by Adele Parks
Fiona knocks on the bathroom door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ As we shared a flat for so many years, we’ve seen one another’s naked bodies often enough before, but today I feel shyer because of the purple-and-brown bruises blooming on my ribs, wrists, chest and back. I expect her to recoil or look shocked; I’m grateful for her strength when she simply picks up a sponge, dips it in the water and starts to carefully clean my back for me.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asks. ‘I mean, only if you feel up to it.’
‘You must have been wondering how did I get myself into this mess?’
‘Well, yes.’ She pauses and then murmurs, ‘Oh Kylie, what made you think it was OK?’
Until this past week, I have always worked hard at minimising the time I spend thinking about my situation and I’ve made sure I never talk about it, not so much a whisper. However, whilst I was locked up memories, thoughts, causes for my choices clambered into my head – elbows out, demanding to be noticed. All that time alone and nothing to do, it was impossible not to feel the jabs at my conscience and reason. At my heart. I think I do want to talk about it. I want Fiona to understand me as much as it is possible to do so.
‘You know as a child I lived half a week with my mother, half a week with my father.’
‘Yes.’
‘Their divorce meant I became a baton stick, hurriedly handed over on doorsteps, that is until I was old enough to take myself to and fro on trains and buses. You know, no one ever asked me if I liked living divided between them.’
‘Well, I suppose you were lucky that both parents wanted you.’
‘The thing is, I don’t think both parents did want me,’ I admit. ‘I think they just wanted the other not to have me. A very different thing.’ My childhood was complex. Pitted and pocked with pain. Marred by a sense of anxiety about the future and regret about my short past that seemed to already be so solidly wrong that I doubted I could ever fix it. Fiona gently dips the sponge and then squeezes the water out on my shoulders. The rhythmic action is comforting.
‘As I lived between my mother and father, even the simple task of getting ready for school was challenging. I often struggled to find a clean uniform, the thing that signals to a child that she belongs, fits in. Invariably, inevitably, the piece of kit or bit of homework I needed was in the wrong house.’
‘That’s tough on a kid. Awkward,’ Fiona murmurs sympathetically.
It was more than awkward. I’m not explaining it well enough. I push on. ‘Neither of my parents bothered to develop routines or take ownership of me and my needs. It was a good day if I found food in the fridge. I was often hungry. I didn’t have my own room at my father’s, I used the guest room and was forbidden to put up posters or customise it in any way. I was allowed to leave one bag of personal belongings there, but I had to stash that under the bed in case the room was needed.’
‘But you had a room at your mother’s, right?’
‘No. We shared a room. In some rentals, we shared a bed. She was always telling me my father didn’t give her enough money to “live properly”. Although, she was never hungry enough to look for a job.’
‘Your mum has always been a piece of work,’ Fiona comments.
It’s confusing that I feel the stab of disloyalty as always when I allow anyone else to criticise my mother, however mildly. Despite everything, she is my mother. I carry on though because it’s a relief to finally be talking about this to someone. To Fiona. ‘The worst thing of all was the way they each questioned me about the other. My father always wanted to know if my mother was up to scratch. He wanted to catch her out. Find fault. Even if that meant I was hurt or neglected in some way, he didn’t seem to mind the cost as long as he could say, “Ha! I said she was unfit!” Something he yelled if I missed a dentist appointment or when I scalded myself preparing supper. “How many meals has your mother cooked this week?” “When did you last eat a fresh vegetable?” The truth caused trouble for my mum. Admitting she was in bed, lying in the dark and in her depression when I scalded myself was snitching, as was admitting we ate tinned carrots and sweetcorn.’
‘It can’t have been easy,’ Fiona says.
‘My mother’s questioning was more like an interrogation. When I returned home from my father’s house, she would be waiting for me at the door. Breathlessly keen. She wanted me to recount every moment I spent there. Who said what to whom? Who wore what? Did they look happy? Were my brothers well behaved? Had my father and Ellie bought anything new in the past week? What did they eat? Drink? What music did they listen to? Sometimes she would hiss angrily, roll her eyes and comment, “All right for some. Tuna steaks? They cost a fortune.” She would get me to describe or even sketch what Ellie was wearing and then manically scour shops to find a similar outfit. Other times she would silently turn back to her bedroom. Defeated, distant, distraught.’
The water in the bath is getting cool now. I stand up and reach for a big towel that Fiona has had warming on the radiator. I climb out of the bath and wrap it around me as I carry on talking.
‘Over time, I learnt that it was easier not to feed either of them the answers they hungered after. When my father asked about my life with my mother, I simply said, “It’s boring, I don’t want to talk about it.” I said that over and over again until he eventually stopped asking. After that, he barely spoke to me at all.’ Fiona tuts. ‘With my mother I insisted, “I don’t remember.” “But you must!” she would yell, irritated. I’d shake my head. “Nope. Nothing. I remember nothing.” I stayed stubbornly silent until she declared me useless. I learnt to lock up both lives, build a wall between them.’
I finally dare look at Fiona. I stand dripping on the bathroom floor and hoping for some understanding, some forgiveness. She looks pale. She is biting her bottom lip. Her stress tell.
‘So this is why living two separate lives as an adult hasn’t been as weird for you as it would be for others,’ she comments. ‘Not as weird as it should have been.’
‘I guess,’ I admit with a shrug.
45
DC Clements
It is Tanner who draws her attention to the plasterboard on the ground. He impatiently kicks it as he strides towards the luxury building. ‘Bloody litter louts. I hate them. They have the right idea in Singapore. Three-hundred-dollar fine for dropping a fag end or sweet wrapper. Crap like this would get a court appearance. Stringent enforcement.’
Clements looks up. She can see light bouncing and glinting on most of the windows above. But one, on the fourteenth floor, is opaque because it is open, and the light is being swallowed. It’s a possibility. She grasps at that because sometimes, a possibility is enough. ‘We need to get up to that floor,’ she says.
The place is deserted, no sign of the concierge but they find his number, pinned behind the desk, conscientiously left for residents who might need his help. Within twenty minutes Alfonso is at the building and he is happy to let them in. He seems pleased to be needed. Irritated that the residents have sent him home.
‘I saw that mess, wanted to sort it out, but they wouldn’t give me the time. Mr Janssen said I had to get on my way ASAP.’
‘Everyone is being asked to work from home now. I’m jealous,’ says Tanner. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘We’re glad you are here though. Very grateful,’ adds Clements.
The man straightens his shoulders, purposeful. ‘Well, the apartment with the open window belongs to the Federovas. Russian couple. Rarely here. Haven’t seen them for months. They have workmen in and out now and again. Doing it up. Haven’t seen many of those for a while though either. Normally Mrs Federova emails me in advance because I sort out access. Can’t think why a window might be open. They may have loaned the place out to a friend, I suppose.’
‘Can you let us in?’
‘Happy to.’
They knock on the door of the apartment, out of courtesy but there is no answer, so Alfonso presses the key code and the door
swings open.
They swiftly walk through the rooms. The only thing that initially seems out of place is a typewriter and a pile of paper on the floor outside a bedroom door. They open that door. Clements’ eyes jump from one thing to the next, taking it all in in an instant. The hole in the wall, chains attached to the radiator, debris, empty water bottles, food wrappers, a stinking bucket of crap.
‘Call it in, Tanner. We need to take prints, or maybe tests of the waste in the bucket; we need proof she was in here, but I think it’s—’
‘A safe assumption.’
‘I was going to say a decent lead. There’s no such thing as a safe assumption.’ But Clements feels something scorch her belly: adrenaline. This is something. This is big. She has to admit, this is the closest you ever get to a safe assumption.
‘No body though. You think he’s done her in and got rid of her?’ Tanner asks.
‘I hope not but we need to find Daan Janssen. Let’s pay him a visit right now.’
Alfonso is holding a handkerchief to his face. He looks pale, shocked. ‘I’ll take you up. I can let you in there too, if he’s gone.’
46
Fiona
Fiona is trying her best to be as sympathetic as possible. Kylie is her best friend. Well, she was; everything has changed irredeemably. It is very hard to see her beaten and broken body. Clearly, she’s been through a lot. Yet Fiona can’t help but feel just a bit irritated by Kylie’s continued self-justification of her bigamy. She wants to yell, ‘Own it!’ Kylie has been alone for a week, locked up with nothing else to think about, yet she still does not appear sorry; she just wants to keep explaining why she’s done what she’s done. Fiona thinks about Mark’s pain, the boys’ fear, Daan’s anger. Why can’t Kylie see that what she has done is unforgivable, unjustifiable? Fiona bites her tongue and offers to bandage up Kylie’s hand. She straps it close to her chest which means Kylie has to eat supper one-handed but as it’s the right hand that’s damaged, it doesn’t cause her too much of an issue.
Fiona has prepared a basic pasta dish with a jar of tomato sauce. She expected Kylie to be ravenous, but she is just listlessly picking around the edges of the hearty serving. Kylie is taut, brittle. It’s understandable but hard to negotiate. Fiona wants to feel on solid ground. She wants to be able to recognise her friend and their friendship, however, she isn’t sure she knows Kylie anymore. It’s disconcerting to have a stranger in the kitchen. Has she done the right thing in bringing her here after all?
She nods at the pasta. ‘Sorry it’s nothing special but obviously I packed in a hurry, I just grabbed some groceries out of my cupboard.’
‘It’s great, honestly,’ Kylie assures her, but she continues to poke the pasta with her fork, not quite managing to shovel it into her mouth.
This won’t do, thinks Fiona. She needs Kylie to relax. She needs to relax too. ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine. I think I have a few quite decent ones stashed away.’
Kylie knocks back the wine quickly enough. Once she has sunk a glass she loosens, her limbs lose their contorted hardness. Her eyes become a little glazed and slippery. Obviously, the alcohol has gone straight to her head. Fiona doesn’t know where to start in bringing Kylie up to speed. Should she mention that she dated Daan? That Mark’s first wife did not die of cancer? That Daan was planning on leaving the country? That Oli knew about Daan? That she kissed Mark too?
It seems like a lot to load on her at once.
Instead, she decides it is safest to put the conversational onus on Kylie. Fiona asks, ‘So tell me, which one would you choose?’
‘Really? Now, you’re asking me this?’
Fiona giggles. ‘Well, I might not get another chance if you go to prison.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Which one of them are you hoping did this to you, or maybe it’s easier to recognise which one of them are you hoping didn’t?’
Kylie shivers. ‘I was in Daan’s apartment block. I think it’s pretty clear cut.’
‘Yes, but like I said, maybe Mark set him up.’
‘You really think that’s a possibility?’
‘Would you want it to be?’
‘I just want the truth.’
‘That’s a bit of an ask from someone who has lied for so long,’ points out Fiona sharply. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but seriously, Kylie. Talk to me. Tell me.’
Kylie reddens, looks awkward. No doubt aware of all the thousands of times she could have told Fiona, her best friend, what was going on in her life and didn’t, but instead chose to lock Fiona out. Exclude her. Fiona wants to know how Kylie managed to stamp on her principles and judgement, spit out lies, choke down the truth. But again, that seems a bit much. It’s more palatable to ask, ‘I mean, you were married to Mark for ten years. He’s your real husband, right?’
Kylie pushes her plate away but picks up her wine glass. ‘They are both so different. Mark is, you know, at heart cautious. With one man I tried to do more and more and more until I eventually realised no matter what I did, I couldn’t make him happy. I couldn’t square away his pain at his loss of Frances. I’d never replace the dead wife. With two men, I found I gave each slightly less attention and for some reason that worked out well. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Mark seemed relieved that my happiness wasn’t entirely dependent on his and Daan admired my independence; he’d had his fill of needy, clingy, weepy types. Both men got what they wanted.’
Fiona is wide-eyed. ‘I’m not sure they did.’
‘With Daan, I was sexy, elusive, frivolous. I played a role, lived out a fantasy.’
‘But just a fantasy?’
‘Who is to say our fantasies are any less real than our actuality?’
‘Oh, Kylie. For fuck’s sake. That just doesn’t make sense,’ Fiona snaps.
‘I loved Daan. OK. I loved them both. I didn’t plan to. If you’d ever met him, you might understand.’ That is Fiona’s cue. She could say she has met him. She too has fucked him, but she doesn’t. She gets a strange sense of satisfaction knowing something that Kylie doesn’t for a change, so she stays quiet. Kylie continues. ‘He had something different, something extra.’
‘Tell me about it. Help me understand.’ Fiona gets up to refill Kylie’s glass.
‘In the early days we met in his apartment; it was serviced, slick, very like a hotel. That alone was, you know, fun. But it was more than fun. The longing, the needing between us was palpable. When I was meeting him, I had to force myself not to run. Sometimes it seemed a wonder that we resisted having sex in the lift as we headed towards the apartment.’
It is black outside now and has started to rain. It seems like they are completely alone in the world. The scene feels familiar. Fiona and Kylie have often shared confidences over the years, swapped stories about flirtations, crushes and seductions, sexual conquests and interludes. But besides that, Kylie’s words feel familiar because Fiona has also felt that urgency – that desire – as she approached Daan’s apartment. Although in her case, it had been one way. Daan had never asked her to go to a restaurant, let alone to marry him. ‘So, was he good then? In bed?’ She isn’t sure why she is choosing to torture herself this way.
‘So good,’ Kylie replies, a small smile playing on her lips. The memory not quashed, even after everything. Even though she’s been chained to a radiator, starved and beaten. It is unbelievable. ‘The moment we entered the apartment, he would throw me against the wall, his lips on mine, his hands everywhere. He’d want to hitch up my dress and pull me on to him right away, but we tried not to, we would try and make ourselves wait just a little bit longer.’
Fiona reaches for a glass of water. Her throat is so dry, she can’t swallow. ‘Describe it to me. Make me understand.’
‘No.’ Kylie laughs, embarrassed. Finally embarrassed. But not embarrassed that she has had this glut, this overabundance. Embarrassed to share it with Fiona, who she no doubt pities. Who she assumes has no clue.
But Fiona gets
it. She can see it. Imagine it, even though it wasn’t the same for her. He bent Fiona over the kitchen table. She imagines it was different for Kai. He’d back Kai on to the bed, as she fell flat, he’d move swiftly, quickly rooting out her wetness, delving in with his brilliant tongue, bringing her close to climax within moments as he went deep and she pushed her hips into his face, willing him to do whatever he wanted with her, take whatever he needed. Clothes would be shed; hands, fingers, tongues everywhere: on her tits, her arse, her neck, her waist, tits again, arse again; exploring without limits. They couldn’t get enough of each other. She would find her way to his cock and flick her tongue up and down, take him in her mouth and suck, drawing him in. She’d do this until he moaned that it was the best fucking blow job of his life, that he wanted to come in her mouth. Of course, he wouldn’t. Throbbing with desire he’d slip inside her and she’d sigh, scream and yelp with utter uninhibited pleasure. They would both be wet, hot, needy. Finally, she would quiver and tighten, he would feel her utter surrender. Then, and only then, would he come, deep inside her.
Fiona can barely breathe. Her head is spinning.
47
Kylie
My head is spinning. The kitchen is hot, clammy. I want to feel a breeze after the week of being trapped, starved not only of food but oxygen and hope. However, I feel too exhausted to even stand up, stretch up to open the window. I’m completely sapped, drained. I should eat more of this pasta. I am allowing myself to get weak and lightheaded. Drinking is a mistake. Talking to Fiona like this, about this, is a mistake. Fiona is looking at me in a peculiar way. We’ve known each other forever. I can read every one of her expressions. She looks furious. That can’t be right. Just curious, maybe? Confused? She keeps urging me to carry on. I should include Fiona in this, however difficult it is for me to explain. That’s what she wants. If she is angry at all, it is because she has felt left out.