Second Sight

by Aoife Clifford

  I shake my head. ‘That won’t be necessary. He’s just keeping an eye on it while I’m away.’

  Melanie looks confused. ‘He’s already asked for them. Fran told me that his big case is about to settle and that’s why he approached Bryan about getting involved with Colcart in the first place.’

  I look out the window. There’s a rooftop tennis court on the smaller building across the street. It’s rarely used – the participants are probably all too aware of all the uninvited spectators. Besides, everyone is too busy playing games in their offices.

  ‘When did Andrew go to Bryan?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago,’ she says, picking up the documents from my out-tray.

  Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse my father frozen on the screen, his mouth open, caught mid-word. He always told me that when you hear the truth you recognise it as a long lost friend.

  Andrew lied to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll let you know what I want done shortly.’

  She hovers.

  ‘And shut the door on your way out.’

  There’s strict open-door policy at the firm but Melanie does as she is asked.

  I’m in a match against Andrew with Bryan umpiring and the rest of the firm watching. The fact that not one other solicitor has come to offer me support means they think it’s game over already. Lawyers don’t take on hopeless cases, because they like to win, and Andrew seems to have prepared this well. He was always very interested in the Colcart file. In fact, there was considerable pillow talk about it during our few ill-judged encounters. At the time I appreciated his interest, thinking it was about me, which in retrospect shows remarkable naivety.

  The image of Donal lying asleep in the bed next to me comes out of nowhere. I feel like running away from this mess, jamming the green hat on my head and turning up on his doorstep. Instead I force myself to send a perfectly beige email to Andrew, thanking him for his assistance and confirming that, as per our discussion today, he is only taking care of the case in my absence. It’s not an open declaration of hostilities – I need to have a game plan first. But more importantly, it is not a surrender. Hopefully it will buy a phony peace to give me time. I send out a series of other messages to my junior solicitors, all with the subtext that I’m still in charge.

  On my way out, I tell Melanie that only she is allowed in my office, that any request from Andrew should wait until I get back and to ring me if she needs to. These are all temporary roadblocks.

  By the time I get home I’ve got just enough energy to screw the top off a bottle of wine and pour myself an enormous glass and then as an afterthought microwave an anaemic square of frozen lasagne to the texture of soft plastic. The fridge is empty, the flat is empty and I am empty. My soulless apartment with furniture someone else chose because work was too busy feels the same as my father’s impersonal room at the nursing home. Lonely.

  I pour myself another and try to think of a strategy for derailing Andrew’s takeover, but nothing comes to mind so I search for something to do, anything, to stop myself from being so miserable. On the coffee table is the bundle of documents that were in the boot of the Mustang. I brought them up to my apartment to find out what sort of window seals I need to order for the car. At least I can achieve one thing today.

  Looking at the papers it seems Dad kept everything. There’s the original owner’s manual, every registration document, membership to the ‘Pony Club’, some itineraries from old Mustang events. Leafing through them is like bringing my father into the room. His presence is greater in these papers than when I’m holding his hand in the nursing home. At the very back of the pile is a hand-written receipt for some repair work done years ago. The actual date is faded but January 1997 is legible at the top. It’s not Dad’s usual repairer, it’s from an address in the city. The receipt is for a replaced headlight, fixed panel and re-chromed bumper. The car was also resprayed.

  Here is the proof of Tess’s accident.

  Sixteen-year-old me would want to wave it in her face to see if she’d keep arguing about never hitting a kangaroo but thirty-five-year-old me feels a hundred and has had enough of this dismal day, so I go to bed instead.

  • • •

  Hours later, something wakes me up. The alarm clock tells me it is too early for the day to start. I’m alert but I don’t know why. Living by yourself, there is a vigilance switch that never really turns off, like a dog that keeps one ear open.

  Quiet.

  I turn over and nestle back into the dent in my pillow.

  There are the usual night-time sounds of the city with far-off cars and the rumble of trucks and the regular wail of a siren. The local fire station around the corner was one of the reasons I chose this apartment. It might not be my dad in a police car, but it is close enough. Settling again, I hear the gentlest tinkle of glass breaking and I know instantly that’s the noise that woke me. Keeping my eyes closed, I begin to drift from that sound. Probably a smashed bottle on the street below. Noise always travels further at night.

  There is the rattle of the door. A click as the handle turns, a creak as it opens and the world, which was firmly outside a second ago, comes rushing in.

  I sit up.

  Suddenly the cars are not so far away and then, as the door shuts, the sounds muffle as though someone has put their hand over a mouth, but it’s not as it was before.

  This is my door.

  I stop breathing, strain my ears and listen.

  My brain whirs and spins so much that I almost miss the next noise. The sound of my door locking again. It’s been deadbolted. Then a scrape as the key I keep in the lock is pulled out. I cannot get out of my flat without a key.

  The words in the threatening messages flash before my eyes. Sitting in my bed wearing only a skimpy nightie, I try to convince myself that I am mistaken.

  Footsteps are getting closer. The click of a torch and then the reflection of its beam creeps under the crack in my bedroom door and begins to crawl across the bed.

  This is happening.

  Doors in my hallway begin to open. It’s like a monstrous game of hide and seek.

  The first door opened is my coat cupboard full of boxes of photocopied work documents that I haven’t got around to shredding yet. The paper swishes out onto the floor.

  There is a quiet ‘fuck’. The voice is deep, accent broad. Paralysed with panic, I think about screaming but that will only give away my location with no guarantee of help arriving. And if people do come, how will they get in?

  My eyes start to hunt around the room.

  I have to find my phone and call for help. An image of it in my handbag on the living room table flashes into my head.

  Another door opens. This time it’s the bathroom. There is the rap of shoes on the tiles.

  I need to get dressed. I need to think of a way out of here. I need to get help.

  It’s all been so quick that I haven’t even started shaking, but a sense of dread is taking over, making my fingers clumsy and my feet stumble.

  Clothes.

  My sensible grey suit lies on a chair. That I ever viewed it as armour is now ridiculous. I grab my undies and shove them on. Probably useless, but it feels important.

  The feet again.

  My bedroom is two doors away.

  Perhaps they can be distracted. My jewellery box is in the top drawer. Maybe I should tip it on my bed to make it easy for him. He can grab it all and leave. Solitaire diamond earrings, a jade bracelet, a pearl necklace. There’s a few thousand right there. But then he will know for certain I am here.

  Finally, fear focuses me. I need to hide.

  I’ve too much stored under the bed to get in there quickly and easily. I always meant to clean it out but never could be bothered. Something so unimportant now feels life threatening. I swallow an almost-sob.

  Instead, I choose the wardrobe, the most obvious spot but there is nowhere else. The sliding door is already open, a mouth waiting to swallow me up. It is a s
helter but also a trap. Once in, there is only one way out.

  The hall light is switched on and the room moves from greys to muted yellow. Sliding the door almost completely shut, I push past the clothes, the soft rustle of dry-cleaner’s plastic loud as gunshots to me. Turning around, I stand unevenly on shoes and huddle down into the smallest space possible, pulling the clothes back, origami folding myself into the tightest knot I can. My heart beats hard enough to crack ribs. The wardrobe could shake from the force of it. Questions run through my head like ticker tape. What if he has a gun? A knife? I should have grabbed a wire hanger, something to strike out with, to get at his eyes.

  The room has been reduced to the tiniest crack but when he enters I can feel it.

  Light comes first as he pushes the door open but he doesn’t flick the switch, relying instead on the torch. He is a dark featureless shape, a shadow made alive. When he stands in front of the wardrobe the room is swallowed up.

  Then he moves and the chink of light returns.

  I cannot see his face.

  He’s at my bed now, placing a hand on the sheet and I realise my first mistake.

  It should look like it hasn’t been slept in.

  He can feel my warmth. He knows I’m here.

  The sheets are torn off the bed so viciously the material rips. His breath is short and quick. He’s making strips to tie me up. I feel a crazy impulse to shout, as if by yelling I will suddenly jolt awake and all of this will disappear.

  Instead, I close my eyes tightly, put my hands over my mouth to stop myself from screaming, and imagine him coming towards the wardrobe, opening the door and dragging me out by my hair.

  But when I open my eyes again, he is gone.

  His footsteps get further away, towards the kitchen and living room.

  All I can hear is the blood thumping in my ears.

  There’s the jangle of keys, the door opens and then shuts and there is nothing else for a long time.

  Eventually a jagged sob comes out, a sound I have never heard myself make before. I’m sweating pins and needles. My stomach is churning. Falling out of the cupboard, I crawl on the floor until I get to the bed and haul myself up.

  I have to ring the police.

  Stumbling out into the hall, squinting in the light, I hear him before I see him. He slams me into the wall, my head bouncing forward and my teeth cutting my tongue. I can feel his body pressing hard against mine. My arms are twisted back, held in place and then bound.

  Thrashing my head around to try and see him, I open my mouth to shout, but a piece of sheet is stuffed in and as I gag, another is tied around my mouth to stop me spitting it out.

  All the time I want to say please, please, please as my knees give way.

  I am pulled upwards and flipped around until we are face to face and when I see him for the first time, my brain begins to scream.

  18

  New Year’s Eve 1996

  Tess

  Bridie tied the halter behind Tess’s neck and then took a step back to assess.

  ‘Not too much?’ Tess asked. The neckline was sitting low and she jiggled up and down to convince herself that it wouldn’t slip any further.

  ‘Definitely no bra,’ agreed Bridie. ‘The straps will show.’

  As Tess leant forward, her breath fogged up the mirror. Bridie leant over and traced a love heart on the surface but was interrupted before she could add initials.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Eliza from the doorway. She was standing sideways, her face in profile. Walking into rooms like an Egyptian was her latest attempt to disguise her mismatched eyes, which was ridiculous. Probably designed to make me feel guilty, thought Tess. She did feel a pang whenever she thought about Eliza’s eye but there was nothing she could do to make it better now.

  ‘Getting ready for the bonfire,’ said Bridie.

  ‘Did I ever tell you how nice you are, Tess?’ asked Eliza. ‘How you’re the best sister in the world?’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Tess wearily.

  ‘Can I borrow your sandals?’

  ‘I’m wearing them.’ Tess picked up a lipstick and carefully began to rim her mouth.

  ‘C’mon, you’ve got lots of shoes to wear. I’ve outgrown all my good ones.’

  ‘Just go away.’ Tess looked at herself critically in the mirror.

  ‘Are you really wearing that dress to the beach?’ Eliza continued. ‘That looks like something you’d wear to a party.’

  Tess knew by the way Eliza drawled it out that her secret had been exposed.

  ‘How did you find out?’ Tess demanded.

  Eliza looked at Bridie and Bridie looked at the floor.

  ‘My silence will cost you,’ said Eliza.

  ‘But they go perfectly with her dress,’ said Bridie, sitting down on Tess’s bed.

  Eliza pretended to pick up a phone, ‘Oh D-a-d,’ she sang out. ‘I just found out where the paddock party is being held.’

  ‘God, you are so annoying,’ sighed Tess. ‘They’re under the bed.’

  ‘Scoot over then.’ Eliza plonked herself next to Bridie and immediately started to put them on.

  ‘You’re not really going with that lifesaver, are you? He’s such an idiot,’ said Eliza.

  ‘An idiot?’ squeaked Bridie. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  Tess gave a coral-lipsticked smile. When she heard Travis had been busted for drink driving she’d offered to borrow the family car and drive him to the paddock party.

  ‘Tony Bayless more your speed?’ asked Tess. Eliza got the hint and walked quickly to the door. She had one parting shot though.

  ‘By the way, Dad got a flat tyre this afternoon so you won’t be able to drive the station wagon,’ and then ran out before Tess could take back the shoes.

  ‘Shit,’ said Tess.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Bridie. ‘If you stuff up Travis’s night he’ll never talk to us again.’

  Tess stood there, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She had been planning this for days, even catching the bus with Bridie to the next town to buy condoms just in case.

  ‘I’ll take the other car,’ she said.

  Bridie looked uncertain. ‘Are you allowed to drive it?’

  ‘Dad’s on shift all night. I’ll get it back in time. Eliza’s going to leave before us anyway.’ Even if she got caught, she was prepared to wear the punishment. Anything was better than missing the party.

  ‘Woo hoo,’ said Bridie. ‘Going to the party in our own Cadillac.’

  ‘It’s a Mustang,’ said Tess.

  • • •

  The sun was setting by the time they drove up the hill behind the surf club. The plan was to park the car where no-one would see it but Jim Keaveney was there.

  ‘He’s creepy, that Birdman,’ said Bridie as they walked down the hill.

  ‘He’s just lonely,’ said Tess.

  ‘Keeping all those birds locked up all the time, it’s not right,’ argued Bridie.

  Tess didn’t say anything because she’d just caught sight of Travis talking to Dave Deasey, the class clown. Tess had always thought he was a little nuts, but harmless. Still, why would Travis want to hang out with him? She looked at Travis again. He was wearing a pair of board shorts, a baggy singlet top and wraparound sunglasses and suddenly she felt ridiculously overdressed. This was a terrible idea.

  ‘Promise you’ll come to the party with me,’ said Tess, clutching Bridie’s arm, but Bridie was too busy yelling out to Travis to answer. Travis’s reflective lenses shone in their direction but then he went back to his conversation with Dave. As the girls approached, Dave was the only one who acknowledged their presence, dipping his head at them. Tess’s smile was so rigidly fixed that she couldn’t say anything in reply.

  The minutes stretched but Travis didn’t even look at her. Dave’s eyes kept flicking between her and Travis as though there was some kind of game here and she didn’t understand the rules. When her pride kicked in and she finally turned
away, she heard guffaws of backslapping laughter behind her.

  ‘Let’s find a spot for our towels,’ she said to Bridie.

  ‘Do you think he’s getting a lift with someone else?’ Bridie asked. ‘Or was it just a dumb joke in the first place?’

  Tess didn’t answer, just picked up the pace in last year’s summer sandals until she was almost floundering in the soft sand. Bridie fumed until Tess wanted to tell her to shut up. She kept her eyes straight ahead, fixed on the ocean, weaving through the crowd until she came to a family who hadn’t bothered to take their umbrella down yet, so she could hide on the far side of it.

  ‘This is too far back,’ complained Bridie, and Tess hoped that she might decide to sit somewhere else and leave her alone to shrivel up with embarrassment. Tess unfurled her towel just as a sudden wind gust caught it like a sail and she had to wrestle it to the ground. Bridie stood there, her towel slung over her shoulder, and decided she’d go up to the shops to get some fish and chips.

  ‘Want to come?’ she asked. Tess shook her head.

  ‘You want anything?’

  Tess gave her money, relieved to be left alone. Lying there, she stared into the sky, watching it transition from denim to indigo. As the wind picked up again, she listened to the family next to her complain about sand in their eyes and how long would it be before the bonfire started, and she decided once it was properly dark, she would drive home, go to bed and never get up again.

  ‘There you are,’ said Travis. Tess quickly flipped herself over. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said and sat down next to her, smelling of a mixture of Old Spice and beer.

  Tess sat up quickly, a kind of giddiness in her head. Snaking his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her closer and she had to steady her breathing.

  ‘Why did you go?’ he asked. ‘We were just mucking about.’ Tess opened her mouth to reply, but Travis had already skimmed over the space where her answer belonged and moved on to how boring work had been today. His skin was still warm from a day’s worth of sun and, as Tess nestled back into him, she could hardly concentrate on his words because she was so acutely aware of where her skin touched his. Eventually Bridie came back with her share of fish and chips, gave Tess a surprised look and then, in line with their earlier plans, said she had run into some other friends, and left again. Tess, too nervous for food, nibbled on one chip to look as if they were sharing, but Travis had no problem eating the rest.