quiet. It’s way too crowded here. I push away from the bank towards the middle of the river.
‘What do you want, Caro? What are you doing here? Why don’t you leave me alone?’
‘Because I want to talk to you. I don’t want us to finish that way.’
‘What
us
are you talking about, exactly? I didn’t think there was an
us
– you’ve made that clear enough. You can’t have everything you want, just because you want it, Caro. When are you going to learn that?’
‘The thing with Rob. It’s not what you think.’
‘Isn’t it? Seems clear to me.’
‘That thing at his house? Just a booty call.’
‘And I’m supposed to put up with that? You going to see him whenever you fancy it? He’s my
brother
.’
‘It means nothing.’
‘To you, maybe.’
‘It’s different with you. More . . .’ She pauses, trying to find the right word. ‘Meaningful.’
‘Oh, really?’ This is all bullshit and I’m not having any. ‘You could have fooled me.’
‘I never wanted to hurt you, Jamie.’
‘Well, you did. You have. If you’d thought for a month, you couldn’t have done a better job. I really loved you, y’know? And you did that to me.’
‘I don’t do love.’
‘You’ve made that crystal.’
I narrowly miss a dinghy. I’m poling so hard, the punt is moving through the water like it’s turbo-charged.
‘Let’s go to the ait.’ Water is slopping into the shallow craft, splashing her arms. ‘You’ll have us both in the river at this rate.’
‘Not a bad idea.’ I plunge the pole in with a vicious thrust. ‘Perhaps I’ll take us straight over the weir.’
But, of course, I don’t. I land at our usual place.
I moor the boat and follow her through the curtain of willows towards the further island. Her step across the weir is as light as ever, firm and sure. I follow. I hop over the displaced stone, too angry to feel any fear. The river water pools behind it, clear and deep. I remember when we swam there. It’s full of God knows what crap. I must have been mad.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you back.’
She pulls me to her and we don’t do much talking after that. I hate myself,
hate
myself, but she’s so close and so near and I can’t resist her. It’s over almost before it has begun. She has her eyes closed, her face turned away from me. It’s always been the same way with her. I realise that now. At the moment when you’re supposed to feel the ultimate togetherness, I end up feeling most alone.
She wants me back, does she? Things are never how you want them to be. I strip off the condom and throw it into the bushes to join the others. Just like the river water – the ait looks clean but it isn’t. It’s full of all kinds of trash: empty cans, faded plastic bags, bleached and wrinkled scraps of paper. It’s not exactly a paradise. It’s a hot day, but suddenly I’ve got gooseflesh creeping over me. I pull on my clothes.
‘Summer’s nearly over,’ she says. ‘It always makes me sad.’
The poplars have that tired, dull green look, the leaves crisping at the edges, and the willows are already turning brown and yellow. The shops in town are full of back-to-school displays. Pencil cases to be replenished, calculators and memory sticks purchased, along with trousers and shirts that no one would be seen dead in and cheap polyester blazers that some poor sods still have to wear. In July, it always seems like the summer will go on for ever. There’s always going to be plenty of time.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks.
‘I was thinking you’re right. Summer’s nearly over.’ I get to my feet and help her up. ‘We’d better be getting back.’
Out on the river, the water is the colour of gunmetal. The atmosphere is heavy and humid. The clouds banked above the town are slaty purple. The storm is near.
‘Have to hurry if we’re not going to get a soaking.’
Just as I say it, there is a lurid scribble of lightning and the crack of thunder, like a branch breaking. Big drops of rain splash down on the wood of the punt and dimple the water. I pole us back down the river as fast as I can. The other boats are in and Alan is beckoning. A thunderstorm is not a good time to be out on the river.
I help her out. The others are all huddled in the hut, but I don’t invite her to shelter there. She has no coat, or umbrella, but she doesn’t dash for cover – she walks away slowly, her dress clinging to her. Her flimsy, high-heeled sandals wobble on the slippery cobbles. She looks lonely, vulnerable in the rain-swept world. I want to run after her, give her shelter, but I don’t do that. I just watch as she rights herself and continues on her way, up the steps to the bridge.
H minus 25.30
Recon.
I get into position early and scope out the kill box. There’s something going on – car park filling. I check my watch. 8.31 – some kind of pre-term meeting.
As they get out of their cars I mark ’em – one by one.
Pinky – Mr Perkins – dragging his sorry arse out of his shit Ford Focus. Still there then. I remember him – Careers. Fat lot of use he was. When I told him I was going to join the Army – he said ‘You deserve each other’ and laughed in a sarky way – eyes sliding to the rest of the class like he expected them to join in but they never did because they didn’t like him and were shit scared of me. Lost more hair I see but still wearing what he has left long and swept back – yes – give it a pat – and his nose stuck up like he’s got a smell under it. Those glasses flashing in the sun make a good target – I’d slot him through the right eye or maybe bisect the gold rims. I feel the twitch in my trigger finger, the itch to do it.
Suit No Tie Job – must be the Head or Principal. He’s arriving in a BMW and the rest of ’em all drive skips. He’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder – I’d get him through the phone in his top pocket – right in the apps.
Barney – Barney Rubble. We used to call him that because he looked like that character in
The Flintstones
. He’s running over to Suit No Tie – always was a brown-nose. Where’s the trackie Barney? He’s suited and booted like the head guy – must have been promoted. Still dyeing his hair. That little bald spot at the back – that’s a bull’s eye.
The little blonde one – English teacher – she was all right – pass on her.
That one too – PE bird. Used to fancy her – pass on her an’ all.
Not him though – bastard French teacher – knobhead. He used to say I was thick – used to take the piss. Definitely not passing on him – he’s slotted.
I’d forgotten how much I hated them.
Seems a waste not to take them down while I’m at it – all the little ducks coming across to be slotted – like the shooting arcade.
It’s a while since I had this much fun.
PROPAGANDE PAR LE FAIT
–
PROPAGANDA OF THE DEED
They are ‘delayed’ in France, according to an email sent on my mother’s Blackberry at 9.35. Trouble with the ferries. First I’ve heard of it. I checked the Internet. She just wants another week in France. It will all be over by then. One way or another.
Jamie is an innocent, the tarot card Fool. I want him to stay that way. I do not want him to be involved. He wouldn’t go along with it, anyway. He lacks commitment to any kind of belief system, as far as I can see, and is likely to be overwhelmed by emotions that don’t bother his brother, like empathy and pity. He also has a conscience, another thing that doesn’t trouble Rob.
I don’t want to involve him but I want to say goodbye to him. I feel like I owe him something and after tomorrow, we won’t be seeing each other. Ulrike, Gudrun, Astride, Petra, the women in the Red Army Faction, look down on me from the wall. What did they feel before they went on actions? Did they suffer from nerves? Did time go too slow for them or too fast? Did they wonder if they could do it, really, when it came right down to it? Wonder if they were capable of killing people?
They proved they could do it, but they are all dead now. I have to face that possibility, too.
The gap between theory and practice is wide. It yawns wider as the hours crawl by. I feel as though I’m right on the edge and the ground is crumbling, falling away from beneath my feet. I’m committed to this action but bourgeois feeling could still get the better of me, or my own courage could fail me, or –
I need a distraction. I’m going to call Jamie. I need to see him. I’m going to miss him, bizarre as that seems, even to me. I’d go and get him right now – we could go off somewhere, if I stay here I could go crazy – but Rob’s got my car. Doesn’t trust the brake pads and it’s all got to be right for the morning. No cock-ups. So Jamie better come here. I’ll get things in, have them delivered. Make it special.
If I didn’t know myself better, I’d be wondering if I might be entertaining bourgeois feelings for him, but I don’t do love. I told him that. I’ve been cruel to him, treated him in ways he doesn’t deserve. This will be my last chance to make it up to him.
He’ll have to be gone by the morning. He mustn’t be here when Rob comes around.
College starts tomorrow. I’ve done nothing all summer. Across the landing, Martha is dragging bin bags about, having a clear out, getting ready for uni. Cambridge. She’s got her place. She’s already been down to the library with her reading list, even though term doesn’t start for weeks yet. Everything she does is some kind of reproach, designed to show me up. My files and folders are still on the shelf above my desk. Untouched. I get up and go over to the haphazard pile that has been there since I dumped the contents of my rucksack. My finger draws a line through the pale, fine dust of summer made up of all sorts of stuff, pollen from flowers now dead and withered, sand blown all the way from the Sahara, particles of my own skin.
I think about getting ready. Rather than actually doing anything, I log on to the school website, see if there is anything I need to know. Just opening it makes me feel queasy. There’s a cheesy PR photo of the Principal, his Message to the Masses and a promo for the Grand Opening. I can’t get into the Student Area. They’ve been dicking about with the site again. Good excuse for not doing anything. I’ll have a bit of time to catch up. That does something to quell the sick feeling. Then my phone goes and my stomach flips again. A message from Caro.
She wants to see me.
Mine 2nite 7:30 dress smart
I don’t reply straight away. I leave the phone on the desk and go lie on the bed. I don’t want her thinking she’s out and free. I’m still not OK with what she did to me. I get up and go downstairs to make a cup of coffee. I don’t want her thinking that she’s got me where she wants me, or that I’m back to being the same old loser. I leave it a definite while before I text her. Then I’m tearing clothes out of the closet, trying this, trying that. I opt for the Jack Wills chinos I’ve just bought and the shirt she gave me, all neatly washed and pressed. I put a jacket in my rucksack with a change of clothes for tomorrow. Just on the off chance she’ll let me stay. The idea of arriving in her car does have a certain appeal.
