Читать книгу Trust Me - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 16

The water was running over his face, his clothes. He hadn’t turned the bathroom light on. Hadn’t wanted anyone to wake up. But it was never dark here. Street lamps and tower lights shone through the bathroom window. Could they see him? He felt like he was glowing. He crouched down, leant against the tiles. He hugged his knees tightly. The water was red. A Lynx shower gel bottle tumbled from the side and clattered against the floor of the shower. He held his breath. Please don’t wake up.

Her hair had wrapped round his arms when he’d pushed her up. Clung to him, wanting him to stay. Oh God. He didn’t want to think about this. He squashed his palms against his head. Wanted to push it all out. One minute they were partying, and then she’d thrown the punch. If only she hadn’t done that. If only she’d just stayed quiet. Her arms had felt small. Tiny, like his younger brothers’. He could close his whole hand round her wrist. Easily snapped. The clothes had thrown him. The skirt had buttons and zips and everything was backwards. Mixed up. And they were softer than boys’ clothes. Her top had been almost slippery. He wanted to tell Simon tomorrow. But he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t cause any more trouble.

Water was working into his mouth now. There could be blood and hair and stuff in it. He scrubbed at his face. Spat. Spat again. Leant forwards, his head on the shower tray. He could smell the bleach down here. Water bubbling up around his nose and mouth. He was blocking the plug. He could just stay here. Let the water cover him. Drown. Forget about her.

And then he realised what he was doing. Oh God: he had to get it off him. Retching, he stood up. Fell forward, wincing, to turn the tap off. He ripped at his clothes. Until they were in a soggy pile on the floor. He was naked. Wet. Oh God. He pulled for a towel, scrubbed it from him. Rubbing harder, harder, as if he could scrub it off. His skin was raw. He deserved the hurt. He rubbed again. He would be grazed in the morning. Sore. Good. Then he used the towel to wipe out the shower. He kept going. Didn’t know what time it was now. Wiping the floor. Wrapping his clothes up tight in the towel. Tying it in a knot. He’d have to get rid of them. His favourite jeans. How was he going to explain that? His favourite…

He froze. His teeth mid-chatter. Her hat. She’d been wearing a hat when she’d arrived. Evidence. That would be evidence. Where was it? He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it. When she was dancing? He had to find it. He was responsible. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to do it. He crumpled to the floor. I didn’t mean to do it.