Call Me Evie

by J. P. Pomare

  Relief washes over me. She’s still here.

  ‘Okay, thanks. Will she be much longer?’

  ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

  ‘I’m here for my wife. She should be finishing up at any minute.’

  The woman glances down at her watch, then back up. ‘Doctor Lewis will be in her current appointment for another forty minutes.’

  It all comes crashing down. I dropped Bella off and watched her walk inside. Today is Tuesday. She has an appointment every Tuesday. It’s just a mix-up.

  ‘Did Bella Bennet stay for her appointment?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My wife had a one-fifteen appointment with Doctor Lewis, I need to know if she went into it?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s confident–’

  I don’t let her finish. I storm past reception and begin opening doors.

  ‘Bella,’ I call. ‘Bella?’

  First I find a doctor with a patient. I can hear the receptionist’s heels clapping on the tiles behind me. Excuse me, excuse me. But I don’t stop. Behind the next door I open, I find Doctor Lewis with a man sitting across from her. They’re both startled to see me burst through the door.

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Sorry, what is this about?’

  ‘Bella is my wife, I’m here to pick her up.’

  ‘Bella,’ she says, removing her glasses. ‘She left –’ glancing up at the clock on the wall ‘– almost half an hour ago. She said you were here early and you were going to pick up your daughter together.’

  ‘She’s gone?’ I say. I don’t wait for a response.

  I sprint from the building to the car, ripping the door open. As I drive out of the car park onto the road, the wheels skid. Traffic is light. I know exactly where Bella is going but I have to get there first. She must have taken a taxi. I race down the highway, with Kate sitting in the back, her seatbelt across her lap. Her eyes are stretched wide with panic.

  ‘Where’s Mama, Daddy? Where is she?’

  ‘We’re going to see her now, darling. Don’t worry.’

  The car flies into the bends, the engine growling as I press the accelerator harder to the floor. There’s a near miss as I pass a truck. I hear the bassy drone of the horn receding behind us. I clench my jaw, urging a green light ahead to stay green. Mixed in with the fear and sadness is a rage that makes me squeeze the wheel like I’m choking it. How could she make us live like this? Why wouldn’t she talk to me about it?

  It takes an hour before I reach Portsea. I slide in beside the house and sprint to the door. I reach out and find it’s unlocked. She’s here.

  The first thing that I notice is a strange dark stain on the pale rug in the lounge. Then I see the tiled floor shining as if wet. I look up. Water is flooding down the stairs, dripping between the banisters. Taking off at a sprint I slip, my knee twists and I collapse with pain, but I can’t stop. Back on my feet, I hobble up the steps towards the bathroom. Water flows out from beneath the door. When I turn the handle it doesn’t open.

  ‘Bella,’ I call with a tremor of desperation. ‘Bella, open up!’

  I kick the door. It doesn’t budge. I kick again as hard as I can. My knee explodes with pain. The handle snaps and the door swings in. Water flows over the edge of the bath. My heart stops. I rush to her. Floating, eyes closed, arms out. The water has a rose tint. On my knees I drag her body from the bath, howling, screaming. No, no, no, please. No, no, Bella. I’m pressing my ear to her cold lips when I hear her voice. Not Bella but Kate.

  ‘Mama?’

  > after

  FORTY-ONE

  THE FOG DRIFTS off the sea, swallowing the village. Sleep drifts too, but before it can overwhelm me, I rise and walk around the room, determined to stay alert, not to drop my guard. Jim – it’s surprising how quickly it’s become second nature to think of him that way, as Jim rather than Dad – left me hours ago. He may be searching for the gun, maybe he thinks Iso took it, or perhaps he is sleeping.

  Out there, in the empty night, floating up from the sea, comes a single word carried on the back of the waves to the shore: Run, run, run. He killed Thom, and he may kill me next.

  As I pass the dresser, now missing its drawers, I see a glint in the empty cavity. It’s the spare car key I hid there all those weeks ago. I reach for it, still hampered by the cable ties binding my wrists. I try to yank my hands, but they’re bound too tight. After piercing the tie with one of my canine teeth, I begin to saw at it with the car key. Finally one tie snaps and relief floods my body. My hands are free.

  Many would-be murderers fail to appreciate the durability of the skull. Extreme force exerted will crack bones, but there have been countless incidents of brains and skulls surviving extreme trauma. Nothing is guaranteed to collapse a skull but repeated and focused pressure.

  No sound comes from the house. It could be two in the morning, three, four. I change out of my pyjamas into trackpants and a hoodie and retrieve my escape bag from the mess of the room. I reassemble my bed, then use clothes to create the shape of a human body beneath the covers. It’s the small details that might save my life. The red dot of the camera watches me from the corner of the room. I never figured out how to obscure it but perhaps it won’t be necessary. He could be watching the feed on his phone. But if he were, he’d be coming up the hall by now.

  In the morning when he finds me gone, he will watch the recording from the camera. He will see me. In the darkness, I look up at that red light. You made me do this. I will be a pale green shape in the night, my eyes shining white and ghostly.

  The window is fixed closed from the outside with two screws.

  I take the pillow and press it against the wood of the window frame. Holding my breath, I draw myself back, then, with as much force as I can muster, I rock my shoulder into it. I pause a few seconds to catch my breath, then slam into the window frame once more. It hurts but this time there’s a pop. One corner of the window has come unstuck.

  Breathing heavily, I turn towards the door, anticipating a shout, footsteps. But all is quiet.

  One more blow and the second screw snaps loose and I hurriedly push the window open.

  The fog outside is so thick I can barely see the ground. I drop my escape bag down onto the frosted grass, where it lands with a thump. Then I ease myself through the window, feeling with my toes for the ladder. I reach further, and further still, until – too late – I realise it’s no longer there. I try to pull myself back up onto the sill, clawing for purchase, but my fingers slip and I fall.

  A second of flight. My body twisting through the air. Then a splintering pain. It takes all my willpower to contain the shriek as a sharp throbbing starts in my shoulder. The pain is so intense I feel like throwing up. I lift my head and am almost overwhelmed by dizziness. I can feel one of my headaches coming on as I try to stand. A shock runs up my leg when I put weight on it and each small movement is agony. I lower myself to a crawl. It’s all I can do to keep from howling.

  Gritting my teeth, I pull myself across the icy grass with the escape bag on my back. When I reach the side of the house I stand on my good leg, then hop towards the shrub into which I had tossed the passport. I scrabble around, grasping with my fingers. Leaves, cold hard earth, twigs . . . Finally, my hand lands on the passport. Move, Kate, move.

  I shove the passport into the bag. Pushing through the pain, I stagger towards the car. The door unlocks with a thunk and I wrench it open and fall into the driver’s seat, slinging the bag onto my lap.

  The car will be easy enough to drive, I assure myself. I have done it before. But with one arm? I slide the key into the ignition and start the engine. As it roars to life, I recall the last time I drove a car; I see Thom running, see his head rock back and his body become still by the roadside. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. It was Jim; he admitted it. He has been manipulating me all along, making me believe I did it.

  The headlights come on automatically. The cab steams up, misting the window
, and outside the fog is so dense I can barely see the house at all. I push the gearstick into reverse and step on the accelerator. The car won’t move. It just revs and revs. Go, go, go.

  A light comes on inside the house. Fucking move. I press harder but still the car is stationary and he’s coming. I see his silhouette flying through the kitchen towards the front door.

  The car shoots back as if of its own volition. I can’t turn the wheel fast enough with my one hand. A crunching thud and I’m thrown back hard against the seat. I press the accelerator and the wheels just spin and spin. The car is grinding against the tree. He’s coming.

  I open the door and dive out. I hit the driveway and roll with my bag held against my chest. I crawl into the bushes running up beside the house as the front door is thrown open.

  Peering through the foliage I see Jim. He switches on a torch and stands still, scanning the driveway with the beam. I hold my breath.

  ‘Where are you?’

  He is circling the car, shining the torch through its windows.

  Next thing I know he has a phone to his ear. ‘Police . . . Hello, I’d like to report a –’ He stops, starts again. ‘Someone – er, my daughter – has just attempted to steal my car. She’s slammed it into a tree and now she’s run off. I believe she may be armed . . .’ He’s bluffing. He said ‘daughter’, not ‘niece’. He’s not really talking to the police. He just wants me to think he is. ‘Maketu,’ he says.

  He starts walking up the driveway and I shuffle closer to the house.

  ‘Yes, a rifle . . . Well how long will they be? . . . No, she’s not going to hurt me – it’s her I’m worried about.’

  She may be armed. The gun – I need the gun.

  ‘Alright, alright. Just please come quickly.’ He goes back inside.

  So, are the police coming or not? The call sounded convincing, but he might be bluffing. He hasn’t involved the New Zealand police all this time; why would he involve them now? It will only incriminate me further. I’m a killer who tried to steal her father’s car.

  The cold needles into my clothes; it creeps into my flesh as I squat in the bushes, trying to decide what to do. I could run to Iso’s. I sense he was starting to believe me about Jim. He’s my only chance.

  I crawl out from my hiding place, pulling myself along the grass towards the fence I’d thrown the gun over. I reach the fence and pull myself up. Keep going, Kate. Don’t stop now.

  Gripping the top and hopping with my good leg, I get up onto it. I fold myself over and balance for a second with the edge of the wooden fence digging into my waist. I let go and tip over. The hard earth rises suddenly and thumps the wind from me. I’m flat on my back, my lungs burning with each breath. I crawl to the bush, see the glint of the gun barrel. I grasp the rifle and find the small box of ammunition.

  Now, with everything I need, I move in a hunched limp up the neighbour’s driveway. Each step sets off an electrical storm of pain in my body. As I reach the road I hear something behind me and below: a car starting. Is it his car? There’s the sound of metal scraping as it moves off the tree.

  I stumble on as quickly as I can. When I look back, headlights blind me. I dive into the cover of the bushes lining the road. Lying there, I fumble in my pocket for the box of ammunition. Finding a bullet, I pull back the bolt on the rifle’s barrel, press it into the cavity, then slide the bolt closed. Now it’s loaded.

  The car slides to a halt at the road’s edge a little way behind me. A door opens and closes. A torch beam plays over the foliage on either side of the bitumen. I grip the rifle with my left hand, aim it back up the road. Could I pull the trigger?

  He is back in the car now, moving along the road slowly. I hold myself still, hardly daring to breathe. Adrenaline courses through me.

  The car stops again, nearer now. I can hear the engine ticking as it cools. A torch beam leaps out into the night. I can barely contain myself; the bush seems to rattle with my body. The beam skims just above my head. A fire burns in my right shoulder as I use both hands to aim the rifle. My breath stops. I can feel warmth pooling between my thighs, down my front. If he finds me he will kill me. The stranger inside is taking control of my arms and legs. My body is running on pure instinct now, my mind merely a spectator.

  The light returns, slowly moving towards me. The bush seems so thin and flimsy, the latticework of twigs too fine to conceal me. Only the fog covers me now. A calmness comes over me. The stranger is in control. My breathing steadies and the rifle becomes still, aiming up towards the light. I squeeze the trigger. I’m almost surprised by the explosion. The gun slams itself against my body. The barrel jerks up. No thoughts. No emotions.

  The echo comes back from down across the bay. Dogs start up. One or two at first, then more and more. An animal’s hoarse breath whistles close by; I realise it is my own.

  I open the bolt and thumb another bullet in. I point the gun and pull the trigger. This time the explosion is more violent, and my hands and arms are so fatigued I can barely keep hold of the gun at all.

  The torch beam drops to the grass, where it remains. Seconds, minutes, hours, there’s no telling how long I stay there, how long I am still before I thumb one more bullet into the gun.

  I shot him.

  Eventually I leave the cover of the bush and move off down the road. At one stage I look up and there ahead of me is the white dog, its three-legged gait strangely graceful, lighting my path. The next time I look, it is gone.

  I reach the bottom of the hill. The dawn chorus is beginning in the trees and people will soon be waking. The long night is nearly over.

  By the time Iso’s house comes into view I am nearly rigid with pain and fatigue. One arm is little more than a weight attached to my shoulder and I am dragging my bad leg. But I’m so close now. As I open the gate and stagger through my tears flow freely. Tears of liberation? Of joy? The relief comes now like warm water on the coldest, darkest nights. Will they understand why I had to shoot him? I had no choice: it was me or him.

  The security light comes on at the front door as I approach. I let the rifle rest against me, raise my good arm and, with the last of my strength, I knock.

  FORTY-TWO

  ISO IS NOT wearing pyjamas; that should have been a warning. If I had turned and looked back, I might have noticed a second car parked in the shadow of the house. He barely reacts when he sees me; there’s just a subtle shift of his eyes, and his lips part. His gaze slowly travels down my body, taking in my injuries as if following the path of a falling feather.

  ‘Iso,’ I croak.

  ‘Jesus,’ he says, stepping forwards. He reaches out and prises my fingers from the rifle. He opens the bolt, tips out the bullet, flicks the safety on, then leans it by the door.

  My body quakes with fatigue and chill.

  Before I can move, his hands are on me, helping me inside. ‘Let’s get you in beside the fire.’

  ‘He wouldn’t let me leave,’ I say. ‘He was going to kill me.’

  ‘Shh,’ he says. ‘We will get you help.’

  It’s early for a fire. ‘He was hurting me and he kept me locked away. I had to do it, Iso.’ How quickly I have slipped into the past tense, as though he is long dead.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, guiding me along the hall. ‘It’s okay.’ Then, a little louder, he calls, ‘It’s her.’

  It’s her . . .

  I can hear his mother murmuring in the lounge. Who is she talking to?

  ‘We were expecting you,’ Iso says.

  The heat presses against me as he opens the door to the lounge. The fire is roaring. I remember the first time I was here, how they tried to make me take a bath. A hot bath. It was a bath that took so much . . .

  My mother hadn’t turned off the tap; the water just kept flowing and flowing, up her slender throat. Scarlet-tinted water. I remember how her body was suspended. Her face still damp, her eyes closed. I am my mother’s daughter and my father’s. The melancholy is hers, the rage is his. Choose either or bo
th.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kate,’ Iso says. Kate . . . he knows my real name. Something is wrong. It punches me right in the gut. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Then I see why.

  before <

  FORTY-THREE

  FRAGMENTS SWAM THROUGH my mind like strangers passing by in fog: turning my head and feeling the cool bite of the car window; the phone in my hand; intermittent flashes in the dark as the car sped past streetlights. Was it a dream or a memory?

  Another sliver of light, a gasp of cold air as the car door opened and I stepped out into the night. Dad was there. Then I was back in the car. Dad opened the door, placed a brick on the back seat.

  I fell asleep and woke again. We were back in the garage.

  Where’s my phone?

  Here.

  The headache drilled the base of my brain, and my vision was blurred. An echo of pain in my throat, a sort of mild burn. I was still in Dad’s car. The Mercedes, not the Range Rover. My hands were trembling. No, not trembling, they were vibrating. Looking down, I saw Suzie on the screen of my phone. Thom’s mum was ringing. Why? She hated me. I didn’t answer the call. Something wasn’t right and I needed to figure it out but my mind felt sluggish.

  The call rang out, then, almost at once, began to ring again.

  I heard the door to the house open; Dad was coming back into the garage. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. I cracked them open enough to watch him. The car door opened, then closed. I saw him again as he passed across the windscreen. He was holding something in his hand: it was the red brick. Then the lights went out in the garage and the door closed. He left me sitting there.

  > after

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘KATE.’ THAT VOICE. The man who now hurries towards me is Jim.

  ‘No, no, no, no –’

  ‘Shhh.’

  I shrink away but he grabs me, pulls me into a hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs. It feels like a white-hot blade slides into my shoulder.