I couldn’t see over the heads, but hearing it all was just about as bad. I kept getting flashbacks of those sounds for weeks afterwards. There was a horrible kind of grunt, as though someone had been punched in the stomach, then a couple of seconds’ silence before a girl shrieked:
‘My god! He’s been stabbed!’
Then there were more screams, and cries of, ‘Look out!’ as feet pounded down the pavement, away in the opposite direction.
‘Shit,’ called someone else, ‘call an ambulance!’
Now people were pressing inwards, towards the victim, while the hand on my elbow was hauling me off in the opposite direction.
‘Let’s get outta here,’ said Andy.
I turned and we started hurrying away, through the hordes of stickybeaks craning their necks, exclaiming to one another and standing on tiptoe, even out in the rain. Me and Andy and Lily, as it turned out. And also bloody Kimberley – tripping along on the other side of Andy in her very high heels.
‘What about the others?’ cried Lily, turning and peering over her shoulder.
We looked back.
‘We got cut off from them,’ said Andy, ‘by the fight.’
Heaps of people were hurrying in the direction we’d come, just to catch a second- or third-hand whiff of the drama.
‘Look,’ he added, nodding, ‘here come the cops. We’d never get near the others now – they’ll probably be rounded up to give evidence.’
Sure enough there were wailing sirens and flashing lights, and a paddy wagon tore past in a spray of water.
‘They’ll be there all night if that happens,’ said Lily.
We turned and started walking again. Lily and I were now on either side of Andy; he slipped an arm through both of ours as we marched along.
‘Well,’ he said with a short laugh, ‘any suggestions for the rest of the evening?’
‘I have,’ squeaked Kimberley, ‘to have a coffee!’
For once I agreed with her. At the very mention of the word my legs turned to sand.
‘A coffee,’ said Andy, ‘would be great.’
There happened to be a café right there – we wheeled into it. And, since we were reaching the less busy end of the street, we actually found an empty table.
We pulled out the chairs and sank into them. Sat there, gaping at one another.
‘I wonder,’ I said finally in a tiny voice, ‘if that guy–’
I stopped, swallowing; tried lifting my bag off my shoulder, but could barely manage it. And when I looked at my other hand on the table it was shaking.
So, I noticed, were Lily’s hands. We looked at one another and sort of laughed. Both of us had tears in our eyes.
‘That,’ she whispered finally, ‘was horrible.’
I nodded. Even Andy was looking pale.
Kimberley shrugged. ‘Well, if they’re stupid enough to get involved in a fight–’
That awful scream was sounding in my head again. I wondered if the woman was the victim’s girlfriend, friend, or just an unlucky onlooker.
We soon discovered via messaging that Milly, Chet, May and a couple of the others had to wait around to be interviewed – them and about ten others in line before them. I hoped Chet and Milly weren’t getting too cosy – though ‘cosy’ is the last word you’d associate with Chet.
Then, as we were finishing the coffees, Andy got another message.
‘From Spiro,’ he said, reading.
If I didn’t actually jump, I felt as though I had.
‘I saw him briefly there tonight,’ said Lily. ‘Just to say hi.’
‘He says he’s at Finks, with some others,’ said Andy, reading. ‘To come and join them.’
Which others?
‘Cool,’ said Lily.
Wilda? Was she with him at the ball?
I shook my head rapidly.
‘No, I think I’ve had enough for one night . . .’
Normally I would’ve jumped at the idea of going to Finks. I’d never been there, but I’d liked the sound of it. It was a kind of low-key hangout for musos and standup comics, with lots of semi-impromptu performances. The kind of place Dunc wouldn’t really appreciate. Or be appreciated at, for that matter.
‘Oh, come on!’ This was Lily. She looked at her watch. ‘It’s only one o’clock!’
‘Yeah,’ I said, shrugging, ‘but–’
‘It’s just around the corner,’ Andy said. ‘There’s no cover charge, so you can always leave if you still don’t feel like it.’
I looked at the two of them, suddenly wondering whether to explain it all, there and then.
‘If she doesn’t want to, she doesn’t have to,’ put in Kimberley, swinging round to me. ‘Don’t force her!’
Oh, thanks, I felt like saying, how considerate of you! Did she honestly think that she was going to pinch Andy, right out from under Lily’s nose? It was almost enough to make me want to go to Finks after all, just to make sure she didn’t.
Lily was looking at me.
‘Is it that business about . . . your sister?’ She frowned slightly. ‘What’s her name – Wilma . . . Will . . .’
‘Wilda,’ I said, feeling the blood rushing to my face. I looked down into my cup, my mind churning. ‘Terrible name, isn’t it?’ I murmured.
Lily and Andy nodded, half-laughing.
Silence. I looked up.
‘Has . . . Spiro said anything about it?’
They shook their heads.
‘I’ve barely seen him since then,’ said Andy.
I drew a deep breath, wondering where to start. But then I turned and saw Kimberley looking at me as though I was some peculiar object with a faintly unpleasant smell, and changed my mind. I was not going to explain the whole stupid business in front of her.
‘Tell you about it later,’ I mumbled.
‘At Finks,’ said Lily, draining her cup.
‘Finks!’ echoed Kimberley, doing the same.
I pictured us all going in, threading our way through the tables to where Spiro was sitting with some others, their faces shadowy in the dim light. Him looking up, recognition dawning on his face. Turning to the girl next to him:
‘Hey – just look who’s here . . .’
I stood up; fumbled in my purse for money.
‘No,’ I muttered, feeling their curious stares on me, ‘I – I’m buggered. I’m off home.’ I found a couple of two-dollar coins and plonked them on the table. ‘Thanks,’ I said, barely looking at them, ‘it’s been great. Catch ya later.’
I gave a silly little wave and was off, before anyone could say anything.
‘By-ee!’ called a voice at my back.
It was Kimberley, sounding positively gleeful.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
When I woke up the next morning I felt dreadful. I lay there, staring at nothing. I couldn’t believe I’d scuttled away like that, when I could’ve gone and faced Spiro – and maybe someone else – and cleared things up. It might have all ended in laughter and teasing and a happy ending, not this awful feeling of helplessness and humiliation. It was as though I’d stepped onto thin ice, started to fall through, and then refused the offer of someone’s outstretched hand. Crashed into a deep crevasse with no chance of being rescued.
I pictured them sitting around at Finks, discussing the madwoman Alice. Whether or not Wilda – I couldn’t bring myself to actually envisage her face – was actually present, the end result would almost certainly be the same.
Scenario One – Finks. Wilda not present.
Spiro: But when I told Wilda about her, she said she doesn’t even have a sister!
(Big silence.)
Lily: What? How weird is that?
Kimberley: (laugh) Yeah, well, there was something pretty weird about her anyway, I thought.
Andy: . . .
I moaned. I just couldn’t bear to think of what Andy would say.
Even worse:
Scenario Two – Finks. Wilda present.
Wi
lda: But – I don’t even have a sister!
Or:
I’ve only got one sister and she lives in Queensland/Kalgoolie/Timbuktu!
(Big silence.)
Lily: How weird is that?
Wilda: Weird – it’s downright creepy! What is this chick – some kind of stalker, or what?
Kimberley: Yeah, well there was something distinctly weird about her, I thought.
Andy: . . .
I’d curled myself into the foetal position by now and started rocking, like a true mental person. A tear trickled down my cheek and soaked into the pillow.
Of course there have been times when I’ve felt worse – for example, when my grandparents died, obviously. But that was just straight-out grief and loss, not this awful feeling of extreme mortification. Plus I suppose there was grief mixed in there as well. I really liked that lot – Lily . . . and Andy. Even the disconcerting Chet, and May. They were all . . . interesting. But there was no chance I’d be friends with any of them now. Even if I tried to explain myself, they’d regard me as someone to be wary of, a bit of a nut case.
Anyway, this whole thing had really got to me; hijacked my mind. I wished to god I’d never opened that newspaper.
What was the word Milly had used? Doppelganger. And she’d mentioned evil . . .
I thought again about that face across the dance floor, the night before. My face, turning towards me.
I was getting almost panicky. Everything seemed so slippery; I couldn’t get a hold. Like that person trapped in the chasm – there was no way out.
If I thought I’d hit bottom, I was wrong.
I didn’t even want to think about what might have happened with Milly, so I didn’t ring her, but at least there was Dunc. Who, I knew, would be home, nursing a hangover.
I should’ve known it would be a bad day to see him from the moment I heard his voice on the phone. He sounded as though he’d been staked out in the desert for a couple of days in the sun, without a drop of water.
I drove round to his place early that afternoon. When I rang their Brady Bunch-type, loudly chiming doorbell, his sister Sophia came to the door.
‘Hey, Al,’ she said, opening it further, ‘come in.’ She was holding the knob as though it were too hot to touch. ‘Wet nails,’ she explained, waving hot-pink talons. ‘He’s still flat on his back on his bed – must’ve been a big night.’
I rolled my eyes and laughed. ‘Surprise, surprise!’
She led the way across the foyer and up the circular staircase, her low-heeled mules clacking on the polished stone. Apart from around their pool, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sophia go barefoot – she says it causes callused soles. No hope for my feet, in that case.
Dunc was fast asleep, mouth hanging open on the pillow, arms flung out to one side. For a moment he looked like a little boy, almost angelic, until you saw the bucket beside him on the floor.
And his mood when he opened his eyes was far from angelic.
‘Hey,’ he croaked, closing them again and flinging an arm across his face. He groaned.
I stood there, staring at him, suddenly swamped with irritation. I couldn’t be bothered being sympathetic. What on earth was the point – of drinking so much you ended up like this?
‘Well,’ I said frostily, ‘it doesn’t look like you’re in a state for visitors.’
He waved his other hand in the direction of the desk chair. ‘Ssiddown.’
I did as I was told; sat there in silence. Somewhere a TV blared faintly. In their great big house television sounds are often the only sign of human habitation.
I sighed. ‘How much did you drink?’
From under the crook of an elbow, one eye opened.
‘How much d’you think? It was a presentation dinner, for chrissake!’
Then he moaned again with the effort of so many words and groped blindly for the glass of water on his bedside chest. I passed it to him; he lifted his head and took a few gulps. Then burped and fell back on the pillow.
‘So?’ I could hear myself sounding like somebody’s mother, but I couldn’t help it. He hadn’t gone quite far enough to kill himself, but at that moment I really felt like finishing the job. ‘I didn’t know it was compulsory to get totally wrecked at sporting dinners.’
‘Of course it–’ He broke off, opened both eyes and stared at me. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with me.’ I stopped, crossed one leg over the other and started drawing rapid circles with my toe.
‘Well, stop being such a bitch then.’
My foot froze.
‘Pardon?’ I could feel the snarl spreading across my face, truly bitchlike.
‘You heard me.’
I wondered if I too was a bit hungover. No, I’d only had a few drinks . . .
‘You haven’t even asked me how I went,’ he added.
I stared at him. ‘What?’
‘How I went. With the presentations.’
‘Oh . . .’ With all their drinking, I’d forgotten they actually gave out awards. ‘How did–’
‘I got Most Valuable, for your information.’
Now I really did feel like a cow. I leant forward; touched his hand. ‘Wow, Dunc, that’s fantastic! Congratulations . . .’
‘Thanks.’
He wasn’t making any effort to squeeze my hand back, I noticed. I knew I should have given him a kiss, but by now the moment had passed. Anyway, I didn’t feel like it, particularly with the smell of vomit lurking around his pearly whites.
More silence. I was keeping my eyes averted from the inside of the bucket; hoped he wasn’t going to throw up again. I gazed blankly up at the familiar poster of the red Ferrari (is there any other colour?) on the opposite wall, and the framed, signed photo of Shane Warne beside it. Both of them had been there for as long as I’d known him.
‘So,’ he said eventually, making an effort, ‘how was last night?’
I suddenly got a vivid flash of Andy’s smile. Followed by a dull thump of pain.
I shrugged and looked down at my clasped hands.
‘OK . . .’
‘Who was there?’
I felt another surge of annoyance.
‘Only about two thousand people.’
‘No-o!’ He frowned, looking at me again. ‘I meant – anyone we know?’
As though they were the only sort of people worth knowing.
I gave myself a mental shake; willed myself to be nice. ‘Well, Milly, obviously, and Michael. And a few other people . . .’ I tried a smile, though I actually felt like crying. I bit my lip and lifted my gaze back to Shane and his white-zinced nose, arm raised, hurtling in to bowl.
‘Nobody you’d know, really,’ I added.
I was about to tell him about the stabbing, but realised that this would involve mentioning who I’d been with. Then I wondered if one of his friends might have seen me at some stage – dancing in Andy’s group, or later, in King Street.
Right at that moment, I really couldn’t have cared if they had.
I didn’t stay much longer, and when I got home Mum said Milly had rung and wanted me to call her back. On her home phone – obviously wanting a long chat.
I went to my room, slung down my bag and flopped on my bed. Dread settling on me again like a heavy blanket, I steeled myself for the worst.
Several ‘worsts’, in fact, listed here in ascending order.
1) Milly had not got with Chet; Chet had cruelly rejected her advances.
2) Milly had got with Chet and was about to be cruelly rejected.
And 3) . . .
Three was Chet, May and Milly, standing in the queue waiting to give evidence, with plenty of time for a chat. Chet and May asking Milly about me – and Wilda. And Milly, half-drunk, trying to explain it all.
Look, she’s not really nuts, OK? She just got kind of . . . (giggle) flustered.
One half-crazy trying to apologise for another.
And then I had another thought, even more horri
ble. Spiro had messaged Chet or May to come to Finks too, and Milly had gone with them. She’d be there in a flash. And her attempting, with all the inevitable interruptions and smart-arse remarks, to explain the whole thing to everyone. Including Wilda.
I didn’t want to think about it, any of it. Didn’t want to ring her. But if I didn’t, it would only be delaying the inevitable. Whatever had happened last night, Milly would have plenty to tell me. And she’d call again if I didn’t.
I flopped over onto my stomach and lay there, head on my forearms, deathly still.
I don’t know how much time passed, but finally I pushed myself up off the bed. There was no point in prolonging the agony, but I’d fortify myself with a cup of tea, and perhaps something to eat, before I rang her.
It was while I was making my third Vita-Weat and peanut butter and jam sandwich that Mum looked over from her cupboard-sorting, eyebrow raised.
‘Hungry?’
I shrugged. ‘Kind of.’
She peered through her glasses at the label on a jar.
‘Well, it’ll be dinner soon. There’s no point in ruining your appetite if you’re only kind of hungry.’
Subtext: unnecessary snacking puts on weight.
I dropped the knife with a clatter and whirled round to her, glaring.
‘Look Mum, butt out, OK?’ My eyes were suddenly filling with tears. ‘If I want to stuff myself with fifty Vita-Weats and a whole jar of peanut butter, it’s none of your bloody business!’
Then I sank onto a stool, put my head on my arms, and howled.
After a while I felt Mum’s hand stroking my hair, and her arms coming around my shoulders.
‘Al,’ I heard her murmur, ‘What is it . . . what’s wrong?’
‘I . . .’ But all I could do was shake my head and go on sobbing. My huge well of misery flooding into the tears.
Like someone semicomatose I was only half aware of Dad coming into the kitchen and stopping dead, the two of them looking at one another in mystification. Bouts of histrionics are not usually my thing.
‘Come on . . .’ Dad’s broad hands came around my shoulders and guided me off the stool. ‘Come on, Bubs. Come and sit down on the sofa with your old mum and dad and tell us what the matter is!’
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