by Lee Hayton
When we run, she hesitates. She turns her head back to her line, maybe to check if anyone else saw. Her shoulders slump as she picks up the people shuffling to get a better view.
She grabs the microphone and calls it in. The security guard had clocked us anyway. He’s running through the frame before she had time to finish.
The show ends.
Daina 2004
‘Yeah, well if you do want to call the police then I’m quite happy to tell them what I saw. And what I saw was your gorilla tackling my friend. My friend who is now covered in blood with her head split open. So you go right ahead and make that call.’
Whose head was split open?
I opened my eyes and saw Vila in full stomp. She looked furious and confident. Something that the manager did not.
‘You were stealing.’
‘We had produced payment. Your checkout operator refused to accept it. And then when we try to leave quietly, you set security on us so we had no choice but to run.’
That sounded perfectly logical to me. I smiled and opened my eyes.
‘Sir I… I didn’t…’
‘James do you want to take your break now? Then resume your post.’
‘But I didn’t…’
‘I know. We’ll talk about it later.’
I heard the man leave the room and felt a bit sorry for him. I couldn’t work out what had happened, but I didn’t think he was responsible for my current state. At least I hoped he wasn’t. That would be a waste of my pity.
Vila’s face appeared in front of mine. Her face relaxed as I blinked my eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ I whispered. ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re being held unreasonably by the store manager after his security thug assaulted you,’ she said in a loud voice. Then she leant forward and whispered, ‘You fainted and the guard caught us. Next time I think we should just leave the bag, okay?’ She giggled and poked me in the ribs.
‘Help me up, would you?’
She looked back over her shoulder at the manager, then turned to me. ‘I don’t know if you should be moving about. You knocked yourself pretty badly.’
‘I feel fine,’ I replied, and tried to sit up on my own. My head swirled, and then pain set in. I gritted my teeth and forced a smile.
‘Whatever,’ she said and grabbed my arm to help me down off the bench and to a chair instead. ‘You don’t look fine. I think he’s calling you an ambulance.’
‘I don’t need an ambulance! Sir? Sir?’
The manager turned around to look at me. He wasn’t even on the phone. Vila giggled again. ‘I told him not to,’ she whispered, ‘There were half a dozen people said he should, but I just told them all you’re epileptic and falling down was the normal course of business,’ she giggled again. Her breath was sweet and hot in my ear. ‘They couldn’t get away from you fast enough after that.’
‘I think I should call your parents,’ the manager said and walked over to us. ‘Given the circumstances I’m happy to let you go with a warning, but I won’t release you to go wander around the mall on your own. What’s your parents’ number?’
‘My mother won’t be there,’ I said quickly. Vila rolled her eyes. ‘She won’t,’ I repeated and poked out my tongue.
‘You can call my dad,’ she offered. I’ve got his number here.’ She dug into her handbag and pulled out a tiny pad. She flipped to the page she wanted and handed it across.
‘Wouldn’t your mum be better?’ I asked softly. Vila’s mum was generosity and happiness and baking. Her father was trouble.
‘Like I want that bitch driving us home from here. There’ll be enough lectures in the coming weeks. I don’t need a preview just now, thanks.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a doctor?’ The manager asked, looking at me. ‘Your head looks like you bumped it quite badly.’
I put my hand up and then jerked my fingers back as they encountered a sticky lump full of pain. ‘Nothing a couple of aspirin won’t cure,’ I said. When he continued to look at me, I followed it up with a big smile. He turned back to his desk and picked up the phone.
#
Mr Fa'amoe didn’t say a lot in the car on the way home. He expressed some initial concern over my state, but I had a bundle of tissues the store manager had given me that now contained most of the obvious damage. They were screwed up in the front pocket of my bag where I hoped they wouldn’t leave a stain.
I could’ve thrown them into the nearest rubbish bin, but I felt a bit weird doing that considering they were covered in my blood. Were there rules on human waste? I didn’t want to just chuck them in with the lolly packets and general mall detritus.
Vila gave me an occasional nudge of solidarity, but her enjoyment of our situation seemed to have passed. She stared out of the window at the queues of traffic.
Her father had picked us up when he left work. Why he was working on a Sunday, I didn’t know, but Vila didn’t seem all that surprised. We’d withstood supervision until he arrived, but the timing meant we were now in a snarl of traffic as everyone’s weekend drew to an end.
‘Come into the house,’ Mr Fa'amoe ordered when I got out of the car, and turned towards the street to walk home.
I hesitated. ‘That’s okay, I’ll just walk home. Mum’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘We’ll phone her. Come into the house.’
He turned and walked inside, and I looked at Vila. She gave a shrug but followed quick on his heels, so I did the same.
I felt nervous walking inside. Even more so than I had the day before. I’d never been caught doing anything bad before, and I didn’t know what to expect. If it was just me, then I don’t think it would’ve mattered half as much. But I’d dragged Vila into trouble as well.
Vila’s dad crossed through into the kitchen calling his wife’s name. She popped her head out, frowned and started toward me, but he caught her by the upper arm and pulled her back through.
I shuffled closer to Vila, and she did the same. I could hear muffled voices, which suddenly raised in tone. I rubbed my hands together and picked at a fleck of dried blood on my hand.
‘I’ll just blame you if that’s okay,’ said Vila suddenly. After craning to make out what was being said in the kitchen, her voice seemed unnaturally loud. ‘They’ll be perfectly happy to think that you’ve led me astray, and it’s not like your mother’s going to care one way or the other, is it?’
I stared at her. My face forgot how to work properly, and my chest squeezed a tighter grip on my lungs. I shook my head, and she burst into laughter.
‘Oh, your face. Classic!’
A laugh bubbled up in my own chest, but it was overcome with another wave of dizziness, and I stumbled.
‘Sit down,’ Vila said as she gripped my elbows tight. The pinch brought me back into myself fully, and as I took a seat, the world went back to its usual vibrant colours.
‘You’re too skinny. You need to eat something.’
‘I need some aspirin. My head’s pounding.’
‘Wait there,’ she said and left for upstairs. I listened to her thump about overhead. I wasn’t about to attempt to go anywhere else. The day felt used up.
I pinched at the worn cotton of my jeans. There was a fray at the side seam by my knee. Not the casually wrought tears that were specially commissioned in your designer jeans, no. This was from normal wear and tear. Not just from my use, but the person before me. Maybe even a person before that. It just didn’t look the same.
My stomach turned over. Then turned over again. I stood up, even though the motion jolted my head.
My stomach rolled once more, then just kept on going. Saliva flooded into my mouth. I turned and ran into the side corridor. There was a bathroom on the left-hand side. I popped the door open and fell to my knees in front of the bowl just in time. Bile and stomach acid regurgitated through my mouth. I retched once, twice. The world greyed out and I clung to the porcelain. Slowly it came back into focus.
I
flushed the toilet without rising from my knees. I didn’t feel safe to stand. My stomach gave another twist but then settled. I put my forehead on the cool, smooth surface of the bowl and closed my eyes. My backpack felt twenty kilos heavier, and I pulled off one shoulder strap so it lay half on the floor.
The voices in the kitchen had quieted, not just through my new distance. I heard Vila’s light steps come back downstairs, and then the pause as she stopped in the lounge.
‘Daina?’ she whispered. I opened my mouth to reply, but the wave of nausea recurred and I closed my lips tight and fought the urge to retch again.
A door slammed open further inside the house, and I heard Vila’s parents voices again.
‘Where’s your friend?’
‘I think she’s gone home. She wasn’t feeling very well.’
A pause, and then, ‘Come through into the kitchen. We need to have a talk with you.’
I smiled at the cliché, then gripped the bowl again as another cramp of nausea gripped me. It let go a minute later. Should I go through and tell them I was still here? From the tone of voice I thought it may be a better idea to lay quiet for the moment, and sneak out. If they caught me, I could explain.
The walk home seemed like a very long trek. I got to my feet and had to steady myself against the wall. Maybe I should just stay here, and then at least get a ride home. To be driven rather than have to walk seemed an impossible luxury.
But to be lectured, then driven home, seemed like a bit too much to bear at the moment. I wondered what impulse had taken over me that made stealing seem like a good idea. If I’d ever seriously considered shoplifting, doing it secretly seemed like a better bet. Rather than a full-fledged sprint from the checkout counter. I smiled at the memory. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I walked out into the hallway, my hand trailing the wall for guidance. When I glanced into the lounge, I could see the kitchen door was shut, and the murmurs from behind sounded low and intense. Probably a stern warning about the company that Vila was keeping.
The door to Mr Fa'amoe’s office was shut. I swept the palm of my hand over the fake wood surface. It was made up to look like oak but was more likely MVP and cardboard. I knew about the strength of doors from many parties that ended with firm kicks at the wrong target.
I turned the handle and slipped through the gap. I left the door ajar so that I could hear if footsteps approached and crossed to the desk. My heart started to pound. When I looked down, I could see it shaking my chest and collarbone.
Just do it quickly and get out and then it will be over.
The thought did little to calm my nerves. My hands shook with more violence, so when I reached out to try the latch on Mr Fa'amoe’s briefcase my fingers slid off to one side and I had to move them back.
I pulled the latch, but it didn’t pop open.
The combination lock had been set. Catching me in here once may have made him more cautious.
I tried 0000, then 1111. They didn’t work and I sat down in the office chair to take a look at the blotter pad. There was nothing written there.
I looked around the office for any clues. Four digits – I’d never be able to stumble upon the code. I was not a lucky person.
There was a small picture of Vila’s Mum in an ornate frame hung on the wall behind me. On the cabinets were pictures of the family at the beach, at a park, around the dinner table. A picture of Vila as a child, grabbing a pink balloon in her arms, with a smile so wide it almost used up her whole face.
Vila’s birthday party. I entered in 1/9/89 into the lock and the latches popped open. That easy. She’d joked back in September that her birthdate was her birth year. Maybe I was a lucky person after all.
I skimmed quickly through the documents located in a manila folder in the top. There was the same sketch that I’d seen previously; tables of data, graphs, patient records. I’d never be able to recall all of this.
I pulled open the top desk drawer: pens, pencils, an evil sharp letter opener. I pushed it shut and pulled open the second. Drop-files stuffed full of manila folders. I pulled one out, then another. Some sort of report. I couldn’t fathom what would or wouldn’t be a good disguise. I shoved the first one into the briefcase and pulled the backpack fully off my back.
At first the manila folder caught on the edges, and the leading edge pushed back threatening to spill the sheaf of pages inside all over the floor. My heartbeat shut off my hearing and my throat tightened, tightened.
I pulled it back out, adjusted the angle. Tried again. This time, it slid in. I fumbled with the front zipper and pulled out a test tube. One more thing. One more thing.
My vision was strobing along with my pulse. My hands felt like I was operating them from a metre further away. I clenched my fists. Hard. The long fingernails on my right hand split the skin of my palm. My nerves relocated themselves.
I pulled the fabric folder at the top of the briefcase, and a small bottle of liquid fell into the briefcase. For a second the sun reflected off the glass and I thought for sure I’d broken it. But it didn’t spill. It wasn’t even cracked.
I unscrewed the lid and poured some of the liquid inside into the test tube. I banged the rubber stopper back in place and pushed it into my bag. The zipper stuck halfway across and I fumbled it back and forth, making a small cry – uh, uh – through clenched teeth. It unzipped all at once, and I was able to pull it back across in one smooth motion. Done.
My elbow knocked against the open bottle in the briefcase, and liquid spilt over the folder inside. Shit! I grabbed and got it upright while there was still some left. I started to screw the top on and paused.
There was a bottle of water on the windowsill, warming in the sun. I stood up and undid the top and spilt a capful, then two, inside the case as well. I left the top half-unscrewed. Put the bottle back in the fabric folder. Snapped the briefcase shut.
I pulled my backpack onto both shoulders. There was hardly any extra weight in it. Certainly not enough substance to cause the adrenaline still rushing through my veins.
As I placed the water bottle back on the windowsill, I heard the tread of footsteps in the corridor outside.
Caught.
Caught red-handed.
My heartbeat stopped altogether. My vision clouded and wavered. I was fainting. For real this time. Not just dizziness.
I crunched the heel of my shoe into the top of my foot. The pain made me stagger, but my eyesight cleared and my heart started to thump again.
The footsteps stopped. I’d left the door ajar. They could look straight in and see me. If it was Mrs Fa'amoe, then I might be able to talk my way out of it. If it was Vila’s dad, I was in trouble.
The door closed. The footsteps sounded again, and then another door closed. Someone had come through to use the bathroom. That was all.
I crossed the room in two strides. There wasn’t time to pause at the doorway to listen. I pulled the door open, stepped into the corridor, and pulled it shut behind me, trying to cushion the snick of the tongue with my forefinger.
There were the sounds of footsteps heading upstairs; I could recognise Vila’s tread no problem. The toilet next to me flushed, and I jumped with fright and moved quickly through the lounge.
Empty.
I reached the front door, turned the handle as gently as I could, and then pulled the door wide open. I lunged outside to freedom, closed the door with less care than before, and ran down the drive to freedom.
Chapter Ten
Coroner’s Court 2014
When Vila returns after lunch, she’s more subdued. I can tell why: The stuff this morning was just about her and my behaviour. The stuff this afternoon is going to cut deep.
She pulls her long black hair out of the tie holding it back, scrapes it from her forehead, and re-secures it. The end of her ponytail still falls well below her shoulder blades. Definitely in the find-a-hairstyle-and-stick-to-it club.
My mother has new company, a welcome addition to Mr Anderson. A woman in
her fifties, her face bright and alert, takes the seat beside her. She reaches across and gives my mother’s hand a squeeze and then turns back to face Vila in the stand.
Her name is Christine Emmet. She works as a victim support officer. She’s helping my mother, as the police are now determining that I committed suicide. Because that’s normal, isn’t it? A fifteen-year-old girl traps herself in the foundations of a house and starves to death while clawing to get out.
Yeah, suicide.
Forget that I had papers in with my body that the police have now lost. Oh, did you not see that happen? Yeah, they bypassed that one pretty damn slick, didn’t they? Forensic pathologist saw them, knows they were there, but then they disappeared on the way to the evidence room. Along with the test tubes.
Still, at least my bones made it through. I wonder if someone else would’ve found them first if they’d have gone AWOL as well. I owe the first-attending some gratitude for that at least.
Vila’s eyes have teared up. She’s not gonna cope at all well with the next hour or so. All those painful memories, and ten years isn’t really that long a time to come to grips with them. Not even her version of them and lord knows that nowhere near the whole truth.
I do wonder if she truly knew what happened with her dad if she’d be better off or worse? Is anger an easier emotion than grief? Probably. But it wouldn’t just be anger, it’d be a mixture of them both.
Having someone to blame, though. Knowing someone ripped the person you cared about from your life and handed you an empty space in return; maybe that would offer fulfilment.
Watch her now. Clearing her throat and trying to keep control. Imagine that she was fuelled with righteous fury. Her eyes wouldn’t tear up, they would burn. Her throat wouldn’t thicken, it would climb the registers.
But who amongst this lot is going to tell her the truth?
I couldn’t even convince her father, and he knew more about it than most.
