The New Girl

by Ingrid Alexandra

‘I … I promised I wouldn’t say.’

  Cat’s eyes narrow. She looks primed to argue, then shakes her head and sighs. ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s give it another month, see how we go.’

  Cat finishes her wine and heads off for a shower, leaving me to mull things over. I think of the words I overheard, ‘I’m warning you’. That’s going a bit far, isn’t it? When Rachel’s only a bit behind on rent? She hasn’t been with us long; she can only have missed one or two weekly payments.

  I think of the dark rings shadowing Cat’s eyes. Her untidy hair. Her latest failed relationship. I see Rachel’s battered body in my mind again, hear her begging me not to tell the others, especially Cat. I think of Mark and Aunty Anne and the shoes in the closet in my room.

  I stare at the gathering clouds on the horizon, the swell of the grey sea as it rumbles across the shore. My hand finds the wine bottle, lifts it and pours the remains to the rim of my glass.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary.’ His voice is soft, taunting. I’m turning in all directions, searching for the source of the sound, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere.

  ‘You can’t hide from me forever.’

  The back of my neck tingles. Invisible fingers trail down my spine.

  ‘Watch your back.’

  I wake to blackness. For a second I panic, the remnants of a dream lingering. Where am I? Why is it so dark? Then I remember the blackout blinds; Cat had them installed yesterday. I fumble for my phone and check the time: 10 a.m. The blinds are doing their job.

  I’m about to plug my phone in when it vibrates, giving me a start. I eye it warily, but it’s just a text from Cat, warning me the shower’s broken and I’ll have to use the public ones in the common area by the pool.

  Great. I don’t want to go out, let alone shower in public, but I’m in dire need of a wash. My head aches, I’m clammy and my body is sore in strange places. What was I doing last night? I try to think back but it’s blank.

  I reach for the lamp and wince in the sudden glare. My mouth is dry, my tongue thick. There’s a wine bottle on the floor, a sour stench in the air. Snack-sized packets of crisps are littered around the room. I don’t even like crisps. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and find the carpet wet under my feet.

  After tidying the mess, I grab some clean clothes and a towel and creep out of the room. It’s eerily quiet, the smell of coffee and perfume lingering in the air as if someone has only just left. I’m glad I’m alone. God only knows what I must look like.

  The hot water is heaven on my hyper-sensitive skin. I moan as the water lashes my aching back, my sore limbs. Three more days, I tell myself. Three days until I meet with Moore and then … well. I can only hope for the best.

  When I’m done, I dry myself and head back. As I’m rounding the corner, I walk right into someone.

  ‘Watch your back.’

  I gasp, looking up into a pair of fierce eyes that, after just a second, soften and crinkle at the corners.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Ben!’

  He laughs and I’m filled with relief.

  ‘What did you say? When I … bumped into you?’

  ‘What? Oh, uh … I said watch yourself. Crazy girl,’ Ben laughs, but his amusement quickly vanishes. ‘You okay there?’ He steps closer, I can feel the heat from his body, the warmth of his breath on my face.

  ‘Seems that’s all anyone ever asks me,’ I say with a nervous laugh. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Don’t look it.’ Ben reaches out, his fingers brushing my throat. I feel a sting and he pulls his hand back. ‘Sorry.’

  I look down and see a graze above my collarbone. Another unexplained injury. Did I fall or something last night? Is that why I ache in strange places?

  ‘How’d that happen?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Ben gives me a strange look. ‘Looks painful.’

  I shrug. ‘Didn’t know it was there ’til now.’

  ‘You should put something on that.’

  I tighten my towel around my chest and turn away, embarrassed. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  I feel Ben’s eyes on me as I cross the courtyard, the back of my neck tingling. I close my eyes, see the words as if they’re scrawled on the back of my eyelids.

  Watch your back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  6th December 2016

  I can’t bear it anymore. I need to take action. He’s out there, somewhere. Plotting his next move. Thinking he can still pull my strings and I’ll dance for him. All those years spent with my mind and body invaded by him; it feels like a violation, makes me feel dirty. It’s like looking back at a different version of myself, as though for a time I was possessed, someone else inhabiting a Mary-shaped lump of flesh. He thinks his threats can frighten me.

  Well, I’m done being scared. I’m done being weak.

  7th December 2016

  This morning my head feels like a bag of rocks and every time I move they clunk around. Last night’s bravado has vanished, along with all the water in my body. I feel nauseous, dehydrated. But today I woke with something more than a hangover. I had that sinking feeling I’d done something terrible. A Stupid Thing, as I used to call it. A Mary Thing, as Mark used to say. I have, in a way, but I’m not sure I should regret it.

  You see, I looked through my phone again and saw something in that photo of Tom at the party. I’ve started calling him Tom now, like he’s a friend. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is about him, too. Justice for both of us. And maybe I feel guilty. Because if I’d been brave enough to do something back then, things might not have ended up like this.

  Anyway, in that blurry photo of Tom at the party, something caught my eye. There was a symbol on the T-shirt he was wearing. A logo. I couldn’t make out the words, but I recognised the shape and colour from the ads on TV: Zak’s Mechaniks. There’s a store in almost every suburb in Melbourne.

  There was a Zak’s ten minutes’ drive from our Fitzroy apartment. I know because Mark used to frequent it. Not for car stuff, even though he was always writing off one vehicle or another. It was where he did ‘business’.

  We went there the one and only night Mark consented to meet up with one of my friends. Cat, in fact. He was so worked up by the prospect that I’m pretty sure he was high before we even went out. We sat at that table in the overcrowded pub, Mark and me on one side, Cat facing us on the other. I clung to his arm tightly, as if I could communicate how important this was to me, as if I could somehow stop him from being … him.

  I couldn’t, of course. And it was awful. Cat kept this fake smile plastered on her face, but her eyes kept darting to me. She was worried; I can see that now, but at the time I was angry at her. For being concerned, for not playing along like she was supposed to. For not buying my act, for thinking I could be anything other than happy, like she was. But I kept it up – smiled brightly, laughed at Mark’s sexist jokes, bore it when he drank too much and made a pathetic attempt at being charming. It didn’t work on Cat, she could see straight through him. I hated her more for that, somehow.

  We left early, as we always did – Mark making his excuses, slamming the car door closed on my metal prison. He drove, though he’d had too much. He blew up at me in the car as he swerved in and out of traffic, swearing at other drivers and at me. He wasn’t even making sense. He was so angry. I didn’t understand why, though I think now that he was stressed. It stressed him, having to be nice to people. Having to talk. Having to pretend to be a good person, I suppose. Pretending to be normal took it out of him.

  We pulled up at Zak’s Mechaniks at about 10 p.m. I didn’t know about his ‘business’ then – not in the way I do now – and I remember asking why he was bothering when they were obviously closed. He didn’t answer, just got out of the car. I asked him what he was doing and he said ‘nothing, back in a bit’ like always. I don’t know why I kept asking, because he was never going to tell me. But later that night, after he stu
mbled to the toilet to take a long, dribbly piss, I went into the bathroom and found a sachet of white powder on the floor. It must have fallen out of the idiot’s pocket while he was peeing. And then I knew what went on at Zak’s Mechanics after dark.

  But back to last night and the Stupid Thing I did … It started out okay; I wasn’t too tipsy, just buzzed, feeling confident. So I decided I’d contact Zak’s and ask some questions. It was five-thirty-ish, nearly closing time, but I got the manager on the phone and asked about Tom. I didn’t think I was drunk, but I must have been further gone than I thought because I can’t remember much of what I said except for the Stupid Thing. I pretended to be a cop. Detective Helen White, specifically – who, Google tells me, was one of the detectives on Tom’s case. The manager must have bought it because he answered my questions and said he’d already spoken to the cops and didn’t know anything else. He knew the victim, he said. Tom was one of his best mechanics. But he’d already told us that, so he didn’t understand why we were asking again.

  I told him we had a new lead and asked if he knew Mark Jones. He said no, but then I remembered something … Mark’s ‘code name’ for when he was doing business. He used an anagram of Mark Jones, one of those generic names that could be anyone. Jon Markes. And when I asked if he knew that name, the manager paused then admitted, yes, he did know him. I panicked and hung up. Stupid, stupid. I should have kept him on the phone while I had him, should have got him to tell me whether Tom was affiliated with ‘Jon Markes’, but I freaked out.

  This morning I realised something terrible. I’d called from my own mobile. And that means the phone call, with my mobile number, will be recorded on Zak’s manager’s call log. If anyone finds out what I did, I could get arrested. Couldn’t I? Isn’t it an arrestable offence to impersonate an officer?

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m not thinking clearly or planning things right. I’m imagining things, losing chunks of time, confusing dreams and reality. Sometimes it’s like he’s still in there, inside my brain, working the controls even from a distance. How did I get here? How did I ever get involved with someone like Mark?

  But I know the answer. Oh yes, Doctor Sarah would tell me that it all happened organically. That it’s understandable. That it’s all cause and effect; I am the product of my past, I was vulnerable, and he took advantage of that.

  But sometimes I wonder if I had a certain power in it all. If I am responsible for the way things turned out. We choose our abusers, in many ways. They fill a dark place inside us, finding what already dwells. We feed each other’s perverse needs; the prey throws off a scent, the predator sniffs it out. It’s basic biology, really. And, in the grand scheme of things, I wonder whether it’s only natural.

  Oh, our big, complex human brains can explain so many things, but we’ve never effectively evolved beyond our baser instincts, have we? And there’s something seductive about the predator. Humans are seduced by danger, by the thrill, the uncertainty. And I am clearly no different.

  Because, let’s be honest. While I couldn’t predict exactly what would follow, I knew all along what Mark was. Someone divorced from his emotions. Someone full of fear and anger. A narcissist, unable to empathise with others. And I was drawn to him. I ignored every red flag, strode past every warning sign that screamed ‘DANGER! TURN BACK!’

  So what does that say about me?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The heat is suffocating. Steam rises from the sun-scorched streets, the rain from this afternoon’s sun-shower evaporating as quickly as it fell. Summer is in full swing and there’s no one less enthusiastic about it than me. Aside from the obvious association with my past, this time of year makes for hellish hangovers.

  Sweat clings to my body and I’m itching for a shower, so I jog the last block home, take the stairs and thrust myself through the front door and into the cool air. I moan as it hits my skin.

  ‘Hot out?’

  I startle before spotting Ben slouched over the bench in the corner of the kitchen, beer bottle paused halfway to his mouth. His smile is hesitant.

  ‘Oh yeah. Scorcher.’ I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, suddenly conscious of my wet, matted hair and sweat-soaked T-shirt.

  ‘Cat was looking for you.’ Ben nods towards Cat’s room. His eyes drop to my chest, then quickly dart away.

  I fight the urge to smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The, uh. The shower …’ Ben swallows visibly. ‘It’s playing up again.’

  ‘Great. And with me like this. I thought they fixed it the other day. That shower’s meant to be brand new.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s bullshit. Cat’s getting on to the landlord about it.’

  There’s an awkward silence as Ben pulls on his beer, his eyes on the misty ocean view beyond the balcony doors. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows. For some reason, I can’t look away.

  When our eyes meet, the air in the room feels thicker.

  ‘You want one?’ Ben holds up his beer, gives it a little shake so the remnants swish around the bottom of the bottle.

  ‘Sure.’

  As Ben pops the caps on two fresh beers, relief floods my system. It makes me conscious of the tension in my body, so familiar I scarcely notice it’s there. I take the bottle and press it to my lips. I’d have preferred wine, but the ale is cold and refreshing as it slides down my throat.

  ‘I like that,’ Ben says, his unusual green-hazel eyes twinkling.

  ‘What?’

  Ben inclines his head, his eyes lowering again to my chest.

  I look down at my wet T-shirt, my hot-pink sports bra visible through the clinging material. ‘Oh. Uh …’

  Ben makes a choked sound. ‘Oh, no. Shit. Your necklace … What I mean is …’ There are two pink spots on Ben’s cheeks and laughter bubbles up in my chest. It feels good and I find myself grinning.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell him, fingering the silver trinket at my throat. ‘I like it, too. It was a gift from my mother.’

  Ben looks relieved. ‘Does it mean something?’

  ‘It’s the symbol for eternity.’

  Ben steps forward, his eyes on mine. They seem to hold a question, and his hesitance, the kindness I sense in him, makes me bold.

  I trace my finger over the tiny figure of eight and smile up at him.

  Ben takes the charm between his thumb and forefinger. ‘So it is. Pretty,’ he says, holding my gaze.

  ‘Mum was into symbols and stuff. It’s meant to represent how long she’ll love me,’ I say. Embarrassed by this inadvertent confession, I clear my throat. ‘Um, it’s … that’s what she said, anyway.’

  Ben smiles. He lets the charm fall back against my skin. ‘Your mum must be a special lady.’

  I nod. ‘She was.’

  The brief bewilderment that crosses Ben’s face is replaced by understanding. I know this expression well.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Ben’s voice is soft.

  ‘Don’t be.’

  I see pity mingled with something else, curiosity perhaps. Even attraction. I’m like that to some people; an enigma, something to be figured out. The allure of mystery is a dangerous drug, one with which I’m all too familiar. I don’t want to encourage him.

  ‘I should go see what Cat wants,’ I say.

  Ben’s eyes clear and he shakes his head. ‘Sure. Of course.’

  Cat’s room is the farthest from the kitchen, the last room at the end of the hall. The air con doesn’t make it quite this far down and it’s claustrophobically stuffy when I reach her door.

  I can hear murmurs from inside, laughter and then silence. The door is ajar, so I push it open to see Cat with her back to me. She stands hunched over her desk, her phone pressed to her ear. Her free hand is splayed across a low stack of papers on the desk.

  ‘Don’t worry, she doesn’t know. No, I swear. No idea.’ Cat laughs. ‘Okay, I’ll do my best. Yes, I’ll be in touch again soon. Okay. Okay. Bye.’

  ‘Who doesn’t kn
ow what?’

  Cat whirls around at the sound of my voice. ‘Mary!’ Her face is white, like she’s had a fright.

  I laugh at her expression. ‘Yes, only me. What’s the matter? You were expecting someone else?’

  ‘God, no. I wasn’t expecting anyone. But weren’t you ever taught to knock?’ Cat laughs, but there’s exasperation in her voice.

  ‘Sorry.’ I frown. ‘Private call?’

  When Cat looks at me, her face is pinched in the way it gets when she’s stressed.

  ‘What are you doing? Have you been talking to Alex again?’

  Cat closes her eyes, shakes her head. ‘Oh, no. No, it’s nothing like that.’ She glances behind her and my eyes follow hers to the papers on her desk.

  I get a flash of panic. ‘The, uh … the benefit payments are still coming in, aren’t they?’

  Cat wrinkles her brow. ‘What? Oh. Yes, of course. No need to worry, M. You know I’d tell you if anything was amiss. But that reminds me …’

  ‘What?’ Her tone doesn’t fill me with confidence.

  ‘Well, they won’t be coming in for much longer, unless … I’m afraid to ask. Have you made that appointment? I mean, it’s been ages now, Mary.’

  I wince. I know I’ve been putting off seeing Doctor Chang. I’ve been rationing my meds, telling myself I can wean myself off and be fine. But it’s not just the meds that are a problem now. If I don’t keep seeing a shrink, I won’t get my benefit money.

  ‘Not yet.’ I admit.

  Cat clicks her tongue. ‘Anne’s been getting on to me about it, M. Come on. We had a deal.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, and I will make an appointment. Is that who you were talking to?’

  ‘Talking to?’

  ‘Before, when I came in. Were you talking to Aunty Anne?’

  Cat’s eyes seem to want to look anywhere but at me. ‘Aunty Anne. Yes. Yup, I was talking to her. She says to say hi.’

  I stare at my friend. Her kohl-lined eyes blink at me as she shows her teeth in a smile. Her long, dark locks, usually styled to perfection, hang over her shoulder in a thick tangle. Something’s changed. She’s on edge, stressed, and it’s not like her.