She drains the murky liquid through a sieve, then tops up the tartan mug. Stirs. It’s lukewarm, so she zaps it in the microwave for thirty seconds. Adds three drops of the peppermint essence she found in the cupboard. Stirs again. It doesn’t smell too bad. Strange, but definitely minty.
She doesn’t dare sample it.
Oleandrin. Beautiful word; deadly poison.
Posited by some as an alternative treatment for cancer, though an unproven and astonishingly dangerous one. Googling for information – back when they first learned Sally Paige was ill, back when they knew nothing else – Lina was surprised to recognise the pretty, pink-flowered shrubs.
She picks up the mugs from the bench.
And supposes, grimly, that Sally Paige would at least appreciate the symmetry of the situation.
Her hands shake as she walks into the living room. Her heart speeds. She almost abandons the plan. Almost retraces her steps, tips the whole evil concoction into the sink. Because Loki is right there. Smiling and beautiful. Jumping up to rescue his mug as it almost tips from her grasp.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
‘I’m – I’m a bit cold, actually. It’s come over chilly tonight.’
‘Come here.’ Back on the couch, he pats the cushion beside him. ‘I’ll keep you nice and warm.’
‘Perhaps I should go fetch Ant. She might like to watch with us.’
‘She’s asleep, you said.’
‘I’ll wake her up.’
‘Lina, don’t be silly. Sit down and drink your tea.’ As though to demonstrate, he takes a sip of his own. Grimaces. Peers into the mug as though he expects something to crawl out and bite him. ‘This tastes weird.’
‘It’s a new brand. If it’s too bitter, I can bring you some honey.’
‘That’s okay,’ he says, drinking another mouthful. ‘It’s fine. A bit strong on the peppermint maybe, but it’ll grow on me.’
Lina holds her mug with both hands. She really does feel cold. Feels like she might never be warm again. ‘Are you sure you want to drink it?’
Because for one glorious, terrible moment, she teeters right on the fulcrum. If he says no, she will take the poison from him. Because she loves him, she loves him. And in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done. What he might do again.
If he just says the word, she will–
‘Lina.’ Loki smiles, indulgent but edged. ‘How could I refuse anything from you? Now sit down, please, and let’s just watch this damn film.’
So Lina sits. She thinks of her sister. She thinks of Loki.
And she makes her choice.
— 27 —
Lina opens her eyes as the twin-engine airplane taxis down the runway for the second time that morning. As shots are fired and usual suspects rounded up. As fog descends around Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains, and the final reprise of Le Marseillaise swells from the television speakers.
‘Ant?’ she whispers croakily. Lifts her head from her sister’s lap and levers herself upright. ‘Hey, are you awake?’ Her sister is looking to her left, out of the living room windows to the grey, dismal sky. Lina can’t remember turning Ant’s head like that. But she can’t remember not turning it either. And there is already far too much she would like to forget.
Loki, curled cramped on the couch; on the stale mattress of Sally Paige’s bed; on the bathroom tiles where he slumps even now, alone and slowly stiffening. Blood and vomit tracked through the house, along with other vile secretions his failing body thought fit to purge. Mouth rictus, eyes bulging bright and dilated. Cursing her at the end, those last heart-twitchy hours before consciousness deserted him for a lost cause. Before he slipped, before he fell, before he was pushed, bruised and broken, into oblivion’s hungry mouth.
Not an easy death. Not quick. Oleander no angel come to sing him to his rest.
Lina wipes ill-earned tears from her eyes.
I’m sorry, Loki, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would be that bad.
Huddled on the couch with Ant since dawn. Waiting, waiting. Twice rising to check Loki’s corpse. Fish for a pulse, a heartbeat, the barest skimmer of breath. To be sure, to be certain. Of nothing, nothing.
But this ground remains untested and Lina will not give up. Not yet.
Sunday night. Tomorrow night. Counting down the hours on her fingers. The number of times Casablanca can play, and play again. While her sister fights. Battles through fogbanks of her own. Finds her way home, finds her way to Lina. Because she must. Because it can’t have been for nothing.
And if she doesn’t? If those Moroccan-spun hours all pass unremarked, what then, sister dearest, what then?
Lina tucks up her legs. Leans against her sister’s shoulder.
‘I love you, Ant,’ she says. ‘Please, you need to come back now.’
Choosing, for the moment, not to ponder the oleander steeping fresh in the kitchen. Not to consider that even a single perfection may yet be one parasite too many to bear. And not, not, not to contemplate Loki, her Loki, or the betrayal that burned absolute in his eyes.
Lina points the remote at the television instead. Opening credits play across the screen. Maps and markets and Le Marseillaise once more. Once more and again.
And so, choice made for good or ill, Lina sits.
Waiting, waiting, waiting with the others in the dry Casablancan streets.
Acknowledgements
I honestly doubt there’s enough gratitude in the world for everyone who provided advice, encouragement, criticism and support during the writing of this particular novel, but here goes:
Elizabeth Markham, Natalie Potts, Bren MacDibble, Tracey Rolfe and Rjurik Davidson of the SuperNOVA writers group, for insightful critiques of very early chapters.
Kate Eltham, Robert Hoge, Angela Slatter, Mark Curtis, Paul Garrety and Michele Cashmore, as well as the indomitable Sean Williams and Alison Goodman, for crucial flensing undertaken at the Edge Writers Retreat.
Cat Sparks, Karen Miller, Thoraiya Dyer, Joanne Anderton, Alisa Krasnostein, Amanda Pillar, Glenda Larke, Rowena Cory Daniells, Tansy Rayner Roberts, Narelle Harris, Kaaron Warren and Kim Wilkins, for random words of advice and encouragement along the way. (Which they’ve most likely all forgotten by now, but which I will always hold dear.)
Jules Mond, for vital and speedy assistance with medical-related research. (Any errors are all down to me.)
Ellen Gregory, Helen Merrick, Julia Svaganovic and Ian Mond, for stepping up to be my enthusiastic, if occasionally traumatised, beta readers.
Ellen and Alison and Angela, again and again and again, for unmitigated support, feedback and general arse-kicking when I needed it most. Much love to you all!
Rod Morrison, who believed in this book so much he bought it twice.
Selwa Anthony, super agent, calmer of frayed nerves and invaluable voice of reason.
Cornelia Craciun, my mother, beta reader and proof reader extraordinaire.
And Jason. For everything. Always.
Did you enjoy this book?
Why not tell your followers about it?
Connect to the author @fearofemeralds
About the Author
Kirstyn McDermott has been working in the darker alleyways of speculative fiction for much of her career, with many critically acclaimed and award-winning short stories under her authorial belt. Her debut novel, Madigan Mine, was published in 2010 and won the Aurealis Award for Best Horror Novel – an extract from which once caused an audience member to faint during a live reading. While wearing her non-writing hats, Kirstyn co-edited the inaugural issue of Midnight Echo, served as Vice President of the Australian Horror Writers Association, and convened Continuum 3, the speculative fiction and pop culture convention. She now produces and co-hosts a monthly book-discussion podcast, The Writer and
the Critic, which generally keeps her out of trouble. Kirstyn lives in Melbourne with her husband and fellow scribbler, Jason Nahrung, and can be found online (usually far too often) at www.kirstynmcdermott.com
Also available from Xoum
Blood and Dust
by Jason Nahrung
Kevin Matheson works at his family’s service station in the Queensland outback. Life is all about cricket, fishing, the pub, his girlfriend. Then it all gets blown to hell – he’s caught up in a hideous, unbelievable world of cops and monsters in which two rival gangs of vampires vie for control, all while maintaining a charade of humanity.
Kevin has to cope with his new existence as a vampire, adapt to the destruction of his family and play the politics of the supernatural world. The biker Taipan and his lover Kala make for unlikely allies as they lead the nomadic Night Riders in their fight to be free of the control of the Brisbane-based Von Schiller group, led by the ruthless Mira and her pack of blood-addicted human servants.
Caught between vicious bikers and their brutal foes from the coast, Kevin fights to save not only those he holds dearest, but his own soul. In a world without rules, only one tenet holds true: blood really is thicker than water. But how far will he go to save the people he loves?
ISBN 9781922057181
Copyright Information
Powered by Xoum in 2012
www.xoum.com.au
ISBN 978-1-922057-17-4
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright below, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
Copyright © Kirstyn McDermott 2012
Design and typesetting copyright © Xoum Publishing 2012
Cataloguing-in-publication data is available from the National Library of Australia
Word count 115,415
Perfections Page 38