I Let You Go (31 page)

Our room was at the end of a carpeted corridor. I pushed the key card into the reader and pulled it out, waiting impatiently for the click that told me the lock had been released. I shoved open the door and wheeled my suitcase through, not caring whether the door banged in your face. It was hot in the room – too hot – but the windows didn’t open, and I pulled at my collar to get some air. Blood pulsed in my ears but still you talked; still you chattered as if nothing were wrong; as if you hadn’t humiliated me.

My fist furled without instruction, the skin stretched tightly over tensed knuckles. The bubble of pressure began to expand in my chest, filling every available space, pushing my lungs to one side. I looked at you, still laughing, still jabbering, and I raised my fist and slammed it into your face.

Almost immediately the bubble burst. Calm washed over me, like the adrenalin release after sex, or a session in the gym. My headache eased, and the muscle at the corner of my eye ceased to twitch. You made a bubbling, strangled noise, but I didn’t look at you. I left the room and took the lift back down to reception, walking straight out on to the street without looking behind the desk. I found a bar and drank two beers, ignoring the barman’s attempts to engage me in conversation.

An hour later I returned to the hotel.

‘Could I have some ice, please?’

‘
Si, signore
.’ The receptionist disappeared and came back with an ice bucket. ‘Wine glasses,
signore
?’

‘No thank you.’

I was calm now, my breathing measured and slow. I took the stairs, delaying my return.

When I opened the door you were curled up on the bed. You sat up and pushed yourself to the end of the bed, backing up against the headboard. A wad of bloody tissues lay on the bedside table, but despite your efforts to clean yourself up there was dried blood on your top lip. A bruise was already forming on the bridge of your nose and across one eye. When you saw me you began to cry, and the tears took on the colour of blood as they reached your chin, dripping on to your shirt and staining it pink.

I put the ice bucket on the table and spread out a napkin, spooning ice into it before wrapping it into a parcel. I sat down next to you. You were shivering, but I gently put the ice pack against your skin.

‘I found a nice bar,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll like it. I took a walk around and saw a couple of places you might like for lunch tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.’

I took the ice pack away and you stared at me, your eyes big and guarded. You were still shaking.

‘Are you cold? Here, wrap this around you.’ I pulled the blanket off the end of the bed and placed it around your shoulders. ‘You’re tired, it’s been a long day.’ I kissed your forehead but still you cried, and I wished so much you hadn’t spoilt our first night. I had thought that you were different, and that perhaps I wouldn’t ever need to feel that release again: that blissful sense of peace that comes after a fight. I was sorry to see that, after everything, you were just the same as all the others.

I struggle to breathe. Beau begins whining, licking my face and pushing his nose against me. I try to think, try to move, but the force of the impact has winded me and I can’t get up. Even if I could make my body work, something is happening inside me, spinning my world smaller and smaller. I’m suddenly back in Bristol, not knowing what mood Ian will come home in. I’m making his supper, bracing myself to have it thrown in my face. I’m doubled over on the floor of my studio, trying to protect my head from the punches raining down on me.

Ian walks carefully down the stairs, shaking his head as though admonishing a rebellious child. I have always disappointed him; never known the right things to say or do, no matter how hard I tried. He speaks softly, and if you didn’t hear the words you would think him solicitous. But the sound of his voice is enough to make me shake violently, as though I am lying in ice.

He stands over me – his legs straddling me – and lets his eyes trail lazily along my body. The creases in his trouser-legs are knife-sharp; his belt buckle so polished I can see my own terrified face in it. He catches sight of something on his jacket, and picks off a loose thread, letting it float down on to the floor. Beau is still whining and Ian aims a sharp kick at his head that sends Beau three feet across the floor.

‘Don’t hurt him, please!’

Beau whimpers, but stands up. He slinks into the kitchen out of my view.

‘You’ve been to the police, Jennifer,’ Ian says.

‘I’m sorry.’ It comes out as a whisper and I’m not certain he’s heard, but if I repeat it and Ian feels I am pleading it will make him angry. It’s strange how quickly it all comes back to me: the need to walk a tightrope of doing as I am told without offering up the pathetic figure that infuriates him. Over the years I’ve got it wrong more often than I’ve got it right.

I swallow. ‘I’m – I’m sorry.’

His hands are in his pockets. He looks relaxed, laid-back. But I know him. I know how quickly he can—

‘You’re fucking sorry?’

In an instant he is crouched over me, his knees pinning my arms to the floor. ‘You think that makes it all right?’ He leans forward, grinding his kneecaps into my biceps. I bite my tongue too late to stop the cry of pain that makes him curl his lips in disgust at my lack of control. I feel bile in the back of my throat and I swallow it down.

‘You’ve told them about me, haven’t you?’ The corners of his mouth are edged with white, and specks of saliva moisten my face. I have a sudden memory of the protester outside court, although it feels far longer ago than a few hours.

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

We’re playing that game again; the one where he lobs a question and I try to volley. I used to play it well. At first I used to think I saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes: he would abruptly break off mid-rally, and turn on the television, or go out. But I lost my edge, or perhaps he changed the rules, and I began to misjudge it every time. For now, however, he seems to be satisfied with my answer, and he changes the subject abruptly.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not,’ I say quickly. I’m glad I can tell the truth, although I know he won’t believe me.

‘Liar.’ He hits me across the cheek with the back of his hand. It makes a sharp cracking noise, like a whip, and when he speaks again the sound rings in my ears. ‘Someone helped you set up a website, someone found you this place. Who is it?’

‘No one,’ I say, tasting blood in my mouth. ‘I did it by myself.’

‘You can’t do anything by yourself, Jennifer.’ He leans forward until his face is almost touching mine. I steel myself not to move, knowing how much he hates me flinching.

‘You couldn’t even run away properly, could you? Have you any idea how easy it was to find you once I knew where you were taking your photos? It seems the people of Penfach are more than happy to help a stranger looking for an old friend.’

It hadn’t crossed my mind to wonder how Ian had found me. I always knew he would.

‘That was a lovely card you sent your sister, by the way.’

The throwaway comment is like another slap to the face, making me reel anew. ‘What have you done to Eve?’ If anything happens to Eve and the children because of my carelessness I will never forgive myself. I was so desperate to show her I still cared that I didn’t give a second thought to whether I was putting her in danger.

He laughs. ‘Why would I do anything to her? She’s of no more interest to me than you. You’re a pathetic, worthless slut, Jennifer. You’re nothing without me. Nothing. What are you?’

I don’t answer.

‘Say it. What are you?’

Blood trickles down the back of my throat and I struggle to speak without choking. ‘I’m nothing.’

He laughs then, and shifts his weight to release the pressure so the pain in my arms dulls a little. He runs a finger across my face; down my cheek and over my lips.

I know what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Slowly he undoes my buttons, peeling back my shirt inch by inch and pushing up my vest top so my breasts are exposed. His eyes run over me dispassionately, without so much as a flicker of desire, and then he reaches for the fastening on his trousers. I close my eyes and disappear inside myself, unable to move, unable to speak. I wonder briefly what would happen if I cried out, or said no. If I fought him, or simply pushed him away. But I don’t, and I never have, and so I only have myself to blame.

I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here, but the cottage is dark and cold. I pull up my jeans, and roll on to my side, hugging my knees to my body. There’s a dull ache between my legs and a wetness I suspect is blood. I’m not sure if I blacked out, but I can’t remember Ian leaving.

I call Beau. There is an agonising second of silence, before he creeps warily out of the kitchen, his tail clamped between his legs and his ears flat against his head.

‘I’m so sorry, Beau.’ I coax him towards me, but as I am reaching a hand out, he barks. Just once – a warning bark, with his head turned towards the door. I struggle to my feet, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through me, and there is a knock at the door.

I stand, half-crouched, in the centre of the room, with my hand on Beau’s collar. He gives a low growl but doesn’t bark again.

‘Jenna? Are you in there?’

Patrick.

I feel a rush of relief. The door is unlocked and when I swing it open I have to choke back a sob at the sight of him. I leave the sitting-room light off, and hope that the darkness is enough to hide the face I suspect is already showing marks.

‘Are you okay?’ Patrick says. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I – I must have fallen asleep on the sofa.’

‘Bethan told me you were back.’ He hesitates, and looks briefly down at the floor before looking at me again. ‘I came to apologise. I should never have spoken to you like that, Jenna, it was all such a shock.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. I look past him to the dark clifftop, wondering if Ian is somewhere there, watching us. I can’t let him see me with Patrick – I can’t let Patrick get hurt along with Eve; along with everyone else who means something to me. ‘Is that all?’

‘Can I come in?’ He moves forward, but I shake my head.

‘Jenna, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t want to see you, Patrick.’ I hear myself say the words and I don’t let myself take them back.

‘I don’t blame you,’ he says. His face is crumpled and he looks as though he hasn’t slept properly in days. ‘I behaved atrociously, Jenna, and I don’t know how to make it up to you. When I heard what you’d … what had happened, I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t be around you.’

I start to cry. I can’t help it. Patrick takes my hand and I don’t want him to let it go.

‘I want to understand, Jenna. I can’t pretend I’m not shocked – that I’m not finding this hard – but I want to know what happened. I want to be there for you.’

I don’t speak, although I know there is only one thing I can say. Only one way to keep Patrick from getting hurt.

‘I miss you, Jenna,’ he says quietly.

‘I don’t want to see you any more.’ I pull my hand away and force myself to add conviction to my words. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you.’

Patrick takes a step back as though I have punched him, and the colour drains from his face. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘It’s what I want.’ The lie is torture.

‘Is this because I left?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with you. None of this has anything to do with you. Just leave me alone.’

Patrick looks at me and I make myself meet his eyes, praying he can’t read the conflict I feel sure must be written in my own. Finally he puts up his hands, admitting defeat as he turns away from me.

He stumbles on the path and breaks into a run.

I shut the door and sink to the floor, pulling Beau to me and crying noisily into his coat. I wasn’t able to save Jacob, but I can save Patrick.

As soon as I feel able, I call Iestyn to ask him to fix the broken lock. ‘I can’t turn the key at all now,’ I say. ‘It’s completely broken, so there’s no way of securing the door from the outside.’

‘Don’t you worry about it,’ Iestyn says. ‘There’s no one’ll be stealing anything round here.’

‘I need it fixed!’ The strength of my demand shocks us both, and there is silence for a second.

‘I’ll be up shortly.’

He’s here within the hour, getting swiftly to work, but refusing the tea I offer. He whistles quietly to himself as he removes the lock and oils the mechanism, before refitting it and showing me how smoothly the key now turns.

‘Thank you,’ I say, almost sobbing with relief. Iestyn eyes me curiously and I pull my cardigan more tightly around me. Mottled bruises are spreading across my upper arms, their edges bleeding outwards like ink-stains on blotting paper. I ache as though I’ve run a marathon, my left cheek is swollen and I can feel a tooth has come loose. I let my hair fall forward over my face to hide the worst of it.

I see Iestyn looking at the red paint on the door.

‘I’ll clean it off,’ I say, but he doesn’t reply. He nods a goodbye, then seems to think better of it, turning back to face me. ‘It’s a small place, Penfach,’ he says. ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business.’

‘So I understand,’ I say. If he expects me to defend myself, he’ll be disappointed. I’ll take my punishment from the court, not the villagers.

‘I’d keep yourself to yourself, if I were you,’ Iestyn says. ‘Let it all blow over.’

‘Thank you for the advice,’ I say tightly.

I close the door and go upstairs to run a bath. I sit in the scalding water with my eyes squeezed shut so that I can’t see the marks emerging on my skin. Across my chest and thighs run tiny fingerprint bruises, deceptively delicate against my pale skin. I was stupid to think I could escape the past. However fast I run, however far: I will never outrun it.

‘Do you want a hand with anything?’ Ray offered, although he knew Mags would have it all under control. She always did.