She opens her eyes. It’s Sam moving over her in the ashen lamplight. He squeezes her nipples too hard, pushes her legs back too far.
‘That hurts.’
He doesn’t stop.
‘Stop, Sam. You’re hurting my back, my knee.’
He still doesn’t stop.
‘I said stop.’
He stops, and she rolls from underneath him, curls up at the edge of the bed.
‘Sorry. I thought you wanted …’ He touches her shoulder. ‘You were scratching my back really hard.’
She doesn’t respond, and he turns his back. When his breathing becomes slow, sleep-regular, she rolls over and sees the scratch marks, and some blood. She flicks off the lamp and waits for sleep. It doesn’t come, and that desperate dream-feeling of wanting, needing, continues to ache inside her. She gets up, walks to the kitchen, and looks out the window at the bungalow while she drinks a glass of water over the sink.
She takes the heater to the lounge room, sits on the couch with a blanket and her laptop on her knees, and starts writing her monthly article for Parenting Today. Toddler-taming featured in the last issue, so maybe she should focus on craft this month. Papier-maché balloons? She sighs, unable to concentrate, puts the laptop aside, closes her eyes, and slides a hand down under the blanket.
5
‘What’s been the best part of your birthday so far?’ Ryan asks the twins as Brigitte clears the table of food.
‘Red bums,’ Phoebe says.
‘What?’ Ryan chokes on his wine.
‘Red-bum monkeys,’ Finn says. ‘At the zoo.’
‘Oh, the baboons.’
‘Can we have cake now?’ Georgia crawls over Ryan’s legs and under the table.
‘Good idea. It’s nearly time for all four-year-olds to go to bed. And Mummy will be wondering where we are.’
‘No she won’t.’
‘Probably right, Georgi.’ Ryan drains his glass. ‘Bet she’s still at the gym.’
‘Can we wait a few more minutes for Sam? He should be home by now.’ Brigitte chews her little fingernail. She’s about to call him again when her mobile rings. It’s Sam — she nods to Ryan. ‘You far away?’
He says he’s stuck there. Another all-nighter. She hears a background conversation: it sounds like something about a body upstairs. She shivers.
‘But it’s—’
‘Sorry, babe.’
‘Sam—’
‘Won’t be a sec,’ he says to somebody at the crime scene. ‘I’ve really gotta go, Brig.’
‘I love you.’ Too late — he’s hung up. She puts the phone into her skirt pocket, and curses Sam under her breath. She looks at the ceiling; there’s an abandoned spider web collecting dust in the corner.
‘OK. Who wants cake?’ She smiles at the kids.
‘Me! Me! Me!’
She finishes her glass of wine on the way to the kitchen. Ryan follows, and puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s OK. He’d be here if he could.’
‘He forgot about their party.’ She sniffs.
‘You know he loves you and the twins.’ He hands her a box of tissues; she takes a couple and blows her nose.
‘Maybe.’ She throws the tissues at the bin, misses, picks them up, and karate-kicks the swing-top lid off. Her outburst is paid back with a bolt of pain through her body. She apologises, replaces the lid, and washes her hands at the sink.
‘How about opening another bottle of wine?’ She follows Ryan back to the living room with the Palace of Dreams party cake that Kerry baked for them.
The kids say ‘Ooh’ as she places it on the table. It’s a deep-purple castle, surrounded by marshmallow toadstools. A lolly-encrusted staircase leads to sherbet cone towers tiled with chocolate and hundreds and thousands.
Brigitte lights the candles, and Ryan takes photos while they sing ‘Happy birthday’.
The kids scoff the cake, and Brigitte pours more wine.
‘What happened to not drinking?’ Ryan says.
‘Changed my mind.’
‘Fair enough. I can’t imagine having to listen sober to Rosie complain.’
‘And worrying about Sam not coming home.’
‘No fun at all.’ He goes to the stereo on the bookshelf, and walks his fingers across the tops of the CDs. ‘Nick Cave still your favourite?’
The padlock clicks; the side gate squeaks. Ryan frowns at Brigitte.
‘Aidan! Aidan!’ the twins squeal.
‘Just the guy who’s staying in the bungalow.’ She dismisses it with a shrug.
‘Oh, that’s right. Your tenant. How’s that going?’
She rolls her eyes, and hopes Ryan doesn’t notice she’s blushing.
Five minutes later, there’s a gentle knock on the kitchen door at the back of the house. She groans and gets up to answer it, muttering, ‘What does he want now?’
He apologises for interrupting, says the light’s blown in the bungalow, and asks if she has any spare globes. His shirt is un-tucked. He smells sweaty and looks tired, dark shadows etched under his eyes. He sees Ryan over her shoulder, and frowns.
She scrounges through the junk drawer in the kitchen cabinet. ‘Is it a bayonet?’
‘No.’ He locks eyes with her — they’re cocoa-coloured — and says, ‘It’s a screw-in.’
‘Sorry, don’t have any of those.’ She looks away and bangs the drawer shut, her heart rocketing.
‘That’s OK. I’ve got a torch.’
Phoebe walks into the kitchen, purple icing and hundreds and thousands all over her face. ‘Aidan, it’s my birthday.’
‘Really? Happy birthday.’
‘And Finn’s birthday, too. You want some cake?’
He looks at Brigitte, and gets the message. ‘Sorry, sweetie, I have to go.’
‘Aww.’ Phoebe sticks out her bottom lip.
He walks towards the back door — an affected swagger. He must think she’s watching. She looks at her hands, searching for something clever to say. She fiddles with her wedding band, and asks if he’s eaten.
He turns and says he hasn’t.
‘We’ve got plenty of leftover party pies and fairy bread. If you want to stay.’
‘And cake,’ Phoebe says.
He stays.
Brigitte introduces him to Ryan and Georgia in the living room. Ryan stands, and they shake hands.
‘Busy day, mate?’ Ryan pours him a glass of wine.
‘Thanks.’ He takes the wine. ‘Yeah, very busy at the moment.’
Ryan’s mobile rings. ‘On our way ... Yes, yes, I know ... All right. Won’t be long.’ He hangs up. ‘Sorry, guys. It’s past our bedtime, and we’re in trouble.’
Aidan smiles his crooked smile and nods, like he empathises.
‘Finn and Phoebe must be very tired, too,’ Brigitte says. ‘And they’re going to do their hands and face and teeth nicely in the bathroom, like good big four-year-olds, as a thank you for a lovely day at the zoo with Uncle Ryan and Georgia. Aren’t you?’
As she walks Ryan and Georgia to the front door, she hears Aidan asking the twins to show him what kind of toothbrushes they have.
‘Will you be OK if I go?’ Ryan leans a shoulder against the doorframe.
‘Of course.’ She folds her arms across her chest.
‘Don’t do anything silly, Brigi.’ His voice is low, serious.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I can see what’s going on.’
She blinks up at him, eyes wide, innocent.
‘You and him.’
‘You’re drunk. Go home to Rosie.’
‘Don’t you—’
‘Go.’ She kisses him, and pushes him out the door.
When
she comes back, the twins are all clean and brushed. She puts them to bed; it’s way past their bedtime, and they fall asleep before she tiptoes out their door.
In the living room, Aidan is looking at the framed photographs on the bookshelf, his head leaning to one side. He hears her come in, but doesn’t turn around.
‘You look like a teenager in this one.’ He picks up the photo of her and Sam sitting on the front fence not long after they bought the house. Sam has an arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders; her hair is in a ponytail, and she’s not looking directly at the camera. They’re both smiling. The house hasn’t changed, except for the front door. She stripped and sanded the weathered brown, and painted it cherry-red.
‘Not quite.’ She takes it from him, their fingers brush, and the heat lingers on her hand. She should have told Ryan to stay.
‘How long have you and Campbell been together, anyway?’
‘Got married in ’97.’
‘God. Cops don’t usually stay married that long.’
‘Maybe that’s just you.’ She places the photo back on the shelf.
Nick Cave’s finished, so she presses Play, and the CD starts again. When she turns, Aidan’s sitting at the table.
‘I was thinking about you and the twins today.’
‘Really?’ She frowns.
‘Do you know much about the investigation Sam’s working on?’
She shakes her head. Only what’s been in the news: all of them women alone, with young children. Sam doesn’t talk about work.
‘You need to be careful.’
‘Think we’ll be right, with two cops around.’
She walks to the table thinking that Murder Ballads was not a good choice of CD.
‘You must get to work on some interesting cases.’ She sits down, and moves her chair a bit further away from him.
‘Occasionally. Tough one at the moment — not what it seems.’
‘What is it?’ They both reach for the bottle, and their hands touch again. She pulls away quickly, with the bottle, and pours more wine.
‘You know it’s against protocol to discuss cases.’ He changes the subject. ‘How did you and Campbell meet?’
‘I got hit by a car when I was young. Almost died. I was in hospital for a long time.’ She sips her wine. ‘Sam came in to question me about a homicide investigation.’ She laughs at how ridiculous that sounds. ‘Some bizarre thing happened with evidence getting mixed up, or something.’
‘That’s unusual. Campbell’s always so …’ he strokes an index finger down the stem of his glass, ‘… thorough.’
‘And then he kept coming back to visit me.’ She blinks a slow blink.
‘Uh-huh.’ He nods. ‘Where was the accident?’
‘East Melbourne.’
‘Did you live there?’
‘No, I lived with my grandparents in North Fitzroy.’
He continues to question her. ‘Why were you in East Melbourne?’
‘Don’t know.’ She’s not as drunk as he must think. ‘I lost my memory of what happened before—’
‘Sorry.’ He tops up their glasses with the last of the wine.
‘It’s OK.’ She reaches for her glass, winces at a flash of pain, shifts her weight in the chair.
‘Are you always in pain?’ He rests his chin on his hand.
‘No.’
‘Must be hard taking care of the twins on your own?’
‘I’m not on my own.’
‘I know what kind of hours Sam works.’
‘It’s not always like this.’ She stands, and leans across the table to clear away the cake. She is aware of his gaze on her back; it prickles through her T-shirt like heat.
‘Here, let me help.’ He reaches for the empty wine bottle, too close, his breath on her neck. The arm that was reaching for the bottle brushes against her. She should push it away, but she doesn’t. She leaves the cake, leans back, and lets her body melt into his as his arm snakes around her waist. She closes her eyes, inhales his smell of sweat and citrus. He lifts his hands to her shoulders — instant warmth — and they relax as he rubs them. Nick and Kylie start singing ‘Where the Wild Roses Grow’.
‘This must be our song,’ he whispers in her ear as his hands roam down her body. She knocks her glass, spilling the remaining wine, as she turns to face him. His lips are soft, but his end-of-day stubble scratches her face. She sucks his top lip, he tangles his fingers in her hair, they kiss more, deeper, their tongues circling each other. Her skirt rides up as she slides onto the table and wraps her legs around his hips. She pulls her T-shirt down when he pushes it up, trying to hide her scars. He doesn’t seem to mind, and shoves it back up and kisses them. She feels self-conscious about how hard her nipples are, how wet she is. At the same time she needs his skin against hers, and undoes his shirt buttons, too urgently — a button pops off and rolls onto the floor somewhere under the table. She’ll have to find that before morning. Before Sam gets home.
‘Should we stop?’ he says.
Her breathing is fast and shallow against his chest as she unbuckles his belt.
Oh God. She stifles a cry against his shoulder as he moves inside her. Sex has not felt this good for as long as she cares to remember.
She pushes as hard as she can against him, pulls him in deeper.
He grips her hips, moves her faster with him.
Yes. Yes. She curls up her toes, tenses her muscles. Yes. ‘Oh, fuck.’
He groans at the same time, slumps forward, and pushes her back into the leftover Palace of Dreams she was saving for Sam.
‘Are you OK?’ he whispers.
She can’t speak.
The doorbell rings. Fuck. She opens her eyes, pushes Aidan away, brushes off cake, and straightens herself up. She pads quietly down the hallway, and takes a few deep breaths before opening the door.
‘Kerry.’ Brigitte’s voice is croaky; she clears her throat.
Kerry’s brown hair is pulled into a ponytail, with a few greys peeking up along the part. Her face is bare. She never leaves the house without make-up, so something’s up.
‘It’s Kitty,’ she says. ‘He’s been hit by a car. Got him at my house.’
Fuck, fuck.
‘He’s still alive.’
‘OK. I’ll just get my jacket and tell …’ Her face is burning as she looks at her feet. ‘… I’ll tell Sam, and come straight over.’
She closes the door, turns, and bumps into Aidan in the hallway. She asks if he can stay with the twins. He nods and hands her her jacket.
Kitty’s wrapped in a blanket on Kerry’s front porch. Brigitte trips up the step. She wasn’t expecting to see blood. But he’ll be OK, she tells herself.
When she was five, her father had carried their old blue heeler back to the parking bay from the place where he’d been run over on the highway. Digger’s tongue was hanging out, his collar missing, blood all around his mouth. While they’d slept, he’d chewed through his lead that had been tied to the truck. Dan had wrapped him in a blanket, trying to hide the damage, but Brigitte saw his guts hanging out, dripping. Ryan started crying. She asked Dan if Digger would be OK. He didn’t answer. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, and vomit was rising in her throat. It was the first time she’d seen anything dead. Joan just sat there, smoking, in the red-and-white Kenworth cabin, and watched as Brigitte and Ryan helped Dan dig a hole for Digger just beyond the parking bay.
‘Come and say goodbye to Digger,’ Ryan called out.
‘No.’ Joan screwed up her face. ‘I can’t stand endings. I only like beginnings.’ She flicked her cigarette butt onto the gravel and pulled the door of the Kenworth shut, Dan Weaver painted in swirly writing along its side. She said the same thing when she refused to go to Dan’s gravesite at his funeral.
/> ‘Kitty needs to go to the vet now,’ Kerry says.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll drive you?’
Brigitte nods and hears herself swallow. Kerry picks Kitty up carefully and passes him to Brigitte. Brigitte’s hands shake; she’s afraid of holding him in case she hurts him more.
Kitty pants fast, watery little breaths on Brigitte’s lap — as if his lungs are filled with blood. She winces at his gurgled meows when they hit speed humps.
Kerry parks in front of a grey double-fronted house. A rusted sign hangs from a post: V — ary Surgeon.
Brigitte follows Kerry down the dark sideway to the surgery at the back. Moonlight illuminates the little white flowers pushing up through cracks in the concrete. Brigitte always takes Kitty for his check-ups and needles to the shiny, new clinic in North Fitzroy, but it’s not open after hours.
The vet asks Brigitte if it’s her cat.
She nods.
He runs his big hands over Kitty. ‘It’s got significant head and spinal injuries. Needs to be euthanased.’
Kitty squirms around on the stainless-steel table. Blood covers most of his head, and Brigitte sees that one of his eyes is missing. She wants to stroke him or hold him, but the vet tells her to keep back. The sterile, disinfectant smells — hospital smells — make her dizzy. Please, please, just do it quickly.
‘Shouldn’t have been out at night,’ the vet says.
Brigitte leans her back against the cold wall, and tears fill her eyes.
The vet asks her to pay first. Prick. She searches for her credit card in her purse, but can’t find it. Her legs feel like jelly, and the clinic spins. Kerry organises payment while Brigitte sits shaking in the waiting area. Had she been a cat the day of the accident, they would have put her to sleep, too.
Kerry gets a clean blanket from her car. A yellow one.
‘Do you have any other colour blankets?’ Brigitte says.
Kerry frowns.
‘Sorry. It’s fine. Thanks.’
‘You have something in your hair.’
Please Don't Leave Me Here Page 3
