The New Girl

by Ingrid Alexandra

  Aunty Anne’s eyes twinkle in the low light. ‘I’ll confess I’d hoped you’d offer. I fear I didn’t inherit that gene. Not like you and Sylvia.’

  ‘It’s like Mum’s old one,’ I say, turning the cool weight of the pestle over in my hand.

  Aunty Anne chuckles. ‘Yes. That’s why I got it. Can’t you just picture her, banging away on it like a madwoman? No wonder she became a chef. She was always obsessed with cooking. You’re very like her in that way, too.’

  ‘I do love to cook,’ I murmur, staring at the glowing, proud face of my mother holding her child. Then suddenly, without intending to, I pound the pestle into the hard stone with a loud crack. It’s oddly satisfying.

  Aunty Anne gazes at me warily.

  I smile, flexing my hand. ‘Would you excuse me for a minute?’ Without waiting for an answer, I head to the staircase that leads to the second floor.

  I hear the television come on and an up-tempo version of ‘White Christmas’ drifts up the stairs. I shudder. I don’t think about my parents much – if I do, I’ll go mad. But this time of year never fails to dredge up those old feelings. Though I might not remember exactly what happened that summer, my body does. It’s a part of me. Muscle memory.

  I shake it off and focus on the task at hand. There are only two rooms upstairs: the second bathroom and my old bedroom. I climb the stairs two at a time, the sound of ‘White Christmas’ slowly fading, and push open the bedroom door. I make a beeline for the old wardrobe with its peeling sage-green paint. It’s lighter up here with the curtains open and the windows facing west. I find the cupboard mostly empty, as expected, but there’s a bag of old clothes I never got around to giving to charity. Fortunately, Aunty Anne hasn’t got around to it either.

  Releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I turn the bag upside down and its contents tumble onto the floorboards. Thunk, thunk. That’s them, those clunky heels. Those little straps, constraining my ankles, making me feel shackled – that’s why I threw them out. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  I dig through the clothing heaped on the floor, picking up items and flicking them aside until I see a flash of tell-tale crimson. I reach my hands into the pile and pull out one red suede shoe, then the other. I know it must be my imagination, but I could swear they feel warm. I turn them over in my hands, lift them to my face, inhale deeply. Cow hide, musky and earthy. Like flesh and bone, like a living thing.

  I shudder and place them neatly on the floor, the toes pointing away from me, tuck my legs under my body and lean over them. There’s a darker patch of suede on the right one, just to one side of the open toe. I run my finger over the dark spot, pressing firmly. When I draw my finger back, the tip is coloured by a rusty-brown smear.

  Blood.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1st December 2016

  When I was a child, I used to lie in bed and imagine I was inside a coffin. Or not a coffin exactly, more of a glass box that I could see out of but no one could get in. Kind of like the one in Snow White, I suppose. I imagined tiny holes all over the surface of the coffin, big enough so I could breathe, of course, but they couldn’t be so big that something could be poked through them, like a sharp pencil. Or a knife.

  The imaginings continued into my early teens. It got to the point where I couldn’t sleep unless I could picture my imaginary shield around me. But by then I had realised that a glass box was too fragile to protect me. What if it shattered and the shards sank deep into my flesh? No. It had to be thick Perspex or bulletproof glass – transparent, so I could still see out – and heat-resistant so I couldn’t burn alive in there. It had to lock from the inside but not the outside and it had to have an escape button, just in case there was any risk of me getting trapped. I remember wishing it could be invisible, but I didn’t believe in magic, even then. It had to be realistic. Practical, sturdy. Something I could build if I had to.

  Every evening I’d lie in my bed, listening to the dull blare of the television and my parents’ murmured conversations downstairs, and I’d imagine my bulletproof coffin. Then, and only then, when the white-hot summer sun had disappeared at last and the warbling magpies in the eucalypts fell silent, could I permit my eyes to close, my body to relax. And, if I was lucky, I might just sleep until morning.

  Doctor Sarah thinks these memories are significant. That it means something that I was afraid to go to sleep. But I can’t think what I could have been afraid of. I had a happy childhood. Sure, I had my share of scraped knees, friendship dramas, blowouts with my mum – we were both strong-willed and she was fond of her wine. But nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would qualify as something to fear.

  I was privileged, and I know that now, although of course as a child I had no understanding of anything beyond my own reality, could make no comparison. As an only child, I had my parents’ undivided attention, and that was the way I liked it. I had a loyal ally in Cat and plenty of friends at school. I remember weekends skiing at Thredbo and holidays in Europe and endless summers in that hot, wet heat by the sea.

  It never occurred to me that anyone could be jealous of me. But, looking back, looking at everything we had, who wouldn’t have been?

  But it wasn’t perfect, was it? Even before my parents went missing, there was always this sense of … unease. Like we were all waiting for something to happen. Like we all knew something we weren’t saying.

  Or am I imagining that? God knows my memories are rusty from disuse. Most of the time, I prefer to leave my parents in the past. Whether it’s healthy or not, it’s easier. I don’t even let myself google them anymore. And every time I’m tempted, all I need to do is let the mouse hover over the search window and a surge of nausea has me running for the bathroom. Though I know there can’t be any information out there that I don’t already know, I get the feeling sometimes there’s more to the story than I’m remembering.

  I keep thinking: it was only a few years ago. It’s not like this is a fifty-year-old cold case. Surely someone out there knows something. Surely I know something. But I also know some people really do go missing and are never found. It happens more often than you’d think. Someone is reported missing 38,000 times a year, in fact. Australia’s a big country. Lots of bushland, ocean and desert. Lots of places to get lost, or hidden, and never found. Lots of families left behind, forever trapped in limbo.

  When I let the memories come, it’s always of the vineyards, at least at first. I can feel the warmth of the sun as I pick grapes with my father, his hand firm on my back as if he’s trying to keep me close. I can hear the bleating of the lambs in the fields beyond, the twitter of finches as they dart and hop.

  We were always going places; my parents never seemed to be able to sit still. We were happy, I’m certain of it. Sure, I always sensed a bit of tension between Mum and Aunty Anne. I used to think it was jealousy – Mum ‘had everything’ and Aunty Anne was a ‘spinster’, as Mum called her. She never married or had children (not that that’s the be-all and end-all), although now she’s got Uncle John. I can see now that they were just different. My aunty didn’t go for any of the superficial stuff Mum was into. She never wanted kids and never wavered under the pressure to give in and have them. She was a straight-talker, practical. Sharp and outspoken, yet laid-back in ways that Mum wasn’t. Mum was always a little overly concerned with what other people thought of her. She liked her wine a little too much, but that was easy to excuse, working in the food industry and running the vineyard with Dad.

  I never saw Mum and Aunty Anne in the same place at the same time for too long. They always found excuses to be elsewhere. But they loved each other, and I’m sure of that. I was always close to Aunty Anne. I loved staying with her over the Easter break every autumn. She let me eat as many chocolate eggs as I wanted. She let me walk around with bare feet and make a mess in the kitchen and stay up until midnight. She didn’t care about keeping the cream-coloured sofa spotless or grubby fingerprints on the screen door. Staying with Aunt
y Anne felt like freedom.

  Now my parents are gone, it’s easy to romanticise the past. But I know we weren’t without our problems. Mum came from a poor family and she never let me forget that, or how lucky I was to have grown up in a household of means. I know part of her was proud that she was self-made – she was more well-known than Dad when they first met – but another part of her was ashamed of her past. She spent money outrageously at times, but the girl inside her who came from humble beginnings couldn’t quite be banished. Sometimes I’d find her washing used aluminium foil and saving it in a drawer, eating out-of-date food and keeping vegetables in the fridge drawer long after they were withered or rotten. She taught me to scrimp and save, to be grateful for what I had. In a disposable society, she taught me to hang on to things. Even things we didn’t need. Even things that had long ago lost their value.

  Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I chose not to throw Mark away. Even though he was rotten from the start.

  Though no one ever explicitly said it, I know Mum and Aunty Anne had it tough growing up. Their parents – my grandparents – died when I was a baby, so I never knew them. Mum rarely spoke of them, and Aunty Anne only grunts or changes the subject when I broach it. Once or twice, often if she’d had a bit too much, Mum would say something throwaway like ‘at least your daddy doesn’t hit you’ – and I’d be so confused and hurt, because it sounded like she was angry with me. And maybe she was, partly. Because she was right: my daddy wasn’t always a nice man, but he never hit me. Maybe she was envious that life was so much easier for me than it had been for her. And I can’t really blame her for that. Although at times it made me feel lonely. Misunderstood. As though my problems were invalid because I hadn’t suffered the same way she had.

  It’s hard for me to write this. I tend not to think about my parents. It’s so much easier not to, despite what Doctor Sarah says. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see her face. She’s looking down at me, eyes soft, golden curls backlit by the afternoon sun. And it doesn’t matter if there was ever any bad blood between us, real or imagined; I can feel her love as warm as that sunlight. But then, just the same way it always happens, as if I’m finding out she’s gone for the very first time, my chest squeezes with a pain so sharp I lose my breath.

  That’s what I miss most. That safe place, that knowing that someone who loved me was there to take care of me. Unconditionally.

  I suppose that’s why I leant on Cat so much, was so willing to relinquish control to her. It made me feel safe, cared for. I suppose I let her mother me, in a way. But it’s different with Rachel. There’s less of an imbalance, more of a feeling of being on equal ground. Only it’s worse for Rachel, in many ways. While my safe place was taken away, she never had one. Because of that, I think she might be able to understand me in a way no one else can.

  I’d forgotten about my imaginary coffin until the imaginings returned one day as if they’d never left … around the time my parents went missing, I guess it was. The glass box that kept me safe from danger. Was it just my imagination running away with me all those years? A child’s groundless fears? Or is there some connection … was Doctor Sarah on to something? What was I afraid of? And what did I want to keep out?

  Because sometimes I wonder. Did I know something bad was going to happen …?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Four days without a drink and my first wine slips down quickly, smoothing away the edges of panic. My appointment with Sergeant Moore is less than a week away, but it feels like a lifetime to wait. After everything, I’m surprised he agreed to see me. But I have evidence now. The shoes are concealed in a plastic bag in my wardrobe, waiting. I can almost hear them breathing. I could have taken them to the Victoria police, who originally dealt with the case, but I want to make a point to Sergeant Moore. Prove that I can be trusted about this.

  Shouts and heavy footsteps sound from outside. The couple upstairs are at it again. Behind the wall, the shower gurgles to life and I wonder if Cat’s home. I sigh at the thought. Yesterday, when I got back from Aunty Anne’s, I showed her the shoes. She looked at them sceptically, asked if I was sure I wanted to go ahead. She told me to be careful, said to make sure I had my facts straight before I talked to the police again. ‘You don’t want a repeat of last time, Mary.’ Well, of course I don’t. But what choice do I have? It’s that or let Mark walk free.

  Inhaling deeply, I rub my knuckles over my eyes, take a long pull from my wine glass. I have to get a hold on this anxiety, it’s getting out of control. I haven’t heard anything more from Mark, and he didn’t make an appearance at the farm, but I feel sick every time I check my emails. I jump whenever my phone beeps. Without doing anything, he’s still controlling me.

  There’s a shriek from outside, a smash, like glass breaking. Then a distant thunk, thunk, thunk. I jump up, run out onto the balcony and peer over the railing.

  A man in a crumpled business shirt with tousled hair stands in the middle of the side street. It’s a moment before I recognise him as the man who lives upstairs; one half of the noisy couple. Clothing and various other items lie strewn at his feet. Head bowed, shoulders slumped, he kicks a solitary shoe across the pavement. It lands in an oily puddle with a splash.

  A door slams somewhere and the man flinches. He looks up, catching my eye. He’s younger than I thought, with a slight build and fair skin. One of his eyes looks larger and darker than the other. I hold my breath. A black eye.

  Something brushes my shoulder and I shriek and whirl around. Ben stands by the railing, looking embarrassed. ‘Wow, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ His embarrassment turns to concern. ‘You okay there?’

  I’m sure I’m blushing. ‘Yes, fine. I … sorry. Didn’t meant to scream.’

  ‘It was kind of cute, actually.’ Ben’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. He has warm eyes, a funny mix of brown and green. His hair is damp; it must have been him in the shower. ‘Cat’s out tonight. She said to check on you, see if you needed anything.’

  ‘Oh.’ I search his face but his expression gives nothing away. ‘I’m good. Thanks.’

  ‘Listen,’ he says, looking uncomfortable. ‘If you ever need anything … I’m just in the next room. Feel free to call out, yeah?’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Ben. Thanks.’

  There’s a crash from outside.

  ‘Those two again.’ Ben shakes his head. ‘Poor guy.’

  ‘Poor guy?’

  ‘You didn’t spot the shiner?’

  ‘Ah. I did, yeah.’ I don’t mention the fact that my instinct was to wonder whether it was deserved.

  ‘I had a mate once, who was beat up by his girl. We told him to get rid of her, but he wouldn’t listen, of course. Fortunately she ended up leaving him anyway. Still a shit thing to happen.’

  Our neighbour is scrabbling to collect his clothes from the wet ground.

  ‘It’s not just guys who can get violent, I guess. Should we help him?’

  ‘I’ll go see if he needs a hand. I’m just on my way out.’

  I smile. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well then.’ Ben looks right in my eyes. He takes a breath, opens his mouth as if to add something.

  I wait, strangely eager to hear what he’s going to say. But then he closes his lips, gives an embarrassed smile.

  ‘See you, Mary.’

  I watch from the balcony as Ben approaches the guy on the street. He puts a hand on his shoulder, says something I can’t hear. Then he bends down, collects the last of the clothes, wrings out the water and mud. He helps the guy to his car. I smile to myself.

  My phone vibrates, shaking me from my trance. A new Facebook notification.

  YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME FOREVER. WATCH YOUR BACK.

  Another message from the same account, Jake Morns. Written all in capitals. There’s no question who it’s from.

  ‘Mary?’

  I step back from the railing with a gasp.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rachel’s husky voice says from behind me. I
turn to find her smiling, her fair hair almost translucent, backlit by the afternoon sun. She frowns when she sees my face. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Just …’ I close my eyes, willing my pulse to slow down.

  Rachel fixes me with a serious look. ‘Mary? You’ve gone pale.’

  I open my eyes, force a smile. ‘I’m okay. Really.’

  Rachel’s gaze lingers on my face. ‘Look. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I do know what will help.’

  I offer her a weak smile. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You need a drink,’ Rachel says with authority. ‘Come on. Let’s go out.’

  By quarter to six, two empty wine bottles sit alongside another half-full one and we’re giggling like truants. The chink of glass on glass and the rumble of talk and laughter surrounds us. It’s the sound of people enjoying themselves and, right now, I feel like one of them.

  ‘When’s your birthday?’ Rachel asks, draining the last of her glass of house white and pouring another. We’ve been playing this ‘get to know you’ game she invented and it’s serving as an excellent distraction. Mark’s message is a distant memory.

  ‘October twelfth,’ I say between mouthfuls of pizza.

  ‘Ninety-six?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Rachel’s jaw drops. ‘No way! I’m the seventeenth. We’re practically the same age!’

  I giggle into my wine glass. ‘How random.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Let me try another one. Where in Melbourne did you grow up?’

  ‘Well, I moved to the country with my aunty when I was fifteen, but Wallarma, originally.’

  ‘Now you seriously have to be kidding. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true! I was born in the old hospital on North Street.’

  ‘Fuck off! I grew up in Wallarma too. Only I just made it into the postcode. We lived at the dodgy end. It was practically a caravan park,’ she laughs, rolling her eyes. ‘What area did you live in?’