Vengeance Blind

by Anna Willett

  “No.” Belle thumped her fist on the arm of the chair.

  She wasn’t helpless. Yes, her leg and eye were injured, but she was a strong and resourceful woman when she wasn’t drunk or paralysed by anxiety. She had two arms and a keen mind; it was time to use them.

  Spinning the chair, she yanked open the drawer next to the sink. She could take a knife from the chopping block on the counter, but if Georgia was observant she’d notice one was missing. Instead, Belle settled on a smaller knife from the cutlery drawer and shoved it in her pocket.

  On her way back to the sitting room she heard a thud overhead and realised the girl was upstairs again. With no time to waste, she pistoned her arms, picking up speed.

  Arthur had moved. The cord around his ankles had come loose and one of his legs had stretched away at a forty-five-degree angle. She hoped that was a good sign. Belle leaned over and touched the man’s shoulder. “Arthur. Arthur, wake up.” His lids fluttered then opened. “Yes.” Belle clasped the lapel of his raincoat. “That’s it. Come on, Arthur. I need your help.” She tore at the knots, loosening the cord at his wrists. “I’m untying you.”

  His eyes, unfocused and dreamy, reacted to her voice and, for a second, he was looking up at her. But no sooner had he locked onto her gaze, his lids drooped and closed. Belle let out a curse and sat back in her chair. Dragging him was impossible. The man was skinny, but at least six feet tall. Unconscious, he was dead weight.

  “Okay.” Georgia spoke from the archway. “Time is getting away from us and we really need to talk.” Belle glanced over her shoulder and saw that the girl had a bottle in her hand. She held up her hand with the palm flat. “Don’t go anywhere.” Her voice was cheery as though entertaining guests. “I’ll get some glasses.”

  The caregiver headed back through the dining room. Belle turned back to Arthur. “For Christ’s sake, wake up.” She hesitated, her hand just above his face, and then she gritted her teeth and gave the injured man a sharp slap on the cheek. “Arthur.”

  His eyes opened. “I brought you a fig branch.” His words were slurred, but understandable.

  Belle grasped his coat and pulled. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gave his lapels a shake. “Listen, next time she goes upstairs I need you to move. We have to lock ourselves in the bathroom.” Leaning so close to his ear, she almost tipped out of her chair as she whispered. “If you can’t move, I’ll have to leave you.” A sob caught in her throat, making it difficult to go on. “Please, Arthur. I can’t do this on my own.”

  “What are you whispering?” Georgia came up behind her, glasses clinking as she approached. “I told you before to keep away from him.”

  Fearing the girl was about to lash out, Belle wheeled back from Arthur and turned her chair. “Sorry.” She gave the caregiver a worried look. “I was just checking his pulse.”

  Georgia tipped her head to the left and tightened her jaw. “Yeah, cause you’re so concerned about others.” She jerked her chin towards the sofa. “Get over there.”

  Belle nodded and pushed away from Arthur. She gave the girl a wide berth, positioning herself on the far side of the coffee table.

  “Right.” Georgia slammed the glasses down on the coffee table and kicked the cake tub, sending a half-eaten lamington bouncing across the rug. She held the neck of the vodka bottle and waved it in Belle’s direction. “Let’s have a drink. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The headlights splashed the ramshackle building with bluish light, turning Arthur’s house a ghostly grey. Joan turned off the engine and climbed out of the car. Within seconds, the Toyota’s interior light snapped off, dropping the house and surrounding bush into darkness. After a moment scrambling through the jacket’s deep pockets, she located the torch and turned it on.

  “Oh, Arthur.” The words came out with a puff of warm breath.

  The house was worse than she’d expected. Although she wasn’t sure what she’d find at the end of her neighbour’s driveway, Joan wasn’t prepared for the run-down wreck. Two windows stared out from beneath a collapsing porch. The pane on the left had been smashed. Shards of jagged glass clung to the frame, which was now blocked by a sheet of red board.

  She stepped onto what she thought had once been a flagstone pathway now overgrown with damp weeds, and picked her way towards the building. Shining the torch’s beam to the right, she spotted Arthur’s old Volkswagen sitting beside a row of old milk crates. In the darkness, the stacks of empty bottles piled in the crates twinkled like fairy lights.

  There was sadness in this place. Before losing Roger, Joan would have thought herself to be the least mawkish person she knew. But circumstance and experience had softened her. Or maybe grief opened a person up to emotions that others kept hidden. Whatever the reason, she felt the wretchedness of the property’s owner like a physical weight. Is this how my home seems to strangers? No, she was careful to keep up appearances. Her sorrow was clothed in a spotless home and well-maintained gardens.

  Stepping onto the porch, the boards groaned as if unused to the weight of the living. Joan shivered. She should be at home preparing for bed, her feet in warm slippers, a good book in her lap, and a soft but empty bed waiting. Not out here in the cold, most likely sticking her beak where it didn’t belong. She was being impulsive, worrying over something that might be nothing and yet she couldn’t get the image of Belle out of her mind: her fingers bleeding and a dirty dressing on her eye, while the girl hovered over her with fox-like sharpness in her eyes.

  Shining the torch on the front door, Joan raised her chin and stepped forward. She gave a sharp knock, hoping it was loud enough to raise Arthur from an alcohol-induced slumber. Not surprised when he didn’t respond, she made a fist and thumped on the door hard enough to make the old wood shudder.

  After another round of pounding, she stopped. It was no use; he was obviously out cold. Maybe it was the universe’s way of telling her to give up and go home, but Joan wasn’t ready to quit, not yet. She pressed her lips together and grabbed the doorknob. To her surprise it turned and the door swung inwards with a lazy creak.

  Rather than entering, she leaned her head into the room. “Arthur?” Her voice was overly loud in the silent house. “Arthur, it’s Joan from down the lane.”

  She hovered in the doorway, listening for movement. It occurred to her that her neighbour might be dead. Roger’s face, eyes half open but misty and devoid of life flashed in her mind and her hand, still clamped on the doorknob, trembled. If Rena at the grocery shop hadn’t been so sure that Arthur and Guy were unlikely friends, Joan would have turned and ran like a rabbit.

  “Arthur.” There was a quiver of panic in her voice as it reverberated into the dark building.

  Standing on the doorstep yelling was doing any good. If she meant to help Belle, Joan would have to venture inside and shake Arthur awake so she could get Guy’s number. Shining the torch around the doorway, she located a light switch and flicked it on.

  The small but neat sitting room was a surprise. Somehow in her mind, Joan had imagined the interior of Arthur’s house would be as dishevelled as his appearance. But instead of piles of clothes and empty bottles, the sitting room was spotlessly clean. While the sofa, bookcase and recliner were worn, they were still functional and tidy.

  The smell was a different matter. Joan wrinkled her nose at the powerful odours of cheap wine and mildew that hung in the air. Looking around the space, she became aware of the damp spots creeping their way down the corners of the room. Like the outside, the living area was in need of repair. But no matter how pitiful they were she wasn’t here to solve Arthur Howell’s living arrangements.

  There was an archway at the rear of the room. Venturing a few metres into the sitting room, she could see it led to an empty kitchen. Her only other option was a closed door on the left. She approached the door, hoping to hear snoring or some sounds of life from the other part of the house.

  With still n
o detectable noise, Joan opened the door and peered down the dim hallway. “Arthur?” Becoming increasingly nervous, she raised her voice until it was close to a bellow. “Arthur Howell, wake up!” Her words bounced off the walls, sounding flat and out of place.

  Light from the sitting room did little to chase the gloom away, so she played the torch’s beam around the hallway. The light picked out three doors. This is getting crazy. Impatience was beginning to replace nervousness. It was Arthur’s business how he lived his life, but this level of drunkenness was beyond the pale.

  Emboldened by irritation, Joan strode to the first door and flung it open. Like the sitting room, Arthur’s bedroom was neat, clean and shabby. It was also empty. The double bed was made, a washed-out blue bedspread neatly tucked with hospital corner precision over the thin mattress. Apart from a wardrobe, bedside table, and dog-eared book, the room was bare.

  Joan stared at the bed certain that she was missing something. The dented mattress and worn book told a story. This room, like the rest of the house, appeared to be lived in, yet if this was Arthur’s bedroom where was its owner? His car was in the driveway. Surely a man like Arthur wouldn’t be out walking on a winter’s night.

  With two other rooms still to check, she backed out of the bedroom. The second door opened onto a small bathroom, again neat but shabby. At the final room, she hesitated. If he’s dead, I’ll pull myself together and call the police. A great plan if she could work up the courage to open the door.

  Before entering, Joan gave a polite knock. “Arthur?” Not waiting for a reply, she flung the door open and snapped on the light. What she saw took her breath away and for a moment she could only stare.

  * * *

  “Here.” Georgia sloshed vodka in both glasses before pushing one across the coffee table.

  Far from being odourless, the vodka bombarded Belle’s sense of smell. For a few seconds, she could only stare at the glass and imagine what the liquid would taste like as it hit her tongue. How the first gulp always made her shiver and then the sense of release that came from knowing the world was about to soften.

  Georgia lifted her glass, but didn’t drink. “I knew it was you.” She kept her eyes on the clear liquid, studying its translucent qualities as she spoke. “Not right away. For a long time I had no idea who stole my life.” She smiled, but her expression held no humour or joy. “But then I saw that article in Woman’s World.” She took a sip and grimaced. “At home with Australia’s own Belle Hammer. What a load of shit.” The bitterness in the young woman’s voice dragged Belle’s attention off her untouched drink. “I saw that picture of you, trying to pretend you were shy. But what really got me was the car.” She jabbed a finger in Belle’s direction. “What did it say? Oh, yeah. I remember.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “The only thing the talented writer loves more than her husband is her vintage Holden. Bam.” Georgia slammed her hand down on the arm of the sofa and Belle jumped.

  “It was one of those moments.” She clicked her fingers next to her ear. “A light bulb moment. Only instead of a light bulb mine was a detonation.” She took another sip and set the glass down. There was a light in her eyes, glassy and urgent that made Belle’s heart jump a beat. “I recognised your car and it was like a sign.” She waved her arms upwards. “Like the universe had shined a light on you and… And...” Georgia balanced on the edge of the sofa, her knees bumping the coffee table. “I knew I had to make you pay for what you did to me. If I went to the police, I literally wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.” Laughter, shrill and forced, bubbled out of the girl’s mouth. “Come on, that’s funny.” Her brows shot up in mock surprise. “No, you don’t think that’s funny?”

  “I didn’t do it.” Belle glanced down at her glass, but made no move to pick it up. “There are lots of old Holdens out there. Whoever hit you…it wasn’t me.”

  Belle clenched her fists and clamped them in her lap, waiting for the girl to explode into anger or violence. But to her astonishment, Georgia didn’t seem to register Belle’s denial.

  “The article said you lived in the south west near Yallingup so I did some research.” Georgia picked up her glass and took a long swallow, almost draining it. “I followed your Facebook page, searched old articles about you. It didn’t take much to track you down to Lake Stanmore. The hardest part was waiting around, watching your routine.”

  Belle could feel sweat gathering on the back of her neck. As the girl prattled on, Belle had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, like being on a high-speed elevator plummeting towards ground level.

  “I used my uncle’s old jeep.” She wiggled her fingers in the air, making quotation marks around the word uncle. “He’s not my real uncle. Just the guy my mother’s shacked up with. He’s always had a soft spot for me. A real soft spot.” There was something sinister in the way she talked about her mother’s partner, making Belle wonder if the girl had been through something traumatic with the man. All on your own? That voice, the greasy hair; Belle rubbed her temple, trying to dislodge the image from her mind.

  Had Georgia been abused by her mother’s boyfriend? The very thought of it set Belle’s heart rate soaring with a mixture of pity and fear. But then she recalled the crack as Arthur’s head hit the floor and saw the stick caked in blood and gore protruding out of the girl’s neck in the boot. Whatever experiences Georgia had endured, it didn’t excuse what she’d done.

  “See, I knew my uncle wouldn’t make a fuss if I brought the Jeep back all smashed up. He’s got a mate that runs a scrap yard, so it’s easy for him to get rid of a car.” The girl snatched up the bottle and poured herself another drink. “Don’t feel like drinking?” She jerked the bottle towards Belle’s glass.

  Not trusting herself to speak, Belle shook her head. The carer hesitated, her eyes scrutinising Belle’s face. She seemed about to say something but shrugged instead.

  “When I rammed your car I thought I’d killed you, but then it was on the news about you recovering in hospital.” She picked up her glass and took a sip. When she spoke, the casual air had evaporated, replaced by a grittiness. “Yeah, it was a big deal when you had an accident. What happened to me didn’t even rate a mention.”

  Georgia was angry and after what Belle had witnessed, the girl could be unpredictable. She didn’t want to do anything to provoke the girl, but if what she was saying was true, Belle’s accident was anything but. Suddenly the weeks of pain and the indignity of being handicapped were crowding in on her, piling up until she felt like she’d suffocate on the anger if she didn’t let it out.

  “You did this to me?” Her voice was a shriek. “You’re…” She tried to think of something cruel enough – something that would wipe the smirk of satisfaction off the girl’s face. “You’re a lunatic.” But instead of hurting Georgia, Belle’s words seemed to please her. “You’re a freak.” The girl’s grin melted into shock. Good. “You’re a one-legged monster.”

  As soon as the words were out, Belle regretted their ugliness. Before she could say anything Georgia was on her. Pushing the coffee table aside, the girl lunged at Belle and grasped her around the neck.

  Georgia’s fingers closed around Belle’s throat, her thumbs pressing on her windpipe. Belle’s first instinct was to grab the girl’s shirt and try to push her away. But Georgia was above her using her weight to push down. Straining back, desperately pulling away from the carer’s hands, Belle twisted her head left then right but couldn’t break free.

  “You bitch.” Spittle sprayed out of Georgia’s mouth, showering Belle’s cheeks as the girl’s eyes seemed to grow into huge dark wells.

  Belle’s lungs burned from lack of oxygen. Her eyes watered, turning Georgia into a blur of movement and curses. She’d given up trying to push the girl away. Instead, she clawed frantically at the hands squeezing the soft tissue of her neck. A circle of light bloomed in Belle’s functioning eye and she could feel the strength draining out of her arms.

  With the will to fight still strong,
Belle dropped her right hand into her lap and fumbled for her pocket. The spot of light in her eyes turned dark and for a split second, the room dimmed. When her fingers closed on the knife, Belle doubted she’d have the strength to lift the small utensil.

  “You don’t deserve to live, you selfish cow.” Georgia’s breath, heavy with the stench of alcohol, bathed Belle’s face.

  Moving blindly and on instinct, Belle rammed her right hand upwards. Georgia screamed, the sound so close to Belle’s ear, the noise felt like it was coming from inside her head. Heat and moisture washed over Belle’s hand. But at that moment nothing mattered beyond sucking air into her lungs.

  The pressure on Belle’s throat vanished and a trickle of air scraped past her swollen throat. She coughed and inhaled then gagged as cold air like shards of ice stung her windpipe. Warm tears dripped down her cheeks and her chest contracted in violent spasms. All the while, Belle clutched the knife, holding it out in front of her in a shaking hand.

  She could hear heavy breathing, a groan, then a rustle of movement. But even as the tears cleared, her vision was still little more than a blur. My glasses.

  Almost blind and struggling to breathe, she held the knife out and waved it from side to side. “Don’t come any closer.” The words rasped over Belle’s raw throat.

  “You stabbed me.” Georgia’s voice was close enough to make Belle jump. “You fucking stabbed me.” There was incredulity in her words, but no trace of pain.

  Belle used her left hand to roll the wheelchair backwards, trying to put distance between herself and the disembodied voice, and at the same time block the girl from coming around and grabbing her from behind.

  The wheels hit something solid, stopping the chair with a jolt. Belle prayed it was the wall and used her left hand to fumble in her lap, hoping her glasses had fallen forward and were within reach. As she searched, Belle could hear Georgia moving around like a pacing tiger.