She wanted to touch him. Wanted to so badly it was like her body was aching. She managed a smile. “I thought you said you weren’t going to try anything.”
“Please help me find them,” he said, his finger now tracing her jawline.
“Okay,” she said, the word riding on one breath.
His eyes were dark in this light, his face beautiful. She leaned forward, kissed his mouth so softly, so slowly, that it made her whole body prickle with goose bumps through her sweat.
“This is such bad timing,” he said, pulling back. “Why couldn’t I have met you earlier? Or later?”
“Are you saying you like me?” she said, and she was grinning. “Even though I’m trouble?”
He looked back at her. “You’re okay, I guess.”
Will pulled her into a hug, and she rested her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beating hard; as they breathed softly together it began to slow. Within a minute, she’d fallen back to sleep.
26
Rose’s phone rang; she could hear it through the wall. Her limbs were wrapped around Will’s, her head still on his chest. He groaned, eyes blinking. The light in his room had turned bright; it must have been midmorning. Rubbing her face with her hands, her cheek sweaty from where it had been pressed against him, she rolled off and got up. By the time she’d crossed the corridor to her room, the ringing had ceased.
She opened the door. It stank of wet, rusted metal. Steve’s blood on the bedspread had changed color. It was now a dark burgundy. The splatter thick and congealed. She sat down on the bed and fished for her phone among the sheets.
Whatever way she looked at it, what happened to Steve last night had all been started by her. By what she had written.
It had been Mia on the phone. Rose was glad she had called. She wanted things to go back to normal again. They shouldn’t be fighting; there was no point to it.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Did you sleep?”
“Not really. Did you get home okay?”
Rose eyed the bloodstain. “Yeah. How’d you go with Bazza? Was he pissed you made him leave?”
“Nah, he was fine.”
There was a pause. Usually Rose didn’t have to do the work in their conversations.
“I can’t believe they did that,” she said. “I wonder what’ll happen to them.”
Rose could hear the sound of fabric shifting against fabric. Mia must be sitting up or rolling over. “I don’t know. Nothing probably.”
“What?” Rose asked. “You think they’ll get away with bashing up an innocent man?”
“I told you—Bazza said he’s a perv. He’s got a record.”
Rose couldn’t believe she was hearing this. “That doesn’t mean he deserves to get his face smashed in!” She swallowed, trying to push her tone back to neutral. “You should have seen him, Mia. Even when he heals, there’s no way his face will ever look the same.”
Mia didn’t say anything. Rose couldn’t understand how someone so warmhearted could be so callous.
“Listen, I think we should go and talk to his wife—”
“You just want an interview for your article!”
“No!”
“Yes! Come on—be honest.”
Rose hesitated a second too long.
“It’s not fair to bother her today. Leave the poor woman alone.”
Rose almost bit back, but she knew she’d say something she’d regret.
“I gotta go.” Mia sounded so tired.
“Okay, fine.”
“’Bye.”
“’Bye.”
Rose hung up, looking down at the blood-splattered sheet crumpled on the floor. She pulled it together into a bundle, the bloody mess in the center, and threw it in the bathroom sink. The longer she left it, the more likely it would be to stain.
She went to the kitchen, slid on rubber gloves and picked up bottles of detergent and bleach then came back to her room. She turned the hot tap on full blast. Squeezing the detergent in front of her, she watched the yellow soap run down from the bottle like honey. She hadn’t thought for a second that Mia wouldn’t be with her on this. Mia had always been the one to understand her, and she felt like she understood Mia too. But maybe she didn’t.
Trying to breathe only through her mouth so she didn’t have to smell it, she scrubbed at the bloodstain, watching as the hardened globules separated from the cotton. The frothy water was quickly turning pink. She tipped in some powdered bleach and tried to rub it into the material. She pushed the stain section back under the water with the heels of her hands, the tops of the rubber gloves going under the surface. She almost yelled out as they filled with scalding hot, pink water. When she pulled them off, there was an off-white chunk of tooth stuck to her wrist.
Hands shaking, she flicked it off into the water and washed her hands. Without even thinking, she’d been cleaning up Frank and Jonesy’s mess, letting it all run down the drain. She turned the taps off and left the bathroom, hands still shaking. She wouldn’t be part of pretending it didn’t happen, that it didn’t matter.
This was fucked. She was going to make it right. Rubbing her hands hard with a towel, she headed down the corridor. She kept to the shadows behind the bar. It was early, but still, people were walking down Union Street and she didn’t want anyone to see her here. Quietly, she sneaked into the small alcove Jean used as an office. Plunking the brick of a phone book down with a bang, she opened it up to C. Her finger swept the pages, until she got to Cunningham, S, D. Her rage didn’t let her hesitate. She picked up the landline phone and keyed in the number. As it rang, she sat down on the floor, her back leaning against the side of one of the fridges.
“Yes?”
“Hi, can I speak to Mrs. Cunningham, please?”
“Speaking.”
Rose hadn’t recognized her voice. Usually she sounded so affected with her fake English accent. There was no pretense now.
“Listen. I was there last night when Steve...” She wasn’t sure how to finish that. “It was me who called the ambulance. It was the cops that did it. Frank, Jonesy, Bazza—”
“I know.”
That was a relief. “Okay, good.”
“My husband is not gay. We have an...arrangement and—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just...if you want to do something. I don’t know. Press charges. I’m happy to come and talk to you about what happened.”
“That won’t be happening. Who is this?”
“It’s Rose. Blakey.” She bit her lip, the word slut ringing in her ears.
“No comment.”
The line went dead.
Rose’s hand dropped to her lap, the phone still clenched in it. Those fucking arseholes were going to get away with it. The anger pushed her guilt away instantly. This wasn’t her fault. It was theirs. They had kicked a man when he was already down, not even stopping to hear him out. Maybe they didn’t care.
She sat in the shadow, staring around the bar. It was drenched in golden sunlight, reflecting off the bottles of liquor. Their glass glowed green and brown, throwing the colors onto the backboard behind them.
It wasn’t she who had to take responsibility for all this. It was them. Never, ever had she hated this town so much. This place where small-mindedness was celebrated and people never questioned anything. Somehow, she had to show them. Show the people of Colmstock that they couldn’t trust the cops and show the Sage that they needed her. That she wasn’t some uneducated idiot who couldn’t string enough words together to write an article about her own town.
Standing, she turned on Jean’s old desktop PC. It whirred slowly. The thing was about twenty years old, huge with a small screen. Not that her computer at home was that much better.
Waiting impatiently fo
r the computer to load, she tried to remember if the Sage deputy had mentioned this Chris guy’s last name to her on the phone yesterday. She didn’t think he had. She would find it, eventually. Then she would read every article he’d written and make sure whatever she wrote was a million times better. Finally the computer loaded, the green screen lighting up the alcove. As she looked at the mess of icons on the desktop, an idea snaked its way into Rose’s mind. An idea so deliciously reckless it made her legs break out in goose bumps.
Instead of opening the internet, she slowly moved the mouse over and double clicked on the Cameron Security icon instead. Jean was really safety conscious. She’d always be on at them about double-checking they’d locked all the doors on the nights they were left alone to close up. She never actually checked the video-camera footage, but Rose knew that Jean felt better that it was there in case they ever got robbed.
With one camera out the front of the tavern and one out the back, the security system was motion activated and only kept footage for a fortnight before saving over the top of it. Rose smiled wickedly as she opened the folder for the rear camera. The first footage, startlingly, was of her. A digital green-and-black image of herself was pulling a full rubbish bag carelessly down the outside stairs. She watched herself yank the bag over her shoulder and throw it into the Dumpster. It was so strange to watch herself this way. She looked so much smaller than she felt, her shoulders looked so narrow, as she stood there staring at nothing. Rose wondered what she had been thinking about as the digital version of herself slapped her hands together and went back inside. The screen went black for a second, then snapped back to life. Now it was Jonesy who sauntered down the stairs. He slid a cigarette between his lips, then cupped his hand around his lighter. Taking a drag, he began scratching his back with his other hand. Gross. Rose began fast-forwarding the footage. Jonesy moved in double speed, the cigarette going in and out of his mouth quickly. Out of nowhere, he started moving in a strange way, like he was dancing. She quickly hit Play. Jonesy was rubbing his back on the bricks, turning slightly as he did it, scraping his arm on the wall. She peered closer, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. But he stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside.
She fast-forwarded through more of the footage, which mostly featured herself, Jean and sometimes Mia taking out bags of rubbish and another strange back-scratching dance from Jonesy. Then Frank appeared on the screen. She hit Play and swallowed apprehensively. Jonesy followed him, then Bazza, his arm tight around Steve’s shoulders. If she hadn’t known what was coming next, it would have almost looked like a friendly embrace. Rose watched as the men spoke. Steve’s head jerking back and forth between them, obviously trying to dissuade them from doing what Rose knew was inevitable. Bazza took his arm from around Steve, and she could see his body poised to run. But Bazza abruptly gripped his forearms from behind. Rose felt sick inside as she watched Jonesy and Frank take it in turns to punch him. Their enjoyment was unmistakable. There was no audio, but still she could hear their laughs and jeers in her head. And Steve’s yells.
He was down on the ground now. Rose could almost feel the boots in her own stomach. Then there she was. Grabbing Frank’s shoulders, trying to pull him off. She stopped the video there. She’d been there for the live performance last night; she didn’t want to see it again. Quick as she could, she emailed the file to herself. No way they’d get away with it now.
Journalist Blows the Whistle on Police Brutality. She liked the sound of that.
* * *
“So you’re sure, these three men are police? And the man who was beaten is a civilian?” Damien, the Sage Review deputy editor, asked, when she finally got ahold of him.
“Yes, definitely.”
“From what you’ve described, it sounds like it has potential. Can you email me the file now?”
Rose was sitting on the very edge of the bed. She had to play this conversation very, very carefully.
“I’m very invested in this case,” she said, trying to keep her voice quiet. She didn’t want Will to hear this conversation.
“Yes, I’m getting that impression.”
“All my sources trust me and I know this town better than anyone. If there is another note, I’ll know about it straightaway. Your reporter will just scare people off.” She swallowed.
The line was silent. Every part of Rose wanted to keep talking, to babble on like Mia did when she was nervous. But she had an edge now, and saying any more would make her lose it.
Eventually, he let out a low whistle. “Sounds like Chris has missed the boat on this one. Send me the footage, and you can write us an article. I want it by the end of the week. Make sure it’s good.”
Rose forced the excitement out of her voice; she had something they wanted now. “And if it is good?”
“If there’s a strong reaction to the footage, and the article is proper journalism, not like that lurid bullshit you wrote for the Star—” he paused to think and Rose wished she could push the cogs in his brain, make him say what she so desperately wanted him to say “—then we’ll see.”
When she hung up, the screen of her phone was clammy with sweat.
27
Mia’s father sat in a bath of milky water. Mia was perched on the side, her fingers underneath the running tap, which was steadily warming. Her father loved bath times. He had been sitting there for twenty minutes already. His fingers and toes were wrinkled and pink, but he had not wanted to get out and who was she to deny him?
“Warm enough, Baba?”
He attempted a smile. Mia turned off the tap and kissed him on the top of the head.
She had left Baz in the kitchen but now he was gone, although the fridge door had been left open. She closed it, noticing another six-pack of beers was missing. Baz had come over for the first time last week, a few days after their date. She could feel that he’d been sure he was going to get lucky. But really, she wanted him to meet her father. You could never be sure how people would react to her father. Some people couldn’t look straight at him, or other people stared. If Baz were one of those people, then there would be no point in her spending time with him. Or if her father didn’t like him, then she would call it all off too. It had gone well though. Baz had brought over his own beer and when he saw her father was there he didn’t even look disappointed. It might have been because her father used to be a cop too, although they’d only been on the force together about a year. Baz had cracked open two beers and sat down next to her father to watch the game, chatting to him throughout even though her father was unable to answer. It was like he didn’t even notice that he was different.
She was liking the guy more and more but that was just making her scared. It was possible it wasn’t reciprocated. She was getting too old to have her heart broken. Plus, she was starting to envision a life with him, which was always a bad idea. It was just that she knew how much better things would be if she was with him. There’d be so much less for her to worry about. Sure, it would mean yet another person to clean up after but she was used to that. The only thing she had going for her now was that she hadn’t slept with him yet. Too many times, guys had lost interest the second their faces screwed up in orgasm. There was too much pressure, too much riding on it, for her to be able to just let go. Every time they kissed all she could think about was how long to let it go on, how much was too much. The last thing in the world she wanted was to look desperate, even though that was exactly what she was.
She found Bazza in her father’s room, standing by his bed, looking at the framed picture that her father insisted was kept on his bedside. Baz’s jacket was off and he had his black leather holster on top of his shirt. The beer was on the table and she came over to put a coaster underneath it.
“Your mum?” he asked, looking around at her.
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Baba likes to look at it as he falls asleep.”
Baz replaced the picture on the table, next to his beer. She wondered if it was because he sensed that her mother was not a topic she liked to talk about. He turned to Mia and for a moment she thought maybe he was going to give her a hug. His arms wrapped around her and she tried to let herself relax into him but then his lips found hers. He pushed into her mouth hard, using his tongue to open her lips, his stubble rasping on her cheek. He kissed down her neck, his hand in her hair.
“Have you ever done it in your dad’s room?” he whispered into her neck.
“I told you—I’m a virgin,” she said, letting her voice go all simpering.
He took a step back and looked at her. Then he pulled her dress off from over her head and threw it onto the carpet. He took her in, her simple white underwear, her soft stomach, her breasts pushing against the cups of her bra as she breathed. His palms rubbed all over her body, touching her like she was something he didn’t just want, but something he needed. Something he would ingest if it were possible. Her skin started to respond to his touch. Closing her eyes, she thought of Rose. How she might react to Bazza’s hands on her, whether she would lie down on the bed, spread herself open and let him do what he wanted, or if she would be the one to take control. A tiny moan escaped her. Every part of her wanted to reach down into his pants, to feel the hot pulsating flesh under her hand. Instead, she swatted him away. She couldn’t let herself get carried away.
“Stop it.”
She flopped down onto the bed. If she really wanted him to stop, she should probably put her dress back on, but she wanted him to want her. Knowing she was desired, knowing someone desperately wanted to make love to her, turned her on more than sex itself.
“I swear, my balls are actually going blue.”
Mia laughed. He was so cute. He sat down on the foot of the bed and began pawing at her again. She turned and pulled his gun out of his holster.
“Hands off,” she said, a wicked smile on her face.
Baz grinned and put his arms in the air. Mia pointed the gun at him.
Little Secrets Page 18
