by J. P. Pomare
I walk outside and climb up the ladder near my window to the camera that surveys the yard. It needs to look as if something natural has happened to obscure its vision, like a bird or a possum could have done it. Glancing around, I notice a branch reaching out near the corner of the house. I lean across. The ladder seems to yaw. I look down; the ground is a long way below. If I fell, I could break my neck. I lift my gaze back to the branch and extend my fingertips a little further. This time I manage to grasp it between my fingers. I listen for the sound of the shed door but all I can hear is my pulse thumping in my ears. I pull the branch. The ladder wobbles underneath me and my breath catches. I wait till it’s steady then try again. The tree resists, so I bend the branch back and forth until it snaps and is hanging by the skin of the bark; I twist it in a way so that it partially covers the camera’s lens.
I quickly descend the ladder, cross the lawn and knock on the door.
‘One minute,’ he says.
He opens the door but blocks the gap with his body. I can make out a faint light glowing in the shed behind him. ‘What’s up?’
‘I just wanted to know what you’re doing down here.’
His mouth quirks to one side in irritation. ‘I’m working.’
I stand on my toes to look past, but he steps out of the shed, closing the door behind him.
‘What’s in there?’
‘Nothing, Kate. It’s just a private space for me to do some work.
I’m just assessing our options.’ Could he have been watching the cameras? He glances down at his watch. ‘I’ll come inside soon. I’m thinking we should have a special dinner tonight and try to enjoy each other’s company. I just want to make one nice memory of this place. How are you feeling anyway?’
There is something about his forced smile and the unnatural cadence to his voice that chills me. Something is going to happen tonight. ‘I feel okay.’
‘Good girl.’
‘I guess I’ll go read,’ I say. ‘Hey, you said I could have my phone.’
‘That’s probably not the best idea at the moment, Kate.’ He turns and goes back into the shed. ‘Everything has changed.’
‘What do you mean? Can you show me?’
‘I can’t, Kate. Just go make a start on dinner and I’ll be up soon enough.’ He slips back into the shed and closes the door.
I go back inside. I’m feeling anxious, edgy. I need to do something. I can’t leave anything up to chance.
Beau jumps up and runs over to me, pressing against my legs. In the kitchen, I open the cupboard beneath the sink and scoop out some biscuits for him. He guzzles them hungrily.
Anger sears my veins. If Jim refuses to show me the truth, I’ll find it out for myself. I rush to my room and fetch Iso’s credit card before setting off.
I feel different, still a little drowsy but something is thawing inside. I still need to follow the plan. I need to book flights. Then I’ll find proof that I’m not in trouble: I need evidence that Jim has been lying, that he has dragged me here to punish me, or to keep me to himself. Or worse, because I’m the only one who witnessed him at the scene of a crime and he won’t risk me going to the police. I can find all of this on the internet at Iso’s.
Next, I need my passport. I’ve rummaged through his bedroom more than once and the passport’s not there; it must be in the shed. This will be the hard part. Finally, I need to lock in transport to the airport. That’s where Iso comes in, if Jim hasn’t turned him against me completely. Assuming part one goes to plan, I can show Iso the evidence that Jim has been manipulating me. That he is dangerous. If there is enough evidence to go to the police, then perhaps we can involve them. If there’s not, I will need to get back to Melbourne to clear my name.
I keep running, against the fire in my throat, the ache in my chest. Against the burn in my legs. I run as fast as I can down the hill to the beach, then up the hill all the way to Iso’s gate. I twist through, closing it behind me, and rush down the driveway. I knock; the door opens.
‘Evie,’ Iso says, standing in the doorframe. No greeting, just my name. He seems cold.
‘Hi,’ I say. I haven’t thought this through; how do I get to the computer? I’m angry at myself suddenly, but then my anger vanishes. I am here. I just need to do this. ‘I was out for a walk and, well, I was wondering if I could use your phone.’
‘My phone?’
‘Yeah, my uncle’s been away and I need to call him. I locked myself out of the house.’
‘Oh, right,’ he says. ‘Well, why don’t you come in and use the landline?’
‘No,’ I say. When I smile it feels like it’s held in place by tacks. ‘I’d like to use your mobile.’
‘My mobile?’ He frowns. ‘Ah, okay . . . sure. I think it’s out of battery though. But if you’re happy to wait for it to charge . . .’
‘Have you got a computer? Maybe I could email him.’
‘Evie,’ he says, leaning against the doorframe, ‘what’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ A little laugh. Don’t act crazy, Kate. ‘I’m fine. Look, I just need to use the internet, okay? Not your phone but the internet. Is that alright?’
His blue eyes bore into mine. ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’
‘I need five minutes. That’s all.’
‘Look, I heard what happened with Awhina.’
I swallow. How could he know about that? It was only this morning. The entire town is against me. Jim has turned them all.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, trying to sound surprised.
‘You scared her, Evie. Her parents were pretty shaken up. I mean, you locked a little girl in your house . . .’
‘That’s not what happened, Iso. You’ve got to believe me. I just wanted to help her. I wanted to look after her.’
He’s exasperated, but I can sense he is softening. ‘Look, I can understand it’s hard moving somewhere new, and you might have things going on at home. But you’ve got to be careful what you say, who you scare.’
‘Scare?’ He is making it sound as though I’m like Jim – taking her captive in that old house. I suppose I did lock her inside and try to keep her there but only for a few minutes. I never wanted to scare her, I just wanted to help.
‘Her parents are not happy, Evie. Look, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. So, you want to use the computer?’
‘Yes, please.’ I’ve already been gone ten minutes. Will Jim still be in the shed? I don’t have my keys so he won’t know where I am.
He turns. ‘Come in.’
He leads me into a stuffy little room containing a desk littered with bills and books. A moth-eaten curtain covers the window.
The computer slowly whirs to life. I turn to Iso, who has been standing behind me. ‘Can you give me a minute?’
‘Sure,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’
‘Yes, please. That would be nice. Milk and no sugar.’
He pulls the door closed and makes his way up the hall. I can hear him out there, the murmuring of a phone call. Who is he calling?
Once the computer has finished booting up I click on the browser. I begin by logging in to my email. One hundred and seventy-four new messages. It has almost been a month. A quick scan. There’s nothing worth opening.
I go to Facebook, but my password doesn’t work. Jim must have changed it or deactivated my account. The same goes for Instagram.
Next I search flights for Wednesday morning. There is one departing at 9.15 am. If Iso takes me tomorrow, that will give me a full day and two nights in Auckland to organise a passport if I can’t find mine. I choose a seat at the back of the plane and fill in the passenger details with my real name, my real address. When it’s time to pay, I pull Iso’s credit card from my pocket. I’m punching in the numbers when I hear the front door open again. I jam the card back in my pocket and click confirm. The flight costs $439. One day, I promise myself, I will pay Iso back.
Finally, I go to Google. This is the par
t I have been dreading. The part that fills my guts with concrete. I tap the keys.
Kate Bennet Thom Moreau
I press enter and results fill the page. Hot bile rises in my stomach, moves up towards the base of my throat. I swallow hard. The photos of me are not the old ones; in these I have no hair. There are photos of me piggybacking Awhina from this morning. Photos of me on Cracker with Iso beside me. It looks like I’m on holiday. Sweat starts in patches on my back. They know where I am. There are other images, of course . . . Police hunched over something beyond a ribbon of yellow police tape. The headline reads SEX TAPE AND VIOLENT ATTACK. I know that spot. It’s the spot, our spot.
It’s true, I realise with dawning horror. Jim was telling the truth about one thing. I read the article again. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, a local man was struck in the head and is in a critical condition . . . I close the page and open another one. The stories are days old.
. . . with no realistic chance of recovery the family made the decision to turn life support off late last night.
Something else Jim was not lying about. I find a more recent article. This one is from two days ago. The day Jim left.
Police are reviewing new CCTV footage that appears to show a black Mercedes-Benz heading to the scene. They have allegedly identified the driver.
I know exactly what they found when they reviewed the footage. They found an image of me and only me in the car. Jim was already there when it happened. In every memory, I was alone in the car. I realise it then: he has framed me. He has been leaking the photos to the media, making me out to be someone unstable, just crazy enough to commit murder. What if this was his plan all along?
It’s believed an arrest is imminent.
I click another link, open an earlier news story. There is a photo of Jim and a photo of Willow. There is a photo of me and a photo of Thom. Four faces. I scroll down and there is another photo; this one is grainy, as if taken from afar by a mobile phone. The caption credits the photo to a Facebook account. It’s clearly me; there is blood on my face and on my hands. It’s not from that night but from daytime. I look exactly like a psycho killer from a movie. It must have been a photo from someone on the street.
I hear Iso coming down the hall. The credit card is burning white hot in my pocket. I open the history and delete all activity from the last hour.
‘Are you alright?’ Iso says as he pushes the door open and places the cup of tea on the desk beside me. ‘I hope Mum didn’t leave any of her holistic healing shit open.’
There’s no conviction in his voice, he’s a desperate salesman selling something he doesn’t believe in.
Breathe, Kate, for fuck’s sake. You need to be calm and ready. I try to empty my mind and focus my breath. In. One, two, three, four . . .
Iso is watching me, alarm spreading across his face. My body is quaking, my breathing is growing faster and faster. Out. One, two. ‘Evie, are you alright? Evie?’
I try to pick up the tea, but it spills, scalding my fingers. ‘Give me. A couple more. Minutes,’ I say. It’s clear that the police believe I killed him, they have enough evidence to arrest me, Jim is going to hand me over to them.
‘Evie, I can’t . . . I can’t let you do this to yourself. You’re crying.’ I touch my cheek, find it’s damp. ‘I need to get away.’
‘From who?’ he says. ‘From what?’
‘I think . . .’ I can’t tell him. He already thinks I’m unhinged.
The day I hitchhiked and ran from his house. Not letting Awhina leave. If he finds out I’m the lead suspect in a deadly attack, what will he do? He needs to know Jim is controlling it all.
Iso’s eyes are wide. ‘Jesus, Evie. You’re scaring me. What is it?’
‘They –’
He squats down beside my chair and touches my back, his face close to mine. ‘What, Evie?’
‘They think –’
There’s a knock at the door. Three urgent taps, followed quickly by three more.
‘They think I killed someone.’
‘Who?’
‘They think it was me.’
The knocks sound again, this time louder.
‘Hold on a sec,’ Iso says, but I’m still speaking over him.
‘He set me up.’
He leaves the room and rushes down the hall to open the front door. I hear a male voice, hurried and loud. It’s Jim. I hear Iso saying, Sure, sure, come through. He says, She’s right through here.
I’m in some distant place where I can barely move, where I can only sit and listen.
‘Evie,’ Jim says.
I turn. Jim’s lips are tight, his face pale. I can’t read his expression.
‘It’s the dog,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to go, right now. It’s Beau.’ He looks at me the way a man might look at a river in which his best friend was swept away. ‘Something has happened.’
before <
THIRTY
A MAELSTROM OF glass and fists. Screaming. More bottles hurled. My memories of the party come through the warped lens of alcohol and concussion. It’s possible, of course, that I don’t remember anything, that what I remember are not memories at all but newly imagined wisps of a night I will never truly understand. An amalgamation of all the stories I heard.
It was Willow who found me stumbling around dazed with blood running from my head and she pulled me away from the melee. I wasn’t in any state to resist, I was just grateful to be away from the violence. She called her dad, who pulled up in his car shortly after. He got out to help me as I tottered away from the party, then he lifted me up and deposited me on the front seat, wrapping my bleeding head in a sweater he had in the car. I imagine people were torn between the spectacle of my bloody skull and the spot fires of fighting that continued to flare along the street and near the house.
‘Don’t let her fall asleep. If she’s concussed she shouldn’t sleep,’ Willow’s dad said.
‘She can’t go home,’ Willow said, slurring but insistent. ‘Her dad will kill her.’
‘I was thinking of heading to emergency, Willow.’
I remembered the way my dress flew up, Willow’s nasty smile.
At the hospital we sat in the fluorescent white glare of the waiting room. It was busy. Most people seemed to be in a state of inebriation. When Willow’s dad rose to go to the bathroom, Willow slid closer to me on the bench seat.
‘Kate,’ she said, grabbing one of my hands in hers. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
I simply shrugged.
‘You know I’m sorry, Kate. You have to know that. I felt so angry that you chose Thom over me. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s hard to lose your best friend and I guess I was . . . jealous.’
Her father was striding towards us.
‘We’re not talking about this now,’ I said with more anger in my voice than I intended.
‘Tomorrow? Can we talk tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know, Willow.’
Surprisingly quickly a nurse ushered me into a room.
She slicked the cut above my right ear down with medical wipes; I winced at the sting. The wipes continued to come away blood-soaked. I felt the nurse cutting a patch of hair. When the cut was clean and the hair cleared away, a doctor came over with a needle – a couple of pricks to the crown of my head, then numbness. After that I felt a slight tug of skin as my wound was stitched closed.
Finally, at around two in the morning, with my head bandaged and my legs unsteady, Willow’s dad helped me back to the car. Willow was already asleep in the front seat. ‘We’d better take you back to our place,’ he said. ‘Probably not a good idea to drop you off home at this time.’
When we got there, Willow went to bed while her father carried me in his lean arms over to the couch and propped me upright with pillows behind my head. He fetched an icepack from the kitchen and held it to the throbbing spot where the bottle had hit.
‘They cut my hair,’ I said sadly.
‘Only a little, almost nothing; you can’t
even notice it,’ he said, his voice tender. ‘But you should let me take a couple of photos in case you decide you want to go to the police in the morning.’
My head was pounding, my vision shifting in and out of focus. My eyes fluttered against sleep.
Willow’s dad gave me a gentle shake, his hand on my shoulder. ‘The nurse said that you may have a mild concussion so you can’t go to sleep just yet. You’re going to have to stay awake for a while, okay?’
I nodded slowly, trying not to move my head too much.
‘I forgot what the nurse said. Let me check online for other symptoms,’ he said, patting his pockets. ‘Have you seen my phone?’
‘No,’ I said. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my jeans. ‘Do you want to call it?’
He took my phone and dialled his own number. Seconds later there was a vibration down the side of the couch. He rummaged for it, pulling it out. He opened the internet browser and conducted a search.
‘It says here that you shouldn’t sleep if your eyes are dilated.’ He turned to cup my chin and peer into my eyes. His palm felt surprisingly soft and warm.
‘You’re lucky, you know,’ he said softly.
‘It could have been a lot worse,’ I agreed.
‘I meant your eyes. They’re so . . . dark. Just lovely, Kate.’
I leant against him. ‘I’m sleepy.’ My voice was thick and syrupy with alcohol and tiredness.
‘I don’t want you to feel any worse. Are you still dizzy?’
‘I don’t know.’
He placed his hands on my hips and pulled me upright, tight against his shoulder. The icepack slipped and he grabbed it from down my back before pressing it against my head. We talked for a while. He asked me about Thom.
‘Thom?’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t help but notice that you had ten messages and a few missed calls from him on your phone. Is he your boyfriend?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, then added, ‘kind of.’
‘He didn’t make it to the party?’
‘He was there,’ I said.
His body tensed against mine. ‘So where was he when all this happened with the bottle?’
