Sticks and Stones

by Ilsa Evans

  The house was not well lit, with just a faint light coming from somewhere towards the back, perhaps the main bedroom. Maddie frowned, because this didn’t make much sense. Neither did the fact that the outside light wasn’t on and there was no activity anywhere. No packing or hurrying or rushing around. No television or music or wavering shadows within. Maddie let her eyes flick slowly from one end of the house to the other, pausing at each window. Nothing. She reached behind and snared her mobile from the top of her handbag. Bringing it over to dial a well-remembered number. Seconds later she heard it ringing, from deep within the house. On and on and on, each ring like a death knell, until it finally rang out.

  Maddie held the phone against her ear for a while longer, gazing at the house. Perhaps there’d been another car. She started going through every word she could remember him having said, every nuance, to see if there was something she’d missed. I get to take one of them with me. And I want you to feel a little of what I did, when I lost them. She took a deep breath, through the nose, to keep steady. Telling herself that even if she’d missed them, it wasn’t the end of the world. Ashley wasn’t a baby and it was going to be next to impossible to just disappear. She would find her. And then she heard his voice, slithering into her thoughts. Cheerful, triumphant, rational. Where’s the punishment there? And his laugh, oily, flat. No, what I’ve got in mind is a whole lot better. Something that’ll stay with you forever.

  Maddie whipped around to face the house once more, her eyes huge. A wave of dizziness hit her and she shook her head, because it was impossible. Yet nothing on earth would punish her more completely, more irreparably. And suddenly dread was uncurling within her gut like living tissue, blossoming outward, feeding off the worst of her imaginings. Ashley. But it couldn’t be true, because he wouldn’t do that. He loved them, loved his daughter. Maddie licked the split across her bottom lip, feeling the sharp pain rasp against her tongue. Then she lifted the phone again, jabbed triple 0 fiercely, fearfully, and waited for an answer. Without taking her eyes off the house.

  ‘Emergency. Police, fire or ambulance?’

  Maddie held the phone tighter. ‘Listen please, because I only have time to say this once. I am in my car outside Number 8 Lancelot Court, Mont Gully in Victoria and I have reason to believe that my daughter is . . . that my husband has done something to my daughter. He beat me earlier and made . . . threats against her. I am going inside right now but I need you to send someone, quickly, in case he is there. Because I have no doubt that he will kill me or . . .’ She paused, licked her lips again. ‘I will most definitely kill him.’

  ‘Ma’am! Stay on the line! I need –’

  Maddie pressed End and threw the phone behind her, towards the passenger seat. Then she got out of the car slowly and, leaving the door open behind her, walked steadily towards the house with the keys in her hand. Adrenalin still coursed through her veins, but it was now as cold as an anaesthetic. She reached the front door and pressed the blue doorbell, listening to it echo within the house. And then the silence that followed. She jumbled through her keys, isolating one that hadn’t been used for years. Feeling it slip perfectly into the lock, and being washed by a sadness that only added to her fear. Pushing the door open, staring into the gloom. Then she stepped inside, into the foyer with its miniature palm tree and its cheerful Margaret Olley print.

  Now she could see that the light was coming from the master bedroom, down past the kitchen, so she started walking quietly, warily, in that direction. Her heartbeat was a drum solo, attacking her chest, trying to climb into her throat. Reverberating inside her head, pulsing behind her eyes. But terror was no match for the toxic dread, growing with every second that passed. She ignored the lounge room, the couch a curved mound in the darkness, and went straight to the kitchen and meals area, where a streetlight shone at an angle through the front window. Maddie paused, listening, but there was nothing.

  She had a strong, eerie sensation of being watched, perhaps by someone who had just slipped out of the room, leaving behind a residual aura that refused to settle. So she looked around, peering into the shadowy corners, over her shoulder. And then, on the island bench, saw his car keys. She staggered sideways, suddenly faint, slapping one hand up to her mouth. Hitting it a little too hard so that the lip split open again, trickling blood down into the cleft of her chin. Maddie wiped her mouth roughly as she ran to the cutlery drawer, ripped it open and pulled out a large knife. Holding the knife before her as she left the kitchen and walked slowly, shakily, down the passage towards the main bedroom. The door was half-closed, with light spilling out silently.

  She adjusted her fingers around the knife, drew her bottom lip into her mouth to suck it, took a couple of long, deep breaths. Then she reached out and pushed with her fingertips, remaining still as the door swung smoothly inwards. And there he was. Lying full-length on the bed, floodlit by the chandelier above, one hand still wrapped around the rifle that rested along his body. Mouth open and eyes staring straight towards the ceiling with the marbled flatness of a river rock.

  Maddie dropped her knife, sucking in air and then letting it out in a whimper of pure, absolute panic. She wanted to back away, escape. She swayed, just slightly, as hysteria blossomed within her brain like a haemorrhage. Then she used the doorframe to push herself off, sprinting down the passage to Ashley’s bedroom. Listening to someone saying, ‘Oh no, no, no, no,’ over and over again, and knowing, all the time, that it was her. Also knowing, deep within where it was denied a voice, that it was already too late.

  She burst into the bedroom with none of her earlier caution. Unable to see anything in the darkness and flushed with fresh fury because of it. That he had given himself light and denied his child the same. She reached out to flick on the switch and realised that she was already crying, the tears burning with anger and despair and a refusal to accept what she knew she would see. Then staring aghast at the mound, so terribly small, under the Winnie the Pooh doona on the bed.

  Maddie folded into a squat, clenching her fists and beating them against her thighs. Shaking her head in denial. After a moment she straightened enough to lurch over to the bed, reach out one hand, snatch it back, and then, ever so slowly, reach out once more and unsteadily peel the doona back. Only to collapse, sobbing, crumpling into a pile by the bed. Keening her name over and over again. ‘Ashley, Ashley, Ashley.’ Condensing it into a single syllable that slid out in a plea. Not knowing what to do, who to tell, how to get this undone. Because it shouldn’t have happened, it wasn’t fair, they didn’t deserve this. Not Ashley, not Courtney, not even her.

  She lifted her head, pushing the heels of her hands against her eyes to stop the tears and the pain. Then she pulled herself up into a half-sitting position, using the bed as support, each limb, each organ, made of cement. Reaching out to run a trembling hand through Ashley’s hair. Her daughter would have looked as if she was sleeping were it not for the neat, red-lipped bullet hole above her left eye. Maddie tipped her own head back, gasping for air to drag down a thickening throat, staring at the ceiling, not knowing how she could possibly survive this feeling of overwhelming despair. Ashley’s arm flopped from the bed, her hand cupped upwards like a religious deity. Maddie reached out and took it, without thinking, feeling the coolness of her daughter’s skin. She ran her finger lightly around the palm. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear. One step, two steps – and tickle you under there.

  But the rhyme sagged. Weighed down by both anguish and a growing anger, rapidly becoming the biggest, most mind-numbing anger she had ever experienced or ever thought she could. Anger that he had done this, and anger that he had then removed himself from the equation so that there could be no consequences for him. No being held accountable, no punishment, no nothing.

  Bright blue light suddenly filled the room, eerily silent, whipping around, and through the window Maddie could see headlights coming down the court, with the flashing blue light above. The police were here. She turned back to As
hley because it didn’t matter about them, made absolutely no difference whatsoever. Not now.

  Maddie leant across to pull Ashley’s hair forward, making a sweeping fringe that covered the crisply nasty hole. But the girl’s beautiful skin was so cold to the touch, almost reptile-like, and it reminded Maddie suddenly of Jake’s eyes. Which she would never have to see again. Ever. Never have to worry about, never have to look for in a crowd, never have to imagine were just about to confront her. Wherever. That part of her life was over, never to come again. There was sharp knocking from the other end of the house, someone calling out. And Maddie suddenly groaned, a moistly primeval sound that surged from her soul. Because the price for freedom had always been high; but this time, oh god, this time it was a debt she would be paying for the rest of her life. Without end.

  EPILOGUE

  The room was filling rapidly when Rebecca arrived. A cork-coloured concertina divider, which normally separated the space into two, had been pulled back to allow for more chairs, but even so it was already evident that latecomers would have to stand. At the very front, facing the rows of seating, was a raised platform holding a long table with several chairs and a wooden podium. A laptop computer sat open on the table, together with a water jug and several glasses. Directly behind the podium, and covering a large amount of wall space, was an LCD screen that glowed faintly in the fluorescent-lit room. A single word stood out in bold relief: Welcome!

  Rebecca hesitated and then was gently forced forward by the momentum of those behind. She paused again by a table at the entrance, which held an array of pamphlets and brochures and even fridge magnets, and she felt a sudden hiccup of laughter as she pictured David’s face if he saw one of those stuck to their fridge at home. She swallowed quickly, and went on past.

  A large, florid-faced woman had now taken a seat on the platform and was holding an animated discussion with some women in the front row. Rebecca found a seat right at the back, in the corner. She set her mobile to silent, figuring that although she would probably have a good hour before he rang next, it was better to be safe than sorry. This way she would feel the vibration of his call and be able to leave quickly, so that he would be none the wiser.

  She left the phone lying in her lap and glanced around surreptitiously at the others in the room. Mostly women, and a few men who all looked like they might work in the sector. But then it was so hard to tell, she of all people knew that. She imagined telling any of her friends, or her family, or her parents, especially given that her father was a retired policeman himself. And the wall of disbelief she would face. Not David, no. Sure he can have a bit of a temper but . . . no, not David. He’s not the type. No way.

  The plump blonde woman beside Rebecca shuffled around to face someone on the other side. ‘Hey, have you ever heard her talk?’

  ‘No, have you?’

  ‘Yep, went to a forum in town last year where she was a guest speaker. Very impressive. She sort of strikes the right balance between talking about what happened to her without making it, well, gratuitous. Or a competition. You know, you show me your scar and I’ll show you mine.’

  ‘God, Deb,’ her companion gave a short laugh. ‘Your compassion never fails to amaze me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that.’ Deb sounded impatient. ‘Just that I think there can be a danger with this sort of thing that it’s a bit too much shock value and too little depth.’

  ‘Maybe the shock value is the depth.’

  ‘I’m not explaining myself well.’ Deb went silent for a moment and Rebecca imagined the woman frowning as she searched out the right words. ‘I think it’s that she ties everything together. Creates the bigger picture. And then uses that to talk about what needs to be done. Maybe it’s the background in law.’

  ‘Well she’s certainly attracted a fair crowd.’

  Deb twisted around to survey the room. She nodded. ‘She always does. A great advocate.’

  The room was almost full now, and those who had been milling around the entrance were hurriedly finding seats. It suddenly occurred to Rebecca that they all knew exactly what they were doing, why they were there. All of them confident, all of them connected. And she didn’t belong. This last thought arrived with such force that the only thing stopping her from getting up and escaping, right then, was the embarrassment. The idea of going against the tide towards the door. So she sat perfectly still, staring down at the phone on her lap and feeling nauseous.

  ‘Can I have your attention please?’

  Rebecca’s head jerked up obediently as the room quietened. At the front table the florid-faced woman, who had just spoken, had been joined by two others. On her left was an older lady who had taken over the laptop, and on her right was a brunette, somewhat younger. Rebecca stared at her, suddenly sure that this was who she had come to hear. There was something about her face, or within her face, that spoke a particular language understood by both too few and too many.

  The florid woman used the table to help herself to her feet. She cleared her throat. ‘First I’d like to welcome you all here today and say how gratifying it is for us,’ she paused here and gestured fleetingly towards her older companion, ‘to see such a wonderful turnout. Now, often at speeches it’s customary for the person introducing the speaker to say something like “such and such needs no introduction”, and then proceed to do exactly that for about ten minutes.’ She paused again as a sprinkling of light laughter rippled through the room. ‘Well, when I say that the lady sitting next to me needs no introduction I really mean it. Over the past six years she has made a name for herself as one of the country’s most effective advocates against family violence, having used her own tragedy to drive the message home. So without further ado . . .’

  The brunette rose slowly and, as applause drowned out the ending of the florid woman’s speech, made her way to the podium. Rebecca stared at her hungrily. She looked a little older under the fluorescents, but they were still of a similar age. Beside Rebecca, the plump blonde was clapping enthusiastically, and the sound seemed too loud and too fractured. Finally the applause began to break up, hiccupping into silence.

  At the podium, the brunette reached forward to adjust the microphone. As if this was a cue, the Welcome! sign on the giant screen behind was suddenly and shockingly replaced by the side-on image of a battered woman. And although everyone present knew why they were here, and what they were about to hear, the picture still drew gasps. A cloud of dark brown hair had been pulled back to better depict the livid bruise that began at the eye and then continued on down the curve of the cheek. Shades of peacock blue, with just a trace of dirty yellow fraying the edges.

  The woman waited for a few moments as everybody took in the picture and realised, slowly, that it was her. After about a minute the picture imploded, so that the last segment to crumple was the bruise itself. And another picture unfurled across the screen, like a flag, almost as shocking as the first but only because of the difference. Because this one shone with happiness. It showed the woman again, but this time she was uninjured and laughing and it was almost like a whole other person. Close beside her in the picture, and grinning also, was a rather good-looking young man, around twenty years old. With just enough resemblance to suggest that he might be her son. Awkwardly stretched across both their laps, getting his tummy scratched, was a blue roan cocker spaniel with an undocked tail, tongue lolling across black lips and candy-pink gums.

  Rebecca stared at the picture, drinking it in. Only when it began to ripple did she transfer her attention back to the speaker. Who was looking steadily around the room, her gaze lingering slightly every now and again. As the glance flicked in her direction, settled for a moment, Rebecca hunched herself into her chair, feeling a surge of both embarrassment and warmth.

  And finally the brunette leant forward towards the microphone. ‘Good afternoon and thank you all so very much for coming. My name is Maddie McCourt and I’m a survivor . . .’

  />   Ilsa Evans, Sticks and Stones