Omissions
He did not fall asleep straight away, instead lying there and thinking of the things he hadn’t said.
He’d not mentioned his complete absence of courage. When he’d realised that violence was inevitable, he’d wondered if perhaps he might summon up some innate fighting ability, unleashed by righteous fury. That’s what happened in films, he thought, to ordinary men forced to defend the thing they loved. But no such power manifested itself, and while there was no shame in being beaten up by five fit young men, he undoubtedly felt shame. In the version he’d told Marnie, he’d made it sound as if he’d simply curled up and taken it, so that it was a story of resilience, with no mention of the pleading that Nat had witnessed.
He’d made it sound as if he was forgiving about his attackers when in truth he thought quite often about killing them, the grinning boy in particular, a kid no older than the lads he taught, bringing his foot down with all his might. The grin, the glee, it seemed to Michael a terrible thing, the boy’s face the figurehead for all his intrusive thoughts and an image he’d never escape, no matter how far he walked. He’d never had a use for the word ‘cunt’ before then and now, in his moments of panic, jolting awake in the night, he pictured that little cunt’s face, and the rage he felt, the violence, would set his heart racing again. Michael would never stop hating that boy for the time, the peace of mind he’d stolen, and he’d never stop being frightened of him either.
This hatred was shameful in another way. A central tenet of his teaching had always been that all of his pupils were of equal worth, all possessed a quality or talent that might be drawn out and nurtured. But his attackers, he thought they were worthless and felt compelled to tell them this, whisper it, make it their last thought each night, that he wished them nothing but unhappiness, sickness and failure. Such hatred was a cumbersome thing to carry, yet there was undoubtedly excitement in hatred too, in his own fantasies of revenge, and this was also shaming.
Something else unspoken. Did he still love Natasha? He did, though it had been so long since they’d been in the same room. He didn’t expect a reunion, though he thought about it. He was no longer quite the wreck that she’d abandoned, and perhaps if they talked, really talked, who knows? As to whether she was the love of his life, it was certainly looking that way, and while this was not ideal, there seemed little he could do about it. With the exception of the woman sleeping a few feet away, he’d not felt anything for anyone in years, had presumed all that was behind him.
With the exception.She was exceptional, and there was no doubt that he was happier with Marnie around and to be happier in someone’s presence rather than alone felt like a breakthrough. Perhaps he should say it now. I don’t love you yet but I’ll see if I can. Not that, but something like it. In the darkness, her face was not much more than a few smudges, her hair across her eyes, breath clouding the cold air.
‘Marnie,’ he whispered, ‘are you still awake?’
And, as if in reply, she turned her back.
Finally, he should have told her that he was meeting up with Natasha the following night. She had texted that afternoon, saying, yes, let’s meet at five thirty. Marnie would be on the train to London by then, and since nothing was likely to happen, there’d be nothing she needed to know.