Who Are You? (32 page)

Juliet is drowning in memories. She tries to stop them but they won’t go away. The pictures are so vivid, so real, taking her back there, to that place, to
him.
She sees her own reflection in the mirror. She’s painting her face to mask who she really is. He is standing behind her, encouraging her, talking to her in a soft, gentle voice. ‘More, Juliet, darling. Look how beautiful you are.’ Juliet’s cheeks are too pink, her lips too red, the powder on her eyelids too blue. She looks like one of her own dolls. Juliet’s eyelashes are very long, and so when she spits on the little brush, and rubs it over the black block of mascara, and brushes it onto her lashes, she looks even more doll-like. He leans over her, too close now, so that she can catch the scent of his suit. It carries the smell of the city, of his office, his tobacco, his sweat, his power. Juliet blots her lips together, opens her mouth to check her teeth for lipstick marks. She upturns her mother’s scent bottle and then touches the stopper to just below her ears, the nape of her neck, her pulse points. He always makes her wear one of her mother’s necklaces, but that is all. He likes her to be naked apart from the necklace, and the scent and the paint on her face. When he is satisfied that her
maquillage
– as he tells her it is called – is complete, he takes her hand and pulls her from the dressing table stool. Then he leads her into her own bedroom. He will push the teddy bears aside and then sit down. He will pull her on to his knee so that her back is nestled against his stomach. She can feel the warm wool of his suit material below her naked thighs. First he starts with his knees closed together but then he will manipulate Juliet’s legs so that they are outside his, then he will open his legs, forcing Juliet’s legs wide apart, and then he will put his hand in his mouth and wet it before touching Juliet between her legs and even though she knows it is wrong, and in spite of the fact that she knows what he is doing to her cannot be what grown men are meant to do to little girls, he makes her feel things that she doesn’t want to feel. Then she will feel the stiff lump in his trousers, pressing up behind her bottom and he will shift her aside – it’s not difficult, because she is so slight – and he will unzip himself and let that thing out before putting Juliet back in place and she will feel him hard and naked and warm between her legs. He will then manoeuvre her legs so that they are inside his, so it is now her knees that are tight together and then he will hold her by the hips, pushing her backwards and forwards, up and down, rubbing against her over and over and over until he cries out words that Juliet has never heard before, and he spurts out this stuff which feels sticky on her skin and it’s a bit like wee because it comes from the same hole except it’s not wee. Then he will kiss her back, and her shoulders and stroke her stomach and the places where she will one day have breasts. And he will tell her how much he loves her and how she must never, ever tell because this is their little secret and no one must ever know because if they did they would say that she was an evil, dirty little girl and no one would ever want anything to do with her, and her mother would throw her onto the streets. And then he will bath her, making sure that every streak of make-up is scrubbed from her face. And all the time he will talk to her about how much he loves her.

Most nights when he was looking after her while her mother went out they would have a similar routine. Juliet would plead with her mother not to go. She tried to stay with school friends, anyone who would have her, apart from
him
, so that she could be protected from him. But her mother refused to stay at home. She told her not to be so silly and so clingy, and that she should be a good girl. And she couldn’t stay with friends all the time. As the months went on, he made her do more things. He made her use her mouth and her hands to please him. But he wasn’t happy with the sex play, the masturbation. He raped her after her eleventh birthday. Juliet thought she was going to be split in two. She just couldn’t understand how something so big could fit inside her, but God help her, her body allowed it. In spite of the revulsion and the guilt and the fear, her body betrayed her. A whore, that’s what she was, nothing better than a dirty little whore.

She’s back in the present. She looks at herself in the mirror and hates what she sees, but she dutifully finishes her make-up and even checks her teeth for lipstick stains. Then she dabs some scent onto her pulse points, behind her ears, the nape of her neck. When she stands up her knees feel unstable and so she sits down on the bed. Then the tears start, and the shaking, and the sobs, and she lies down and curls up like a baby, crying for the love and protection she has never had, because she’s a dirty little girl and she doesn’t deserve it.

*    *    *    *    *

Alex watches her, and first of all isn’t sure why she has climbed onto the bed, and then he sees her body shake, and her hands tear at her hair, her mouth open and her lips drawn back. Without sound it’s not obvious at first what she’s doing, and then in an odd kind of way, watching her sob, in silence, makes it all the more upsetting. He finds himself wanting nothing more than to reach out to her, to gather her up in his arms and to hug her close to him. He wants to comfort her, to make her feel better. To make her happy again. But it’s too late now, much too late.

*    *    *    *    *

When there are no more tears left to shed, Juliet goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water on her face and puts some of her expensive face and eye cream on her distorted, puffy features. She doesn’t want Mark to see her like this. It’s been a long time since she’s had one of her flashbacks, but when they come they are as vivid as ever. She and Alex are so alike, so irretrievably damaged, and yet they can do nothing to help each other. He’s still alive, the stepfather, or Sad Fuck as she thinks of him. He’s still trailing around after her mother. Her mother has given up saying to Juliet,
‘I wish you’d call me …’ Her mother knows, because the thing is, Juliet told her. When she started to make herself sick afterwards, after what he’d done, when she scrubbed herself so hard that she bled. When she realized just how dirty and defiled she was, how her childhood had been stolen, how her thoughts were not and should not be those of a twelve-year-old. She told her mother, but her mother refused, yes
refused
to believe her, and so Juliet’s punishment was to be sent away to school to learn some manners and to get herself sorted out. But all Juliet learned was how not to eat, because she reasoned that if she didn’t eat, she might stay a child and then she would never, ever have to do any of the things
he
made her do ever again.

How many thousands of pounds must have been spent on her counselling over the years, and to what good effect? So there you have it, two completely fucked-up people. Alex and Juliet – what kind of twisted joke was it that they should have ended up together? But maybe that’s what happens in life. You recognize the damage in the other person, and you understand. You know them, and you know that they know you. Really know you. They’re like a reflection of yourself; all the bad stuff is there in front of you and you can either choose to try and provide comfort, to help heal and make that person whole again, or you can use it to erode them even further, with nasty little needles that can be inserted over and over into the very source of the wound to keep it open and raw. People do some very bad things in the name of love.

But where’s Ben? He should be back. It’s now three o’clock. She doesn’t want to feel worried, but she does. She’s tried Mark’s mobile but it’s gone straight to voicemail. Surely they’ve had enough time to have their bloody pizza by now. She tries to crush the bad thoughts, all the possibilities, the dangerous scenarios, and she can’t. Juliet paces. She paces the kitchen, the hallway and finally the sitting room. She picks up a cushion from the sofa and plumps it, and then chucks it down again. She looks through the window, she opens the front door and goes to the gate, then she returns to the house and paces once more. Who the hell
is
Mark? What does she know about him? And why has Claire gone so quiet? And why doesn’t she have her address? She begins to search through Mark’s bookshelves to see if she can find something, anything that might reveal something about him. She barely knows him – Christ, he could be some kind of bloody paedophile, grooming them both. How could she have been so bloody negligent …? The unthinkable reality … the terrifying possibilities are filling her mind almost to the point where she doesn’t know how to function. She needs to search for clues. She notices some photograph albums on the bottom shelf. She kneels down and pulls out the top one. It’s so dusty that it makes her sneeze. Her fingers have left marks in the dust, so Mark will be able to see that someone – Juliet – has been nosy. But she couldn’t give a toss. There’s loads of photographs of mountains, huge, jagged, snow- covered peaks disappearing into the sky. Then groups of gnarly old women with extraordinary faces, dressed in glorious colours and framed by the snow-capped mountains. Bustling city scenes and railway stations, bicycles, cars, more mountains, a Labrador … and then something chills her. It’s a photograph of a military headstone, and then another and another. She flicks more pages and she sees a photograph of Mark in Army greens, and on his head is a cap bearing a badge that she recognizes. She’d have to be some kind of a fool to believe in coincidence.

Her head feels as though it’s going to explode as she tries to take it all in. Mark is Alex’s man? So Alex knows where she is? And Mark’s got Ben? He’s taking him to Alex! She knows it. The lying, conniving bastard. And he had the barefaced audacity to pretend he was helping her. So he had a motive for getting her drunk, giving her drugs, making her talk – because all the time he was Alex’s man. And Ben … What will Alex do? He might take him away from her forever. Was that his plan, to prove her unfit? The fear is tearing at her insides, a pain so terrible that she can hardly endure it. The thought of losing Ben … the thought that she
has
lost him. Frantically she calls Mark’s mobile but it goes straight to voice mail. She leaves a breathless message: ‘You bastard! How could you do that to me! Bring him back
now
!’ Then she calls Alex. Again it goes straight to voice mail. ‘If you do anything to harm my son I swear I will kill you, Alex Miller.’

*    *    *    *    *

Alex reaches the lay-by first. He knows where the nearest houses are, what the speed limit is, accident statistics, other uses apart from ‘laying by’. He knows that there aren’t any burger vans or tea stalls and therefore it’s not the sort of lay-by likely to have people hanging around. It’s not the sort of lay-by where people have time to take in the scenery and notice the other drivers and their cars. He gets out of the car and stretches. The air is damp but it’s not raining. The visibility is only about sixty per cent, but it’s not foggy. The temperature is six degrees, so not too bad.

A lorry pulls up behind him. He hears the expulsion of air from the hydraulic brakes and the squeak of heavy metal forced to a halt. The driver climbs down, goes to the hedge side and takes a piss. Alex doesn’t waste any mental energy on him. He needs to keep everything focussed on Ben.

Mark’s Audi A3 draws in beside Alex’s Quattro. They’re all welded to their Audis. Fast and reliable. Alex gets a warm feeling deep inside, because he’s longing to see his son. Mark gets out of the car and walks around it. ‘Good work, mate,’ Alex says, shaking Mark’s hand. ‘Where is he?’

‘Asleep. Let’s talk for a minute.’ He’s got a ready-rolled cigarette, which he sticks between his lips and lights. Alex doesn’t like smoking because it demonstrates a weakness of character, but in Mark’s case there’s no weakness of character. Alex knows this better than anyone.

‘What are your plans?’

‘Having a little holiday with my boy. Getting him away from Juliet is the most important thing, to make sure he’s safe.’

‘Look, I know it’s none of my business … except it is my business because she’s staying in my house … But Juliet – she’s all right, you know. And she’s pretty attentive towards Ben. Listen mate, he’s a great kid. He loves you both. You could have it all …’

‘It’s a bit late for that. Too much water, you know the old saying. It’s a new war zone.’ Alex can feel his chest tighten, his breathing shifting from diaphragmatic to clavicular so that it comes in short gasps, making it hard to speak. In: one, two, three; out: one, two, three; in: one, two, three; out: one, two, three … better. He can get his words out without sounding panicky, maybe.

‘And the head injury?’

Mark shrugs, wriggles his hands in his pockets and rocks backwards and forwards on and off the balls of his feet. ‘An accident. They happen.’ There’s a defiant note in his voice.

‘And the drugs? Don’t forget I was watching it all, listening to you both … like I was in the bloody room with you. Call that a fit mother? She’s just one step away from becoming a junky … again. Oh yeah, she can be very charming. So she charmed you? Come on, you’re too bright to be fooled.’ Alex knows he sounds derisive. But Mark is on
his
side. He has made all of this possible. It has all, so far, gone just as Alex wants it to, largely through Mark’s assistance, and he wants to
keep
him on side.

‘That story about the miscarriage. You heard her telling me all about that? Not very comfortable listening, was it?’

‘You believe her? Christ, you weren’t taken in by that, were you? Yeah, made a good story, didn’t it? A story, nothing more. It was all a pack of lies. But it worked, didn’t it? Got you on her side. I told you to be careful, that she was manipulative. But I thought you could handle it. You honestly think I’d have done something like that? Thanks, mate.’

Mark flicks his cigarette butt into the hedge and exhales the smoke which forms a thick cloud in the damp air. ‘I got the impression that she still loves you. And I also got the impression that she wasn’t a bad mother. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking – not just since you got in touch with me a few months back, but since I lost everything. Zoe. Too late now. She’s got a new bloke. A civvy – a fucking plumber, can you believe it? Still, at least he can look after her pipes properly, eh? I fucked up. I was an idiot. The drinking, the abuse – oh yeah, verbal and physical. I’m ashamed of what I did. But I didn’t realize … I couldn’t admit it was me, my fault, that it was all going wrong. Oh no, I couldn’t admit it was me, because I thought I was a fucking superhero.’