Entangled (6 page)

‘Make sure you clean them up well. There’s antiseptic under the sink.’ I nodded, took the clothes from the bed and went into the bathroom. I felt like I was walking underwater.

When I came out about ten minutes later, Ethan was sitting on the bed with the bloody biro in his hands. He didn’t seem to mind that he was getting my blood all over his fingers. ‘Should I take the pens away?’ His tone was neutral.

‘No, please, don’t. I … I have to write. It’s all I can do.’

‘You can’t keep doing this, Grace. You know that, don’t you?’

I was starting to panic now. If I couldn’t write, I really might start losing it. ‘Please, Ethan. I won’t do it again, I promise.’ He looked up, and I felt like he was really
seeing
me. I held his gaze for as long as I could bear before looking away. He knew I was lying. I couldn’t make a promise like that.

I’ve tried and failed before.

Ethan stood and walked to the door, leaving me staring into space. As he opened the door, he said, ‘Sometimes it’s hard for us to understand why people do the things they do, isn’t it?’ I waited for the familiar snick of the deadbolts. When I heard that, I whispered a quiet ‘Tell me about it’ to the empty room.

I sat down on the bed and rolled up my sleeves. Looking at my arms, criss-crossed with scars, old and new, I was struck for the very first time by the thought that it’s a strange thing to do to yourself.

day 14

That makes it an even fortnight. Two whole weeks here and nothing’s changed. Actually that’s not strictly true; today I cleaned the bathroom. That was a bit of a surprise. It was starting to look not so white any more. And for some reason that bothered me. If by some miracle, a knight in shining armour does rescue me (and I can’t exactly picture volunteers lining up for the job), I don’t want him thinking I’m a total pig.

Sometimes I catch myself in a lie. The truth is I don’t want Ethan thinking I’m a total pig. There. That’s better. I don’t know why I care, but I do. Mum would be proud. It’s only taken two full weeks in captivity to finally get me to do some chores.

There’s bleach under the sink.

I wonder what it would be like to drink it.

Ethan brought my lunch while I was on my cleaning mission. He poked his head round the bathroom door and grinned at me. Before I could stop myself, I grinned back. Neither of us spoke. Lunch was a salad. I ate it all up in about ten minutes. Scrubbing must have given me an appetite. I didn’t write this afternoon; I exercised. Some sit-ups, a few stretches, nothing too hardcore. I paced from wall to wall one hundred times.

I couldn’t get hold of Sal the evening after we went to the doctor’s. Her mobile was still switched off, and no one was home either. Or at least, no one was answering the phone. I could just picture Sal hovering over the phone, rolling her eyes at the fact that I just wouldn’t give up. I’ll admit it: I was seriously worried. I had no idea what was going on.

The next few days were not much fun. I left countless messages on Sal’s phone and a couple on her home number. The one time I spoke to her dad, he said she was out. I didn’t want to hound her too much at home though – didn’t want to raise any suspicions. Maybe she just needed some breathing space, a bit of time to think about next week.

Eventually I decided that she’d get in touch when she was good and ready. And when she was, I’d be there with all the tea and sympathy she could ever wish for. I tried to ignore that fact that I was annoyed about how she’d acted in the cafe. And annoyed that she was ignoring my calls. And still annoyed that she’d refused to tell me who she’d slept with. Quite a lot of annoyance really, but I was willing to put it aside. For now.

I was sure she would contact me before next week. And there was no way I was going to let her go through that nightmare by herself. So I waited, and waited some more. Nothing.

The day before Sal’s appointment, I tried one last time. I left a pleading message on her mobile, telling her she HAD to call me, and that I knew things had been tough, but I was going to be there for her tomorrow, no matter what she said. A few hours later I got a text back: ‘Meet in the park at 9 – by the swings’. Short and not so sweet. No ‘sorry’, no ‘xxx’, no nothing. Still, at least she’d finally agreed to see me.

I arrived at the park ten minutes early and meandered towards the swings. Sal was already there, much to my surprise. She was
never
on time. She had some kind of mental block about it. I’ve seen her
try
to leave the house in good time, only to realize she’d misplaced her keys or her phone or her bag, or oh wait … these weren’t the jeans she wanted to wear today cos it looks like it might rain later. So seeing her there, swinging back and forth, was slightly disconcerting.

Sal saw me coming. I waved. She didn’t.
Okaaaaay
. I sort of wanted to turn around and head home, but that wasn’t really an option. I approached cautiously and sat on the swing next to her. She didn’t look at me.

‘Where have you been, Sal? I’ve been worried.’

‘I haven’t been anywhere. I just wanted some space.’ She looked up at me. She looked, I don’t know, sort of haunted.

‘Fair enough, I can understand that. But you could have just
told
me that.’

Sal shook her head. Her hand was at her belly, gently rubbing.

‘Talk to me, Sal. Please?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Well, for starters, do you want me to come to yours tomorrow, or shall I meet you at the clinic?’ I was perfectly willing to forget about the way she’d acted – at least until after the abortion.

‘I don’t want you to come.’ There was a quiet determination in her voice that I didn’t like one little bit.

‘Don’t be stupid – of course I’m coming! There’s no way you’d let
me
go through something like this by myself. C’mon, Sal—’

‘You’re not listening to me. I don’t want you there.’

‘Why not? Is someone else going? Have you told your mum?’ A fleeting smile from Sal – so fleeting I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘So who then? Wait … have you told
him
… the boy, I mean?’ This could be progress. If Boy X was facing up to his responsibilities, that could only be a good thing.

Sal shook her head, and tears welled up in her eyes. I reached for her hand and she flinched. She actually flinched!
WTF?

‘Sal, what is
wrong
with you? Jesus!’ I got up from the swing and knelt down in front of her, forcing her to look at me.

‘You really have no idea, do you?’ She shook her head slowly as she spoke.

‘I haven’t got a scooby! Tell me. C’mon, you can tell me anything … you know that.’

She took a juddery deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say.

‘This is all your fault.’

I couldn’t speak for a moment or two. And when I finally managed, what came out wasn’t even a proper word – more like an incredulous vowel sound.

‘This would never have happened if it hadn’t been for you.’ Sal spoke quietly, but there was an underlying bitterness that I had never heard from her before.

I felt the first flickers of anger, spiked and hot. ‘What the
fuck
? You’re not serious, are you?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Now Sal was looking kind of angry too.
How can this be happening?
I was watching a bad play where the actors were getting the dialogue all wrong.

‘How can this be my fault? As far as I can understand it, which isn’t very far cos you haven’t told me
anything
, you had sex with some random boy, didn’t use a condom and … well, that’s pretty much all I know, isn’t it? Now explain to me exactly which part of that is
my
fault? C’mon, tell me. Sorry for being dense, if it’s so fucking obvious!’ I was standing now, not quite shouting, but sort of spitting the words. Dad always said I had a bit of a temper.

Sal said, ‘You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about – as usual.’

The conversation was spiralling out of control, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. You’re not even making sense any more. Sal, I’ve done nothing wrong and you know it!’

‘Why do you think I’m in this situation?’

I felt like I was walking into some kind of trap, but I couldn’t quite see how. ‘Um … well … duh … let me see. I’m guessing it went something like this: you met a boy, there was probably a bit of kissing, he felt you up, you finally realized you didn’t want to be the last virgin on the face of the planet and that maybe waiting around for your one true love was a complete waste of time after all so you let him shag you. Probably lasted about two minutes, and then you went boo hoo hoo all the way home.’ As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.

Sal looked like I’d just slapped her in the face. I tried to backtrack. ‘Shit, Sal, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just got all … well, you know how I get sometimes – mouth runs away with me. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ I reached out to touch her arm and she looked at my hand as if it was some kind of mutant insect.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘You remember that Friday night we went out just before Easter? You pulled like three or was it even four boys in that club, leaving me sitting on my own in the corner?’

‘Yeah, I remember. I
said
I was sorry. Don’t see what that’s got to do with anything though,’ I said sulkily.

‘You were completely off your face when we got back to mine. No surprise there. Do you remember what you said to me in the kitchen?’

I mentally rewound to the night in question, but it was no good. I shook my head.

Sal mirrored my head-shaking, muttering, ‘Typical,’ under her breath. ‘You said that if I didn’t lose my virginity soon, you were either going to have me signed up to join a convent, or you were going to choose a boy yourself to do the honours.’

Ouch
. That
did
sound like something I would say.

Sal continued, ‘You said that pining over Chris was a waste of time, that I was “deluded” for thinking that something could ever happen there, and that I was “waaaaaaaaaaay too picky for my own good”. Sounding familiar now? Ringing any bells?’

‘Is
that
what this is about? I say something stupid when I’m pissed, and you go out and shag some boy because of it. Now, tell me exactly how that works.’

‘You really have no idea what a bitch you can be sometimes, do you?’

‘For Christ’s sake, I was
joking
, Sal. I was wasted! This is ridiculous.’ I turned away from her.

‘It wasn’t just that night, Grace – there were constant little digs about it, all the time. Maybe you don’t remember, but I do! If your best friend says something to you enough times, you start to believe it. I wouldn’t have slept with anyone if it hadn’t been for you – I wasn’t ready! That might be difficult for you to understand, Little Miss “Oh, I’ve only known you for five minutes but of
course
I’ll have sex with you. It might make me like myself a little bit more and finally prove I’m actually worth something, instead of just being some freak who cuts herself in a pathetic attempt to get sympathy from people—”’

I slapped Sal square in the face, hard.

Sal was shocked, and so was I. I’d never hit anyone in my life. I walked away, leaving her standing there gawping after me.

I felt numb. How could this have happened? Our friendship was over – that was for sure. There’d be no coming back from this. All this time I’d thought Sal cared about me … and then to hear her spouting that poison?

I started to run. As fast as I could. Far away from Sal. Far away from everything.

But no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t outrun my tears.

day 15

More dreams. Some that seemed to go on forever, and some that were just snapshots. There’s only one that I can remember clearly though; the others fade every time I try to focus my mind. Maybe I’ll remember later. I’m not one of those people who think that dreams necessarily
mean
anything, but I suppose I’m open-minded about the whole thing.

Last night I dreamed I was having sex with Nat. Everything about it was just right. His smell, his touch on my skin, the movement of his taut sinewy back muscles under my hands. We weren’t in his bed or mine – we were in Sal’s bed. The sex was good, maybe even better than it ever was in real life.

And then the old dream-morphing trick happened again, and suddenly it was Ethan on top of me. But it was still Nat too. A kind of Ethan/Nat hybrid of gorgeousness.

Afterwards, I lay with my head on his chest. It was definitely all Ethan now. His chest was so very pale.

I lay there for what seemed like hours. Until I noticed that I couldn’t hear his heartbeat. His chest wasn’t moving up and down the way it should – he wasn’t breathing. I bolted upright to look at his face. And he just smiled a peaceful smile at me and said, ‘What’s the matter, Gracie?’ I told him I couldn’t hear his heartbeat and I’d thought he was dead. He smiled again, shaking his head as if I was overreacting. ‘Maybe you’re just not listening hard enough? Listen carefully and you can hear the ocean.’ I pressed my ear against his chest and there
was
a heartbeat, faint but definitely there. And I
could
hear the ocean – the tide flowing in and out, in and out. I smiled.

And then I woke up – half horny, half puzzled. Dreams are tiring.

Something’s changed in me, I think. I can’t pinpoint exactly
when
it changed, but it definitely has. I’ve stopped questioning why I’m here. I just am. This is the way things are. I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but maybe it doesn’t matter.

But I still want to know about Ethan. I
need
to know about Ethan. What does he do all day? Where does he sleep? Does he ever go outside? Is he happy?

I’m going to try to speak to him, properly. No more petulance, no more tears.

I start today.

After lunch, Ethan brought me some grey trackie bottoms and a couple of white vests. Some underwear too. Everything fits. When he handed over the neatly folded pile, I looked at him quizzically.

He blushed. ‘For when you exercise, I thought you’d …’ I thanked him, noticing a couple of black hair bobbles nestled on top of the pile. He’d obviously really thought about this. It’s only now that I’m wondering how he knew I’d started exercising. And how did he know that it wasn’t just a one-off?

It felt good to be out of those pyjamas for a while. Felt a bit like me again. It was good to get some exercise – to do something else besides remembering. Even tried to do some press-ups, before I realized that was a tad overambitious after hardly having moved for two weeks. I’m going to have to try to do a little bit more every day if I’m going to stay healthy.

Ethan came back later this afternoon. I was lying on the floor, my heart beating wildly. I’d been running on the spot for ten minutes, which normally wouldn’t even make me break a sweat. I was exhausted. I heard the door open behind me. Ethan loomed over me, his face upside down.

‘Hi,’ I croaked.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Bloody knackered,’ I replied. I heard rather than saw him move over to sit on the edge of the bed. I stayed where I was, on the floor, one arm flung across my forehead. This was my chance. ‘Is Ethan your real name?’

‘Do you think I would lie to you, Grace?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. It’s one of my favourite names, you know.’

‘Is it? I’m glad.’ He smiled.

‘Do you have a last name?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘You’re very confusing, you know.’

‘Isn’t everyone?’

I laughed at this. ‘OK, what do you do all day then? You can’t just spend all your time cooking and doing the washing. How boring is
that
? Do you cook my meals?’ I was determined to get something from him.

He paused. ‘It’s not important.’

I sighed. This wasn’t exactly going to plan. ‘You look tired.’ It was true. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

‘You shouldn’t worry about me, Grace. How is it going?’ He gestured to the desk.

I manoeuvred myself up onto one elbow, conscious that he was getting a more than decent view of my breasts. ‘I’m not sure. It’s hard. It hurts … to think about things.’

Ethan stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Maybe hurt isn’t always a bad thing.’ He got up and stretched, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ll leave you to it. It’s getting late.’ He closed the door behind him and I was left wondering exactly what he meant.

It’s not getting late.

Is it?

After my fight with Sal, I ran all the way home. Three miles went past in a blur. The tears had dried by the time I got to the front door. I hardly slept that night. Instead I replayed the conversation in my head, again and again – trying to make sense of it. It was hopeless.

The next day was even worse. Knowing what Sal was going through, alone. Every few minutes I looked at the clock on my phone. An hour before Sal’s appointment, I couldn’t take it any more, and called Sal’s number. Straight to voicemail. ‘Sal, it’s me. I … I don’t really know what to say. I hope it goes OK today. Last night was … I think we need to talk about it. Ring me.’

I didn’t hear anything from Sal – that day, or the next. I knew she must have gone ahead with the abortion. There was no question about it. I felt awful that she’d had to go through it by herself, but I was so angry about what she’d said.

I couldn’t get over the fact that Sal had clearly harboured these feelings about me for some time. What I had said to her was stupid, no doubt. But to blame me for her getting pregnant? That was a step too far. This was Sal – the most sensible, intelligent, grounded person I knew. It made no sense at all. Still, it didn’t stop me feeling like the lowest of the low for what I’d said – in the park
and
that night after the club. Idiotic in the extreme, but Sal knew me. I
thought
she knew when to take me seriously and when to just ignore me. Everything had been fine between us before the visit to the doctor, hadn’t it?

Days and days went by – a blur of angry tears and confusion. I cut. Even after what Sal had said.

I went a bit too deep with one of the cuts in my arm. The blood oozed out so fast I thought it would never stop. I tasted a drop. It was warm on my tongue.

Mum knew full well something was up. She even tried talking to me. I ignored her. I was so lonely – absolutely desperate to talk to someone. But not desperate enough to talk to her.

I briefly considered calling Sophie. I was actually a little bit annoyed with her. I thought she might have called to see how I was. After all, as far as she was concerned I could have been pregnant. I knew I was being ridiculous because a) I had dropped that girl like a particularly heavy brick and didn’t deserve her concern, and b) I’d lied to her about the pregnancy test. So my indignation was hardly righteous.

I called no one, and no one called me. I was suffocating with loneliness. The pain was almost physical. I felt like tearing myself apart. I wanted to escape from my own skin.

And then one night everything changed. I’d spent the evening in my room, drinking, trying to forget. Listening to depressing music. Being such a
teenager
. It even struck me at the time: I was a cliché, and not even a good one.

I decided to get up off my arse and do something. I changed into my leggings and an old T-shirt, put on my trusty trainers and bolted out of the house. Running while inebriated: I can thoroughly recommend it. I flew through the streets. Yeah, there was a bit of stumbling here and there, but other than that I’d say the alcohol was more of a help than a hindrance. It wasn’t long before I felt that same rush that running always gives me. I could have run forever. It didn’t even bother me when it started to rain. I just pounded the pavement even harder.

I didn’t mean to end up at Sal’s house. Not consciously anyway. But sure enough, that was where I found myself. Leaning against a lamp post, looking up at her bedroom window like some kind of crazed stalker. I stood there, trying to catch my breath, wondering what to do. I didn’t feel drunk any more, that was for sure. It wasn’t that late; Sal’s light was on. The curtains were drawn. I was
so
close to striding up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. I was torn. Part of me wanted to grab Sal, give her the biggest hug in the world and pray that everything could go back to how it had been before. And part of me wanted to grab her and shake her and shout and scream, ‘How could you say those things to me?!’ I wanted to do both of those things and neither of them. I did nothing.

I turned my back on Sal’s house and slouched off down the street. Suddenly the idea of running all the way home didn’t seem so appealing. I felt sick, and just … sad. I headed for the nearest bus stop without a second thought. There was a boy there, sitting in the bus shelter in the dark. The light must have been broken. I sat at the other end of the bench; I didn’t have the energy to stand. I leaned my head back against the glass and closed my eyes. I breathed – in and out, in and out, trying to empty my head of everything. It was raining again. I could hear it pattering against the roof of the shelter, and the slick sound of car tyres on wet tarmac.

I knew the boy was watching me. You can feel it sometimes, can’t you? With a sigh I opened my eyes and turned towards him. He looked away quickly – guiltily. And then back at me, to see if I was still looking. I was. He looked away again. And then back again! I treated him to my trademark eyebrow raise.

He stuttered, ‘Sorry. I … Sorry.’ I said nothing, just looked at him. He was kind of hot. Scruffy, shortish blond hair, a bit unshaven. Nice strong face with a good straight nose. I couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were. Clothes-wise he was going for the T-shirt over a long-sleeved T-shirt look – it worked for me. Even in the darkness I could make out a pair of bright white trainers peeking out from the bottom of his jeans. I wasn’t looking him up and down, you understand. I took in this information in a millisecond (or maybe two).

‘Can I help you?’ I said, but not in a mean way.

He looked embarrassed. ‘Er, no. Sorry.’ Then he looked away – again! He was a shy one all right. I closed my eyes again, not really caring if he took the opportunity to look me over. I wasn’t in the mood.

I opened my eyes when I heard a bus pull up. The bright lights of the bus dazzled me as I approached the surly-looking driver. And realized I didn’t have my purse.
Idiot
.

‘I … Sorry. I seem to have left my purse at home.’

The driver looked at me sceptically, even going so far as to use my very own eyebrow trick against me.

I was indignant. ‘It’s true! Please. I need to get home. I’m cold, I’m wet. Come on …’ The driver just shook his head. He’d yet to utter a word.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Bus-stop boy stepped around me and stood in front of the driver. ‘Two singles, please,’ and I heard the jangle of money dropping into the money-collecting tickety machine thing. Without even a look over his shoulder, he hurried forward and up the stairs.

The driver smirked. ‘All right for some.’

I walked past him, saying nothing.

I was so relieved. My legs were leaden. Maybe drinking and running hadn’t been such a stellar idea after all. I trudged up the stairs. The bus was half full in that irritating way – every double seat had a single person on it. I spotted bus-stop boy towards the back. Normally I like to sit as near to the front as I can. When Dad used to take me to the park I would run up the stairs as fast as I could, praying that the front seat would be empty. I liked to pretend I was driving the bus. I was very good at pretending.

I slid onto the seat next to the boy and said thank you. He looked up and smiled, and for the first time I got to see his eyes. They were blue, and framed by the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a boy. He was quite pale, and looked as tired as I felt. I suddenly realized what a sight I must look. I pushed a stray bit of hair behind my ear and tried to surreptitiously check out my reflection in the window. It was no good – he was in the way. No make-up and sweaty running clothes: there was no way he would be interested. And I wasn’t interested either.
Who am I kidding? I’m
always
interested
. It had been a crappy day, I was probably still a bit worse for wear and I was sitting next to a (sort of) fit boy.