Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

By the time I got home, I had decided to meet him for Patrick’s birthday. It meant something that he was inviting me, and I needed to see this through. I touched up my makeup and ran a straightener through my hair. He would tease me again, but there was no time to change, so my THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt would have to do. Mum rang on schedule as I was leaving, but I turned my phone to silent.

At Whitechapel, there were delays on the district line. The station was heaving, and there was group of drunk men wearing football shirts and chanting. I passed through the barriers and looked for him. He was standing in the middle of the platform with his feet over the yellow line. He was wearing his denim jacket and his black jeans. I remembered seeing him outside my front door holding a birthday cake, but then I remembered how Steph had helped him to make it.

I weaved through the crowds and squeezed until I was standing just behind him, close enough to see the white threads in the rip in his jacket. I went to tap him on the back but stopped.

I considered then how he might feel when he saw me. So much of my happiness depended on his expression. Would he frown or smile? If the former, I would dance on the eggshells of the evening and try to please him like there was a gun to my head. The latter, I would be happy but know that it wouldn’t last, would clutch the happiness like it was a bird in my hand until it suffocated. And he would tell me that it was my fault, that I killed the bird, but he would have been the one who put it there, placed his hand over mine, and squeezed.

A rumbling began in the tunnel. The lights of the train became visible. A receipt blew across the tiles. The football men shouted. I thought about every cruel thing he had ever done or said, but before I could decide what I wanted, I was pushed.

I fell to my knees, and my phone skidded from my pocket. I retrieved it, but the screen was smashed. Three men in football shirts were shoving to the front, oblivious of the damage they had caused. My anger was now for them. The same person, the same man, the same predator. Like the women of Thebes, I wanted to rip them to pieces. I shouted, and one turned, red-eyed. What did you say?

You pushed me. Aren’t you going to say sorry?

What the fuck is your problem?

You smashed my phone, you fucking arsehole. You should say sorry.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, and his thumb dug in below my collarbone. The other two men tried to calm him down: She’s not worth it, mate, leave her. Bitch. He said that I was asking for it. But before he could give me what I was apparently asking for, the train doors started beeping. One of the men prized them apart, and they pushed into the swollen carriage, somewhere in the middle of which, on his way to Patrick’s birthday party, he was.

Two women approached from the other side of the platform. One had flower beading in her blond curls. Come with us. They led me through the barriers. They were going to a hen do in Spitalfields and walked me home first. They told me familiar stories. One, about a man who followed her home. The other, about a man who threw a stone at her head. I forgot to ask their names.

I took my clothes off and left them by the wardrobe.

THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE .

I crouched in the shower until the water ran cold.

I put on my Mario Kart T-shirt and got into bed. The next time my eyes opened, light was seeping through the blinds. I reached for my phone and saw the cracked screen. There were three missed calls and four messages. I sat upright.

You coming?

We’re going to that pub by the canal. Call me if you’re coming

You could have let me know, Enola

Look, you should know that I had a long chat with Pat tonight… I’ll be over tomorrow at about 10 p.m. after I’ve moved house. We should talk. x