Twenty-seven. Jude

I surprised Cara at work one afternoon by turning up unannounced at her salon with a picnic basket. Cara looked beautiful. She had on a dark-blue cropped top which showed off her midriff and a matching blue, flouncy skirt with gold thread running vertically through it. Long, thin gold earrings framed her face and she looked so animated, so alive. It made me smile just to look at her.

'Steve, it's a wonderful idea, but I just can't pick up and leave,' Cara protested.

'Why not?' I asked. 'Will this place fall down if you're not here for one afternoon?'

'But I've got Mrs Burgess coming in at three and another client due at quarter to four—'

'Someone else can snip their hair or they can come back some other time,' I said. Come on, Cara. Don't make me beg, I thought with irritation.

Cara looked at me, then broke into a smile. 'I'm out of here, everyone.'

And she linked arms with me. We left without a backwards glance. And in that moment I knew I had her. It was only a matter of hours or at the most days before I got hold of every penny she had.

We went to the park and sat on the picnic benches near the children's playground and talked and ate and talked some more.

'When're you going to tell me some more about you?' asked Cara, before biting into an apple.

'What d'you want to know?'

'What d'you do for a living?'

'I'm between jobs,' I said. 'But up until a few months ago I worked in . . . construction.'

'Building work?'

'That's right.'

'Building or painting and decorating or what?' asked Cara.

'Painting and decorating mostly,' I said. 'But enough about me . . .'

'Funny, but after a couple of questions, you always say that,' said Cara. 'I'll have to call you my mystery man.'

'Nothing mysterious about me,' I told her. 'My life's an open book.'

'An open book but in a language I can't read,' Cara said wryly, making me laugh.

After our picnic, we strolled round the park, then caught a film at the local cinema before heading back to Cara's for dinner. An hour later, we both sat down to a meal of ribbon pasta with chicken and a bottle of reasonable red wine.

'Steve, d'you like me?' Cara asked without warning.

I groaned inwardly. Why did girls always want to talk about relationships and feelings? Why couldn't we just get on with our evening without all this introspective crap?

'Of course I like you,' I replied.

'Then why've you never tried to do more than kiss me?' Cara asked, unable to look me in the eyes.

Her head was bent and she was obviously embarrassed. I put down my fork, my appetite vanishing. What was I supposed to say to that?

'I've just had a lot on my mind recently,' I sighed. 'You know, I'm still looking for a job and I've got bills to pay and things aren't going too well for me at the moment.'

'Then please let me help,' Cara pleaded.

'No, I told you—'

'It's only money, Steve.' Cara sprang up and headed for the table in the corner of her living room. Taking off the necklace around her neck, she used the small key on it to open one of the desk drawers. The only drawer in the desk that was locked – as I knew from past experience. I watched as she took out her cheque book, then walked back over to me.

'How much d'you need?' She was signing the cheque before even filling in the amount.

'I'm not taking your money,' I told her quietly.

'Please, Steve. I want to do this. I want to help,' said Cara.

But I hardly heard her. I threw down my napkin onto the table and stood up.

'I think I'd better go,' I said.

'Steve . . .' Cara placed a warm hand against my face.

She looked up at me like she really did like me or something. Like I was something special in her life, even after the few short weeks we'd been together. Cara stood on tiptoe and kissed me. I closed my eyes – and found myself kissing her just as passionately as she was kissing me. It'd been a long time since anyone had wanted me like that. I wrapped my arms around her, my eyes still closed and kissed her like this moment was the last thing, the only thing I had left.

And then I opened my eyes. Cara was still kissing me, her eyes shut, but at the sight of her, my soul froze. I pulled away, staring at her.

'What's the matter?' asked Cara.

'Nothing,' I mumbled. 'I really have to leave.'

'Steve, you're hurting about something. Won't you tell me what it is?'

'What're you talking about?'

'I think . . . I think you're afraid to get close to anyone. And sometimes you look at me like . . .'

'Like what?' I prompted when she trailed off.

'Like you see someone else when you look at me. Like you're looking through me.'

The strangest feeling tingled right through me, like my blood was shivering or something. Had I really let my guard down that much?

'You know about my dad dying of a heart attack. Won't you tell me who you've lost? It was someone you cared a lot about, wasn't it?' Cara said.

I opened my mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come.

'My dad and I were very close,' Cara continued. 'It's not something you ever get over quickly.'

'Why're you telling me this?' The words came out in a whisper, low and racked with pain.

'Have you lost someone?'

'My brother. My brother died . . . He was murdered.'

Cara nodded. She was so understanding, and that was the worst of it, because I knew she did understand me – totally. She was like the calm, sane half of me.

'I'm so sorry, Steve.'

I couldn't answer.

'You look so alone sometimes. So hurt,' said Cara softly. 'It reminds me of me.'

And now my blood was howling around my body, racing faster and hotter. I wanted her to stop. Just stop talking. Stop understanding me. My throat was hurting. My eyes were hurting.

Stop talking. Stop . . . STOP . . .

'Steve . . .' Cara said uncertainly.

I stared at her, not daring to even blink. Her fingers crept back to my cheek. Her touch was soft and warm.

'You and I are so alike,' Cara smiled sadly. 'I guess that's what brought us together. Kindred spirits.'

I had to stop her talking. I had to. I kissed her, with what felt like a fist in my chest squeezing relentlessly at my heart. Cara wrapped her arms around me and kissed me with the same kind of lonely desperation. She was right. I was lonely. I'd been lonely all my life – even before my family had shattered into a million pieces. What was it about me that made it so hard for me to get close to anyone? What was it about me that made it impossible for me to make friends and keep them? What was it about me that had me kissing a Cross and no longer wanting to pull away and wipe my mouth? What was it about me that had me falling for someone I should despise?

My hand slipped from her waist to up under her top. Her bare skin was soft as a whisper and as smooth as quality velvet. I'd never felt skin so smooth. The more I touched, the more I wanted to touch. I pulled her close, my hand moving straight to her breast. My blood was roaring, racing, pumping. I was breathless and more turned on than I'd ever been in my entire life. I wanted to do more than have sex. I wanted to make love, to drown in her.

But then I opened my eyes . . . I straightened up and forced myself to concentrate on her skin. Take it in. Sink into it. But I couldn't see her skin any more. Just her eyes, warm and rich brown, smiling at me with understanding. With love.

With love.

She smiled at me. Total trust, love and devotion. It was too much. I was dying in it. I clenched my fists and hit her. Her whole body fell backwards. She looked up at me, too shocked to even cry out. Her eyes, so warm and rich that I just wanted to pour myself into them, were now stunned and hurt. But the love was still there. I knelt down and hit her again.

And then I couldn't stop.

I punched her over and over again before leaping to my feet. And even then I couldn't leave her alone. I kicked out with all the rage erupting inside me. She had no right to make me care about her. I'd show her, I'd show both of us that she meant nothing to me. I kept hitting her over and over, even when she was screaming at me to stop.

Even when she stopped screaming.

I only stopped kicking and punching when I was too physically exhausted to raise my hands or move my feet. Blood covered my knuckles. I wiped the backs of my hands on my trousers. Then I picked up her forgotten blank cheque from the floor. I went to the drawer she usually kept locked and took out all the money and cheque books and pass books and everything else I could find there. Only then did I leave the house, careful not to look at Cara. Not once. Not even a glance. With each step away from her, I grew colder again – which was just the way it should be. I had money and cheques which I'd cash first thing in the morning and then I'd disappear. I was good at that. I'd walked but a few steps when I realized my face was wet. I looked up. When had it started raining? The night glittered with a thousand and more stars, the air warm around my face.

But there wasn't a single cloud in the sky.