The Family Across the Street

by Trope, Nicole

  ‘It would be so easy to leave now. You can go anywhere you like. Where would you like to go?’ You have to keep a person threatening you talking. That’s what she’s read and heard. Keep them talking until you can see a gap, a space, a moment to change the balance of power and save your own life.

  She keeps her tone light. He has responded to her a little, and all she needs is a little. The children watch her as she speaks. They don’t understand her calm voice when they know she should be angry or scared.

  Outside the cicadas are screaming and inside the air conditioner rattles and wheezes. It is afternoon and the heat is thick and heavy, hanging in the air, the sun burning the grass brown in places. And he is tired. She can feel his exhaustion in the air, as though it is part of her. If she keeps watching him, there will be a moment, just a moment when she can make this work. She rests her damaged wrist on her knee, wincing at the continual pain there, and she slides her good hand between the seat cushions, surreptitiously, slowly and carefully. She feels the slightly rough plastic handle of the scissors and she grasps it tightly. Any minute now.

  25

  Logan

  Fifteen Minutes Ago

  ‘Debbie, Debbie!’ he keeps screaming as he drives, weaving in and out of traffic, other cars hooting their anger. He can hear muffled conversation from the other end of the line but he has no idea what’s going on. It sounds like she’s dropped her phone. He feels like he cannot control his speed. His foot is pressed on the gas pedal and the van goes faster and faster and he is powerless to make it stop. He roars through a stop sign, narrowly missing being hit by a car that had the right of way. The driver holds their hand down on the hooter, long and loud, indignant at his behaviour, but he is moving so quickly, too quickly, and the sound is only momentary before he’s left it behind.

  He needs to slow down or he’s going to get pulled over and then he won’t get to her. He won’t be able to save her. Debbie is small and light, and although she’s stronger than she looks, she won’t be able to defend herself against an enraged man. Patrick’s hands on his sister, Patrick’s hands on Debbie, the two women he loves most in the world. This cannot be. He cannot let this happen.

  ‘Logan,’ he hears, ‘Logan, why are you shouting my name?’ She yells the words, sounding hysterical.

  ‘Debbie…’ he says again, pure relief running through his veins, making him feel almost high. He lifts his foot off the gas, the van slows down and he searches for a space to pull over for a moment. His whole body has broken out in a sweat and there is an ache in his jaw from clamping his teeth together. His hands slip a little on the steering wheel. ‘Who’s there? Who’s there?’ he yells as he pulls the van to the side of the road.

  ‘Stop yelling,’ she says, even as she’s shouting herself. ‘Stop yelling and listen. It’s my dad, just my dad,’ she says, her voice still raised. ‘He came over to bring me some soup and he dropped it all over the carpet. We’re cleaning it up but you’re yelling like a crazy person. What on earth is wrong?’ Her voice softens and with her explanation he feels his body relax, his muscles release, and he takes a deep breath. It’s her dad, just her dad.

  He would like to reach through the phone and grab his wife, hold her to him. He could have lost her. She could have been taken from him and he will not let that happen.

  Logan rubs his eyes, creating the dark space he needs, knowing that if he doesn’t calm down, he will not be able to explain himself.

  A white cockatoo lands on the front of his van, cocks its yellow-crested head and stares at him. ‘Put your dad on the phone,’ he commands, and he is grateful that she doesn’t question him. He watches the bird as it climbs onto a windscreen wiper and perches there, making eye contact, before spreading its white wings and flying onto a tree in a garden near where he’s parked.

  ‘Logan,’ says Paul, concern in his voice.

  ‘Listen, Paul, I don’t think I can explain it to her without freaking out, but Patrick is here, in Sydney. He’s here and I got a text saying that I’m next and I think he’s here to hurt me because of…’

  ‘Because of what happened with Maddy? Debbie told us. Surely not.’

  ‘I think so. Please just take Debbie with you. Take her to your house. I’m getting there as fast as I can.’ He squeezes the steering wheel, watching the bird as it struts up and down a tree branch. He looks around and pulls out into the road again, keeping to the speed limit, concentrating on what he’s doing.

  ‘All right, son. You calm down and drive carefully. I’ll take her with me and text you when we’re at my house. You come there and we’ll call the police and explain. Now just calm down. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Thanks, Paul,’ says Logan and he is ashamed that he’s shedding a few tears.

  He watches the road, tries to orient himself because he’s gotten himself a bit lost.

  She’s with her dad, she’s with her dad.

  He can handle this because Debbie is safe and that’s all he needs to know. He spots the name of a road he recognises and turns the van around. ‘She’s safe,’ he repeats aloud. ‘She’s safe.’

  After driving for a few minutes, Debbie calls him. ‘We’re on the way to my parents’ house. There wasn’t anyone there, like in the street or anything. Maybe he isn’t coming after you.’ In the background he can hear the classical music that Paul always plays in his car. Just after Logan asked Debbie to marry him – getting down on one knee on a beach, embarrassed that he couldn’t think of a less clichéd idea but so excited he dropped the ring with a small diamond it took him months to save for – Paul took the whole family to hear a string quartet at the opera house to celebrate. The music was beautiful at first, but soon Logan found himself drifting off and Debbie had to keep nudging him awake. ‘Guess it’s not for everyone,’ Paul said afterwards and he remembers the way Debbie and her mother laughed at him but he also remembers that the laughter was gentle and inclusive and that for the first time in his life he didn’t feel judged. This is family, he thought and he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to have found a woman like Debbie with a family who accepted him. He doesn’t deserve Debbie, he knows that. And he will give his life to keep her safe if he has to. It’s not even something he has to consider. It’s just the truth.

  ‘I think he is, Debs. Just get to your parents’ house and make sure everything is locked. I’m on my way.’

  He takes a few shortcuts, hoping to make his trip to Debbie’s parents’ place shorter. He looks around at the houses in the street where he’s driving and realises that it’s the street from this morning, the street where he started his day – where he first understood that it was going to be a really, really shitty day. He could never have imagined how bad it was going to get.

  How is it that he’s back here? How is it possible? He wasn’t thinking about a particular route, just about getting to Debbie’s parents’ house as soon as he could.

  Why is he even thinking about this woman? It doesn’t matter. He’s sure the police will check on Katherine West and her family.

  But dammit, the niggling feeling is there again and just won’t go away.

  Without knowing why, or what he plans to do, he cruises to a stop in front of Katherine’s house and gets out of the van.

  A large tree on the pavement rustles in the silent afternoon and he looks up to see a whole host of cockatoos resting in the heat. One of them peers down at him and then spreads its wings and leaps, landing on the front of his van.

  ‘Okay, universe,’ he grumbles. ‘I understand.’

  26

  Gladys

  She marches out of her house and into the street, where a white van with the words ‘Pack and Go’ is pulling up. As she watches, the door opens and a tall man, covered head to toe in tattoos, gets out. Gladys feels like she might just faint away. She opens her mouth as a flock of cockatoos takes flight from the tree in front of Katherine’s house, startling her and disturbing the still air, creating a tiny gust of wind, and then e
verything is quiet again. She squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, holding her chin high. ‘Excuse me!’

  27

  I feel my eyes growing heavy, my body slipping as though I’m falling, and I jerk myself awake, lifting the gun in case they were thinking about trying anything.

  I sit up straighter and then I get up and walk around a bit, watching them, trying to generate a little more energy. Her wrist is grotesquely swollen and bright red. I notice for the first time how pale her face is, how she keeps biting down on her lip. I think she must be in a lot of pain. Somewhere inside me, I feel something twisting, something churning – maybe it’s guilt. Is it guilt? My arms are heavy holding this gun; my body wants to sink to the floor. The walking isn’t helping and I drop down into the chair again. I could leave now, just get up and leave. Start over somewhere else, maybe try to find another woman to love me the way I deserve to be loved. I think about leaving this house, walking out into the stifling heat and finding my way to a main road. I imagine holding my thumb out, getting a lift to the ocean where there would be a breeze coming off the water because there is always a breeze. I could wade into the sea where it would be cool and quiet and it wouldn’t matter that I have no one who loves me. I could walk out until the water covered my head and then I would be alone in the floating space and it would feel better.

  I am so tired, so incredibly tired. I put my hands against my eyes, the gun hurting my temple. I shove it into my waistband and rub my eyes, rub them hard so black dots appear. I need to get rid of this fuzzy exhaustion. I have to think clearly now.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull my hands away from my face. And she’s standing there, holding a pair of scissors above me, small blue-handled scissors. She holds them high up and I can see that she wants to hurt me but at the same time she doesn’t want to hurt me. She has never caused anyone physical pain. But she’s pretty good at mental torture. I want to laugh at her silly attempt to stop me. Me! I have a gun. I’m bigger than her and yet she thinks she can do this. And I am no longer tired. I’m furious at her stupidity and at her tiny, stupid moment of hesitation.

  ‘This has to stop,’ she says and she brings the scissors down, going for my face, but I’m too quick for her. I leap up and grab her hand, pull the scissors away and chuck them across the room, and then I backhand her hard, as hard as I can. I feel the power in my hand as it connects with her face and I could roar with fury. I cannot deny how good it feels.

  Sophie screams. She opens her mouth and screams loud and long.

  I put my hands over my ears because the scream has been waiting inside her all day. I know it’s the scream of a terrified child. It fills the air and tears at my eardrums.

  She lies there, still. I think I may have killed her, but then she moves and rolls on her side.

  ‘Sophie, stop,’ she commands and the little girl closes her mouth. Her voice is thick with pain but still trying for calm.

  The room is silent. George is watching me, his fists clenched. Sophie is huddled on the sofa and she is on the floor, trying to get up without hurting her wrist. I go over to her and extend a hand. ‘Let me help you.’ I would like to touch her kindly, just one more time. I want to help her as she struggles and there is something inside me that regrets hurting her.

  ‘Get away from me,’ she spits. ‘Just get away from us and get out of here.’

  She’s angry with me but it wasn’t my fault. I watch her, sensing the shift in her, the change. She’s been trying to appease me all day, but now she’s finished doing that. I remember this about her as I watch her struggle to get off the floor. She tries and tries but she reaches a point where she’s done. I can see she’s reached that point.

  She’s the one who attacked me. It isn’t my fault that we’re here. It’s because of her, because of decisions that she made, and now she thinks she gets to be angry at me. ‘I don’t think so,’ I mutter.

  She climbs back onto the sofa, slowly, painfully, her breathing heavy and her face twisting with the pain. They all slump together in a heap, pure hatred evident on all their faces. Even her. The kids’ faces are dirty, grimy with chocolate and food and sweat. She has blood dribbled onto her white T-shirt and large sweat patches under her arms. I can smell myself and it’s not nice. We are an unpleasant bunch to look at, to breathe in, but we will not be here much longer. They will not be here much longer.

  I never thought I would see hatred on her face. Anger and frustration, yes, but not actual hatred. I never thought she would feel the way about me that I have come to feel about her. I don’t like it. My legs feel heavy, the weight of my sadness too much for them.

  I never wanted her to hate me. I only ever wanted her to love me for who I was and not who she thought I could be.

  The three of them look drained of energy. But they’re still willing to fight. That’s fine because they have no idea how far I’m willing to go.

  I’m also tired now. I would like to rest, to sleep, but in order to do that I have to be done with this. There is no way out except the only way I imagined this would end.

  ‘Be a shark, son,’ my father said and so that’s what I will be.

  I nod my head as though he is watching me. I understand what I need to do now. I start to count. I count down from one hundred in my head, slowly, carefully, knowing that when I get to one, this will all be over.

  28

  Katherine

  Defeat makes her want to cry. She has no idea how on earth they’re going to get out of this. There is a ringing in her ears. Her body has never been hurt like this before. She cannot comprehend pain without a purpose. She remembers the feeling of pushing her babies into the world, the overwhelming sensation of agony that ran through her, but she could harness it and use it for the energy she needed. Something has changed in her. Something has superseded the fear she has been fighting all day long. It’s a wonder to her as she gazes out of the window that it is still light, that night has not arrived and the wind that was supposed to bring the cool change has not blown through the open window, chilling them all.

  They have been in this room forever but she’s not going to be here forever more. She is not going to let him hurt her and the children. Not anymore.

  Last week she had taken the twins to the shopping centre for groceries and they had walked past the pet shop and stopped to look at the puppies cavorting in the window, little white balls of yapping fluff. ‘Oh, please, Mum, please,’ Sophie begged, as she did every time they saw a dog, ‘I will love it forever.’

  ‘When you’re old enough to really take care of one – I promise.’ She is planning a puppy as a Christmas surprise. She has already been in touch with a breeder. How can it be possible that they will not be here for Christmas? An impossible thought this morning; a very real possibility now unless she does something.

  He wants this to end as well. She has to make sure the children survive and so she has to fight through the pain she is feeling, the physical agony from her wrist, her cheek, her ear where he hit her, and the anguish in her heart of someone who is supposed to love her, to love them, hurting them. She and she alone has to end this now.

  Help isn’t coming.

  29

  Logan

  Now

  He slides open the side door, taking the computer box in his hand again, but as he starts for the front gate a woman stops him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says, ownership and judgement in just those two words.

  Logan looks at her. She is an older woman, dressed in batik-print, three-quarter pants which are a riot of flowers and colours. She is also wearing a blue sleeveless top, revealing muscled, ropey arms. Her short brown hair is pinned back with a child’s butterfly clip.

  ‘I was just going to deliver this computer,’ says Logan.

  ‘You don’t look like a delivery man,’ says the woman, eyeing his tattoos. He knows exactly what she’s thinking. He shouldn’t have ripped off his shirt but there’s nothing to be done about that
now.

  ‘Well, I am,’ he says flatly.

  ‘Yes, well,’ huffs the woman, pursing her thin lips. ‘I live next door and I can tell you that Katherine receives lots of deliveries but I’ve never seen you or your van. I’m concerned for my neighbour, so I’ll thank you to show me some identification.’

  Logan sighs, contemplates getting back into the van and driving off, heading to his in-laws’ house and sitting across from his wife, smiling into her beautiful face. The neighbours heard screaming. The words come back to him and his sister’s voice calling for help sickens him.

  ‘Look, I—’ he begins.

  ‘Now I’ll have no arguments from you, thank you. I have my phone right here and I am happy to call the police, and believe me when I tell you that they will be here in two ticks.’ The woman holds up her mobile phone in its red and white spotted case and Logan clenches his jaw, trying to resist the urge to hand the computer to this ridiculous woman and leave. He’s done all he can, he really has, and he’s encountered nothing but obstacles in his desire to help whoever the woman inside the house is, and by the time he finds out if something is or is not going on, he will be back in jail just for daring to exist after a prison sentence. He needs to get to Debbie because she is his priority. If Patrick comes looking for him, he wants to be ready. He has his own family to protect. Katherine West is not his family.

  The woman puts her hands on her hips and Logan glances at the house that she says belongs to her. It’s as big as the one next to it and the neighbour obviously knows the woman he is concerned about.

  ‘Actually,’ he says slowly, ‘I would be grateful if you’d call the police.’