The Deviants. C.J. Skuse
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still in remission, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, my dad’s OK. Well, at the moment he is.’
‘Has your mum called again? Your brothers? You’re always fractious whenever they’ve been in touch.’
‘No.’ I sat down on the grass, narrowly avoiding a pat of dried sheep crap. I felt like crying so badly it was hurting my neck. I chugged back some more water to drown it.
He sat down next to me. ‘Is it leaving school? I know it’s a big step, sixth form, but you’ll be all right. You should be excited about it. I think you’ll do well.’
‘It’s not any of that.’
‘Tell me,’ he said, like he was settling in for a good movie. ‘Come on, we need to clear out your brain, otherwise you’re not going to get the most out of this. You may as well go home and eat twelve Krispy Kremes and a Nando’s for all the good it’s going to do.’
‘You can’t eat Nando’s at home,’ I said.
‘You can,’ he argued. ‘They’ve got it in Waitrose. I’ve tried their pervy sauce. Believe me, it is all the noms.’
A smile tore at my lips. ‘It’s peri-peri sauce. And don’t speak young. It sounds weird.’
He laughed. ‘Come on then, what’s the matter? Is it Max?’
Trying to form the sentence in my head was getting me nowhere. We sat in perfect silence, but for the buzzing in the grass around us. His eyes fixed on me.
‘Yeah,’ I said eventually. ‘He’s been my best friend since primary school. When we started going out together it was lovely, for a while. But he wants more now. And I don’t.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘It’s so difficult cos he’s my best friend. If I was going to kiss any boy, be with any boy, it would be him, no question. We make perfect sense. I miss him when he’s not around. Sometimes I miss him when he goes to the toilet. I know, I know. It’s so soppy.’
‘No, it isn’t. There’s nothing soppy about it. You love him.’
I nodded. ‘But I feel like I’m losing him.’
‘If he loves you as much as you love him, then you won’t lose him. He won’t let it come between you.’
‘It is coming between us. All his mates have these stunning girlfriends, and groupies who hang around the social club after his home games. Some are younger than me. Tight tops, all swigging cider. Any one of them would do it with him, I know they would. And then there’s Shelby.’
‘Who’s Shelby?’
‘His cousin, Shelby Gilmore. Well, step-cousin. His Auntie Manda’s daughter. She’s seventeen as well. They come over for Sunday lunch every single week. She’s a walking, talking reason never to look in a mirror again.’
‘So?’ said Pete. ‘That doesn’t mean anything will happen with her, does it?’
‘Maybe it already has happened, though. I don’t know. They really get on. And she flirts with him all the time. Flicking her hair back. Smiling at him. Always talking to him about stuff they’re both interested in but I’m not, like gaming and football. She’s gorgeous. And she’s so… experienced too. She’s had more boyfriends than I’ve done time trials.’
‘Have you tried getting to know her?’ said Pete. ‘You might have things in common.’
‘I’ve hate-liked a few of her status updates on Facebook. But no, not really.’
I slowly peeled off my running gloves to show him the scabs on my knuckles. ‘And then there’s this.’
He cringed and gently lifted my left hand to look at it. He reached for the other one and studied it. ‘How have you done this?’
‘We’ve got a stone pillar in our lounge. When I’m home alone, sometimes I punch it. I gaffer tape a cushion to it so it doesn’t hurt as much.’
Pete’s face creased. ‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Only just recently. It just gets too much sometimes. You know what I was like when we started training. Running helped me. But just lately it hasn’t been enough.’
‘Ella, this isn’t right, what you’re doing to yourself. You don’t owe Max anything and you certainly shouldn’t blame yourself for not being ready to sleep with him.’
‘I do owe him though, don’t I?’ I said. ‘I’m his girlfriend. It’s what girlfriends do. He’s waited ages.’
Pete’s jaw dropped. ‘Where is that written? Is this some law I don’t know about?’
‘It’s just a fact.’
‘It most certainly is not,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t owe him sex for any reason whatsoever. Sex isn’t the prize you get for patience, Ella. The only reason to do it is because you want to. If he’s the kind of person who will have sex with a girl who doesn’t want to have sex with him, then ask yourself why would you want to be with a guy like that?’
‘No, he’s not, his… He’s not pressuring me,’ I said, scratching my shins. The fire was raging. Urticaria, our doctor called it – a completely random skin reaction to too much histamine in my blood. My training meant I couldn’t take my antihistamines because they made me drowsy. The wild grass was making it worse. ‘I just hate what we’ve turned into. And I don’t feel like we can go back to how we were. Just friends. I hate myself.’
‘How can you hate yourself? You’re an incredible girl. I’m so proud of you, how you’ve come through it all – your mum leaving, and your dad’s illness. You’ve stuck to your training plan, you’re nailing your PBs on a regular basis. You’re brilliant, Ella.’
‘Don’t give me compliments, Pete. You’re just throwing stones into a bottomless pit.’
‘You know, not talking about something that’s hurting you always makes it worse. It starts feeding on you, like a parasite. Once you let it out, it’s got nowhere else to go but away. Is there something else upsetting you? Other than the Max thing?’
The tractor in the far meadow had stopped baling. The sheep under the tree were looking our way. The whole world seemed to be waiting for me to say it out loud.
I shook my head. ‘No. I just need to work things out for myself, that’s all.’
‘By punching concrete?’ I didn’t answer that. ‘Will you at least recognise that it’s not good for you to keep doing this to yourself?’ I shrugged. I couldn’t promise. ‘OK, well, if you’re determined to punch for therapy, I can at least show you some proper technique.’
‘Can you?’
‘Yeah. I boxed a bit at university. It’s a great stress reliever. I still do a bit now and then. It’s great for stamina, too.’
‘Where do you do it?’
‘In my garage. Come on, let’s go back and have a cuppa and I’ll show you.’
We jogged back down the hill and walked across the churchyard into Church Lane, where Pete’s cottage was. His garage wasn’t like ours, with all Dad’s dusty boxes of rusty tools, doorknobs, foreign editions of his Jock of the Loch romance novels and Christmas trimmings. Or Neil Rittman’s immaculate garage, with the two luxury cars and giant speedboat. Pete’s was smaller, like a boutique gymnasium with a wall TV, a fridge of isotonic drinks, weight machines, a treadmill, dumb-bells, a bench and, swinging from one of the low slung beams on a chain, a large black-and-red punchbag. He reached for something on top of the fridge and unravelled it.
‘First we wrap your hands.’ He set about coiling a length of red bandage right around both my hands, like I was being