Not if I want it that way.
Durnan is small, but it’s easy to disappear if you know where to hide.
One final check that the car doors are locked, then I pull my eye mask down and hug the downiness of the pillow again as my phone buzzes.
* * *
Milo: Hey again, Chicken Girl, what’s doing tonight? Any more oyster facts for me? PS: Trent and I feel like arseholes after today. Let us make it up to you! You OK?
Layla: Oysters produce pearls. PS: Thanks, I’ve been better, but I’ll be OK
Milo: Knew that one! PS: Wanna talk about it?
Layla: Crazy that something so awful can produce something so beautiful. PS: Maybe
Milo: Awful? They’re delicious. PS: OK
Layla: And an aphrodisiac
Milo: Not at all related *
Milo: * Busted
Layla: Hey Milo?
Milo: Hey Lay?
Layla: Thanks
Milo: No worries. (What for?)
Layla: Just thanks
Milo: It was the kissing, wasn’t it?
Layla: Ha!
Layla: That part didn’t hurt, friend
Milo: Catch up soon, friend?
Layla: When were you thinking? I’m kinda busy right now
Milo: River. Saturday. 1 pm. You free?
***
Bleep. My phone battery’s nearly done.
Bleep, bleep.
A quick look through my backpack and suitcase for my charger reveals I left it behind at the house. Friggin’ hell.
I want to see Milo too. I want to feel his fingers trace over the creases of my palm. I want him to pull me close, in that way only he does so my face buries itself in the warmth of his chest. I want my friend, but I don’t know how to be with him as long as my mum’s memory plagues every corner of his world. It only hurts me. And that’ll only hurt him.
Besides, I haven’t showered and brushed my teeth since this morning. If my hair was a bird’s nest earlier, it’s a haystack by now. I also forgot most of my toiletries in my rush to bail out of the house. Anything that wasn’t on my chest of drawers or in the wardrobe didn’t make the cut.
Bleep, bleep, bleep.
My phone’s screen goes black.
Dead.
Milo
There are no customers in the shop, so I put down the cleaning rag and spray I’ve been using and sneak a look at my phone. Nothing but a text crammed with typos from Murph that proves his night was way messier than mine. Not a single message from Layla. Just when I thought things were untangling themselves.
I shake my head, as though that’ll somehow shake her out of my system.
I know she was upset. Even Trent, who has the emotional IQ of a tractor, knows that. But why is she freezing me out?
Giggling explodes through the store and I look over to the counter. A group of girls who graduated from Durnan’s private school last year have swarmed through the door, and Trent, who’s meant to be balancing the till, is flirting hard, like it’s a competitive sport.
He invites them to hang with him and the boys tonight. One of the blondes leans across the counter, chest spilling out of her top, and tells him to put his number in her phone. She winks, he grins, then there’s a lot of hair tossing and pouting and teasing from her friends.
I return to wiping the bookshelves, trying to trick myself into thinking about anything but Layla and wondering if the cleaning spray has seeped into my brain.
* * *
At five thirty I switch the shop sign to Closed and lock the door.
Trent smacks gum next to me. ‘Coming with, bro? Those girls are keen, I reckon.’
‘Nah, might sit this one out.’
‘Why not? Is this about Montgomery?’
‘Nah, course not.’
‘Well, the old man’s been riding you hard. Let off some steam, bro, it’s Friday.’
‘You want to go out? Where people will see us? Together?’
‘Let’s roll,’ he says. ‘It’s about time the Dark brothers tore up this town.’
* * *
I’ve barely sat down in the beer garden when I spot the blonde with the phone squeezing past crowded tables to make her way towards Trent and me.
She waves at me, I elbow him.
‘Don’t shit yourself, bro, I’ll handle it.’
Moments later we’re surrounded. The girls fight for Trent’s attention as he leans back against the pool table, his shirt straining at his chest. I may as well be draped in an invisibility cloak. I check my phone. Nothing. Layla can probably smell the desperation seeping through her phone.
A collective ‘Oh wow’ erupts within our circle. All the girls’ goopy-mascara eyes are pasted on me. One of them — maybe Denny? — places her hand on my knee. I sit up, startled.
‘Milo, I can’t believe you nearly died,’ she says, clutching her chest. The others all nod, sucking hard on their straws. ‘I mean … it’s so … scary.’
I try not to stare at the piece of mint caught between her teeth. ‘Sorry … what?’
‘Trent told us what happened to you at the river,’ she continues. ‘When you almost … drowned.’ She whispers the last part, like she’s filling me in on a top-secret mission. ‘Lucky he was there to save you. I mean, can you imagine?’
I look at Trent who gives me a quick wink. ‘That’s what he said?’
Denny nods. ‘But he was more humble than I’m making out.’
‘I bet.’
‘Tell them about the car accident, Milo,’ Trent says, slurping his beer. ‘This guy has nine lives, I swear.’
I try to catch his eye to tell him to shut it, but he’s too busy smiling at the girls.
Another girl gasps. ‘An accident too?’
‘Nearly wrote off a car but pulled it together,’ Trent says. ‘I was pretty freaked out.’ Freaked out? Yeah, right. ‘I’m just glad he’s okay, you know?’
I take a sip of my cider, mainly so I don’t combust right there.
Trent calls the girls into a huddle. ‘Bet you ten bucks he says I’m lying, playing it down to impress you all. Doesn’t want to seem like a big-shot.’
‘Ah, can you give me a sec?’ I say, holding up my phone and pretending I have a call.
I leg it to the bar. Trent trails behind me, waiting ’til the girls are out of sight before clipping me over the ear.
‘Oi, I’m pulling hard for the two of us back there. Which one do you like?’
I head into the pokies room. ‘Geez, you’re a tool.’
He follows me in. ‘What?’
‘You “saved me”? That’s your new pick-up line?’
‘It’s just a story, no harm fudging the details,’ he says, pulling up a stool. ‘They’re loving it.’
‘Can you hear yourself? It’s pathetic. From what I’ve been told, you didn’t “save” anyone. You just stood on the side of the river watching me bob around face down.’
‘Back up, mate, I was a kid too. What, you buy into the whole “Trent nearly ruined our lives” theory? I know Dad’s been pumping it for years, but you?’ He puffs out his chest a little. ‘Low.’
‘No, I didn’t mean …’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know what I freakin’ mean. But why are you even bringing up that stuff? Durnan’s small enough without complicating things.’
‘Just trying to help you out. Throw you a bone. Maybe literally.’
I sigh. ‘Jesus, man. I’m sure they’re nice but … nup. No way. Not going there.’
‘Let’s have a boys’ night then. For real.’ Trent clinks his glass against mine, then inhales half of it.
We sit for a bit and let the pokies’ jingling and whirling fill in the quiet.
‘No-one blames you for what happened to me,’ I say. ‘Not even Dad.’
‘Bro, I was the lump who almost let you die.’ He gulps more of his drink. ‘Ask anyone, especially the old man. But you know I’d never deliberately hurt you, right? Right?’
My cheeks feel warm. ‘Yeah. Course
.’
‘Good.’ Trent slaps the counter. ‘Now … enough mushy crap.’ He raises his beer. ‘Cheers to the Dark brothers and turning your crappy little life around. If anyone can do it, it’s you, golden boy.’
I roll my eyes and look at my phone again. Big fat nothing.
Trent glances at me. ‘Montgomery?’
‘Nah, she’s ghosted.’ I raise an eyebrow, ready for him to give me crap for caring.
He shrugs. ‘Relax, bro. Sal’s left you all paranoid. She’s probably just working.’ Pause. ‘Or maybe she’s phased you after she realised you’ve got a micro-penis.’
‘Is that why she ruled you out in high school?’
Trent roars with laughter, then pulls me towards him into a loose headlock, ruffling my hair ’til it’s spiking out in every direction.
* * *
Milo: Life update: I’m eating Joe’s chips in bed on a Friday night #foreveralone
Milo: Are we on for the river tomorrow at 1 or …?
Layla
Stars hanging from the sky are my only company tonight.
My phone is still dead so I’m lying on the back seat, drawing circles with my left big toe on the roof. They start off small and tight, then grow wider and loopier. The seatbelt-holder digs into my right hip but I don’t care.
I stare into the dark, adjusting to the blackness. I wriggle around on my back to adjust my underwear, then press my right foot against the roof to leverage my body weight. My period’s come, and it’s the kind where you feel like there’s someone pummelling your lower stomach with sharp tiny punches. Raiding the bathroom for pads and tampons didn’t come to mind when Kurt was yelling at me to leave, so I’ve wound toilet paper from the loos by the river around my knickers. I’m basically thirteen and hiding in a cubicle at Mum’s funeral again. Only this time Jen isn’t here to whisper instructions to me about what to do next.
Reaching out to Dad for help isn’t an option; he’s probably still away for work anyway, so Shirin would be forced to shoulder the burden. She’d hug and squeeze and fuss, then she’d want reasons for everything: why Kurt and I broke up, why I can’t go back there, why it ended. Why, why, why. I can’t tell her I’ve blown it again.
I can only imagine what Mum thinks, watching me from wherever she is. I like to imagine it — her place — as a comfortable couch in the sky with a milk bar that serves strawberry milkshakes that never run out and perfect wi-fi so she can stream all her favourite shows without the TV freezing every five minutes. Maybe she has some new friends to squash up on the couch with, or her own parents, Grandma and Grandpa. And maybe she never sleeps ’cos where she is no-one needs sleep ’cos there’s so many other better ways to fill the hours instead. Whenever I picture her, slurping her third milkshake for the day and laughing with Grandma over something only the three of us would find hilarious, my mind worries about her witnessing all my stuff-ups. But it’s an even worse thought to imagine her not being there at all.
I definitely can’t talk to Milo. Being in the car like this reminds me of him more than ever: of our road trip; of squeezing into small spaces; of staying up all night and wondering if everything is going to be okay when all signs point to no.
My mind is flooded with can’ts.
I’ve considered driving to his place so many times, but the more hours that pass, the harder it is to do.
‘Truth or dare?’ I mumble to myself. My head is foggy now.
‘Truth, please.’
‘Layla?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have any idea what to do next?’
‘Truthfully?’
‘That’s the game.’
‘Not a clue.’
‘You’re so screwed. Oh, and you’re talking to yourself, you fool.’
‘Whatever. You got me into this mess.’
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone’s rapping on the car window.
I sit up in shock, sucking in a breath as a silhouette fills the space. Instinct kicking in, I grab the car handle and pull at it. I can’t remember if I locked the doors.
‘Hello?’ a male voice says. ‘You alright in there?’
‘Fine! Thanks, okay, bye,’ I say in a rush.
‘It’s the police,’ a husky female voice adds. She sounds stern, tougher than the guy. ‘Can you wind down your window, miss?’
‘Um, how do I know you’re really the police and not an axe murderer?’
I hear stifled laughter from the guy, so I wipe at the condensation on the window, creating a sphere of clear glass.
A big round face appears in the circle. ‘Evening. No axe murderers here.’
I gasp in fright at the sudden sight of eyes, a nose and knitted eyebrows pressed up against the window. His breath fills the glass.
I wipe again and he holds up his badge. ‘Here you go. The name’s Constable Bill Dutton.’
Shit. When I was in Year 7, he was in Year 10. ‘Tiny’ we called him, because he was anything but. I’m not positive, but I think he went out with Jill for three weeks before she broke up with him for buying her scented soap from the two-dollar shop for Valentine’s Day. Mum died not much longer after, so I haven’t seen him since then.
‘Hang on,’ I mumble.
Plunging my hand into my bag, I find my perfume and drench myself in it, then I ease out of the car. The moon is lighting up the night.
The cops stand a metre back, Bill’s arms are crossed over his chest, the woman’s are on her hips.
‘You by yourself, miss?’ she asks.
I nod, keeping my head down. Maybe she won’t notice my bloodshot eyes from crying.
‘It’s awfully late. Can we grab a name, please?’
‘Layla. It’s Layla.’
‘Layla? Montgomery?’ Bill asks, taking a step closer.
‘Hi.’
‘Well, goddamn … I haven’t seen you since … well, school, I suppose. I didn’t even know you were back in town.’
I throw him a pinched smile. ‘Forgot to send out flyers, I guess.’
‘You know this girl, Dutton?’ the female officer asks, throwing him a questioning look that suggests there’ll be a conversation at the station later.
‘Used to.’ Bill clears his throat. ‘So what are you doing here, Layla? It’s not safe at night.’
‘It’s fine, no axe murderers, remember.’ I gesture around the empty car park. ‘Pretty peaceful really.’
The woman sniffs the air. ‘Your eyes are pretty glassy, miss. Aren’t they, Dutton?’
He gives a curt nod.
‘Alright, Layla,’ she says. ‘I’m Senior Constable Minch from Durnan Police and it seems you already know Probationary Constable Dutton. Let’s start with some ID.’
That wakes me up. ‘What? Why?’ I ask, passing her my licence. ‘Am I under arrest?’
Minch steps closer. ‘Calm down, please, miss. Now, you don’t have anything on you that’s going to hurt me or my partner here?’
‘Hurt you?’ I swallow. ‘As if. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’d never —’
‘Layla, just answer the question,’ Bill says.
I narrow my red-rimmed eyes at him — a habit when I’m cornered — but he stares back. Then I get it. He’s pleading with me to shut up. Do what Minch says. Get this done for the both of us.
I give in. ‘No, I don’t have anything on me.’
‘Great. Now put your hands up please,’ Minch says.
‘What? No! I said I don’t have anything!’
‘I’m going to search you quickly, Miss Montgomery,’ Minch says. ‘Please stay still and it’ll be over before you know it.’
I fight the urge to run that’s prickling my heels and stretch my arms out wide. Her hands run over me, patting me down from top to toe. Her palms bounce over my ribcage, stomach and thighs, and I bite down hard on my lip to distract myself, so hard I taste blood.
They let me off with a caution.
Minch snorts with displeasure but concedes there’s nothing
on me and no reason to take things any further. She tells me I’m lucky this time, that it could’ve been worse.
I barely hear the words spitting from her pale, thin lips ’cos I’m trying to stop my hands from trembling behind my back. Every cell in my body was convinced Ryan and Kurt had stuffed more of their awful junk through the car and Minch was going to pin their stash on me.
Bill tells me they’re going to drive me home. I shrug it off, making a flimsy excuse about loving the quiet, but he insists, says it’s not safe to stay there alone.
My jaw stays stiff as I refuse for a fourth time.
When Minch saunters off to take a call, Bill steps up again. ‘Level with me, Layla. I can tell you’ve been crying. You can’t call your dad?’
‘I think he’s at the mines.’
‘What about a friend?’
I shake my head.
‘Why not? You’ve got plenty of mates.’
Silence.
‘Okay … a neighbour? Another relative?’ He waits for an answer. Nothing. ‘There’s got to be someone.’
‘I’m alright here.’
‘Look,’ he says, voice low so Minch can’t hear, ‘I’m pretty new to this job but I’ve already seen some bad stuff. It’s rough around here at night. It’s not like when we were kids. Just believe me, okay?’
He opens up the car, wincing at the musky smell. ‘Throw your stuff into your bags. We’ll work something out.’
* * *
Minch stays in the car while Bill walks me up the driveway with my suitcase and backpack. When Shirin opens the door, tightening the belt on her leopard-print dressing gown, she gasps at the sight of the police car.
After thanking Bill for dropping me off, Shirin takes my suitcase from him and leads me down the hallway to the last room on the left — the guest room. My story tumbles out in nonsensical snippets as she turns on a small lamp in the corner, which casts a warm glow across everything. There’s still not much in there: a single bed, a bedside table, a small desk, a chair and a wardrobe. No photos. No clutter. It’s like stepping into a furniture catalogue.
‘Come on, hon,’ she says, waving me into the room.
I mumble thanks and tell her I’m sorry again for waking her in the middle of the night.
She tut-tuts at my rambling, then disappears out of the room and returns moments later with a towel, face-washer and bottle of body wash. Pressing it all into my hands, she tells me to have a hot shower and get some sleep.
Remind Me How This Ends Page 17
