Before she decides, Rachel needs more wine. She drains her glass. Her fingers reach out to pour herself another, before she checks herself. She’s eaten enough of the lasagne, along with bread and salad, to be reasonably full, offering some protection against the alcohol. If she keeps downing it at this rate, though, getting pissed isn’t far off. Best to slow down a little, so she can think things through; she’s certainly drunk enough already to sand the rough edges off the shock of it all. Thank fuck for that.
She sinks into a chair, resting her head in her hands, her fingers blocking the light from her eyes. Can she put a name to the emotions at war in her head? Shock, yes, coupled with disbelief. Anger at herself for not realising sooner who she’s been seeing. Above all, though, Rachel decides, she’s been violated. Not only her trust but her body as well. She kissed this man and he kissed her back. Now Rachel knows locking lips isn’t always a sign of love, of caring; it can mean treachery, too. No finer example than this of a Judas kiss. She’s betrayed Abby along with the rest of her family by touching her mouth to Mark Slater’s. Or Joshua Barker, as he really is.
Why the hell did he seek her out after the vigil? His words about being sorry and seeking atonement ring in her head, but a hollow note echoes through them. Her mother’s speech, spoken after Joshua Barker and Adam Campbell’s release, returns to taunt her. ‘Leopards don’t change their spots. Once a killer, always a killer. Those boys will be every bit as evil now they’re men, worse in fact. The killing instinct in them will be stronger now. They were just practising when they murdered Abby. Now they’re out of prison, they’ll murder again. Mark my words.’
Her mother’s right. When Joshua Barker approaches her disguised as Mark Slater, atonement is obviously the last thing on his mind. No, what he’s seeking is a chance to twist the knife in her. How he must be laughing at her gullibility. The way she tells him to friend her on Facebook; asking him to do the fun run with her, cooking him lunch. How he pretends he gets involved in charity events, as though he cares about kids being abused. Lies, all lies. He’s been chasing gratification of his sick impulses instead. He’s made a fool out of her and he’ll have enjoyed every minute.
She might as well erect a flashing neon sign above her head, proclaiming:
roll up, roll up, check out this bitch’s low self-esteem
. Her body language, her clothes, her expression, must shout out the message loud and clear. A beacon to the likes of Mark Slater. He must have marked her out as an easy victim when he saw her at the vigil, perhaps even before. She’s worthless, and he’s relished playing with her.
Rachel agrees with him, of course. After all, Mark Slater’s not the only one who considers her to be trash. Take her mother. What better way to understand how utterly valueless you are, if not through rejection from the woman who helped create you? Who is more qualified to pronounce judgement as to your worth than the person who raised you? Michelle Morgan’s antipathy constantly castigates Rachel, every time she speaks coldly to her daughter or simply ignores her. Nothing Shaun can say ever eradicates Rachel’s unswerving sense of her own unworthiness.
‘Telling yourself if only this, if only that, is pointless. You weren’t to blame; those two boys were. The responsibility for what happened is theirs alone.’ Impossible for Shaun’s words to penetrate the barrier created by her mother’s rejection. Rachel always nods when he says these things, dismissing them immediately. Shaun’s wonderful, the way he supports her, but he’s wrong. Rachel’s every bit as much to blame as Joshua Barker and Adam Campbell. No way around the truth; had she been paying attention, watching her sister properly, Abby would still be alive today. Her mother wouldn’t be a frigid stranger, a relative in name only, and perhaps her father wouldn’t have degenerated into a hopeless drunk.
Mark Slater, a.k.a. Joshua Barker. The thought, intrusive and unwelcome, forces its way into Rachel’s mind:
at least I didn’t sleep with him.
A small mercy, but she’s grateful for it. The horror of finding out later on she’s entrusted her body to one of the men who have destroyed her family would be a violation so huge she’d never recover. She thrusts the idea far behind her, where it can’t soil her any further, locking it away in her mind, along with the kiss. She’s certain of one thing. Whatever she tells anyone about what’s happened, whether it’s to the police or to Shaun, she’ll never mention the kiss. It’s her secret shame; she’ll have to deal with it in her own way, which means the knife.
Every time she cuts herself, she swears she won’t do it again. She promises Shaun too, hating herself for piling her crap onto him. He deserves better than having such a total fuck up for a sister. She means it, too, always thinking:
no more.
It’s an empty pledge, because she never keeps it. When her catering business stresses her or if her mother speaks coldly to her, the knife becomes her only refuge from the pain.
This time, though, she’s had more than sunken cakes or a rebuke from her mother to stress her. What’s happened here today is major stuff. She’ll struggle to survive the next hour without cutting herself.
Although Rachel does her best. She can control it, she tells herself; she doesn’t have to do this. Her left arm has now healed enough for her to ditch the bandage. Why add to the damage already scored there? Why not take this opportunity to transcend her compulsion? After all, if she can make it through something as big as this without cutting, she’ll be one step further towards recovery. Besides, if the impulse gets too great, Shaun is only a phone call away. He’ll drop everything if she asks him to. No way will he allow her to injure herself whilst he’s around.
‘Bloody knives,’ he’s often commented, angry at how impossible it is to rid Rachel’s life of them, given both her chosen profession and the basic need for them in any kitchen. Even if she does change jobs and live entirely from ready meals, it won’t solve anything if she can walk into the nearest supermarket and buy a knife anyway.
The impulse to draw blood, release her inner pain, is growing stronger. Should she call Shaun? It’s then she realises she doesn’t want to. The shock of discovering she’s kissed her sister’s killer has been too profound. Shaun’s support isn’t what Rachel needs right now. She’s being punished, so she intends to submit to it. The urge becomes overwhelming. She’s going to cut herself.
Rachel has a well-established ritual for these occasions. She pushes back her chair, walking into the kitchen, towards the knife block on the worktop. She draws out the vegetable knife, the smallest one. She used something similar when she first self-harmed, setting herself a precedent. It’s a dedicated knife, kept solely for this purpose. All part of the ritual. She pings the blade against her thumb. Sharp, but not enough.
Rachel rummages in a cupboard, drawing out an electric knife sharpener and plugging it in. She draws the knife through the slots, three times on each side, and tests the blade again. A small fissure opens on her thumb from the lightest of pressure, followed by a tiny ooze of blood. Yes. Her chosen instrument of punishment is now as keen as a fresh razor. She sucks her thumb, licking away the blood summoned by the blade’s kiss against her flesh, and closes her eyes, breathing deeply for a few seconds. Then she walks towards her bedroom, the knife in her hand.
Rachel perches on the edge of her bed and opens her bedside cabinet. She takes out a large green first aid box, containing bandages, gauze, scissors, tape, antiseptic cream. The phone she keeps by her bed reminds her it’s not too late to call Shaun, but she ignores it. She positions the knife against her left arm, avoiding the area still barely healed from her last cutting session. A sensation almost akin to happiness shoots through her as she anticipates the release to come, how bleeding herself will alleviate the torment inside. Rachel closes her eyes, breathing rhythmically, one, two, in, out, closing her eyes as she counts. Her heartbeat gradually slows as she relaxes.
The perfect moment eventually arrives. She presses the blade down, drawing it across her arm in a steady, measured movement.
Her eyes ping open on the initial application of pressure from her right hand. For Rachel, the first cut isn’t the deepest, no matter what the song says. It’s a preliminary, a test run, for the real thing. So she doesn’t press too hard, creating the narrowest of grooves to add to her collection, only a thin sliver of blood visible against her scars. Then she waits, breathing deeply again.
When Rachel’s ready, she positions the knife in a fresh area, preparing for the main event. Over the years, she’s perfected her technique, gauging exactly how much pressure to exert in order to achieve the desired result. One last breath and she’s all set. Slowly her right hand presses down then draws back, deeper this time, her gaze fixed on the way her flesh parts under the knife blade. It’s always been important to witness her self-mortification, watch the blood as it flows from her body, rich and red, delivering its welcome release. The gully she’s creating fills with sweet fresh blood. No pain, as she told Mark. She lets out the breath she’s been holding, anticipating the relief to follow.
It comes, but it’s not enough. Shit. Why is this happening? She’s always been able to gain the release she craves, but today is different. Oh, a small measure of relief exists, sure, but nowhere near sufficient. Normally by now, she’d be allowing herself to fall back on her bed, a gauze pad pressed against her flesh, savouring the pleasure before she attends to herself with bandages and tape. This time she needs more.
Rachel gazes down at her left arm, seeking a new spot to cut. The most recent wound appears to link with those around it to shape the letter A. How apt that her dead sister’s initial has found its way onto her flesh, forever marking her, reminding her of her guilt. Then another, more disturbing, letter reveals itself to her. The fresh cut also forms an M with some of her other scars. M for Mark. Something else occurs to her. A can be for Adam as well as Abby. Which means she now has a reminder on her arm of both the bastards who have ruined her life.
Something that can’t be allowed, not even for a second.
Once more, she places the knife in position.
The blade slashes angrily through the M and the A, repeatedly. Rachel’s breath comes hard and fast. This new persona frightens her; she’s normally so in control, so aware, when she cuts herself. This time her self-disgust over the kiss drives her, forcing the knife to carve harder, deeper, faster. She slices through her flesh with desperation, willing the familiar sense of release to show itself, but it remains elusive. She wants to die, she thinks; the only way she’ll ever be free from her demons. Dead, but at peace.
Several frenzied strokes of the blade later, some deeply buried sense of self-preservation asserts itself, causing her hand to stop its obsessive slashing through her flesh. She stops, trembling from the emotions battling inside her head. To her shock, she realises her arm hurts, and badly. No, scrub that, severely. Never has she made such a mess of herself as she has today. She’s never cut as much, or as deeply, in one session before. Blood seems to cover everywhere, her hands, the bed, the knife, with more coming.
Rachel grabs the gauze and bandages, packing them tightly into her wounds, the white lint turning scarlet immediately. There may not be enough in the box for what she needs; it’s getting saturated, and fast. She rips open more packages of gauze with her teeth, dragging the contents out with her good arm to staunch the flow. What to do, oh God, what to do? She can continue what she’s started, succumbing to the demon tempting her, the one saying how much better it’ll be for everyone around her, especially Shaun, if she dies. She’s a burden he’s carried for too long; he deserves to be free.
Her newly aroused sense of self-preservation forbids that option, reminding her the death of a second sister is an extra blow she can’t deal to Shaun. She’ll live, then, which means dealing with the blood. She grabs her duvet, pressing a fistful of it down against her arm, whilst her right hand snatches the phone from her bedside cabinet. Shaun’s number is the first in her speed-dial list. She checks her alarm clock on the cabinet. Nearly three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon; Shaun will either be weight training at the gym or out for a run. Wherever he is, Rachel knows he’ll have his mobile with him, switched on. It’s been that way ever since she started cutting regularly.
Her fingers hit the button.
He answers on the second ring. ‘Rachel? Are you all right?’
‘Come quickly.’ She shifts her pressure on the duvet, now as bloodied as the gauze pads. ‘It’s bad this time. Really bad.’
20
JUDGEMENT
Time slows down for Rachel whilst she’s waiting for the sound of Shaun’s key in the lock, as though she’s dazed, drugged, by the cutting session. The clock by her bed tells her ten minutes, no more, pass before she hears him arrive. He’s had his own key to her flat ever since she moved in, with occasions like this specifically in mind.
Rachel’s still perched on the edge of her bed, the duvet pressed tightly against her arm, her emotions deadened; she rocks herself slowly back and forth, hoping the rhythmic motion will comfort her. So far, it’s not worked. Shaun is what she needs, with his ability to take control of situations. What’s worrying her is the certainty she’ll need medical attention this time, something she’s always avoided in the past, but then she’s never cut herself this badly before. Besides, if Shaun insists on a hospital, which he will, then hospital it will be. She’s too numb, too emotionally bruised, to argue.
He strides into the bedroom, knowing where to find her because of her ritual, the way she always cuts herself there. He stops short for a second in the doorway, his expression stricken, before coming to sit beside her, and she realises he’s never seen her this bloodied before. Not once has she been so bad she’s needed her duvet to halt the damage. He squeezes her against him briefly before his hand reaches for her left arm.