Friday Never Leaving

by Vikki Wakefield

  I felt myself slipping and jerked awake.

  Outside, light was fading and streetlights were coming on. A piece of newspaper was peeling away from the window. Through the triangle, I saw the silhouette of a woman on the second floor across the street. She lifted a child above her head; she pulled him close to her chest. They were a two-headed creature. Together, entwined.

  The black hole was sucking me in. Was this what Vivienne felt, those times she whispered that we were leaving? Was it her way of fending off the notion that nothing would ever be good again?

  This was my inheritance—forever chasing stars.

  “You okay?” Bree asked from the doorway.

  Compassion was the worst thing to offer to someone like me.

  “Yes,” I barked, and she went away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OUR BIG ADVENTURE BEGAN AT nine o’clock that night.

  I’d fallen asleep, curled up with the blanket over my face, only waking when the sense of someone watching burned through my oblivion.

  “Get ready,” Arden said. “Put something warm on. It’s cold out.”

  In the kitchen, Bree sat by herself. She looked lost—not her usual smiling self.

  Carrie kept cleaning dishes as if world order was at stake if she didn’t get the mugs lined up for morning. I saw Silence on the stairs, briefly, before Arden dragged me away. We went down into the cellar.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Consider it part of your induction,” she said.

  I followed, doubling my steps to keep up with her.

  A few streets from the squat, Arden hailed a taxi. She sat right next to me in the back and I felt the push-pull force of her. She was reining her emotions in, keeping them close. She pinned her hands between her knees and stared straight ahead through the windscreen. She wore dark-denim jeans, her customary trench coat and high, thick-soled boots laced up to her knees. Her dreads were stuffed under a black beanie.

  “You look like a member of the IRA,” I said, immediately wishing I could take it back. My stomach churned.

  “You look like you’re about to puke,” she said. Then she had one of her moments of light and grabbed my hand. She rubbed circles with her thumb on my palm, studying my fingers. She aligned her hand against mine and compared them, her fingers so long and thin they overshot mine by a couple of centimeters.

  “You’re like a doll,” she said. “I saw a movie once where these tiny people lived inside a house with normal-sized people. They hid in the walls and they only came out at night, or when the others were sleeping.” She released my hand and breathed on the window. Hah. She drew a series of connected stick people in the condensation.

  “Sounds like a kids’ movie. The Borrowers?” I remembered the old movies Vivienne and I used to watch to get to sleep.

  “No, it was weird. More like a horror movie. I can’t remember what it was called. My parents were watching in the lounge room and I sneaked out of my room and hid behind the couch. I was about seven, I think.”

  “Chucky?”

  “Nope. Whatever it was I’ll never forget how those tiny people fucked up all the big people’s lives. And I got the biggest arse-kicking for sneaking out of bed.”

  “I hope the little people won,” I said.

  “Left here,” she told the driver.

  “Why the taxi? Is it far? Where are we going?”

  “Soon,” she said.

  “Arden? That tattoo on your back. What does it mean?”

  “It means what it says.” Her expression was blank and her fingers drummed a beat on the seat. “Next right.” She nailed a thought and shared it. “Just so you know, if you hurt any one of my kids I’ll destroy you.”

  “Why would I hurt anyone? How could I?” I said weakly.

  “Because you’re not committed. I can tell. You have one foot already out the door. We stick together.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out how I fit in.”

  “Just stay or go, it’s that simple. You won’t survive in the city alone. I think you know that. You’re not street. We have each other’s backs, but you’re not watching anybody’s back but your own, are you?”

  I knew there was some truth in what she was saying, but it all seemed like badass, B-grade, homegirl hokum to me.

  I sniggered.

  Arden’s hand whipped out and smacked the back of my head.

  “Hey . . . ?” Anger flared but I copped the smack, rubbed my head and slid down in my seat.

  “Here’s your chance. Prove yourself, country girl, and you can make your own mind up if you want to stay or go. Otherwise, I’ll decide for you.”

  Arden got the taxi to pull up at the top of a wide, well-lit street. She gave the driver a fifty, waited for the change and told me to get out.

  I stood in the milky glow of a streetlight and wondered where we were. Bugs swarmed around the light and I could see my breath in crystals. The houses were large, set well back from the road in leafy gardens. Most had high fences and wrought-iron gates. Warm yellow light spilled from several windows and the air was pungent with the smell of spring flowers. I felt like the little match girl, standing half-frozen in the dark while the families inside were toasty and warm.

  “Come on,” said Arden. She strode off, shoulders square, hands dug deep in her pockets. Rage was so close under her skin, she seemed untouchable.

  I followed.

  She led me past four or five houses before she decided on one. She slowed outside a red-brick two-story house that looked like it had been transported from a southern plantation. Lanky white columns flanked the entrance and a driveway bordered with a low hedge curved like a sad mouth at the front. Two rooms were lit downstairs.

  She paced past the house once, twice, and cocked her head, listening, while I waited in the shadows.

  “I like this one,” she said.

  “I’m not going any further until you tell me why we’re here,” I hissed.

  She seemed to look right at me but a space beyond held her focus.

  The situation slid out of my control.

  “See that pillar at the end, under the tree? I’ll give you a leg-up. It looks like that tree joins with the other one, the big one, see?” She pointed, running her finger along with one eye squinted. “That big one has a branch that runs parallel to the ground. If you stay on that branch the sensor lights shouldn’t come on. You’ll be able to reach the roof, so you can drop down and climb up past the window on the right. The one with the blinds open. Okay?”

  Blood throbbed in my ears. Arden sounded like she was speaking underwater.

  “What . . . ?”

  “Go over the top of the roof and straight down the other side. Look for the smallest window.” She held her hands a little more than a foot apart. “Bathroom windows are never locked. Go in head first, not feet, or you’ll get stuck.”

  “I . . . ”

  “Listen. This is your chance. Prove yourself.”

  “This is a test?”

  “We’ve all done it. Bring me something pretty.” She drew a band around her ringless finger.

  “You want me to break in? To steal something . . . ”

  “Keep your voice down,” she muttered. “Go for the main bedroom.”

  “I can’t . . . ”

  “If you say can’t, you can’t.” She looked me over and found me lacking.

  “What if an alarm goes off?”

  “Abort.”

  “But there are lights on. What if there’s somebody home?”

  “There’s nobody home. No cars.”

  “But what if . . . ?”

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t send you in there if I didn’t think you could do it. I’ve got your back,” she said and gave me that drilling stare.

  I knew she meant it. And some pathetic part of me wanted to win her favor because she seemed to have all the answers. I wanted to ask her questions I would have asked Vivienne. Arden was the strongest, most real thing I had.
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br />   “Okay,” I said.

  She cupped my face with her cold hands and kissed me gently on the lips.

  I froze, stunned. Her lips pulsed with warmth and life when I expected more ice. It wasn’t attraction I felt, but a connection that ran deep like she’d plugged into a socket in my brain and we were both lit up from the same energy source. I would have done anything for her.

  It was in this fog of invincibility that I strode to the brick pillar and braced my hands on the top. I bent my leg back in an L-shape and Arden hoisted my featherweight easily. I sat on top of the pillar and unlaced my boots.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t climb with these on,” I said. “I need to feel under my feet.”

  I kicked off the boots and swung my leg over a branch that bowed dangerously under my weight. I shuffled along, legs wrapped around it like I was straddling a horse. It levered me up and leveled out as I crawled closer to the main trunk of the tree. Leaves brushed my face and a bird fluttered out of reach. I heard the intake of my own breath each time my foot slipped on the smooth bark—but I never really believed that I’d fall.

  Arden was below.

  I crossed over to the next tree, the biggest. There, I needed to go up, not just across. There were no decent footholds and I had to perform the monkey-bar swing with my hands.

  I felt at ease; all my doubts were without substance and my fear had gone. There was only exhilaration. It gave me extra strength and when I reached the roof of the house, I was smiling, warm, out of breath.

  I was grace. I was in control. I was . . . alone.

  When I looked down, Arden had disappeared.

  I jumped. The gutter groaned under my weight as I pulled myself up onto the sloping roof. The tiles were dry. Yellow lichen gave me traction as I clambered up and over the pitch.

  There were two small windows on the other side. Mentally, I measured the opening of the closest one. I decided that my body and hips would fit, but my shoulders could pose a problem.

  Head first, Arden had said.

  I pushed the window and it opened without resistance. I put both feet through the opening and shuffled my hips. Once I was halfway through, I saw what she meant. My back was arched to breaking point. I had no force of my own, only gravity to keep me moving. With my arms above my head I was wedged half-in, half-out. The sharp edge of the window frame sliced my back. Sweat formed an icy layer on my skin.

  Shit.

  Through sheer will, spurred on by the threat of spending the night there, I pressed my shoulder blades together and wiggled them through the space. Near dislocation, my bones stretched the muscles past a point they’d never been before.

  I gasped as I slid through, whacked my head on the sill, caught my wrists on the bottom of the window and landed with one foot in toilet water.

  The seat was up. I put it down and sat there for a minute until my muscles stopped screaming. Muddy blue puddles pooled on the white tiles as I made my way to the door. I imagined watery, grasping fingers on my bare ankles and, when I looked back, the puddles were slowly bleeding into one. I couldn’t get the door open fast enough. I closed it quietly behind me, put a hand to my throat and felt the mad pulse there.

  I was in a hallway. My feet sank into plush carpet. I could just make out the shape of a doorway in the dark. I turned the handle and felt around for a light switch but I couldn’t find one. I took a few steps, hit my shin against something hard, and toppled onto a bed.

  When my eyes adjusted, I could make out a tall dresser, side tables, the bed. The room smelled of expensive perfume and furniture polish.

  I slid open the first drawer of the dresser. My fingers found satin and lace. I closed it and ran my hands along the top. Glass bottles clinked together and fell. I set them upright and opened the second drawer. There, I found the unmistakable shape of a jewelry box. It was unlocked, half open and spilling over with trinkets.

  The first one I touched was heavy, so I figured it was only cheap costume jewelry. I didn’t want to take anything valuable. I yanked and it started a chain reaction; one by one, other necklaces caught and dragged and slithered into a pile on the floor. I ripped the heavy necklace free, scooped the rest up and stuffed them back into the box.

  I tried to leave the room as I found it. I smoothed over the creases on the bed and buffed the dresser’s knobs with my T-shirt. In the hallway, I fumbled for the toilet door and turned the handle.

  It wasn’t the toilet. It was a bedroom. The faint glow of streetlights bled through the slats of the blinds and I could see a bed. And a person on the bed. Faint music came from his headphones. He was lying there, naked to the waist, wearing only a pair of jeans. His eyes were closed. One leg was crossed over the other and one foot tapped. His chest rose and fell evenly while my lungs were plunging and sucking like bellows.

  I knew who had left the toilet seat up.

  He opened his eyes.

  We exchanged a look like a shooting star—brief, intense, over.

  I ran for it.

  My feet skidded sideways on the wet floor and my legs went out from under me. I landed hard on my backside, flung out my arm, slammed the toilet door, and locked it. I scrambled for a grip like a dog on a linoleum floor—pedaling hard and going nowhere, leaving half-moon turtle tracks in the slush. I twisted and landed on both elbows, yelping. If I hadn’t been so scared I would have laughed at my clumsiness.

  I stood slowly. Breathe. Think.

  The door handle moved one sinister rotation before he must have realized I’d locked it. He didn’t jiggle it. His composure made me more terrified. I backed up slowly and wound the necklace around my fist.

  What do you do when you open your eyes and see a barefoot intruder standing in your doorway? He should have yelled or reacted, shouldn’t he? Weird. Maybe he was getting ready to kick the door down. What if he had a key?

  I stood on the toilet seat and managed to crawl back through the window, even though my arms and legs were jelly.

  Out on the roof, I was exposed, caught in the million-watt glare from the floodlights next door. Half blind, I tried to climb back over the top of the roof without rolling off.

  Getting back onto the tree was a hit and miss affair. Miss when I swung my leg over the branch and slipped, hit when it flung back and smacked my face. My eyes watered and my lip swelled.

  Where the hell was Arden?

  I was about six feet away from the fence when the porch light came on. I risked a glance back.

  The guy was standing there, scratching his head. He’d taken the time to put on a shirt. He looked stunned.

  I vaulted onto the footpath and took cover behind a bush.

  “Jesus. What happened to you?” Arden said, emerging from the shadows.

  I jumped. “There’s someone home,” I whispered. “Go! Just go!”

  Arden laughed and followed when I ran off. She overtook me without even trying, boots clomping. She was gasping for breath and holding her side. It was only when we eased up and stopped about three blocks away from the house that I realized she was laughing.

  I had left my boots standing on the brick pillar. Like bloody Cinderella.

  Arden put her arm around me and drew me close. She prised my fingers apart and extracted the necklace. In the light it was hideous—a garish mix of blood-colored stones set in cheap, chipped silver. A heavy silver crucifix dangled in the center.

  I massaged my palm. The shape of the cross was imprinted on it.

  Arden stroked the stones, then slipped the necklace over her head. She tucked the cross between her breasts.

  I knew it was the thievery, not the bounty, that pleased her. But when she kissed my forehead and wrapped her trench coat around my shaking shoulders, I decided that guilt was a small price.

  I was back, safe, under her wing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE NEXT MORNING, MY BOOTS were sitting at the foot of my mattress as if they’d walked home all by themselves.

  I sat up.
Looked around. Was it a joke? Did Arden go back to get them?

  Carrie snored softly. Bree was lying on her back with her arms folded under her head, coat-hanger style, smoking her breakfast cigarette.

  “You’ll burn this place down,” I said.

  “Pfft,” she said and flicked her ash onto the floor. “Where did you and Arden go last night?”

  I ignored her, sat up, and stretched my aching body.

  “What happened to your face?”

  I touched my swollen lip. Overnight, it had split and I could taste dried blood. I catalogued my other wounds: scratches on my arms, a throbbing tailbone, a scrape on my upper back. Raw and sore all over.

  “Reconnaissance and retrieval mission.” I shrugged. The boots sat there like an accusation.

  “You don’t have to be like the rest of us,” Bree said in a serious tone.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.” She lit another cigarette. “Welcome to the Dark Side.”

  I cupped my hands over my mouth and gave my best impression of Darth Vader breath.

  Bree smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  First Peter Pan, then Star Wars. Maybe my upbringing wasn’t as culturally barren as I thought.

  “Shut up or get out,” Carrie grumbled and rolled over.

  Bree went downstairs first.

  I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt and followed. The guilt and fear of the night before was still stuck to my skin. I could hear Arden laughing in the kitchen.

  “How did my boo . . . ,” I started.

  It was obvious now that my boots didn’t get there by themselves.

  The guy was there. The bare-chested guy from the house. The bare-chested guy from the house I broke into, and stole from. He was so tall he made everything around him look like dollhouse furniture. Elbows and angles stuck out as if he’d only ever grown up, but not out. He was pale, dark-haired, and unremarkable, sipping coffee from Arden’s mug like he belonged there.