She’d just have to tell them that she wasn’t going to tell them.
But they’d still try and find out.
She didn’t blame them. She’d have been the same. It was going to be terrible though. She wouldn’t be able to really relax with them any more.
— There’s Keith Farrelly.
— Yeah.
— He’s a ride, isn’t he?
— He’s alrigh’.
— D’yeh not like him?
— He’s alrigh’.
— I thought that yeh liked him.
— Fuck off, will yeh. It wasn’t him.
It was going to be fuckin’ terrible.
She felt a bit lonely now. She’d have loved someone to talk to, to talk to nonstop for about an hour, to tell everything to. But — and she was realizing this now really — there was no one like that. She’d loads of friends but she only really knew them in a gang.
It hadn’t been like that in school. Jackie had been her best friend for years but now that was only because she saw her more often than the others, not because she knew her better. She’d never have been able to tell Jackie all about what had happened. They’d often talked about fellas; what he did and how he did it and that sort of thing, but that had only been for a laugh; messing. They hadn’t spoken seriously about anything to do with sex since — since Sharon had her first period. Or they’d pretended it wasn’t serious. It was always for a laugh. Giggling, roaring, saying things like, — I swear, Jackie, I was scarleh. — She really had something to be scarlet about now and it wasn’t even a little bit funny. And she couldn’t tell it to Jackie. And anyway, Jackie had been going with Greg until last weekend so she hadn’t seen her that much since — she knew the date — the twentieth of February.
That was always the way when one of the gang was going with someone. She’d disappear for a while, usually a couple of months, and come back when one of them broke it off. She’d come back to the pub and they’d all be delighted to see her and she’d have to slag the fella — it always happened — about how he was always farting, or how he kept trying to tear the tits off her, or how his tongue always missed her mouth in the dark and he slobbered all over her make-up (Sharon giggled as she thought of that one. Yvonne Burgess had said that about a fella in the army who’d gone off to the Lebanon without telling her. — I hope he’s fuckin’ kilt, said Yvonne. — By an Arab or somethin’. D’yeh know wha’ his ma said when I phoned? He’s gone to the Leb. The Leb! I thought it was the name of a pub or somethin’ so I said to her, D’yeh know wha’ time he’ll be back at? I’m tellin’ yis now, I swear, I was never so mortified in — my — life. I wasn’t. And they’d screamed laughing), and after that it was like she’d never been gone. It was back to normal till the next time they went to Saints or Tamangos or one of the places in town and one of them got off with a fella she liked and disappeared again for another couple of months. She’d often read in magazines and she’d seen it on television where it said that women friends were closer than men, but Sharon didn’t think they were. Not the girls she knew. — Anyway, if she couldn’t tell Jackie the whole lot — and she couldn’t — then she couldn’t tell anyone.
She’d have to be careful and not get too drunk again so she wouldn’t blabber, and make sure she wasn’t caught looking at him and try not to vomit if anyone mentioned his name and Jesus, it was going to be terrible.
If they ever found out! She tried to imagine it. But all she could do was curl up and groan. It was—
Years ago — four years ago — when she’d been a modette, she’d gone with this young fella called Derek Cooper who spent all of his money on clothes and then never washed them and was dead now, and the two of them missed the last DART from town so they got the last bus instead. She’d been really pissed. She was only a kid then. She’d gotten the money she got for doing the pre-employment in school the day before so she’d been loaded. She paid for his drink as well. Anyway, she was pissed and she fell asleep on the bus and she woke up and she’d wet herself and she had to tell him and she made them stay on till the last stop, Howth. It was horrible remembering it. Even now. She’d never been able to laugh about it. She’d nearly been glad when she found out that Derek Cooper had been killed in that crash, but she’d made herself cry.
But this — this was far worse than that.
Sharon didn’t even bother closing her eyes. There was no point. She waited for the time to get up.
It was mad, but she wished she’d had sex a lot more often. Doubts about the father would have been very comforting; lovely. But the last time she’d done it with a fella she’d really liked — who’d turned out to be a right fuckin’ bastard — was six months before.
Before — Jesus!
She was glad she didn’t remember much about it. The bits she did remember were disgusting. It wasn’t a moving memory, like a film. It was more like a few photographs. She couldn’t really remember what happened in between. She’d been really drunk, absolutely paralytic. She knew that because she remembered she’d fallen over on her way back from the toilets. She bumped into loads of people dancing. It was the soccer club Christmas do, only it was on in February because they weren’t able to get anywhere nearer to Christmas. She’d made it back to her table and she just sat there, trying not to think about getting sick. She remembered Jackie was asking her was she alright. Then it was blank. Then she was by herself at the table. Jackie was getting off with a fella in front of her. That was Greg. She could remember the song: The Power of Love, the Jennifer Rush one. She wasn’t sure if it was then or after but she was very hot, really sweating. She was going to be sick. She rushed and pushed over the dance floor, past the toilets, outside because she wanted cold air. It was blank again then for a bit but she knew that she didn’t puke. The air had fixed her. She was leaning against the side of a car. She was looking at the ground. It was just black gravel so she didn’t know why she was looking at it; maybe because she’d thought she was going to get sick earlier. Anyway, she was shivering but she didn’t move; go back in. Pity. She couldn’t move really. Then there was a hand on her shoulder. — Alrigh’, Sharon? he’d said. Then it was blank and then they were kissing rough — she wasn’t really: her mouth was just open — and then blank again and that was it really. She couldn’t remember much more. She knew they’d done it — or just he’d done it — standing up because that was the way she was in the next bit she remembered; leaning back against the car, staring at the car beside it, her back and arse wet through from the wet on the door and the window and she was wet from him too. She was very cold. The wet was colder. He was gone. It was like waking up. She didn’t know if it had happened. She wanted to be at home. At home in bed. Her knickers were gone. And she was all wet and cold there. She wanted to get into bed. She went straight home. She staggered a lot, even off the path. She wanted to sleep. Backwards. To earlier. She was freezing but she didn’t go back for her jacket.
Jackie brought it and her bag home for her the day after.
— What happened yeh?
— Jesus, I was pissed, Jackie, I’m not jokin’ yeh. I just came home. I woke up in me clothes.
— Yeh stupid bitch yeh.
— I know.
She’d wondered a few times if what had happened could be called rape. She didn’t know.
That was as much as she remembered. She wished she didn’t remember more. — When he sat down white skin poked out from between the buttons of his shirt.
There was one more thing she remembered; what he’d said after he’d put his hand on her shoulder and asked her was she alright.
— I’ve always liked the look of you, Sharon.