A Perfect Likeness

by Renee Kira

  This room is a dead end. Appropriate for a morgue, right? I try to slow my breathing using force of will.

  Footsteps approach from outside. I wait for them to fade, but they don’t. The door creaks open. I hold my breath. The shape of a man fills the doorway and I turn and run for the furthest corner of the room.

  But I don’t make it there. Something gives in my ankle, I tumble forward. A sound comes out of me that is something like a scream. I skid onto the floor covered with jagged crystals of broken glass. The pain barely registers under the weight of fear.

  I scramble forward as far as I can on my hands and knees. One of my arms is bleeding and I don’t think I can defend myself. I’ll have to try. I turn around to face my attacker.

  ‘Izzy?’ Liam Goddard stands in the centre of the morgue, his eyes wide and his face covered in sweat.

  18

  Isobel

  The first thing Liam does is rip his shirt off. I am crouched on the ground, pressing my forearm to my chest. When I move, I hear broken glass crunch under my feet.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I blurt out.

  I’m still afraid, but he looks even more surprised than I am. Liam’s eyes go straight to my forearm. The blood has soaked through the fabric of my shirt and my chest and stomach are wet with it.

  His shirt is in his hands when he kneels down in front of me. There’s another crunch of glass, if he’s not careful, he’ll end up cut as well. He’s wearing jeans, hopefully the denim is thick. His shirt is gone, but he has a black t-shirt on.

  ‘Liam, why are you here?’ I repeat.

  He’s only looking at my arms. In a short motion, he rips the fabric into two.

  ‘Give me your arm.’ He holds his hand out.

  ‘Are you going to explain yourself?’

  ‘Maybe once you stop bleeding,’ He still doesn’t look me in the eyes. He wraps one piece of what used to be his shirt firmly around my arm, then uses the second piece to tie a knot. ‘Or you could tell me why you’re in a disused morgue rolling around in broken glass?’

  He stands up and I hear tiny crystals of glass falling to the floor.

  ‘I’m looking for something,’ I answer. I stand up too, I don’t like being looked down on. As my legs straighten I feel dizzy, but it passes. Instinctively, I hold my arm to my chest.

  ‘You’re going to need a real hospital to get that fixed up.’

  I nod.

  ‘So, what are you looking for?’ he presses.

  ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. I… I knew that record room was there. And that it was still full of paperwork.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say given the state of it that a few people know it’s there. You and I weren’t the first people to go looking.’

  ‘No. Did you find what you were looking for?’

  He puts his hands on his hips. ‘No.’

  ‘What was it?’

  He takes a step back, his weight moving on to his heel. ‘You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’

  For a moment, I pause. I have to make a decision whether I should trust him.

  ‘I’ve got Veronica Hayes’s laptop. I found a heap of documents on there, some of them relating to this site.’

  Liam nods, waiting for me to say more.

  ‘I found a box of documents in that storage room, but it wasn’t all about the hospital. Perhaps she came to look for that but found something else.’

  He raises his eyebrows. It isn’t the answer he expected. ‘And what, you think you’re going to finish whatever she started? Find whatever mystery documents she was looking for?’

  I nod. ‘It sounds crazy, but it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘All you’ve got? What are you talking about, Isobel?’ Liam looks as confused as ever. I take a step closer.

  ‘This all has something to do with me. Someone’s been following me.’

  ‘Who?’ He waits for my answer, blinking.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ve got to let the cops do their job. Not much point in knowing what Veronica was up to if you end up dead too.’

  ‘What if the cops are trying to pin it on someone? Like me. Or my Dad. It’s as if they don’t want to consider anything else.’

  ‘Anything else? What, like the fact they’ve dragged me in to be interviewed twice now? It was three hours the first time and five the second. Have you considered that your father isn’t the only one who is under suspicion?’

  ‘So that’s what you’re doing here? Trying to clear your name?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Liam, tell me. I just told you why I’m here. I trusted you. Now you trust me.’

  ‘Alright. A couple of years ago, I heard that this place was never cleared out. There were still records in here.’

  ‘So, this is about Veronica then,’ I say.

  He sighs, and his arms drop back to his sides. ‘Not really. I’m looking for a birth certificate. Max Hayes’s birth certificate.’

  ‘You’re his father.’ My voice is quieter than I expect it to be.

  He nods. ‘That’s what Veronica told me. When he was born. But then a few years ago when she stopped talking to me… well, she wouldn’t let me see him anymore.’

  ‘So why do you need the birth certificate? He’s with Veronica’s mother. I’m sure you can see him. Work something out.’

  He hesitates again. ‘Her parents won’t let me see Max. They’re saying I’m not the father.’

  ‘What? Didn’t Veronica tell them? Or do they not want you around?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know, Iz. Everything is weird at the moment. It was okay at the funeral. Then they asked me for some space. At first, I thought they wanted some time for Max to come to terms with things. But then Heather told me to stay away. She won’t respond to calls or messages.’

  I take a moment to consider what Liam had said. Why would Veronica’s parents shut him out?

  ‘Heather’s always been difficult. But now she’s…’ he hesitates. ‘More extreme. I’m going to need legal help. That means documentation.’

  ‘Did you find it?’ I asked. ‘Max’s birth certificate?’

  ‘No. I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘But you’re his father.’

  Another thought occurs to me. Could Veronica’s parents think Liam killed her? Had the police given them that impression? It made sense that they would shut him out like that if they did.

  Liam breaks the silence. ‘We need to get you to an actual hospital. You’re going to need stitches.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said, moving past him towards the metal door.

  He shakes his head, ‘I’m taking you.’

  I shrug. I’m not going to be able to drive, anyway. I’ll have to come back for my car later.

  ‘Can you do me a favour though, Iz?’

  ‘Depends on what it is,’ I say, though I’m not really in a position to negotiate. I’m close to bleeding through this makeshift bandage on my arm.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone I was here.’

  19

  Maya

  The house is my project but I can let it become my prison. It was a dud when it was listed for sale. No one would go near it. It sat on the market for months, a deceased estate. The weatherboards were flaking paint, rotted in some places. The roof sagged in all the wrong places. Inside, the walls were nicotine yellow.

  I saw through all that. I imagined the outside repainted in a pale blue, the timber windows white, the wraparound veranda restored and oiled. David could polish the floorboards, we could fix the walls and the sad, heaving roof. The picture I had in my mind is almost identical to the way the house looks today.

  I was pregnant when we bought it. Neither David nor I knew if getting married was the right thing to do. I know we felt too young to be buying a house and having kids, but we never admitted it to each other.

  It’s long completed but the perfectionist in me always sees a project; a laundry cabinet that squeaks and d
oesn’t close square. A plant that barely makes it through summer that doesn’t suit. And the cleaning, there is always so much cleaning. I can’t sit down with a cup of tea until I know that everything is away where it should be and free of dirt and dust. Which is almost never.

  Sometimes it’s more relaxing to be out of the house than in it. Tuesdays, I shop with Dad, and then see him again later in the week. Other days I do yoga or walk for a while down at Safety Beach. I used to have coffee with Veronica whenever she had the time.

  Yesterday, I went and saw Heather. This morning, I took Dad to the doctors. By the time I pull up in my own driveway and press the button on the garage remote, it’s almost noon. I glance at the clock in the car as I push it into park. There’s a few hours before school pickup. That time will go quickly.

  I walk into the entry and feel that something is not right. David’s keys are on the hall table. They rest on the glass top, not in the small wooden bowl where they belong. He never comes home in the middle of the day. Work is always too busy.

  ‘David?’ I call.

  He doesn’t answer, but I hear a low scrape, the sound of the wrought iron kitchen stools on the tiled floor.

  ‘Are you home?’ He still doesn’t respond.

  I slip my shoes off and walk barefoot down the hallway. My shoulders have stiffened and something doesn’t feel right. I shake it off, reminding myself that it’s only my husband come home for lunch.

  When I walk into the open-plan kitchen, he’s sitting at one of the stools facing the marbled grey bench top. Exactly as I thought he would be. He doesn’t look up. Instead, he looks down at a bowl of cereal he’s made himself. His work clothes are covered in white dust. Normally I’d ask him to shower, but there’s something strange about him today.

  ‘David, why are you home? I just called out to you, didn’t you hear?’

  Only now does he look at me. He takes a moment before he speaks, slowly chewing and swallowing his cereal.

  ‘Just checking in. Checking that you’re alright. I expected you’d be home,’ he answers.

  I wasn’t sure until now, but I can tell what’s happening. It’s happened like this before.

  There’s a part of me that wants to tell him where to go. That it’s none of his business where I go and what I do. But there’s a bigger part of me that hates a fight and will do anything to escape conflict.

  ‘Dad had the doctors today,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ he nods. ‘I called to check.’

  I open my mouth, then I falter. He called the doctor? Was he trying to catch me in a lie? ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I came home for lunch yesterday and you weren’t here either.’

  He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. ‘Remember that night?’ That party where the fight broke out? I said then that Veronica was bad news. That she’s a person who brings trouble. You didn’t listen then and you still don’t now.’

  Yes, I remember that night. Veronica’s birthday, she was turning twenty-eight. The boys were two; it was one of the first times we left them with a babysitter.

  ‘You were drunk that night,’ my voice is a whisper. ‘You don’t remember what happened.’

  ‘You were always different around her.’

  I was happy around her. Veronica was dating Liam back then. I say dating, but I’m not sure what it was. They saw each other some weekends. He was talking about moving back, but she admitted to me she wasn’t keen on the idea.

  She’d invited a group of people to a bar. Maybe ten or twelve, not a big event, but it started going off the rails after midnight. David never danced. He stood at the bar chatting with a man who looked vaguely familiar. They might have played footy together.

  How much had I had to drink? Too much. But it was fun, and I never got a night off like that. Veronica and I were dancing, spinning in circles, laughing loudly. One guy she worked with walked past and we grabbed him, pulling him between us.

  I laughed harder until I felt a strong grip on my arm. David stood behind me.

  ‘We need to go,’ he had said.

  Underestimating the seriousness of his tone, I stuck out my bottom lip. ‘Oh, not yet.’

  He leaned in toward me, pulling me away from Veronica at the same time. ‘You’re behaving like an idiot,’ he hissed, his breath sour with alcohol. ‘It’s time to go home.’

  His voice sobered me faster than a slap in the face.

  ‘Go home then,’ I said, raising my eyebrows in challenge. It was not how I spoke to anyone, especially David.

  His hand wrapped around my arm; his fingers dug into my skin causing a flush of pain. With force, he pulled me toward him, away from Veronica.

  ‘Hey!’ Veronica said. ‘Lay off her!’ Her shouts drew the attention of everyone in the bar who was not already looking. David let go of my arm. Veronica reached out for my hand. I took it, she pulled me towards her.

  ‘Get your nose out of it,’ he sneered at Veronica. ‘You’re always in our business, you are. Always in someone else’s business.’

  ‘Calm down,’ I said. I may as well have been talking to a wall. David’s face was flushed red. Veronica looked like she could spit venom. And I’d taken her hand; I’d taken her side.

  David turned and stormed out. For a moment, the bar was silent and the place felt like a vacuum. A few seconds passed, then the room whirred back into life again. That was when Liam appeared by Veronica’s side. Where had he been this whole time? The expression on Veronica’s face suggested she had noted his absence.

  When Lucy asked me if David was violent, I said no. And I was telling the truth. It was only that one time. Grabbing at someone is not like punching. There was barely a bruise. He was drunk and I was being unfair.

  Now he is sitting in the kitchen, and I can feel the same sensations. Something like that night. This time we are both sober. How long had this been brewing?

  David spoons another bite of cereal into his mouth. ‘Going to tell me where you were?’

  ‘I just did. I was with Dad.’ I put my handbag on the kitchen bench. I don’t sit down.

  ‘And what about yesterday?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I came home yesterday. You weren’t here,’ he says.

  ‘I was at yoga, David.’ The lie comes off my tongue easily. I have done nothing wrong visiting Heather. But if he finds out, he will be angry.

  He tilts his head to one side, as if he is considering whether he should believe me. ‘Someone from work saw you driving. But you were on the other side of town. Nowhere near the yoga studio.’

  Heather lived on the opposite side of town to us, what other reason could I have? I try to think fast. ‘Just collecting my thoughts. Driving down by the water.’

  It’s not much, but it’s the best that I come up with. Anyhow, I don’t see why I should have to justify my own movements.

  ‘Just wasting petrol, hey?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s been hard. I don’t feel like myself.’

  ‘You don’t act much like it either. But you haven’t for a while.’

  I straighten my spine and stand to face him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You haven’t been yourself in months.’ His tone is flat, but there’s an accusation underneath it.

  I bite the inside of my mouth. What's there to say to that?

  David is the first to speak. ‘I never liked her, Maya. Now she’s dead, and she’s still getting you into trouble.’

  ‘I’m not in trouble.’

  ‘You’re bringing trouble to us. You went to Heather Hayes’ house.’

  Then why didn’t he say so? Instead, he’s playing a twisted game. ‘I need someone to talk to. And you haven’t been open on the subject.’

  ‘I took you to a therapist.’

  ‘I needed someone who was close to Veronica. Who misses her.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ He shouts, slamming his hand on the bench top. The sound vibrates through the room.

  He’s so steady all the time
, when he snaps like this it’s frightening. But I won’t let myself back down, even though it’s the smart things to do.

  ‘What? I’m not allowed to be sad? I don’t get to grieve? All I get to be is a mother and a daughter and wife. No room for anything else, right?’

  ‘That’s just it, Maya. She was a mate. Sure, you’re upset. But your kid didn’t die. Not your parent or your husband. Just a friend. And yeah, you have an obligation to us. Go to therapy if you’re sad. Talk to someone. But you can’t go hanging around with her family. There are cops all over it. They’ve got a team from Melbourne. I hear they’re dying to put it on someone. Anyone.’ His voice is still raised, bouncing off the high ceilings.

  ‘What are you taking about, David? I’ve spoken to the police already.’

  ‘Exactly. They’re watching you. They’re watching me.’

  ‘So what? I had nothing to do with it.’

  He says nothing. His eyes fix on the grey swirl of the marble bench top. Then I realise why he’s upset. I had nothing to do with it. But did he?

  ‘David, who are you worried about? Me or you?’

  His eyes narrow. He doesn’t hesitate. ‘I had nothing to do with her dying.’

  Could he have hurt Veronica? My instincts say no. Then I remember that night, the way he grabbed me and pulled me away from her. Maybe my instincts aren’t so great.

  Both Veronica and David did a good job of avoiding each other for the four years after that party. They barely mentioned the other’s name. On the last night of her life, when I went to meet Veronica, David had tried to call me. More than once. He’d messaged me, asking where I was.

  Did he know I was with her? Did that old jealousy and rage from all those years ago resurface? Is he the person who sent Veronica to her death that night?

  20

  Isobel

  ‘So, all of this came from a broken window?’