by Renee Kira
A Perfect Likeness
Renee Kira
Copyright © 2020 by Renee Kira
All rights reserved. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted by any means without prior written permission of the author except for brief quotations in the instance of review.
The following story is fictional and does not contain any actual person or event.
Contents
1. Isobel
2. Maya
3. Isobel
4. Maya
5. Isobel
6. Isobel
7. Maya
8. Isobel
9. Isobel
10. Isobel
11. Maya
12. Isobel
13. Isobel
14. Isobel
15. Isobel
16. Maya
17. Isobel
18. Isobel
19. Maya
20. Isobel
21. Isobel
22. Maya
23. Isobel
24. Isobel
25. Maya
26. Isobel
27. Maya
28. Isobel
29. Isobel
30. Maya
31. Isobel
32. Isobel
33. Isobel
34. Isobel
35. Maya
36. Isobel
37. Isobel
Isobel - one month later
Acknowledgments
1
Isobel
Something about this coastline leads people to bad outcomes. I can’t remember a summer since my childhood that passed without a death. Usually, it’s the water that kills. A surfer who showed no concern to the jagged outcrops, or a swimmer tugged down by a rip. Last year, a tourist got knocked off a low rocky shelf by a rogue wave and was never seen again.
The weather changes fast on the coast; the sky and the sea tell me more than any forecast. Each morning, I spend a minute or two watching the horizon before I leave home.
Today I watch while I sip my coffee, leaning against the cool glass of the bedroom window. When I finish, I will push my feet into running shoes and head outside to fill my lungs with salty ocean air.
In this early hour, every movement I make echoes through the rooms of the house. A home shouldn’t sound so empty. But this place is far too big for one person, and I rattle around in it. The front door slams loudly behind me and I say a silent thanks that my neighbours aren’t around much.
A few minutes in a slow jog brings me to the edge of the ocean. A zigzagged staircase weaves to the sand at the bottom of the cliffs. My body is warm, it’s aching for the workout. I lengthen my stride and follow the narrow strip of beach between granite cliffs and water.
Something ahead of me grabs my attention. At first, I think it’s a large lump of seaweed, but I’m wrong.
It’s a woman. She’s fully dressed, and I think immediately that it’s suicide. She wasn’t spat up by the sea but dropped from the cliffs above.
Is there a chance she’s not dead? I push into a sprint to reach her. Maybe she’s drunk, or has broken her ankle, or just likes to sleep face-down on the beach, dressed for work.
Black pants, black jacket. One low-heeled shoe on her left foot; her right foot bare. Her hair is wet and there are strings of kelp draped across her back.
Before I turn her over there’s a small twinge of hesitation in my mind. Every crime show I’ve ever watched has taught me that it’s wrong to move the body. There’s a small part of me that believes she could be alive. I drop down, my knees digging into the hard sand beside her. It’s been years since I’ve been to church but I give a silent prayer that she might be okay. With both hands, I roll her over.
The sand falls away from her in clumps. There’s no colour in her face. Her skin is an opalescent white, with shades of blue and purple thatched around her eyes and lips. I don’t find a pulse when I put my fingers to her throat.
She can’t be much older than thirty. We’d be the same age, plus or minus a few years. Her hair is red like my own, but a darker hue. She’s slim, she could be a runner like me.
As I move away, I notice the deep red marks that circle her neck. Something was wrapped around and pulled tight. This wasn’t a suicide.
It takes a minute for the shock to pass, but I call 000.
‘I found a dead body,’ The words tumble out of my mouth, unsteady.
‘Can you give me your location?’ says the operator.
I describe the car park at the peak of the Cliff Road. From there they will see the staircase to the beach. If they can find the staircase, they’ll find me.
‘Okay. You’re doing a good job. I need you to stay calm for me. Can you check if the person is breathing?’
‘She’s dead.’ Of course she’s not breathing.
I drop the phone. Stepping backwards, I keep my eyes on the woman. I don’t know why, no more harm can come to her. A sharp edge juts into my back. My body is firm against the cliff face. All I can do is wait.
Small waves crash behind me, the tide creeping inwards. Seagulls squawk in the distance.
If I strain, I can hear a distant siren that I hope is the police. The sound disappears and I’m left with only the waves crashing.
The water is creeping in. If they don’t come soon, I’ll have to leave her here at the mercy of the tide. Or bring her up the steps myself. Finally, I hear rushed footsteps on the worn wooden staircase. Two paramedics with a stretcher and two police officers descend on the beach.
‘What’s your name?’ It’s a man asking me, a police officer. He’s turning me away from the woman and pushing me towards the old staircase. I glance over my shoulder; I feel like I shouldn’t leave her like that.
‘Isobel Franco,’ I answer.
He nods. ‘I know your parents, I think. They used to run the take-away shop, right?’
I nod. I get that a lot. A lot of locals remember my grandfather as well, but no-one mentions him. He was less popular.
The officer takes me up the stairs to the car park. He tells me his name is Steve. His name tag agrees. There’s a police car and an ambulance. A female paramedic wraps a crinkled silver blanket around my shoulders.
‘Is there someone we can call?’ Steve says.
His voice is deep and slow. It’s kind of comforting. Are police trained to talk this way?
‘No.’ There’s no-one I would bother this early on a Sunday morning. My mother would cause a scene. My father would worry. My friends are all in Melbourne, too far away. I just want to go home.
‘Well, you don’t need to stay any longer,’ he tells me. ‘We can get you to come into the station for a formal statement later.’
I’m left sitting on a park bench still wrapped up in foil for what seems like an eternity. As my body gets colder I wonder if I should walk. It’s not that far.
I watch the two paramedics struggle up the staircase with a stretcher, the body of the woman concealed. I don’t watch them load her into the back of the ambulance, but the slam of the back doors closing makes me shudder.
Eventually, Steve the police officer drives me home himself, he knows my address.
It only takes a few minutes to travel back up the Cliff Road to my house. The car lulls, he puts it in park but doesn’t turn off the engine. I’m glad. I don’t want him to come inside.
My grandfather built this house. It’s two storeys high, with a grey stone facade that looks toward the loneliness of Bass Strait. For the last four years it’s been mine, but it was only a two months ago I moved in.
‘Will you be okay? There are services you can access. It’s a horrible thing to find. It’s hard on police and we’re trained for it,’ Steve asks.
‘I’m okay,�
�� I nod. I move my hand to open the door, but something stops me.
I turn back around to Steve. ‘The woman. What was her name?’
‘No-one told you?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Veronica Hayes.’
I nod. It’s not familiar.
‘She was very young. Too young,’ he says, his hands still on the steering wheel and his eyes looking through the windscreen. ‘She had the same birthdate as you.’
‘How do you know my birthday?’ I ask.
‘Same way I know your address,’ he smiles. ‘We looked up your driver’s licence while the paramedics were with you. Standard procedure.’
I nod and slide out of the passenger seat. ‘Was she local?’
He nods. ‘Yep. I’m surprised you don’t know her.’
Cape Cross is a small town. Everyone knows everyone. We’re the same age, we should have moved in the same circles. There’s only one secondary school in Cape Cross and I would remember her if she went there. Perhaps she moved here as an adult. Or I don’t know as many people as I think I do.
As I unlock the front door and step inside my house, I can’t help but want to know who she is and how she ended up dead on a deserted beach.
2
Maya
It’s not the police who tell me that my best friend is dead. Not my husband or her mother. It’s Facebook. It’s a god-damned Facebook post. It’s public and right at the top of my news feed. There are already hundreds of comments underneath. The condolences tumble down the page from people whose names I never heard her speak. Did any of them love her like they claim? Could they have known anything real about her?
I’m sitting on the bed in our spare room. The chatter of my two boys floats from the front of the house. They’ll be all right on their own a bit longer. I reach for my phone and unlock the screen.
David has called me; he must be reading the same Facebook post as I am. The phone vibrates in my hand, his name and picture flash on the screen. My insides clench; I don’t answer. I suck in a long breath of air while I wait for it to go to voicemail. I’m smart enough to not press the red ‘decline’ button. It’s a dead giveaway you are avoiding a call.
When it stops, I tap on Veronica’s name. Holding the phone to my ear, I listen to the line ring, eventually going through to her voicemail. I try again. Same result. I put the phone down and go back to my laptop.
With shaking hands, I scroll through the comments looking for a familiar name. I need to know if this is real or a hoax. I want proof.
‘Mum! Mum!’ I hear his voice before the six-year-old bursts through the door. It’s Noah. It’s always Noah who’s the first to tell. ‘Jacob won’t let me have the Netherworld.’
‘Is it your turn?’ I ask, my voice cracking.
‘Yes!’ He places his hands on his hips in defiance. His honey-coloured hair flops over his eyes.
‘Then go tell him you can have the Lego for a while.’ I would go mediate myself but I’m too shaken up. All I can do is look at my open laptop. If I look into his eyes, I will cry. If I start crying, I won't stop.
Noah retreats from the bedroom, and I listen to his footsteps pad down the hallway. I am cross-legged on the bed. This is the place I come in the house when I want five minutes alone. It doesn’t always work.
The playroom is at the front of the house, but I can hear Noah reading his twin the riot act.
Veronica’s face is staring back at me from Facebook. It’s been less than a day since I saw her. Less than twenty-four hours. It can’t be true. This is mistaken identity. Someone who looks like her is dead, not Veronica. That happens, doesn’t it? Or this is a cruel joke by someone she’s upset.
The post itself doesn’t give the cause of death or any details, but you only have to read through the first ten comments to find it. They found her body early this morning at the base of the cliffs. People are saying she jumped. That can’t be true. She would never.
The photo someone has posted is the headshot she uses for her work profile. Her long hair is secured in a French twist. There’s a pair of square, dark-framed glasses on her face. She never wore her glasses, they sit in the console of her car gathering dust and scratches. It doesn’t quite look like her. She’s too made up; trying too hard.
But that’s her game. Expensive suits, crisp shirts and glasses to make her look smarter. She gave her work so much time. Max first. Work second. And then the leftovers for the rest of us.
I keep scrolling through the comments. There’s a few familiar names, but no one close to her. Not her parents. Mostly a lot of clients. The kind of people she might only see once a year. If it was family commenting, I’d know for sure.
Not that I spend any time with her family. Her mother, Heather, is not nice at all. She cut in line once at the supermarket. Another time, she honked me at the roundabout near the school when I didn’t take off fast enough. Small things, but enough to make me not like her.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that now. It seems petty. That woman, however beastly, is in the worst pain a human can experience.
My phone is flush against my thigh. I could call her mother. I don’t have Heather’s number, but it wouldn’t be hard to find. In fact, Veronica’s laptop is under my bed. She left it here two nights ago. I’m sure I could find the number in her contacts. That way I would know for sure. If there’s one thing I know about Veronica, it’s that she would never commit suicide. If it was her at the bottom of the cape cliffs, then there was a terrible accident.
There is a shout so loud at the front of the house that I sit bolt upright in shock and my hands clutch on the bedspread either side of my hips. It’s Jacob. Although they are identical twins I can always tell one from the other, even when there are walls between us.
‘It’s not your turn!’ Jacob’s voice shrieks.
It’s time to play referee. Gently, I close my laptop and leave it on the rumpled quilt cover beside me. I tread on soft carpet down the hallway, muted blues and greys at every turn. It’s a colour scheme I thought would be a good idea when I was pregnant. I thought it was the colour of calm, but it’s also the colour of depression. As I discovered not long after David and I finished renovating.
‘Noah took my Lego!’ Jacob is the one standing defiantly this time.
‘Why don’t you play with something other than Lego, Jacob?’ I ask, standing in the doorway.
The big screen TV bolted to the wall blares a colourful cartoon. The rug is lost in a sea of coloured bricks. Jacob sighs. He walks over to the pair of red toy boxes against the wall and starts pulling out their contents, toy by toy.
I back out of the playroom quietly and go back to my bedroom, leaving the door open a few inches.
I can’t sit here any longer reading bullshit on social media. A blue light emits from the middle of the bed. It’s my phone, it's has been ringing again. That’s three missed calls from David now. But he’ll have to wait. I’m going to find out if this is real.
Leaning over the edge of the bed, I pull out Veronica’s laptop. It’s password protected, but I know what the password is. The battery icon reads 15 percent. She left her laptop here but must have kept her charger. It’s a new model and my older charger doesn’t fit the port.
Settling back on the bed, I cross my legs under me. With a swipe of my thumb, I unlock my phone. I don’t call David. I call Heather, Veronica’s mother.
Jacob and Noah have settled in to play. All I can hear now is the crush of plastic as they pull more toys out of boxes. There’s the familiar siren of a toy police car that was a favourite when they were toddlers. They don’t play with it anymore.
The phone rings and rings and I can’t believe Heather doesn’t have voicemail. Unless she’s turned it off. I probably would if my daughter was dead. Finally, there’s a click of her having answered, and another silent moment.
‘Hello?’ a male voice answers.
‘Neil?’ I ask. He’s Veronica’s stepfather. Her father’s been o
ut of the picture for years.
‘Who is this?’ His reply is gruff and impatient.
‘It’s Maya Henry.’
‘Oh,’ his voice softens.
‘I…’ Now I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to cause him any pain. ‘I was trying to get in touch with Heather. I saw-’
‘It seems like everyone has seen.’ He interrupts.
Another moment of silence sits between us. I hear a crash and a shout from the playroom. They will have to wait.
‘Is it true?’ What else can I say?
Neil sighs. ‘I’m sorry, love. It is true.’
The truth hits me hard and all of my breath leaves my body. It takes me a moment to be able to speak again.
‘I’m so sorry, Neil. How is Heather? Is she okay?’
‘Not really.’ Again, he is gruff, but he sounds more tired than angry.
‘What can I do?’
‘Oh, nothing. Don’t worry. We’ve got people everywhere. We’ll let you know about the funeral, I guess. I mean… we don’t know. It’s only been a few hours since we…’ He doesn’t finish his sentence.
I wait. I should end the call, say goodbye. But I can’t. I need to know. ‘What happened to her?’
He takes a moment to answer. ‘We aren't sure. She’s a good girl. I don’t know who… I… I’m sorry, Maya. We can’t talk about it. The police have told us not to say anything.’
The police. That means there is an investigation. This wasn’t an accident, someone did this to her. I thank Neil and hang up the phone. The grief that is blooming inside of me churns with the addition of nausea. If there is an investigation, it won’t be long before they want to talk to me.
