Angels and Men (38 page)

She opened her eyes. Johnny. Standing over her. Laughing. She sat up. The room wheeled round. Too far out, way out of her depth and drowning. Maybe if she kept her head still . . .

‘Any left?' He'd got a glass from somewhere and was sitting down beside her. She tried to pour some for him, but he wasn't holding the glass steady. He took the bottle from her and poured his own.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I'm a bit drunk.'

He laughed. ‘I'm not likely to cast the first stone.' She laughed too. ‘I'm not above taking unfair advantage of you, mind.'

‘How?'

‘You see if you can work it out, sweetie.'

She waited. Her brain moved slowly, homing in on the thought. ‘Oh!' She blushed. ‘That's all you ever think about, Johnny Whitaker.'

But he only laughed again. She tried to sit up and pull her dressing-gown together. Her head was spinning.

‘You know, that's the first time you've ever said my name.'

‘It's not.' But it was.

‘Say it again.'

‘Johnny.'

‘That's reassuring. And again.'

She felt herself starting to giggle. ‘Johnny.'

‘Sure you've got that? I'd hate you to say Rupert by mistake.' She made as if to push him away, but his hand caught her wrist. She felt it slide slowly up her arm inside the gaping sleeve. His fingers moved on her bare shoulder. He was watching her face. ‘This is OK, isn't it, Mara?'

‘What is?'

He struck his forehead and laughed again. ‘You're not concentrating.' She looked at him. He took the glass from her and put it to one side. ‘Now – are you listening?' She nodded. ‘I want you, Mara.'

She waited. He waited.

‘You mean . . . sex?'

‘I don't believe this. Yes.'

‘You can't!'

‘I can.'

‘You mustn't, then.'

‘Mustn't I? Just a kiss, then. Yes? No?'

‘Well . . .'

He bent his head down. Fool! Oh, God, let this go on for ever. His hands in her hair, his tongue hard in her mouth, thrusting again, again. The satin slipped from her shoulders. She was on her back. I don't care. I don't care. She clutched him, dragged out to sea on a fast tide. Useless to fight. Fight. Fight it, you fool. He'll hate you for letting him do this. I don't care. His teeth were at her throat, at her breasts, his hands laying her bare. She could hear his voice a long way off laughing at her. ‘You like this? Is this good? Hmm? Say my name.' She was shivering as his fingers parted and slid. I'm burning up. I'm going to die. She was crying. ‘Just let it happen, flower. Trust me. Let it happen.' His fingers slid deeper and at last she came, weeping, shuddering, crying his name.

She was lying on the seabed. The ceiling billowed overhead, coming and going like silent waves. I'm lost. Not a sound, just the roaring silence of the sea.

Then another noise. The jingle of a buckle. A zip. It jolted her half-sober. He was tugging at his shirt.

‘Johnny, you can't do this.'

‘Like to bet?' He was lying beside her. She struggled to sit up, but he pulled her back down and kissed her.

‘But you said once you couldn't lead a double life.' The argument was slipping from her. He was kissing her words away.

‘I was lying.'

‘You weren't.' His hand slid down over her stomach.

‘Then I've changed my mind,' he said. ‘Come on, sweetie, don't do this to me.'

Well, I tried. His tongue was deep in her mouth. It's his fault. I tried. He was nudging her knees apart and a sudden panic rippled through her. She pulled away.

‘You'll hate me for this tomorrow.'

‘That's nothing to what I'll do if you throw me out now. Come on, don't worry. You'll enjoy it. It's like smoking a cigarette, only it's tax-free and better for you.'

Don't giggle, you fool. But the laugh escaped, disastrously. He was on top of her, kissing her till her mouth and tongue felt raw, pinning her down, parting her legs. He doesn't believe me. Terror washed cold over her. There's nothing I can do. He's too strong.

‘Don't! Oh, please don't make me!' she cried. His hand went over her mouth. He was saying something, but she bit and clawed at him, past hearing, past reason. He pulled away and stood up.

‘Jesus
Christ
!'

She was lying at his feet. He towered over her, cursing and shaking his bitten hand. She cringed back. He tucked his shirt back in and did up his flies.

‘Get up.'

She lay there, weeping, slack and slippery with lust. He reached out and dragged her to her feet. She tried to clutch the dressing-gown round her. He was speaking softly, but his voice was cold with rage.

‘I've got two things to say to you. Firstly, a piece of advice. Another time, if you're going to say no, try saying it a bit sooner. Before the man's got his trousers down, if you can manage it. It's so much better manners. Secondly, you just keep out of my fucking way from now on.'

The door slammed. He was gone. Oh, God. Oh, God. The floor was slithering under her. I'm going to be sick. She stumbled to the bathroom and threw up, trying miserably to hold her hair back as she retched. Down below on the street she heard the main door of college slam. I've lost him. She sat weeping on the cold floor in the dark.

CHAPTER 23

It had been a long night. Hour after hour of shivering, of seeing Johnny's face looming up close in feverish half-dreams, then vanishing again. He was laughing at her, saying, ‘You like that? Say my name.' Then his face darkened with rage. ‘Stay out of my fucking way from now on.' She did not know when she had finally fallen asleep. It was all quiet now. Andrew must have gone out. Everyone else would be revising or sitting exams. All she could hear was the sound of distant traffic and the faint cries of the swifts and swallows circling in the sky. I must be strong.

She sat up. Her head throbbed so viciously that she began to cry. Aspirins. Water. Don't be a fool. She stood up and pulled on her dressing-gown to cover up her horrible naked body. The satin felt slippery and cold like the memory of lust. I must have a shower. I feel filthy. Disgusting. It was like the first time. That horrible boy in the lay-by. Forcing himself on her. She found some aspirins and looked around for a glass. Two wine glasses stood on the hearth where Johnny had put them last night. Her own was still half full. Oh, how have I let all this happen? I should never have trusted him. But how was I to know he'd do something like that? She felt in her body the physical memory of being overpowered, the terror, the useless struggle, his hand clamped over her mouth. But he was my friend. Why do I always trust the wrong person? Tears began to roll down her face. And now I've driven him away. It always happens. Every time I love someone, I lose them. It's like a curse. She took a mug and went to the bathroom. The smell of expensive bubble bath lingered sickeningly. Oh, mother, she sobbed. I want to go home. She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she filled the mug. There were ugly red marks on her neck. Love bites. Oh God. Everyone will see and know. I'm a slut. She gulped the aspirins down and sat on the edge of the bath. Her stomach felt as though barbed wire had been pulled through it. She showered and crept back to her room.

The sunlight hurt her eyes. Another scorching day. She opened the wardrobe, Aunt Judith's light summery dresses hung in a row, pretty colours, sweetheart necklines. I can't wear these. But she had nothing else cool enough. She pulled out one dress after another until she was sitting weeping in a pile of clothes. There was the white dress with the pink rose print which she had been looking forward to wearing. She held it up, then threw it aside. It was too pale. She would feel her shame seeping out and blotching it like sweat or menstrual blood. Oh, why am I so pathetic? It was nothing. We didn't even do it. Everyone else is sleeping around the whole time. Why do I feel so defiled? She stood up. I must go and shower. Then she remembered she already had, and sat down again with a sob.

The bells chimed half-past ten. A year ago I was sitting my Finals. Hester was in the last week of her life. A year from now, ten years from now, twenty, I will be looking back on this morning.
A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night
. Her mind groped despairingly towards the faith she had once known, and for a moment it seemed to snag on something. She thought she heard the echo of a fleeting chord, a tune she had once known but had forgotten. The long scar in her arm seemed to tighten. I'm too weary to go on with it any more. But even as she thought this, she felt a strange calm descending. She was still sitting among the discarded clothes. Her hand pulled a black and white gingham dress from the pile. It would have to do. She rubbed the tears away and began to get dressed. Maybe if she wore her hair down and pulled it forwards the marks wouldn't show.

She filled the kettle and started to put the dresses back into the wardrobe. It will all pass, she thought. Somehow or other. But her resolution drained away at the thought of seeing Johnny. How could she ever face him after last night? She leant her throbbing head against the wardrobe door. I still can't believe it. I was saying no. I truly was. He didn't listen to me. Saying no? Like hell you were, sneered the fishwife. On your back with your legs apart. Let me forget it, she pleaded. But she could not banish the image of herself whimpering and writhing under Johnny's expert fingers. He should have gone the moment he realized I was drunk. You weren't so drunk you didn't know better. But I told him. I
said
he mustn't. Oh Johnny, oh Johnny! mimicked the fishwife.

As she stood trying to calm herself, she heard footsteps. She froze. The footsteps were at the door. They went past. It was only Andrew. She could have wept with relief as she heard him let himself into his room, walk to his desk, put some books down. The wall was so thin she could follow his every move. Thank God he'd been out last night! He'd have heard everything.

She listened. He was walking back towards his door again. Supposing he was coming to talk to her? He'd see the marks. He'd make me tell him. Her hand scratched at the wardrobe door as though she thought she could scramble in and hide. But the footsteps passed along the corridor and down the stairs. Weak tears slid down her cheeks.

She made some coffee and sat at her desk to work. The print swam before her eyes and she fought back a wave of sickness. Concentrate. There were footsteps on the stairs again. Johnny. Better to get it over with. There was a knock at the door. Her voice shook as she answered.

It was Rupert. She half rose. He was coming towards her, his smile turning to concern.

‘Are you all right, Mara? You don't look well.' She steadied the chair as it tipped backwards, and made herself stand and face him.

‘Just a hangover. I'll be OK.'

A look of exasperation crossed his face. ‘Oh,
honestly
, Mara.' She flushed. It's not as if I've never seen
you
drunk, she thought resentfully. The same idea obviously occurred to him, too. ‘Yes, well. Know thyself, Anderson,' he said, smiling. She began to gather her hair back from her hot face to plait it. ‘Actually, I came to ask you whether –' He stopped. His eyes were on her neck. Her hand flew up to cover the marks. He reddened and looked away. There was a dreadful silence. ‘Who's the lucky man?'

‘No one. Nobody you know. I was drunk. It was an aberration. I didn't intend –'

He broke into her babbling lies. ‘Sorry. I have no right to ask.'

There was another tight pause.

‘He wasn't lucky. I threw him out. It was nothing.'

Shut up, shut up, you little fool. Oh, how can I not have thought what this would do to him? Johnny's his closest friend. He was looking at the ground, then at the desk, unable to speak. She knew he was willing his eyes not to dart back to her neck and wonder who. She couldn't endure the silence a moment longer.

‘What were you going to ask me?'

He ran his hand through his hair and half laughed. ‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Please.'

‘I was going to ask you to the June ball. I managed to get a ticket.'

But now he wouldn't. Mara dragged at her hair. She had been intending to turn him down, but to have the invitation withdrawn like this was unbearable. She held her chin up, trying to prevent the tears of humiliation from brimming over.

He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like to come?'

Now she was caught. Caught by his magnanimity and by her cowardice. If she said no, he would begin to think that last night had not been ‘nothing' after all. He stood waiting. I mustn't say yes, she told herself. It's not fair to let him hope I'm changing my mind.

‘I don't think I can, Rupert.'

‘Because of . . . ?' She shook her head. ‘Then why not?'

‘I've told you before why not.'

She saw a flash of impatience. ‘It's only a ball, Mara, not a marriage contract.'

Her jaw tightened.
Only a ball
. Like Johnny saying ‘just a kiss'. ‘No. Sorry.' But he was going to argue. She knew that expression too well.

‘Mara, I know you say you'd never marry a priest.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, you probably know what I think about that.'

‘Yes.' She waited stubbornly.

‘I don't suppose – hypothetically, of course – that you'd marry a solicitor?'

Oh, God. ‘Not . . . not if he'd given up his calling to the priesthood just because of me.'

‘You won't marry me if I'm ordained. You won't marry me if I'm
not
ordained. Good God, what have I got to do? Are you saying you won't marry me, full stop?' He saw her expression. ‘You
are
saying that. But I thought – you let me believe that . . .'

Was he remembering that afternoon in the woods and thinking, Maybe that was nothing to her as well? She waited for him to fling accusations at her, call her names, but he did not. It would have been better if he had. Anything would have been better than this white-faced honourable silence.

‘I seem to have been incredibly dense,' he said finally.

Her tears spilled over. ‘I'm sorry.' But there was a hard kernel of relief in her mind and she hated herself.

‘I'd better go.' It was over. ‘Sorry if I've been . . . um . . . too persistent.'

‘It's OK, Rupert.'

She had a sudden dread of him saying, ‘I hope we can always be friends,' and of herself finding it funny. She bit her lips hard. He kissed her cheek and turned to leave. Thank God.

He paused at the door and said in his usual voice, ‘I don't suppose you've seen Johnny at all?'

Her hand flew to her throat again. ‘Not since yesterday.' She managed to keep her voice level, but her gesture had already betrayed her. He knows. She flushed to the roots of her hair. He left without another word.

The smell of dinner came wafting in through the open window from the dining-hall below. Mara looked at her watch. She and Andrew were meant to be having sherry in the Senior Common Room before the formal meal, and she couldn't decide whether the ordeal of facing it alone was greater than the ordeal of facing Andrew. She pulled on the tatty academic gown she had borrowed from Maddy. She had refused on principle to buy the Cambridge graduate gown she was entitled to wear. Stupid traditions, she thought, scratching at what appeared to be a gravy stain. Andrew would be wearing his immaculate Oxford gown, of course, with its ridiculous long sleeves which looked as though they had been designed for the sole purpose of pinching rare books from the Bodleian without being caught. She could feel her natural belligerence returning. Curious eyes had strayed to her throat at lunchtime, but they had been repelled by her usual offensive stare. The worst ordeal seemed to have been postponed. A rumour was circulating that Johnny had disappeared. His car had gone and no one had seen him all day. She heard the sound of Andrew's footsteps and hardened herself to give as good as she got. He knocked and entered. She looked him in the face and realized with a sinking heart that he already knew. He must have been in his room last night after all. He drew close and ran a cool finger down her neck. She tried her blank stare.

‘Tacky,' he said. ‘Whitaker's workmanship, I presume?'

‘Why ask? I bet you had your ear to the wall.' He did not deny it.

‘Well, tell me all about it, then. Is he good? How does he compare with Rupert? Let's hear your verdict on their respective techniques.' He straightened her gown for her and tucked her hair back, successfully conveying the idea that she looked dishevelled and whorish.

She pushed his hand away and said tightly, ‘We didn't do it, actually.'

‘You didn't do it, actually?'
She hated it when he repeated her words like this, like a tutor picking a clumsy phrase out of an undergraduate essay. ‘Why not, Princess?'

‘You wouldn't understand.'

‘Why do women always say that?
You wouldn't understand
. It's so patronizing. How do you know I wouldn't?'

‘We're going to be late.' She made for the door, but he pulled her back.

‘No. Come on. Why wouldn't I understand? Because I'm incapable of emotional insight? Because I'm a man? Because I'm gay?' She snatched her arm away and left the room. He pursued her down the stairs. ‘Why? Come on, why?'

She turned and burst out, ‘Because you've got no conscience.'

‘Ah,
conscience
, was it? That great preserver of chastity. Your conscience or his?' He caught her by the gown and looked into her face. Her hands clenched into fists. ‘Yours? I respect you, Mara. And at what point did this conscience of yours kick into play? Before you'd got your skirt round your neck and his face in your cunt?'

‘Shut up. Just shut up!' She wrenched her sleeve free and ran down the last flight of stairs. He caught her again on the landing outside the Senior Common Room.

‘Just one small point of etiquette before we drop the subject. As far as I'm concerned, Mara, you can shag the entire University 1st XV. That's perfectly OK. Or you can decide at the last minute you won't do it,
actually
. That's also OK. But what isn't OK is bleating about your conscience afterwards. Nobody wants to know, Mara. It isn't interesting.'

Her anger mounted with every sneering word. She knew he was hurt and jealous, but he was not going to get away with this. ‘Oh, just because you're not getting any, Queenie.'

He went white. ‘Fuck you, you slut!'

Rage blotted out everything. She slapped his face with the whole force of her arm. The noise ricocheted smartly round the hallway. For a second she stood admiring the sound, amazed at what she had done, then she saw he was going to retaliate. She turned to run but he caught her by the gown at the foot of the stairs, hauled her back and slapped her so hard she cried out. They rolled on the stairs pulling hair, hitting, calling names, until a voice like a whip cracked across the landing.

‘What the
hell
do you think you're doing?'