Beautiful Malice: A Novel

by Rebecca James

  “And the second thing I need you to do is live your life. Live the best and happiest life you can. And you must never, never, ever feel guilty about being happy. Don’t you dare. And if you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for us. For me and your father. Because if you’re not happy, my darling, if you don’t live your life, then we’ve lost everything. We’ve lost both of you.”

  In the end, Mom wants to tell my father that I’m pregnant when they’re alone together—give him the chance to digest the news in private. She thinks he’ll be shocked and upset at first. “Completely normal for a father,” she says. “You’ll always be his innocent baby girl, after all. But he’ll come around, he’ll get used to the idea, and he’ll be as excited as I am, eventually.”

  And as I knew we would, we get a lecture about the motorbike from my father before they leave. He’s relieved when we tell him that it’s for sale, and he makes me promise never to ride on it again, and makes Mick promise to ride carefully, if he has to ride at all.

  When they’re gone, Mick and I turn the lights out and go to bed. Mick is particularly tender and gentle, he tells me he loves me again and again, and we curl tightly together, my head on his chest.

  “I know you must be sick of talking about Alice,” he says at last. “But are you okay? You’re not freaking out about her?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m too happy to even think about her.” And although it was far from Alice’s intention, I’m feeling thrilled about the evening with my parents. Mom hasn’t been so openly emotional in years and it was wonderful to have her be so effusive and warm, an unexpected delight to have her reassurance—not only about the baby, but about Rachel as well. “I mean, Alice is clearly a nutcase,” I continue, “and I’m glad we’re not friends anymore. But she’s really only hurting herself. She’s making a big fool of herself. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Yeah.” Mick yawns. “Me, too. She must be a real sad case. Desperate.”

  “Yep. And anyway, what can she do? When we move she won’t even know where we are. And I’m going to change my phone number. She won’t be able to call me. What can she possibly do to me now?”

  “Nothing,” he says. And he leans over and turns the bedside lamp off, kisses my lips in the dark. “You’re completely safe. She can’t do anything to hurt you.”

  34

  The next day, Mick receives a package. It’s delivered while he’s out at band practice, and when he gets home in the late evening I show it to him. He doesn’t immediately rip it open like I would, just looks at it with disinterest, puts it on the coffee table.

  “You should open it,” I say, picking it back up. “It might be something exciting. A birthday present.”

  “Doubt it. It’s not my birthday for months.”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t know how you can stand it. Not knowing what’s inside. Hurry up, I’ve been waiting all day.” I push the package into his hands. “Open it.”

  Mick shrugs, turns it over. It is wrapped in plain brown paper, with no return address. “It’s just something really boring, I can tell. A booklet from the IRS or something. Unless …” he says, grinning, “unless you sent it. You did, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve been waiting, why you’re being so impatient.”

  “No,” I say. “I didn’t. I promise.”

  Clearly he doesn’t believe me. He shakes his head and continues smiling as he opens the package. Inside is some kind of book or photo album. There is a black-and-white picture on the front cover, some writing.

  “Do you know who you’re with?” he reads aloud, and he’s still smiling, but now he sounds puzzled. He turns the pages, holding it high so that I can’t see inside.

  “Mick.” I laugh. “I didn’t send it. It’s not from me. I don’t know who …” But I stop when I see his expression. His smile has become a frown; all the color has drained from his face. “What?” I say. “Mick? What is it? What?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he says. And suddenly I know who the package is from.

  “Let me see,” I say, reaching for it. “I want to see it.”

  “No. You don’t need to. Don’t. Please. Just don’t.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Mick. Let me see the damn thing.” My voice is sharper than I intended. “Sorry,” I say. “Please. Just let me see it. It won’t help to hide it from me.”

  He hands it over, reluctantly. “Katherine,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s crap. Just … She’s nuts. Don’t let it—”

  “Sure,” I say. “Sure. I know. I know all that.”

  The front page shows an old newspaper picture. It’s a photo of me and Rachel—a family portrait that somehow got into the hands of the press after Rachel died. We are at the beach, standing side by side, our smiles enormous, our hair windblown and wet. We have our arms around each other. We look so happy, so innocent …

  The picture has been torn in half in a deliberately jagged way and stuck down over the front of the album. Above the picture, letters—a random mix of upper-and lowercase—have been cut out from a newspaper and pasted together: Do yoU reallY KnoW wHo yOu’RE wITH?

  The next page is covered with editorial excerpts from the time right after Rachel died. And though they are all clearly from different articles, Alice has cut and pasted them together to form one long, rambling piece. She has also constructed her own disturbing headline.

  wRonG peOple CoNVIcted??? tHe gUILty goEs freE???

  But who is really responsible here? Surely, in these so-called enlightened times, we can’t expect a group of disadvantaged and undereducated youths to take sole responsibility for a crime that spotlights all that is lacking within the typical twenty-first-century person’s notion of what constitutes a sufficient duty of care toward those younger than us?

  Grant Frazer was abused as a child. He was beaten black-and-blue by his alcoholic father almost daily and denied love by his drug-addicted mother. It’s not surprising he grew up with no social conscience.

  The Boydell sisters had a life of wealth and privilege. Their home is spacious and elegant, their backyard a child’s fairyland complete with secret gardens, tennis court, and a swimming pool.

  An expensive education didn’t prevent Katie Boydell from taking her fourteen-year-old sister to an illegal and unsupervised party and allowing her to drink herself under the table.

  Who is really responsible here? Who is really to blame?

  After so long, I’m surprised to notice that these words still have the power to sting. I still feel the overwhelming desire to scream out in protest, to defend myself, to explain and justify.

  The following pages are filled with photos and articles from different newspapers—they are chopped and cut up and placed all over the page and there seems to be no order to their placement. It is the large letters pasted over the top of the pictures and articles that are most striking: COWARD. KILLER. SIBLING RIVALRY. BETRAYAL. IRRESPONSIBLE JEALOUSY.

  The second to last page has a color photo of me on it. It’s a real photo, and very recent—the only one not taken from a newspaper. I have my head tossed back in laughter. I look ecstatically happy.

  “KatHeriNe PatTerSon NoW. LiFe wiThout Her sisTEr” reads the headline that runs across it.

  The final page reads simply, “kAtherINe paTteRsOn KAtiE bOydeLL——viCtIm or MuRderER?”

  “Fuck this.” Mick snatches the album from my hands, slams it shut, and tosses it violently across the room so that it crashes into the wall, drops to the floor. “Stop looking at it. It’s sick.”

  I say nothing. I can’t speak. I can taste the bile rising in my throat. I turn away and go to our bed, lie down on my side, curl up into a fetal position.

  Mick sits beside me. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we should call the police,” he says gently. “She’s going too far. This is harassment.”

  “No.”

  “But we have to get her to stop.”

  “I don’t want the police involved.” I’m terrified to bring it all up again, to have the pas
t dredged up like a stinking corpse, the police useless and bumbling, the press like vultures tearing at putrid flesh. “They won’t do anything. They can’t.”

  Eventually we fall asleep, our arms wrapped tight around each other. When I get up in the morning, the album is gone.

  35

  Over the next few days, while Mick is working, I spend a few hours each evening getting ready to move. I go back to Vivien’s place and pack my things. I’m no longer as tired as I have been and I enjoy organizing my stuff, dreaming about my new life with Mick. The fact that my parents so obviously like him, and that Mom was surprisingly happy about the baby, has dispelled most of my doubts. We’re doing the right thing. We love each other. It’s going to be wonderful.

  I e-mail Vivien to let her know that I’ll be moving out. I promise to collect her mail and keep an eye on things until she returns. I end the e-mail with an apology for the short notice. She writes back:

  Don’t apologize! I KNEW there was a reason you were looking so happy, and I think it’s absolutely marvelous that you’ve met someone who makes you feel that way. Can’t wait to see you (and meet your Mick!!) when I get back home.

  Take care. Lots of love.

  Viv xxx

  It takes three evenings to finish packing my things and to clean all trace of myself from Vivien’s apartment. I want to leave it spotless, sparkling, as a thanks to my aunt for letting me live there. I finish at ten-thirty on Friday night and wonder if I’ve still got time to go and see the end of Mick’s gig. He’d promised to call me when he finished, to get a lift with the lead singer up to Vivien’s and give me a hand with the packing. But he hasn’t called, and I assume that there has been a good crowd tonight and that the band’s still playing. I decide to go and pick him up, surprise him.

  It’s raining and the road is wet and dark, so I drive slowly and don’t arrive until after midnight. The pub is quiet, almost deserted, the stage all empty.

  Mick’s not waiting in the bar, so I go backstage. I hear his voice and head toward a lighted doorway. I stop and take a step back when I see her in the room. Alice.

  She is leaning against a table, her long legs crossed in front of her. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she is saying, her voice slurred and heavy with alcohol. “How can it hurt? Who can it hurt? How will anyone even know?”

  Mick has his back to her. He is rolling electric cords together. He shakes his head.

  “You’re insane. I’m not having this conversation. Go away.”

  “Oh, come on.” She laughs, flicks her hair back provocatively. It’s a wasted gesture; Mick is not even looking at her. “Free sex. That’s what I’m offering. Unconditional great sex. Why would you say no? What kind of man are you?”

  Mick laughs curtly. “I think the question is, what kind of person are you? What kind of friend?” And then he turns to face her, sees me, stops. “Katherine.”

  Alice turns my way. For an instant she looks alarmed, but she recovers immediately, smiles, puts her hand out. “Katherine!”

  I stay in the doorway and stare at Alice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I saw an ad in the paper. And I thought I should be supportive, come down and listen to my friend play.” She reaches out toward Mick, smiles. “Actually, I thought you’d be here, Katherine. I was really hoping we could catch up. You’ve been very difficult to find lately.”

  For a moment I consider confronting her, asking why she is so hell-bent on hurting me, but I decide against it. There’s no point. I don’t want to hear her explanation—there is no rational or forgivable excuse for what she’s done—and I don’t want to listen to one of her insincere apologies. I just want to get out of here.

  I look at Mick. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yep.” He stops rolling the cords up and kicks them into a rough pile. He is usually meticulously tidy, but he’s clearly as desperate to get away from Alice as I am.

  “Goody.” Alice claps her hands together, stands, staggers a little. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going.” Mick’s voice is icy. He steps over the cords and puts his arm around my shoulders. “We’re going home.”

  “I’ll come with you. In fact, that might be fun. The three of us.” She stays close behind us as we leave the bar, walk up the street to where the car is parked. “Three is better than two. Don’t you think, Katherine? Huh?”

  When we reach the car, Mick unlocks the passenger door for me, but before I get in, I turn impulsively to Alice. “Go home. Go away. And from now on, just leave us alone. Stay out of our life. You’re sick. I feel sorry for you. You really need to get some help.”

  She shakes her head, sneers, her lip curling. “I’m sick? Me? That’s weird. I thought you were the one with the problem, Katie. I thought it was you, you who abandoned your sister—”

  “Katherine!” Mick’s voice is firm. He’s behind the wheel now, has already started the engine. “Just get in. Get in and shut the door.”

  And so I do. Mick locks the doors, puts the blinker on, checks the rearview mirror. Alice keeps her eyes locked on mine through the windshield, and I find it impossible to drag my eyes from hers, to look away. And just as Mick pulls away from the curb, Alice smiles—a cold and empty stretching of the lips—and steps forward, straight into the gutter.

  I scream out, “Mick! Stop! Wait!” But it’s too late and there’s a dreadful, sickening thud as Alice falls.

  “Fuck! Jesus. Fuck!” Mick slams on the brakes and is out of the car in an instant.

  I cannot move, cannot bear to look. My heart is thudding, thudding, and I stare blankly through the windshield at the oncoming rush of traffic. It’s over, I think. She’s got what she wanted. Ruined everything. It’s over. It’s over.

  “Alice!” I hear Mick shouting. I can hear the panic in his voice. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Alice!”

  And then I hear it: the high-pitched hysterical sound of her laughter.

  36

  I’m unpacking boxes in our new kitchen when it happens. I stand up and feel a small gush of wetness between my legs. I don’t know what it is at first and wonder for a moment if I’ve wet myself. I rush into the bathroom and pull my pants down. Blood.

  I do the best I can to dry myself with toilet paper and go straight to Mick. He’s unpacking books onto our makeshift bookshelves, humming, nodding his head in time with his own tune. He smiles as I approach.

  “I’m bleeding.”

  “What?” He drops the book in his hand. “Shit. Is that bad? That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “We need to go to the hospital.”

  I wrap an old towel around my waist, Mick grabs the keys, and we walk together down to the car, moving carefully, as if there was something broken in us.

  The emergency room is crowded and a nurse informs us that we will have a long wait before we can see a doctor.

  “But she could be losing the baby,” Mick protests. “She needs to see someone now.”

  “Sorry. We have a triage system. And I’m afraid that at this early stage, if you are having a miscarriage, there’s really nothing we can do, anyway, honey. All we’ll be doing is monitoring.” She smiles kindly. “But that may not be the case. A lot of women bleed during pregnancy and then go on to have perfectly healthy babies. Take a seat and try not to worry.”

  Mick and I shuffle over to the chairs. There are no two seats together, but a woman notices that we are a couple and moves over so that we can sit next to each other. Mick thanks her, and though she catches my eye and smiles sympathetically, I look away. I don’t want sympathy or kindness from strangers. If I’m going to have to grieve, I want to do it privately. The room is crowded and everyone would have heard our conversation with the nurse. With the towel around my waist, I feel exposed and conspicuous.

  I slump down into a chair and close my eyes, rest my head on Mick’s shoulder.

  Someone calls my name forty minutes later. A nurse
asks Mick to wait, but when I burst into tears and clutch his arm, she lets him come through with me. She leads us to a bed and asks me to sit down.

  “How much blood was there?”

  “I’m not sure. It seemed like a lot.”

  “A pad full, do you think? More?”

  “Maybe. Yes. Just a pad full.”

  She writes on a clipboard. “Are you still bleeding? Now?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I can’t feel anything.”

  “Good. If you can’t feel it, you’re probably not.”

  She writes more notes and then takes my blood pressure and my temperature.

  “That’s all good. The doctor won’t be long. Just lie down. Rest.”

  She drapes a thin blanket over my legs and pulls the curtains closed as she leaves.

  Mick sits on the chair beside the bed and takes my hand.

  “I shouldn’t have let you unpack, should I?” he says. He looks forlorn.

  “No. That’s not it. I didn’t even lift anything heavy. Pregnant women aren’t supposed to be treated like invalids.” I squeeze his hand. “Anyway. Let’s not assume the worst. Not yet.”

  “Sorry. No. Of course not. It’s just that I really want it to be okay. I don’t want …”

  “Neither do I.” I bite my lip, try not to cry.

  And then the curtain opens and a tall, thin woman comes in. She has wiry red hair and reminds me vaguely of Philippa, which makes me feel immediately more comfortable. She is pushing a large machine. She notices me staring at it.

  “Ultrasound.” She stands beside the bed, pats my leg. “I’m Dr. King. Let’s try and have a little look at this baby, shall we?”

  I’m terrified as she moves the probe around my belly. I stare at the screen, which shows a collection of cloudy gray blobs and shadows I can make no sense of.