This Is Not Forgiveness (5 page)

‘Watch out for the one in the middle!’ I shout, but she’s already stepped over that, as if she knew to avoid it.

I start after her. The soles of my trainers slip on the stones. I’d have been better off in bare feet but it’s too late for that now. A couple of slabs in the middle are loose and get pushed out of place by the winter spates. They rock and wobble under my heavier step, threatening to tip me over into the racing water.

We used to cross the weir for a dare when we were kids. We’d bike down here or come over from the allotments. Grandpa and Rob would do proper fishing with a rod; I’d rummage about with a net for taddies and tiddlers and put them in a jam jar. I used to get upset when they took my catch to use as bait. Later, Grandpa bought me my own rod and Rob and I used to go over to the island. Rob reckoned there were pike in the reeds where the river was deeper. I never liked crossing the weir. He’d flit over, light-footed and sure of his balance, being afraid is not in his nature. I’d get to the middle and wobble. Just like now. It always got me. The rocking would send my legs rigid. I don’t like heights and I don’t like walking on ledges. I don’t like that feeling of being balanced between things. I always think that I will fall and it won’t be pleasant whichever way I go.

‘Don’t look!’ she shouts from the other bank. ‘Don’t stop. Just keep going!’

This time she’s the one holding out a helping hand as I throw myself on to the bank.

‘It’s even better here,’ she says.

The willows are thicker. There are people on the river bank, boats out, but it’s as though we are alone in the quiet green cage of our own world. Fallen willow leaves make a soft, silvery carpet. I show her where we used to build fires and try to cook things, like we were in some kids’ book. There was a pile of those in Grandpa’s shed. He used to bring them for us to read when it was raining. He’d buy them off the second-hand stall in the market. They are still there in the corner, covered in spider’s webs, pages as thick as blotting paper, puffed with damp:
Swallows and Amazons
,
Famous Five
– books about kids who had adventures and their very own islands. This was
our
island. We felt like them.

‘I like it,’ she says. She drops her voice to a husky whisper. I feel her breath on my neck as she speaks close to my ear. ‘I like the way that people can’t see us, even though they are really near.’

I can hear voices talking on the river walk, a warning shout from the river and laughing as oars splash and a boat turns back from the weir. There’s something in her face. Something in the way she smiles. The way she looks at me. An invitation. She’s excited by the proximity of other people. She moves closer. I should kiss her. Put my arms round her. Push her down on to the rough counterpane of leaves. That’s what Rob would do. He used to bring girls here when he worked the boats.

I don’t do any of that.

‘We’d better be getting back,’ I say. ‘The hour’s almost over.’

On our way back, we pass the old allotments. I look up automatically, to see if Grandpa is there, to give him a wave. He’s not, of course. He’s not allowed out on his own any more. Someone’s been working his plot, though. The shed’s undergone some running repairs, too. Rob must have been down doing some work for him in between tending his own plantations. He wouldn’t want Grandpa thrown off for not maintaining the plot. He’ll never come back here, but Rob likes to keep up the fiction. Rob can’t stand to think that the old man has changed for ever. Besides, he doesn’t want someone else taking over his garden. That would interfere in his operations.

Grandpa’s shed is substantial, more like a little chalet. Years ago, people used to come down here in the summer to be by the river and out of the town. They were like holiday homes. There aren’t many left like that now.

‘One of them belongs to my grandpa,’ I say.

‘They’re cute.’ She looks over her glasses. ‘Like summer houses or something. Can we take a look?’

I shrug OK and steer the punt into a little landing stage and tie up. We walk up through the allotments. I go first, stamping down grass, pushing brambles out of the way. It’s a bit wild down here. Some of the allotments aren’t kept up. Down by the river, they tend to flood. She walks behind me picking raspberries, sucking in the soft warm pulp of the fruit.

I feel for where the key is hidden and unlock the heavy brass padlock. It’s warm inside, stuffy. I prop the door to let in some air and let out the signature shed smell: a mix of seed, fertiliser, weedkiller with an undernote: a heady, pungent, bittersweet reek.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Can I smell cannabis?’ she asks and smiles.

‘Yeah.’ I smile back. ‘My brother. He uses it as a curing shed. He’s got little plantations of it dotted about, hidden in the orchard out back and on plots that aren’t worked any more.’ Feathery fronds growing up behind corrugated iron enclosures on deserted allotments, tall plants thrusting through the nettles and brambles down by the river. ‘He brought the seed back from Afghanistan, last tour but one.’

‘Oh, yeah. He’s in the Army, right?’

‘Used to be. He got invalided out.’

‘I heard that. What happened, exactly?’

‘He was caught by an IED. Roadside bomb. His leg was pretty smashed up. Reckons he needs the weed for medicinal purposes.’

She nods, taking in the information. Most people express shock, sympathy. She’s not most people.

‘He’s pretty much all right now,’ I add, as if she’d asked.

His leg wasn’t the only thing that got damaged, but I don’t go into that. There’s a patch that’s been newly worked. The weeds cleared. Freshly dug. That must have been hard for him. I’d have come down to lend a hand. We used to work on the allotment together, helping the old man, but times change. Back then, I was always in the way, doing the wrong thing. Just a nuisance. Now he needs my help but asking is beyond him. That’s how it is.

The shed is like a time capsule. There are the books I was thinking about and propped up against the wall is the table tennis table we begged off a bloke who was taking it to the tip. There’s a broken settee and a whiskery old wicker chair, the sprung seat covered by a faded cushion. A couple of empty bottles are down by the side of it. A pyramid of cans in the corner. A different kind of recreation. I look out again. The light is changing to the gold of evening.

‘Time to go,’ I say to her. ‘Alan will be sending search parties out soon. He’ll think we’ve gone over the weir. It’s the punt he cares about more than us. They’re very expensive. Hard to replace.’

I settle her back in the craft and begin poling us back to the boat station. She goes distant on me. I can’t tell what is going on behind her shades. We’re back to punter and passenger. That moment under the willows might never have happened, it’s sliding away like the water under the till.

‘I thought I might’ve seen you around,’ I say, shoving the pole into the river. ‘At college, I mean. I heard you were transferring.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ she asks, suddenly alert.

‘Oh, um.’ I realise my mistake. A little too late. ‘Martha. Didn’t you used to be friends with her?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You came to one of her birthdays. Don’t you remember?’

She doesn’t answer, just stares down at the water. The distance between us widens. I try another tack.

‘It’s just that I was, um, well, you know
. . .
’

‘Making enquiries?’

I thought she might be annoyed to know I’d been asking about her, but she smiles, like she’s flattered and, anyway, she’s used to people talking about her and isn’t bothered.

‘Yes.’ I grin. ‘I guess. Someone said you were moving to ours.’

‘That is correct.’

‘That’s why I thought I’d maybe see you
. . .
’

‘Haven’t started yet. Don’t intend to go until next term. I might not go at all. I hate schools.’

‘Ours is a sixth form college.’

‘Same difference.’

‘What will you do instead?’ I ask. We seem to be steering into safer water. At least she’s talking.

‘Oh, I don’t know
. . .
’

She stretches out her legs. She’s sitting facing me. She wears a thin gold chain on one ankle. In the delicate blue hollow, like the shadow of the bone, there are striations, straight little marks, slightly raised, scored across the white skin, like a bar code. She touches the place as if rubbing an itch activated by my looking.

‘I might go travelling,’ she says. ‘Or go to London, try modelling. Go to Paris. Or Berlin. Get a job there doing anything. I’m pretty good at languages. Pick them up quickly.’

‘Don’t you want to go to uni?’

That’s all the rest of us think about. We never consider other possibilities. She makes us seem like a bunch of sheep.

‘Who said I didn’t? I just don’t want to go
yet
and I don’t want to go here. I’d prefer the Sorbonne, or Tübingen.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Germany.’ She looks at me like she wants to add ‘stupid’. ‘I want to do Politics, but I want to study abroad.’

I don’t know anyone who’s planning to study abroad. Compared with her, we seem ordinary, unambitious, provincial. She knows about places we’ve never heard of. I think she’s going to ask about what I’m planning to do, my choices of university, like most people, but she doesn’t ask me anything. Instead she remarks:

‘You’re pretty good with that pole.’

‘I’ve had plenty of practice. I’ve worked down here since I was fourteen. I’m here most nights once the season has started and most days in the holidays.’

We’re nearing the station. I tie up and help her out.

‘Most nights, eh?’ she says as she takes my hand. ‘I’ll have to remember that. See you again sometime,’ she says over her shoulder as she walks away.

Why didn’t I say something to detain her? Why didn’t I ask her out? Ask for her number?

I watch her go, cursing myself for a fool.

Chapter 7

Perthro: a secret matter

Elder Futhark – Runic Alphabet

Jamie Maguire. I don’t see him for years then it’s twice in a few days. The power of coincidence, you could say. The workings of chance. Although chance didn’t make me hire him. Chance didn’t make me go on a boat ride with him.

I had to pretend I’d never been on the ait, of course. Never crossed the weir. Wasn’t that strange the way I knew to look out for the rocking stone? Spooky! As though I really am psychic. I had to pretend that I’d never been to the allotment, that I’d never even
seen
the
cute little chalet,
let alone been in it. That I didn’t know Rob. I can’t mention that. It would make everything too complicated, and I don’t like complicated.

And then there’s Martha’s birthday. What made him bring
that
up, I wonder? Maybe
he’s
the one who is psychic.

Do I remember? Of course I remember. Martha’s fifteenth. I was fourteen. I’m nearly a year younger than her. It’s an awkward age for birthdays. Too young to go out properly, too old for jelly and ice cream. We all went out for a pizza, then to the multiplex and back to hers. I remember perfectly, I have an excellent memory, but even if I hadn’t, even if I had the memory of a single cell amoeba, I’d remember that night. You always remember the first time, don’t you?

Chapter 8

End of term. The Big Night Out. She’s bound to be around. Cal’s calling round about eight. He’s been let off the leash. He’s allowed to go out with me because Sophie is having a night with the girls. I’ve got plenty of time. I always like the getting ready. Having a shower and a shave, getting my hair right, picking out clothes. There’s a fight for the bathroom. Martha is going out, too, and she’ll take an age. When I hear the door chimes go, I’m ready. I run down the stairs and out. I’m always away first. Martha will be hours yet.

The day is tipping towards evening, the blue sky darkening, the street lights coming on. It’s warm. There are kids out playing on the front lawns and the barbecues are on the go again. We walk quickly. I wave away the half-bottle of vodka that Cal takes from his pocket. I need to keep sharp. I don’t want to get wasted in case I run into Caro. He snaps open his tobacco tin and lights up a thin spliff. Definitely kicking out tonight. ‘Your brother’s home-grown is good stuff.’ He squints at me through the smoke.