by J. P. Pomare
I step back into the hot shower, and almost immediately the lights go out. Darkness swarms the room, then thunder sounds outside. My heart slams, my breath quickens.
‘What’s going on?’ I call. So frail, so pathetic. ‘What’s happening?’
‘You alright in there?’
‘The lights . . . I can’t see.’
‘Power’s out.’
The wind screams. A knocking sound comes from up the hall. I kill the shower, get out and wrap the towel around me.
The darkness fills every corner of the room but for the glow of the frosted window. Night has almost come and the storm is growing and growing. I open the door and leap back in fright. Standing with her face lit up by a candle is Iso’s mum. ‘I can’t use the dryer,’ she says. ‘Power’s out. But you can wear these for now.’ She holds out a grey jumper and a pair of navy pants.
Something touches my bare leg. I rear back, then look down to see the cat. I stifle the impulse to kick it away.
‘Shoo, Chester.’
The cat twists away and rubs its body against Donna’s leg.
‘I want to leave,’ I say.
Her expression changes, a slight adjustment of her features. ‘Of course. Well, put these on for now.’
I wait till she has gone, then close the door and pull on the pants and jumper. When I open the door she is waiting again in the hall.
There is the sound of a car crunching along the stones of her driveway. Her head turns towards the door, then she looks back into the kitchen.
‘Wait here,’ she says.
She moves surprisingly swiftly down the hall to the door, whips it open and steps outside, pulling it half closed behind her. I hear voices. It could be anyone.
I go into the lounge. There’s no sign of Iso. I pick up my bag and throw it over my shoulder, then creep back down the hall past the bathroom. I find the laundry off the kitchen, near the back door. The dryer is full of my still-damp clothes. I cram them into my bag and burst out the back door.
I’m outside and running before I have time to think where I am going. I scramble over a fence and rush across a paddock, sliding in the mud. Over another fence and then I’m at the road. Nearby there’s a man in a flannelette shirt digging a hole in a paddock; he looks up as I pass. I could be a wraith gliding by, barefoot and wild-eyed. I don’t turn back; my feet hit the gravel and I run and run.
TWENTY-THREE
THE LIGHTS ARE off inside and Jim’s car is not in the driveway. I try the front door; I had left it unlocked with my keys on the bench, assuming I wouldn’t be coming back. It opens.
Beau starts up his yapping from a dark corner of the lounge as I enter and jumps up to greet me. I creep on the balls of my bare feet, numb and muddy from the walk, checking each room. There is no sign that Jim has been home. I hang my damp clothes on the curtain rail in my room, then return to the lounge and light the fire. Shucking off the clothes Iso’s mother lent me, I pull on clothes of my own from the dresser, then I quickly tidy Jim’s room, remaking his bed and pushing everything back into place.
I feed Beau before returning to my own room, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to my chin. The book I was reading is still sitting on the bedside table. Don’t trust him. The storm rages outside.
I believed everything he said the day we arrived. On the drive from the airport he told me he would do anything to change how I looked, to make me unrecognisable. The most important thing, Kate, is to stay hidden and anonymous. That’s why I took the scissors. That’s why I started hacking at my hair.
He didn’t need to scrape the last of it off, though; part of him must have wanted to make me suffer for what I had done, to punish me, even if he didn’t know it. As usual, he would form clever arguments to justify his actions. He would find gaps in the meanings of words to stash his lies.
•
I wake in the dark of my room, unsure how much time has passed. I switch on the lamp but nothing happens. The storm has died down but the power is still out. I pull back the curtains and see blue evening light, bright enough to open the book and scan through the pages, searching for any other messages. I flick through slowly and reach the end without finding anything else. I take up my journal instead. I open it and read through my words but there are gaps like missing teeth where pages have been torn out. The blank pages are embroidered with letters punched through in rage. Two sets of words, one in ink, and one indented. The leaning scrawl fills the page. All those angry words. He betrayed me, he ruined my life, I’ll never trust him again. I shove the journal back under my bed and look out the window over the town, to the sea sparkling beneath those few stars bright enough to break through the skeins of cloud.
Quietly I cross my room, ease the door open and pad down the hall to the lounge room. Jim has been back; his laptop is on the desk. I stand and listen. From his room comes the sigh of a man in the soundest of sleeps. I walk over to the sliding door, press my nose to the cool glass and stare out into the night.
I have never felt so alone. I had Thom to fall back on when we were together. I think about Thom’s family. What do they think of him? And me? Are their lives different now? I imagine them all moving on. People are not frozen in time when you leave them behind; they keep changing and living. I wonder what Willow is doing too.
At Jim’s desk, I lift the lid of his laptop. The screen lights up, blue and ghostly. A small square image of his face stares out, but I can’t get any further without a password. It will surely be complex, something long with capital letters and symbols. I remember a P and an E from when I watched him type the night he showed me the message boards. I can’t think of anything it might be. I try to remember the shapes his hands made as he typed. Something on the desk catches my eye, illuminated by the computer’s glow. It is his diary, open to today’s date. It’s cold in the lounge but my shirt is dampening with sweat. Is this a manipulation or clumsiness? I read the entry; brief, clipped notes, as if written in code.
Wednesday 22nd August
Breach of privacy, email Paul.
CBT for trauma
Anger blackouts/IED
Credible defence?
I flick back through the pages, scanning the dates. There are references to things we have done – chopping wood, planting vegetables – but nothing else, nothing unusual. I go back to the week we left Australia.
Things that could cause head trauma, skull cracked in three places, bruises around collarbone and right shoulder:
Car accident.
A fall (no drugs/alcohol).
An attack.
Media reporting suspicious fall day one. Day two attack. Car involved.
Brick dust in/on Mercedes? Blood splatter? DNA.
How to link Kate to scene, phone record, camera?
I search the desk for anything else. His laptop bag is near my feet. I grab and open it in the light of the laptop. Letters, sheets of paper, pens. Nothing of any significance. Then I find something. It’s a short handwritten letter. I scan to the bottom to see who it’s from: Thom.
Dear Kate,
I know you’re still angry and afraid and you don’t want anyone to bother you but I’m worried. You were so mad the last time I saw you and I just want the chance to talk to you about everything and to help you through it. We’re both in trouble but you can’t just close yourself off to the world and expect this to go away.
Please answer your phone or text me. Or at least post something online so I know you’re okay. I’m worried.
Thom
Where did it come from? Jim kept this from me? Why didn’t he show it to me when it arrived? I’m startled by a crash outside. I look up. Was that glass shattering? Beau starts barking, and I hear Jim’s door open. I jam the letter back in his bag.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he mutters under his breath.
I slip from the chair and curl myself up into a ball beneath the desk. Fear wraps itself around my organs. Footsteps are coming down the hall, and in the dim light I see him pass
through the kitchen carrying something in his hands. The light switch clicks on and off but no light comes. He opens and closes drawers, finally finding the torch. He shoots the beam towards the door. I almost gasp when I see what he is holding in his other hand: the long barrel, the thick stock.
Beau comes over to me. Go away.
‘On your bed,’ Jim says to Beau, who is blocking me from Jim’s view. Does the dog realise he’s protecting me? I dig my fingers into my arms, holding my breath. The front door creaks open. He aims the torch beam into the fog.
‘You just going to hide in the bush like a dog?’ he says, his voice loud in the silence.
There’s no response. I can hear my heart beating.
‘Come out here, right now.’ His voice is getting further away.
I could make it to my room if I ran now. I push the computer chair back gently and scramble up from under the desk. What if they get him? What if they hurt him? I sprint up the hall.
‘Leave me alone, this stops tonight.’
Did I leave my door open? I pull the door closed gently behind me, holding my breath. His voice still reaches me. Incoherent murmurs. Are there other voices, or just his?
I hear the low flat pop of a gunshot. Then another one. ‘Don’t come back,’ he calls.
A scrape as a bin is turned upright. That’s what the sound was, a bin falling.
I lie in the dark with my eyes wide open, waiting for the creak of the front door. Eventually I hear it open and close, hear each bolt slam home. The chain lock rattles into place. His footsteps up the hall. Two thoughts chase each other around my brain. The first: He kept Thom’s letter from me. The second: He has a gun.
•
In the morning, I wake to a throbbing elbow from yesterday’s tumble out of Donna’s car. Jim had written about blood splatter and DNA. He had written about ways he could link me to the scene. He has a letter to me from Thom. The evidence is stacking up; I know I can’t trust him. I know he is playing games with me.
As I eat breakfast I can barely bring myself to look at him moving around the kitchen, his mouth a terse line. There’s an axe leaning beside the door; I’m sure it wasn’t there the day before and still there is no sign of the home phone, the sharp objects. I finish my breakfast, then pull my sleeves up and wash the dishes in the sink. Like a sharp prickle I suddenly remember something else.
He has a gun.
He walks to his desk. ‘Kate,’ he calls. ‘Come here.’
What does he know, that I escaped or that I was snooping?
I creep over. ‘What’s up?’
‘How are you feeling today?’
‘I’m good,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘Every day it’s a different answer. But generally do you feel better?’
‘Yes, I . . . I feel fine.’ I try to keep my smile steady.
He nods, then notices my arm. ‘Shit, what happened to your elbow?’
A purple swirl has blossomed. I pull the sleeve of my hoodie down. ‘I slipped coming out of the shower.’
He bites his lips and taps a finger on his chin. His eyes bore into me. ‘Is that really what happened? You fell getting out of the shower?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I didn’t put the mat down and the tiles were wet. It was stupid.’
‘Alright. Be more careful.’ He steps forwards and kisses me on the forehead. I stiffen but don’t push him away. ‘I’ve confirmed that they’ve found us. It’s just one man, though. I think I can deal with him.’
‘How do you know? How can you be sure?’
‘I saw him.’
‘Who?’ Short urgent breaths. ‘Who is it?’
‘No one. Jesus, Kate. This is why I kept it from you. Trust me, he’s harmless, he’ll be out of the picture soon enough. But I want you to be extra careful out there in the meantime. Try not to leave the house and don’t speak to anyone you don’t recognise.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Are we safe?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’ll always keep you safe but I can’t say that about anyone else in this town.’
Now he steps back and holds me by my arms. ‘There’s something else, Kate.’
‘Wh-what is it?’ I brace as if for a coming blow.
‘Last night –’ he swallows ‘– they turned the life support off.’
A black hole opens inside of me. I buckle against him.
•
I have been crying all morning and most of the afternoon. Nothing he does could possibly console me because when the grief fades it’s anger I feel – anger at him.
Balled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with Beau beside me, I’ve stopped weeping. Don’t trust him. I have to accept the possibility that this is just another one of Jim’s lies. He wants me to believe I’m a killer. He stands nearby staring out the window over the bay. Then he comes over and sits on the arm of the couch.
‘You feeling okay, darling? We knew it was only a matter of time, didn’t we?’
I nod. ‘I’m okay now. It was just a shock.’
‘Good girl,’ he says, turning his gaze back outside. The day is clear, the fog has lifted. ‘I know you probably don’t feel up to it, but there’s a spade out there and you could make a start at extending the veggie garden. The exercise will help.’
‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘Okay, well I’ll be back soon. Just come knock if you need anything.’
Without another word, he rises, opens the back door and crosses the yard, disappearing inside the shed.
I think of the key in the cavity beneath my drawer; if I could drive, I could go anywhere. The rental car is not so different from the Mercedes. But next time I escape I will be prepared. I will have my passport and enough money, with an actual plan.
After glancing once out at the shed to make sure he’s still there, I rush to his room and search it again. Opening drawers, carefully lifting his underwear and socks away, unstacking and restacking his shirts and pants. Then I go to the wardrobe and swing the shirts out of the way, rummaging among his shoes. I listen for the backdoor opening while I search. Under the bed, I find nothing. Scanning the books on his bedside table, I find: Psychology of Choice, Understanding and Helping Troubled Teens, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, The Myth of Repressed Memory. I open one book, Thinking Fast and Slow, and skim a few pages, but I can’t make sense of it. There is a slim volume tucked in among the weightier tomes: Inducing False Memories: On the fallibility of memory. It is the only book with a bookmark in it. This is the book he has been reading. I take it from his room and stash it beneath my bed, glancing once more at the shed before returning to continue my search. There is nothing else to find. I can’t see the gun or find any cash or credit cards, and my passport is not in his room either.
I straighten the bedcovers, push his shirts back to the middle of the wardrobe, then walk down into the garden. Taking the spade, I begin to dig.
The digging is a kind of meditation: pain, repetition, breathing. It’s the sort of work that untethers the mind. Beau watches me from the deck as I continue cutting into the soil, slowly moving around in a square. A blister is rising at the base of my thumb and a callus has torn off, causing blood to trickle into the creases of my palm.
I think about everything that has happened since we arrived: the children throwing stones, the three-legged dog, Jim almost hitting a boy with the car, the man in black and Iso’s mum leering at me when she picked me up. Then I think about the things that happened before: falling for Thom, hurting Sally, Dad meeting with Thom’s parents, afternoons at Willow’s, the video . . .
A new blister swells, opens, seeps. My hands are numb; pain throbs in my back, my shoulders. Adrenaline rises. I’m angry. I tremble with it. I remember the betrayal and above it all are Jim’s words. They turned the life support off. Focus, Kate, just remember. I see the shape in the headlights. It was a man. A man rushing out of the way of the car. The man tripping, his head striking the kerb, snapping back . . . No, it’s my imagination inventing things.
I know somehow Jim is responsible, I just need to find a way to prove it.
•
By the time Jim emerges my muscles are aching with fatigue. The tightness feels good.
‘What the hell have you done here?’
‘I was digging.’
‘You should have stopped.’
I just shrug. There’s something addictive about the work. I take the spade up again.
He moves quickly to snatch it from me. ‘Stop now.’
‘Do they think I killed him?’
His face falls. ‘Oh, Kate . . .’
‘Tell me exactly what happened. I can handle it. Do they think it was me?’
‘Oh, shit, what are you remembering? It wasn’t your fault. You need to understand that.’
‘It’s true, though, isn’t it? They’re after us because you let them believe I did it.’ The words don’t sound like mine, they’re bitter and accusatory.
We stare at each other, then the silence is broken by a knock, and Beau begins to bark. There’s someone at the front door. He nods towards the house and I quickly climb the steps ahead of him, rushing to my room as the tears begin.
The door opens.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. How are you doing?’
‘I’m okay.’ Then quietly: ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see Evie. Is she about?’
‘Evie?’
‘Yeah.’ It’s Iso, I realise. They speak to each other with an unsettling familiarity. Fuck. Please don’t tell him. Please don’t let him know I was running away.
‘Evie,’ Jim repeats. There’s a long pause. ‘Look, ah, let’s talk outside, alright?’
The door closes but I creep down the hall and press my ear to the wood. The murmurs from outside are barely audible – not loud enough to drown out the words reverberating in my skull. They think I’m a killer. The world thinks I am the killer.
