Don't ask!
I don't know what happened.
I woke up on Sunday afternoon feeling like I'd bee trampled by a herd of cattle. I was in bed in our own Caravan with a splitting headache, what felt like a bad case of Flu, my mouth tasting like a toilet, aching ribs, sore down below – both my Bum and my See You Next Tuesday – and bruises on my arms and legs. George was snoring peacefully beside me, with a smile on his face like I'd just sucked Big George to a volcanic ejaculation.
I staggered to the Utility Block.
All the other cars were gone, there was no-one else around.
When I looked at my face in the mirror, it was a car crash. One keeker of a black eye., the other
red-rimmed and puffy, lips like they'd been stung by a swarm of bees, a bruise on one cheekbone – I couldn't work out which side, because my head wasn't able to interpret the mirror yet – and what looked like the imprint of a signet ring on my chin.
I eased my clothes off, sat on the toilet and peed blood – or maybe red wine, I didn't know. One of my nipples had been bitten – hard. I could see the teeth marks around it. It's a wonder it hadn't been swallowed. There were bruises, big ones, all along my inner thighs, like I'd been shagged by a buffalo – maybe I had. Or by a Herd of Rampant Men! I had.
The entrance to See You Next Tuesday was swollen and chafed and ragged, it had been bleeding, but seemed to have stopped. I couldn't see mu bum but it was very tended as if I'd been sitting on a cactus. And it was full of spunk, so much, it came out like diarrhoea when I tried to shit.
And more was dried and sticky in my curlies, and my hair too, My hair smelt like pee as well. My whole body did.
Luckily the showers were free and I had a long, scalding one to scrub my body and hair clean of the Men – and that old song went round and round, and I belted it out into the echo chamber of the cubicle: “I'm gonna wash that man right outa my hair, and send him on his way.”
As if!
If George had gone with the rest of them, I think that would have been the end. Over. And I would have accepted it and just got on with my life. But he had stayed. And I saw that as meaning that he was always going to be with me. And then I remembered Pavel!
How was he? God! If he had taken a pummelling like me I had no idea how he could have survive it. He was only little – well, I was only little, but he was even more so.
When I got back to the van – still bruised and battered, but at least smelling more like myself than a tramp steamer, George was up and perky and had prepared a full breakfast for me – bacon, sausages, egg and toast. And a big mug of hot sweet tea. He smiled and wrapped me in his arms and kissed me gently on my swollen lips and this time didn't try to put his tongue in my mouth. Perhaps he wondered if I might bite it off!
“Well,” he said, “You were very popular last night, everyone was singing your praises. If it had been a Selling Plate I could have sold you ten times over.” I knew he was just joking and trying to cheer me up, so I just smiled and said that I was glad he hadn't, because I loved belonging to him and didn't want to belong to anyone else but him.
He patted my hand and told me to eat up. “And then we'll treat your war wounds,” he said, producing a First Aid Kit he said Graham had left with him for the purpose. And I did, though the food all tasted like dishcloths in my mouth, which, despite brushing my teeth three times still tasted like a toilet and I'm sure my breath must have been rancid. And then he did. He was very gentle, and caring and he applied various creams and lotions everywhere that needed seeing to – including See You Next Thursday and my poor Bum Hole. By the time he'd finished and I'd done my make-up and brushed and combed my hair, I looked passable – well, with my clothes on to hide the other injuries. George kept saying how pleased he was with me, that I was so understanding and trustworthy and that he knew he could count on me – I think he meant, though he never said it – to remember that what happened here gets left here and not to say a word to anyone. I'm sure that if I had not agreed, again, silently but with my body language, he might have been less happy.
And he drove me home.
I was in time for Sunday Tea – and my Dad was there too, and Tracy, and they all asked if I'd had a nice weekend with my friends, but didn't wait for me to reply, because, as I knew, they weren't interested. So I didn't say anything about what had happened at the Caravan Park, Or anything about the Men and what they had done with me. Or about Pavel – though I was worried about him.
Which was why, on Monday, I made an appointment to see Dr Montgomery on Wednesday after School
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