Page 30 of Indie

“Because I like you.”

Her teeth moved over her bottom lip, raking at the flesh nervously. Squeezing my eyes shut, I inhaled, stealing a few seconds to slow things down. Slow the millions of thoughts racing through my brain, ricocheting off the shell that was my skull and bouncing back again, only to collide with each other and rebound.

“That isn’t always a reason to continue, Emmie. You’re so young. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

She sighed, her eyes dropping back to her feet. But when she looked up at me again, the stormy darkness had cleared and those Mediterranean jewels shone. But it wasn’t because of the twinkle of happiness, but the gloss of tears, the exact opposite.

“Spuggy? What’s wrong? What did I say?”

“Those words,” she whispered. “People say that to me all the time. But they just don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

I moved my hands around her waist, picking her up, almost throwing her up in the air. She was so light. I propped her on the bench, my eyes meeting hers. Eye to eye, no excuse not tolook at me. She bit that lip again, trying to still the little waver of emotion.

“Make me understand, Emmie,” I prodded.

“I met him when I was fifteen. He was older, only a couple of years.”

“How many?”

“He was nineteen. And he was the first boy to notice me. To like the colour of my hair and the freckles on my face. He didn’t seem to care I didn’t have the boobs that the other girls in my year did, or the hips, or that I was six stone wet through. I thought he just liked me.

“He seemed so gentle. So attentive. He was there to pick me up from school, took me out. Even bought my alcohol for me.”

“Course he did, Spuggy. You were underage.”

“But I loved the attention. I always thought I was ugly. And he was the first boy to tell me I wasn’t,” she paused, unable to look away and those Mediterranean greens stared straight into me. “The only man who ever has, even if that all changed later on. We waited, you know, to do it.”

“He waited till you were sixteen, huh?”

Emmie nodded.

“And things were great for a while. Even though my mam hated him. Guess she saw what I couldn’t. She tried to make me break up with him. Kept telling me I ‘had my whole life ahead of me’. And when eventually I didn’t stop seeing him, she kicked me out. She told me I couldn’t live under her roof if I didn’t follow her rules, and one of those was to stop seeing Gaz.”

I edged forward, her knees now just brushing my thighs, trying to ignore the increasing closeness. Emmie paused, watching me closely.

“Go on,” I urged.

“So, we got a flat. It was tiny. A one-bedroom thing. But it was ours. Or at least for a while. I don’t know when it happened. I can’t point to when it all changed. It must have been happening gradually, but suddenly I was at home doing all the housework, cooking all the meals, my entire wage going on the rent and the food. I’d got sick one day. Sick of him going straight out with his mates after work, coming home drunk and doing it all over again the next day. So, I confronted him.”

She paused, taking a breath, and so did I, preparing myself because I had a pretty good idea where this was all headed. And I wasn’t going to like it.

“It was a stupid thing to do. I’d waited a couple of days. Trying to find a time when he’d come straight home without going to the pub first, but there hadn’t been one. So, this one night, I just came out with it. He said nothing. Not a thing, just stood and stared at me for what felt like minutes. And then, suddenly, he struck me. It was a slap. Nothing much. But it stung, the shock probably hurting more.”

I could feel the pain in those words in my stomach. A deep, rumbling anger. A resonating despair.

“That was it for a while. He brought me flowers the next day. Came straight home from work. Think he might even have washed the dishes. And I remember the slap had been worth it. Because he’d changed. Had done something about it. But then, just a few weeks after, he was late home again. I said nothing this time. Not a thing. But he was ready to pick a fight. AndI tried to avoid it. I really did. He didn’t hit me this time. It was just a push. But I tripped over a shoe on the floor and fell pretty heavily. He was so sorry. And the next day he brought me flowers.

“There were a few more bunches of flowers after that,” she mumbled, and I knew what she was telling me. “Then eventually they stopped. And then suddenly I was pregnant. I was nineteen. I had my whole life ahead of me. And now I was carrying his child. Things got better for a while. He seemed to have changed. He was excited. Excited to be a daddy. We got this house from the council and suddenly we were grown-ups.

“His excitement didn’t last long. I was seven months pregnant when he gave me a black eye. I can’t even remember what it was for. I hid it from the midwife. Cancelled an appointment, waiting for it to fade. But it was still there the next week, green and yellow, like mould, and I didn’t have enough make-up to cover it. There wasn’t money left in the budget for me to buy make-up.”

I was listening. But it was so fucking hard. Each word she spoke made me angrier and angrier, and the knife blade of emotion wedged in my gut turned a little more.

“When Luke was born, Gary improved. Just for a few months. Suddenly, he was the doting dad, desperate to show his son off. Show him off to his mates - gang mates, that is. By now he was running with a gang, dealing drugs and handling stolen goods. I wanted him to stop. But there was no way I was going to ask him to. Yet that didn’t stop him from hitting me. And soon he didn’t even wait for an excuse.”

I couldn’t bear anymore. I didn’t want to hear any more of this. I nudged at her legs, and she took the hint, opening them wider, allowing me to step inside them. I slid my hand aroundher jaw, gently, slowly, and this time she didn’t flinch, only giving me a weak, sad smile.