they’d seen his bum and as they’d pushed him over his cock was wobbling around too. And Scarlett had actually recoiled and hidden her eyes behind her hand. Cerys had laughed at that even more than she’d been laughing at the wrestling match. The group had been asked to leave.
They’d walked home from the bus stop the long way round, because Cerys had bought a pack of ten Marlboro and wanted to smoke on the way home. She’d offered them to Scarlett, who had refused. The thought of them – ugh. No way. They strolled along the pavement, kicking at bits of gravel, sending it skittering ahead of them. Scarlett’s All Stars dusty, Cerys scuffing a pair of her eldest sister’s kitten-heel boots. She didn’t care, although Aimee would most likely kill her when she saw them. That was the price Aimee paid for having small feet.
In the back of the van, the refuge Scarlett had taken in her daydream came to an end.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
It hadn’t been that bad so far, after all, had it? They’d given her water, and yes, they’d kept her prisoner and made her piss in a bucket; they hadn’t given her proper food – just the pizza – but apart from that one fist in her face they hadn’t hurt her. It could have been worse, far worse, after all. And the fist had been because she had started screaming. Since then, since she’d complied with them and behaved herself, nothing.
So that was it. She would go along with it, see what happened next. She had the choice to fight back, make it difficult for them, try to escape – but equally she had the choice to comply, keep her head down, bide her time.
Nico had betrayed her, of course.
She’d been denying it, but the fact that the men had mentioned him by name meant that they knew him. And they were bad people, so it must mean that Nico was bad, too. Nico had said he had a baby sister, and that made her think about Juliette. How would she be coping, with Scarlett gone? Maybe she hadn’t even really noticed; after all, most of the time she was in her own safe little bubble. Scarlett thought it was just the way Juliette was: the real world was less enjoyable to her than the worlds she inhabited while she was reading. Good luck to her, Scarlett thought.
There had been discussions, before the holiday and even more fervently now that she was so obviously not quite right. Scarlett had heard them, sitting out on their patio next door with clinking bottles of beer, while Juliette read her book in bed and Scarlett was sitting by the open patio door, gulping at the fresh, still air, biding her time.
‘You’re too tough on them sometimes, Clive,’ her mum was saying. ‘Juliette hardly speaks at all now.’
‘She’s just being a teenager,’ her father replied.
‘Scarlett wasn’t like that at her age.’
‘Scarlett’s the other way. Talks too much. Doesn’t know when to keep quiet.’
‘Even so,’ her mother said, ‘you should be careful. The school notice things; they’ll ask questions.’
‘Now you’re being hysterical,’ her father said.
Scarlett had read about Sigmund Freud at school, about hysteria. She had thought then that her father had been born in the wrong century, that he would be well suited to the Victorian era when women did as they were told and any deviation from the norm, any sign of determination, or even just expressing an opinion, could be diagnosed as part of the female condition. Her father seemed to find it by turns fascinating and repugnant, living in a houseful of women.
Her mum wasn’t hysterical at all. She was speaking quietly. ‘And you’re not taking me seriously.’
‘That’s
enough
.’
There was quiet for a moment, and then some odd noises – breathing, a chair creaking. A minute later, an abrupt scraping noise of one of the metal chairs being pushed back from the tiled floor, and then the other. The patio door opening, and the whirr of the air-conditioning inside their beautifully cool apartment next door,
They’d walked home from the bus stop the long way round, because Cerys had bought a pack of ten Marlboro and wanted to smoke on the way home. She’d offered them to Scarlett, who had refused. The thought of them – ugh. No way. They strolled along the pavement, kicking at bits of gravel, sending it skittering ahead of them. Scarlett’s All Stars dusty, Cerys scuffing a pair of her eldest sister’s kitten-heel boots. She didn’t care, although Aimee would most likely kill her when she saw them. That was the price Aimee paid for having small feet.
In the back of the van, the refuge Scarlett had taken in her daydream came to an end.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
It hadn’t been that bad so far, after all, had it? They’d given her water, and yes, they’d kept her prisoner and made her piss in a bucket; they hadn’t given her proper food – just the pizza – but apart from that one fist in her face they hadn’t hurt her. It could have been worse, far worse, after all. And the fist had been because she had started screaming. Since then, since she’d complied with them and behaved herself, nothing.
So that was it. She would go along with it, see what happened next. She had the choice to fight back, make it difficult for them, try to escape – but equally she had the choice to comply, keep her head down, bide her time.
Nico had betrayed her, of course.
She’d been denying it, but the fact that the men had mentioned him by name meant that they knew him. And they were bad people, so it must mean that Nico was bad, too. Nico had said he had a baby sister, and that made her think about Juliette. How would she be coping, with Scarlett gone? Maybe she hadn’t even really noticed; after all, most of the time she was in her own safe little bubble. Scarlett thought it was just the way Juliette was: the real world was less enjoyable to her than the worlds she inhabited while she was reading. Good luck to her, Scarlett thought.
There had been discussions, before the holiday and even more fervently now that she was so obviously not quite right. Scarlett had heard them, sitting out on their patio next door with clinking bottles of beer, while Juliette read her book in bed and Scarlett was sitting by the open patio door, gulping at the fresh, still air, biding her time.
‘You’re too tough on them sometimes, Clive,’ her mum was saying. ‘Juliette hardly speaks at all now.’
‘She’s just being a teenager,’ her father replied.
‘Scarlett wasn’t like that at her age.’
‘Scarlett’s the other way. Talks too much. Doesn’t know when to keep quiet.’
‘Even so,’ her mother said, ‘you should be careful. The school notice things; they’ll ask questions.’
‘Now you’re being hysterical,’ her father said.
Scarlett had read about Sigmund Freud at school, about hysteria. She had thought then that her father had been born in the wrong century, that he would be well suited to the Victorian era when women did as they were told and any deviation from the norm, any sign of determination, or even just expressing an opinion, could be diagnosed as part of the female condition. Her father seemed to find it by turns fascinating and repugnant, living in a houseful of women.
Her mum wasn’t hysterical at all. She was speaking quietly. ‘And you’re not taking me seriously.’
‘That’s
enough
.’
There was quiet for a moment, and then some odd noises – breathing, a chair creaking. A minute later, an abrupt scraping noise of one of the metal chairs being pushed back from the tiled floor, and then the other. The patio door opening, and the whirr of the air-conditioning inside their beautifully cool apartment next door,
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