Page 19 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
I look at my house, maybe thirty metres from the Savoys’, and think in disbelief about all the years I’d been so close to her. Yet I can’t remember a moment she ever existed to me before today.
My mind tries to conjure up an image of childhood Magdalen, of a birthday we must have shared together, but each time only one memory appears. Three days before I left, reaching for a CD from Anika. Probably Madonna, knowing my sister’s taste. The rest is a haze of colour and sound, laughter, and mine and Dante’s empty wine bottles rolling across cobblestones. Forever in my blind spot, I secretly thank whatever god there is for my ignorance, knowing that running away would have been harder if I saw her as I did tonight. Exhaling a shaky breath, I unlock Anika’s car and sit in the darkness.
Olive skin and a red ribbon blowing against the breeze. She’s fucking perfect.
A scream bubbles in my throat but I swallow it, burying this feeling so deep inside of me it presses on the edge of my spine. Turning the engine on, I back out of the driveway and steal one last glance at Magdalen’s house. A faint yellow glow of a lamp shines from the farthest window, letting me know that she’s in her bedroom. Groaning, I try not to picture her in her bed, but it’s too late. A prickle of fear forms in my stomach. Fear born of desire. To follow her up those creaky steps and be the one she lets into her room. One day back and already I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Why couldn’t she stay in England? She wouldn’t be bleeding half as much and I wouldn’t be supressing a hard-on for my best friend’s younger sister. ‘God help me,’ I sigh. ‘You were not part of the plan, Magdalen.’ Looking again at her window before I back out of the driveway, I see her single light amid the night. Another disturber of the darkness. Perhaps I was never as alone as I felt.
When I get inside Tirumapifort, the tennis club remains crowded with sweaty bodies and short dresses.
I make my way through to the bar, people move before I ask them to, and when I look up I notice people staring. Examining. Jesus, this is creepy. A man I don’t recognize, dressed in a white vest and gold chain, with more hair growing from his eyebrows than his head, squints as his gaze falls from my hair to my neck then finally back up to my eyes. He nods, approving and welcoming. Do I fucking know you? I try to think back on my time at the club, but all I remember is Chiara and empty beer cans discarded in the pool, and shiver at the memory. Hating who I was. Hating who I am, I correct myself. Best to be humble.
I try not to think about Chiara right now, but before I can stop myself my eyes search for the bathroom door on the far wall. Inside a stall she’d had her dress raked up to her thighs as she settled herself on top of me. No underwear. I can still smell the spilled cheap vodka and disinfectant. Her dress straps falling as she moaned in my ear, stale and practiced, knowing what I like to hear. We’d been fucking for two months at that point. I was too lazy to tell her I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice. If I drank enough, nothing mattered. I blink the memory away. Looking back to the crowd, a complete path has been opened for me.
A short man with a stomach hanging over his trousers and an anchor tattooed on his bicep laughs obnoxiously and somehow, I know. It’s him. The glass table next to him has been cleaned up, with only the frame pushed into the corner. Anger swells in my stomach. Watching him laugh is enough to set me off. I picture his elbow slamming into Magdalen’s stomach; I see her fear. I tap his shoulder. Flashing a smile, extending my hand out in greeting. The man looks at me confused, but immediately takes my hand in earnest, shaking hard. His palms are slick with sweat, and he smells of stale clothes and tequila. You have no idea what I’m about to do to you, fucker.
All I can see when I look at him is Magdalen hurt, chewing on her bottom lip, accepting the pain as if it belonged to her. It was her need to hide her hurt before Anika saw, and the sight of her back. Her back, plastered with the same colour as that fucking red ribbon. And the burns, years-old scars that made her body tense as I traced them with my fingers. Enough innocence to save us all.
Despite not knowing me, the man is eager to talk to anyone who shows interest, and he moistens his lips in preparation.
‘Sorry to bother you, I just have a quick question.’
‘Ask away!’
‘Didn’t your mother teach you not to be such a fucking cunt?’
My hand hardens around his, and I watch as his eyes widen in confusion. He has the audacity to look like a victim! Like he’s never committed a sin in his life. With no notice, I pull his hand towards me as my other hand connects with his jaw, watching with fire behind my eyes as his head snaps back, eyes shutting with pain. The fucker reaches for his face, blood pooling from his lip, eyes shining with fury. Innocence evaporated.
‘You Scottish prick.’ He spits a combination of saliva and blood to the ground.
Ah, so he does know who I am. Calling me a Scot is an ineffective insult, and what he really means is something more sinister. There is no denying the Sinclairs’ rarity in this small town, our accents thick, the hot shots who own the museum! A nerve in my temple begins to throb.
Before I can respond to the man-pig, a sharp pain strikes my leg and I fall to my knee. My bones crash into the concrete, small remnants of glass still scattered across from Magdalen’s accident scrape my skin and I can already feel a gash on my knee. Our skin has been torn from the same glass and I briefly wonder if this connects us in some way. I jerk my head to see the one responsible but a crowd has amassed behind me, the attacker hidden among them. Pussy. As I turn my head back to face the bar again, a fist connects with my nose, causing my vision to darken. I touch my fingers to my nose and they come away bloody. The heady pressure of his punch fills my head, my lungs. My heartbeat steadies and I stifle a moan from the comfort of the pain. Finally.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I enjoy the dull throbbing in my nose for a moment. Thank you, I want to say. My mind clears. For once I’m not thinking about all the shit. I think only of the ache and feel better than I have since landing. My head bends low, watching my own blood hit the floor in even, measured drips.
‘Shouldn’t have done that.’ I slowly raise my head, a grin tugging at my lips. Spitting the blood towards his sandals, I watch his eyes widen above me. Recognizing his momentary dominance as he towers above me, the disgruntled man lets out a weak, ‘You really want to say that from down there, bitch?’
Shifting his weight from his right to left, flexing and fisting his hands, it’s clear he’s never had to fight before.
Growing courage, the man grabs my hair by the roots, forcing me to look up at him.
‘Now that I think about it,’ I muse, my voice low, ‘you probably learned it from your mother, huh?’
In one quick motion I drag my knee to his groin in a casual arc. A loud groan fills the bar space as he bends over in pain, panting with exhaustion. Without hesitation, I stand up, my hand wraps around the back of his neck and pushes his face into the floor. An alarm rings in my head, a crowd of people materializing around us, all who know my father. Who’ll be the first to tell him? Maybe I should stop. But the thought of my father only ignites my anger tenfold.
The man’s gasps are muffled by the floor and he coughs aggressively. I know that this is over, he’s learned his lesson; I’ve won. I bend down and flip him over, scratches from broken glass cover his forehead. I exhale loudly, knowing what I’m about to do is wrong, but all I see is how vulnerable my Magdalen looked underneath the yellow lamp of her kitchen.
This time I can feel the bone crack as I punch him in the nose; the wet sound of crushed cartilage creates a sickening noise that burns my stomach. My fist hovers above him again, the tantalizing lure to create pain is like a whisper over my skin. Do it, do it, do it. The more pain he feels the less you will.
‘Are you crazy? What the fuck did I even do?’ he yells, but it’s far away, so easy to ignore.
With one hand curled around the collar of his shirt, I press my weight into his neck, causing a guttural choke to leave his lips. Finally, someone gets it. His shirt rides up his body, exposing his hairy stomach.
‘Yes.’ My voice is unrecognizable even to myself. ‘You hurt her.’ I am lost to the anger, but this is now more than just about Magdalen. The years of hurt, from everything that happened in Chivasso before I left, creep too close to the surface. The muscle in my arm flexes as I swing again but before I can make contact a hand grabs the back of my shirt and tugs me away.
‘Cazzo,’ a familiar voice spits at me. I drop my hand and turn to find Dante staring at me, bewilderment in his eyes. Shoving me aside, he reaches for the man on the floor, muttering pathetic apologies to him. There’s terror in the man’s eyes as he looks at me one last time before huffing out his chest in exaggerated pain, performing for the crowd of onlookers.
