A Perfect Likeness

by Renee Kira

  ‘Sometimes… but it’s just easier to do things on my own. David can play with the boys, but he’s not good at anything practical. I can’t tell you the last time he did a load of washing or packed a lunchbox.’

  ‘So, you don’t want more help from him?’

  ‘I want more help. If I asked, it would end in a fight.’ I sigh at the truth of it.

  ‘Do you fight a lot?’ She tilts her head to one side after she asks the question.

  ‘No. But I work hard to avoid it.’

  She writes something down, her pen scratching on a notepad. In the moment of silence, I hear the tick of the clock behind me.

  ‘How often do you change your behaviour to avoid a fight?’

  ‘I don’t change my behaviour.’

  ‘That’s what you just described to me.’

  I shrug. I don’t have an answer because I’ve never thought about it that way.

  She leans back in the armchair. ‘What has this been like for David? Was he a friend of Veronica’s as well?’

  The suggestion is laughable. ‘No. Not so much.’

  Lucy raises her eyebrows. ‘They didn’t get on?’

  ‘Not so much. But they didn’t spend a lot of time together.’

  ‘That’s got to be hard, when your spouse doesn’t like a close friend. Any reason?’

  ‘There was a party three or four years ago. It was Veronica’s birthday. They had a fight over something silly. Someone spilled a drink and someone else got pushed. I don’t know. But they had a fight and have been on bad terms ever since.’

  ‘Someone got pushed?’ she asks. ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I’d had a few drinks, to be honest.’

  ‘So you don’t know why they stopped being friendly towards each other?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I fix my eyes on the coffee table between us.

  ‘It must have made it hard to remain friends with Veronica.’

  ‘No.’

  Lucy is holding out the box of tissues that usually sits on the table between us. I notice the hot tears on my cheeks. I’m crying again.

  ‘I wish that night didn’t happen,’ I whisper, whipping the tears away.

  ‘Me too. But it’s not your fault it did. You’re not responsible.’

  I could tell her the whole truth. She might change her opinion on blame and responsibility then.

  ‘Can you imagine a time in the future where you might be easier on yourself about what happened?’

  A vision of Veronica appears in my mind the last time I saw her alive. It was at her house, but it wasn’t Saturday morning, like I told the police. We met again later that night. I raised my fist to knock on her door, but she pulled it open before I had the chance. She smiled.

  She said she wanted her laptop back. She’d accidentally left it at my house. When I got there, I had forgotten to bring it. She said it didn’t matter. It was an excuse to talk to me.

  ‘Why didn’t you just come over?’ I had asked her.

  ‘You know why. David’s always there,’ said Veronica, crossing her arms, standing in her doorway.

  ‘You know you are always welcome.’

  ‘You know I’m not,’ she countered.

  ‘Veronica. Come on,’ I had said. ‘What’s this about?’ But my phone had started ringing before she could reply.

  That last Saturday all we did was fight. First when we took the boys to the park. Then again that night, when it was only the two of us.

  ‘Maya. What would you want Veronica to know if you could talk to her now?’ Lucy asks, bringing me back to the present.

  I remember how Veronica looked the last time I saw her. Standing in her front garden, her face lit a ghoulish white by a streetlight, her arms firm across her chest.

  ‘I’m so sick of being second best.’ That was the last thing she said to me.

  I look at Lucy ‘I’d say I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry. I wish that night never happened.’

  Lucy nods. I can feel tears welling up that I won’t be able to stop. I’m tired of crying. It’s exhausting.

  ‘If she were to hear you, what do you think she’d say back?’

  Would she be angry at me? Would she still think I had let her down? Probably. She was so steeled in her will that I don’t think death would change that.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper.

  Lucy waits a moment, letting me get back in control of myself. ‘You haven’t mentioned the funeral. That was on Friday?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, it was.’

  ‘What was that like for you?’

  ‘Hard. I sat at the back. I didn’t want to see her mother.’

  ‘Her mother. Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say to her.’

  She nods, crosses her legs and leans back into the upholstered armchair. ‘You say you were close friends… for six years.’

  I nod. We spent the first session talking about Veronica; how we met, what we used to do together. How our children grew up together. And how now I feel like I have a hole ripped in me. I’m not sure why she’s going over the same details again.

  Lucy looks at the clock that is behind my head on the wall. ‘We’re out of time. It would be great to see you again next Tuesday. We can talk about this more then. In the meantime, do you have friends in common with Veronica?’

  ‘Of course. She knew a lot of people.’

  ‘It could help to speak with someone who knew her. Share your good memories.’

  I shake my head for no.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be that. What about spending time with a friend outside of your family? Someone you get along with. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be sad… but a couple of hours of distraction might do you good. Being alone is the worst thing for you right now.’

  When I thought about it, the times I had felt best over the last ten days had been when I was distracted. Playing a card game with the boys, a trashy TV show or a phone call with Isobel. I spent so much time with Veronica that I have few friendships left.

  ‘There is an old friend I’ve reconnected with lately.’

  ‘There you go. That’s your homework for this week. I want you to make plans with them. Get a coffee or see a movie.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be about Veronica. But give yourself a break.’

  12

  Isobel

  I never met Veronica Hayes, but she had been looking for me.

  I’m still reeling from what Liam told me in the pub last night. I haven’t slept.

  ‘She didn’t speak to me after we broke up. I tried. I tried hard, believe me…’ Liam’s voice had trailed off. ‘She refused to speak to me for years. Then, out of the nowhere she called, she wanted to have a drink.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘A year, maybe two.’

  ‘What did she ask, Liam? How did she even know me?’

  He looked over his shoulder. The pub was busy, but it was too loud for anyone to be paying attention to us. ‘Where you were. If you had a family. If you were close with your parents. There were other things, but to be honest, I can’t remember.’

  ‘You remember that she asked though.’

  ‘Well, it’s unusual for your estranged ex-girlfriend to ask about your even more estranged ex-girlfriend,’ he said with a shrug.

  Why did she want to know about me so badly? A woman who once lived in the same town as her. Sure, we had a few friends in common, but that was not worth an obsession.

  There is a passing physical resemblance. We both have long red hair, which is I suppose is eye catching. Hers is a shade darker than mine. It’s petty to mention, but she’s better looking than me. I have my father’s angular cheekbones and long nose. Veronica was a classic beauty; full lips and hooded eyes.

  I guess we could pass for sisters. But we’re not. The only time we’ve ever been in contact is the day I found her. She was dead by then.

  The light is creeping in from under the c
urtains of my bedroom. My mind is chasing itself around in circles.

  I need to clear my head. I need to run.

  It’s been over a week since I’ve exercised. Running isn’t a fitness thing for me. I mean, it’s healthy and I’m sure the boost to my metabolism is helpful. It’s more of a mind space thing. Moving meditation.

  When I’m running, my brain thinks in a different way. It becomes more abstract. Maybe it’s the sound of my feet on pavement, a constantly recurring pattern that affects brain waves like certain types of music do.

  It gets me out of my head. I stop worrying about the small stuff, if only for forty-five minutes. With a bit of mental distance, I feel better. It’s relaxing to do something so strenuous.

  While I’m ready to run, I’m not ready to go back to the beach at the bottom of the cliffs. I don’t know if I ever will be. I walk from my house to the nearest street corner; my idea of a warmup, but instead of heading towards the water, I turn and head back into town. There’s some parkland beyond the shops. If I do a few laps then head home, it will be a good workout.

  I break into a run, my feet quickly finding their rhythm on the concrete path. It’s early and the air is still crisp. Soon it will be summer and we won’t have these cold mornings any more.

  It’s only been a few minutes, but already I feel better. I shouldn’t have waited so long to get back to running.

  A low groan of an engine snaps my attention to the present. There’s a car behind me. I catch it in my peripheral vision. At first, I don’t pay attention. Two blocks on and it’s still the same distance behind me. Maybe they’re looking for an address or are lost. I keep running.

  Taking a full glance behind me, I see that it’s a four-wheel-drive. It’s white, with blacked-out windows. Not an unusual choice of car around here. People like to surf and boat and caravan. Big cars are popular for their storage and ability to tow. But this doesn’t look like a car that goes down the beach. It’s spotless. It looks brand new. That’s what makes it stand out. Who has a clean car near the beach?

  After another block, I turn around again. It’s still there. But now, instead of being a hundred metres behind me, it’s only fifty. Pushing myself, I try to run a little faster. But I can hear the low mumble of the diesel engine getting closer and closer.

  Could the car be following me? I remind myself that this is a small town and there’s protection in that. Nobody tries anything because somebody is always watching. It’s nothing, I tell myself.

  The town is still asleep and there’s no sound other than the murmur of the car and my feet on the concrete. And my breath; faster and faster.

  The shops aren’t far, less than a few hundred metres. I don’t know if anything will be open this early, but it gives me a notion of safety. The car is closer again; it feels like it is right on my heels. My heart is beating fast, I can feel it pounding in the back of my throat.

  In the corner of my eye, I can see the white vehicle only meters away. There’s only a thin strip of brown grass between me and the road. It wouldn’t be that hard for someone to get out of that car and attack me. Or worse, grab me and pull me inside.

  I sprint, heading at full pelt towards the shops. I can see the row of low buildings. I don’t know if I will make it. If they want me, they could take me.

  I turn to the right; the car is beside me. The windows are tinted and I can’t see who’s inside. The car keeps moving forward at the same pace I run at.

  The road I’m on ends at a T intersection. I can’t see anyone around, but then I notice that the door to the milk bar is propped open. I turn left and sprint as hard as I can towards the open door. I turn back just for a second to see the car lulling at the intersection, watching me.

  I burst through the half-open door, setting off a bell and startling a woman who is stacking up bottles in a fridge. I stop in the middle of the shop, doubling over and breathing hard. My elbows dig into my thighs.

  Her eyebrows dart up. ‘You must be in a rush for your milk this morning.’

  ‘There was a car-’ I start but then I stop myself. I don’t want to sound crazy.

  ‘You all right, love?’ The woman stands. She’s my mother’s age, thin lipped with a tight perm. I don’t know her.

  ‘Yeah… it’s okay. I’ve just forgotten my wallet.’

  Through the shop window I see a flash of white as the car drives past. The hum of the engine decreases, and hopefully this means they’re leaving and not coming back.

  She shrugs and turns back to stock her refrigerator. Taking the cue, I leave.

  I’m grateful she’s an early starter. I take a few minutes out the front, leaning against the glass front of the shop. For all I know, that car is waiting around the corner for me.

  I think about calling someone to pick me up, but who? My parents were still asleep and God knows they worry enough already. Maya Henry comes to mind, she’s been kind. But she has her own family to worry about.

  Instead of calling someone, I start walking home. The sun is creeping upwards on the horizon now and people and cars are beginning to fill the streets. Noises fill up the spaces that were empty before. The chirp of birds and the chatter of children in their front yards.

  Normally I’d run the whole way, but I’m buggered after the sprint. My calf muscles are burning. Not a great way to come back after a break from exercise.

  I rack my brain for who might want to scare me like that. Could it have been someone playing a joke? Bored teenagers? No. The car was too expensive for that. No one I knew drove anything like it. Now I didn’t remember the make, let alone the number plate, so there is no way to tell if it was the same car I saw parked outside the pub. White four-wheel-drives are common.

  Running broke me into a sweat, but by the time I reach home I’m cold. I slip my hand to the small of my back where the front door key is zipped inside an interior pocket. As I get to the front door, I see it’s open. Only by a few inches, but definitely open. My stomach drops.

  I always leave the front door locked when I run. I know I did this morning. It was locked from the inside, I pulled it shut. Or did I? Is there any chance I could have forgotten?

  Standing on my concrete driveway, I’m frozen in place. Should I call the police? That sounded a little paranoid. What would I tell them? That I left my front door unlocked by accident and I want them to check it out for me? But that together with a strange car following me… I should call.

  My phone was inside, still on my bedside table. Usually, I would take it with me on a run, but I had forgotten this morning. The house to the left was a holiday home, usually empty. My neighbours on the right leave for work early. If I wanted to call the cops, I needed to get upstairs first.

  I tell myself I’m overreacting. If someone broke in, there’d be a sign of forced entry. A smashed window or a broken lock. And if someone had gotten inside, chances were they would have grabbed my laptop and jewellery and hightailed it out of here already.

  Taking my chances, I push the door the rest of the way open and walk inside, leaving it open behind me. I look to my left, to the guest bedroom. Nothing is touched or upturned. The quilt is still smooth and the photo frames are lined up on top of the dresser. Thieves trash a place. They look through your drawers and make a mess.

  Lightly, I tread up the staircase. The house is silent, all I can hear is the pad of my footsteps on timber. I reach the landing, standing close to the stairs in case I need to sprint back again. I look to the front of the house and then the back, there’s no one here. Everything is as I left it.

  I think my mind is playing tricks on me.

  To be certain, I go room to room. First to the kitchen and living room, then down the hallway, sticking my head into each of the unused bedrooms at the rear of the house. I even open the wardrobes. The study is empty, my laptop the only thing sitting on the long timber desk.

  Was there really a car following me? Perhaps they were texting, driving too slow and not paying no attention to a solitary woman
jogging on the footpath adjacent. I shook my head. No. I didn’t imagine being followed. That was real.

  I’m certain that no one has been inside. My shoulders drop and I let out a sigh of relief. The front door must have been unlocked the whole time I was out. Cursing myself for being so stupid, I walk in to my bedroom, looking forward to a hot shower.

  Something catches my eye. I stop in the middle of the room. There’s a newspaper on the bed. I never read newspapers and I would never buy one. Someone has brought it into the house. I feel myself freeze in place, but force myself to turn around. Was there someone still here?

  The house is quiet. I listen for a footstep or a sound, something that would give away that I am not alone. There is only the dripping of the tap in the ensuite bathroom. Maybe they are already gone. But why a newspaper?

  On shaky legs, I walk over to the bed. The covers are pulled tightly over the mattress neatly, like I left them this morning. In the centre is a newspaper folded in quarters.

  I unfold the paper and then put it back down on the bed. The headline screams at me.

  BODY ON THE BEACH: LOCAL BUSINESS WOMAN SLAUGHTERED.

  In the picture, Veronica is smiling. It looks like she’s actually smiling, not like in a posed photo, like someone caught her in the middle of a laugh. Her hair is out and falling in waves. I’ve never seen the picture before.

  There’s something else on the bed. A yellow post-it note. I pick it up between my thumb and forefinger. I feel sick. The sticky side is facing me, so I turn it towards myself to see a message scribbled in blue pen. There are only three words.

  STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.

  13

  Isobel

  I’m sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of tea that a police officer has made me. It’s weird to have someone make me a drink in my own house.

  Her name is Stacey Collins. I thought they might send a patrol car out, whoever was free. No, she tells me, she’s on the case. She’s come here especially for me, it appears.

  They don’t need to tell me they are Melbourne cops. Both of them hold themselves differently. They walk up my driveway more upright than a local cop would. They called me Miss Franco, the local cops would just call me ‘love’ or ‘sweetheart’.