by Anna Willett
Chapter Twenty-two
The ground under Joan’s feet was swampy, sucking at her shoes like a wet mouth. No matter how hard she pulled, her feet wouldn’t move. The lake rippled. Its water, an eerie pinkish orange, shifted under a light breeze. Fine mist hung over the water, rolling towards the shore.
Roger, dressed in his gardening clothes, stood knee deep in the strange pink water, arms hanging loosely at his side. His mouth moved and with it puffs of mist blew past his lips. His posture was relaxed, but the white puffs were chugging out of his mouth with urgency. He was trying to tell her something or call her towards him.
Joan reached out a hand, pleading with him to come closer, but her husband remained offshore and out of reach. A sense of misery, so heavy and dark, washed over her; tears stung her eyes. As she watched her husband continue his soundless entreaty, something grey and sleek flicked beneath the water.
“Roger.” She screamed his name, trying to warn him about the thing now circling his legs.
Joan wrenched with all her strength and her left foot came unstuck. But as she moved closer to the water’s edge, Roger’s eyes widened in horror and the water churned around him like frothy blood.
“Run, Roger.” The words, jagged and tortured, tore out of her. But it was too late. With a splash from its razor-sharp fin, the grey monster dragged him beneath the foaming water. The mist swirled in the spot where her husband had stood, then settled into an undisturbed cloud.
Clawing at the sandy bank, Joan tried to reach the water. When she looked down, her hands were bloody, the nails ragged. She gave a hiccupping scream and woke in a bath of sweat.
Instinctively, she turned, looking for her husband’s familiar shape, but saw only the undisturbed covers on Roger’s side of the bed. Her heart racing, she reached up and flicked on the lamp. In the eighteen months since waking to find him dead, she had had many nightmares, but none as otherworldly and strange as the one she’d just experienced.
As she sat up and took a sip of water from the glass she kept on the nightstand, the details of the dream were already fading, leaving only a sense of impending danger and foreboding. She opened her mouth to speak, but summoning the image of her dead husband seemed less comforting on the heels of such a vivid nightmare. Instead, she checked the time on the clock on Roger’s side of the bed, another relic of her life as one half of a pair. 4:49 a.m. The time was what her mother would have called an ungodly hour. Joan shivered, unsure if it was the early morning chill that shook her bones or the idea of an hour so dark and bleak God dared not exist in it.
Still unsettled and knowing sleep was out of the question, she threw back the covers. Intending to make a cup of strong tea and watch the sunrise, Joan pushed her feet into fuzzy blue slippers and grabbed the throw from the end of the bed, draping it around her shoulders as she scuffed through to the kitchen.
The sun was still at least an hour away from rising, but glancing through the kitchen window she noticed the night had taken on the flat grey quality that signalled morning. With the temperature dipping, Joan clicked on the bar heater and pulled the throw up on her shoulders and waited for the kettle to boil. There was a singular peacefulness that came with early rising. The silence of the bushland surrounding her house, an expectant hush just before the magpies cried out their morning song. The smell of cold morning air as the night disappeared into dawn.
As the kettle bubbled and clicked off, Joan was unaware of the joys of the morning. Hand poised over a washed-out looking china mug, her thoughts drifted to another kitchen: Arthur’s. She’d only glanced at the empty room, but now another detail of the house plummeted into focus.
Joan dropped the teabag into the mug but didn’t continue making the drink. “What was I thinking?” She spoke to the empty room, unable to believe she’d missed something so important.
Dressed in a dark fleecy tracksuit, she rushed into the bedroom and kicked off her slippers. Five minutes later, teeth brushed and wearing the same sleep-rumpled clothes, she pulled on her joggers and raced for the kitchen.
Stopping only long enough to turn off the heater and grab Roger’s jacket and her car keys, she flew out of the back door and down the steps. The last time she’d left the house without running a comb through her hair was the morning the ambulance carried her husband away. Today, she moved with a great deal more of certainty.
Last night she’d let the discovery of an old packet of throat lozenges convince her that she was behaving like a mad woman. Now with the memory of Arthur’s wallet sitting on his kitchen table, she thought otherwise.
“Who goes out and leaves their front door unlocked and their wallet at home?” She was talking to herself and not an imaginary image of her long-dead husband.
She’d awakened with a sense of dread. As she clunked the gearstick into reverse and edged down the winding driveway that feeling grew. She’d known from the moment she left Belle’s house that something was wrong. Finding Arthur’s strange study and his obsession with the author had muddied the waters; it had shaken her certainty. And then the throat lozenges in the glovebox…
Joan shook her head as the car bumped onto Silver Gum Lane. She wasn’t as sure about the lozenges. Only that finding the packet in the car while sitting outside Arthur’s ramshackle house – a house draped in a misty darkness – had knocked the wind out of her. But more than that, now the lozenges reminded her of how much faith Roger had placed in her opinion. If he were here, she knew he’d tell her to follow her instincts. Now that she had her second wind, she intended to make two stops. One to see if Arthur had returned home and the other, a stop she should have made last night. To talk to Belle Hammer.
* * *
For a while there was silence. At first, Belle kept her gaze trained on the bathroom door, but as the minutes stretched into an hour, her head nodded forward and for a while, she slept.
“Let me in.” The whisper startled Belle awake. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Then another whisper. “Let me in.” The words were a hiss, low and vicious. Georgia’s voice sent a ripple of fear up Belle’s aching spine.
She backed the chair up until it was pressed against the vanity, putting about a metre between her and the door. Without a watch or phone, she had no way of knowing how long she’d been in the bathroom. The only indication of time was the grey light filtering in through the obscured glass window. It wasn’t morning, but close.
Turning to reach the sink, Belle groaned at the burst of pain in her neck. She explored the area with her fingertips and winced at the soreness where the girl’s fingers had pressed into the soft spot just above her sternum. The inside of her throat felt swollen and raw. Georgia had tried to kill her. If Belle hadn’t stabbed at her with the knife, she might have succeeded.
Leaning over the sink, she turned on the tap and drank. The cold water worked like needles on her injured throat. Her empty stomach clenched and cramped at the shock, leaving Belle gasping. Then catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she let out a cry that was equal parts misery and disbelief.
The woman staring back at her was almost unrecognisable with her cropped, spiky hair, and a dirty bandage dangling from a bruised cheek. But most frightening was her eye. The white of it had transformed into a bloody orb that looked stark and gory against the blue of her iris. The overall look was that of a desperate and traumatised woman. Is that what I am? Is that who I’ve become?
Behind her, the door shuddered under the weight of another hammering, then more crashing followed by the twang of a door slamming somewhere in the house. Belle recognised the sound as the front door and a small glimmer of hope ignited in her chest. Maybe it had worked. Georgia had given up and was leaving. She pushed forward until her knees were against the bathroom door and turned her head to the side.
She listened, waiting to hear the sound of an engine. Fists clenched into tight balls, she willed the noise to start. And then it came, the hum of a car signalling the ordeal was over. But the so
und morphed from a hum into a groan and Belle realised it was coming from her own throat. She croaked out a laugh even though there was nothing funny about the way her back ached from too many hours in the chair, and the little spark of hope that was turning into a thick clog of despair, constricting her breathing until she felt like her chest was on fire.
She leaned her head against the door as dry soundless sobs wracked her aching body. The idea of stumbling out of her chair and curling into a ball on the floor seemed more appealing than spending another minute hunched in the wheelchair.
She looked around and spotted the towel she’d used to dry her face. It wasn’t much but it would be something to lie on. Belle turned the chair so she was facing the shower cubicle, then with the stiffness of an old woman she leaned down and threw the towel on the tiles. At the same moment, the window at the other end of the bathroom exploded inwards.
Glass pelted the floor, bathtub, and toilet. Instinctively, Belle ducked her head and curled her arms around her knees as shards landed like hailstones on the back of her neck and head. She felt something sharp hit the edge of her ear, and cried out.
Chapter Twenty-three
Arthur’s house was as Joan had left it the night before: empty and desolate. After a quick trip through the sitting room, she picked up the black leather wallet from the two-seater kitchen table and flipped it open. Not meaning to snoop, Joan couldn’t help staring at the man’s driver’s licence. In the photo Arthur looked younger, his skin tighter at the jawline and his hair short and cut rather stylishly. The renewal date told her the licence was almost five years old.
Joan snapped the wallet closed and put it back on the table. After a cursory glance around, she was satisfied the homeowner was nowhere to be found.
Back in the sitting room, Joan paused. “So...” She stretched out the word while gazing at the front door. “No money, no car, and the front door left unlocked.” It didn’t take a detective to guess the man had popped out, maybe for a walk. “A walk he didn’t return from.” If she’d been less consumed by the mystery, it would have occurred to her that talking to herself was becoming quite a habit.
Satisfied that she’d seen enough, Joan ran out of the house and hurried back to her car. The sun was rising, cool streaks of light bounced off her red Toyota, their rays not yet powerful enough to cut through the early morning mist. Hardly noticing the cold, she climbed in the car.
This time she didn’t waste time reversing. Instead, she performed a sharp three-point-turn, hitting each point with jarring speed. There were only three properties on Silver Gum Lane. After that their closest neighbour was an eight-minute drive away. It seemed unlikely that Arthur would set out on a twelve-kilometre walk to visit Edward and Rowena Bathright, a retired couple who spent a good deal of the year prospecting. Not that Joan kept tabs on everyone in Lake Stanmore, but she did remember Rowena mentioning spending July in the Goldfields somewhere near the edge of the Nullarbor Plain.
Discounting a walking visit to their closest neighbours and, in light of Arthur’s obsession with the author, Joan felt certain that whatever was going on at the Hammers’, Arthur was involved. It was a certainty so powerful that she tore out of Arthur’s driveway, kicking up a spray of pea gravel.
Rounding the bend, Joan snatched a glimpse at the time display. 5:26 a.m. Almost a reasonable hour to turn up asking questions. When her gaze returned to the road, the changing light momentarily took her by surprise, making a shadow appear to jump forward. Without thinking she veered left, breaking and turning the wheel at the same time.
For a split second, the small car swung sideways. The wheels locked with an ear-piercing squeal. Joan released the brake, but it was too late to stop the Toyota from spinning off the road and across the gravel shoulder. Back on the brake, her hands gripped and pulled as she fought to control the wheel. A dry popping sound filled the spinning car and Joan let out a scream of pain and surprise.
With the cry still bouncing off the car’s windows, the Toyota came to a jerking halt, its bonnet connecting with the trunk of a gum tree. The impact was little more than a ping, but the blow shook a dry branch loose, sending it plummeting onto the roof of the vehicle. The limb landed with a violent whack and bowed the roof.
* * *
Belle raised her head as the last fragments of glass tinged on the bathroom floor. On the other side of the window, Georgia used one of Belle’s crutches to punch out the remaining shards from the frame. Her lips were bunched together with grim determination. Clumps of hair pulled loose from her ponytail and flicked around her shiny face.
As the girl climbed over the sill, glass crunched under her hands and feet, but she seemed unaware of the razor-sharp fragments. Belle grabbed at the toilet seat, trying to pull if free from the door and escape. Behind her, Georgia landed in the bathroom with a grunt. Her right leg tipped at the knee and she stumbled. She regained her balance by grabbing the edge of the vanity, while her unwavering gaze somehow remained detached and focused at the same time. She pounced forward and grabbed the back of the wheelchair.
Belle scrambled for the vanity where she had left the knife, but before her fingers could close on it the girl swiped it out of reach, sending it clinking into the sink. “Georgia!” Belle held up an arm, shielding her face in case of a blow. “Please, whatever you’re thinking of doing, it’s not too late to stop.”
The girl held Belle’s gaze with pupils that almost eclipsed her irises, but didn’t speak. Then leaning over Belle but not touching her, she wrenched the toilet frame out from under the doorknob. As she moved around the wheelchair and unlocked the bathroom door, Belle glanced at the window. Without the frosted glass, she could see the trees were tinted silver in the first rays of light. It occurred to her that this might be the last time she saw the sunrise. A new crop of tears filled her eyes.
With the door open, Georgia turned and grabbed the wheelchair. She didn’t speak as she pushed Belle past Arthur’s unmoving form and through the sitting room.
“Please,” Belle tried again. “I know what you think of me, but let me explain.”
Georgia stopped next to the sofa. “I’m not interested in what you’ve got to say.” She bent and grabbed the cord she’d used to bind Arthur. As she did, the sleeve of her shirt rode up and Belle caught a glimpse of the skin beneath. Gashes striped her wrists. Some were crusty with blood and some were white scars. The same marks could be seen all the way up to her forearm.
The girl saw Belle staring and snatched the sleeve down.
“I know you didn’t mean to kill Lea. I’ll help you explain what happened to the police. I can…” Belle tried to come up with something that would give Georgia hope, but judging by the impassive look on the girl’s face she wasn’t doing very well.
As well as disappearing upstairs to vomit and hurt herself, and judging by the girl’s pupils and the way she seemed oblivious to the pain from her still-bleeding shoulder, Belle guessed the girl was taking something. Maybe not meth, but something chemical was fuelling her rage. Either that or Georgia was completely insane. No, Belle corrected herself, the girl’s behaviour was bordering on maniacal.
Georgia ignored Belle’s pleas and flung the cord over her. Belle twisted and grabbed the cable, trying to pull it out of the girl’s hands.
“Hey.” Lacing her fingers at the back of Belle’s head, Georgia snatched a handful of hair and twisted. “Stop it.” She gave Belle’s head a painful shake.
Belle gasped as Georgia’s strong grip lifted her scalp, but she continued to struggle. The idea of being bound cut through the fear and cancelled out the idea of reasoning with the girl. If she let Georgia tie her to the chair, she’d be completely helpless just like … Just like she’d been in the back of that man’s car. The weight of that realisation hit her like a mallet. The memories weren’t something she’d seen in a movie or brought on by stress. Instead of slowing her down, the clarity of that gut-wrenching assault ignited something inside her – something she’d been pushing
down since she was four years old. Rage.
Belle reached around and grabbed the girl’s hand, pulling at her fingers until she managed to loosen one. She gave the digit a violent twist and the girl’s grip slipped. Belle pulled her head free and turned in the chair. She registered Georgia’s look of surprise and used the girl’s momentary pause to her advantage. It might be a losing battle, but Belle intended to fight for survival even if it meant having every hair on her head ripped out. Belle pulled her fist back and landed a punch on the bloody spot on the carer’s shirt. Because she was sitting, Belle had to strike upwards, and the blow didn’t land with as much force as she’d hoped. Still, Belle felt the wound beneath the girl’s shirt squelch and the caregiver barked out a shocked cry.
The punch didn’t slow Georgia down. She lunged for Belle’s head again, her nails raking Belle’s ears, tearing open the wound made by the flying glass. As Georgia’s fingers ripped at Belle’s skin, her glasses jerked sideways almost becoming dislodged.
The threat of losing her ability to see forced Belle to stop struggling long enough to clamp her spectacles in place. This seemed to be the opportunity the girl was waiting for. She zagged right and brought her fist down on Belle’s injured knee.
The impact seared through every nerve in Belle’s body. The pain was electric and resounded in waves that cut out all thought. Arching back in the chair, she let out a scream that came from deep in her chest; a sound that drained her body and left her slumped and moaning. The rage that had burned so hot only moments ago died as quickly as it had ignited, leaving her spent and gasping for breath.
Vaguely aware of the movement around her, Belle felt something slide over her shoulders and pull in at her waist. Still sucking in each breath around the waves of agony spiralling out from her knee, Belle became conscious of the cord pinning her arms to the wheelchair.
Georgia wound the cable around Belle’s body a second time, pulling the restraint tight around her stomach and fastening it at the back of the chair.
