COMMANDMENT

As my right knuckle connects with the door the third time, I realise my keys are clasped in my left first, but both of my hands are shaking.

I hear Mum’s movement inside, shouting that she’ll be there in a sec and I hear the slam of an oven door and the pitter patter of her slippers.

Her face is first expectant, then confused, then concerned.

“Mary-Jane?” she says as my knees give way and I fall without a word at her feet.

—————

I’d told her it was just a little break. A trip to the coast, in need of a little sun on my face.

You’re looking unwell, was her parting remark as my car boot slammed, just a small bag loaded. She didn’t comment, so I guessed it had escaped her attention.

I’d noticed my greying skin before she had, a perfect match to the darkness under my eyes, my golden and red undertones seeping away.

A quick glance in my rear-view mirror now confirms that the case remains the same. I stare for a few seconds and my eyeball stares back, ticking. Am I nervous? I look away and run my hands down the left side of the steering wheel as I swing my Corsa from the M25 onto the A127. As I merge, a lorry rumbles past me and the angry horn causes the contents of my stomach to slosh.

—————

3 months after it happened, I started to wake from sleep screaming and sweating. 7 months in and my clothes swamped me.

I would catch Mum’s worried look across the dining table, as we ate, the only noise a ticking clock. My plate, never full to begin with, was always mostly untouched by the time she stood sighing, shouldering her bag and leaving the house, the lock clicking gently behind her. At some point, she had run out of famous catchphrases to fill the silence.

Time is a healer.

You will get back to you.

Brighter days ahead.

Scars will fade.

All well wishes but empty words. Caught in the in-between of wanting to comfort, but also not wanting to come too close.

My friends were the same. Initially, my phone buzzed constantly with purple heart emojis, expressions of condolences about the ‘incident’ and offers of prayers as word got around. Faceless colleagues who nodded my way as we selected matching instant vanilla bean coffee sachets at elevenses sent their obligatory regards.

Harmony and Engela even made the trip to the hospital, sitting either side of me to hold my hand as my body endured humiliating prodding and I answered question after question, the agony, obvious on my face and in my voice. This was ignored in order to follow standard procedure and protocol. 

At the time, attempting to sleep was hopeless without a mug of Engela’s special chamomile blend and Harmony’s hotpot went into multiple containers to be stored in the freezer.

But, once the subject of gossip and speculation, my circumstances had ceased to be newsworthy and the world (and Harmony and Engela) had moved on to the next sensational story.

But I hadn’t and even now my heart is heavy, my body barely exists, my freezer is still full of containers and my mind is on fire.

—————

I start to count as I force my teeth into the flesh of my lip. In a few seconds, I will taste blood and I will feel pain. The sharp metallic tang in my mouth lets me know that I have broken skin so I lick as I feel the churning in my belly subside.

Not my favourite way to self soothe, but my nails were busy, gripping the steering wheel, trying to keep my vehicle at a steady 70. I glance at my arms, but remember I had decided to wear a white pinstriped shirt, the sleeves unbuttoned and hanging at my wrists. 

The shirt isn’t my usual get-up (my usual being a shabby dressing gown and my headscarf) but I like to wear it on special occasions.

Sister Babs, or Auntie Barbara as she has the children call her, had commented that the shirt, tucked tightly into the waistband of a pleated skirt, paired with black loafer heels and a tailored blazer, had reminded her of the good ol’ days when the brethren dressed appropriately to present themselves before the Lord. Larissa Harcourt, on the other hand, dressed as if she was looking to work the streets - for free. Apparently. 

I check the time and see it is now late afternoon. I shift gears and change lanes, pulling up behind a Mom-van. True to form, a spaniel mix and a toddler press their noses to the back window and waggle their tongues in my direction. I smirk.

I remember that conversation, because that was the very last day I had chosen to ‘present myself’ before the Lord. I could blame Sister Babs for her poisonous and unsolicited chatter, masked partly behind her ostrich plume fan, muttering into my ear as Pastor took his place on the pulpit, his smile broad as he read from Colossians. The older woman at least 50 years my senior, had innocently smoothed the creases in her own skirt and followed Larissa with her eyes as the teenager dipped her head to follow along in the Bible on her lap, her off-the-shoulder top dipping slightly to expose the high curve of her breasts.

Honestly, Sister Babs had sneered as she too opened her pristine white casing and gold edged Bible, you would think that Larissa would have some respect for herself. Laying it all out there for the brothers to see, completely asking for it if you ask me.

Larissa had at that moment lifted her gaze and our eyes locked. She smiled shyly and I remembered she was only 16. Then I had heard Sister Babs intake a small gasp of air as she had realised what she had said and to whom she had said it.

But no, I don’t blame her. With her ageing and outdated opinions on women’s impact on men’s gaze, I had no doubt she would just die alone, by the grace of God, in a decade or so.

No, what had caused me to rise and push my way into the church car park, clamber in my car and drive back up to Epping, was the clapping and resounding amens in response to the difficult sermon on Pastor’s lips.

Despite my dark thoughts, sunlight breaks through the clouds and I realise that I am not driving with my hands anymore; my mind has taken over and, on autopilot, I press my foot into the brakes, slowing down. I drive past shops, hotels and casinos until my tyres crunch to a halt. Wind whips my weave from my eyes as I hold myself, my holdall in the crook of my arm and I start the walk turning right along the seafront. Minutes and people pass by until I round the bend and stop, my back to the amusement park, looking out over the murky brown-grey water. The insides of my wrists throb and I start to scratch.

—————

It had been July then as well. Overcast and cool, a welcome break from the short raging heatwave the month before. Newly graduated with the world at our feet, our seaside campus-based cohort had descended on the piers. Femi, Drake, Mosh, Tati and I - the Fast Five - determined to get the most out of our annual passes, spent the twilight riding the amusement park multicoloured dippers and flippers, and then toasted new life with supermarket own brand vodka and orange juice over portions of fish and chips.

Not one to be done before darkness descends, it was Femi’s idea to take a final plunge into the sea. She had also suggested doing it naked. Everyone had laughed and rolled their eyes - Femi was dramatic and even she didn't have the confidence to bare it all. We separated then: Femi and Drake (hands entwined) running towards the beach whilst Mosh, Tati and I hung back under the pier pillars to finish the dregs of booze. And then Tati had left, yelling into her phone in Estonian at her father that his precious car was safe and she would be returning it immediately. 

That left curly haired Mosh and I, wedged together on a rock, swinging a bottle between us. 

—————

When the stinging draws me out of my memories, I see pinpricks of red spreading along my cuff. I clamp the ends of my sleeves over my fingers and curl them into a tight fist. My eyes rest on the waves crashing against the black pier pillars and the setting sun on the horizon and I chew the inside of my cheek.                                                            

It’s time. Then I am edging backwards, heading east, a half an hour walk ahead.

—————

One Sunday a few months ago, Engela had casually yawned that Harmony had not seen me at service lately and was worried. My lips had pursed tight, turning them white. A pot of lukewarm tea sat between us on the table. Since the day I had left church in a hurry, I had refused to admit to myself the real reason why. But, confronted suddenly by a close friend, I felt my insides unzip and my emotions scatter like a freshly broken string of pearls. I wanted to be free - I wanted, no, needed to tell someone, even this friend who sat before me, atheist and morally unable to understand.

My words tumbled from my mouth.

“Because I haven’t kept His commandments - I can't do it”

“His? You mean God’s”

“Mm-hm”

Engela laughed first. Then she saw my face.

“Well, which one?”

I muttered that it had something to do with that night. I had swallowed a breath to continue but suddenly her arms had wrapped around my neck and she had pulled me close. She smelt like cinnamon and I melted into her embrace.

“Oh MJ,” she’d sighed, her hand over mine “you're not talking about ‘ye must forgive’ are you? Babes, you don’t owe that man anything.”

I tried to interrupt, but she cut me off.

“Besides, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven for what he did, he deserves to rot in hell.” 

Then I’d burst into tears because, how could I speak after that?

—————

I am crying now, hot angry tears spill onto my cheeks and I wipe them away with my sleeve. I am walking, but I barely see. Before my eyes is the darkness of the current night, but also the darkness under the pier. I feel his hands grip and pull, his weight on top of me, my mouth open but unable to scream.

Then I look up and I see I am at his door, his mother’s 3 bedroom semi, walls wrapped with ivy, a single car on the drive. My holdall burns in my hands and I think about what is inside, the item loaded with the ability to shatter his world. I take it from my bag and raise it to the door.

Glancing up, I notice that a full moon has risen and my skin crawls even though it is warm. Since I had last seen him at the pier, I had wanted to come face to face with him again, even for one last time. Everything about this moment was important and we had been like polar opposites, skirting around the very edges of each other's lives. During the investigation, Mum made sure I didn't even have to glance his way and moving out of the area gave me the fresh start she thought I needed.

I wasn't here seeking love, but another powerful force only few could give and receive.

And now, a year to the day since it happened, finally magnetic, we would collide.

—————                                                                                                       Mum is repeating my name as she hoists me over our threshold. A glass of water is suspended in front of my face and I gulp it gratefully.

“MJ,” Mum says tenderly and I see that she is staring at the blood on my shirt sleeve, “what’s happened? And why are you back from your trip already?”

—————

I stand on the doorstep of Number 17 for thirty five seconds before it is opened and He stands before me. Socks and slides on his feet, a muscle tee over shorts, his long black hair piled on his head in a man top-knot.

It takes a further few seconds as he searches my face, a “Yes?” on his lips, and then he recognises me, and a look of sheer disbelief crosses his face. I stare back blank and his eyes widen as he sees what’s in my hand.

—————

I tell Mum everything because once I start, I can’t stop. Snot and salty tears drip down my face but I don’t stop to look more dignified. And the whole time, Mum’s mouth is agape, her hand clutching her chest as I confess what I have just done.

—————

“What are you doing here?” Mosh asks. There is no tinge to his voice - I expected a snarl, but he is emotionless. I gesture to the object in my hand and he steps back. 

“What’s that?” he says.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I reply.

Mosh looks at a point over my ear into the distance and his head shakes back and forth slightly. He isn't the same man I sat with on the pier that night. Like me, his face has become worn from the hatred, the questioning, the cross examination and the ostracisation.

“Here,” I say and I push the envelope towards him, “please take this.”

Mosh reaches for the envelope just as a woman barrels down the stairs behind him. She is full of joy but almost shrieks when she sees who her son is talking to at the door. 

“Moses, you get away- ,” she thunders and begins to approach, but by now, Mosh’s head is bent, the envelope on the floor, the letter in his hands. And he is sobbing, guttural cries bursting from his lips.

He lifts his eyes and I feel the collision in my heart, the one I had been waiting a year to feel, as he mouths two small words.

Thank you.

—————

PRESENT

My confession to Mum was just the start. She didn't speak to me for 3 days. Wordless, we had shoved our feet into trainers and she drove me to the police station. I think she probably thought that if I drove, I may have changed my mind at the last moment.

I didn’t see the same officer who had taken my original statement and this new one, whilst listening to my new story, let the curl of disgust for me show on his upper lip.

I have been charged formally and I am awaiting court proceedings.

I plan to plead guilty, because that is what I am.

I lied.

Well not about the rape, that had happened. I was alone at the pier with Mosh that night. We had finished the vodka and orange. We fantasised about our future and mourned the possible end of the fivesome. We hugged and he suddenly moved to kiss me. I had laughed it off, dismissing him as a “bro” and his hurt was obvious as he told me I was a b-word and disappeared into the night.

I was just to leave myself when I had drunkenly staggered over a pile of rocks and landed with my face in the sand. Guffawing to myself and feeling my head sway with the rush of alcohol, I had not thought twice at accepting the hand that had appeared in front of my face. I thought he had wanted to help me up, but instead, he got down on top of me and growled at me to be quiet.

I had, and still have, no idea who he was and as I was left to pick up the pieces of my night and soul, all I felt was overwhelming shame and bitterness. I had spotted the abandoned vodka bottle and remembered Mosh’s clumsy kiss.

I'd been angry that he'd left me - why hadn’t he stayed and made sure I had gotten home ok? My anger was all it took when the group of girls in heels had found me on my knees and the first words I had sobbed was “He did this to me. He was my friend, and he did this.”

Pastor comes to visit me sometimes. He marvels at my personal progress against self harm and hatred and though he doesn't recall the sermon he gave that convinced me to expose my lie, I will never forget it. 

The powers that be will decide my punishment, but coming clean to the world still didn't feel complete even though Mosh was never charged with my assault.

That was until this morning, when the letter flap of my tiny new apartment (Mum asked me to leave after I was charged) clattered. I already had a handful of junk mail on the mat and not many people know where I live now, so I was about to throw it all away, until I noticed the single sheet of yellowing paper on top.

Written with a chunky black felt tip in bold capitals, I was finally holding my absolution.

I forgive you. 

Mosh.

*

“Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature… You used to walk in these ways, in the life you once lived… Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices and have put on the new self. Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”

Colossians 3:5,7,9,12-13 NIV