by B M Carroll
‘Henry is not normally so cranky,’ she says. ‘You need to give him time.’
Henry, when they go back inside, is making a show of cleaning up, using paper towel, disinfectant and lots of muttered swear words. Melissa smiles. There is something very normal about the scene. It has to be said that having her husband irritated and put out is so much better than having him contained and distant.
‘Morning, Samantha ...’ Melissa has been up for hours when she calls her personal assistant. PJ woke her at 5 a.m. – an improvement on yesterday morning – crying to get out of his crate. She took him straight outside to the loo, and he actually did a wee; she felt inordinately proud of him. Then she played with him, fed him and cleaned the crate before putting him back inside for another nap.
‘How’s PJ doing?’ Samantha coos on the other end of the line.
‘Oh, he’s wonderful. He did a wee in the pet loo this morning.’ Melissa cannot believe she just said that.
‘What a clever boy ... When are you going to send photos?’
‘I have hundreds already but most are out of focus. Trying to keep him still is harder than getting Pharma Direct to sign on the dotted line.’ Pharma Direct is one of her most difficult clients, which brings her back to the reason for her call. ‘Look, I’m going to work from home again today. He’s so tiny, I just can’t leave him alone all day.’
It’s a dog, not a child, but who would have thought it would be so hard to leave him? If only her working day wasn’t so unforgivingly long. If only the office was closer, and she could duck home for playtime and toilet breaks.
Melissa works solidly for the next few hours. Her doorbell buzzes in the early afternoon. She checks the video screen, which is part of the security system, and is surprised to see a group of schoolgirls gathered outside the main door of the building.
‘Can I help you?’ she enquires into the intercom.
One of them steps forward. Tucks her hair awkwardly behind one ear. Melissa realises it’s Tessa, Henry’s daughter.
‘Err ... I was wondering if I could see the puppy.’
Melissa buzzes them in. She can’t remember the last time Tessa was here. Not since the early days with Henry, before they decided to get married and the battle lines were drawn. The same applies for Christopher, her brother.
Tessa and her friends tumble through the door, their hair in ponytails, their faces soft and unknowingly gorgeous. Melissa is sharply reminded of her own school years.
‘Sorry,’ Tessa says breathlessly. ‘I wanted to see the puppy, and then everyone else invited themselves along. We have a free period ... Oh my God. Look at him. He is so cute. Can I hold him?’
‘Sure.’ Melissa hands over the squirming ball of fur.
PJ is passed from arm to arm and clucked over like a newborn baby. With a strange out-of-body feeling – maybe getting up at the crack of dawn is taking its toll – Melissa puts some chocolate-chip cookies on a plate. She recently read something about food being a sure-fire way to impress teenagers. She suspects it’s not that simple.
The girls devour the biscuits and Melissa puts out some more. In the meantime, PJ manages to escape their arms, jumping down and launching into his party trick: a spot of tail chasing before running around the place at top speed.
‘Oh look, he has the zooms,’ says one the girls.
Round and round he goes. Up on the couch. Vaulting over the back. Skidding round the kitchen island. The girls are laughing hysterically and half-heartedly trying to catch him. It seems that pets work just as well as food when it comes to dismantling teenage cynicism.
‘Tessa,’ Melissa says quietly amid all the shrieking and laughing.
‘What?’ Ah, there’s the suspicion and negativity she knows of old.
‘I need someone to check on PJ during the day, while I’m at work.’
Tessa’s face is deadpan. She doesn’t give much away. She should think about a career in law.
‘I’m willing to pay,’ Melissa adds, aiming to sound matter-of-fact rather than needy.
The school is within walking distance. Tessa is a senior student and allowed to leave the premises at lunchtime and during free periods.
‘How much?’
‘Fifteen dollars a visit ... That’s seventy-five a week.’
Tessa’s eyes – her lashes spiky with mascara that’s surely against school rules? – narrow as she weighs it up. It’s easy money and if it were anyone else making the offer, they both know she would snap it up. Melissa is left with the sense that she’s shown her hand too soon. She should have waited. Her intuition, which is perfect when dealing with difficult clients, has consistently let her down when it comes to Henry’s children.
‘Okay,’ Tessa says slowly. ‘But only if my friends can come too.’
‘Of course,’ Melissa agrees, struggling to disguise how pleased she is. ‘That goes without saying.’
Melissa works for another few hours after the girls leave. Then she attempts another photo shoot.
‘Good boy ... Now look this way.’
PJ looks everywhere but the camera. Nevertheless, she proudly sends the blurry photos to Samantha, Cassie and Henry.
After dinner, she watches TV with PJ’s warm body curled up in her lap. She’s bemused that she already loves this puppy so completely and uncomplicatedly. It’s starting to get dark outside. She moves him to the rug and goes around the apartment, pulling shut the blinds, something she was never pedantic about before. She hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that someone has been watching her apartment, cataloguing Henry’s visits, connecting the dots of her private life.
‘How are you at being a guard dog?’ she asks as she carries PJ to his crate.
Pretty useless, going by his enthusiastic response to today’s visitors. But for some reason, his very presence makes her feel considerably less alone and vulnerable.
‘Night night,’ she says, giving him one last cuddle.
Time for bed for Melissa too. It has been an extremely long day. Tomorrow will be another early start. But there is one more thing to do, to close out. She owes Jarrod an answer to his question.
Want to meet up for a drink?
What to say? How to say it? She scrolls through the photos she took earlier, selects a particularly cute one and forwards it to him.
Sorry I haven’t been in touch. This is the reason why. His name is PJ.
He has his answer from the delay in her response, as well as the blatant change of subject. It’s a no. It has to be a no. They’re both married, and probably incapable of being platonic with each other.
Satisfied, she removes her jewellery and clothes. She goes for a shower, squeezing her eyes shut under the gushing water, forcing herself to look forward, not back.
Her phone screen is blank when she returns to the bedroom. No response. This is good, this is what she wants.
It’s over. Extinguished. They’ve both heeded the warning signs: dangerous territory, keep back.
30
ZACH
Zach’s on the late shift. This means he gets the feverish babies who can’t fall asleep, the ailments that have suddenly got worse with the onset of dark, and the jaded working population who have to wait until after hours for a doctor’s appointment.
He picks up the phone and punches in Sandy’s extension. ‘I’d like a second opinion on something, if you can manage the time.’
Sandy can’t manage the time. It’s evident from her reluctant tone and the queues in the waiting room. ‘Give me a few minutes.’
Zach’s patient is a man in his thirties who has been feeling ‘under the weather’ for a few days. ‘Hey, mate, should I be worried about something?’
‘Your symptoms are a little inconsistent. Sandy has more clinical experience than me ... it’s worth her having a look.’
The man has dark skin, which is not helping in terms of identifying the rash across his torso.
‘Are the lights bothering you?’ Zach asks for the second time.
>
The man squints at the downlights inset in the ceiling. ‘Nope.’
‘Do you feel confused?’
‘No more than normal, mate.’
They both laugh.
‘Sleepy? Nauseous?’
‘Not specifically ... Just unwell.’
If it wasn’t for the rash, Zach would be writing him a medical certificate and recommending that he spend the next few days in bed, shaking off the virus.
Sandy comes in ten minutes later, stethoscope draped around her neck. Her eyes are as weary as his own.
Zach gives her the run-down. ‘Patient has been feeling unwell since Wednesday. Temperature 40.8, stiff neck, bad headache, and this rash ... But no photophobia, confusion or drowsiness.’
Sandy presses her fingers against the rash, and then a glass, which is exactly the process Zach followed. The rash does not appear to fade with the pressure.
‘I don’t like this rash. Even though the other symptoms all appear to be within the range of a normal virus.’
‘That’s what’s making me hesitate, too.’
‘No point in hesitating if the question is there.’
‘Yes, agreed ... Thank you.’
Zach shoots Sandy an appreciative smile as she slips out of the room. He doesn’t know why he’s second-guessing himself tonight.
He turns his attention back to his patient. ‘I’m going to organise an ambulance. Meningitis can be a very serious illness and we—’
‘Meningitis? Fucking hell! Are you serious?’
Zach summons a tone of calm authority, the best antidote for panic. ‘This is precautionary because of your inconsistent symptoms. Let me make the call, and then we’ll inform your family—’
‘The wife’s at home putting the kids to bed. She thinks I have a bad case of man flu.’
It’s after 10 p.m. when Zach finishes up, an hour behind schedule. He hasn’t called Izzy. She’s a doctor herself, she knows what can happen. Gloria and Sandy have already left and it’s Zach’s job to lock up. Unplug the sterilisers, instrument dryers and the television in reception. Lock all the windows and doors. Set the security system. Everything seems to take longer than it usually does.
The surgery has half a dozen car spaces at the rear that the doctors don’t reserve: they’re all fit, healthy and perfectly capable of a short walk, unlike many of their patients. Zach always enjoys the walk, finds it rejuvenating, especially tonight as he is out of sorts for some reason.
He texts Izzy as he walks.
On my way.
He can see her in his mind, pillows propped behind her back as she reads and yawns, reads and yawns. She’s an early-to-bed and early-riser type, but she tries to wait up until he comes in. It’s one of her mainstays – being there to greet him, no matter how sleepily – and he loves her for the sentiment.
Zach unlocks his car as soon as it comes into sight. He steps on to the road, waits for a car to pass. He’s inside the vehicle, the engine running, before he notices the paper wedged under the wiper. And then he knows. He knows this – the prospect of a follow-up note – has been the cause of his disquiet. He knows this time he will have to tell Izzy the truth.
He sits back inside the car. Takes a shaky breath. Unfolds the paper.
For the last twenty years, I’ve thought of nothing else but killing you. I’ve fantasised about circling your throat with my hands. Blocking the air to your windpipe. Seeing you gasp for words. I’ve fantasised about plunging a knife into your skin. Blood spurting like a fountain. I’ve seen myself shoot you, heard the bang and smelt gunpowder in the air. I’ve seen myself push you in front of a bus, an articulated truck, a train, anything that would obliterate you from this world.
Bottom line is that you don’t deserve to live. And she deserves someone much better than you.
Are you going to tell her what a scumbag you are, or will I?
Jesus Christ. Zach looks around wildly. Is the person who left this note lurking somewhere, watching his reaction? He presses the central-lock button of the car, then swings around to make sure there is no one in the back seat. Jesus Christ. His heart is thumping, hands shaking so much they’re hopping off the steering wheel. Is he okay to drive?
Who is doing this? This is serious. All pretence of joking is gone.
It’s Robbie. It has to be Robbie. Who else could hate him this much?
31
KATY
Katy is the first to arrive at the tapas bar where she and Mike agreed to meet. It’s a small place and immediately obvious that her date – although she shouldn’t really be using that term – isn’t here. She sits down at one of the tables, and a waiter who reminds her of Luke – same height and build – takes her drinks order.
It doesn’t matter if he stands me up, she tells herself. I’ve nothing to lose.
She has been stood up more times than she cares to remember. Nowadays she has a policy of waiting for no longer than twenty minutes. Time enough to allow for transport problems or other genuine reasons for being late. Time enough to finish one drink and look as though she is the kind of girl who regularly goes out on her own.
The waiter arrives with a large glass of sangria. She takes a long gulp. Checks the time on her phone, then notices a movement by the door. He’s here. Relief.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, even before he reaches her table. ‘Babysitter problems.’
Katy is attracted to him straight away. Average height. Dark hair. Pale skin. An athletic body from working out at the gym or some other regular sport. She stands up. Offers him her hand.
‘I always allow my students one chance,’ she says, only half joking.
‘What happens if they’re late a second time?’ Even his smile is attractive, encompassing his whole face, shining through his dark brown eyes; she could get lost in his eyes if she looked for too long.
‘Detention. Or clean-up duties. As well as being in my bad books for the rest of the year.’
He laughs and pulls out a seat to sit down. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
The waiter reappears and Katy thinks of Luke again. If her calculations are correct, Luke and Aaron should be getting on a plane quite soon. She offered them the use of her spare bedroom during their visit but Luke declined. Apparently, Aaron wants to stay in the family home, which is admirable but potentially disastrous.
‘Can I get you something to drink, sir? A beer or some wine?’
Mike nods at Katy’s sangria. ‘I’ll have some of that.’
‘How about a jug to share?’
Katy and Mike exchange a quick look. They both know that they’ll be here for more than one drink.
‘Sounds good,’ Mike confirms. He begins to talk about his sister, who is the babysitter tonight (and ninety per cent of the time). According to Mike, she’s the flakiest babysitter in the world, so chances are he’ll end up in Katy’s bad books again sometime in the future.
Sometime in the future.
The casual assumption that they’ll meet again makes her feel disproportionately happy. She tells herself to get a grip.
She asks him about his son, who was in some of the photos he sent for the yearbook. He promptly shows her more photos on his phone: Toby on a scooter, Toby at the beach, Toby with a soccer ball in his hands.
‘I’m a big believer in recording everything. Photos. Videos. Writing down the funny moments as well as the not-so-funny moments. It can be gone so quickly.’
Katy’s heart aches. For Mike. For four-year-old Toby, who will grow up without his mother. For Brigette, who will miss out on all his milestones, and even the everyday things like nagging him to clean his room and brush his teeth.
They both realise how hungry they are and order some tapas. She learns that he doesn’t like chorizo, and he discovers her weakness for pork flatbread. He asks her a million questions about school, her students, her timetable, her colleagues. She asks him about his work: the security firm that he owns, the type of security they provide (building security soluti
ons) and what he likes and dislikes about it.
‘I like that it’s so broad. Every building is different, every client is unique, no two jobs are the same. What I don’t like is when there’s an after-hours incident. It’s difficult with Toby, especially if it’s the dead of night.’
Katy can see Toby curled up in bed, his dark head resting on his pillow, a soft toy held loosely in his arms. ‘What do you do if that happens?’
‘Drop him at Mum and Dad’s. Or a neighbour’s house.’
‘Not your sister?’
‘Emergencies aren’t her thing. I’ve told you, she’s flaky.’
They both laugh and then order another jug of sangria.
Mike becomes serious after that. ‘So what’s the latest about the yearbook and the mysterious messages?’
Katy almost forgot the reason they’re here in the first place: to see if he can get to the bottom of what’s going on. ‘I had a missed call from Zach Latham earlier today. It sounds like he got another note, a really nasty one.’
‘So has everyone in the year group received messages?’ His question is slow and thoughtful. He comes across as someone who doesn’t rush in, someone who’d be calm and measured in a crisis.
‘Not everyone. A certain group. What we used to call the popular group ... And, quite strangely, me.’
‘You weren’t part of the popular group?’ He seems to find this hard to believe.
‘I had bright orange hair and loved science,’ she says drily. ‘What do you think?’
He laughs, deep grooves forming at the sides of his mouth.
‘As far as I know, six people have received messages,’ she continues. ‘Annabel, Grace, Luke, Zach, Melissa and me.’
As Katy calls out the names, she realises that Jarrod is missing from the list. Does this mean something?
‘Can you get me copies?’ Mike asks. ‘Sometimes there are obvious clues when all the evidence is seen together.’
‘I think so ... I’ll ask everyone. Some of the content is sensitive – both Annabel and Grace were quite upset – but hopefully that won’t stop them from sharing.’