Twiceborn

by Marina Finlayson

  So many memories: story times and bath times; meal time battles—what is it with kids and broccoli?—tears shed and kissed away; homework at the kitchen table with the afternoon sun streaming in the window. Every room echoed with his non-stop chatter and the clatter of small impatient feet.

  I could no more leave this place than fly.

  But one day soon I’d have to tackle the garden. More grass rioted through the garden beds than on the patchy lawn, and the only time any of it got watered was when it rained. Summer in Sydney had scorched the whole thing to a brown and desiccated crisp. That this pile of neglect festered next door to the best garden in the street—maybe in the whole suburb—was just the icing on the cake. I definitely didn’t share Tanya’s green thumb.

  The smell of her roses was overpowering. If I could remember the damn roses from this afternoon, why couldn’t I remember anything else? Except the blood, of course, but that could hardly have been real, surely. My head pounded with effort, and a wave of nausea hit me. My stomach gurgled, loud enough for Tanya to hear.

  She frowned. “I hope you’re feeding yourself properly.” Like a terrier, she refused to give up. “We’re going away on Monday for a few weeks. How about we make a date for when we get back, the last week of January?”

  Damn. My brain was so fried. I was still struggling for an excuse when my mouth abruptly started filling with saliva. Oh, shit. I was going to chuck.

  “Sorry, ate some bad sushi!”

  I clapped a hand to my mouth and rushed up the path to the front door, leaving Tanya gaping after me.

  Swallowing hard, I fumbled with the key in the lock. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I staggered inside, kicking the door shut behind me. Oh, God. The bathroom was too far.

  I fell to my knees and chucked my guts up all over the tiled floor of the foyer.

  When I was done I sat back on my heels, dazed and panting, and surveyed the mess. Why are there always carrots? I didn’t remember eating any carrots. And what the hell was that?

  A black stone, the size of my thumbnail and covered with silver tracery, lay amid the rest of it. I definitely didn’t remember eating that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’m wearing long red evening gloves of shiny satin and holding a knife. Not a harmless knife for peeling apples, either, nor even a domestic “let’s cut up the veggies for our home-cooked dinner” kind of knife. It looks more like a hunting knife, with a wide lethal blade and a slight curve to its glinting edge.

  Wait. That’s not satin. It’s blood; blood that gleams and drips in the sunlight. Blood coating both arms to the elbow, thick and viscous. It glues my hand to the knife’s hilt. The iron tang of it is in my nostrils—as is the heady scent of roses in full bloom. I’m kneeling on the ground, surrounded by flowers, grass prickling my bare knees.

  Yes, that’s it, says the voice, panting, trembling with the effort of forming words. That’s it. Now reach in.

  I lay the knife down, not thinking, compelled to obey. The voice fills my head as my vision narrows to the blood. So much of it—and I see my hand reaching, reaching …

  I came back to myself with a gasp, the floor tiles of my own foyer smooth and cool beneath my cheek. I didn’t remember blacking out.

  Stretched out beside a pile of vomit—that was a new low. Could have been worse, I guess—I might have been lying in the vomit.

  Head still spinning, I sat up. Movement made me retch again, but there was nothing left to bring up. After a moment I staggered to my feet and made it all the way down the hall to the kitchen. I wrenched open the medicine cupboard, knocking bottles over as I scrabbled for the Panadol. A shower of small boxes cascaded on to the floor. Come on, come on. Any minute my brain would explode right out of my head. I’d had bad headaches before but this was something else. Where the hell was the Panadol? I swept the lot out on to the bench with a crash. Nothing. Damn it, how could I be out?

  Maybe I’d left the box in my room. God, that was all the way at the front of the house.

  It was only a small house, with two bedrooms and a bathroom opening off one side of the central hall and a lounge and dining room off the other. The kitchen and laundry were at the back. Nowhere was more than a few steps from anywhere else in the house, but at the moment that bedroom felt impossibly distant. Back in the hall, I found I couldn’t even walk straight. Pain lanced through my head with every step. I lurched sideways against the closed door to Lachie’s room, knocking his door hanger to the floor. He’d made it himself in preschool. Keep Out unless I say your alloud to com in!!! it shouted in his best five-year-old printing.

  I steadied myself on the handle, leaning my head against the door for a moment. Cool wood soothed my burning forehead. I kept the blinds closed during the day to keep out the heat, and it was dark in the hallway. I’m not coming in, Monster. Mummy’s just resting here for a sec.

  I hadn’t been inside for nearly four months. Tanya said it was unhealthy to leave it as if Lachie might walk back in any day, and I should let her box up all his things and put them away. Tanya didn’t know what she was talking about.

  As if out of sight was out of mind. As if I couldn’t picture the whole room without even opening the damn door—his bed under the window with its Minecraft quilt cover, the ranks of Lego castles, spaceships and vehicles arrayed on the bookshelf, the comfy chair by the wardrobe where we’d sometimes snuggled up to read together but which mostly held more clothes than the wardrobe itself.

  My days of lying on his bed sobbing might be over, but I wasn’t ready to let go yet. Keeping the door shut was the best I could do. Knowing it was all still there was a weird kind of comfort, and if that was psychologically unhealthy, too bad.

  After a moment, I felt capable of movement again and staggered down the shadowy hall, hands out for balance. My trailing fingers felt every bubble in the wallpaper, my whole body acutely sensitive, as if someone had turned up the volume on reality. When I reached my own room I sagged gratefully onto the bed and yanked the drawer of my bedside table open so hard the bedside lamp rocked.

  The drawer bulged with junk—tangles of jewellery jumbled in together, bits and pieces of paperwork, old keys—but no headache tablets. Dammit. I flopped back on to the bed and wrapped the pillow round my pounding head. Now what?

  I could go next door and ask Tanya, but then I’d have to face Tanya’s manic cheerfulness again. Probably wouldn’t get out of there without having to admire all the girls’ latest artworks and certificates either—or even stay for dinner. The thought made me groan. I didn’t have the energy. I’d have to walk down to the corner shop.

  The delightful aroma of vomit drifted into the room as I debated. Ah, yes, that pile of sick still waited at the front door. If I turned my head I could see the edge of it from where I lay. Awesome.

  Gritting my teeth, I heaved myself off the bed and down the hall again to the laundry for cleaning supplies. Back in the foyer, the black stone still lay there, defying reality with its impossible presence. How could I even have swallowed something that size in one piece?

  Gingerly I picked it out of the mess, and a shock of static burned up my arm. I dropped it with a yelp. The damn thing zapped me!

  When I’d finished the clean-up I took it to the bathroom to give it a scrub. This time I felt nothing when I picked it up. The silver lines winked at me, glittering under the bright bathroom lights. Embedded in the stone, they looked like tiny silver veins coursing through the black. The effect was quite pretty. I turned it over in my hand. It was warm to the touch, and very smooth. It would make a striking pendant—if I fancied decorating myself with things I’d chucked up, of course.

  Something tickled at my memory, as if I should recognise this little piece of rock. I closed my fist around it, feeling its warmth. Holding it felt … comfortable, somehow. Right. I didn’t want to leave it behind, so after I’d got myself changed and cleaned up I slipped it into my handbag and headed out to the corner store.

  Going outside felt li
ke stepping into a warm bath, and not in a good way. Hot and sticky, the air hung heavy with moisture. Summers in Sydney were always humid, unless you were rich enough to live right on the coast and catch the sea breezes. My neighbourhood was definitely not coastal. On a bad day it felt like living in a sauna, every breath drawing in almost as much water as air. The temperature had hit the high thirties earlier in the day, and it took a while to come down.

  By the time I reached the corner of the street I was damp with sweat. Across the road I ducked through a small reserve, where my shadow stretched long across the rough ground in front of me. It would be dark soon. Bark crunched underfoot and cicadas screeched from the trees, the sound throbbing through the streets. They’d quieten down after dark but then the mosquitoes would come out to replace them. At least it would be cooler.

  At the little row of shops in Curtin Road I headed straight for the tiny supermarket and bought Panadol. Outside I cracked open the packet straight away and dry-swallowed a couple. Relief couldn’t come soon enough.

  My phone rang as I stood there. Ben’s number.

  “Where did you get to? I thought you were going to wait for me. Suddenly every man and his dog wanted to hire a costume—it’s been non-stop for the last hour—and I finally got rid of the last one and came to check on you and you were gone.”

  Ben’s one of those people who expects others to do as they say. Not because he’s controlling; it’s just the way his mind works. If he always has the best ideas, it only seems logical to him that everyone else should fall in with his suggestions.

  “I’ve got a shocking headache, so I headed home.”

  “But you’re not home now. I just rang you there.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “Don’t be so prickly. I was worried, that’s all. You didn’t seem yourself. Where are you?”

  “Down at the local shops, picking up some Panadol. I’d run out.”

  Shadows lengthened as the light leached from the sky. Might as well head home. The supermarket closed at eight; soon only the bottle shop and the takeaway joint would be open, and I wasn’t interested in either. Nor were many others, judging by the handful of cars in the little parking strip outside the shops. I passed the darkened newsagent, then stepped aside abruptly to avoid a guy coming out of the Chinese takeaway. He muttered an apology.

  “No worries.” Then I did a double take. Ben said something, but I missed it in my shock. “Uh, Ben?” I lowered my voice, watching as the guy went into the bottle shop. “There’s a guy here who’s glowing.”

  “Glowing? What do you mean?”

  Maybe I had a migraine. I’d never had one before, but I’d heard some sufferers saw flashing lights. Glowing guy was average height, probably early thirties, dark hair, kind of chunky. He wore jeans and a nondescript dark T-shirt. He looked like any regular guy picking up takeaway—except regular guys don’t have a faint orange nimbus around them.

  “Glowing. I don’t know how else to describe it. He’s got a—like an aura around him. Very faint.”

  In fact, I had to squint to see it against the lights in the shop. If it hadn’t been nearly dark I probably wouldn’t have noticed it in the first place. I lurked outside, pretending to be fascinated by the specials in the window while sneaking glances at the strange man. Yellowglen champagne for only $9.99 a bottle! A slab of Tooheys for $33.95! Imagine my excitement.

  “What colour is it?”

  What colour? That was unexpected. Better than okay, I’m sending the nice men with the straitjacket, but unexpected all the same.

  “What does the colour matter? I’m seeing glowing people!”

  “People?” His voice was urgent. Well, at least he was taking me seriously. “I thought you said one guy?”

  I glanced around. A couple of teenage boys lounged against their car’s bonnet outside the newsagent. They weren’t glowing. Neither was the lady coming out of the bottle shop, or any of the people I could see inside. An uneasy feeling began to grow inside me. Guess I couldn’t blame it on the headache, then. I’d never heard of a migraine that selective.

  “Just the one. He’s orange, if it makes any difference.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Buying a bottle of wine.”

  The guy on the checkout put the bottle into a paper bag, a bored look on his face. Guess he couldn’t see any weird auras. Glowing guy pulled a twenty out of his wallet.

  “Is he looking at you? Paying any special attention to you?”

  “No.”

  I watched him put his wallet away and pick up the bag. As he came out of the shop I turned aside. His aura intensified the further he got from the lights of the bottle shop.

  “Are there plenty of people around?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The two teenagers on the bonnet of their car, a woman getting out of another one; the bottle shop with a handful of customers, plus the lady behind the counter in the supermarket. “A few.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Getting into his car.”

  An ordinary guy, picking up Chinese and a bottle of wine for dinner. His aura, or nimbus, or whatever you want to call it, was more obvious in the darkened car. I could see he didn’t actually glow; it was more like being outlined in light.

  I watched him drive away. His blinker flick-flick-flicked as he turned the corner, then the sound of the engine receded into the distance.

  “Okay. He’s gone.” I sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “Maybe you’ve got a touch of food poisoning. Did you eat anything unusual today?”

  I laughed. You mean besides a black stone? No, nothing strange at all. “Ben, it’s not food poisoning. Don’t jerk me around. Something’s going on and you know what it is. Just tell me.”

  There was a long pause. So long I thought the mobile had dropped out.

  Finally he sighed. “Not while you stand around in the dark on your own. I’ll meet you at your place in ten; I’m already on the way. Go straight home and lock yourself in, okay?”

  “O-kaay. Should I be scared?” The vision of my hands dripping blood popped back into my throbbing head. Any more scared, that is.

  “Just go home. I’ll be there soon.”

  He hung up. Damn. I’d never realised before how good Ben was at speaking without actually saying anything. With that kind of skill he could run for parliament.

  All the way home I watched for glowing people, jumping at every shadow, but saw nothing unusual. Just suburban streets full of ordinary houses, lit up against the gathering dusk. In some windows I saw the flickering lights of TVs. Others were still dark, their owners not yet home from work, or perhaps lucky enough to be holidaying on a beach somewhere instead.

  Every time a car passed I shrank away from its headlights like a spooked cat. It was a relief to turn into my own driveway at last. The porch light was out, though I could have sworn I’d turned it on before I left. Did I even have another forty-watt globe? Might have to pick one up on the way to work tomorrow.

  I unlocked the door and fumbled for the hall light switch. It clicked, but nothing happened. Damn. Must have blown a fuse. I groped my way down the hall, the house with its drawn blinds pitch black compared to the streetlit night outside. I’d need the flashlight from the kitchen drawer to check the fuse box.

  As I entered the kitchen, someone grabbed me and slammed me against the wall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was too winded to scream. All I managed was a yelp as I fell heavily against the kitchen dresser. It rocked, sending plates smashing to the floor. I landed on broken china, arms flailing. Hope Grandma’s willow plate is still in one piece. Strange how you can think such things in the middle of a crisis.

  My wild landing caused another shower of objects to fall from the dresser. Groping in the dark for a weapon, my hand closed on a pepper grinder. Not the most effective weapon, but I was in no position to be choosy. I clenched its
smooth wood in my fist, my heart pounding somewhere up in my throat, but before I could use it my assailant grabbed me by the upper arm and hauled me off the floor.

  I screamed. My shoulder burned like fire. I struggled, tripping and sliding on the debris at our feet, as he dragged me back against his body. He was taller than me and strong—he’d yanked me to my feet as if I weighed nothing at all—and his arm felt like a steel band across my chest. Somehow I managed not to drop the pepper grinder.

  I gulped in panicked breaths, still struggling, but there was no shifting him. Unseen objects skittered and clanged across the floor as I kicked out, desperate to escape. Then I felt the prick of steel at my throat and fell still.

  “Who are you working for?”

  His voice was low and raspy. I could feel his breath on the side of my face, and from the corner of my eye I caught the glint of light on the knife blade. My eyes had adjusted to the dark now, enough to see the back door standing wide open and half the contents of the dresser scattered broken across the floor.

  I licked dry lips and drew in a shaky breath. “I—I work for a costume shop. What do you want?”

  He shook me, the knife pressing closer. It felt like a line of cold fire across my throat.

  “There’s no money in the house, if that’s what you’re after!”

  “Don’t play dumb,” he growled. “Who are you working for? Alicia or Valeria?”

  What the hell was he talking about? The guy must have the wrong house.

  “I don’t know any Alicia or Valeria.” Please believe me, crazy man, and get the hell out of my kitchen.

  He growled, really growled, just like a dog, and the sound was so inhuman it raised all the hairs on my arms and sent tickles of fear down my spine. Somewhere deep in my monkey brain a long-dormant instinct came to life—an instinct which told me that wasn’t a sound I wanted to hear all alone in the dark.

  “Do you think I won’t use this?” he whispered, pressing on the knife till it cut me. I swallowed convulsively, feeling a trickle of warm blood on my neck. “I can smell your fear, you know.” He could probably hear my heart, too, trying to pound its way out of my body in terror. He lowered his face to my neck and breathed in as if he were savouring a fine perfume. “You’re right to be afraid.”