The Ice Cream Girls (45 page)

I was still a fool, you see. Even though he had shown me time and time again who he was, I was still convinced he had a heart. It is thinking like that which got me to where I was. Which got me to standing in a man’s living room while he tried to convince his lover to kill me. That convinced me to stay with a man who had another lover.

‘Don’t worry about the police; we’ll tell them that she broke in, she attacked us, and we had to kill her to subdue her. We had to do it to stop her.’ He moved the knife towards her again. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’ll lie for you.’

No. Poppy shook her head: no. I don’t know who was more surprised – him or me. She followed her firm, clear headshake with words, a word: ‘No.’

He took a few more steps into the middle of the room so he could see her but was nearer to me. ‘What did you say?’ he asked. I was about to ask the same thing. It was a revelation. To hear it. To know it could be done. To know it could be done to him: someone could and did say no – and it was heard.

‘No,’ she repeated, sounding, if it was possible, even more certain. ‘And I’m leaving you. It’s over. I don’t want to be with you any more.’

I had never seen him so surprised, so taken aback – shock and disbelief were chiselled into his features.

‘Did you just say no to me?’ he asked. His voice was low, his tone dangerous, a viper about to strike.

‘I don’t want to be with you any more. And I’m not going to hurt Serena.’

He swung round to me, his eyes as narrow as possible. ‘You bitches have cooked this up together,’ he snarled at me. ‘You bitches think you can do this to me?’ His knuckles were yellow from his hold on the knife, his face bulging with red, the veins in his neck standing out like pythons wrapped around a tree.

‘Me?’ He jabbed himself with the knife to emphasise who he was talking about. He jabbed himself with the point of the knife, slitting a little line through his T-shirt and into his chest. He was so enraged, he did not notice. He did not stop. ‘ME?!’ he roared, jabbing himself again. Over and over. Screaming at us. ‘YOU BITCHES THINK YOU CAN DO THIS TO ME?!’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘YOU ARE NOTHING WITHOUT ME.’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘I MADE YOU WHO YOU ARE.’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘IT’S NOT OVER UNTIL I SAY.’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘YOU HEAR ME?!’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘I SAY WHEN IT’S OVER.’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘I SAY. NOT YOU.’ Jab, jab, jab. ‘I SAY!’

I moved before he did. I knew, you see. I knew what he was going to do.

‘AND I SAY NOW!’ he screamed and lunged at Poppy, knife aloft. I had moved first; I grabbed hold of his T-shirt and pulled at him, my hands clamouring at him until they were on his shoulders, pulling him back and away. As he fell back on his heels, he dropped the knife. Quick as anything, Poppy swooped in, picked it up, to take it out of harm’s way, I think. She gripped it, holding it tight and trembling slightly.

‘GET OFF ME YOU UGLY BITCH,’ he screamed, wrenching himself out of my hold, while his hand flailed back and caught me full in the face. The pain from my nose shot stars behind my eyes, my lip burst wide open and I tasted liquid iron in my mouth, felt it dribbling down my chin.

He slapped me again for good measure, throwing the whole weight of his body behind it and knocking me off my feet.

Poppy, shaking on the spot she was frozen to, finally moved as if to come to me, just as he turned to her. She was so close to him and he stumbled forwards as he swung back from putting me on the ground and the two of them came together. Him and his knife. It sliced its way into his side, stopping him in his tracks.

She looked as if she was going to scream. Scream with the horror of what she had done. Scream because he was stuck to her via a metal and wood object. Shaking and still on the verge of her scream, she stared at him with horrified eyes.

He stared at her with a startled expression on his face. From where I had fallen, I could see he was staring at her. Twice she had shocked him tonight. First by saying no and that she was leaving, now with this. Stabbing him. It was an accident, but it was still at her hands. Still something she was a part of.

His head moved down, to inspect the damage that had been done to him, to see how he had finally been opened up to the world.

Poppy’s head moved down as well, and when her gaze alighted on the knife she let go of it, pushing herself away, as far away as she could get in that one step.

Nausea turned me inside out as he fell first to his knees, the instrument of his destruction still embedded in the space just to the right his abdomen. Nausea and horror petrified me as I watched him take the knife in his hand and then tug it out in one jerky move, and drop it on the floor beside him. Nausea and horror and terror punched me as blood pumped out of him, staining his white top, drenching the carpet and his jeans.

He made a soft thud as he fell to the side, rolled on to his back. Then stopped moving.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,’ Poppy said, her voice shaking as much as she was. She was staring at her hands. Then her gaze flew to me. ‘I didn’t mean to. You saw. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

I returned my gaze to him. Waiting for him to move. For his chest to go up and down, for him to breathe. Or move. Or show me that he was going to be OK, he was going to live not . . . Because things like this did not happen to people like me. I did not see people die in front of me. I did not. I did not.

He was so still. And calm. Calm. For the first time in so very long, he was calm. He had seemed so angry with the world, with the rage that used to eat him up and make him lash out physically, emotionally and mentally, that he did not know how to be calm. But there he lay. Still. Silent. Calm.

I got to my feet, my eyes glued to him the whole time. He did not stir, not even to breathe. He was really . . .

I almost ran across the room to Poppy, avoiding him, avoiding going anywhere near him. I grabbed her bicep, feeling the muscle underneath my fingers go limp. ‘We have to go,’ I told her. ‘We have to go.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she continued to whimper. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Poppy,’ I said, forcing myself to be calm. Forcing myself to ignore the bitter taste of fear dissolving at the back of my throat, the blood in my mouth, the spiky pain of my split lip. ‘Poppy,’ I repeated, calm and quiet and gentle. ‘Poppy, look at me.’ Something got through to her and she stopped saying she was sorry and lifted her gaze to me. ‘We have to go, OK?’ I said to her, brushing her sweaty hair from her face. ‘OK? We have to go. Now. OK?’

She nodded quickly in return.

‘Good. Good. Come on, let’s go.’ I slipped my arm around her shoulders and led her away. She could not stay to watch this. She was too delicate, it would drive her crazy. She would lose her mind if she stayed here, trying to apologise to whoever would listen. It was not her fault, it was an accident.

Outside, in the open air, I let go of her, and let her walk down the path on her own. She had stopped speaking, had stopped saying sorry, her shocked apologies stemmed by being away from him, I guessed. We stood outside, staring at each other.

Poppy was talking at me. Asking me things. I told her I did not know what I was going to say or do. I told her I did not have the answers. I blamed her for this happening. I tried to throw up. Tried to dislodge the horror that was jammed underneath my ribs. I couldn’t shift it, it wouldn’t move. I told Poppy to stay away from me. To leave me alone. And then I ran away. I could not stay a second longer in the road, near that house, near that man or near that woman. I wanted out. Away. I never wanted anything to do with any of them again. I ran and I ran until my lungs became a smouldering mass in my chest and my heart was almost still from beating so rapidly. I ran until my legs threatened to give out. I did not know where I was, I had not been paying attention. I stopped and I was outside a church. The lights were on, they shone out from the stained glass windows. There would be peace in there. I needed peace. I needed to not be on the streets. I needed to be somewhere that was inside and safe.

I pushed on the large oak door, hoping but not expecting it to be open. It gave way under the weight of the gentlest push and allowed me to enter, snuggled me up from the harshness of the outside as I stepped inside.

Moving slowly, my body now like a heavy weight, I genuflected to the altar before going to a pew. It was a habit of being in Church all those years of going with Mum had ingrained in me.

That was when Father Gabriel found me. He spoke to me, told me whatever I said to him in confession he would keep to himself. I told him then, that I had killed someone.

‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Father Gabriel asked.

I shook my head. No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t say any more than I had already said. And even then, I’d said too much. Who was this man who I had entrusted with this awful thing? He said he would not tell, but how could I know that he’d keep his word? Even if he did swear to God. Didn’t the First Commandment override all other things? It was the first thing that God told us we mustn’t do; how could I expect him to keep that to himself?

‘I have to go,’ I said.

‘Serena, you are safe here. You don’t have to tell me what happened. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’

I leapt to my feet. Father Gabriel stood too. ‘I have to go,’ I told him. ‘I have to go.’

He would know what happened in the morning. When someone found
him
. And Father Gabriel would be able to tell the police that the person responsible was called Serena. And they would find me. I had to leave now. I had to go home and tell my parents.

‘Are you sorry for what you have done, Serena?’ Father Gabriel asked in a serious tone he had not used since he sat down with me.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I am. I didn’t mean to do it. And I’m sorry.’

‘God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins,’ Father Gabriel said. ‘Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’ He made the sign of The Cross as he spoke.

He could not absolve me. No one could. I had done the worst thing on earth. He could not absolve me.

‘You will be fine,’ he said. ‘I know you will do the right thing.’

I ran all the way home. I was a bundle of heat and sweat and burning pain; my body felt like one huge strained muscle, my mind was whirring and spinning and I could not catch my breath as I came towards my house. The living room light was on, the brown nylon curtains drawn and the corridor light out.

I should go in and tell them everything. Ask them what to do next. I should tell them and let them look after me.

‘Hello, Serena,’ Mum called as I shut the door behind me.

‘Hi, Mum, hi, Dad,’ I called back. I started up the stairs on shaking legs.

‘Where are you going?’ Dad asked.

‘
Dallas
is on,’ Mum added.

‘I – I need the toilet,’ I said. ‘And I’m really tired. I think I’ll go to bed. Let me know what happened tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight,’ Mum called.

‘Goodnight,’ I replied.

They didn’t call me into the room, so I must have sounded normal. My legs managed to work underneath me as they carried me up the stairs. In the bathroom I slammed and locked the door, then collapsed behind it.

I didn’t even realise I was crying until I went to splash water on my face and discovered it was already wet. Discovered that I didn’t know when I started crying, and I didn’t know when I would stop crying.

I didn’t know much of anything.

Except that
he
was dead.

poppy

Marcus had been the focus of my life for two years. Everything had been Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. From when I first met him in the park, to
that
night, it seemed that everything I did was for him.

But in the end, I could not take any more.

He wasn’t always violent and nasty. If he was, then it’d be a no-brainer – I’d have to leave. He started off as sweet as pie. He made me feel special and wanted and loved. He told me I was pretty, he made me feel clever, he seemed to think the world revolved around me.

Obviously Serena was around, but he explained all that and I was so in love with him so quickly that I lapped up everything he said. And he said a lot. Then he did a lot.

Still, I kept thinking that I could fix it by being perfect, by being the person he said he wanted me to be. I was careful with what I said, what I wore, what I did. I tried not to mind about him and Serena and I never told anyone anything about us. I did everything he wanted but he
still
found things wrong with me, he
still
found reasons to hurt me, to batter and brutalise me physically and emotionally. He had me so convinced of my worthlessness, my inability to exist without him, that I knew he was right when he said no one else would look at me. I accepted it when he told me that I was the lowest of the low. I believed him when he said he would show my parents and my brother and sister, and anyone else he could think of, pictures of Serena and me kissing.

That was the only reason I went there that night: I wanted the photos so no one could see them. I was sick to my stomach every time I thought about them, and how they could have been a million times worse if Serena hadn’t refused to do anything after that kiss. He probably kicked the living daylights out of her after I left but she had told him he could do what he liked but she wasn’t going to. That was another thing I was grateful to her for, because I would not have been strong enough to say no. Those photos were going to ruin my life – I had to go there to get them back.