Chapter Eight
Elora
I usually work Saturdays, but the museum doesn’t open until ten, so I’m in less of a rush than normal. I’m up at six, though, jolted out of sleep by a particularly unpleasant dream. Zoe’s still asleep, as she’s not leaving with Joel until ten, so the apartment is quiet.
I have a soak in the bath, letting the heat from the water soak away the tremors of anxiety that remain from my dream-filled night. The terror is fading now, and I inhale the lavender-filled steam and release my tension with the out breath.
Trying to distract myself, I think about Linc.
I can remember the scent of his cologne when he put his arm around me. And then, when he went to go, the way our eyes met, and the shock that passed through me. I’ve met enough young men at university to know that’s not normal. I did make a few male friends, but none of them seemed interested in me sexually, and nobody ever asked me out on a date. I’m not sure if that’s because I was subconsciously sending out signals to say I wasn’t interested, or if I genuinely am ugly as .
You were never ugly. You were cute as a button then. But you’re beautiful now . His words make me glow inside. He wouldn’t say that just to make me feel better, would he? The way he looked at me made me feel as if he finds me attractive. But maybe I’m wrong. He’s not an eighteen-year-old guy who’s never been kissed. He’s twenty-eight and a man of the world. I’m sure he’s had plenty of relationships, and no doubt he knows his way around a woman’s body. He’d never be interested in a girl like me, scholarly, shy, and clueless. And anyway, he’s only here for a week or so. I’m not interested in casual sex.
I lift my foot out of the water and watch the bubbles glisten. I might be a little bit interested.
My way of dealing with things is not to think about them. So I’ve shut any notion of love and sex out of my life for years. I’ve been busy at university, working hard, and it hasn’t been that difficult. I didn’t want to face the issues I know are going to rise when—if—I ever meet a guy I like enough to have sex with. But suddenly, seeing Linc has caused all those repressed thoughts and emotions to come rushing to the surface.
It’s not going to come to anything, for several reasons. I tick them off on my fingers. One—there’s no time. Two—he probably doesn’t fancy me in that way anyway. And three—I’d never be able to relax enough to let him get near me.
I slide down in the water, letting it close over my shoulders and breasts, and I feel an answering tingle between my legs at the sensation of the water tension teasing my nipples.
What would it feel like to go to bed with him?
My face heats at the thought of it. Of letting him undress me. Kiss me. Feeling his hands, his lips, on my skin. Of lying in bed with him, having his weight press me into the mattress. Of…
I close my eyes and swallow hard. Best not to think about that.
I brush my hands down over my body. I have an ache deep inside, and when I slide my fingers between my legs, I find myself swollen and slippery. I screw my eyes up, feeling the familiar wash of guilt at the thought of touching myself. My parents never broached the subject of masturbation with me—it’s not as if my dad told me it was a sin or anything. It was just never mentioned. They didn’t talk about sex in general much. Mum always answered any questions I had, but she tended to reply in very practical terms. I remember asking her what a condom was once, and her reply still makes me wince… “Well, when a man puts his penis in a woman’s vagina…”
The boys at the school, including Linc, Henry, Fraser, and Joel, joked about masturbation—or wanking or jerking off, as they so charmingly called it—enough to make me think it was quite normal, for guys anyway. And Zoe and Hallie, bless them, have both referred to their vibrators, usually after a glass of wine, suggesting they don’t think there’s anything wrong with a woman pleasuring herself.
But for me, sex is tied up with feelings of guilt, anxiety, fear, and dread. I’ve talked about it to my therapist a few times, and she’s reassured me it’s common for women who’ve been assaulted. She’s also told me it’s perfectly natural to masturbate and explore what feels pleasurable for yourself, and that it would be good for me to do it, so I can start to associate sex with pleasure rather than pain. But I don’t do it often. I tend to tell myself that—like a dog who keeps humping your leg—I need some exercise, and go for a long walk.
Now, though, I feel a tug of resentment. Zoe said she and her last boyfriend once spent the whole week in bed, barely rising to get food from the fridge. She implied it was a magical, fun, pleasurable act. That’s how the movies portray it, too. And for the first time, I wonder what it must be like to share yourself with someone like that.
As I stroke my fingers through my folds, then circle the pad of my forefinger over my clit, I make myself think of Linc, and what it would be like to have sex with him.
In the movies, men are often rough, and seem to enjoy controlling the action. They lift the girl up, throw her on the bed, and are inside her in seconds, and the women always seem to enjoy it. Is it true that some women like that? I don’t understand why. It takes time for me to arouse myself, and I know what happens if you have sex when you’re not ready. I’m worried about not being able to vocalize what I want or need, and about being out of control. Of a man doing something I don’t like.
If it was Linc, though, I could tell him, couldn’t I? I’ve always been able to talk to him. I remember being fourteen, not long before he left, and having period pain, and telling him one afternoon when he asked why I didn’t want to go out on a walk with him. He made me a hot water bottle and a bacon sandwich—very much a guy’s way of taking care of someone—but I adored him for it.
I can’t imagine him being rough, anyway. He’s always seemed so gentle. I picture him keeping his eyes on mine as he takes off my clothes slowly. Then lowering his head and kissing me, not just touching his lips to mine, but using his tongue, the way I’ve seen in the movies. Lying me on the bed, and kissing down my body, over my breasts. I touch my nipples as I imagine him covering each with his mouth and stroking the sensitive skin with his tongue. And I think of him sliding his fingers down into me, slowly, gently, taking the time to arouse me.
My fingers move faster, and the ache deep inside me grows. It’s a wonderful fantasy, and I can almost imagine that I wouldn’t be scared when it came to the moment where he moved on top of me and pressed inside me…
I’ve never looked at porn, but I think of the sex scenes I’ve seen in movies and TV series, where the women are enjoying it as much as the guys, and imagine myself as one of those actors, and Linc as the male lead. I picture us moving together, enjoying each other’s bodies, taking pleasure from one another. I want to be wanted. I’d like him to feel that way about me. To like me enough to want to make love with me. And it might be nice to take him all the way. To know I’ve given him such pleasure that he’s reached the ultimate goal. To have him come inside me.
Oh yeah, that’s doing the trick… My teeth tug at my bottom lip as my internal muscles start to tense, and then I bite hard to stop myself crying out as the orgasm sweeps over me. Ooh, mmm… yesssss… that feels good… strong, hard pulses that leave me gasping with deep breaths as I try to draw air into my lungs.
I lie back, my face hot at the memory of my stolen, private fantasy. Ah, jeez, now I’m going to have to look him in the eye with the knowledge of what I’ve been thinking about. Oh well, too late now.
I wonder if he’s ever done this while he thinks about me?
I slide down into the water again, feeling wicked, but the thought won’t leave my mind. Does he do this? I’m being stupid—of course he does. I think all men do. They’re quite open about it, and they don’t seem to feel guilty about doing it. I imagine him taking himself in hand and picturing me while he arouses himself. Giving long, firm strokes, head tipped back, until he… Hmm, best to stop there I think, or I’ll need to start all over again.
Feeling more than a little sinful, I get out of the bath, dry myself, and get dressed in black trousers and, today, a pink shirt. I put my hair up in its usual bun, slick on a bit of makeup, then go out into the kitchen. I make myself some tea and toast and take it out onto our miniscule balcony. It’s only big enough for one chair and a tiny round table, but I like sitting out here in the mornings, when the air is still fresh, and I can hear the seagulls crying over the harbor.
It’s normally one of my most peaceful times. Today, though, my stomach gives a little flip as I take out my phone.
I leave it on the table for a moment and sip my tea. I know Dad will be up as he’s an early riser. He’ll have done the same as me—made himself tea and toast, and he’ll be in his office right now, opening his emails and planning out his day. Later, he’ll probably take a group of students out to the mountains for a few hours, and maybe he’ll even stay in one of the cabins overnight. He’s great at team building. There’s something about him that encourages even the most reticent students to open up.
Linc was like that. When he first arrived at Greenfield, fourteen and already gorgeous, with dark hair that flopped over one eye and an attractive, nervous energy, he was surly and angry, his green eyes flashing. He was sarcastic and resentful, and he hated that society thought him as a reprobate that needed ‘special’ tuition and care because of the behavior of his father. That first day, when I sat outside Dad’s office and offered Linc half of my Twix, I can remember the moment when Dad opened his door and came out. He saw the two of us sitting together, realized we’d shared the Twix, and gave a small smile as he came over.
“You must be Lincoln Green,” Dad said, holding out his hand.
Linc sat there sullenly and looked away.
Dad lowered his hand. “Would you like to come into my office?” he asked.
“No,” Linc said.
“All right,” Dad said easily, “we’ll talk here instead,” and he took one of the other chairs and turned it to face us, right there in the corridor. Linc looked at him as if he was crazy.
“My name is Atticus Bell,” Dad said, “and I’m a chaplain at Greenfield.”
“I’m not a Christian,” Linc said.
“That’s okay. I’m here to help everyone, and we don’t ever have to talk about religion if you don’t want to. My job is to look after students’ spiritual needs, and that’s not the same as religious needs. It means your spiritual wellbeing, as opposed to your physical wellbeing. Does that make sense?”
Linc shrugged.
“I’m a teacher and a therapist,” Dad continued. “Therapy is about you being able to talk about things that trouble you, or you’re concerned about, or whatever you want. I hold regular appointments, and I also run adventure therapy, where I take students out into the mountains to explore and camp outdoors. Is that something you think you might be interested in?”
“No,” Linc said.
“It’s good fun,” I told him. “I’ve been. I found the skeleton of a stoat.”
“I see you’ve met Elora,” Dad said with a smile. “She’s my daughter. She’s ten, and she’s around here a lot. She’s a maniac for chocolate, so it’s quite rare for her to share her Twix. Did you say thank you?”
Linc glared at him and said, “Fuck off.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Linc’s eyes blazed. He looked at Dad, challenging him to berate him. Wanting it, almost, I think, as proof of the degenerate everyone said he was.
I ate my half of the Twix quietly, waiting to see what Dad’s reaction was going to be.
“That’s one of the seven,” Dad said. “Do you know the other six?”
Linc frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The seven words you couldn’t say on American TV in the old days. Close your ears, Elora.”
I put my hands over my ears but made sure I could still hear them.
“Go on,” Dad said to Linc. “How many do you know?”
Linc lifted his chin as if thinking that if Dad thought he didn’t have the courage to say them in front of him, he was going to prove him wrong. “Shit. Piss. Cunt. Motherfucker.”
Dad just nodded. “What else?”
Linc frowned. “Bollocks?”
“That’s British—we’re talking American. One of them begins with T.”
“Tits?”
“Yep. The last one begins with C.”
“Ah… Cunt?”
“You said that.”
“Cock!” Linc looked pleased with himself.
Dad tried not to laugh. “Actually it was cocksucker, but yeah.” He gestured at me to lower my hands. “The more swear words you know, the greater your whole vocabulary is likely to be,” he said to Linc, “so in a way, it’s a sign of intelligence. You know what’s also a sign of intelligence?”
Linc shook his head.
“Knowing when to use them,” Dad said. “In the locker room after you’ve lost a football match five-nil, is appropriate, or at least it’s understandable. In front of a ten-year-old girl who’s just been kind to you isn’t.”
Linc stared at him. Then he dropped his gaze to the floor. Dad waited. Eventually, Linc looked at me. “Sorry,” he said. “And thanks for the Twix.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
Dad smiled. “You wanna come in now?” he asked Linc. “I picked up some muffins from the Tuck Shop on the way over, and Mrs. Ellis has just made us hot chocolate.”
Linc thought about it, then nodded. “All right.”
Dad got up and let Linc walk past him into his office. Then he winked at me. “See you later,” he said, and followed him in.
I’ve always loved him for that. For seeing that Linc was scared and angry at being sent away from his home, even though he was also relieved not to have to go back. For understanding that Linc felt out of control and resentful for being treated like a kid, but that, as a fourteen-year-old boy, he still needed structure and guidance and positive role models. If Dad had yelled at him for swearing at him, Linc would have retreated further into his shell and refused to open up. Dad always led by example—he never swore, or not in front of me, anyway, and he was respectful to others, especially women. The young men at Greenfield learned how to behave by watching him and became better people for it.
And that’s why I think it’s shocked me so much that he lied to me. And the worst thing is that, in his mind, my assault confirmed that he was right. If anything, it deepened his resentment toward Linc.
Well, I intend to do my best to correct that. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I have to try.
I pick up the phone and dial his number, my pulse beginning to speed up.
He answers, as I knew he would, within three rings. “Hello?” he says. “Elora? Everything okay?”
I suppose it’s a natural enough reaction after what happened, but it sometimes annoys me that he always thinks I’m calling with bad news. I can’t blame him, though. I know how much the assault shocked him, and that it’s continued to influence his belief systems and faith.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Just touching base before I go to work.”
“Ah, okay. What are you up to today?”
“Possibly finishing off cleaning an iron cannon from a shipwreck in Kaipara Harbour. Then I’m going to do some work on my dissertation.”
“Busy girl,” he says. “Got anything planned socially for the weekend?”
“I had a kind of dinner party last night,” I reply. “Fraser and Joel came over with Hallie and Zoe. And we had a special guest.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Oh?”
Anger flares inside me. “I think you know who.”
He doesn’t reply.
I sit there stiffly. Even now I know what he did, it doesn’t stop me loving him or respecting him. I would never yell at him or be rude. But because of that, I don’t know how to vocalize my anger and frustration.
“He told me,” I say eventually. “That you sent him away.” My throat tightens. “All this time, Dad, I thought Linc was the one who walked, and Fraser and Joel were the same. We all believed that Linc didn’t care enough to say goodbye. How could you do that to us?”
“He betrayed us all,” Dad says, his voice hard. “I invested a lot of time and affection in that boy, and he repaid me by violating my daughter.”
“Jesus, Dad! It was one kiss!”
“Don’t curse.”
“I didn’t… I can’t…” I grit my teeth. “I need to express my frustration, Dad. I feel…” As if I’m trying to lever a tight lid off a tin, the barrier holding in my words suddenly pops, and they come tumbling out. “I feel incredibly let down. Linc was… very special to me. I know I was only fourteen, and you’ll say it was just a crush, but looking back, I loved him, at the time, and you know what? I think he loved me too. And it wasn’t crude and vulgar and sordid. I know what those words mean now; I’ve experienced them firsthand.”
“Ah, sweetheart…”
“But what we had was clean and bright and innocent. He told me I was his first kiss, the same way he was mine.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes, I do. Just for one second, Dad, imagine that you got it wrong.”
He falls silent.
I continue, “He told me yesterday that when he kissed me, he had no intention of doing anything untoward. He said we were close, and it seemed like a natural transition to move from friends to something deeper.”
“He had no right—”
“Dad, I really, really appreciate the wonderful father you’ve been to me, and that you’ve always looked out for me, and protected me. I know that’s what fathers do for their daughters, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I understand why you were angry when you saw him kissing me. But you were wrong. He would never have hurt me. I wasn’t Jeannie, Dad, and he wasn’t Evan. And there is no connection between that kiss and what those other men did to me.”
“Elora, don’t…”
“No, I have to say this. Linc has a tattoo on the back of his neck—two angel wings. He said they refer to people you’ve lost, and he said he got them because of me, and Joel, and Fraser, and you and Mum, and all the kids at Greenfield. It was his home, Dad, and he was devastated that you sent him away. You invested four years in him, and then just abandoned him.”
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. I bite my lip. I’m sure I’ve shocked him and hurt his feelings, and that makes me feel awful, but it had to be done.
“He came back to New Zealand to go to his father’s funeral,” I tell him. “He came to the museum to see the guys, and he didn’t know I’d be there. It was a shock, but it was so good to see him. You’d be proud of him, Dad. He’s done so well for himself, and he’s such a nice guy, and that’s all down to you.”
He still doesn’t say anything.
“He saw his mum at the funeral,” I say softly. “And she told him that Don Green wasn’t his father.”
I hear an intake of breath, and then he says, “What?”
“Apparently, she had an affair early in their marriage, but Don found out and beat the guy up, and she never saw him again. Don knew that Linc wasn’t his, though. That’s why he was so awful to him.”
He gives a muffled groan.
“You should have seen his face. He said he’s going to get Liber Sum tattooed on his forehead.”
“I’m free,” Dad says quietly.
“Yeah. He’s going to try and contact his real dad. He’s not here for long, though, so I don’t know if he’ll be able to track him down. But the thing is… you were the closest he’s ever had to a father. He worshiped you, and he respected you. When he kissed me… it was nothing to do with you, Dad. It was about us, me and him. I think there could have been something special between us, but I’ll never know.” My voice breaks slightly, and I stop and clear my throat. “It’s too late now, of course, he has a life in the UK, and he’s off south soon for a convention. But it was great to see him and put some of the ghosts to rest.”
“Are you going to see him again before he leaves?”
“Yes, probably. He thinks he might know where the Bell Ring is.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. He had some contact who mentioned someone who bought it… somewhere. I can’t be any more specific than that. But he’s going to phone around and catch up with me later. I want to try and find it for Mum.” I stop and swallow hard. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m glad you spoke to me.”
“Are you? I feel terrible now.” I’ve never contradicted him or spoken to him as harshly as this.
But he says, “You did the right thing. I’m not saying I agree with you a hundred percent, or that it’s definitely going to change my opinion of what happened. But… I appreciate what you’ve said. And I will think and pray on it.”
I know that’s the best I can hope for. “All right. Well, I’d better go.”
“You take care of yourself, okay?”
“Will do. Love you.”
“I love you too, my darling.”
I end the call.
I’m shaking a little. I take deep breaths and let them out slowly. It’s so strange how my parents programmed me with respect and deference as a child, and even though I’m an adult now, it’s so hard to break that programming. I no longer have to agree with everything they say, or live my life the way they’ve taught me, but it’s almost impossible to change the blueprint they laid down for me at birth.
I feel itchy, as if insects are crawling under my skin, and I have a feeling that’s not going to go away anytime soon. But I’m glad I called. For the first time, I feel as if I’ve taken control. I’m putting things in order. And although ultimately it’s not going to change anything between me and Linc, there’s something to be said for excavating the truth and exposing what’s been buried. Now I just need to use excarnation of the soul—to leave the skeleton of the past out in the fresh air, and let the elements and wild animals pick it clean.