Mistakes We Make (25 page)

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

Ailsa was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. Her face was shining, her eyes bright with exercise and the cold. She looked happy.

‘Tea would be lovely. I’ve nearly finished here.’

‘Cait-lynnnnn,’ Isla May sang, wrenching off her bobble beanie and dancing up the stairs in her pink wellies, arms outstretched for a cuddle.

Caitlyn buried her face in Isla May’s soft hair. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything, not until she’d had time to think about it, and talk it over with Malkie.

Malkie was late. Caitlyn, sitting in the corner of the bar, tried not to feel worried, but there he was at last, pushing past the crowds at the door and looking stressed.

‘Sorry, love, sorry! I was on time, then the boss caught me.’

‘Ibsen Brown? What did he want?’

‘Let me get in some drinks, then I’ll tell you.’

‘Malkie?’ Caitlyn said suspiciously. ‘What are you hiding? Tell me right now!’

‘Peach schnapps and orange juice?’

‘No, I – Malkie!’

She sat drumming her fingers on the seat, watching him order.

‘There you go.’

He placed her drink on the table and downed a large draught of his beer.

‘So what was it? What did Ibsen want?’

‘Ibsen?’

‘Malcolm Milne!’

His grin was irrepressible. ‘OK, sweetheart, I’ll tell you. There’s a wee cottage on the edge of the Fleming estate that’s become vacant, and Lady Fleming says one of Ibsen’s gardening team can use it. The rent’s really low. Ibsen’s offered it to me. I thought you could move in with me.’

‘Oh!’ She hadn’t seen it coming. She stared at him, horrified, while a thousand thoughts spun round her head and her insides did a cartwheel.

‘Caitlyn?’

In so many ways it was tempting. She could move out of the chaotic household in Farm Lane, get herself clear from the endless babysitting and chores, leave the way clear for her mother’s new man to move in, if that was what they wanted. And yet ...

‘Have I said something wrong? You and me—’

She interrupted him before he could go any further. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a lovely thought, Malkie. But I’m sorry, I can’t.’

He was so transparent. She watched, crucified, as shock, hurt and misery chased themselves across his face.

‘Don’t take it badly!’ she cried, laying her hand on his arm. He shook it off vehemently.

How could she get him to understand that she had spent her entire life watching her mother living her life through one man or other, each experience taking more from her than the last? She’d had five children, and she was still giving everything she had to them. Joyce was smart. She’d got a bunch of qualifications before she left school; she could have gone on to further education and made something of her life. Instead, she’d been like a busy bird with a nest full of chicks, mouths open, protesting and wailing constantly until they were fed, then starting all over again.

‘I want a life,’ she said, trying to explain.

Malkie recoiled.

‘I didn’t mean ... Malkie, I’m sorry, I only meant—’

‘Never mind.’

He drained his pint and stood up.

‘Don’t go.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Don’t, Malkie!’

He grabbed his jacket as she tried to catch his hand.

‘Call me, at least?’

He grunted, his kiss on her cheek barely more than the brush of a feather.

Idiot! How could she have expressed her feelings so badly? She’d messed everything up.

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P
erhaps it happened because she was thinking about Malkie. Perhaps it was because it was still early – only nine-thirty. But it was dark, and she was on her own, and she should have been alert as soon as she’d first heard the laughter and seen the youths swaggering down the dark street.

‘Well hello, darling!’

Ricky McQuade was with a bunch of drunken friends – a runt among snarling pups, determined to claw for position. It was the worst possible combination.

He put a bottle to his lips and tossed his head back, draining the beer in greedy gulps, then throwing it aside. It exploded against the wall and shards of glass arced across the pavement. Somebody laughed.

‘Get in there, Ricky,’ someone growled, and the single laugh became a chorus.

Caitlyn stepped to one side and tried to carry on walking, as though she hadn’t even noticed.

A shadow fell across her path.

‘I’ll see you home, darlin’.’

‘I’m fine, Ricky.’ Caitlyn lifted her head and looked at him squarely. On his own, she could handle him, but being with these hooligans gave him courage.

He slung an arm across her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off.

‘Don’ be like that. Gie’s a kiss.’

The grip round her shoulders tightened and he swung her towards him, grasping the back of her head roughly and planting his lips on hers.

She kept her mouth shut as tightly as she could. He stank of beer and cigarettes and the stubby bristles on his unshaven chin rasped against the delicate skin on her face. She tried to wrench her head aside, but he slammed her against the wall, her head hit brick and a bright pain flashed behind her eyes.

She was only two blocks from home. They were quite near the pub. Surely someone would come and see what was happening. But it was just a crowd of young people, enjoying a night out – wasn’t it? There was laughter all around, and shouts of encouragement.

‘Go for it, Ricky boy!’

‘Give her a doing. I’m after you.’

‘Get in the queue, Jimbo.’

‘Need a hand?’

If she opened her mouth to scream, he’d stick his tongue in. Caitlyn needed to throw up, but she couldn’t with his weight against her, crushing the breath out of her.
Stop
! she wanted to yell.
Stop it, you bastard
!

She was pinned against the wall. He was cupping her chin with his hand, trying to force her mouth open, his fingers digging into her flesh. His hand shifted and there was a flash of relief, only to be replaced by panic as she felt him yanking up her skirt and feeling for the top of her tights.

She lifted her knee sharply and hit soft tissue.

‘Bitch!’

This time the flash became a white blaze of pain as his fist connected with her cheek and her head crunched sickeningly against the wall. She crumpled and sagged and he used the momentum of her fall, throwing himself on top of her on the cold, hard pavement. He had one arm across her chest, pinning her to the ground. The other was wrenching at her tights and her knickers.

‘Go Rick, go Rick, go Rick!’

The chanting from the background was rhythmic. Someone started a slow handclap and it was taken up.

It seemed to spur Ricky on. Caitlyn was fighting like a maniac, wriggling and squirming every time he moved, but her strength was failing. She opened her eyes. He wasn’t looking at her. He had his eyes shut tight, his   head thrown back, a frown of concentration between  his heavy eyebrows. There was something extraordinarily childlike about his face – how could that be possible? Above her the moon shone clear and bright in a cloudless sky. Was there no-one who would help her? Her tights were below her knees, and a patch of hard-edged pebbles on the pavement was grinding into her buttocks. Ricky was fumbling with his zipper. She had just a moment left.

She opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs, ‘Help! Rape! Help me!’

She expected laughter and jeering. What she didn’t expect was pounding footsteps and yelps of surprise.

A deep voice called, ‘What’s going on here?’ and another, a girl’s voice, clear and steady, announced loudly, ‘I’m calling the police.’

On top of her, the weight eased, and she wriggled onto her side, frantically pulling down her skirt and coat.

‘What the—?’

Ricky McQuade receded like magic into the night, yanked upright by a strong hand. An arm appeared round his throat, holding him in a tight lock. His jeans, newly released, began to slither down his scrawny thighs, which gleamed like ghostly white sticks in the moonlight. His hands reached down to grab them, then flew up to his throat as the grip around it tightened.

‘You’re fucking killing me!’ he croaked.

She scrambled to her feet and flattened herself against the wall, shrinking back into its shadow, shaking uncontrollably. The crowd had disappeared. Ricky McQuade’s so-called friends had fled into the night at the first sign of trouble. To her right, a girl was punching numbers into a mobile. Caitlyn peered through a rapidly closing eye. It looked like ... it couldn’t be ...

‘Ailsa?’

The girl stopped jabbing.

‘Caitlyn? Oh my God!’

Ailsa crossed the yards between them in an instant and threw her arms around her, and Caitlyn folded into her sister’s embrace, clutching at her like a child hugging a comfort blanket after a nightmare.

Caitlyn slept for eleven hours. Sometime after nine, when she should have been alone in the house, she dreamed of a grotesque bear-brown monster, snapping and snarling in her face, and woke with a yell.

A door creaked, someone called, ‘She’s awake!’ and there was a thumping of feet on the stairs. And then her mother was beside her and she was in her arms, sweating and shaking, but safe.

‘You’re all right, Caitie. Everything’s all right.’

Joyce hadn’t used her baby name for years. It was comforting.

‘Let me look at you. Oh my pet lamb—’

She held Caitlyn at arm’s length and studied her. ‘You’re getting a real shiner there. How are you feeling?’

Caitlyn tested each muscle, every joint, with care. ‘My back’s really sore. I’m sore all over, but particularly my shoulders and my head.’

She shuddered. ‘Oh Mum – if Wallace hadn’t come along—’

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. He’s such a nice young man, isn’t he? A real gentle giant. Ailsa’s a lucky girl.’

Caitlyn hung her head. ‘I misjudged him so badly. Just because he’s covered in tattoos and he shaves his head—’ Caitlyn managed a slightly crooked smile. ‘It’s a good thing he acts like a bouncer though, isn’t it? What time is it?’

‘After nine.’

‘Really? Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I managed to swap my shift. Reggie’s here too. He’s got a day off, as it happens.’

‘You’re so good to me.’

Joyce shook her head, smiling. ‘You’re my daughter. I don’t suppose you’ve thought yet about whether to lay charges against that vile McQuade boy?’

Caitlyn shrank back at the sound of his name. ‘God, I was so stupid! He’s been coming on to me for ages but I never thought he’d have a go. He was drunk, of course, and the others egged him on.’

‘We should call the police.’

‘He didn’t actually rape me, Mum.’

‘He assaulted you. Look at the state of you, girl. On the other hand,’ she wriggled quickly round to put herself between Caitlyn and the mirror, ‘maybe that’s not a good idea. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Let me think about it, OK?’

She wanted, more than anything, to call Malkie, but the memory of their disagreement came in the way. Within a few hours, shock made her retreat into herself. When the young ones rushed back from school, agog to know how their big sister was, she told Joyce she wanted to rest and shut her door.

At some point Ailsa crept in, but she feigned sleep. She wasn’t ready to dissect her feelings. During the long night, she wondered if she ever could.

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‘C
heck that out, Molly, will you? You’re the best at rooting out business babble. We need to make sure the pitch is in the same language as the material we’re using to reach our target customers.’

Molly turned away from the computer screen and the final instructions she was issuing for a high-impact rebranding event that was planned for next week, and took the print-out from Ken. The team at Fletcher Keir Mason was developing all the materials it needed for the public health campaign pitch which they were due to submit by the end of the week, and everyone was working flat out.

‘Jody says you look terrific, by the way.’ Molly had joined Ken and his girlfriend for a drink after work last night, grabbing a much-needed hour’s relaxation before heading home to Battersea. ‘She reckons it’s the hair.’

Molly’s hand went up to her shorn locks. It had been weeks now; it was almost ready for another trim, but she still couldn’t quite get used to the feeling of lightness.

‘Thanks! What’s the deadline for this?’

‘Yesterday.’

He moved away, on to the next task already. Their submission proposal was radical – built on the idea that customers would decide the next steps through consultation. This set the traditional marketing strategy of a campaign pushed out to customers from a central point on its head, which would make selling the concept at the presentation doubly hard.

She finished her email quickly, reached for a red biro and bent her head to the documents. It was always easier to read this kind of material off screen.

Her pencil hovered, then dropped. She’d forgotten to call her father yesterday, she realised with an anguished pang. How could she have done that? She’d been so caught up with the whole submission, as well as masterminding various other events, that she hadn’t had a minute. But there should always be time for Billy; work was no excuse.

She picked up the pencil again and tried to concentrate. She’d call her father at lunchtime, when she went out for a sandwich. That had been the problem yesterday – there had been back-to-back meetings, and one of them had been over lunch, so sandwiches had been provided.

Barnaby laid a light hand on her shoulder. ‘How’s it going?’

‘This’ll take me a couple of hours, Barnaby,’ she flashed, immediately defensive.

‘Hey! It wasn’t a criticism,’ he said, startled. ‘It was a sympathetic question.’

‘Sorry.’ Her shoulders hunched. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It wasn’t midday yet and already she was tired. But that was no excuse – everyone was tired.

Barnaby grabbed an empty seat and rolled it across the floor to sit next to her. ‘Don’t drive yourself too hard, Molly,’ he said, his deep voice lowered so that only she could hear it. ‘What time were you in this morning?’