‘I don’t know,’ she sobs. ‘That’s why I was asking you.’
I sag against the fence. ‘Oh shit,’ I say. ‘Oh shit.’
‘Please,’ she says, ‘if he contacts you, can you let me know? I’m so worried about him.’
‘OK,’ I say, and I feel like there are a thousand tiny fractures forming inside me, splintering into my ribs, digging into my heart. Before I can say anything else, Maddy’s off, her bag slapping against her hip.
No message, I think. No message, no message.
But when I take my phone out of my bag, there are messages. Four of them, all from Bailey, all sent today.
12.21 a.m. I figured out the anagram — Bailey Hunter, very clever. Here’s yours, not half as clever: X File. Because you’re out of this world, Five. See you in 5 sleeps. Breathe invisibly, for me. #2
12.21 a.m. This is the message I was going to send you on Wednesday night but there was no reception.
‘Five sleeps,’ I whisper, my heart thudding in my chest. No reception. He must have been in the bush. But for how long? Five whole days? Is that where he is now? My eyes skip to the next message.
12.39 a.m. I’m sorry I was a bastard on Monday.
An apology, OK, and I feel — how do I feel? Like I ruined something on Monday afternoon, something good, and now look what’s happened. And when I read the next message, the surge of happiness-regret-worry is so powerful that I think I could sublimate right there.
07.45 a.m. Just remember I loved you, Five. See you in the infinitude.
My thoughts awhirl, I type: Where are you? I just saw Maddy. She’s really upset. Please let me know if you’re OK.
I don’t expect Bailey to reply straight away, if ever. I need to find him, and soon. What if he’s really hurt? What if it’s already too late? Fighting a rising sense of dread, I sling my bag over my back and start to run.
The wind is blowing hard, and all I can smell is river-mud and petrol fumes. There’s a woman across the other side of the river throwing sticks for her overweight Labrador. I walk straight beneath the bridge, but there’s no sign of Bailey. Sinking onto the sun-hot rocks, I remember the last time we were here. How close we were then, and how far away he feels now.
I stand up and look into the hills. Houses dot the lower slopes, but the top third is thick with trees and gorse.
Where are you, Two?
Up the top of the Loop Walk … I’ve got an infinitude of stars to keep me company.
See you in the infinitude.
He’s got to be up there.
After scrambling up the bank, I walk across the bridge, the afternoon sun burning into my eyes. It takes fifteen minutes to get across to the other side of the motorway and the bottom of the hill. I check the sign at the bus stop — ten minutes until the next bus — and sit inside the shelter, hoping my bus card still has money on it. Clouds billow above me, forming and breaking apart again.
I check my phone. No messages.
The bus takes me most of the way up the hill, to where the houses are bigger and spaced further apart. A cracked sign marks the entrance to the bush walk, located at the apex of a cul-de-sac: Loop Track — Two Hours. Some smartass has carved a ‘y’ beside the ‘Loop’.
I wish I’d refilled my water bottle before leaving home this morning. The water left over from yesterday is almost gone. Water is all around me, though, in the stream running between the trees to my left, and oozing through the moss caked onto the tree-trunks and rocks. Dad says there’s giardia throughout most of the waterways in New Zealand, so I resist filling my water bottle, for now.
My legs start aching after the first twenty minutes, but I don’t want to stop. It’s already five past four. Hours of daylight left: nearly four, lots. Hours until Mum gets worried about me: two, max. Hours until it’s too late for Bailey — oh God, what am I thinking?
There was blood on the concrete.
Just remember I loved you, Five.
I walk. And walk. And walk.
I’ve walked this track before as a kid. It was fun then, but now it’s just relentlessly uphill. My shirt is sticking to my back, and I’m so parched that after forty minutes (exactly), I stop to drink from the stream. The water is cool and clear and makes the inside of my head feel glassy, for a short time.
Sunlight splashes through the trees. I start counting, stepping on a patch of sunlight each time the number ends in a seven. After fifty-three minutes (exactly), it starts to get lighter, and the sky seems that much closer. The billowing clouds have drifted south, leaving splatters of white, like sea froth. I round a corner and see a picnic table sitting in the middle of a scrubby clearing. It’s smaller than I remembered.
There’s no one here. No Bailey, not even any sign he’s been here. I sit down with a thud, the wind blowing hair into my eyes. The wind rises and falls, like the sea, like someone breathing.
Like someone breathing. I hold my breath, listening. And the next time the wind drops, I hear — something. Someone.
I stand up, turning a slow circle.
‘Bailey?’ Then, louder, ‘Two?’
When I think I hear the noise again, I walk towards the source of the sound, in the trees to my right.
Blue. Blue, where there shouldn’t be blue, and there’s the edge of a shirt. An arm and a leg, and why is he lying on his side like that? His back is facing me, his knees drawn up to his chest. I drop into a crouch.
‘F-f-five,’ Bailey croaks, twisting his head to look at me. He winces even before I touch him.
‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘Oh no.’ His right eye is swollen shut, and the right side of his face is encrusted with blood. The piece of cloth stuck to his forehead — a handkerchief? — is dark red, almost black.
‘Where else are you hurt?’ I ask, running my fingers down his side. He sucks in a breath and catches my hand.
‘P-p-please,’ he says. ‘D-d-d—’
‘I won’t,’ I say, even though I don’t really know what he’s asking me not to do. Just looking at him makes me want to cry. He’s shivering, his skin cement-pale beneath the blood crust. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I couldn’t—’ He raises his hands to his face. ‘My phone. It’s dead.’
I touch his arm again. His skin feels so cold. ‘You need an ambulance.’
He coughs, and clutches his side. For a moment I think he’s going to pass out. Has he broken a rib? Internal injuries?
‘No,’ he says, his eyes fluttering open again. ‘No ambulance. No hospital.’
I take a deep breath. ‘OK. But you can’t stay here, right? You can come to my house, get my mum to look at you.’
‘OK.’ Bailey’s voice is faint. He stretches out a hand and I help him to sit up.
‘I don’t know how you’re going to get down the hill,’ I say. His forehead is glistening with sweat. How’s he going to walk down the hill if he can barely sit up?
He runs a grimy hand beneath his nose. ‘Can’t b-be any worse than walking up it.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re stubborn, you know that?’
I don’t know how we manage to get down that hill, only that it takes a lot longer than it took me to walk up there. I refill my water bottle from the stream, but Bailey hardly drinks anything. We stop for him to rest, again and again.
When we finally emerge, blinking into the early evening, my watch tells me it’s half-past six, and my phone is dead. No wonder there are no worried messages or missed calls from Mum.
Bailey sinks onto the kerb, taking short, shallow breaths, like a bird.
‘I don’t think I can walk any further,’ he says. Then he really does pass out, his limbs going floppy and his eyes rolling back in his head. I only just manage to catch him before his head cracks on the pavement. Oh Jesus, what if he’s dying? What if he’s bleeding to death inside, where I can’t see? Cradling his head in my lap, I see his eyelashes are moving. Not dead, OK, but I’m panicking anyway.
‘Are you all right?’
I look up a
nd see a man about my father’s age standing half a metre away.
‘My friend’s hurt,’ I say, as if isn’t obvious. ‘Have you got a phone?’
The man moves closer, just as Bailey opens his eyes. ‘Did he fall over? Have you been up in the bush?’
‘Yes,’ I say, in answer to his last question.
‘Lucky you were with him then, huh? Do you need to go to hospital? I can drive you there.’
Bailey grabs my arm. ‘No hospital.’
‘Can you drop us back at my house?’ I ask. ‘My mum’s a nurse.’
The man nods. ‘No problem. Are you all right, mate? Can you walk?’
‘I’m fine,’ Bailey says, but he leans on my arm all the way to the man’s car, parked by the road behind us. The inside of the car smells like dog, and the back seat is covered in black and white hair. I direct the man to our house, not even caring if he sees that I’m holding Bailey’s hand in the back seat.
The man tries to make conversation on the way, and I answer in monosyllables. Bailey doesn’t say anything. About ten minutes later, the man pulls into our driveway and turns to face us.
‘You all right from here?’
‘We’re good. Thank you.’ I run around to Bailey’s side of the car and help him out. By the time we walk up the path, Mum is walking down the front steps to meet us.
‘Where the hell have you — oh.’ She glances at the car reversing out of the driveway, then back at us. ‘What happened?’
‘I fell,’ Bailey mumbles.
Mum steps closer. The sodden piece of cloth is in my pocket, replaced by a tissue I found in the bottom of my schoolbag. Bailey doesn’t even need to hold it on, because it’s stuck to the wound beneath by the blood that oozes like water through moss.
‘Oh dear,’ she says in her nurse’s voice. ‘I’ll just get my car keys and we’ll head to After Hours.’
‘No!’ Bailey and I chorus. He sits on the lawn, his head hanging between his knees. There are scratches and smears of dirt and blood all over his bare feet and legs.
‘Felix,’ Mum says in a low voice, but I ignore her. I don’t want her to start asking questions, not yet, because I’m not sure I can hold back on the truth for much longer. She sighs. ‘Let’s get you inside, shall we?’
We flank Bailey as he walks up the path, moving like an old man. Once inside, he sinks onto the couch, his head lolling back against the cushion.
‘I’ll get something to clean you up,’ Mum says, shooting me another look I don’t want to interpret.
Once she’s left the room, I say, ‘Do you want a glass of water?’ To my relief, Bailey reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
‘I’d love one,’ he says in his sandpaper voice. He tilts sideways so his head is lying on the arm of the couch, and draws his legs up.
In the kitchen, I fill a glass of water from the tap and add ice with shaking hands. All I can think about is how it’s my fault that Bailey’s lying half dead in there, his head split open. Did his father use a weapon, or did he do that with his bare hands? Nausea ripples through my gut. If I saw Chris Hunter right now, I’d probably slug him, just like Bailey did to Zero.
When I walk back into the lounge, Mum is sitting beside Bailey, dabbing at the wound on his forehead with moistened gauze. I can’t look, so I set the glass on the side table and sit in the armchair beside him.
‘I guess I don’t need to tell you this needs stitches,’ Mum says after a minute or so. Bailey lets out a jagged sigh. When I dare to glance at them, I’m relieved to see that Mum has taped a wad of gauze to his head and cleaned most of the blood off his face.
‘Did you injure anything else?’ Mum asks. After a brief hesitation, Bailey pulls his shirt up.
‘Jesus,’ I blurt. The entire right side of his ribs and flank is stained blue-black-purple, like thunderclouds. No wonder he can hardly move, let alone breathe.
My mother shakes her head and touches her fingers to his ribs, which makes his breathing go all ragged again. I’m so overwhelmed right then, with worry and anger and I-don’t-know-what, that I have to leave the room.
I’m standing in the hallway, trying to calm down, when I hear a knock on the door. Thick fear coats the back of my throat. A man’s figure behind the glass — oh crap, what if it’s Bailey’s dad? Or the police?
Mum brushes past me and opens the door. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly.’
It’s Marcus, only Marcus. No, not only Marcus, Doctor Marcus, with the leather satchel he brought over when I had tonsillitis.
‘How are you, Felix?’ I don’t know how he can smile at a time like this, and I sure can’t, so I don’t. But I say, ‘I’m really, really glad you’re here,’ which might be the most words I’ve ever said to him.
He smiles again. ‘Where’s the patient?’ We lead him into the lounge, and as soon as he sees Bailey, he turns to Mum and me and says, ‘Perhaps you could leave us alone for a while.’
‘Sure.’ Mum steers me towards my room. Oh no, this is all I need, to be alone with my mother.
‘Felix,’ she says, closing the door behind her. ‘We need to talk. Now.’
I sink onto my bed, bunching the hem of my shirt in my hand. Bailey’s blood has seeped into the white cotton, the metallic scent hanging all around me.
‘Felix,’ Mum says, her voice even, ‘did Bailey really fall over?’
‘That’s what he says,’ I mumble. Is that a lie? No, but it’s not really an answer to her question either.
‘I’m guessing Bailey doesn’t want to go home tonight. Is that right?’
‘Don’t make him go home,’ I say, meeting her eyes. I should message Maddy, like I promised I would, but I’m too scared. What if someone turns up to take Bailey back home? He might not make it out of there alive next time.
Mum presses her lips together.
‘Let’s talk about this in the morning, shall we? But I want you to promise me you won’t go to his house again. Do you understand me?’
And I think that’s a promise I can keep, so I say, ‘I promise.’
CHAPTER 22
BAILEY: DREAMLESS
Once Doctor McKenzie has sent Felix and his mum out of the room, he crouches beside me and says, ‘So what happened?’
‘I fell down a b-b-bank,’ I say.
His forehead creases. ‘Must have been some bank.’
‘It was steep.’ I cough and clutch my chest. It feels as if there’s broken glass in there.
‘Hmm.’ Marcus’s cool fingers roam over my ribs, and I yelp again. ‘Sorry. I’d say you’ve probably broken a rib, maybe two.’
‘Oh,’ I say, my voice faint. He gets me to lie on my back next, so he can feel my stomach.
‘Any blood in your urine?’ ‘Not last time I went.’
Not that I can remember when that was — maybe this morning, when I was struggling up the hill. It seems like a very long time ago.
A lifetime ago, my father tried to kill me.
‘Let’s have a look at your head, shall we?’ He removes the gauze, lets out a long breath. ‘Did you black out?’
I close my eyes. ‘I don’t know. Maybe for a few seconds.’ Not long enough. I felt every boot going into my chest, my stomach, my back. I guess I should be grateful Dad abandoned the cricket bat after he got me in the head.
I’ll always be one move ahead of you.
‘You need stitches, mate.’
‘I know.’
‘And probably a scan of your head to look for internal bleeding.’
My eyes snap open. ‘I’m not going to hospital.’
‘Hmm.’ Doctor McKenzie sits back on his heels, his eyes roving over my face. ‘Did you really fall down a bank?’
‘Can you stitch me up here?’
He holds my gaze for a moment. ‘Sure. But if you change your mind about hospital …’
‘In the morning,’ I lie. ‘I’ll g-g-go in the morning, if you still think I should.’
‘That would be good.’ I can tell from the tone
of his voice that he doesn’t believe me. I don’t care. If I can just get through the next few hours, through tonight, then I might be able to get my head clear enough to work out my next move.
I need a plan, and soon.
By the time Doctor McKenzie has finished stitching up my head, I’m half asleep. The local anaesthetic he injected into the wound hurt like hell, but now it’s numb as anything. The morphine shot he gave me before has kicked in, too, and my limbs are so heavy I feel as if I might sink through the couch. It’s not such a bad feeling.
‘Make sure you drink plenty,’ he says as he packs up his bag. ‘A litre before you go to bed, OK?’
‘OK,’ I mumble, although I’m not sure if I’ll make it to bed. The couch feels pretty good to me right now. Crouching beside me, Doctor McKenzie hands me a small white card with his name and number on it.
‘You can text or call me any time if you change your mind about going to hospital. I can ring ahead for you, make sure you get seen quickly.’ When I don’t say anything, he adds, ‘They could take photographs to use as evidence if you ever need it. You know what I’m saying?’
I shake my head at him, even though it makes my skull feel as if it’s going to split open again.
‘I can’t.’ It’s the closest I can get to admitting that he’s right, that there’s no way I got all these injuries from falling down a bank. ‘Thanks doc,’ I add, when he stands to go.
‘You take care now,’ he says, the lounge door snicking shut behind him. I doze for a few minutes; am woken briefly when I feel something soft draping over me. Fingers flutter over my face. I know it’s Felix, his breathing and liquorice scent familiar to me now.
‘Hey, Five,’ I mumble.
He pushes my hair back from my face. ‘You’re safe here.’
‘I wish that were true.’ My words are running together. I hope it’s just the morphine, and not a sign of the bleeding inside my head that Doctor McKenzie was worried about. I think I’m too shattered to care.
‘You can sleep in my bed if you want,’ he says, and I smile.
‘With you?’
Invisibly Breathing Page 19
