Perfectly Ordinary People(42)

I told him I was scared, I think, and began to cry again, and I’ll never forget what he said. He said, ‘We’re all scared, Genevieve. We’re all terrified, and we’re right to be. We’re all going to continue being terrified until this whole thing is over, however long that takes. So you might as well just get used to it.’

I asked him if I really had to leave, and he said that he couldn’t tell me if it was safe to leave, but he could tell me that, because of what I’d done, it definitely wasn’t safe to stay.

Because he’d stopped speaking, I looked up – I’d had my face buried in his chest – and I realised that Mum had slipped into the room. She was holding the baby against her shoulder, tapping his back to wind him.

She asked what was going on, and Dad said that he had to take a trip west the next day and he was going to take ‘this one’ with him, meaning me. Mum asked him where, and he said, pointedly, that it was ‘over towards the demarcation line’.

‘And Pierre?’ Mum asked, and Dad nodded.

‘And the baby,’ I added, and when Mum frowned, Dad explained that it was better we went ‘as a family’.

As my mother turned away, I saw a tear slip down her cheek. ‘I’d better make you something for the trip, then,’ she said, pretending to be very matter-of-fact about it.

Sorry, but just so that I – so that the readers understand – had she worked it all out? Because it sounds like you were all speaking to each other in riddles again.

Yes, we were in a way. I think Dad was being cagey because he didn’t want to feel he was pushing me to leave . . . And he didn’t want to give my mother any information that could put her, or me, in danger later on.

But yes, I suspect that Mum had heard enough of the conversation to work out what was happening.

But she didn’t try to stop you leaving?

No. For those kinds of big decisions she believed in my father’s judgement. He’d been a soldier, after all. I think she just trusted him to know better than her what the risks were. She knew how much he loved me, so . . .

But you must have been scared about leaving, weren’t you?

Yes, I was – I kept getting the shakes. I kept having these sort of panic attacks where I couldn’t breathe, as well. I was terrified. I was only nineteen, remember. I’d never even lived away from home. So yes, it was a very, very scary thing to attempt. I went off to try to find Matias because I was hoping that he’d tell me we were safe, that we didn’t need to go after all. But he wasn’t in the café and I couldn’t see him in any of the other places he was generally to be seen either, so after a while I returned back home. There was no way that I was going to go near the police station again, after all.

On the way back I called in to tell Pierre what Dad was proposing and find out if he was well enough to travel. His mother, who as ever was sewing, told me rather abruptly that he was in his room sleeping, but Pierre shouted out that he was awake so I let myself in and closed the bedroom door behind me.

He was lying on his front with pillows beneath his stomach so that his bum stuck up and I think I made some joke about that which fell very flat. He apologised and said that it was the only position that didn’t hurt.

I told him, in whispers, what Dad had suggested, and Pierre said that Matias had dropped in to tell him the same thing – we needed to get out as soon as we possibly could. Pierre said he wasn’t well enough to leave and suggested I should go on my own.

I told him the truth, that I was too scared, and as a woman, it was too dangerous to go alone anyway. We talked a bit about postponing it until he felt stronger, but we knew that wasn’t an option. We tried to think of places we could hide for a while, but couldn’t come up with anywhere sensible.

Pierre wasn’t even sure if he could walk, so I helped him from the bed and he limped a little around the room. I asked him if it hurt, and he said that, yes, it hurt, but that wasn’t the problem, that the problem was if he started to bleed again.

‘Your feet or your fingers?’ I asked, and he held out his blood-encrusted fingers and then looked down at his swollen toes and wiggled them and said, ‘No, they’re OK.’

‘You mean your leg?’ I asked, looking down at his pyjama bottoms to see if they were bloodstained, and he replied that it wasn’t his leg either. That his legs were fine.

I was frowning, I think, so he said, ‘Look, Gen, I’m going to tell you this, OK? But then can we please never speak of it again? Ever?’

I think I just nodded . . .

Go on.

Actually, you know, I’m just wondering . . . well . . . I’m not sure your readers need to know this.

No?

No. It’s pretty graphic. But then again, it’s kind of important in order to understand the rest.

Perhaps just tell me and we can decide later if we leave it in or not, or how we present it, or whatever?

OK.

Are you OK?

Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. I’m just remembering. It’s hard. So, Pierre started to cry again. And he whispered it so quietly, I almost didn’t hear him. He whispered that they had fucked him.

The soldiers had raped him?!

That’s what I thought he meant. And that’s what I asked him to confirm because I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. But he closed his eyes, and looked away. And then as he turned back to face me – God, he was crying so hard, the tears were dripping off his chin. He said, ‘They did, but not . . . you know . . . Not using themselves.’