Not going to happen, he tells himself.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks. ‘You already know mine, I presume.’
‘Mark. Mark Slater.’ Like his lies, his new name peels easily off his tongue. He takes out his wallet, inserting the notes inside.
They turn and head towards the car park. She finds her keys, pressing off the central locking on her car, and the lights flash on a red Fiat Punto near to his Peugeot. Mark notices the sticker for City of Exeter Hash House Harriers in the Fiat’s rear window.
‘You run?’ he asks.
‘Every Sunday. Never miss a week, not if I can help it. Started when I moved to Exeter, didn’t really know anyone, wanted to get out more. So I joined the Hashers. Now I’m hooked.’ She laughs. ‘Do you run as well?’
Mark nods. ‘Most nights I go to the local park, do seven miles. It helps me chill out.’ He’s a little dismayed he asked her; finding things they have in common isn’t going to help if he’s right and she’s reading something flirtatious into their conversation.
She pulls a face. ‘Wow, seven miles every night? I’m humbled. I thought I was doing well, what with five miles every Sunday.’
‘What can I say. Guess I need a lot of chilling out time.’
She laughs. ‘Any fun runs, that sort of thing?’
‘Whenever they come around. Mostly for children’s charities.’
‘Me too. Usually the N.S.P.C.C. What with losing Abby the way we did.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Got a five kilometre fun run coming up in a few weeks,’ she mentions. Too casually, revealing the buried hint. Mark warns himself: care is needed here. The last thing he wants is for her to suffer more hurt, or, God forbid, discover his former identity. Then she’s asking if he’s interested in entering, and his need to get answers from her spurs him on, and the words
yes, why not
fall from his mouth. A huge smile brightens her face as she starts rattling on about how the entry deadline is looming, where the run will be taking place, which pub they’ll be going to afterwards. Mark grows increasingly uncomfortable. He’s using her for his own ends, and he hates himself for it.
Thing is, though, he wants to be normal, to be able to see little girls in the street without panicking, for the endless repetitions of
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
to fade from his life. Many would say that after what he and Adam did, he doesn’t have a right to wish for those things, and if Michelle Morgan had her way he wouldn’t even have the freedom to piss in peace, but he’s driven to crave them anyway. Rachel might be the key. The result? He’ll see where this leads him, being mindful to keep her at arm’s length, and to break it off between them as soon as possible, so she doesn’t get hurt.
‘What’s the best way of staying in touch? You on Facebook?’ she asks. Mark isn’t, not having any friends other than Natalie, so he’s never joined. She encourages him to check it out, saying something about how a Facebook page has been set up for the run.
‘Look me up on there and add me in as a friend. My avatar’s one of my old dolls from when I was a child. You’ll find me easily enough. Listen, I must get back.’ She tugs open the driver’s door of the Fiat. Her expression turns shy, girlish. ‘It was good talking to you, Mark. Sorry about before. I really did think you were some lowlife of a reporter.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘See you on Facebook,’ she says.
Mark draws out his car keys, the comfort of steak and chips and a pint in a warm pub luring him on now it’s clear their encounter is over. He watches her pull away.
Insane, stupid, ridiculous, one side of his mind tells the other.
An opportunity not to be missed
,
is the reply.
His mobile vibrates in his inside pocket, startling him. Shit. Adam Campbell again; it has to be. Mark decides to forget his previous crap about needing to find out why the other man was at the vigil. Screw that. He’ll erase the messages from his phone the minute he gets back to Bristol. Today has been a mad, mad day; he doesn’t intend to make it worse by contacting Adam Campbell. He’ll delete his number and get on with his life.
Later on, mid-evening, Mark’s back at his flat. He’s about to make himself a coffee when his mobile rings again. The letter A pops up as the caller. Fuck. Adam Campbell. Looks like he’s dead set on re-establishing contact. For Mark, it’s weird knowing Adam is on the other end, trying to access him, as though he’s stretching out to exert control over him again. Mark lets the call go to voicemail, unsure why he’s not yet deleted Adam’s number, telling himself it’s because his mind’s been tangled up with Rachel. Nothing to do with the fact he’s still wondering whether Adam attended the vigil for the same reason he did. Time for coffee. Then he’ll check out what Adam has to say.
Mug in hand, he listens to the voicemail message Adam’s left for him.
‘Not heard from you yet, mate. Give me a call. Be good to catch up after so long.’ Nothing intimidating, nothing overtly pressurised. None of the terrifying aggression of fourteen years ago. Mark relaxes a little. Maybe he’ll call Adam back in a day or so; any shit from the guy and he’ll get a new mobile. He taps in a brief text.
‘Got your message. Been a bit busy. Will be in contact.’ He presses send, breathing out a sigh of relief. Adam Campbell has been dealt with, at least for now.
Meanwhile, he needs to concentrate on Rachel and the issue of the fun run.
Not a good idea
, is the message being sent, loud and clear, from his subconscious. She might expect him to go and train with her, despite the event only being five kilometres in length. He’ll need to give the situation more thought. On with his running shoes. A fast seven-miler will give him the answers, allow him to suss out what to do over the thorny question of staying in touch with Rachel Morgan.
Returning to his flat an hour later, sweaty and panting, he has the solution. He’ll meet Rachel again, just the once, probably for lunch. It’s risky, but he promises himself it’ll be a one-off. He figures this way they can chat, and if he doesn’t get the answers he wants, he’ll stop using her so shamelessly. One more meeting, easy enough to do; he can be there and back without anyone, including Tony Jackson, realising he’s gone. He reflects on how he’ll be lunching with Abby Morgan’s sister and how that’s wrong on all kinds of levels, but he’s driven by his need for answers. He’ll run it by her when he joins Facebook.
Sorted, he tells himself.
9
FRIGGING FAT BITCH
Midnight. Nearly two weeks after breaking up with Mark, Natalie’s in bed, unable to sleep. The nagging voice in her head, telling her she’s been too hasty in dumping him, won’t ease up on her. Not unusual, this; post-split doubts always plague her as to whether she’s done the right thing. Each time, she tortures herself with not having given the ex in question one more chance. Convinces herself that, if she tries hard enough, he’ll come good in the end. Ah, the redemptive power of love; a seductive idea for Natalie, despite the contradictory evidence offered by her parents’ now defunct relationship.
Natalie’s body as well as her mind is missing Mark. Her revulsion at the thought of his hands touching her is ebbing away. She’s not had many men pass through her bed and so far, Mark’s been the only one to hit her sweet spot, so to speak. Before him, sex holds little appeal for Natalie. She’s on the large side, with plenty of hang-ups about her wobbly thighs, her jelly belly, her stretch-marked breasts. Inhibitions that haven’t exactly turned her into a confident sexual partner. Revealing her body doesn’t come easily. Nor does letting a man explore it. To compensate, she often projects a false confidence by taking the lead in bed, but it’s more through shyness than sexual prowess, despite the apparent contradiction. When she’s giving a man pleasure, he’s focused on his body, not hers. So what if she’s often left high and dry orgasm-wise? Better than enduring critical eyes comparing her body to slimmer, prettier, fitter women. She waits until her partner’s asleep and then her hands slip south to bring herself off. Natalie’s mastered the art of the silent orgasm, enjoying her release as the man of the moment snores beside her.
None of that crap applies to Mark. From the start, he refuses to allow her to turn off the lights, insisting on undressing her, apparently savouring all the parts of her body she loathes.
‘Always loved women with curves.’ His words caress her every bit as much as his hands and more often than not when they make love, she sees herself as he does. Every time they’re in bed, Mark tells her she’s sexy, desirable, beautiful. He strokes her as if it’s a privilege; he closes his eyes as his tongue slides over her skin, her flesh a ripe peach for him to savour.
Their sex life isn’t without issues, however. Natalie’s hang-ups run too deep for her to accept unquestioningly Mark’s appreciation of her body. For her, something more sinister than loathing of her flaws has drained her sexual confidence.
A familiar voice sounds in her head.
‘Frigging fat bitch.’
Words Natalie would give pretty much anything she owns to scrub from her brain, but nothing will ever erase a scar burned so deeply into her psyche. Before she first sleeps with Mark, she consoles herself by remembering her shame’s a private thing, known only to her. She prays her secret humiliation won’t intrude into their sex life, but with hindsight, she realises she’s been naïve in that respect.
She casts her mind back to when she’s in bed with Mark for the first time. They’ve just made love, and since then the afterglow has pretty much reduced them to a comfortable stupor. Natalie’s curled against Mark’s chest, boneless with relaxation, savouring her surprise at how good her new boyfriend is at sex. At last, a man who arouses her brain before her body, a stark contrast to all who have gone, and come, previously in her bed. No worries about stretch marks or wobbly bits; Natalie’s now viewing herself through Mark’s eyes. For once, she’s a beautiful, sexy woman, with a ripe, fleshy, luxuriant body.
Her illusion lasts until Mark attempts to initiate sex for a second time. Lust steals over his face as he gazes down at her. She’s not thinking about the voice in her head, biding its time before snaking out to ruin what they’re creating between them. All she’s conscious of is how her desire rises to match his, how she needs them to fuck again, now, quickly, urgently. His hands slide over her. Before she realises what he’s doing, he turns her onto her stomach. Then his cock presses against her arse cheeks, seeking her cunt from behind. Her sexual hunger deflates like a prick in an ice bucket.
To be replaced by the voice in her head.
‘Frigging fat bitch.’
Along with the memory of other hands, another body. The pain of those words cuts deep, despite the fact it’s been so many years since they first carved their way into her.
Mark’s unaware of all this, of course. She’s never told anyone, not ever.
Natalie twists round, pushing him away with all the force she’s able to muster. Shock registers in Mark’s expression on seeing the rejection in her face, the way her mouth is set as tight as a clam.
‘What’s wrong, Nat?’ She clocks the mixture of hurt and surprise in his tone but she’s too intent on shoving the memory down deep, where it can’t soil the moment anymore. She shakes her head, unable to speak.
‘I didn’t mean…’ Mark’s clearly unsure how he’s managed to fuck things up. ‘Doggy-style’s not to everyone’s taste, I suppose. Or did you think I wanted…’ He gropes for the right words, ones to placate rather than provoke. ‘Well, you know.’ His face flushes a faint pink. ‘Anal sex. Wasn’t going for that, I swear, Nat. Not that I don’t enjoy it, because I do. Hell, listen to me rambling.’
Natalie can practically smell his embarrassment.
‘Didn’t think that,’ she manages to say.
‘Just thought it would be fun to do it from behind.’
She doesn’t reply. The voice in her head taunts her again.
‘Some women think doggy-style’s degrading, of course. Didn’t mean to upset you, Natalie.’ He strokes her face warily, gauging her expression. ‘You don’t enjoy doing it that way?’
‘Never done it.’ Revulsion at the idea bites at her.
‘Then how…’
‘For fuck’s sake, drop it, will you?’ Shock floods his face. Natalie rarely swears and Mark’s never heard even a mild profanity from her before. Contrition washes over her. Hell, not long ago her orgasm was wrenching gasps from her throat and sweat from her body, and now she’s all snappy and moody. All because of the voice in her head, and Mark deserves better. She reaches out to pull him close, hugging the apology for which she lacks the words.
‘Someone’s hurt you,’ he says.
Natalie stays silent, forcing back the vile memory, trying to drag the hot tears away from the backs of her eyelids. Without success. A wet trickle works its way down her cheek. Maybe Mark will attribute her outburst to some crazy premenstrual dip in her happy hormones if she doesn’t reply. Safety lies in silence, so they say.
‘You can tell me, you know.’ His lips nuzzle her hair.
She squirms uncomfortably, unsure how to handle the unfamiliar male concern. Natalie’s more used to being ignored than comforted by the men in her life. She doesn’t respond and Mark gets the message, simply holding her.
The next time they’re in bed, though, Natalie senses a barrier between them. Mark seems hesitant, unsure, as though expecting her to push him away again. The sex is clumsy and unsatisfying, a sad sequel to the hot hunger they shared during their first fuck. Natalie panics. Mark’s kind and caring, if a little reserved; besides which, he’s a looker. A guy to hang onto. She doesn’t want to screw this relationship up and if she’s not careful, he’ll think she’s both a moody mare and a lousy lay.
‘Frigging fat bitch.’ In her head, rough hands push her to the ground. Hot breath fans her ear. The odour of stale cigarette smoke assaults her nostrils.
Natalie’s always forced the memory down deep, burying it under layers of denial. It erupts out of her now like steam from a pressure cooker, hot and searing.