Never Go There Read online

  ‘No!’ Nuala spoke too loudly, her cries frightening James away, his body fading to nothing in the mud. The skin on her finger was burning now, the blood leaking out from the gnawed-raw wound. ‘You have to tell me. I can’t go until I know what happened.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Maggie said, still looking away, clearly trying to find the right words. ‘Because once you know, you can’t go back.’

  Nuala was firm. ‘I want to know.’

  Maggie drew in a breath and began.

  Seven years ago

  Emma

  Tuesday, 10th August, 2010

  Emma lingered, watching her stepmother walking ahead of her along the road, an empty carrier bag in her hand, before catching her up.

  ‘It would be so much easier if Daddy just taught you to drive; you wouldn’t have to carry them back so far.’

  At the sound of her voice, Elaine turned with a smile. Emma did her usual quick scan, checking her stepmother over for new bruises or marks to her skin, but found nothing.

  ‘There’s no need, everything I want’s within walking distance. Besides, your father needs the car for the farm, you know that.’

  Elaine linked arms with her stepdaughter and Emma could smell the gardenia from her perfume, a vague undercurrent of Persil. Emma stiffened, aware suddenly of her own smell, the smell of him, emanating from her body. Could Elaine smell it too?

  His scent clung to Emma’s skin, as it always did, the smell making her dizzy as the breeze lifted and wafted it around her. She could still taste him on her lips and the skin of her arm, bare in the summer heat, ran with goose bumps from where his skin had touched hers.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he’d whispered just as she left, the same words he said every time. ‘Not a soul.’ His grip on her wrist had been a little too tight but the tone of his voice was so soft, so loving, she quickly forgave him. ‘You’d get me in trouble if you did, and you don’t want that, do you? Well? Do you?’

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ Elaine was smiling and Emma breathed out, her heart resuming its normal, calm pattern.

  She nodded, dispelling the image of James above her, the ears of ripening wheat blowing around them, showering them with grain, tickling her bare calves and wrists.

  ‘Just been out in the sunshine,’ she said and her voice sounded, to her own ear, somehow older, as though James had infected every part of her. ‘Took a book up into the hills and sat reading.’ She dug the book out of the bag on her shoulder, holding out the proof of her lie. Could Elaine detect the change in her voice? Had she been following the progressive changes in Emma over the past two months, noticed how every time she’d been with that man in that way, she’d felt even more like a woman herself? The self-awareness, the confidence, the way, sometimes, she would blush in the mirror, seeing herself the way James saw her.

  ‘You’re no little girl,’ he’d said to her that day, ‘You’re all woman with me. You’re my woman.’ And the thrill of being his, of belonging to James Lunglow, a man so good-looking he was surely half God, made her giddy.

  ‘You needn’t look so worried.’ Elaine squeezed her elbow, making Emma jump, making her wonder if her stepmother did know, if she’d known all along since that very first time, eight weeks ago now, in the barn at the back of the farm. James had put his hands on her then; first her waist, his fingers moving up through her blouse buttons with ease. They’d used that same blouse to wipe up afterwards. She’d had to clean the blouse herself, in her en-suite washbasin, his stain tougher to remove than she’d imagined.

  But she’d had to do it herself. She couldn’t let Elaine see, or worse, her father. And she certainly couldn’t wear the blouse, stained like that, to school.

  Elaine leant in even further to Emma. ‘I shan’t tell your father.’

  Emma paled, felt her arm tremble beneath Elaine’s hand.

  Had Elaine seen James lead Emma away that very first time, had she seen him unbutton his jeans and show Emma, so nervous she was shaking from head to foot, what she should do, how she should kneel, where she should look, exactly how far she should take him in her mouth?

  She didn’t need to be told any more, of course, she knew his rhythms by heart, that initial fear, uncertainty long melted away. But what use was that knowledge, that instinct, when they were about to be unmasked?

  The road curved around and they were greeted by a breeze, melting the heat from Emma’s skin, leaving her cold and pin-pricked with worry.

  What had she been expecting, anyway? For things to continue indefinitely? The wheat that had hidden them through summer would soon be harvested, the sky would cloud over into autumn, the birds singing to them from the trees would fly away.

  ‘Not that your father would mind that you went off to read for a few hours, of course,’ Elaine said with a smile. Emma stalled, confusion slowing her step until relief sank in and she realised Elaine didn’t know anything.

  ‘He doesn’t expect you to work on the farm for the whole summer; you are only fourteen, after all.’

  Emma tried to smile, but the crease in her brow remained. She tried to see herself as Elaine saw her; as a young, fresh girl on her summer holidays, gearing up for a new year of school, escaping to the hills so her father wouldn’t make her work all summer long. Not the half-naked nymph lying beneath a fully-grown man only hours before, hiding from her parents in a field of three-foot high wheat.

  Just the thought of them finding out turned the blood in her veins to ice. She bit her lip, remembering James above her again, the patches of fine hair on his chest, the stubble on his jaw, trying to feel ashamed of herself, as her parents would be if they knew, but the shame didn’t come and the underside of her collar stuck to the back of her neck.

  ‘You’re my woman,’ he had said and she was, she was.

  ‘You have to have some fun, even your daddy understands that.’ Elaine squeezed her arm again.

  ‘Yes, your father would want you to have fun.’ Lois Lunglow, feet feline silent in their leatherette pumps, had sprung on them from behind. She was wearing a cardigan, despite the heat, two of the buttons gone. ‘As long as it’s the right sort, of course.’

  Emma could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She forced herself to stay calm, to remember that nobody knew what she’d been doing with James Lunglow only hours beforehand, least of all his mother.

  ‘Emma’s just been out walking, enjoying the sun, Lois.’

  Why, in God’s name, did Elaine have to talk to that woman? Why couldn’t she just follow the trend and ignore her?

  ‘You clearly haven’t been out walking, Elaine. I’d be surprised if you’ve lifted a finger all day, dressed like that?’ Lois fell into step beside them, her eyes drinking in Elaine’s dress. ‘It’s very nice. New, is it? Arthur buy it for you, did he?’

  It was the cold smile Emma hated the most; the way Lois’s lips would thin and disappear, her mouth no more than a slit across her face. Thank God James didn’t have her smile. His lips were fuller, firmer, their touch opening her to him, making her yield.

  Emma felt herself blush again, the skin on her forehead clammy.

  ‘He likes to treat me.’ Elaine’s eyes flicked to the right, to the row of neat cottages set back from the road, the cottages owned by Arthur and let out. The income from those alone was nearly double what the average labourer earned, probably triple the sum Lois claimed from the state.

  ‘Must be nice, to be treated. I wouldn’t know.’ Lois had noticed the look and followed it to the little houses, their double-glazed windows, their leak-free roofs.

  Emma sped up, forming the point of the three-person arrow as she led them away from Arthur’s cottages, Elaine’s cottages, and on towards the shop. Head down, eyes to the floor, she noticed Lois’s shoes again, the sole coming away from the toe on both feet.

  When they reached the shop Emma waited for Lois to leave, but she stayed, her smile fixed.

  ‘Of course, I’ll know what it’s like to be treated soon, once James grad
uates and gets himself a good city job.’

  Emma’s ears pricked up but she stayed silent, not wanting to seem keen, not wanting people to think that she cared about Lois or her son. She looked into the shop, saw Jennifer Hill and her son Toby meandering through the aisles, Jennifer glancing up at Lois and Elaine. No doubt she was trying to listen in.

  ‘Graduates? Have you plans for him to go to college?’ Elaine asked.

  Lois scoffed and Emma hated her for it. ‘I don’t have any plans for James, he’s old enough to make his own and none of his plans involve him staying here.’

  Lois was wrong. James was going to stay here. He was going to stay close to Emma whilst she finished school, he’d get a job, start a career, earn enough money to take care of Emma because by then it wouldn’t be so bad if people found out, if she was older and he could support her. That’s what he’d told her. That’s what she believed. They’d be together forever. Forever and ever.

  As soon as she was old enough to leave home.

  Elaine nodded, her arm around Emma’s shoulders, and still Lois’s eyes were upon Emma. ‘We have our own high hopes for this one,’ she said. ‘Arthur has it all mapped out for you, doesn’t he, Emma? No settling down early for you, no getting married too young. Not like—’ Elaine stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of what she was saying.

  ‘Which of us are you referring to there, Mrs Bradbury?’ Lois moistened her lips with her tongue and her fingers flexed in and out, each time making a fist so tight her tendons bulged.

  ‘Oh, no,’ muttered Elaine, ‘I meant—’ but her words slipped into silence, her eyes fixed on the ground.

  Lois looked at Emma, with her thin mouth and sharp cheekbones, her eyes boring straight into Emma’s.

  Emma felt sick, lightheaded.

  What would happen to James if they knew? Emma had read enough, seen enough on TV to know James could be charged with statutory rape. Her parents would never forgive him, never forgive her, they’d punish them both. They wouldn’t care that it was true love, that James would never do those things to her if he didn’t love her, didn’t intend on staying with her forever.

  ‘Thankfully,’ Lois said, her eyes darting back to Elaine, ‘James is to start at university in September, even has a job lined up part time whilst he studies.’ She paused for effect, looking behind her to make sure Jennifer Hill in the shop was listening, would be able to spread the news to the rest of the village whilst they stocked up on milk and fresh bread. ‘If he’s any sense he won’t return.’

  ‘You’re pale, Emma.’

  Her father spoke from the other end of the table, his glasses perched on his forehead.

  ‘I’m fine, just tired after my walk.’ She hadn’t been able to eat a thing, the chicken lying congealed in its sauce on her plate. Even the glass of water was difficult to swallow.

  James was leaving.

  He hadn’t told her.

  ‘Your mother worked hard, cooking that.’ Her father sat back in his chair, frowning, his own plate empty. Emma often called Elaine Mum, always referred to her as her mother, but when Arthur said it, it sounded hollow, a reminder of why Elaine was here instead of Emma’s birth mother, a reminder of the first mistake Emma had ever made because, as her father often told her, if it hadn’t been for Emma her mother would still be alive, would never have developed grade four tears during labour, suffered catastrophic blood loss, died on the operating table.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She fumbled her words, fiddling with her napkin, feeling the familiar nervous heat prick her neck. ‘I’ll eat more.’ She pulled the plate towards her but her hands felt weak, shaky. She put them in her lap to hide them from her father. He wouldn’t like to see her so nervous, wouldn’t like it at all, would interrogate Elaine about it after Emma had gone to bed and Emma couldn’t bear the thought of it, Elaine taking the heat for Emma. Because of Emma.

  If only she could get a hold of herself, stop her heart from racing like this, stop her stomach from churning.

  Lovesick, that was her problem. Lovesick for a man five years older, who’d probably got bored of his fourteen-year-old pet.

  ‘Go on then,’ her father said. ‘Eat up.’

  Emma pushed James out of her head, steadied herself with a deep breath and lifted a forkful of chicken. Every mouthful, she told herself as she ate, would be one less mark on Elaine’s white skin.

  She chewed, and chewed, the food like dust on her tongue. She looked at Elaine, who was pulling her cardigan further down her arm, a vague purple bruise on her wrist. She caught the slight shake of Elaine’s head. Arthur was watching Emma, his hands in fists on the table, and she forced the food down her throat.

  Her whole body felt sweaty, prickled with heat, the food churning in her angry stomach.

  Why hadn’t James told her he was leaving? Why, when she was lying naked in his arms, grains of wheat catching in the hairs on his chest, did he not tell her?

  What would she do, when he was gone?

  How could she cope with all this, without him?

  She hadn’t seen anyone else the whole summer, had let friendships slide, had neglected invitations to spend more time with James, to devote herself, her mind and body, to him. All they needed was each other; he’d said so many times. No one else. She was his, wasn’t he hers? Did she really need to spend time with immature little girls when she could spend time with him instead?

  ‘That’ll do,’ Arthur said and Emma realised that she had forced down half her meal in a trance, her eyes glazed over. Elaine offered her a sad, thankful smile.

  ‘You’re lucky, to get a good, hot meal every night.’ Her father’s voice was cold, his hands still in fists and Emma thought how very black her luck was. But still she said, yes, I know, thank you and Arthur didn’t say any more, his eyes set on Elaine.

  It was a few moments later, as Emma left the table and bent down to kiss Arthur’s offered cheek, that the first pulse of nausea hit her. She smiled through it, so her father wouldn’t notice.

  Another hit as her foot touched the bottom step of the stairs. She doubled over, the food rising up her throat with a stomachful of bile.

  Upstairs it came in waves, pulsing through her as she lay on her bed. Instinctively she curled into a ball, her duvet hugged against her body. Her forehead was damp, hands clammy, tongue thick and dry in her mouth.

  It couldn’t be food poisoning; she had barely eaten all day.

  It didn’t feel like the flu.

  She tried to remember the last time she’d had her period, but she’d only had three so far and they had all been maddeningly irregular.

  She had to speak to James. She wouldn’t call him, never did for fear of being overheard. Couldn’t text him either, because her father was in the habit of checking her phone. She would see him instead, face to face.

  She could still picture James, his whisper in her ear telling her not to worry, that he’d be careful, wouldn’t finish inside her and besides, she was only just fourteen, she should trust him, trust him, trust him, she was far too young to get pregnant.

  But a dull ache throbbed down in her belly.

  Maybe James would have to stay after all.

  Because he couldn’t leave her, not now.

  Seven years ago

  Emma

  Tuesday, 10th August, 2010

  The following morning the cramping pain was still there, so too the sickness. A deep wash of nausea enveloped her from the moment she opened her eyes.

  She couldn’t tell anyone she was pregnant, let alone that the father was James.

  ‘Pregnancy is dangerous, Emma.’ Her father’s warnings echoed in her ears, repeating with each thud of her heartbeat. ‘Your mother was proof enough of that.’

  How many times had he told her what had happened to her mother? He reminded Emma on each of her birthdays as they walked to her mother’s grave to lay flowers – no birthday present for the girl who killed her mother. It was Elaine who cured those birthday heartaches. Elaine who, in secret, wou
ld get her a gift. A new cardigan, a bar of chocolate, sweet-smelling shampoo, wrapped up in ribbon.

  She passed the pub, dark and quiet at this time of the morning, and thought of Maggie, the few memories she had of her before Tom died ten years before. A time when her godmother used to bake with her, kiss her cheek, tell her stories, treat her the way Emma would treat this baby, with love. Not that Maggie didn’t still love Emma, Emma knew that she did, but now Maggie’s attention was stained with grief for the son she had lost to the system, for the husband who had died in the crash. James had told her that, when Maggie talked to him, she sometimes slipped up and called him Lee.

  She pushed open the gate to James’s house, next door to Maggie’s pub, the sound of metal scraping concrete grating her nerves.

  Her whole body hurt, the pain radiating like a white hot ripple from the centre of her body. She had to tell James.

  He would help her.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  She knocked and the pain winded her, a flash of red eclipsing her vision.

  A head looked out.

  Two hands grabbed her, pulled her inside.

  The door slammed, the sound making Emma jump and her vision clear.

  ‘You’re roasting, what’s wrong with you?’ It was Lois, not James, her tone lacking any concern. She put her hand to Emma’s head, guided her to the stairs and lowered her onto the bottom step, her actions only marginally more gentle than her voice.

  Emma gripped the woman’s arm. Her hand brushed something soft: one of James’s jumpers on the step, waiting to be carried up, his scent emanating from the cloth. Lois followed Emma’s gaze, her eyes lingering, too, on her son’s sweater.

  ‘Why are you so pale?’ Her voice was accusing as well as questioning.

  Emma moved her mouth to reply, but no words came. She tried to focus on Lois, but she was mesmerised by James.

  All she could see was James.

  The walls along the hallway were studded with frames, alternating between his photograph and his certificates from school, twenty frames opposite her at least.