by Anna Willett
Belle rolled into the sitting room, trying to look in every direction at once. Arthur’s head turned her way. Wispy grey hair clung to his forehead as his chin jerked up. He seemed to be trying to tell her the girl was upstairs. Belle nodded and put a finger to her lips.
There was no denying the man gave her the creeps and he’d come to her home and tried to force his way in, but in light of Lea’s behaviour, Belle didn’t believe he had brought the knife. Now she came to think of it, the knife Lea showed her looked very much like one of the set they had in the kitchen. Still, trusting Arthur could be a risk.
A knot had formed on the man’s forehead, angry and dark like an overripe grape. The gash had stopped bleeding, sealed by a globby looking wet scab. Belle grimaced. “I’m going to take out the gag, but no screaming.” She heard herself and suppressed a surge of hysterical giggles because she’d sounded like a bad actor in a horror film.
The absurdity of the situation was lost on Arthur. He nodded, his strings of limp grey hair clinging to his ears. Belle had to bend at the waist to pull the scarf out of his mouth. As she did the stench of sweat and stale alcohol rolled off of him in a putrid wave. It occurred to her that instead of fearing Arthur, she should pity him. After all, wasn’t he just a reflection of her own future if she continued to drink?
“I didn’t do anything.” He gagged and a string of saliva hung from his bottom lip. “I was just–”
“Shh.” Belle glanced upwards. “Where’s your phone?”
Arthur followed her gaze, staring up at the ceiling. His bloodshot eyes grew misty. “She forced tablets down my throat. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone… I–”
“Arthur.” Belle grabbed his shoulder. She believed what he was saying, but couldn’t waste time discussing it. “Where’s your phone?”
“She took it when you were asleep.” He spluttered out a cough that threatened to turn into another bout of gagging. “I don’t know where she put it.”
She wasn’t surprised. Getting hold of Arthur’s phone had only been a vague hope. “Okay, it doesn’t matter.” She took hold of the cord knotted at his wrists. “I’m going to untie you so you can go for help.”
He nodded and she noticed that a latticework of broken capillaries covered the man’s nose. “Yes. Yes, I’ll get you out of here. That’s what I was trying to do.” He sounded sincere, not at all unhinged.
Belle was only half listening as she tried to work on the knots, using her ragged fingernails. Over the sound of Arthur’s heavy breathing and the blood pulsing in her ears, she heard something that made her hesitate.
“Someone’s coming.” Belle’s voice was a whisper. “On the driveway.”
Arthur tried to turn his head towards the door at the same time footfalls thumped down the stairs.
Belle let go of the cord and started wheeling towards the front door. She had no idea who’d be walking up the driveway so late, but didn’t care. Whoever it was could ring the police and get an ambulance for Arthur. It was over. Her crazy twenty-four hours with Lea was at an end.
“Get away from the door.” Lea’s voice was breathless, most likely from running down the stairs.
Belle ignored her and kept moving, but the girl was fast. As Belle’s hand reached for the door, Lea grabbed the chair and pulled her back, swinging her around in a tight arc.
Lea leaned down, her face so close Belle could feel her breath, hot and laboured, on her skin. “You’d better get yourself together.” The girl’s eyes were wide and unblinking. “If you say one word to whoever’s out there...” She straightened and grabbed the tin of pineapple from the hallstand near the entrance. “I’ll drive this through their face.”
A knock, light and sharp, rang out. But the menace in the carer’s voice cut through Belle’s desperation to get to the door. She had no doubt the girl meant what she was saying. Before Belle could answer, Lea bent and grabbed the scarf off the floor and shoved it back in Arthur’s mouth. She held the can above the man’s head and, for a second, Belle thought she was going to strike him again.
“Don’t.” Belle kept her voice low. “I won’t say anything. Just don’t hit him.”
Lea lowered the can, but kept her eyes on Arthur. “Make a sound and I’ll use this.”
* * *
Waiting on the small porch, the idea that she was intruding took hold and Joan decided she would leave the questions about Belle’s latest book for another time. It was almost fully dark now and with only a waning crescent moon, the driveway and small car were in shadows. From inside the house came the sound of muffled voices.
As the seconds ticked by with no response, Joan began to wonder if the writer and her guest might be hoping she’d give up and go away. After all, Belle had only met her a few times and their friendly exchanges could be explained as politeness on the author’s part. Maybe she was overstepping the mark by turning up uninvited to make a neighbourly gesture, but rudeness was rudeness no matter what a person did for a living. Had Joan, in her grief-cloaked mind, been mistaken about Belle Hammer? Maybe the depth she thought she’d seen in the woman’s eyes was merely a projection of Joan’s own misery.
Feeling not so much foolish as disappointed, Joan decided to take the high road and leave the lamingtons. As she untucked the plastic tub from under her arm, the porch light snapped on.
The door opened and a woman in a wheelchair appeared in the crack. Joan took in the woman’s dishevelled appearance and battered face and hissed out a breath. Catching herself before shock fully registered on her face, she quickly arranged her features into a smile.
“Hello.” Joan hoped the woman hadn’t noticed her astonishment. For a moment the author simply stared, giving no indication of recognition.
“Hello.” Belle’s voice was husky, almost hoarse.
Sensing the need for further explanation, Joan pushed on. “I’m Joan... Joan Crow.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I live at the end of the lane.”
Only one of the author’s eyes was visible, the other was hidden behind a limp and crinkled patch. From her position above Belle, Joan watched as recognition dawned on the woman’s face. “Oh, yes.” Belle raised a hand and rubbed her temple; the other she kept clamped on the door. “Sorry. My vision’s not that great.”
Joan waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t apologise. It’s my fault, taking you by surprise this late in the evening.” She waited a beat, but when the author didn’t respond, Joan pushed on. “I just wanted to drop by and ask how you’re feeling.” Joan held the tub out. “I made you some lamingtons… I thought a little treat might, you know…” Joan could feel her smile tightening. “I thought they might cheer you up.” The last part came out sounding strained. When Belle made no move to take the tub, Joan wondered if she should dump it in the woman’s lap.
Before she could decide how to proceed, the door jerked out of Belle’s grasp and a young woman appeared behind her.
“Hi. I’m Lea.” The girl looked no older than twenty-five and pretty in a sort of plain looking way. “I’m Mrs Hammer’s carer.”
Joan felt her face relax and her smile become a little less frozen. “Oh, I see.” She held out the tub. “I was just dropping these off. I’m Joan from down the lane.”
The girl took the tub and clasped it against her slim frame. “Thanks, we’ll enjoy these.” She looked down and addressed the top of Belle’s head. “Won’t we, Mrs Hammer?”
It struck Joan that the caregiver spoke to Belle slowly and with the sort of over cheerful tenor one might use on the very old or the very young. But Belle seemed unaware of the tone, giving a nod, but didn’t speak.
“I was just helping Mrs Hammer to get ready for her shower.” The girl jiggled the tub, making the lamingtons bounce. “Thanks for dropping by.” There was finality in the way she spoke and Joan got the impression she was being dismissed.
“All right. Good.” The girl regarded her with wide, questioning eyes. “I’ll let you get back to it then.” Joan took a step back. The situati
on felt awkward and she wanted very much to get away from the two women, but something stopped her.
“Is Mr Hammer home?” She’d never met Belle’s husband and had only ever seen him from a distance or whizzing around in his sports car. But it seemed to Joan that Belle might need more than a shower. Her face looked gaunt and her hair, once long and bouncy, was now cropped and standing in messy spikes. While she knew the woman had been in a serious car accident, it didn’t explain the look on the author’s face. Joan didn’t know her very well, but something felt amiss.
At the mention of her husband, Belle’s one visible eye blinked rapidly. “No.” Lea continued, speaking for her employer. “He’s away for work.” There was an edge to the girl’s voice, cheerfulness, but tinged with irritation.
“Oh, right. Yes, well, if you need anything I’m down the lane.” Joan pointed south. “Mine’s the last house after Arthur Howell’s place.”
Maybe it was the shadows thrown by the porch light or it could have been Joan’s imagination, but at the mention of Arthur’s name, Belle’s pale face turned a watery shade of grey.
“We have everything we need.” As she spoke, the carer pulled Belle’s wheelchair back from the door. “Good night.” The girl balanced the tub on one of the chair’s handles and flipped the door closed.
At a loss, Joan stood on the empty porch staring at the closed door. “I suppose that’s what I get for being a busy-body.” She spoke quietly, imagining Roger shaking his head at the caregiver’s insolence.
Before making the walk home, Joan pulled out the small torch stashed in one of her deep pockets and flicked on the switch. The light played over the white car, which she now supposed belonged to the carer. Not one to stay where she wasn’t wanted, Joan stomped over the gravel driveway and headed back to her silent house. At least there she had her memories for company.
Chapter Fourteen
Lea let go of the chair and dumped the tub on the coffee table. Watching the girl move around the room with an air of authority caused a hollow feeling to take up residence in Belle’s gut. Part of Belle, a small hopeful spark, wanted to believe Lea would get tired of whatever game she was playing and leave. But the carer had handled Joan with deftness and a sense of purpose that made everything that had happened seem more real. Lea wasn’t fooling around.
“Who makes lamingtons?” Lea tore the lid off the tub and bit into one of the cakes. “It’s like something out of the fifties.” She spoke around a mouthful of chocolate and coconut.
The rich chocolaty smell reminded Belle she hadn’t eaten since the previous evening. Suddenly hungry, she decided against anything as rich as Joan’s cakes.
Moving past Arthur, it occurred to her that he needed food and water and probably a trip to the toilet. “Lea.” Belle tried to sound casual. “I’m going to get something for Arthur to eat.” She forced a joyless laugh. “I’m a bit hungry myself.”
Lea turned from the tub with fingers coated in chocolate, then gripped the arm of the sofa. “Stop pretending to be such a saint.” A spray of crumbs flew out of the girl’s mouth. “You.” She pointed a grubby finger in Belle’s direction. “You’re so selfish you make me sick.”
Lea’s usually blank face became flushed and her brows drew down in an angry V. She stood and let the tub tumble onto the rug. Belle moved back, trying to edge closer to the kitchen.
“I didn’t mean anything.” Belle tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but the caregiver’s lightning fast, shifting mood was frightening to watch. “I just thought he might need something to eat.”
Lea bent and scooped up a cake from the rug. “Oh, yeah. Good idea, Belle.” She dashed around the sofa and flopped onto the floor next to Arthur. Belle saw Arthur wince and try to draw away. Watching him bound and helpless, for the first time since the crazy nightmare began, Belle experienced a spark of anger.
“Here you go, you old weirdo.” Lea pulled the gag out of Arthur’s mouth and shoved the cake in, her palm hitting his lips with a wet slap. She twisted her palm, smearing chocolate across the man’s chin as his head twisted out of her grasp.
“Stop it.” Belle wheeled forward, meaning to grab Lea’s arm and yank her away.
Halfway across the room she heard Arthur gagging. “You’re crazy!” His voice was gravely, but at the same time loud enough to make both women stop moving. “I saw you on the road. What did you do?”
“Shut up, you dirty alchy.” With her head turned in Arthur’s direction, Belle couldn’t see the girl’s face, but the fury in Lea’s voice was enough to get Belle moving again.
As she reached the sofa, the carer grabbed the sides of Arthur’s head and jerked it forward. “No, don’t.” Belle sprang forward in her chair and snatched at the girl’s shirt.
Instead of grasping fabric, her fingers merely skimmed Lea’s shoulder. Before Belle could try again, the girl slammed Arthur’s head against the floor with a meaty thud. The man’s legs splayed outwards. A damp patch appeared at his groin, spreading like a dark flood, turning his pants from light grey to a shade closer to black.
The moment stretched out, almost too grim to be real. Belle felt the strength seep out of her arms. Her head drooped. Inside, a scream was building, but the effort of letting it out seemed more than she could muster.
When Lea stood, Belle was struck by a new odour: urine. The sharp scent mixed with Arthur’s sweat to create a thick stench that hung in the air.
“Happy now?” The caregiver spoke with indifference, the throw-away line so lacking in guilt or emotion that Belle wished she could stand and hit the younger woman, then grab her by the shoulders and force her to stare into Arthur’s slack face. Never prone to violent thoughts, Belle clenched her fists, holding back the urge inside her to strike out.
Lea strode out of the room, leaving Belle to watch helplessly over Arthur’s lifeless form. His eyes were closed and his mouth agape. Belle wheeled closer and dipped her head, listening for signs of life as the girl’s footfalls thumped on the stairs. At first Belle could hear nothing above her own sharp breaths. She pressed her fingers to the man’s throat, pushing against his skin. After a few attempts, Belle located his pulse. He was alive, but rather than a steady throb, Arthur’s pulse was faint, an intermittent patter.
“Arthur?” She touched his shoulder, but didn’t shake him for fear of causing further damage. “Arthur, can you hear me?” His eyelids remained closed, but his lower lip moved.
He needed help. Urgent help. Belle didn’t know much about medicine, but he’d had two head injuries in the space of one day. There was no more time for sitting around biting her nails; she had to act.
Belle pushed her way to the front door. Her keys were in the bowl. Maybe Lea hadn’t noticed them or thought Belle was too helpless to use them. She grabbed them and stuffed them in her pants pocket. Overhead, a door slammed. The carer was in the bathroom.
It took Belle less than a minute to get into her bedroom and retrieve the crutches. With the sticks balanced across the arms of the wheelchair, she reached up and flicked on the porch light.
“Okay.” Belle took a final look at Arthur and opened the front door.
The night air was a welcome shock, washing the stench and fear away with a blast of eucalyptus tinged wind. Belle used her shoulders, still well-muscled from years of daily laps, to push over the doorstep and onto the porch.
Unlike the rear of the house, the porch was level with the driveway. Belle didn’t have to worry about navigating a slope or steps. Before moving she twisted in the chair and pulled the door closed, hoping the metallic whisper of the latch didn’t alert Lea of her movements. Taking a deep gulp of fresh air, Belle put her good foot on the ground and pushed up off the wheelchair. Standing was easy. Crossing the gravel driveway would be the difficult part. No. Getting away before my insane caregiver catches me and pounds my head into the ground is the hard part.
Lea could be on her way downstairs and it wouldn’t take long before she realised Belle had left the house.
The girl’s belief that her prisoner was too feeble to escape would buy Belle some time, but not much. With only minutes to spare, Belle took her first step only for her plan to fall apart. Lea’s car was parked at an angle, blocking the driveway. With a half-metre ditch on the far side of the gravel strip, going around wasn’t an option. Even if Belle made it to the garage and managed to get to her car, she’d never get past the girl’s vehicle.
“Fuck.” Belle leaned to her left and felt the crutch slip under her weight. The rubber stopper on the end of them had moved less than a few centimetres, but it was enough to make her heart stutter.
Lea was insane. Her moods shifted with violence and unpredictability, yet somehow everything seemed to go the girl’s way. Maybe Belle was over-simplifying the situation. Everything the girl did seemed random and opportunistic, but maybe Lea was always a step ahead because she’d planned on taking Belle captive right from the moment she parked her car. It made no sense, but nothing about Lea made sense.
“Okay.” Belle gripped the crutches in her fists. Her right leg was already struggling even with the added support of the sticks. “Now what?”
She took a wobbly step closer to the white car and the forward move helped ease the stress on her good leg. A little further from the house Belle tried to ignore the ache in her knee and think. It would be easy to hobble back to her wheelchair and go inside. The idea of locking herself in the bathroom came to mind.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but better than nothing. As the idea took hold it occurred to her that she could drag something into the bathroom and barricade the door. At least she’d have water and the toilet. It was Sunday and no one was due to visit until Tuesday when her physiotherapist came. Guy will send help. Bethany won’t wait long before calling the police. She might be able to wait the girl out by sitting tight until Lea gave up and drove away. Belle clamped the right crutch against her body and tried to wipe the sweat from under her glasses. But what about Arthur? How long could he last? Why the hell did Arthur have to show up?
