The surface of the river seems to boil as the deluge begins. Ana pulls her hood over her head and starts the trek home.
*
The first thing Ana does when she reaches home is strip off her wet clothes and run a hot bath. It’s not even full when she climbs in, sinking her aching body down into the rising water. Exhausted, she rests there a moment, enjoying the sensation of the heat seeping into her frozen skin. The rising steam combined with the lack of sleep and her mad dash through the forest has her head spinning.
A single candle burns on the windowsill, a soft breeze stirring the flame, bringing with it the earthy smell of the dripping forest. Ana keeps her eyes on the movement of the flame until the turmoil inside her begins to settle.
The baby monitor sits on the basin and as her own breathing quiets Luke’s more ragged breath seems to float with the steam around her. He sounds relatively peaceful right now but she knows he’s going to be anything but when he wakes up and discovers what has been done to him. For now though, she feels safe.
Ana looks at the door, which for the first time since her grandmother died she has closed. River, like Luke, is securely tucked into his bed for the night.
She shuts her eyes and sinks deeper, submerging her ears, until just her nose is above the waterline. It’s a feeling she knows well and seeks out often, that sense of being wrapped in the warm cocoon of the water while listening to the weirdly augmented sounds of the house. Sounds she didn’t even know were there. Like the house has a secret life all of its own.
Ana focuses on the sound of Luke’s breathing until it separates itself from everything else, wrapping around her along with the water. She closes her eyes and it’s like he’s right there in the room with her. Like he is the room and she’s nestled inside him. Ana’s hand absently caresses her thigh under the water, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin. She’s never noticed before how soft her skin is. Like velvet. Smooth and untouched.
Ana blocks out everything but the sounds she connects to him, imagining his body as a fetus curled within the dark shadows of the basement below. Like some strange uterus-like centre of the house. Her fingertips find her breast and move down over her stomach but it’s his skin she imagines she’s stroking. She recognises the familiar churning low in her belly and lets herself sink into it. She’s been trying so hard to not think about what happened this morning but now he’s chained and she doesn’t have to sedate him anymore, both of them are safe.
It’s Luke’s hand she now imagines in place of her own, his fingers burning a path down her stomach, moving along the inside of her thighs, teasing her, making her wait until she’s ready to beg for it. Something else keeps intruding, on the edge of her thoughts, pulling her out of her fantasy. It’s her. Becca. She can feel her there in the darkness.
Ana opens her eyes and looks up but it’s not the darkened ceiling she sees. She’s somewhere else. A canopy of trees frames the moonlit sky above, branches moving with the ebb and flow of the breeze. It’s the rushing sound of the river that envelops Ana now as she once again lies in Rebecca’s resting place. Inclined on a bed of ragged ferns and broken twigs, she looks out through eyes that are not her own. She feels the breeze tangling her hair, lifting the edges of her skirt. It’s as if the whole forest is subtly breathing. Even the ground beneath her shifts, moving like liquid.
It’s too much.
She tries to get back up but she can’t. She’s trapped inside Rebecca’s skin. Helpless, she lies there, dead eyes pinned on the shadow of a man leaning over her.
She can’t see his face.
She can’t move.
Ana focuses on her hand – Rebecca’s hand – pouring all of her bound energy into it. For the longest moment nothing happens but then with a loud crack her fingers flex, nails raking the dirt.
A corpse coming back to life.
The figure above her falters and a sound of utter anguish echoes through the dark forest …
‘No!’
Ana tries to get up but slips backwards into the water, her head submerged, mouth filling with bathwater. Something, or someone, holding her down. Spluttering her way back up, she peers around her very ordinary looking bathroom, chilled to the bone. She’s not sure if it was Luke’s cry or her own that pulled her back but the monitor is now silent and the bath stone cold.
The surface of the water rocks around her, the overflow trickling down the drain in the centre of the floor. She watches the movement of the water across the tiles, still feeling Rebecca with her.
It’s not that she’s forgotten about her or what happened to her over the last few days but she hasn’t given her a lot of thought either. Now she’s made her presence felt, entering through a door Ana left open, reminding her there are three people in this story.
TWENTY-FIVE
The dress is simple but nicely cut. It’s one Ana bought on a whim over a year ago after seeing it in a shop window, but never since had the courage to wear. It was the colour that attracted her, that perfect combination of green and blue, the perfect compliment for her eyes. Or so the saleswoman said.
On her bed are the high heels from the box of her mother’s clothes in the garage. The slut shoes, as her grandmother called them.
Ana sits down to slip them on and catches sight of herself in the mirror of her dressing table. Irena always told her she looked just like her mother, which is presumably why she so often averted her eyes when speaking to her, preferring not to linger too long on her granddaughter’s face. It was a weird sensation that became commonplace, Ana’s presence in this house barely acknowledged, sometimes for days on end. Alone, long before she actually was. As Ana gazes into the mirror she realises her grandmother was telling the truth, she does resemble her mother. She can see it now, enough to wonder why she’s never seen it before. It’s not so evident straight on, more a visual echo, something that starts to fade as soon as it’s grasped, but it’s there. For Irena it must have been like living with a ghost. The ghost of her regrets.
Did Lynch see it too? Was that why he looked so startled when he saw her in the police station? In that moment was he seeing her mother, back from the dead?
Ana has been aware over the past year that she’s approaching the age Ellen was when she died but she hasn’t fully felt it until now. How young she was. How much life she would still have had. She’s never imagined that before. What her mother’s life might have been had she lived. What hers might have been like. They were both accidents, Ellen born long after Irena believed she couldn’t have children and Ana born too early, when Ellen was still a child herself. They might have eventually found common ground in that, in being born of women who didn’t want them.
Ana slips the shoes on and isn’t surprised to find they fit perfectly. She stands to try them out, drifting closer to the mirror, imagining it really is her mother looking back at her. If she’s looking for encouragement or approval she doesn’t get it from the eyes that so coolly appraise her. Ellen’s stomach wouldn’t have been in her mouth at just the thought of going out into the night.
Ana can still remember the look on her mother’s face, memorable because every time she saw it she wished she would look at her like that. Her face shining, a light from within, excited at the prospect of another night in which anything could happen. It was something she never lost – that blind optimism that life could change – no matter how much disappointment she endured, no matter how many miserable ‘mornings after’ she suffered.
Ana has always been the opposite. Expecting the worst.
She has always thought of herself as more like her stoic grandmother, not exactly the ugly duckling but nothing at all like the vibrant and desirable Ellen. It’s ironic that she might now be finally growing into her skin. Beauty, Ana knows, is more than skin deep but she has to admit to feeling some small pleasure at the idea. It would be useful to be able to draw on her mother tonight. Channel her from the ground up. Through her feet.
She tells herself that’s all it is
, this desire to walk in Ellen’s shoes. But the tremulous smile that appears on her face as she gazes into the mirror tells the more truthful story. She needs her mother now, especially with this new ghost haunting her. If anyone could be a match for Rebecca it’s Ellen.
*
Ana turns on the television and listens to the news while she prepares a tray of food but there’s still nothing being reported about the van. As usual a mere fifteen minutes of news and current affairs is followed by an equal amount of time dedicated to the Australian national obsession with sport.
Logically Ana knows these things take time. She has no idea when they took the van away and DNA checks would have to be done on it. And on Rebecca. The police are not likely to announce a break in the case until they are sure.
Ana carefully arranges Luke’s meal on the tray realising as she’s doing it that it resembles a kid’s school lunch, complete with two wrapped sandwiches, a bag of crisps, two bananas and a tub of yoghurt with a plastic spoon, alongside a bottle of water. It’s all clean of drugs. She intends to let him wake up again but this time she’ll give him some space on his own to adjust. It’s better she not be present when he realises he’s chained up like an animal.
*
Her mother’s heels make a racket as Ana carries the tray downstairs and deposits it on the concrete. She pushes the tray with her foot, sliding it across the chalk line. As she expected, there is no response from Luke, who is mostly hidden under the blanket. He’ll probably be out for a while yet. When he wakes he’ll be starving and hopefully grateful she’s left him food.
Ana knows she should just turn around and leave now but she’s unable to get her feet moving back to the stairs. She self-consciously adjusts her hair as she lifts her gaze from the tray. Her eyes follow the winding path of the rusty chain, snaking away from the pillar it’s attached to, over to the mattress where it disappears under the blanket. She’s been trying not to look at him since she stepped into the basement, apart from the initial glance to check that he was still asleep, but now she lets her eyes linger.
He lies spread-eagled on his back, just his face and one bare arm sticking out from under the cover. The angle of his arm is odd, making her think of the broken wing of a bird. His limp hand extended in what looks like a gesture of supplication.
As she gazes across at him she suddenly understands what her hesitation to leave is about. It’s not going to be so easy to drug him again, now he knows that’s what she’s been doing. This could be it. The last time he’ll ever be this vulnerable with her. The next time she enters the basement he will simply be her captive and she the obstacle to his freedom. She knows it’s crazy but it feels like she’s saying goodbye to someone she’ll never see again. Someone she is not yet ready to let go of.
As she lingers there the strangest thing happens. It’s like she’s being split down the middle, feeling herself slowly backing away towards the stairs, only her feet are not moving. It feels so real she can almost hear the click of the basement door closing behind her, leaving Luke once more alone. She’s here with him and yet she’s not.
Ana can feel it all around her now, the danger crackling in the air. She can also feel herself leaning deliberately into it. She slips out of her mother’s shoes and looks down at her bare feet, noticing that one toe has smudged the line she so carefully drew. She suppresses the urge to run back upstairs and grab the chalk to fix it. Instead, she keeps her eyes on her feet, watching first one and then the other step across the smudged line.
Another step takes her close enough to reach down and grab hold of one corner of the blanket. She pulls it towards her, peeling it slowly away until his half-naked body is completely uncovered.
Now she’s closer she can see his hair is damp. He’s been sweating despite the cool air of the basement. Memory floods through her and she sees him hunched over Rebecca in the back of his van, sweat dripping from his hair to his shoulder. She was so close she could have reached out and touched him then. If there hadn’t been the barrier of the window between them.
Ana remains there staring down at him, feeling something else take her over. Like some long buried part of her, deeply embedded in her DNA, is emerging. Her mother and her men, before Ana even knew what it was. The memory of that particular feeling, the rush she’s been chasing ever since. It’s all too familiar, but the pull towards this man is more powerful than anything she felt then or since.
There’s a loud rushing in her ears as she edges closer, not stopping until she’s standing directly over him. She knows she shouldn’t allow herself this, knows it’s wrong, but she doesn’t stop. She feels the mattress shift with her weight as she kneels onto it, stretching out over him. Crouched on all fours, she hovers above, her face just inches from his. She leans down, lightly grazing her cheek against his, feeling the stubble on his jaw scraping against her skin. She brushes her mouth across his shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat on her lips.
She settles herself down until she’s sitting, legs straddling his hips, feeling his heat rising up to her.
One of his hands rests limply next to her leg and she closes her hand over it, moving it for him, up onto her thigh and across her stomach to her breast, pushing her body into his. Her other hand moves across his stomach, exploring the indentation of his belly button, the light scattering of hair, the nipples growing hard under her touch.
The only physical barrier between them is the light fabric of her underpants and his pyjama bottoms but it feels like nothing at all. She feels him respond and stops there, suspended over him, sheets bunched in her hands, eyes lingering on his unconscious face. Acknowledging what she is about to do. What she’s about to become.
In that moment she doesn’t care.
Ana remains there, staring down at him.
She can feel her desire, still present and just as insistent, but shadowed by something else now. Something she is not yet ready to acknowledge.
One thing is certain – there is no longer any part of her that can pretend she isn’t here.
*
Ana bursts into her front yard, taking big gulps of the night air. The night is still, the sky above now clear, millions of stars bearing witness. They’ve never looked brighter.
She turns back to the house. River stands in the hallway staring out at her, his ball held in his mouth, eyes begging her to take him with her. She returns to the door and gently pushes him back inside.
TWENTY-SIX
Rocky’s is pumping, the neon sign permeating the night with its sickly yellow glow. The number of cars packed into the carpark indicate it’s a busy night, the establishment having taken on an air of notoriety now it’s officially known as the last place a murder victim was seen.
Ana has been sitting in her car for a while, trying to psych herself up to enter whilst also trying to keep her thoughts from returning to the basement. So much for keeping her distance. Determined, Ana forces herself out of the car, hobbling as she moves across the gravel, her feet already suffering in the heels. As she weaves her way through the parked cars she registers a couple waiting out front and detours to avoid them. It’s not until she gets closer that she realises they’re standing a little too still.
They’re mannequins. A male and a female.
They’ve been set up as a macabre welcoming committee, a stolen ‘DANGER’ sign next to them with PARTY roughly scrawled across it in what looks like blood. Remnants of the police crime scene tape are loosely wrapped around the pair, both of whom are dressed in what looks like op shop clothing. He’s been made to look like a modern Grim Reaper complete with a skull mask shrouded in a hoody. Her lips are smeared with bright red lipstick and the slightly askew wig on her head is roughly the same shade and style as Rebecca’s hair. She doesn’t really look like her, not even close, but the intention to evoke her, or rather a slutty version of her, is enough to stun Ana into stillness. Whoever went to the trouble of setting up this scene has very questionable taste.
As she stands there
she hears someone laughing behind her and dodges out of the way of a nightmare barrelling full speed towards her. Two young guys in masks are running across the carpark – one a demented killer clown, the other wearing a vicious looking rabbit head, having stepped straight out of some horror version of Alice in Wonderland. Life resembling one of Ana’s dreams.
They run straight past her on their way inside, obviously aware they’re freaking her out and, by the way they’re weaving, already having had a lot to drink. Before they get to the door, the killer clown stops. Ana watches as he turns and backtracks, his terrifying grin aimed directly at her. Her whole body tenses in readiness to run but it’s not her he’s after. Without even stopping he swipes the wig from the mannequin’s head before following his friend inside. Shocked, almost as much as she would have been had he tackled her to the ground, Ana glances at the freshly scalped mannequin, almost expecting to see blood.
Those dead eyes seem to be looking right into her, like she knows exactly who she is and what she’s done.
It spooks her even more than the boys in their ghoulish masks.
*
Having made it inside, Ana stops on the threshold. Her heightened senses so recently laid raw are freshly assaulted by too much noise and movement. The place is more packed than the last time she was here, the regular rough trade of working-class locals mixed now with a few more adventurous tourists. Most disconcerting, though, is the big party of drunken young people in fancy dress. The two guys in masks clearly belong with them, as no doubt do the mannequins, but none of them look like they belong here. They’re roughing it out of some morbid fascination with death, with no visible shred of sensitivity about how that might be perceived. She’s embarrassed for them.
There is a clear space at the bar amongst the regulars and Ana goes for it, claiming a stool as her own just as the barman delivers another beer to a conservatively dressed man on the neighbouring stool. The man looks as out of place as Ana and very strung out. He looks like trouble. She shifts her stool another inch away from him.
Lonely Girl Page 16