by Nicola West
The fucking blood.
I’d never seen anything like it before. It was far worse than anything dreamed up in a horror film. I stood there, dumbfounded, for far too long. It was like my body had forgotten how to move, and time had stopped. But, finally, I dived to the floor and crawled towards Sharon. Her eyes were staring at something unseen – just like Lily’s had. I reached out to try and stop the blood gushing from her neck. Just as my hands touched the wound, I was shocked to feel a pair of arms wrap around my body and pull me back.
Nathan crouched down and wrapped his large hands around Sharon’s neck. But it was too late – she was still staring at nothing. I allowed myself to be pulled into Michael’s arms as he cradled me against his chest, just as he had his wife on the side of that road. I was screaming at the top of my lungs – over and over again – but I couldn’t hear the sound.
I looked down at my hands. They were covered in blood. Just like Jarrah had said.
EPILOGUE
The Sydney Opera House’s concert hall was completely silent. Every eye in the venue was fixed on Marlowe Robertson as she stared at the palms of her hands. Those in the front row could see that she was shaking.
A hand reached out from the seat next to her and grasped her palm. She looked up – shocked – as if she’d forgotten Michael Williams had been sitting next to her for the entire interview. The faintest smile graced her lips, and she turned to face the audience.
‘I – I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, her microphone only exacerbating the crack in her voice.
‘We love you, Lo!’ another audience member yelled, prompting further shouts of encouragement from the crowd.
She pulled her hand away from Michael and made a heart sign with her fingertips – holding it up to the audience. She could see on the monitor that one of the cameras had zoomed in on the gesture. On the live feed, the online chat began spamming ‘<3’.
‘Are you okay to go on?’ the presenter asked, no doubt wary of the time. ‘I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you, even seven years later.’
Marlowe looked at the woman and nodded.
‘That’s actually why it’s so important for me to be sharing this story,’ she said, before turning to address the crowd. ‘It’s why I wrote my book. Because this type of thing needs to be talked about – even when it’s difficult to do so.’
Marlowe gestured at the screen behind her, which still contained the front cover of The Showgirl’s Secret. She knew that her publicist would be pleased to see her getting in an extra plug for her book. Michael caught her eye, and she nodded slightly.
‘It’s also why Michael and I started The Lily Foundation,’ she announced, hoping that the techs had changed the graphic to display the charity’s website and social media handles. ‘It’s all about destigmatising mental illness and educating people on how to support their loved ones when they’re facing this battle.’
‘Because ultimately,’ the presenter interjected, ‘it is a battle that can be lost, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Marlowe nodded, recognising that the woman was trying to get her back on track. ‘Unfortunately, both Lily and Sharon lost that battle.’
‘And what were you thinking at that moment? When you were cradled in Michael’s arms, staring down at Sharon’s blood on your hands?’
‘Honestly? I thought I was being punished.’
‘But I thought you said you didn’t believe in a higher power?’
‘No, not by God. I thought I was being punished by Sharon.’
‘But why?’ the presenter asked.
‘Because, at the time, I thought that I was the only person she had confessed to. So, by her killing herself, I thought that she was leaving me with that burden. That she knew that no one would believe me after all my other claims proved to be false. All I’d wanted was the truth, and she’d given it to me – but there was nothing I could do about it.’
The presenter nodded solemnly.
‘Or so I thought. When my father turned up with the rest of the police, moments after she died, I was so confused. I couldn’t figure out how they’d made it there so quickly.’
Marlowe turned to face Michael. He was wiping tears from his eyes.
‘But they were there to arrest her, weren’t they?’ the presenter asked.
‘Yeah.’ Marlowe nodded. ‘She’d confessed before Nathan and I had arrived. It was why my father had been called away. She had a session with her psychiatrist – the man I hadn’t recognised – after the funeral. And she had admitted everything.’
‘And what had prompted that confession? All those days after Lily’s death?’
Marlowe noticed the glint in the presenter’s eyes. She swallowed the bile that was gathering in her throat. On the screen, the seconds to the interview’s end ticked away.
Marlowe fought back tears. ‘It was me. The reading I’d done at the funeral. She thought I knew – it’s why she tried to kill herself then.’
Tears streamed down Marlowe’s face as the presenter rose to her feet and walked to the edge of the stage. The cameras followed her. It looked natural, but it was all pre-planned.
‘And if it weren’t for the investigative skills of Miss Robertson, coupled with the valiant actions of Leading Senior Constable Nathan Campbell, the identity of Lily Williams’ killer would have died with her mother. It was only through Marlowe’s tenacity, and this young officer’s bravery, that Steve Masters’ name was cleared.’
Marlowe’s eyes flicked to the monitor as she watched the cameras pan to the front row. They zoomed in on the man sitting towards the end of the aisle, bookended by Barry Masters and his wife. Nathan looked surprisingly dapper in his formal police uniform and visibly puffed up as the camera focused on the bravery medal attached to his chest. Both of the Masters proudly placed an arm around him, and his face slowly turned red. The three had become close in the years since Steve’s accident – the family that Nathan never had – and the Masters truly believed that by saving Sharon and allowing her to confess, Nathan had also saved their son.
The camera panned to Steve Masters. Alive, but not well. His traumatic brain injury necessitated the use of a wheelchair, and he was propped at the end of the row like an afterthought. When the camera zoomed in on his vacant stare, Marlowe found herself unable to look at the monitor. The presenter was spewing more drivel, but Marlowe had tuned it out. She was sick of seeing Steve used as a prop.
The entire crowd was cheering for him, but he had no idea.
After the presenter had milked Nathan and the Masters for all they were worth, she returned to her seat. Marlowe picked up the mug on the table in front of her and sipped the water inside. She took a deep breath. She knew what was coming.
‘Now,’ the presenter began, her brow narrowing, ‘I think it’s time for the tough questions, don’t you?’
‘Wait, those were the easy ones?’ Marlowe asked, prompting laughter from the crowd.
‘I’m curious what you would say to your detractors? The conspiracy theorists who seem convinced that you are now part of the cult that Lily detailed in her journals.’
Marlowe took a protracted sip of water. She knew how to milk things too.
‘After all, it’s difficult to deny the fact that your life has drastically changed in the wake of Lily and Sharon’s deaths. I think most would argue for the better.’
‘Would they?’ Marlowe asked before placing her mug on the table. She looked out into the massive crowd and smiled. ‘Well, ultimately, I empathise with the conspiracy theorists. Because I once was one of them. I know more than anyone how beguiling a good conspiracy can be, and that’s why I included the bowerbird story in my book and continue to bring it up in talks like this. It serves to remind people that sometimes the truth simply isn’t the best or most interesting story. Sometimes bone shards come from cows, not humans; sometimes disembodied screams come from birds, not ghosts; and sometimes the most horrible things in the world come not from reality, but from the psyche.’
>
The presenter nodded sagely.
‘The harsh reality is that mental illness remains one of this nation’s most insidious and prolific killers. The fact that we prefer to imagine that Lily and her mother were the victims of some sort of satanic, child-killing death cult, rather than two women struggling with mental illness, speaks volumes about society’s perceptions of these issues.’
A murmur made its way around the audience, and a spattering of applause broke out.
‘The things we should fear don’t lurk in rainforests,’ Marlowe continued. ‘They lurk in our minds, and in the minds of our loved ones. I mean, you only have to look at me. I had the most textbook, cut and dried symptoms of PTSD after finding Lily. Yet, for some fucked-up reason, I thought that the only person who was truly trying to help me was actually trying to kill me.’
She turned and faced Michael.
‘No, I was also trying to kill you,’ he said.
‘Oh my god, don’t!’ Marlowe chided, playfully slapping him on the wrist. ‘They don’t need any more bloody ammunition for their conspiracy theories!’
The audience erupted in laughter, and Michael sheepishly shrugged at the camera that was trained on him. Marlowe turned back to the presenter. She was stony-faced, but that may have just been the Botox.
‘Through your work with The Lily Foundation, you’ve spoken in-depth about your own mental health issues and treatment, haven’t you?’ the presenter asked.
‘Yes. When Michael and I started the foundation, we knew that transparency would be tremendously important. Over the years, I’ve shared both the ups and the downs. But, the fact of the matter remains, I wouldn’t be sitting here today if I hadn’t gone into treatment after witnessing Sharon’s death. It’s something that I have to deal with every single day – even all these years later – and I think it’s important to be honest about that. It truly is a lifelong journey.’
As if on cue, the entire audience broke into applause.
‘The Lily Foundation and – of course – you and Michael have done so much for mental health awareness in this country, particularly for those in rural areas. And I really do encourage everyone watching this – both here and at home – to go out and support the charity in any way you can. They really are changing people’s lives, folks, and could always do with more donations and volunteers.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Marlowe said, smiling warmly at the presenter. She glanced at the clock on the stage – the numbers had turned red – there wasn’t long to go. She resisted the urge to scan the crowd.
‘No, thank you, Marlowe and Michael, for your time on what I’m sure is a very difficult day. It’s quite incredible that with Lily Day you’ve managed to transform such a tragic anniversary into a force of good.’
‘I honestly think it’s what Lily would have wanted,’ Marlowe replied.
‘Bullshit!’ a voice yelled from the crowd.
Even without seeing him, Marlowe knew who it was.
‘Lily and Sharon’s blood is on your hands!’ Jarrah Watson shouted.
More people joined in. It was only a small fraction of the crowd, but it was enough. Their voices reverberated around the concert hall as they repeated the words over and over again. Marlowe’s eyes flicked to Michael. He was watching a group of security guards exit the wings. He looked calm on the surface, but Marlowe knew that didn’t mean much.
‘P-please,’ the presenter began, her harried voice joining the din. ‘Please, may I ask you to stop? This is quite inappropriate.’
A few counter-hecklers had tried to start their own chant, but the lack of organisation meant they petered out before long. Still, there were boos and jeers attempting to drown out the sounds of the protesters. In the distance, Marlowe could see that a few had brought crudely drawn banners. She looked at the monitor on the floor – one of the cameras had zoomed in on Jarrah. He was halfway up the stalls, right on the edge of the row. The security guards were descending on him, but he stood strong and continued the chant.
The view on the monitor changed, and Marlowe noticed a camera was pointing at her. She could see someone approaching on her left-hand side and turned to face them. It was a young Asian woman with a choppy bob – the skittish stagehand, seemingly there to escort her back to safety. She wouldn’t go though. She refused to be intimidated by Jarrah.
Then she noticed what the stagehand was holding.
Before she had a chance to react, the stagehand threw the contents of the bucket onto Marlowe. She held her hands up in front of her as she leaped to her feet, but it did little to stop the substance from hitting her square in the chest. A few audience members screamed, and it was enough to disrupt the chant – if only for a few seconds.
Marlowe stood there, mouth agape, dripping in blood, which she prayed was fake. Michael grabbed her by the wrist to pull her to safety, but she wrenched her arm away. She wasn’t going anywhere. On the monitor, all the shots were of her. Standing on that stage – covered in blood – while the protesters’ chants rang out.
A small smile graced her lips.
* * *
‘I want that fucker fried,’ Michael shouted into his mobile.
He was standing alongside Marlowe as they rode the private elevator to the Park Hyatt’s penthouse suites. He’d finally managed to drag her off the stage, and – after being locked down in a dressing room together while security cleared the protesters – they’d eventually been escorted through the bowels of the Opera House to a waiting limousine. Its cream leather seats were now dyed red.
‘I don’t give a damn that it wasn’t real blood,’ he snapped. ‘It’s still assault. And I don’t care that he wasn’t the one who did it – the stagehand was obviously working under his order. The fucking protest was just a distraction.’
He begrudgingly listened to the person on the phone, examining his three-piece suit in the elevator’s mirror. It had received its own fair share of fake blood, but nowhere near as much as Marlowe’s clothes.
‘We’ve been putting up with this prick for years. These stupid fucking stunts every time he has a new art show. He lost the libel case against Marlowe’s book. I want an AVO this time. No excuses.’
Before the person on the other end had a chance to reply, Michael hung up. He sighed and looked down at his watch. There was a large streak of blood on its face.
The elevator doors opened, and Michael gestured for Marlowe to go before him. She’d removed her leather jacket not long after she’d left the stage and it was slung over her forearm. He noticed that her long hair was still slick with the fake blood and that her black singlet was clinging to her flesh.
She spun around to face him as he stepped into the private lobby. ‘I could have told you that it wasn’t real blood. Some got in my mouth.’
‘I’m not sure if you heard, but they don’t know if they got all the protesters,’ Michael replied. ‘The cops are worried some may have slipped out in the confusion. But Jarrah and the stagehand, as well as the majority of the ones with the banners, have all been brought in for questioning.’
‘You know he’s not going to stop doing this shit, right?’
Michael’s smile was wry. ‘Not everyone’s as tenacious as you, Miss Robertson.’
‘I dunno. These stunts are getting more and more outlandish.’
‘More and more desperate, don’t you mean? Have you seen the kinds of gallery shows he’s been landing lately? Let’s be real here, he doesn’t give a fuck about Lily – he never did. This is all about him. It always was.’
Marlowe glanced around the space before lowering her voice. ‘I’m just saying maybe don’t underestimate him, okay? The dude’s a total wildcard. You just never know what he’s capable of.’
Michael leaned in close. ‘Hmm, who does that sound like?’
Marlowe rolled her eyes and stepped away from him.
‘Are you still okay to go to Government House tonight?’ Michael asked. ‘I mean, they will have seen what happened. It’s already all over
the news. So, if you were looking for an excuse to get out of it, you definitely have one.’
‘Nah, I’m looking forward to it. And I’m sure as hell not going to let Jarrah get in the way of things.’
‘Well, in that case, we better get cleaned up.’ Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the key to his suite.
‘Oh,’ Marlowe said, seemingly taken aback, ‘I was thinking I could just show up like this. It suits me, don’t you –’
‘We’re going to be late, Marlowe.’
She locked eyes with him but eventually fished her key card out of the jacket still slung over her arm. The two of them walked to their respective suites. As Marlowe heard Michael’s door snap shut, she pushed hers open.
The Sydney Suite’s loungeroom overlooked the iconic building that she and Michael had just left, and the floor-to-ceiling windows provided the perfect vantage point. Ferries languidly bobbed along the water, while seagulls hovered in the air, and tourists cluttered the footpaths of Circular Quay.
She headed towards the master bathroom and was once again floored by the view – this time, of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Tiny people in jumpsuits were slowly climbing the arch. They looked like they were all tethered together – completely at the whim of the people they were bound to.
At the centre of the room was a free-standing bathtub that could comfortably fit at least four people. Marlowe was surprised to see that the round vessel had been partially filled with water. A bottle of Kilmagoon and a crystal glass rested on the side of the tub.
She approached the bath and dipped her arm into the water. It was lukewarm, so she turned the tap, and hot water began pouring out of the spout. She began peeling away her clothes, quietly amazed by just how much of the fake blood had managed to permeate them. She was frustrated that she’d been forced to wear her signature all-black. Her impromptu Carrie moment would have looked so much more impressive in white.
Carefully stepping into the vessel, Marlowe watched as the water was slowly dyed red. The bloody plumes that spiralled off her legs were perfectly contrasted against the pure white of the tub. As she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she was shocked that her hair had caused a large amount of the red substance to drip down the small of her back. She felt goosebumps ripple across her flesh when she realised how similar it looked to the wound on Lily’s back.