Calliope: Voice of the Writers

 

 

The Great Novel Race 2008:

Daddy's Moon

by Louise McCudden

------------------------------

Chapter 1

(return to Daddy's Moon chapter listings)

   

*WARNING: Very adult content - strong language and sexual content. Not advised for anyone under 18.*

 When Jules Finnegan raped me, this is what happened: I let him do it, so it wasn't really rape at all. I start from this point every time I think of it, and I don't get much further. But in a way, this is all that matters: it was my fault. I let him do it. I'm a fucking pushover. That's me. Lisa O'Bourne. I let him push me down on my knees in the dirt - branches scraping my skin, leaves brushing against my dry body - and I didn't argue. I hardly even put up a fight. For fuck's sake, I even cried! I told you I was pathetic. No wonder I never told anyone.

How unfair that I never saw my mother's face and I don't remember my first birthday, but I can't shake this one vivid memory. I think about my disgusting bleeding broken cunt, staining my knickers, my shorts, my skin. My own dirty cunt-blood running down my legs. I'm dreaming but my eyes are wide open so I must be awake...

"Oh, that's awesome, that means it's safe!" he tells me, pleased.

"Yeah, for you, maybe," I snap.

I don't feel like being helpful right now.

He doesn't say shit. He doesn't have shit to say for himself. He hands me a shirt.

"What's this?"

"Keep you warm, won't it?"

He tries to embrace me.

I figure it never occurs to him that I didn't want to do this; after all, it never occurs to me that I had any choice.

"Let's lie down by the river. You doing anything tonight? There's a gig on. I'm playing bass. I've got this sexy pair of shorts you could borrow, if you wanted to dress up."

I don't tell him I never want to see him again. I lie down next to him, watching the river break over the solemn, round pebbles lying in its path. I think about how much I despise him.

He draws his arms around me and strokes my hair. He doesn't stroke it gently. He tries to kiss me, fucking kiss me!
Imagine! I pull away. Hugging is one thing. I'm not touching his lips, not ever. Not that this is the best time to start being assertive and laying boundaries. It's almost funny.

"I didn't want to have sex with you," I tell him.

He laughs. He doesn't care. He doesn't fucking care.

"But you had fun, right?"

Does he not understand basic English?

I go home later that day as though nothing has happened. I try to scrub that nasty dried cunt-blood off myself, off my clothes, but it stains.

You probably wonder why I'm telling you this, now, after all these years.

He's coming to my birthday party.

I didn't invite him. Dad didn't invite him, either. It was Shelly's idea, Shelly Moon. Why is Jules fucking Finnegan coming to my birthday party, Macy, but not Shelly's sister? Not that I'd really want Casey to come. But I'd rather her than Jules. I think I'd rather her than Jules. It's hard to think about it clearly, it's hard to remember her face clearly. Casey. Casey Moon. Her name used to do something to me, make my heart and stomach and guts wake up. But that doesn't happen now.

Isn't it weird how old families split apart, and people join up with fiancees and lovers and partners, to make new ones.
Casey is going to be with her fiancee, in Australia, planning their wedding, and Shelly is bringing her fiancee to my birthday party, the birthday party I didn't even fucking want, but who am I to say she can't? Her fiancee just happens to be Jules. And if Julianne Moon hadn't moved in with my dad, I wouldn't have anything to do with Shelly, let alone have her at my party. The party I don't even want.

"It's your 21st, Lisa," Dad had told me. "You have to do something special."

"I am doing something special," I said. "Up here, in Scotland. I don't need to come all the way down to you guys, do I?"
"Not for your birthday itself, of course not. Spend that with your friends. But come and see us. I've bought a few presents, and Julianne wants to see you." Which I knew was a lie, that bit. "Aunt Cathy is coming for Easter, anyway. You'd like to see her, wouldn't you? I know she'd like to see you. She'd like to see you very much."

So I agreed, didn't I, at the time. Only now, it's not just me and Dad and Aunt Cathy, and maybe Julianne. It's Shelly, and Jules, too. And not just them. Aunt Beryl. Uncle Sean. Violet. A pack of wolves, in our farmhouse. It's bringing back memories. It's making my head come alive. Things I thought I'd forgotten come springing up in leaps and bounds and slaps in the jaw. This thing with Jules, this childish silly nonsense - remembering about that shit is barely even scratching the surface.

* * *

The drive to Little Belmarsh isn't usually unpleasant, but on this particular Friday evening, the roads seem to wind and snake around me, like a maze. I feel lost, even thought I know the way perfectly. After about an hour and a half, I realise I've been on-and-off thinking about Jackie. And Sam, with his freckled smile. I wonder if he got those freckles from his dad. I wonder what his dad looks like. I try to imagine it, imagine a tall red-haired man holding Jackie around the waist, pushing her blonde hair back from her cheeks, kissing her throat. It seems natural to me, somehow, to imagine things ike that. I wonder if other people do it, too, or if it's just me.

I probably shouldn't think about this Jackie woman like that, anyway. I take a left turning, glancing around me at the blurry fields, with cows nibbling idly at the grass. Lucky cows, I think to myself, as they fall away and shrink behind me, until I can only see them in the rear view mirror, small and crushable like toy cow models. Then I turn another corner, and they're gone. After a few more miles, the green valleys begin to turn into dull, creeping roads, walled in with high grey buildings. Traffic begins to clog the roads, drivers honking their horns into the peaceful air at each other, breaking it, changing it into something grim. The streets seem to be crawling with people; men and women in suits, couples holding hands, clusters of teenagers gathering like dust at every street corner, bus stop or bench. As I pull on the handbrake at the traffic lights, I look into my wing mirror. I see an elderly lady reaching for the door of the phone box, and some kid on a bike swerving in front of her, cutting her arm away from the handle. He jumps off, nods at her in thanks, then darts into the booth. The old woman waits outside. The lights turn to green, then, so I hastily jerk off the handbrake and press my foot down. I don't see what happens with the lady and the youth; I don't see how long she has to wait for the phone box. I suppose she's lucky not to have been mugged.

I drive on through the traffic lights, through the city, to the outskirts, where I see the sign welcoming me to Little Belmarsh. I already feel my guts burning as I drive past Belmarsh School, past the playing fields, then I turn into the long clear road, brown with dust, which leads up to Dad's farmhouse. I see the house in the distance already, looming before me like some large, inescapable truth. As I draw in closer, I see the fields, too, with the purplish sky hanging over them, and then, before I know it, I'm close enough to see the horses peering out from the stalls, close enough for the warm, itchy smell of animal to catch on my nostrils. A few more minutes and I'm close enough to see the windows, the half-parted curtains, the blur of faces behind the front windows. The orange, brown and white gravel grinds under my car wheels as I pull up into the drive, and roll to a halt. I sit there, silent, still, for a few moments. I open the glove compartment, and take out a packet of cigarettes, but I don't smoke any. The packet is unopened. I lean back against the head rest for a minute, holding the packet in my hands, turning it over, looking at my bitten down fingernails. Red lines have appeared under the torn strips of skin. All my nerves are exposed.

I'm still sitting there when the front door opens, and Aunt Cathy steps out on to the porch, one hand shading her eyes from the cool glare of silver moonlight, which seems to be coming from above and behind my car, shadowing me out of the picture. I wave, and get out of the car. She just stands there for a few moments, her hands now in her pockets, just looking at me, her eyes moist.

"It's been quite a while since... " she says, eventually. "Here, let me help you with your bags. Did you bring much?"

"Just one bag," I say, not moving. "It's in the boot. I'll get it myself, I'll be fine."

"I'll carry it in for you," she says. "Let me carry it in for you."

"No, honestly. I'll be fine."

I go round to the back and open the boot, haul the bag out. It's heavier than I remember it being when I packed it, somehow. Aunt Cathy steps to one side to let me pass. Dad's in the hall to meet me before I can even make my way to the stairs.

"You're here! I thought the journey would take you much longer, on a Friday evening. It just goes to show. Was the traffic okay, then?" He hugs me tight, a bit too tightly; my ribs ache when he lets go. "Come in, come into the living room. Never mind your luggage, we'll take that upstairs in a bit. Come and have a drink."

He puts his hand on my shoulder, guides me up the stone-flagged hall to the living room door, then opens and it nudges me through. My foot catches on the edge of the patterned rug as I step from the hall passage into the living room. The first thing I see in that room is Violet, and I'm sure she saw me trip. Her mouth is not quite still, and her eyes glitter just a bit too much to be caused by the excitement of seeing me. She's sitting next to her mother, and they both have identical postures; heads inclined, high-browed eyes rolling over me like two unwigged brown-haired judges,in purple jumpers. Violet's jumper is fitted more snuggly, but they're both wearing the exact same shade of purple. Aunt Beryl's lips are pursed, as though she wants to say something but feels it isn't her place. She folds her hands in her lap. They are gloved; white and clinical-looking. She raises her head to look past me, to the doorframe, through which Dad is coming into the room behind me, followed by Aunt Cathy. Dad walks straight to his chair, but Aunt Cathy lingers in the doorway for a few moments, watching Aunt Beryl. The two sisters look at each other, hard-eyed. I smile at Aunt Cathy; a declaration of allegiance. As if anyone need ask. She just keeps standing there, head on one side, her left hand stroking the ends of her silvery scarf. Then she moves right into the room and perches on the arm of Dad's chair, smiling around the room as though everything is fine. Perhaps it is, after all.

"Would you like a drink, dear?" says Aunt Beryl, getting to her feet. "I'm popping to the kitchen anyway, for some more tea." She smooths her black skirt with both hands, and I watch the glitter of her wedding ring flash before me. So, she still wears that, then. "Would anybody like more tea? Or a slice of cake? Violet? Harry?"

"How about it, Lisa? A slice of cake, after your journey? I expect you're starving. Did you get a chance to eat before leaving? Or did you come straight from work?"

"Haven't you eaten?" asks Aunt Cathy, looking from me to Dad, then back to me again. "What a shame! We ate, already. But we've got something left, I'm sure. I could fix something up for you, if you like? What do you fancy?"

"What do you fancy, Lisa?" asks Dad. "Anything you want, or, well, almost anything you want. We've got potatoes, pasta, some cold chicken, and I think some chilli in the freezer, which I'm sure we could heat up for you without any trouble at all."

"I'm, uh, not really very hungry, actually."

"It's no trouble," says Aunt Cathy.

"No, really."

It's true, Macy. I'm really not hungry. My stomach feels dry and lumbering, like a monster with a sack for a gut. I haven't eaten since lunchtime. Perhaps I've gone past the point of being hungry.

"Well, if you're sure," says Aunt Cathy, leaning back against the wall, and fingering the ends of her scarf again.
"I'll bring you some tea," says Aunt Beryl. "Unless you're not thirsty, either?"

"Or unless you'd rather have a glass of wine," says Dad.

"A glass of wine would be nice," I say. "White, if you have it, please. Just a small glass."

"We've only got red," pipes up Violet. "I finished the white, earlier. Whoops." She covers her shiny mouth with one hand, darting a glance at her mother.

"Red, then. Anything is fine."

Aunt Beryl goes out into the kitchen, and we all sit in silence, until she returns holding a glass of red wine and a mug of tea. She settles back down on to the sofa, sets the glass of wine down on the coffee table, and sips the tea. Her mouth is so thin, the muscles pulled so tight, it's a wonder the tea doesn't dribble from her lips. Her slightly wrinkled throat moves as the swallows, and the dark purple mole on her neck gives a shudder. I pick up my wine, then go and perch on the other arm of Dad's chair.

"Sit here, Lisa," says Dad, moving to get up.

"I'm fine here. Really. I'd rather sit here. My back is slouched over every day, looking at a computer screen."

"It's funny to think of you, working in an office," says Aunt Cathy.

"Yeah, check you out, all in a suit," says Violet. She isn't quite smiling as she says it. And right then I know why I drove down down here straight from the office. I wanted them to see me in a suit. I wanted them to know that whatever they might think of me, here, that when I'm at work, I'm someone that people respect. What a stupid thing to do.

"So." I take a very big sip of wine. "Where's Julianne? And Shelly?"

"They decided to eat out together this evening," says Aunt Cathy, lifting one end of her scarf, then letting it fall. She doesn't look at me at all. Her eyes are fixed on the scarf ends, lying curled and crumpled in her lap. Her face is quite blank. She's good at giving nothing away. I wish I was like that, Macy.

"You'll see Julianne tomorrow morning, when you come down for breakfast," says Dad. "And Shelly and Jules, they'll be dropping along tomorrow night for your party."

"It should be a good party," says Violet, twirling a strand of dark, sleek hair around her middle finger. It makes her look as though she's swearing at me.

-----------------------------------

Click here to read comments for this piece or to add a comment of your own!

------------------------------------------

 

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(return to Daddy's Moon chapter listings)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Copyright for any published piece within Calliope remains with the author of the piece, unless otherwise noted. Please do not reproduce or distribute any of the content of the site without the author's permission.