Tainted Touch Read online

  The pounding in my head, however, does not agree.

  Chocolate. I should eat the chocolate; sugar will wake me up. Only one whiff of the sweet, creamy stuff sets my teeth on edge and reminds me of what my stomach went through in the early hours when I learned what Mills had done. Huh. Maybe no food, then.

  I’d brought an overnight bag to Art’s, complete with fresh clothes–something I should have remembered during my embarrassing three A.M. scrabble for knickers. He’s left it on the rug beside the bed, and I scoop it up along with the towel, heading for the shower. Three minutes later, I give up trying to work his (stupid) old brass showerhead and decide to fill the bath.

  Art’s bathroom is as full of character as the rest of the house. Low black beams line the white ceiling, and the bath sits off the wooden floor on cast iron feet. Thick black towels, like the one he left for me, are stacked on a wooden linen basket, and a matching black rug stretches across the side of the bath. I didn’t bring shower gel, so end up borrowing some of his lavender hand soap to make bubbles. With my phone on the rickety chair in the corner–a short reach away, just in case–I sink into hot, soapy water and watch the foam lap the bath’s rolled top. Like waves.

  ***

  Art packed up the remains of last night’s Indian food into plastic containers, and they sit stacked at the back of his fridge amid salad bowls, packs of chicken, kids’ fromage frais (presumably for Bea) and various bottled beers. I help myself to a small bowl full, heat it in the microwave, and then take it through to the sitting room to eat. As soon as I’m done, I tell myself, I’ll walk back home and get started on the book again.

  I switch the TV on, flick through, switch off again. Restless need gropes at me with impatient fingers–I should be doing something. If Vicky were here, she’d demand I go through Art’s stuff, try to get some answers. Go through what, though, exactly? Less than twenty four hours ago, he had me bent over the coffee table I’m now staring at, and he made me feel things too sacred to spoil. I have too much respect for his space to violate it, and I know he believes in telling me things in his own time…I just wish ‘the time’ was a bit sooner. Are you listening, Time? Hurry the fuck up. I’m getting desperate.

  Although I finish the food and drink my bottle of water, energy won’t come. The hospital, it seems, sucked half my brain out through a straw, and I can’t find the buzz to scrape myself off Art’s sofa. Maybe I’ll see if I can download the book on to my phone.

  Of course, when you pick up your phone, you have to check your email. And Facebook. Email’s just a dullsville stretch of spam, but Facebook is full of messages on Mills’ profile, so I read through them all. Everyone’s getting in on the drama, everyone telling her they’re there if she wants to talk. I want to scrawl YOU’RE MISSING THE POINT beneath each simpering comment from God-knows-who, but I restrain myself. It’s not worth the hassle.

  Art’s profile is a distraction. Perhaps I’ll find answers in his photos if I give them a closer look. He’s willingly shared these online, so it isn’t like going through his private belongings, I tell myself. I scrape my damp hair back in a bun, refill my water glass, and settle down beneath his lamp to go through each album again.

  The first thing I notice about his India albums is that Priya isn’t anywhere to be seen, like I’d expected. There are loads of food shots–a boy after my own heart, even if he’d never met it–and lots of tanned, tightly-toned Art posing with other backpacked travellers or locals in bright clothes. Stunning, untouched beaches, bustling market places with a hundred shades of orange and brown spice. But no Priya. Either she was behind the camera the entire time, or she didn’t go after all. Then again, she only appears in the university photos; they must’ve broken up when he left.

  Was that why he dropped out of his course? Did a broken heart knock the wind out of his sails and push him further toward a lighthouse, until…?

  The idea he might’ve been so upset by another girl forms a thick knot in my throat. Envy is a leech, a parasite crawling on its belly. I’m yours, he told me just last night. I believed him. This shouldn’t change that, but something in the back of mind whispers that it does. Rich told me not to look at the photos of them together. That no good would come from it. The way he looks at Priya, as if there’s nothing else in the world–I know Rich was right. I even find myself squinting at Priya’s collarbone, looking for lovebites like the one he gave me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell in the shadows, but I don’t think I see anything conclusive. God…listen to me.

  Most of his boxing photos are from his university years, with maybe one or two contests beforehand. Priya only appears in the uni ones, thus confirming my theory. Despite what I tell myself about him sharing these on a public space, I’m starting to feel weird about…snooping. He leaves me alone for a few hours and I’ve turned into No Shit Sherlock. I don’t like what that says about me.

  But I’m only doing this to stop myself worrying about Mills. That makes it okay. Right?

  You know what? Sod this. I’m just going to look at her profile and be done with it. No more torturing myself about things that probably aren’t true, no more projecting crap on to Art. I’m just a couple of clicks away from feeling a hundred percent better about all this, so off I go. Deep breath. Clickety cli–

  Holy fuck.

  It’s a memorial page.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In the beginning, when Dominic started to reject me physically and I began to close down from touch, my skin took on a new layer. And I thought it was armour, there to protect me every time he said no, to prevent each tiny chip at my self-esteem. Sometimes it felt heavy enough to be exactly that–it weighed me down and made it easier to swing away from an incoming hug or comforting pat on the knee.

  But that is not what the layer became.

  Month after month passed, and it came alive. An organic, slimy thing. It wasn’t armour at all. It was shame. It slicked my eyeballs like cataracts; it burned the world into sepia and tainted every innocent touch. Why would anyone want to touch me when the person who loved me most couldn’t bear to? Didn’t want to. Just plain didn’t care.

  Art melted that layer. It came apart beneath his hands like a tide washing backwards; he took my waves and used them to scrub me clean. But Houston, we have a problem: the armour is alive and well, all of a sudden, swarming cells forming brittle layers of shell. Fist Candy can never really be mine because he belongs, in his heart, to a ghost.

  See, there isn’t a lot to read on Priya’s memorial page. Just family members and friends leaving little notes, sharing photos. She died four and a half years ago, but that’s all it says. The real information is on Art’s profile when I scroll all the way back to the same dates–further back than Rich went, and just enough to answer any questions I ever had.

  On June 6th, Art’s page is spattered with heartfelt condolences. Gushing, emotional girls write essays; sombre boys don’t know what to say but are just there for him, if he needs them, and so very sorry.

  Priya Jhadev killed herself, and she was very much his girlfriend at the time.

  I need a box to put this in. A box deep inside. I’ll nail it shut, forget about it, put it away. It’s not just that she was his girlfriend–he’s allowed to have a past. I’m not that obtuse. There’s so much more to the story than that though, like the tattoo across his left hip, the one closest to his heart. Four years since she died, four indelible slashes inked right into his flesh, and four very corporeal reasons why Art will never love me the way he loved her. He’s not a walking Cupboard of Shame–he’s a fucking shrine.

  Last night, I lay next to him upstairs and stroked that tattoo. I touched it–something that was so difficult for me–and he brushed off my questions. Is it a winner’s tally? I asked. God, I’m stupid.

  I put my hand up to touch the lovebite he left, and shudder. I’m marked with something I can never have, just like Grace, soaked in her own terrors. It’s like the floorboards are sucking at me, gnashing teeth ready
to swallow.

  They didn’t judge me, he said, but only because I lied. What the hell?

  Something crunches down the hall. Art’s key, in the door. Oh, crap. I’m a mess–buzzed, shaking, nauseous. I don’t want him to see me like this. I flick Facebook off my phone screen–now smeared with sweat, which is highly attractive–and tuck it safely into my bag, which is packed and ready to go. I’d been meaning to leave before now.

  Art stomps down the hall, calling to me. “Hey. You awake, babe?”

  “Yeah,” I manage.

  He appears in the doorway, his green work shirt untucked over tailored black trousers, tired eyes burning slow as ever. The lithe tendons in his forearms flex as he pulls his fists from his pockets, and this delighted little smile warms his mouth–like he expects me to come to him. Hug him. Honey, I’m home.

  “I know about Priya,” I say instead, because it’s all I have left in me.

  His smile tumbles and cracks.

  The distance between us is six feet at best, but it may as well be a gulf because I just threw the pair of us off the precipice. He stands, I sit, and we both fall.

  “I know you aren’t ready to talk about her.” My voice falters, but it’s not like it matters anymore. “I just wanted to tell you.”

  Air hisses through his teeth. “I…how?”

  “Facebook,” I mutter, lowering my eyes in embarrassment.

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment. The floorboards creak as he comes closer, though he sits a measured distance away. Just that tiny act is like being lanced with a needle. Here comes the slow fizz of rejection, Caitlyn. Lap it up like you did last time. Feed the addiction. It’s all that you are.

  “You went to India because of her.” I brace myself for the answer. It will land like a fist.

  “Yes,” he says quietly.

  “And your tattoo. Will you be getting another slash in June, huh?”

  He makes a bitter, desperate little sound. “I don’t know, Cait.”

  Red. Red, red, RED.

  Tears simmer against my eyeballs. One cuts free, a hot trail down my cheek. “Last night. You said…you said you were mine.”

  “I am.” He jerks up, fixing on me. “I am. I meant every word I’ve said to you. Did it mess me up? Yeah. Christ, of course it did.” He rolls his shoulders in a stiff, jagged wave. “But it was four years ago–”

  “Yes, I see that. It’s right there beneath my fingers every time you take your clothes off,” I snap.

  At that, he recoils into the sofa, his mouth dropping in misery. I’ve never seen him look so hurt before.

  Epic bitch status: granted.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what I mean….” I hurry the words out and they run into each other, sound slurred and wrong. I want to tell him that it’s alright. Everyone’s allowed to have secrets. But this one…I can’t shake the feeling that he kept it from me for a reason. He kept her away from me because letting it all out would be letting her go.

  Art stares between me and my packed bag with a tremble at his jaw. Every blink hollows him out a little further. “What can I say to make you stay with me tonight?”

  I scrape the tears away on the back of my hand. “I don’t know. I don’t know, and that’s a problem, isn’t it?”

  He says nothing. Just turns away and nods.

  I can’t stay here any longer. My shoes are beside the coffee table, and I busy myself with putting them on.

  “Will you let me drive you home?” he says eventually.

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “Cait, it’s getting dark. Please. With that Dominic prick around, I wouldn’t…you don’t have to talk to me. I just want to know you’re home safe.”

  “I’ll text you when I get there, then,” I shoot over my shoulder.

  Then I grab my bag and coat, and stumble out toward the front door. He leaps up to follow me.

  “If you need to get to the hospital, just call me.” There’s this flat, defeated tone to his voice that makes me want to weep. I can’t tell if he’s the little boy caught out with his fibs, or just broken with disappointment.

  Art, broken. Over me. I’m not sure I believe it.

  I walk out into a chill of wind and drizzle, his eyes burning holes in the back of my head.

  ***

  Mercifully, Mom calls on my way home. I feel awful for thinking of it as a distraction, but frankly, anything that takes my mind off Art and Priya right now is a plus.

  “How’s Mills?” I ask, without even bothering to say hi.

  “She had a good sleep, though she’s still very tired. Her blood results were promising. No psychologist yet, and they still don’t have a bed in the mental health ward.” Mom sounds utterly exhausted. “I’m going to push for sectioning in case she tries to check herself out.”

  “She can do that?”

  “She’s eighteen, Caitlyn. They can’t force her to stay there unless they detain her officially.”

  I barely dodge a lamppost. “Shit.”

  “I’ll let that one go,” Mom says wryly, “but only because I’ve been saying worse all day.”

  “What about you? Did you manage to get some rest?”

  She begins The Huff, though for once, I don’t begrudge it. “I’m not leaving this hospital until I know she can’t, either.”

  “Mom. You need to sleep.” I pull the phone back for a second to check the time. “Let me take over tonight, okay? I can be there in an hour or two. I’ll get on a train–”

  “Even if you came, I wouldn’t be leaving you. You should know that, you muppet.” There’s an edge of affection to her words that I blossom to hear; it rears its head so rarely. To listen to it baulk under the weight of such melancholy is cruel. “For the time being, she’s safe. So I want you to get on with whatever it is you do. If I need you, I’ll call.”

  I step through the glass doors of my building, wiping my shoes on the grey mat. “Okay. I suppose. But I mean it–I’ll come if you need me to.”

  “Visit her this week. I know she’ll want to see you.”

  But not before I finish The Waves. “Has she got her phone back?”

  “No, and she won’t for the foreseeable. They don’t advise it. Creates anxiety, all that social media gubbins.”

  “I-I love you, Mom,” I say quietly.

  “Oh, poppet. I love you too.”

  Awkward pause. Great. Just what I need. “Take care, then.”

  “Night.”

  The flat is, as I expected, empty. Vicky has her biggest performance of the run; I immediately resolve to be “asleep” when she comes in because the last thing I want to do is bring her down with my bad news about Mills. And Art…Art.

  I should probably text him. God.

  Am home, I tell him.

  Five seconds later, he replies only with xxx.

  Are they friendly kisses? Apologies? Weird I-don’t-know-what-else-to-say gestures? I don’t even know if we’re still together. Still a thing. Even if I wanted us to be–and I do, I do–the spectre of Priya hangs over everything. For a ghost, she has a surprisingly thick shadow, almost three-dimensional in its twisting reach.

  I know it was four years ago. That he’s had time to regroup. But I can’t bear to run my hands down his body while we’re making love and touch the ink-black reminder of her absence. It was enough to work just to progress to touching his skin.

  Enough of this. My priorities here are visibly skewed. Time to knuckle down and read the damn book. I make a cup of coffee–because I’m going to freaking need it–light my sweet pea candle, and collapse on my unmade bed.

  Grace isn’t an easy character to spend time with. Logic is not hers to tease. She keeps herself in a pestle and mortar of her own foul imagining, is forever grinding herself down. Now I see that I was right with my inverted Beauty and the Beast theory; if a beast is trapped inside you, you can’t vanquish it. Can’t fall in love with it. Can’t see it or touch it or do anything besides pray it stops sucking
the life out of you, one piece of self-esteem at a time.

  The moon pulled her out to the wolves one night, she says. But the lighthouse sang its siren song and lured her to the crook of its belly.

  It’s like she can’t escape the confines of her own mind; her only solace lies behind cold, isolating walls of concrete, and predators lurk on the other side. When she does get out, she just circles the beach, counting sand grains and shooting gulls. Something always gets between her and the vast, promising expanse of the sea.

  In a fit of nerves, I flick through the remaining pages, the last landing limp against the back cover. I have to know if Grace escapes the lighthouse–surely, this long slog through her brain hasn’t been for nothing.

  Stars reached in through the spherical windows to claw at her insides. She fell back against the wall, all-seeing, all-knowing. If the tide would not come to her, she would lock the Judas out.

  A hammer, wood, and nails. She worked at the door until blood seeped across her makeshift barricade in patterns of blot and clot. And then, with the betrayal of water locked safely outside, she sat down to wait.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  In the old antique mirror, she began to see herself fade. Skin turned to paper and eyes dried to eggs. The sun shot through to paint the walls in the morning, and on a distant shore, grains of sand called. Gritted fists, risen in wind, thumped heavy to shake the wooden door. But there for the Grace of god had she been–too long–and no star could claw her back.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  But the waves never came.

  How the hell is this going to help Mills?

  My phone goes off again. The pulse thumping at my wrists waits for a message from Art to pop up, but it’s Drew again.