by J. P. Pomare
‘Now you know,’ he said. ‘Beautiful Kate. And all mine.’
I felt a surge of desire. ‘Do it again,’ I leant forwards and pressed my lips to his. ‘But this time I want you in the video too.’ The longer the camera was on me, on us, the better it felt. He held it steady as my confidence grew. The euphoria of the experience swelled in my chest. And the camera stayed with us, capturing the most intimate, the most perfect moment of my life.
I didn’t know that something was changing. That we had reached the peak and the only way we could go from here was down.
> after
TWENTY-FIVE
WHEN I OPEN my eyes in the morning the first thing I see is the camera in the corner of the room. Did he watch me sleep? He must have discovered that I had tried to run away. The cameras are here not to keep me safe, like he said, but to keep me under surveillance. He hasn’t noticed his book is missing, or perhaps he has but doesn’t care. So now I have two books plus my journal, which I’m writing in more. I’m writing to unlock those memories but I have only written about Mum and other painful days in my life. Some things scar the memory, some scars harden.
I’m getting stronger from working in the yard and am so hungry that I find myself eating whole chicken breasts, heaped scoops of mashed potato. Most meals I eat until I’m bloated and sleepy. Jim puts me on the scale; the numbers have risen again. It’s been twenty-four days now and the weather has gotten a little warmer. But while I grow stronger, Jim seems to be deteriorating. He’s up late every night. He takes more and more trips out to the shed and he is drinking more wine. Last night, as he sat on the couch he said without preamble, ‘You know, every day I imagine you dead. Think about that.’
I can’t even read the book I stole from his room for fear he will see me with it on the cameras. Maybe if I sit on the floor, hidden from the camera by my bed, I can read it. I reach under the bed for the book, then thrust it across the carpet so it slides out the other side. I walk around the bed and sit down, taking the book in my lap. It opens at a dog-eared page and I begin to read from where the text is underlined.
Memories change not only with time and perspective, but memory change can be induced.
I scan further down the page to the next part that is underlined.
Another study exhibits the power of suggestion. Employing a Socratic method of questioning rather than telling, scientists tested recollections of two groups.
Why has he underlined these sentences? My door opens. I close the book, slip it behind me under the bed.
‘Kate,’ he says from the doorway. ‘What are you doing down there?’
‘Just sitting.’
His eyes narrow in suspicion. ‘Your juice is ready.’
I need to get away from the eye of the camera.
‘Sure.’
I follow him to the kitchen. ‘I’d like to take a walk today, stretch my legs a bit,’ I say.
‘I’m not really in the mood.’
I take the glass of juice, block my nose and drink it all. I cough, then speak again, ‘I haven’t been out at all this week. Maybe I could go by myself?’
His expression is neutral. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Just to the beach. I’ll be careful.’
‘Just the beach?’
‘Yeah.’ I pause, thinking about my dream, or is it a memory? If it happened the way I dreamed it, then why was I driving? Those underlined words come back to me. What if he’s shaping my memories? I have to find out what he is doing to me. ‘Can you tell me why I wanted to drive that night?’
‘Well, there was the video. You remember that, don’t you? He made a recording of you.’
‘I remember, yes.’ I think for a second. ‘But . . . now you are recording me too. And you took pictures of me. I wasn’t wearing clothes.’
He coughs into his hand to clear his throat.
‘That was different. I took pictures just in case we were caught, to show them how thin you were, how you had –’ he pauses, as if struggling to put it into words ‘– how you had changed since it happened. And our cameras are to keep you safe, Kate. They’re not to hurt you.’
‘The video . . . is it still out there?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘No, it’s gone now.’
‘But you said it will always be there, somewhere.’
‘I was wrong. It’s all come down.’
‘Okay. So can I walk down to the beach?’
He sighs. ‘Take the dog.’
I grab a plastic bag from the kitchen and go to my room. I stuff my jumper, my journal and the two books into the bag. I’m about to leave when he stops me.
‘One second, Kate. Arms up.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to check something.’ I raise my arms. He pats me down, then plunges his hand into my carry bag, feels the books within.
‘What are these?’ he says, frowning.
‘My journal, and the book I am reading.’
‘There’s three books.’ He snatches the bag and opens it, looking in. He pulls out my journal first. I brace, my entire body becoming tense. Next he removes my book. ‘You’re reading this one?’
I swallow, nod. Finally he finds his book and his frown deepens. ‘You’ve been in my room.’
‘I just wanted to read something new.’
A thick vein rises in his throat. ‘You never go in my room.’
‘I’m sorry, I –’
‘Never.’
I conjure a sorry expression. ‘Can I still go to the beach?’
He just stands there, watching my face. Finally when he points up the hallway, I flinch. ‘Put that book back before you go and take these,’ he says, handing me my keys.
The walk to the beach is short. I sit on a bench looking out over the stones and sand, the fang of black rock rising from the water in the valley between waves. There’s a surfer out there, past the breakers, waiting for a big set.
Beau is sitting beside the post he’s leashed to, watching the seagulls. I open my journal. Turning towards the back, I find a blank page. The pen hovers. I can’t write. I read my words from Melbourne. The anger and fear from all the horrible things I read and heard about me. I close the journal and slap it down on the bench. I feel a burning anger inside. Show everyone those scars. The wind picks up and fingers through the pages.
I take out my book but I know I won’t be able to focus enough to read it.
I look at Beau, thinking about the words Jim had underlined: memory change can be induced. Everything he has said, everything he has suggested, could be a manipulation. It’s possible I had nothing to do with any of it. It’s possible my dreams and memories are fabrications. Maybe I wasn’t there that night at all.
Someone slides my journal towards me along the bench and sits down. I startle.
‘Hey, stranger.’ It’s Iso. He’s in paint-stained shorts and a torn T-shirt. His work boots are untied. He’s holding a pie; meat drips down his fingers as he takes the first bite. I think about the night I ran away from his house.
‘Iso,’ I say. ‘Hi.’
He nods at the book on my lap. ‘Looks interesting.’
‘Oh, um, yeah – I’m just getting into it.’ I turn to see if there’s any sign of Jim. I notice a grey sedan at the far end of the car park. It looks like his car, but I can’t be sure.
‘You must be a big reader,’ he says.
‘Not really.’
He tosses the last of his pie to Beau, who snaps it out of the air. ‘I’m not trying to be nosy or anything, but you seem a bit down. I mean, when I see you, it always seems like you’re having a hard time.’ He’s got this expectant look, as though he actually cares about my answer.
‘I’m sorry. I’m fine, really.’
‘Well, I know there’s not much to do around here on the weekend, but a few of us are always going hunting or surfing. Or I could take you for a trek on the horse.’
‘That’d be cool,’ I say, turning from the ocean to him. ‘Have you always live
d around here?’
‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘Do you ever think about going away?’
‘I guess so. Got heaps of mates who worked in the mines over in Oz. But why would I? This is paradise. There’s as much fresh seafood as you can eat, clean air, a million-dollar view, when the swell’s up it’s great surf. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind moving up the coast a bit. But I don’t really want to leave Mum on her own. Speaking of which, the old lady didn’t scare you too much? She can be a bit full-on.’ He scrunches the pie wrapper in his fist.
‘She was okay.’
‘You just disappeared.’
My cheeks glow. ‘I needed to leave.’
‘Evie, why were you hitchhiking?’ Iso is frowning at me, his blond eyebrows low over his blue eyes.
‘I wanted to get out of town for a day.’
He shrugs. ‘Sure, I get that. Mum said you wanted to go to Auckland.’
I’m thinking of a plausible excuse when he speaks again.
‘It’s just I might be heading up there next week. Did you want to go shopping in the big smoke or something?’
I look down at the book in my hands again, then lift my gaze to meet his. I feel instinctively that I can trust him. ‘I know you met my uncle the other day, up at the house.’
‘Yeah, nice guy.’
‘He’s not very nice, Iso. He’s not a nice man at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he can’t find out that I’m planning on leaving. I think . . . I think he might be watching us now.’
Iso looks uncomfortable, shuffling on the bench. ‘He’s, ah, he’s only looking out for you. It wouldn’t feel right to keep him out of the loop.’
‘When you came over, did you tell him your mum had picked me up? That I was trying to leave town?’
He looks over his shoulder. ‘No, I was just dropping your shoes back after you left them at our place. Well, I said that you were at our house, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention that Mum picked you up hitchhiking.’ He is looking at me closely now. ‘Are you okay, Evie?’
Can I trust him? I have started to doubt my impulse to confide in Iso. I slide my book back in my bag, leaving the journal sitting there.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘My uncle’s just a little overbearing.’
‘Well, that’s what uncles are for,’ he says. ‘Still, I suppose it’s always nice to get away. And it’s safer getting a ride with someone you know instead of hitching. Most people around here are friendly enough, but there are a couple of rotten bastards in every town.’
A breeze drives up off the sea. It whispers against my cheek, cools my scalp. I turn to look across the car park. The grey sedan is gone.
‘Iso,’ I say, ‘could you do me a favour?’
‘Yeah, sure thing.’
‘For some reason our mail hasn’t been getting delivered. Would you mind if I had a letter sent to your house?’
‘Sure.’
I open my journal to a blank page and hand it to him. He scribbles down the address.
‘Just let me know if anything arrives. Or I could come down and check in with you – that would be better.’
‘I’ll keep my peepers peeled, Evie.’
I make a mental note that if a letter comes back it must be addressed to Evie and not Kate Bennet.
‘Thanks for your help, Iso.’
I turn towards the hill and look up, scanning the trees and houses. In the distance, way up the top, I think I spot our back deck. It may be a quirk of the light, a reflection off the glass of the sliding door, but from here it looks as though Jim is standing out there watching. It looks as though he is holding something up to his eyes.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.
‘Okay. It was good to see you, Evie. Come say hi soon – you know where we are.’
I write the note on the way to the shop, scribbling as I walk, before Jim can sweep me up.
If you ever cared about me, you have to help me. He has me locked up, trapped in New Zealand. We are in a place called Maketu. He has told me that if I try to go back to Australia I will be put away for a very long time. But he has lied about what happened. He has changed. He’s not himself anymore and I never should have trusted him. He has been manipulating me, trying to make me believe that I’m a killer, but I’m not. You have to believe me. I am not.
Please send your message to the below address, confirming what is happening back there. Is it safe for me to come home? Are the police really after me?
I’m so worried something is going to happen; this is bigger than any hurt we might have caused each other. He is becoming more and more controlling. Please address your return letter to ‘Evie’ not Kate.
Kate
Tiriana isn’t at the shop but someone else, a boy, sits behind the counter. I buy the stamps and the envelope. I scribble down the address I know so well on the front and hand it over. My letter is on its way. It won’t be long now until I know the truth.
•
When I enter the kitchen, the kettle is on the burner. He takes his phone from the bench and slides it into his pocket.
‘How’s the weather?’ he asks.
‘It’s nice, starting to cool down.’
The kettle begins to rattle, with steam rising from the spout. He pulls it off the burner and fills his cup before stirring in a teaspoon of instant coffee. I sit down on the couch and turn the TV on.
‘It’s hard to trust you when you do things like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Take things from my room.’
Has he been thinking about it since he found it in my bag? ‘Sorry, I just wanted something else to read. I didn’t think you would mind.’
‘I need to trust you because I have to go away tonight.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going away. I may be back tomorrow, or I might even be away another night.’
He’s going away – is this a trick? ‘Where are you going?’
‘Not far.’ Irritation sits just below the surface. ‘You’ll be on your own all day. I mean, you wanted me to treat you more like an adult, right?’
‘I’ll be alone?’ This could be my chance for a clean escape.
He turns to me and places his palms down on the bench. ‘We’ve got the cameras now. You’ll be safe.’
•
I spend the remainder of the afternoon in my room, checking my escape bag, running through a getaway plan in my mind: search for anything I can take – passports, cash – then walk out to the highway again and hitchhike as far as I can. Those underlined words come back to me. It’s so obvious; I should have known. We are here so he can keep me isolated from the truth. He has quarantined me to implant a false narrative, something close enough to the truth that it could form a memory in my brain. I hear him answer his phone. He speaks only three words.
‘Two minutes. Fine.’
I stay in my room waiting in anticipation. I think I hear a car pulling up. The front door opens and thunks closed. Has someone arrived? Or is Jim going out?
I rush out the back door and down the steps and creep up the side of the house, ignoring the cameras. Jim is walking towards the top of the driveway. In the fading light, I can just make out the dark shape of another man standing, waiting. I recognise him; it’s the man in black I saw here before. I think Jim is going to hit him, for just a single heartbeat, then I see Jim reach out and shake his hand. What is he doing? Jim hands him something. He knows this man? And what was it that changed hands: money, more photographs of me, or something else entirely? I’m trembling. Jim turns back, walking towards the house. I rush back inside with fear or anger or a combination of the two thrumming in my blood. He’s orchestrating it all.
I sit on my bed and soon enough he calls me. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
At the table shepherd’s pie is steaming on plates. He drinks wine from a coffee mug.
‘I’ll hold on to our important documents while I’m away, Kate. But the fridge
is fully stocked and there’s really no need for you to leave the house.’
My heart plummets. Important documents. The passport, he must be taking it. A credit card and a passport; escape would be so much easier if I had these two things. There is a small amount of cash in my escape bag but not enough.
‘I feel like I can really trust you again,’ he tells me, taking a forkful of shepherd’s pie.
‘Oh, ah, thanks.’
He pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Whatever happens, I just want you to be prepared. I want you to know that you can do anything, be anything, so long as you get through this. Do you understand?’
I twist my fork through the food. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, this has been quite an ordeal. I’m sure it’s all becoming clear in your mind, what happened. I think that’s healthy. Eventually you will remember it all in full colour.’ But what I remember isn’t what happened. It’s what you want me to believe happened.
‘What if everyone finds out what I did? It will follow me everywhere.’
He points his fork at me. ‘What did you do?’ he asks.
‘I hurt him. Didn’t I?’ I lie to please him.
He chews and swallows a mouthful of shepherd’s pie. ‘Be completely honest with me, Kate. I have to make a decision tomorrow and your answer is ultimately going to determine what happens next. So tell me, is that how you remember it, or are you just telling me that?’
‘That’s how I remember it.’
‘Well, what did you hurt him with then?’
‘The car,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Was I in the front seat or the back?’
Don’t trust him. ‘You weren’t in the car,’ I say. ‘You know you weren’t in the car because you were already there.’
Something flares in his eyes. He sniffs, continues eating.
I have him cornered now. He’s not denying it.
‘You’ve lied to me since day one.’
His fist hits the table so hard the plates jump. Slowly he lifts his knife and points it at me.
‘Don’t get fucking crazy now. You need to accept reality.’
‘I’ve accepted it. I know exactly what happened. Just take me home. Please?’
