Afterlife of Alanna Miller

by Carlton, Demelza

  I'd been wrong – they were watching me. He grabbed the wallet and licence from me and tossed it out of the window, where it bounced into the bushes by the side of the highway. He demanded her phone, too, which I handed over to watch itfly over the bonnet of the car to the road. If we didn't smash it, one of the cars behind us probably did. Her bag had other stuff in it and I recognised the Swiss Card. Alanna had owned something similar. I managed to sneak it out of her bag before he took that from me, too, not knowing about the package of blades and tools hidden beneath Caitlin's comatose cheek. I slipped it into my pocket, figuring it might come in handy. I never thought she'd try to stab me with it.

  The clearest part is when the car stops. He tries to take her off me, but he can't, so he tells me to bring her. It's always the seatbelt holding her in the car, not me, as it was then, but I know I have to stay with her. I won't hurt her.

  I click the seatbelts free of both of us and lift her out of the car. Then, it was the weirdest feeling, having a sleeping woman in my arms. Now, it's comforting, because of how many times I carried her. Bush surrounded us, low scrub and the smell of salt on the breeze. It's funny what you remember. I hadn’t paid much attention to where we were going, but I remember the smell and the twisted trees. I followed him down an overgrown track, deeper into the scrub, until he rounded a corner and disappeared.

  The black hole just yawned in front of me – concrete steps leading down into the dark. He shouted at me to hurry up with the girl and I did, ducking my head even though I didn't need to. Sometimes, just that ominous darkness swallowing us is enough to wake me up, because the moment I carried her into that bunker, it was over. Any hope I had was ripped away.

  But sometimes I can't wake up from the nightmare and I fall deeper, my hesitant steps carrying her into her prison, where she'll know torture and terror and eventually dance with death. My fault.

  The rope burns my hands as I bind her legs, then her arms with it while faint light trickles through the horizontal slit of a window. Wide enough to slip a letter through but not wider than my hand. And too high up to reach. I get up to leave and tell him I've done as he ordered and tied the poor girl up, but the open doorway isn't open any more. It's blocked by a heavy fire door, and there's no handle on this side. Just a metal plate riveted in place. I bang on the door for a bit and shout, but I get no answer, so I figure I'm as much a prisoner as she is.

  After a while, there's a shower of sand from the window and a laughing voice tells me he's lost the key and he'll let me out when he finds it. In the meantime, why don't I break the girl in while I'm waiting?

  I was stupid enough to ask what he meant. His response is crude and graphic and I hope to God she never heard it. I remember kicking the rocks around, clearing the floor so there was space for us both to lie down, though I wasn't going to do what he said. I just wanted to sleep off my hangover.

  I stuck that Swiss Card in her pocket, figuring if they tied me up, too, then at least it'd be easier to get to that way. I never thought she'd be the one using it.

  Then the window light started to fade as rocks and bricks were shoved into the gap until all I saw was black and we were buried alive, in a bloody dark bunker in the middle of nowhere. That's usually when I wake up, my heart racing as I gasp for breath. And take sleeping pills, because there's no way I'll sleep again after that.

  But some nights, it's not enough. Sometimes, that dream morphs into the night I found her, bleeding out on the floor and I can't get her out because the door's locked. Those are the nights I wake up shouting. And the nights when no matter how many pills I take, sleep avoids me. Like tonight. But I'll try just a couple more and hope it'll be enough.

  SEVENTEEN

  After working from dawn 'til dusk all week, I was ready to go home to bed, but I couldn't miss the doctors' sundowner, where all us shiny-faced interns got to meet the cynical senior doctors we'd be working with for the next year. Having done most of my course on the other side of the country, I'd expected to know no one, but I'd already spotted two familiar faces. If only they hadn't known me as a patient...I crossed my fingers that they wouldn't remember me. Surely they'd both had plenty of patients in the last five years who were far more memorable than I was.

  "Now this is a lovely surprise." The Irish burr almost made me choke on my wine, but I recovered and managed to smile as I turned to face the doctor who'd supervised my first year prac. And been my doctor after Nathan dragged my dying body into hospital.

  "It's been a long time, Dr Lannon," I replied, taking another sip so I wouldn't have to say anything else.

  "That it has. You're the first year who stole my parking spot, aren't you?" Dr Lannon grinned at my look of horror. "I'm the Director of Emergency Medicine now, and no one else has ever dared to do it. I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name, and staring intently at the name badge on your chest will probably get me accused of sexual harassment. Can you remind me instead?"

  I laughed. My identity was still secret – he'd only know my new name. I unpinned the badge and raised it to his eye level, suddenly feeling very short compared to the tall, Irish doctor. Aside from some additional lines around his eyes, he didn't seem to have changed a bit. "You can tell your wife you were a perfect gentleman. How is Althea?" His wife had been my physiotherapist – the woman who'd managed to help me walk again. I owed both of them a lot for my recovery.

  A shadow seemed to pass across his expression, but he hitched his smile back up as if it had never happened. "Oh, fine, fine."

  No, something wasn't fine, but I didn't want to pry. The last thing I wanted to do was get one of the senior doctors offside – and the director of the area I wanted to specialise in, no less. Who'd have guessed that all the trauma I'd been through would make me choose emergency medicine as a career path? Not me five years ago, that's for sure. I held up my empty wineglass and used my need for another drink as an excuse to walk away.

  "Ohhh, you managed to get tickets? How? I heard they sold out in like the first day and they aren't doing extra shows. They're going for like five hundred dollars on eBay now..."

  "My sister works in the ticket office in the city. I gave her the money and she bought them for me. I've never heard Chaya play live – they never come to Perth. I heard the concert at the Sydney Opera House last week was awesome. I hope the Perth one's as good."

  "I can't afford either of them. My uni books this semester cost over six hundred dollars. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get the Blu-ray for Christmas...or it'll be on TV when the tour's over. Besides, I'll probably be working that night. I need to do extra shifts to pay for my uni books."

  One of the catering staff broke off her conversation to ask, "What can I get you?"

  I set my wineglass down. "Do you have anything without alcohol? My body thinks I'm still on Sydney time and if I drink any more, I'm scared I'll fall asleep."

  The girl grinned and poured me a soft drink. "You're the only doctor here who isn't drinking, then. Even Dr Lannon's getting into the whisky tonight and he never drinks."

  I glanced at the doctor, only now noticing the drink in his hand. Even as I watched, he set the empty glass on a table and left the room. His smile had definitely vanished. Please, don't let me be the one who said something that pissed him off, I prayed. Could this evening get any worse?

  "I heard you'd dropped out," a female voice said.

  I whirled, hoping they weren't talking to me. This time, I faced the dark-haired doctor I didn't want to speak to. "Me?"

  She nodded and peered at my name badge, then seemed crestfallen. "Oh. I thought you were someone else. A patient."

  I managed a smile. "A patient who was a med student, but dropped out before she finished? Nope, definitely not me. As you can see, I've finished my degree and I got a job here, too. What did the patient do to make you remember her?" Maybe if she told me, I'd know whether or not to avoid her.

  She shrugged. "Oh, it was a really nasty case. Sexual assault, but she refused to admit it was rape. Sh
e wouldn't take counselling past the first session, either. I was an intern like you then, so no one listened to me, but I remembered it because when she was discharged, I felt like there was more we should have done. Like I failed her, because she wasn't right in the head when she left."

  Memories clicked and I tried not to wince. She'd delivered a blistering lecture on how I wouldn't recover until I came to terms with my mental condition. At the time, my mind had been full of thoughts of vengeance, not my mental wellbeing as I had no idea whether I'd survive long enough to need sanity. I was glad for the dim lighting in the room – with the normal bright hospital lights, she'd spot the faint scars on my wrists. I resolved to wear long sleeves if I was working in the same ward as she was.

  I made small talk with her for a few more minutes until I could politely leave. I'd had enough of this party and I'd promised to meet Dad for dinner at his place.

  As I approached my car, I scanned the parking lot almost automatically. It had become a habit. The security guard stood beside the ticket machine for the visitor parking, his radio hissing on his hip as he peered at the perpetually broken machine. If I broke into the Porsche beside my modest car, he wouldn’t hear the window smash. Movement to my right caught my eye – in the shadows I could just make out the shape of a man standing behind the fire hydrant.

  That's the fifth time this week, I thought uneasily. Why was this man lurking in the shadows of a hospital parking lot every night? Maybe I should speak to security about him.

  The jingle of metal hitting the ground dragged my attention back to the security guard as he started swearing loudly. The ticket machine continued to spew coins at his feet. He wouldn't notice if an intern was attacked by a strange mystery man, either, I realised, my eyes darting to the fire hydrant. But the shadowy man had vanished. I didn't hallucinate, nor believe in ghosts, which meant I hadn't imagined him. He'd been real so the risk of danger from him was real, too. And the broken ticket machine could be a coincidence, but staying safe meant assuming nothing was a coincidence.

  I jerked the car door open and pulled it shut behind me, securing the locks again with the touch of a button. Frequent glances in the rear-vision mirror relieved me of the worry that anyone was following me, so I headed for the freeway and Dad's place.

  Dinner with Dad couldn't be anywhere near as stressful as drinks with doctors.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was strange seeing Dad's furniture in a different house, all laid out and lived in, for he'd been here for five years. As long as I'd been in Melbourne – neither of us could live in his old house any more.

  Despite moving from south to north of the river, he'd still chosen a restored cottage with all the walls painted in the same boring shade of beige. Without me around to tell him otherwise, he'd bought all matching beige curtains, too, so the place would've looked blank inside if it weren't for the pictures on the walls. Artwork, mostly, except for the photos. And most of those were of me. My graduation photo took pride of place over the ornately tiled fireplace, too pretty to have hosted a fire in its present state, but beside it was a picture I'd never seen before. It looked like me holding a baby and smiling, something that would never happen this side of hell freezing over.

  "I told you that you look just like her." Dad stood at my side, nodding at the impossible picture.

  I peered at the baby's scrunched-up face as realisation dawned. "No wonder I don't remember this photo being taken. So you saw Mum's cousin and he gave you this?"

  He nodded. "A whole box of them. I'll show you later if you like. He was very disappointed that you couldn't be there, so he asked me to give you a letter and plead that you'd contact him so he could meet you. He said something about a family debt that needed to be repaid, but he'd only discuss it with you, as Fatima's daughter." He dug the letter out of a drawer and handed it to me. "Please do it. It wasn't like Dubai – he didn't have any bodyguards with him. I don’t think they could get Australian visas."

  No, goons for hire from Saudi Arabia probably appeared on several lists of people who weren't allowed into Australia. Thank God for that. It didn't mean he couldn't afford to hire some Australian muscle here to intimidate or even stalk people. There were plenty of perfectly legitimate security firms in Perth who provided staff for surveillance – and at a surprisingly affordable price, too, I'd found when I first looked at getting additional security for my place earlier in the week. Just getting quotes – I wasn't quite paranoid enough to feel the need for a personal bodyguard. Yet.

  I fingered the sealed envelope, wondering if my mother's cousin had hired the shadowy man to keep an eye on me. And why. Maybe his letter would shed a little light on my stalker.

  "I got back late from work, so I just started dinner. You don't mind if it takes another half hour before we eat, do you?"

  I assured him I didn't mind as I sank into the sofa with the strange letter.

  Dear Kiana

  I understand that you took a different name in Australia, but this is the name my cousin Fatima gave you and the name I hold in my heart, for you are family.

  And because you are family, I owe you a debt. More than one, in fact.

  First, there is the matter of Fatima's dowry and your own. Her father, your grandfather, loved both of you very much and set aside a small sum of money for her, which on her death he held in trust for you. As the executor of his estate, following his death earlier this year, I believe he would wish you to have this as a small token in memory of him. Tell me how you would like the money transferred to you and I will arrange it.

  Secondly, there is the matter of some property in Australia. He originally purchased it as a wedding gift for Fatima and her new husband, but as she never reached Australia, the gift never changed hands. Instead, it was leased and the rent held in trust for you. I have enclosed a copy of the deed for this property and the relevant forms to change the name of the owner to whatever name you are known by now. You can forward the signed papers to the conveyancer whose details appear on the documents and they'll make the necessary arrangements. If you wish to inspect the property before taking possession of it, I have included the name of the property manager who arranged and terminated the last lease. The property is presently unoccupied. Contact her and she will provide the keys to the house.

  Thirdly, there are the tragic circumstances surrounding your mother's death. I offer you my belated condolences on the loss of your mother and I beg to be allowed to convey these to you in person.

  The remainder of the letter was a list of his contact details in several different countries, as well as his name.

  Mohsen Rezaei

  I shrugged. I didn't recognise his name, so I took a closer look at the other papers in the letter. A business card for a Perth conveyancing company was stapled to an official-looking form, which I set aside, and the deed to a property at 100 Osprey Bay Drive, Osprey Bay. A quick check told me that it was on the coast, just past Busselton. I only thought there was a resort in Osprey Bay – no houses. Well, evidently there was one and it belonged to me.

  As if I needed more property. It was probably an old, run-down place that was twenty years behind on maintenance. But if it wasn't...a beach house in Busselton would be a wonderful place for a break, when I found the time.

  I decided to make arrangements for an inspection and a much-needed holiday down south. Heaven knew I needed it. And if the stalker followed me, I'd know I wasn't simply paranoid. If he tried anything, he'd soon discover that I wasn't the defenceless little girl I'd been five years ago. And I'd be armed.

  NINETEEN

  As the sun rose, I stumbled home from my night shift, wanting nothing but sleep. Yet when I walked in, I detoured to check my email – no, Alanna's email – to see if Nathan had written anything else. Sure enough, he had:

  I remember the shouting clearest, though not the words because I tuned out. He was so furious he was spitting and every third word was fuck or fucking. He referred to a fucking knife a lot, too. It wasn't until h
e pulled out my gun that I started to pay attention.

  I stared into that narrow muzzle and the words rang in my head.

  "You're going to fuck her and I'm going to watch and if I don't like what I see, I'm going to drag your fucking sister in and show you how you fuck a feral little bitch into submission. And then I'm going to shoot you."

  I said I'd do it. God help me, I said I would. I couldn't let Chris get hurt. He grabbed the collar of my shirt, stuck the gun against my neck and hustled me to the bunker.

  While I stumbled along, I concocted a plan. I'd persuade him to leave us alone or at least keep quiet, and I'd seduce her. Not rape – it wouldn't be rape if she agreed to sleep with me. If that didn't work, then I'd tell her the whole sordid tale and beg. And if she still wouldn't agree, I had my sleeping pills in my pocket and I'd find a way to persuade her to take them. And then...and then... Oh God, I couldn't. I knew I couldn't do it.

  I don't remember what I said, but by the time we reached the door of her prison, he'd agreed to let me go in alone. But he was right outside the door.

  The moment I saw her, I knew it wouldn't work. She hated me for what I'd already done to her and she'd happily kill me herself before she'd cooperate with me, let alone sleep with me. The sleeping pills in my pocket were our only hope. I just had to get her to take them.

  I told her they were headache pills. In the dim light, it wasn't like she could tell the difference. She took them and backed away from me as if she knew I wanted to hurt her. I didn't want to hurt her. I wanted to sleep with her. I wanted to spend all night giving this girl pleasure like she'd never known until those dark eyes didn't burn with hatred any more. And she'd never let me do it.

  I wanted to tell her not to take the pills. I wanted to ask her to rage at me while I made love to her, because if I didn't, they'd hurt her and I couldn't stand it. I'd never hurt her. Never.