For more information about the Caretaker Trilogy,
including the paperback editions, please visit:
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Copyright © 2016 Helena Phillips
ISBN: 978-1-925846-14-0 (ebook edition)
Published by Vivid Publishing
P.O. Box 948, Fremantle
Western Australia 6959
www.vividpublishing.com.au
eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia
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Version 1.0. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
One
Bridey
Freeze: def to lose warmth of feeling/be chilled by fear/to congeal as if by cold/to be fixed fast in ice.
Torrenclar is wrong. I cannot move. He’s insisting? He’s so cross. The noise has nothing to do with me. Homarta speaks to him, and he steps back. I stare at her, grateful, but I have no idea what she wants. She squats down and puts her hands on my legs. She’s trying to warm me up. She takes my hands in hers and rubs them. I don’t want her to do this. I don’t want her to go away. I want them to make it all okay again.
He steps between us, takes my wrist and pulls me to my feet. I pull back and try to sit down, again. My eyes implore him to leave me alone, but he circles my waist with his arm and impels me forward. My feet shuffle and stick, I start crying and pleading with him, but he keeps walking forward. I don’t know why he wants to do this. We’ll be safe if we stay here. Homarta is letting him, and I thought she was my friend.
No matter how hard I resist we reach the front gate, and he opens it letting in all the fear. I grab the post and cling to it, but Homarta pulls my hand away. My knees buckle, and they begin to drag me along, so I use my heels to resist. My eyes shut fast. Torrenclar stands in front of me. I hate him.
“Sandro needs you now, Bridey,” he says, taking me by the shoulders and speaking like I can manage this when I know I can’t. “Open your eyes, and do what needs to be done!” He shakes me slightly, and I open them to glare at him.
“I hate you,” I say. “You fix it.” He steps to the side, and Homarta takes over again. I want her to hold me against her and make it safe.
“This is not about you, Bridey. You must stop this now.” Why is she threatening me? I stare at her, stunned. “Go, and do what must be done! Now!” Her voice is horrible, and that frightens me more. I decide to go back to the fire and try to warm up so I take two steps, and then Josh’s voice pulls me.
“I’m sorry, Bridey. I’m sorry. Call an ambulance. Hurry! He’s dead.”
What can be done then? If he’s dead, what’s the rush? Another flood of heat and the ice melts. He can’t be dead. He’s not dead. I search around in the dark trying to work out what I’m seeing. Josh on the ground, sobbing and calling to me. My feet move towards him and then stop. One of them pushes me forward, and I stumble trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. When I get to Josh, I see the body and it’s such a relief because it’s not Sandro, so I fall to the ground and cover my face with my hands. It’s nothing like him. This body is sticking out.
Josh is pulling at my hands and telling me to get up. “Call an ambulance, Bridey.” Okay. I will. How do I do that? I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Josh starts to play with the body, and I know that’s not right. You shouldn’t do that. But he’s too far away. I hear him speak. He’s telling someone to come. Quickly. It’s going to be alright. The freeze comes over me again and some of it is the cold wind on my sweat. We sit and wait for a long time. The Caretakers have left us. We’re on our own now, and Sandro is missing. He must have gone with them.
The screams come from a long way away, over and over, yelling out Danger! Danger! Danger! Danger. I need them to go away because they’re frightening. People in uniform come over and ask questions and I tell them “I don’t know. I don’t know. I wasn’t here. I don’t know who he is.” They wrap a blanket over my shoulders and put something warm into my hands. They talk nicely to me and it makes me cry. I can hear Josh talking then he jumps to his feet and runs off and someone runs after him. Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him. I hear a car door open.
A long time later, they come back and ask me to go with them. It’s in the ambulance. I don’t mind. I think I might be sick now. But, when I climb into the back and they strap me into a seat, I see there’s a body all wrapped up beside me. Curious, I glance at it, then freeze again. That’s Sandro’s face. It’s completely white and Sandro is brown, but it looks like him. I thought he’d gone.
***
In an area of parkland to the north of the city, a figure was searching for something to do to distract herself. She sat on the bank of the Quarry, the tranquil scene in front of her the antithesis of her internal world. Deeper into the gully, bushes and small trees bent their way down the hill into shade where the darkness of the weather was sheltering her from being watched. From where she sat, birds sang a dull song, and her attention was caught by the sound of distress. With difficulty, she stirred herself to investigate. A bird with a broken foot ripped at its wing which was caught in a bush. Moved by the helplessness, Irri-tat began to hum a low sound, and the bird cocked its head. She warmed the air with soft breath, and hypnotising it until the fight vanished, released the small creature from the bushes, bending twigs and brushing leaves until she had it free in the palm of her left hand. It sat trembling while she raised the broken wing, setting it in its place. The song wound around them. The small bird relaxed as she began to stroke the wing, barely disturbing the down but emitting vibrations and heat. She folded her hand around it to prevent flight seeking out the damaged foot where she repeated the healing. It was then liberated to fly from her.
Returning her attention to the surroundings, she closed her eyes to discern the presence of others of her kind. Some gave out strong vibrations, and she slipped her mind away quickly before she could be contacted. Others, like herself, were less evident, and she allowed only the slightest recognition before returning to her preferred solitary state. Slight drizzle fell, but she paid it no attention. The morning fog levitated from the bush leaving behind tendrils and allowing light to penetrate where she sat. As it passed, she danced her hands through it tracing patterns which wandered away in wisps of curls. Her attention, though, was elsewhere.
It had been several days since she had connected with Homarta, and was anxious about the consequences, fearing to bring wrath down upon her. The certainty that events had been precipitated by her own poor behaviour and thoughts vied with loneliness. Although she told herself she was hiding, it was clear there was no place on this earth where she would be safe from the Source who knew everything. Only days before the accident, Irri-tat had been terrified by Kus anger. It was nothing for her to feel overwhelmed by her own inadequacy, but she was now certain the Source was very dangerous indeed. The only friend she had was totally preocc
upied with Bridey’s distress and seemed uninterested in Irri-tat’s fears. She had been told she was self-centred and of no use to anyone in this state. Irri-tat had shrunk into herself over the past few days expecting a blast from the Source which would smother out her existence.
***
Bridey
You can’t go back. Up to now I’ve never wanted to return to anything in my past. It hasn’t been that great. Then, you think you’re going along okay, and life is quite good, enjoyable even, when out of the blue, it’s all destroyed, not a trace of the happiness which had only just changed everything. The problem is trust. It’s stupid to trust to life. As soon as you do, you get whacked across the head for being an idiot.
The days have been dragging. It’s like getting up every morning to face an ongoing nightmare after having crazy dreams all through the night. Sleep doesn’t feel real or satisfying. Nights since the accident, and each one of these has been worse than the one before because of increasing exhaustion. Sitting around in hospitals is a waking nightmare. Hour after hour spent watching a face where the person inside has just disappeared.
Sandro’s Mum’s been here most of the time. The first to give in to tiredness were his sisters. Too restless to stand around for long, they would come and go, over and over. But the two of us often sat together just staring at his face, talking to him, touching him, and calling him back. He hasn’t responded. Doctors insist it’s early days and that head trauma requires time to heal; time for the swelling to go down. If he’d only show signs of consciousness, it would be more bearable, but he doesn’t even try to rouse so they can sedate him. He lies there like a mummy. There are dark bruises coming up on his face. Hitting the ground head first meant, not only swelling around the brain, but swelling around the left eye and cheek bone. Watching them change each day brings a little hope, small signs of life. But his right leg is in a sling which hangs in the air, and his left arm is plastered below the elbow. The sling’s only temporary. Anyway, he isn’t going anywhere.
After the trip in the ambulance, they kept me in casualty for hours in another room and Jarrod, her husband, came to sit with her while she waited for news. They gave me warm stuff to drink and wrapped me up with a warm pack. When the cold lifted, I felt so ashamed, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Gabriella tried to help me, but I couldn’t speak, and she had so many more worries than me. Torrenclar came, and I turned over in the bed so he couldn’t see my face. He stayed until a nurse came in. They wanted to call my parents, but I wouldn’t give them the number. That was when Gabriella came to me. I cried and cried because I’m such an idiot and useless. The guy who had smashed into Sandro was in here too. That was horrible because I could hear the police talking to him, and he kept repeating how he’d tried to stop. He had concussion. They wouldn’t let me go home to an empty house, and they made me talk to someone. A social worker, I think. Gabriella insisted I go home with the girls, and the nurses gave them instructions on how to look after me. I am a complete dud.
No one can say if he has brain damage. The terror of waiting and wondering, day after day, is wearing me down. Gabriella seldom leaves his side except to sleep and when Jarrod comes to drag her from the room for a break and a meal. She goes unwillingly and rushes back. But now it’s Tuesday morning and I forced myself to make my way into the hospital. I’m a terrible person because it’s come to the point where it’s impossible for me to sit here.
“Gabriella?”
“What is it darling?” We just don’t know each other that well, but she talks like I’m one of her daughters. “I need to get out of here and do something different.” It’s a struggle to say the words. They’re heartless. Perhaps Sandro wants me to stay. Maybe he’ll wake up while I’m gone.
“Of course you do.” This throws me. “Go do something normal for a few hours. It’ll help you get through. He may not wake up for another week.”
She’s brave. Every time the temptation comes to give up and panic, she says soothing things. These hold everything together for me. While I’m thinking about it, the room fills with a new visitor. That’s what it’s like. They can’t be in a room with you without taking up all the space. It’s impossible to ignore, and it’s awkward. He’s not himself. His steps aren’t floating like they usually do.
Only family are allowed in at this stage and only two at a time. Gabriella is looking at him, frowning. He smiles faintly, but then ignoring us, goes over to the bed and puts his hand on Sandro’s head and for a moment I’m excited thinking Flagran might be able to heal him, but it’s only a gentle, affectionate stroke. He bends and whispers something into his ear then he looks up at us and says, “The sleep is giving him time to heal, I think.”
Ignoring my distress, he turns and addresses her lifting his voice a little, and the effort to do that is noticeable. “Hello! It’s good to meet you. Sandro raves about you.” The grin accompanying these words is more like Flagran. “It’s easy to tell who you are.” Their eyes meet. The look exchanged makes no sense.
“It’s very hard to watch him like this,” she says.
“Yes,” is his response, “for me too.” His sadness makes me want to scream at him to tell me what’s going on, but he doesn’t look at me, and it’s too hard to ask.
Gabriella refuses to touch despair. “He’ll be alright,” she says. “I just know it.” Flagran’s red hair rises fractionally, and his eyes fill. He turns and says, “Bridey, do you think I could spend some time alone with Sandro’s Mum? Not too long. Could you go get coffee or something?’
What is he going to tell her? Why can’t I hear it? Surely he isn’t going to shut me out at a time like this. But it’s a bad idea to resist, and it hasn’t worked that well in the past. Stomping past them gives out a clear message I am not a child to be sent from the room.
“Catch you in a minute,” he calls after me. “We need to talk about Josh.” In response to my angry look, he waves me away. You can’t bang hospital doors.
This hospital is on a corner of one of the busiest intersections of Melbourne, in a run of other hospitals which makes traffic atrocious and parking a nightmare. Gabriella drove in at first, and every two hours she’d had to move her car. The underground parking lot is always full in the mornings. The only benefit of two hour parking is it makes visitors like us stretch, take in some fume filled air and frantically race back. Also, the hospital is a huge rabbit warren. Wending your way from any one ward to another is a journey of what seems like hours; precious time to lose. Then it became the new norm for him to still be unresponsive.
The cafeteria at least is decent, but I don’t feel like eating, I’m too tired and angry. The street looms up, and I just jump on a tram, any tram. There are free seats, that’s all that matters. After half an hour, a shiver flashes through me, and I look up to see Flagran standing above me swinging from the handhold. He’s not smiling. Tears well, and the idea of running from him wrestles with the picture of attempting to shove him aside. He may be shortish, but he’s very strong. Anyway, I need him. “Where are you off to Bridey?” he asks in a soft voice. When I don’t answer, he leans down and takes my hand. “Come on. We’re getting off now.” Some fellow commuters show some interest making resistance impossible, so I clamber to my feet searching for clues as to our location.
The sea breeze hits me as my feet touch the ground, its crispness streaming into my lungs hurting them. The constant dull ache which has taken up residence in my head for the past four days shows no signs of responding though. We are in St Kilda.
There’s something harsh about the Caretakers. While they can be gentle and loving often, in the hard times, just when you feel incapable of tolerating the struggle a moment longer, instead of gentleness you get toughness. Flagran strides down a side street which goes on forever still holding my hand in his warm grip. It’s taking us closer to the sea, and my heart lifts a fraction at the sight of the water.
“You need to text Gabriella.”
Tears begin to run down my fac
e, but he shakes his head “she doesn’t need to be worrying about you. Let her know you’re okay!”
“But that’s not true.” It was supposed to be a simple statement of fact but it comes out in my whining voice, and even I feel annoyed. His face closes so I text Gabriella fresh air is helping sorry about the huff. What would he know anyway? He’s an angel. He doesn’t need sleep. He can appear wherever he wants and doesn’t drag himself home again exhausted. Tears of rage replace the idea of hitting him.
“You’re not the only one suffering?”
Can he read my mind? My knees buckle under me, and I fall to the sand sobbing hysterically. Awful attacking words appear like strangers, or dangerous animals, and they vomit from my mouth while I scream at him that he’s horrible and mean and cold, and I hate him. Then, a few moments later, remorse sends hot blood flooding through me followed by cold wet prickles shooting up my neck. When I can bring myself to look at him, peering up through swollen eyes, he’s crying. I hate myself. Shame turns me to stone, and I stare at him. Sandro is his friend. For many minutes he stands facing out to the sea, an odd tear gently caressing his face as it rolls down, ignored. My arms are clenched around my knees and sick dread grows inside my gut.
I watch as he struggles to pull back from the edge and, when he can manage it, he kneels gathering me into him, his warm arms cradling against the cool breeze, his chest firm and the strength is there but it’s heaving the way a human’s does. I’m still paralysed. No clue about how to fix this. My arms cling around him trying to tell him I’m sorry while the thought of him not liking me any more keeps flogging me. We sit together on the sand lost in our thoughts, and after a time mine turn to the Source; not focussing on Sandro because that’s too hard, but about Flagran. It’s difficult to know what to say, but I ask ku to help him with his pain, and images of Flagran in multiple situations where he was quite clearly feeling emotion, times when I’d been there but had forgotten, return. He’s right. This accident has been all about me.
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