He coughed so violently his eyes filled with tears.
Frances grabbed his hand and pulled. ‘Get away from the door.’
He let her pull him back. She didn’t let go of his hand. He didn’t let go of hers.
Everyone huddled at the point in the room furthest away from the door.
Napoleon and Heather came and stood with them, their eyes already bloodshot from smoke. Napoleon pulled Zoe close to him and she buried her face in his shirt. ‘The door didn’t feel hot,’ he said. ‘That’s a good sign.’
‘I think I can hear it,’ said Carmel. ‘I can hear the fire.’
They all went quiet. It sounded at first like heavy settled rain, but it wasn’t rain; it was the unmistakable crackle of flames.
Something heavy and huge crashed to the ground above them. A wall? There was a dramatic whoosh of air, like wind in a storm, and then the flames grew louder.
Jessica made a sound.
‘Are we all going to die down here?’ asked Zoe. She looked up at her father with disbelief. ‘Is she seriously going to let us die?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Napoleon, with such matter-of-fact, grown-up assurance Tony wanted to believe Napoleon had special knowledge, except that Tony was a grown-up too, and he knew better.
‘We’ll all put wet towels over our heads and faces to protect us from smoke inhalation,’ said Heather. ‘Then we’ll just wait this thing out.’
She sounded as calm and assured as her husband. Maybe Tony would be the same if one of his kids or grandkids were here.
He thought of his children. They would grieve for him. Yes of course his children would grieve for him. They wouldn’t be ready to lose him, even though he didn’t see them that often these days. This knowledge felt like a surprise, as if he’d spent the last few years pretending his children didn’t love him, when he knew they loved their dad, for Christ’s sake. He knew that. Late last year, Will forgot about the time difference and rang in the middle of the night from Holland to tell him about his latest promotion at work. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you first.’ Thirty years old and he still wanted his dad’s praise. According to Mimi, James was always posting pictures from Tony’s football career online. ‘He shows off about you,’ Mimi said, rolling her eyes. ‘Exploits your fame to pick up girls.’ Then there was Mimi herself, his baby, bustling about his house, setting things right. Every time she broke up with another dickhead she turned up at his house to ‘give him a hand’. She couldn’t lose her dad right now, when she was still dating dickheads.
He wasn’t ready to die. Fifty-six years wasn’t long enough. His life felt suddenly incredibly rich and abundant with possibility. He wanted to repaint the house, get another dog, a puppy; it wouldn’t be betraying Banjo to get a puppy. He always got another puppy in the end. He wanted to go to the beach, eat a big breakfast at the cafe down the road while he read the paper, listen to music – it was like he’d forgotten music existed! He wanted to travel to Holland and see his granddaughter perform in one of those stupid Irish dancing competitions.
He looked at Carmel, who he had written off as a kooky intellectual because of her glasses. He’d asked her how she came to teach English to refugees and she explained that her dad was a refugee from Romania back in the fifties and a next-door neighbour took it upon herself to teach him English. ‘My dad didn’t have any aptitude for languages,’ said Carmel. ‘And he’s very impatient when he feels insecure. It would have been a tough slog. So my sister and I both teach English as a second language now. To honour Auntie Pat.’
Who the fuck did Tony honour? Who the fuck did Tony help out? He didn’t even give back to the sport that had given him so much joy. Mimi had been at him for ages to coach a local team of kids. ‘You might even enjoy it,’ she said. Why had he been so against the idea? Now he couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than standing on a field in the sunlight teaching kids to see the music and poetry of football.
He met the frightened eyes of the woman whose hand he still held. She was as nutty as a fruitcake, talked too much, had clearly never seen an AFL game in her life. She wrote romance books for a living. Tony hadn’t read a novel since high school. They had nothing in common.
He didn’t want to die.
He wanted to take her out for a drink.
chapter sixty-nine
Frances
The nine guests huddled in the furthest corner of the yoga and meditation studio, wet towels draped over their heads and shoulders, while Tranquillum House burned to the ground.
Frances listened to the sound of the hungry flames and wondered if the crash she’d just heard was that beautiful staircase. She remembered how Yao had said on that first day, ‘We won’t sink, Frances!’ and imagined ripples of fire consuming that beautiful wood.
‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,’ murmured Jessica into her knees, over and over. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.’
Frances wouldn’t have picked Jessica as a believer, but maybe she wasn’t, because she couldn’t seem to get any further than ‘hallowed be thy name’.
Frances, who had been brought up Anglican but lost religion sometime back in the late eighties, thought it might not be good manners to pray for deliverance right now, when she hadn’t even said thank you for so long. God might have appreciated a thankyou card over the years.
Thank you for that long, hot, sex-filled summer in Europe with Sol.
Thank you for that first year of my marriage to Henry which, to be honest, God, was one of the happiest of my life.
Thank you for a career that has given me virtually nothing but pleasure and I’m sorry for all that fuss about the review. I’m sure that reviewer is one of God’s children too.
Thank you for my health, you’ve been quite generous in that regard, and it was rude of me to make such a fuss over a bad cold.
Thank you for friends who are more like family.
Thank you for my dad, even though you took him a little early.
Thank you for Bellinis and all champagne cocktails.
Sorry for complaining about a paper cut while others suffered atrocities. Although, to be frank, that’s why I gave up believing in you – that whole paper cuts for some versus atrocities for others thing.
Carmel cried into her wet towel and jumped at the sound of yet another crash.
Frances imagined the balcony of her room hanging at an angle and then smashing to the ground in a shower of embers.
She imagined billows of black smoke illuminated by fiery light against a summer night’s sky.
‘The smoke in here isn’t getting any worse,’ she said to Carmel, to be comforting. ‘Napoleon and Heather did a good job with the towels.’
She could still smell and taste smoke, but it was true, it wasn’t getting any worse.
‘We might be fine,’ said Frances tentatively.
‘We will be fine,’ said Napoleon. He sat between his wife and daughter, holding their hands. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’
He spoke with such assurance and Frances wished she hadn’t caught sight of his face as he readjusted the wet towel, because it was filled with despair.
It’s coming for us, she thought. It’s coming for us and there is nowhere to hide.
She remembered Masha saying, ‘I wonder, do you feel that you’ve ever been truly tested in your life?’
Jessica lifted her head from her knees and spoke in a muffled voice through her towel. ‘She never even heard all our presentations.’
It was cute the way she still wanted to see logic in Masha’s actions. She would have been the kid who couldn’t stand it when the teacher forgot to do the quiz that had been promised.
‘Do you think Yao is still alive?’ asked Zoe.
chapter seventy
Yao
Yao dreamed of Finn.
Finn was very keen that Yao wake up.
‘Wake up,’ he said insistently. He banged together a pair of cymbals. He blasted a horn in Yao’s ear. ‘Mate, you really need to wake up to yourself.’
Yao returned to consciousness while Finn receded. He felt the imprint of something soft and scratchy against his cheek. He lifted his head. There was a cushion on Masha’s desk. He remembered the feeling of the needle in his neck. The surprise of it, because that was not a decision he could respect.
He heard the sound of something burning. He smelled smoke.
He lifted his head, turned around and saw her, smoking a cigarette, looking out the window.
She turned to face him and smiled. She looked sad and emotional, but resigned, like his fiancée when she broke off their engagement.
Masha said, ‘Hello, Yao.’
Yao knew it was over, and he knew he’d never love anyone ever again quite the way he loved this strange woman.
His voice rasped in his throat. ‘What have you done?’
chapter seventy-one
Frances
Still it went on. The burning. The crashing.
Frances’s fear peaked and then plateaued. Her heart rate slowed. A great tiredness swept over her.
She had always wondered how she would feel if her life was in mortal danger. What would she do if her plane began to plummet towards earth? If a crazed gunman put the barrel to her head? If she was ever truly tested? Now she knew: she wouldn’t believe it. She would keep thinking right until the last word that her story would never stop, because there could be no story without her. Things would keep happening to her. It was impossible to truly believe that there would be a final page.
Another crash. Carmel startled again.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Lars sharply. ‘That sound – it’s the same sound as before. It’s exactly the same.’
Frances looked at him. She didn’t understand.
Napoleon sat up straighter. He removed the towel from his face.
Jessica said, ‘There’s a pattern, isn’t there? I knew there was a pattern. Crackle, whoosh, small bang, crackle, crackle, crackle, huge scary bang.’
Frances said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t get it.’
‘It’s on a loop,’ said Tony.
‘You mean it’s a recording?’ said Ben. ‘We’re listening to a recording?’
Frances couldn’t get her head around it. ‘There’s no fire?’ She could see the fire clearly in her head.
‘But we saw smoke, we smelled smoke,’ said Heather. ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’
‘Maybe it’s a controlled fire,’ said Zoe. ‘She wants us to think we’re in danger.’
‘So this is her way of making us look death in the face,’ said Tony.
‘I knew she wouldn’t let us die,’ said Carmel.
Lars threw the wet cloth on the floor and went to stand in front of the screen. ‘Well done, Masha,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve successfully scared us all half to death and we’ll never be the same again. Could we please go back to our rooms now?’
Nothing.
‘You can’t keep us in here forever, Masha,’ said Lars. ‘What’s that mantra you keep repeating? Nothing lasts forever.’ He smiled ruefully and pushed his damp hair back from his forehead. ‘We feel like we’ve been down here forever.’
Nothing lasts forever, thought Frances. Masha had made a point of saying that so many times. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing lasts forever.
She remembered how she’d told Masha there was no code in the doll and Masha had answered, ‘Exactly.’
Frances said now, ‘When was the last time someone tried the door?’
‘I honestly think we’ve tried every possible code combination there could be,’ said Napoleon.
‘I don’t mean the code,’ said Frances. ‘I mean the doorhandle. When was the last time someone tried the doorhandle?’
chapter seventy-two
Yao
‘Did you sleep well?’ asked Masha. She took a drag of her cigarette.
Yao ran a diagnostic eye over her: dilated pupils, sheen of sweat on her forehead, fidgeting.
‘Did you have a smoothie?’ he asked. He lifted an empty Doritos packet from Masha’s desk, shook it and watched the yellow crumbs fall. If she’d eaten Doritos, she had to be in an altered state. The Doritos were more shocking than the cigarette.
‘I did.’ Masha exhaled smoke and smiled at him. ‘The smoothie was delicious and I have been experiencing many remarkable insights.’
He’d never seen her smoke. She made smoking look beautiful. Yao had never smoked and now he wanted to try it. It looked natural and sensual, the smoke curling languidly from her fingers.
He remembered the first time he met her, ten years ago in that big office, and how she’d smelled of cigarette smoke.
Yao looked at the computer screen on her desk. A clip of a burning two-storey house. An eave crashed to the ground.
‘You sedated me,’ said Yao. He ran his tongue around his dry mouth. He felt dull-witted with shock. He couldn’t quite comprehend that she had done this.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Masha. ‘I had no choice.’
The sky outside the window began to lighten.
‘The guests?’ asked Yao. ‘Are they still down there?’
Masha shrugged moodily. ‘I don’t know. I am sick of them. I am sick of this industry.’ She took another drag of her cigarette and brightened. ‘I’ve made a decision! I’m going back to FMCG.’
‘FMCG?’ asked Yao.
‘Fast-moving consumer goods,’ said Masha.
‘Like toothpaste?’ said Yao.
‘Exactly like toothpaste. Would you like to come and work with me?’
‘What? No.’ He stared at her. She was still Masha, she still had that extraordinary body, still wore that extraordinary dress, and yet he could feel her power over him slipping away as he watched her morphing back into the corporate executive she’d once been. How was that possible? He felt as betrayed as if a lover had admitted infidelity. This wasn’t just a job for him, it was his life, his home, it was virtually his religion, and now she wanted to leave it all behind to go and sell toothpaste? Wasn’t toothpaste part of the ordinary world they had turned their backs on?
She didn’t mean it. It had to be the smoothie talking. This was not an example of a transcendental insight. With her medical history, she should not have had the smoothie, but now she had, she should be lying down, with her headphones on, and then Yao could guide her psychedelic experience away from toothpaste.
But right now he had nine guests to worry about.
He looked away from her and turned off the burning house footage on the computer. He clicked onto the security program that showed the yoga and meditation studio.
There was no-one there. Crumpled towels lay all over the floor of the deserted room.
‘They’re out,’ said Yao. ‘How did they escape?’
Masha sniffed. ‘They finally worked it out. The door has been unlocked for hours.’
chapter seventy-three
Carmel
All the men insisted on walking ahead of the women up the stairs from the yoga and meditation studio, ready to slay lions or wellness consultants offering smoothies. It was kind and gentlemanly and Carmel appreciated it, and felt glad not to be a man, but it seemed their chivalry was unnecessary. The house was silent and empty.
Carmel still couldn’t believe there was no fire. The images in her head had been so real. She had thought she wouldn’t see her children again.
‘Surely it won’t just open,’ Heather had said when they all stood at the door and Napoleon put his hand on the handle, insisting they all stay back, stay back, stay back . . .
It opened, as if it had never been locked at all, to reveal a steel rubbish bin
sitting directly outside the door.
Napoleon tilted it forward and showed them the contents. There were burnt fragments of newspaper at the bottom and a pile of melted misshapen plastic water bottles on top. There were still a few glowing red embers left, but that was all that remained of the towering inferno they had all imagined.
They wandered as a group into the empty dining room and looked at the long table where they’d shared their silent meals. Grey morning light filled the room. Magpies warbled and a kookaburra laughed its liquid laugh. The dawn chorus had never sounded so lyrical. Life felt exquisitely ordinary.
‘We should find a phone,’ said Heather. ‘Call the police.’
‘We should just leave,’ said Ben. ‘Find our cars and get the hell out of here.’
Nobody did anything.
Carmel pulled out a chair and sat down, her elbows on the table. She felt the same shocked sense of ecstatic relief as she had just after giving birth. All that shouting of instructions. All that fear. All that fuss. Over and out.
‘Do you think anyone is here in the house at all?’
‘Wait. Someone is coming,’ said Lars.
Footsteps approached down the hallway.
‘Good morning!’ It was Yao. He carried a huge platter of tropical fruit. He looked tired, but otherwise in perfect health. ‘Please take your seats. We have a delicious breakfast prepared for you!’ He placed the platter on the table.
Wow, thought Carmel. He’s going to pretend everything is normal.
Zoe burst into tears. ‘We thought you were dead!’
Yao’s smile wavered. ‘Dead? Why would you think I was dead?’
Nine Perfect Strangers Page 38
