Call Me Evie

by J. P. Pomare

  Sounds like you need an escape.

  But I had no energy for lust. I was too preoccupied with the guilt, the fear and anger.

  I don’t think we should be sending each other messages for a while.

  Around the same time Willow messaged me.

  I just saw Thom’s Instagram post. Are you okay? Who is this older man?

  It was accompanied with a love heart and a winking emoji. I began to notice something happening online. Thom had posted a plain black image to Instagram captioned with a simple sad face. Beneath it I read the string of replies:

  Some things happen that should surprise you but they don’t.

  What happened?

  Thom had responded.

  Turns out she’s into old men.

  What a slut.

  Forget her man.

  I received one or two direct messages from his friends.

  What the fuck is wrong with you?

  How could you do this to Thom? Scum.

  Did they understand what Thom did to me?

  After a few days I deleted my Facebook, my Snapchat and my Instagram apps. I would stay away from it all and go e-incognito until things blew over. Another message came through from Willow’s dad.

  Kate we need to talk. It’s urgent. Can we meet?

  I didn’t respond.

  I often wondered how much Dad knew. Those first few days when I told him I was too sick to go to school, did he know that there was nothing physically wrong with me? Did he know more than he let on? Did he know about the text messages to Willow’s dad? He would touch my shoulder and give me a sad look. He would heat chicken soup and bring me books to read, although I never opened any of them.

  Later that week, I heard a knock on the front door. I was up in my room and when Dad opened up I could hear Willow’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Willow. Haven’t seen you in a while.’

  ‘Is Kate here?’ No greeting.

  ‘She’s sleeping right now. She hasn’t been well.’

  ‘She hasn’t been well. I bet.’ She sounded mad; did she know?

  ‘Right,’ Dad said. ‘Would you like me have her call you?’

  ‘No. Just tell her I’ll be seeing her soon.’

  Later that night the text message came through.

  We all know what you did. Everyone knows. How could you? One of Thom’s friends figured it out. And he is spreading the word. Mum is leaving. This is my family. He’s my fucking dad! This isn’t a game, Kate. You’ve ruined my fucking life.

  For an hour I drafted replies, but in the end nothing I wrote seemed appropriate. Anyway, we hadn’t had sex, and Willow’s dad had made me believe their marriage had run its course. I had one missed call from him, but he didn’t leave a message.

  •

  No one approached me when I walked through the school gate, but I could feel their eyes tracking me. So it was true what Willow had said, word really had spread. The inner east of Melbourne was far too small to escape a scandal like this. Thom and Willow both had friends at Windsor Girls’ Grammar; they were all connected online.

  At first I mistook the other girls’ expressions for sympathy, but in fact it was closer to mortification, or perhaps awe. Awe at my stupidity. Everything was too still, too calm. Hands trapped secrets between mouths and ears. Eyebrows rose as I passed. The breeze of a whisper swept by, chilling my skin. Tara and Anika, girls I had once been friends with, walked quickly away when they saw me heading towards them. I didn’t need them, I told myself. I’d be going to uni next year. I’d make new friends, start a new life. I’d just have to ride it out.

  Each step across the quad was harder than the last. Slut, someone hissed. I turned to look at the cluster of girls I’d just passed, but no one would meet my gaze. Slut-shaming and bullying were taken seriously. Girls could be suspended for it, but what would happen if I went to a teacher? In the end it would only get worse.

  My first lesson that morning was biology. As I entered the classroom, Mr Dornish raised one eyebrow in the way he did when delivering a sardonic line. He didn’t say anything, though; he simply nodded to a vacant seat near the back of the room. Someone muttered skank loud enough for me to hear, and this was greeted with a few sniggers. I wondered if Mr Dornish had heard. If he had, he didn’t react.

  Skank. It rattled around like something loose in the engine of my mind. It made me mad that other girls couldn’t empathise with me; would it help if they knew what Thom did to me? My thoughts grew so loud I couldn’t hear anyone else, I couldn’t read. I sat frowning at the page. Eventually, when I had mustered the courage, I raised my hand.

  ‘Yes, Kate, you may be excused.’

  I sat in the bathroom and cried. It might have been five minutes, it might have been half an hour; I was still there when the bell rang. When I got back to class I found my bag open. On top was a note scrawled on the corner of a torn page. We know what you did. Do everyone a favour and kill yourself. I packed up my things and left.

  I crossed the quad alone. Tara came up beside me. Tara, the barnacle that stuck to sinking ships. Tara, who would be the first to stand on your face in her effort to climb another rung of the social ladder. She linked her arm through mine and leant in close.

  ‘Seriously, Kate,’ she said. ‘I’m hearing some weird things from lots of people. What actually happened?’

  I pulled my arm free and strode away. ‘I’ve seen it anyway,’ she called after me. ‘We’ve all seen it.’

  Seen it?

  Seen what?

  PART FIVE

  THE MAN IN THE DARK

  In the past month, how often have you experienced flashbacks or other dissociative reactions in which the traumatic event is recurring?

  0 – never; 1 – rarely; 2 – sometimes; 3 – often; 4 – all the time

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MYSTERY SURROUNDS 17-YEAR-OLD FOUND

  UNCONSCIOUS IN HAWKESBURN

  Victoria police are attempting to piece together how a teen was rendered unconscious on a sleepy suburban avenue in the inner east early on Tuesday morning.

  Thom Moreau, 17, is currently in a critical condition at St Vincent’s Hospital Melbourne after sustaining blunt-force trauma causing extensive bleeding in the brain.

  Police are trying to determine the cause of the trauma and as yet have not ruled out assault, investigators said.

  Moreau, a promising young photographer, who planned to travel the world next year, was described as ‘outgoing and fiercely intelligent’ by his teachers at Melbourne Boys’ Collegiate, where he is in his final year.

  Text messages recovered from Moreau’s phone suggest he was on his way to meet his ex-girlfriend when the incident occurred.

  Moreau was found outside of his family home in Hawkesburn and police have appealed for any witnesses to come forward.

  ‘We are asking members of the public to come forward with any information about suspicious vehicles or individuals around Lachlan Avenue, Bellpark Drive and Dorcus Road, or Hawkesburn Park between Lachlan Avenue and Dorcus Road,’ Detective Inspector Peter Collins said.

  Police believe the incident occurred between one and three am.

  CCTV images from the surrounding area are being reviewed. If you have any information regarding this or any other open case, please call Crime Stoppers.

  > after

  THIRTY-SIX

  I CAN’T FACE him. I tense everything, ready for what is coming.

  ‘Evie?’

  Evie. I expel all the air from my lungs at once and hang my head for a few breaths before turning around.

  ‘Iso.’

  The light bulb still swings gently in the draught coming in through the door. I suddenly feel claustrophobic in the small space with him blocking the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing? Your uncle said that you poisoned the dog.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he says, his eyes travelling about the damage to the door and within the shed. ‘Hope you weren’t trying to kill a mouse
.’ He laughs nervously.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’

  I step past him out the door. He follows me up the back lawn towards the driveway.

  ‘Where’s your uncle now, Evie?’

  ‘He’s at the vet, and I’m running out of time. I have to leave right now. I think he deliberately poisoned Beau in order to blame me. I think he killed someone back in Melbourne and has set me up.’

  ‘At my place you said that people think you killed someone, now you’re saying it was your uncle. It sounds like a fantasy.’

  ‘A fantasy? You think I’m making it up?’

  ‘I know he’s had a couple of run-ins with the locals – he chased some kids on their bikes and one of them flipped into a ditch and hurt himself – but that doesn’t make him a killer.’

  ‘He’s not my uncle, Iso.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said he’s not my uncle. Don’t call him my uncle.’ I turn to look him in the eye. ‘If you care about me, you will take me from this town right now.’

  ‘Let’s go to the police.’

  ‘I have someone waiting for me in Melbourne. That’s where I’m going. I just need to get to Auckland.’

  He scratches at his patchy stubble. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’s waiting for you in Melbourne?’

  The question takes me by surprise. ‘Why does that matter?’

  He looks offended for a second. ‘I was just wondering. Is it, like, a boyfriend or something?’

  ‘We don’t have time for this, Iso. We can talk in the car.’

  ‘You said you killed someone, Evie. You said –’

  ‘No, they think I did but I didn’t. It’s him – Jim. He’s controlling everything.’

  ‘Let me take you to the police.’

  ‘No police.’

  Iso’s jaw clenches, and he squints up towards the road before turning back to me. I know the look he’s giving me, somewhere between concern and scepticism. He doesn’t believe me; he sees a crazy girl.

  ‘No,’ I say. I reach forwards and grip his wrists. ‘No. You need to believe me, Iso. You’ve got to take me to Auckland. We need to go now.’

  A car is coming up the road. The sound startles both of us; the red light of urgency fills the air.

  ‘Please, Iso, get me out of here.’

  ‘Let me talk to him.’ The car turns down the driveway.

  ‘Iso, no,’ I say. I can hear the desperation in my voice. ‘We have to run – now!’

  It is all happening so quickly. The car jerks to a stop and Jim climbs out.

  ‘What the fuck?’ The door slams.

  He’s on Iso in a heartbeat. Shirtfront knotted in his fist, dragging him right up close to his face. He pulls his arm back, ready to strike. Iso raises his palms, turns his face away, bracing for the blow.

  I can see it takes all his self-control to refrain from hitting Iso. His face is red with anger. ‘Stay the fuck away from her,’ he snarls. He drags Iso towards the road, then throws him to the hard gravel at the road’s edge.

  ‘Hey, relax, I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘She’s sick, okay? She’s not right in the head. She makes up stories, her entire life is a fucking fiction. She has a condition and you’re taking advantage of it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Iso says, his hands out in front of him, placating. ‘Okay, I just wanted to help. I didn’t realise.’

  He will come for me next. I reach into my jeans and surreptitiously throw my passport under a shrub.

  ‘I asked you to keep an eye on her, but you just sneak over here when I’m out to do . . . what? What exactly do you want from her?’

  His gaze swings back to me, but I can’t for the life of me look up and meet it. I could run, but I wouldn’t get far. What will he do when he sees the shed?

  Iso gets to his feet and brushes the gravel from his hands. ‘I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to get involved.’

  A snatch of memory. Jim scrubbing his hands at the sink. It’s just a beat, a flash of recollection, but I know it was from that night. He was scrubbing his hands.

  His dark-ringed eyes run over my face. His drawn cheeks shape a sad smile. He has aged a decade in the last month. The late nights, it is all making sense now. He has the nightmares too.

  ‘Where is Beau? Is he okay?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see. He’s not coming back to us anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, you’re getting your way, Kate. We are going home.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I wish I was, but it’s true.’ He nods towards the door. ‘Come on, let’s go inside. This is our last night.’

  We go to the kitchen and I sit on a stool at the bench with that cold tight twist in the pit of my stomach. How can I defend myself when the axe is still in the shed?

  He smears his hand down his face. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be tough.’

  ‘Miss me?’

  ‘It’s going to be so bloody hard,’ he says. He rests his hand on my forehead. He has lied to me so many times; he’s doing it again now. ‘They’re going to put you away. I can’t protect you from it any longer.’

  ‘You won’t let them take me,’ I say. ‘You’re just trying to trick me again.’

  The room is still. ‘Enough,’ he says.

  My anger boils over. ‘You didn’t send my letters. You knew that if you did he would come for me. You didn’t want me to leave you behind. It’s another trick.’

  ‘It’s time to face reality, Kate. This can’t go on. You’ve got to grow up. I’m not going to beat around the bush anymore.’ He grabs my shoulder and leans in close, his voice just a whisper. ‘Your boyfriend died. You remember that, don’t you? Remember what happened to Thom?’

  An uppercut of memory hits. My eyes turn to liquid. I breathe in and out. It’s so clear. Thom is lying facedown, his skull dashed on the kerb.

  ‘I fucking killed him, Kate, and you just stood there and watched.’

  before <

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I WASN’T ABLE to watch more than a few seconds before rushing to the bathroom to retch over the toilet bowl. Nothing came up but a throat full of scorching bile.

  You could tell it was me in the video without even looking at my face; you only had to see those swirling pink clouds on my thighs. The sting of betrayal and anger filled my veins like venom. How could he? How could he do that to me? And I had let him film it – I had been so stupid to trust him. All those times we were warned at school about what we put online, about who we had contact with, where our photos and videos ended up. They never warned us about people we loved and trusted, about what they could put out there. A video was being watched around the world of me and Thom tangled in a breathless tryst. He was holding the camera so it didn’t show his face, only mine. I would never have a good life, start a family, get a job with this hanging over me.

  Dad had spoken to his lawyer, Paul, who had been a family friend for years – someone Dad could trust. I was sure even Paul watched the video. Dad also contacted the police. Dad didn’t watch the video but knew what it was and that I was in it and that was enough. He knew my life had changed. Was he disappointed that I was no longer his little girl?

  I had loved Thom for a time. But love, I learnt quickly, is fickle. The anger didn’t abate, and the fantasies began. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel the pain and embarrassment that I was feeling.

  On Monday evening, when Dad and Paul had gone out to meet with Thom’s parents and their lawyer, I texted Willow’s dad. I told him I needed to see him. I couldn’t talk to my own dad about what was happening, but I could talk to Willow’s. He had filled two needs, the comfort I missed from Thom and the lack of communication with Dad.

  I waited and waited, but I didn’t hear from him. I went to the cabinet in the hall with the dusty old bottles of whisky, unopened gifts from years gone by. I opened one and tipped it back until my throat caught fi
re and my eyes watered. The coughing came on so strong and fast it bent me double.

  I took another long draught, the warmth, the buzzing energy, diffusing within me, into my limbs, the tips of my fingers. Another swallow, then another. The more I drank, the easier it became.

  I took the bottle to the couch and turned on the late news. Talking heads on TV. The screen split in three for the three commentators. I lay on the couch listening. A man’s voice explained that I should have had enough self-respect not to let someone film me having sex. That I had been asking for trouble.

  ‘. . .obviously we can’t name anyone, but rumours have circulated on social media and let me just say, there is a well-known member of the Australian sporting community at the centre of the story.’

  Another voice adds, ‘I’ve heard the same rumours and, given the profile of the father, I would have thought that this girl would have had more sense –’

  ‘That’s victim blaming,’ a third voice objected. ‘And quite frankly, Rob, you are feeding the trolls with this speculation. Consenting to have sex, and consenting to film a sex act, is not the same as consenting to share the footage. You need to underst–’

  I lifted the remote and muted the sound.

  I continued to drink. Normally Dad and I would both have been in bed by now. I’d have been thinking about school, fretting over assignments, messaging friends. Dad would have been setting out his clothes near the foot of his bed ready for the morning, his watch and underwear sitting on top. Pumping out his evening set of press-ups.

  I checked to see if any new messages had come through from Willow’s dad. Nothing yet. I sent another one, just a series of question marks, then took another long drink from the bottle. I sent a message to Thom.

  I hate you, Thom. I wish I never met you. I wish you would disappear.

  Tears stung my eyes. I had nothing to look forward to ever again. My life was over. A reply came through from Thom but I didn’t open it.

  I went to the kitchen and pulled a small paring knife from the drawer. I pressed the tip against my wrist, gently at first, then a little harder until a pearl of blood appeared. My breath came on fast. I couldn’t press any harder; I didn’t have it in me.