Adrift, page 19
‘At first, I didn’t want to listen – you know how stubborn I can be – but then I heard my boss was going to fire me for gross misconduct anyway, and rehabilitation seemed a better choice. I only agreed to it to avoid facing my colleagues, but once I got there, talking about my problems really helped. You must know: I never spoke about Raymond directly, nor what happened to him. I just spoke of an abusive ex, without naming him.’
Neither of us wants to consider the prospect that he escaped the grave we buried him in. In the cold light of day, I’m no longer surprised that Woody decided not to come away this weekend. Maybe he’ll never know what a lucky escape he had.
Something stirs in the back of my mind, but it’s just out of reach.
One of the cabin doors slides open, and I spot Fergus emerging from his cabin. He looks more forlorn than when I last saw him, and he joins us at the table, taking one of the bowls of pasta.
I can only hope he didn’t overhear what we were discussing. I don’t know what to say, and as an awkward silence descends, I search for anything to break it.
‘Rhys is still up on deck,’ I tell him. ‘I left him to cool off.’
Fergus’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything.
‘When you’ve eaten, would you mind letting him know that I cooked some pasta for him too?’
Fergus nods, and tucks in. I wait to see if Sophie is going to continue speaking, but Fergus’s arrival has cast a shadow on her openness, and I sense she won’t be lowering her guard again any time soon.
‘Can you hear that?’ she asks, after several minutes.
I set down my fork, but can’t hear anything out of the ordinary.
‘Rhys is coughing,’ she continues, sliding out of her chair. ‘I’m sure he has his inhaler on him, but I’ll go check he’s okay.’
I finish my pasta and am about to reach for another breadstick when Sophie screams for us to come up on deck. Fergus leads the way, but halts abruptly as soon as he is out of the hatch. It’s only when I manoeuvre him out of the way that I see the cause for alarm.
‘We… we need to do something for him,’ Sophie is screaming between sobs, her hands covering her mouth in shock.
Rhys is lying on his side and blood is flowing from his mouth and nose. It’s like something out of a horror scene. His face is contorted in terror. His body is convulsing on the white plastic deck, and when he coughs, more blood erupts from his mouth. A pool is spreading across the deck, and it looks like he’s already lost more than is healthy.
‘Fergus, go and get some towels from the bathroom,’ Sophie says, taking control. ‘Rhys, can you hear me? I need you to tell me what’s going on. Did you eat or drink something?’
The only sign that he’s still alive is the slow blink of his eyes, but he doesn’t speak. As he looks over my shoulder, his eyes widen as if he’s seen something, but when I turn, I see nothing but the bow.
‘You said he might be having an asthma attack,’ I remind her, knowing this is not the result of asthma, but uncertain what else to suggest.
Sophie ignores my suggestion, and steps around the rapidly expanding pool, trying to shift Rhys into the recovery position. He coughs again, and tiny droplets of red land on my toes.
Fergus returns with the towels, and Sophie uses one to mop the red puddle from around Rhys’s head, and wipes his mouth and nose with the other. As soon as his face clears, more blood instantly appears from his nose and gums.
‘Do either of you know if he suffers from any underlying medical conditions?’ Sophie asks, her face paler than ever. ‘Could he be on any anticoagulant medication?’
I look to Fergus, who is more likely to know, but he shakes his head. ‘Not that he told me. Just the asthma.’
I spot the bloody inhaler gripped tightly in his hand, and point at it.
‘My aunt was asthmatic; Ventolin shouldn’t do something like this,’ Sophie says with a dismissive shake of her head. ‘He must have some kind of condition, or he’s ingested something toxic.’
What she’s saying is, somebody has done this to Rhys, and given the discovery of Christophe’s body this morning, it’s not an unreasonable conclusion to draw. But what kind of substance could produce such graphic blood loss?
Rhys gasps for air, staring directly at me, as if trying to point, but then he coughs out more blood and there’s a gargling sound before his body slumps and stops moving altogether. His head sags to the side and his chest stops rising.
This can’t be happening.
I reach for his wrist and check for a pulse, but there’s nothing there. The whole deck is swimming in his blood, and I sense that, even if we managed to get his heart beating again, it’s already too late to save him. Sophie must be thinking along the same lines, as she closes Rhys’s eyelids.
I back away, not wanting the toxic blood to infect me. I remember seeing a film about the Ebola virus once, and the death scenes portrayed weren’t dissimilar to what we’ve just witnessed, but that’s a rare disease, and has to be passed by someone else who’s infected in the first place.
Fergus has his head in his hands, but Sophie is pointing at Rhys’s face. At first, I can’t see what she’s gasping at, but then I see the blue tinge to his lifeless tongue.
‘P-poison,’ Sophie stammers. ‘I-I mean rat poison. Raymond used to use it to kill rats in the cellar. He was fascinated by death and pain. He tried to kill any rogue animals that wandered onto the property.’
I think about the metal noose I found in the garden the day we first viewed the house. Had I not come to its rescue, that kitten would have died.
‘He told me once that certain rodent poisons can cause the tongue to change colour. Some contain anticoagulants as the means of killing the rodent. Oh, Jesus!’
I picture the pellets I found in the basement all those years before. It can’t just be coincidence.
My gaze again falls on the bloody inhaler in his hand, and I snatch it up, pointing the mouthpiece towards the sea and depressing the small metal canister. A cloud of gas escapes, and I dare myself to sniff the air, instantly recognising the repulsive odour.
As impossible as it seems, this has Raymond’s name all over it. We saw him die. We buried him in the ground. If he really is back from the dead, which of us is he coming for next?
30
TEN YEARS AGO
When I told Carly about Raymond’s reaction to her quiet word, she told me not to go back.
‘I can come with you and help pack up your stuff,’ she says. ‘You can move in with me until you finish your exams.’
‘There’s barely enough room for you at your flat, let alone two of us.’
‘Then we’ll find a bigger place. I’m not sure I want you living in his house any more. I’m worried you’re going to do something you’ll regret, like thump your landlord or something. Don’t flush away your career before it’s even started. Between us, I’m sure we could get somewhere reasonable. Besides, it’s only for a few months before you head to London anyway.’
Not only is the lack of room an issue, but Carly’s place is across town as well, making it a two-bus journey to the campus. I politely decline the offer, though I know I’ll need to crash for a couple of nights.
All is quiet when I enter, and my room looks untouched. I’m even more determined now to change the lock on the door. It’s a little after four, and my appetite is finally returning, so I head into the kitchen and switch on the kettle. There’s bread in the breadbin and milk in the fridge, so someone must have nipped to the shop for supplies. That must be a good sign. At least Raymond hasn’t demanded everyone move out immediately.
I drop two slices of bread into the toaster and fetch the milk and butter from the fridge. I hear a door open upstairs, followed by slow, delicate footsteps on the stairs. I smile when I see Sophie, a pink-coloured kimono wrapped tightly around her body.
‘Hey,’ I say, pulling a troubled face, ‘I didn’t think anyone was home. Is Raymond still… angry?’
She shakes her head and grimaces. ‘I’ve sorted it.’
She moves unsteadily to the kitchen table and sits down.
‘Are you… Are you okay?’
She doesn’t meet my gaze.
‘Soph, I asked if you were okay.’
She rubs her shoulders with a pained scowl. ‘I’ll be fine.’
I don’t believe her, but decide not to press until I know what the future holds for the rest of us. ‘I was going to make some tea. Do you want a cup?’
‘No, but you could fetch the bottle of vodka from the top drawer of the freezer.’
I do as instructed, locating a clean glass from the cupboard, and placing both on the table in front of her. She winces as she lifts her arm and fails to unscrew the cap. I take the bottle from her, remove the lid and pour a measure. She winces again as she raises the glass to her lips and swallows the contents in one.
I pour her another measure, and then take a swig from the bottle. ‘Okay, I can’t take this. Are you going to tell me what Woody has been doing to you?’
She smiles thinly and drains the glass again.
‘Soph, I know you’ve been… seeing Woody. Harry told me he heard loud moaning coming from your room, violent sounding, and it always seems like you’re in agony after he’s been here. Is he abusing you physically?’
She doesn’t respond, but the answer in her tear-filled eyes is deafening.
‘You can’t let him get away with this, Soph. We need to report him to—’
‘It… isn’t Woody,’ she interrupts, struggling to keep the floodgates closed.
She lowers her hand from where it’s been pinning the satin material over her neck, and I instantly see red abrasions covering her upper chest. The gasp escapes my throat before I can stop it. Deep down, I know this is the tip of the iceberg, and when she lowers her hands to the table, I move closer, and carefully lower the material so I can see the purple swelling around the back of her neck and shoulders.
‘Oh, dear God, Sophie. Who did this to you?’
She pulls up the kimono gingerly, but doesn’t answer.
‘I’m calling the police,’ I say, pulling out my phone.
‘No,’ she says, resting a hand over my mine. ‘It was calling them that caused this in the first place.’ She can’t look at me. ‘It was… Raymond. He… He was so angry that you spoke to Carly about him. He’s… He’s a proud man, and he was going to tear up our lease, unless…’
The words trail off, but her hands point at her injuries.
I move around so I’m facing her again. ‘Raymond did this to you? There’s no excuse for his behaviour. He needs reporting.’
She shakes her head, the pain almost too much for her to bear. ‘It won’t do any good, Pete. He was pent up and frustrated. He’s… He’s calmer now. He said we can stay and that’s the end of it.’
She moves a hand up to her eye to wipe a solitary tear as it escapes and runs the length of her cheek. As it moves, it blots against the foundation beneath her eye, revealing the red beneath, and leaves a trail behind it. I press a finger beneath her chin and slowly twist her head, the light from the kitchen window reflecting off the swell of her cheek. She’s clearly tried to cover the bruising, but now that I’m aware of it, it’s impossible to miss.
When she lowers her arm back to the table, I can see bloody grazes around her wrist as well, as if some kind of restraint has scratched and clawed at the skin there. I don’t want to think about what she has had to endure all because of me, but I can’t keep burying my head in the sand and pretending it isn’t going on.
‘But you’re also right, in a way, about Woody,’ she continues. ‘I have been seeing him, but it’s only casual. You can’t tell him anything about this. He’s so protective that I worry what he’ll do.’
‘You’re not going to be able to keep this from him.’
‘I’ll think of something.’
I’ve been so hung up on my own issues – Carly, my dissertation, the intruders in my room – that I had no clue that Sophie and Woody had become more than just a casual hook-up. That explains why he’s here so often. I’d assumed he was still crashing on the sofa, but come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I spotted his sleeping bag rolled up on the living room floor.
Sophie pushes the tumbler towards me, and I pour another vodka into the glass. ‘Raymond is very demanding and likes it rough,’ she says quietly, the world’s greatest understatement.
‘Are we talking bondage?’
She nods. ‘Some. It all started that night we had the housewarming party. I took him upstairs and asked him what it would take to forget that we’d broken the rules. I’d expected him to suggest a second dinner date or a bribe, but he was so angry. I ended up… giving him a hand job. I felt disgusted, but I saw it as a means to an end. He left, and nothing more was said.
‘I happened to mention it to Rhys, and… I don’t know… He must have let it slip somewhere because Raymond found out and he thought we’d been mocking him for it. I told him we hadn’t, but this time, he wanted more. I didn’t understand what at first, but when I moved my hand towards his crotch, he pushed it away, grabbed hold of my neck, and forced my head down.’
I’m overwhelmed with guilt.
‘It’s not like it was the first blow job I’d ever given, so again I chalked it up to experience and we moved on. Then Rhys had a cash-flow problem not long after, his direct debit payment bounced or reversed or something. Of course, Raymond came calling at my door, and this time, I slept with him. In fairness, he was gentle then, and as much as it appalled me, it bought Rhys the time he needed to settle the debt.
‘Over time, whenever he considered one of us to have broken a rule – like when he found a bag of weed in Fergus’s room – he would call on me and I would have to resolve the problem. It became a habit, and when I saw how much he seemed to enjoy the power he had over me, I would use it to my advantage.
‘The first time he slapped me was after we got back from Paris and you had got weird with him searching the house. He told me in no uncertain terms to get you in line, and I told him to go and fuck himself. He was livid and lashed out. I should have told you all and we should have moved out, but everything was so difficult because of the falling-out between you and Rhys, and my problems seemed to shrink under that.’
I would wrap her in a hug if I didn’t think she’d scream out in agony. ‘Soph, surely you can see that enough is enough. This can’t go on.’
She knocks back the vodka. ‘He was so pissed off after being spoken to by Carly, the embarrassment, he said. He was fuming, and I told him it was a mistake and that I’d ask you to leave if that’s what it took, but he didn’t listen. Before I knew it, he’d grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the wall. He kept punching me until I fell to the floor, and then he kicked me until I passed out. When I woke, he was gone, but… I think he had sex with me even though I wasn’t conscious.’
I think I’m going to be sick. It takes all my willpower not to lose my shit when she’s doing so well to hold hers together.
‘He’s physically abusive towards you and has sexually assaulted you. Soph, please, let me go to the police station with you. He can’t be allowed to get away with this.’
Another tear escapes, and she quickly claws it away with her fingertips. ‘You don’t understand. I can’t go to the police. They won’t believe me.’
‘Have you seen yourself? You are covered in bruises and cuts. They will believe you.’
‘Raymond is too careful for all that. Yes, they’ll see that I’ve been raped and beaten, but they won’t be able to prove it was him that did it.’
‘They’ll search and find his DNA on you.’
‘He’ll argue it was consensual and that someone else beat me up. And they’ll believe him.’
I shake my head. ‘No, Soph. You’re the victim here. They’ll understand.’
‘It’s you who doesn’t understand, Pete. I was raped during Freshers’ Week two years ago.’
I hang my head because I don’t know what to say. I can’t begin to imagine what she’s been through. That’s the trouble with privilege: you can’t see the inequality others suffer.
She knocks back another shot, and it seems to loosen her tongue. ‘I was out with some girls from my halls, and we were all pretty drunk by the end of the night. We got separated and I woke in a bush in the middle of town with no memory of how I got there or what had happened. I stumbled home, and went to bed, and when I showered in the morning, I realised that somebody had raped me. I figured my drink must have been spiked, and I went straight to the police to report it. I couldn’t remember who or what had happened at first, but then I had flashbacks to this guy – Martin – a friend of a friend who’d been dancing with us. I had this memory of the two of us kissing on the dancefloor, so I told the police that he must have been the one who raped me.
‘They interviewed him, and we both made statements, and he couldn’t account for his whereabouts, but was adamant that he wouldn’t have assaulted me, and definitely didn’t spike my drink.
‘It was going to trial, but then a video emerged of him and another girl having sex in his room the same night, so the police dropped the charges. They threatened to prosecute me for time wasting, and it was sheer good fortune that they decided not to proceed. I didn’t lie, though. Someone spiked my drink and raped me, I just don’t know who. But now I have that hanging over my head, so it’s my tainted word against Raymond’s.’
My heart is pounding for her, and I’m desperate to tell her she’s wrong, but the justice system in this country doesn’t favour victims of assault. The prosecution rate is alarmingly low.
‘What if I tell them I’ve witnessed his violence towards you?’
‘Then you’d be lying, and given your choice of future profession, it wouldn’t reflect well when you’re proved a liar.’
‘But there must be something we can do?’
She sighs quietly. ‘There might be. If we could get evidence of what he’s doing, then maybe – just maybe – there’s a chance. You said you’d set up surveillance cameras in your bedroom, right?’
