Realm of Darkness Page 3

  I handed her a dripping glass. “It’s a deal,” I said, although the thought of her not being around in person to help celebrate the culmination of Grandpa’s ambition for me was unbearable. She wasn’t the sort to be maudlin, so I couldn’t be. The door opened again.

  “Ah, Emma, there you are.” My father’s gruff voice filled the small space and I bristled. Where else would I be? “Ready for that little chat?”

  Reluctantly, I followed him upstairs to his study. The rain had stopped temporarily, and from between engorged clouds the sun slanted through the sash windows. I sat on one of the deep window seats feeling small again and not on the verge of womanhood as Guy made me feel. Even in summer, Dad wore his tweed jacket and tie. He looked all stuffed up, permanently fuming like a volcanic vent. I imagined steam rising from the fissures of his eyes and mouth. It helped a little.

  “Emma, it won’t do.” Here we go. “We tolerated you taking a degree in history” – Hah! I hadn’t given him much choice in the matter – “but there can be no question of you continuing with this foolhardy plan. You’re only nineteen; you have plenty of time to change your mind.”

  I slid off the window seat, fingernails digging into my palms as I focused my rising temper. “Well, that’s OK then, Dad, because I’m not going to change my mind and there’s no point trying to bully me out of it. I don’t need your permission, I don’t need your say-so. You can cut me out of your will or never speak to me again – whatever – but that is just about the limit of what you can do to me.”

  “Perfectly absurd, girl!” he boomed across my rant, using his height to try to dominate me.

  That did it. I’d had enough. “Yes, you are, you’re ridiculous – you’re being ridiculous. You have no right to tell me what to do. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions…”

  “Then behave like one and not like a spoilt child. Your grandfather indulged you with this history farce. I should never have let it continue for as long as it did. He ruined you.”

  I gasped, choked, staring in horror at the antipathy behind his words. Turning, I fled the room.

  Guy answered his mobile after a couple of rings. “Hold on,” he said, and I could hear sounds of movement, of doors opening and shutting. “What’s the matter?” His voice sounded louder. I managed a few garbled words before I finally broke down and begged him to come and get me. He didn’t answer for a moment.

  “Please, Guy, I need you.”

  “All right, but it’ll take me an hour to Stamford; think you can hang on until then?”

  I stifled a sob. “I’ll be outside.”

  It started to rain again, heavier than before. My thin top clung to my back and drops escaped down loose strands of hair. Mum hurried across the cobbles to where I huddled beside the wall of St Mary’s Church, conspicuously alone.

  “Darling, come in and wait, you’re soaked. You haven’t had your presents yet and Beth is on her way over with Rob – I think they have something they want to tell us. Your father is so sorry he upset you, he didn’t mean to.”

  I wanted to believe her. I wanted to go back inside and find that it had all been a big mistake and sit down with my family and have tea and presents and convivial chitchat about nothing much at all. I wanted to have a father who would engulf me with warmth and love and accept me for who I was and not what he wanted me to be. But I didn’t, and he couldn’t, so I stood there in the pouring rain instead.

  “I can’t, Mum, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to have ruined everything. Tell Beth, tell Nanna…” And I began to cry again because it was all so wretchedly hopeless.

  “I know, I know, my darling, we understand, but come in out of the rain. You can wait inside, can’t you?”

  I might have done, but at that moment I happened to glance up and see my father’s face scouring at the first floor window like a malignant troll. I shook my head and she sighed at my stubborn resignation. We were both saved from her persistence and my denial by the sound of a car bumping across the uneven surface towards us.

  “I have to go, Mum. Thanks for trying, for everything.”

  Inside the car it felt warm and quiet except for the rain on the windscreen and the steady swipe of the blades across the glass.

  “You’re drenched – here…” Guy reached behind the seat, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, and pulled out a travel rug. A shiny sweet wrapper fell from its folds, lodging between the seat and the handbrake, and he grunted and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “What was all that about?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “You didn’t tell me you were going home for the weekend.”

  I pulled the rug around my shoulders and stared miserably out of the window. “It’s my birthday.”

  “You didn’t say. Happy birthday.”

  “Yeah…” Slow tears began to seep down my wet cheeks, mingling fresh and salt when they reached the corners of my mouth. He frowned and concentrated on the road. Guy didn’t do tears. He gave short shrift to any student who tried them as a tactic when he returned a failed assignment. But mine were genuine and I asked for nothing more than to be taken back to college.

  The A1 was unusually quiet for an early summer evening. Rush-hour had come and gone and only the occasional lorry spewed spray from its tyres as we passed.

  “What did your father say to upset you?”

  I rubbed the back of my hand across my face, tasting my tears as I tried to stem them. “He thinks history is a waste of time.”

  Guy laughed shortly. “That’s apt given what we deal in. What does he want you to do instead?”

  I pouted. “A profession – law, accountancy, medicine – you know, something respectable, something that earns real money.”

  A lorry flashed its lights at us as we overtook it. Guy skewed his mouth in displeasure. “He doesn’t know you very well,” he remarked.

  I glowered at the flat, sodden landscape. “No, he doesn’t.”

  We travelled on in silence. Despite the heat in the car, I felt cold. “Emma, have you eaten?”

  I shrugged. The wipers thrashed across the windscreen but made little difference to the onslaught of rain. “I can’t see the bloody road. Look, we’re going to have to pull over, I can’t drive in this.”

  He slowed right down, but through the sheer volume of water only the smudged outlines of buildings and trees distinguished their surroundings. He drew into the first promising car park and assessed the illuminated sign through the rain-smeared window. “This will have to do. Wait here.”

  He ducked through the rain and disappeared from view. He came back minutes later, opening the door, holding out his hand. “I’ve got us a room; come on.”

  I baulked. “A room?”

  “Yes, a room, there’s nothing else. Come on, I’m getting soaked.”

  “But a room, Guy?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Emma, you don’t want to sit in the foyer looking like that, do you?” I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked a sight – my hair plastered to my face, my eyes puffy and still bleary with unspent tears. My pale shirt was too thin and the rain made it almost transparent, showing my bra. I wrapped my arms across my chest and climbed out of the car.

  It looked a modern box, all featureless corporate colours and side lighting to take off some of the starkness, but the room was warm and dry and offered privacy while the rain beat down outside. I perched on a chair as Guy went to fill the kettle from the basin in the tiny bathroom. I felt more conscious of being alone with him now than I ever did at uni. He came back in and switched on the kettle. He stood surveying me with his hands on his hips. I shivered.

  “You’re a mess.” He swung around and opened the door of the wardrobe, the thin hangers rattling emptily. “There’s nothing here to change into, but there are towels in the bathroom. I’ll go and see what I can find to eat. I won’t be long.” The door shut behind him. I went into the bathroom and fingered the white towels. My shirt would
dry quickly enough if I hung it on the heated towel rail; the skirt might take longer. I locked the door and stripped down to basics, draping my top and skirt to dry. My skin roughened with goose-pimples and it was all I could do to stop shaking.

  My clothes were still damp, but dry enough, and I felt better for my shower when I emerged a little time later. Guy lay stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head, watching the evening news on the feeble television, his burgundy shirt – taut across his chest and shoulders – already dry. His mobile lay beside him on the bedside locker, the face still glowing – he must have made a call – and next to it an ice-bucket and a long-necked bottle. My heart skipped a beat, but it wasn’t the pleasant sensation of anticipation, rather that of uncertainty.

  He patted the bed next to him. “Come and sit down. There’s been another car-bomb in the Middle East, killed dozens, poor sods; what a benighted region.”

  I sat on the furthest corner of the bed from him and watched the unsteady camera work of the media team under fire against a background of pockmarked concrete and bloodied faces and torn limbs.

  “Unbelievable.” He waved a hand in the direction of the television, inviting comment. I said nothing. “Emma, are you all right?” I nodded, still mute. He sat up and leaned towards me, putting a hand on my arm. I didn’t move. “What’s the matter? Are you still upset about your father?” I couldn’t tell him it was the room and his shirt and the champagne, so I just nodded again. “Look, they didn’t have much in the way of food – just some crisps – but have a drink, it’ll make you feel better.”

  “I don’t want anything to drink, Guy, it gives me a headache.”

  “Champagne doesn’t, does it? Have half a glass to celebrate your birthday then perhaps the rain will have eased off enough and we can get going again.”

  I looked up at him but his eyes were veiled as they so often were. He smiled. “You look quite beautiful.”

  I turned my head away. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  “No, well you do now you’ve dried off a bit. Your hair’s longer than I remember and so red – Rembrandt red…” He put his hand out to touch it and I tried not to flinch. “It’s still damp. Here, let me dry it for you.”

  “Don’t, Guy.” I stood and went to the window. If anything, the rain fell more heavily now, solid sheets of water driven by the wind. I heard the pop of a cork behind me.

  “I’ve never seen you cry before. You haven’t said what really upset you earlier. It wasn’t just about the history, was it?” He came up behind and handed me a foaming, long-stemmed glass, almost full as the bubbles settled. I took a tentative sip to dislodge the tight lump in my throat before I answered.

  “No.”

  “What then?” He stood so close I could hear his breath short and shallow as it stirred my drying hair. I drank again – a bigger sip this time – then another. It began to take immediate effect. “Well?”

  “My grandfather… he said something about my grandfather.” I swallowed to regain control and drank again.

  “What about him, Emma? What upset you?” His voice sounded consoling now, softer than I had ever heard it before. Weakened by unfamiliar kindness, a tear escaped before I could catch it.

  “He blames my grandfather for everything – everything – but he loved me, Guy. If it weren’t for him I would never have wanted to be a historian. I would be… nothing…” I drained my glass shakily and he took it from me and refilled it.

  “No one can stop you from being what you want to be, Emma,” he spoke into my hair, putting his arm around me so that I turned into the cradle of it for comfort, my head already spinning. “No one can tell you what to do any more. You were born to study history – it runs through your blood.” His words blurred a little and I swayed. He held me steady. I downed a quarter of my glass, feeling reckless.

  “But my father doesn’t understand. He won’t stop… he just goes on and on and on… every time I see him…” My legs felt heavy and I rocked, nearly dropping my glass. He took it from me.

  “Come and rest,” he suggested. I sat down unsteadily as the bed waved beneath me.

  “Every time, Guy…” He pulled me closer to him, his other hand holding my face still. “On and on…” He kissed my lips; they felt numb under his mouth. I pushed against his chest but he didn’t move away. The room swam and all the sensations and emotions merged until I shook my head in confusion. “No, Guy, I don’t want to… I hate him.”

  His mouth became insistent and his hand left my face and enclosed my breast through my flimsy shirt. I pushed at him halfheartedly, torn between giving in and hanging on. “No – I don’t want to…”

  “Yes, you do.”

  My mouth responded to his urgency and I kissed him back. He took his arm from around me and pressed me onto the bed with his body. I couldn’t move; I didn’t want to move. I wanted all the vacillation taken away and replaced by the conviction of his desire. But not like this, not drunk. I forced my eyes open but the ceiling spun and I closed them rapidly. His hand dragged my skirt up.

  “Guy – no – get off me…”

  “I’ve waited so long, Emma, you’re so beautiful…”

  His skin felt hot like flames; his mouth distorted my words. Too far gone to be afraid, yet not ready either. Pinned by his body, my head a mass of disjointed thoughts, I stopped struggling and gave up, the brash blue cover of the bed rumpling like folds of skin that moved with every motion he made.

  He wasn’t violent or particularly rough and it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, or perhaps the alcohol made an effective anaesthetic, but it was an act empty and devoid of meaning. It lessened me.

  I curled into a ball afterwards and I must have slept. When I woke, Guy stood over me calling my name. He had showered and dressed.

  “We can make a move – the rain’s eased.”

  That’s all he said: “We can make a move – the rain’s eased.” That’s all it meant to him, a brief interlude in the storm.

  I raised my head, my stomach queasy. I waited until the room steadied before shifting to a sitting position.

  “If we hurry, we can get something to eat when we get back – I’m bloody hungry.” At some point he had drawn the bedcover over me and it snagged as I moved my legs. I yanked it to free them. He flicked the switch on the kettle. “Water’s hot if you want a shower.”

  Wordlessly, I moved to the edge of the bed and swung my legs over the side. He had righted the two cups and engaged in ripping open sachets of sugar, his back to me. The crumpled cover felt rough under my thighs. As I stood, a small dark patch glared accusingly from its surface where I had lain. I snatched the cover, dragging it off the bed and rolling it in a ball before he saw the evidence. A little blood – nothing in itself – it would wash out, but it was my blood and he had shed it without a second thought, as cavalier an action as his assumption that it was his to take.

  Once showered, I hid the cover in the bath behind the drawn curtain and shut the door behind me.

  “Ready? Better have this first.” He handed me a cup with a tan-looking liquid in it. I drank it automatically, making no comment despite the lacing of sugar meant to disguise the tart contents.

  He was uncharacteristically animated in the car on the way back. After a while he paused his monologue on a Jesuit text he had recently transcribed. “Are you all right? You’re very quiet.” Pewter clouds hung angrily on the horizon, threatening more rain.

  “Yes.”

  “Bit hung over? You shouldn’t have drunk so much.”

  “No.”

  We approached the suburbs of Cambridge, and the roads were empty except for the lights reflecting in the standing pools of water at the edges. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel waiting for a light to change. He hadn’t looked at me since getting in the car. “Food,” he stated, nodding in the direction of a takeaway.

  When he climbed back in the car, he handed me a burger. “Have that; it’s not gourmet but you’l
l feel better for it.”

  Better? Physically or emotionally did he mean? I stared at the unappetizing dome of bread with the charred meat protruding from it and wondered what on earth he thought it could do to make up for the void I felt inside.

  He took me back to my room and left me there, eager to be away. I went straight to bed but did not sleep. I had expected it to happen at some time, but not like that. My choices were limited: if I accepted what happened as an act of coercion on his part, it would make me a victim – a role I didn’t dare adopt in case it grew to be a bigger monster in my mind than the episode warranted. To ignore him and pretend it didn’t happen was not an option. That left me with making the best of the situation, something at which I had become particularly adept over the years. To give meaning to the event and to imbue our relationship with some dignity, I dressed it to make it acceptable to myself: I chose to be in love with him.

  For a time I made it work. Our affair placed him beyond the bounds of professionalism, illicitly tantalizing, so I believed him when he said he couldn’t take me anywhere we might be seen, or home where his mother might gossip to her friends in the choral society. We met infrequently and in secret – less over the long summer holiday when he lectured abroad, more when I went with him to an international conference. We made love when we could because that is what lovers do, but as the weeks passed I grew to feel the emptiness of a relationship that was unfounded and without purpose. Above all, my hopes that I could find validity in marriage were to be proved baseless and void.

  I poured so much of myself into my research and into our relationship that my other tutors complained as the standard of my work began to suffer. I thought we had been discreet, but not long before my finals, my personal tutor called me to her study.