Darkest Place

by Jaye Ford

  She wasn’t about to tell him to buck up, it’ll be fine. ‘Good luck.’

  He nodded, glancing around as though looking for something else to talk about. ‘I need to get some ice on it. Do you mind?’

  ‘No. Please.’ Carly munched on cashews as she watched his stiff-legged gait to and from the freezer, empathising with his pain and recovery, remembering what it was like to be fielding questions about it. As he positioned an icepack around the knee of his jeans, she said, ‘What did you do before you worked on the oil rig?’

  ‘Designed stuff. I’m an engineer.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that what you do on the oil rig? Design it? Bits of it? Renovations and extensions.’

  Amusement flickered on his lips. ‘Bathrooms and sundecks?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘No. I’m a roughneck. I do grunt work, operate machinery, a bit of maintenance.’

  Long hours, hard work and cramped quarters, he’d said another time. She’d come here for a better life, why did he leave for something worse? ‘You didn’t like being an engineer?’

  ‘It’s fine, but I’ll be heading back to the oil rig if my knee holds up.’ He shrugged. ‘The money’s good. It paid off this place.’

  She thought engineers were well paid. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

  ‘I wanted a lot of things. Mostly to leave.’

  And now he was back here, poor bastard. ‘I get that. Sometimes leaving is the only thing left to do.’

  His eyes found hers. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Will you stay if your knee … ?’

  ‘Haven’t thought that far. You?’

  ‘I’m never going back.’

  ‘An ex?’

  ‘He’s just part of it.’ She hesitated, not sure she wanted the conversation to keep going in this direction. ‘You?’

  ‘She’s just part of it.’

  She took a sip of wine. He took a handful of nuts.

  ‘Short conversation,’ he said.

  ‘And we were doing so well.’ Except now he was tapping a finger on his glass, reminding her she’d invited herself. ‘Maybe I should go.’

  His gaze settled on her again. ‘Or stay for a top-up.’

  Did she want to? She glanced at the windows, the night beyond obscured by their reflections. More appealing than her apartment tonight. ‘A top-up would be nice, thanks. Keep the ice on your knee, I’ll get it.’

  Refilling their glasses, she ran through a list of topics to keep the conversation on track. He hadn’t asked her any questions yet but they were settling in, he would eventually, only she’d come here to stop thinking about the past. ‘What did you design when you were in engineering?’ she asked as she sat back down.

  ‘Civil projects. Roads and bridges, mostly. A few storage facilities and warehouses.’

  ‘Like this one?’

  His eyes did a quick flick around. ‘Nothing as interesting as this. Nothing I’d want to live in in eighty years’ time.’

  ‘The builders of this one probably thought the same thing.’

  He nodded, the finger tapping the glass again. ‘So, Carly, what’s going on?’ The tone was casual but his eyes were asking something else.

  She shrugged. ‘Drink with a neighbour.’

  ‘I don’t think you came here to talk about oil rigs and warehouses. They’re not that interesting.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ She put her half-empty wineglass on the coffee table. Maybe now it was time to go.

  ‘You were upset, I could see that. You want to tell me about it?’

  Not at all. She wanted him to think she was his nice, smart, well-adjusted neighbour, to take her I’m never going back as a clean break. But she’d plied him with questions tonight and kept him awake other nights. He probably deserved something.

  ‘I had reason to phone my ex today. It wasn’t fun. I needed to stop thinking about it.’

  He nodded, slowly, like he was considering a response. Maybe deciding to tell her he was a good listener. She shuffled to the edge of the sofa, ready to leave.

  ‘So … did you find the fish co-op?’ he asked.

  She frowned for a second, then realised he was changing the subject for her. ‘Yes, several times,’ she said, grateful, impressed he’d remembered her earlier question.

  ‘How about the Indian takeaway?’

  ‘Had the butter chicken, avoided the vindaloo.’

  He smiled. She smiled back. They chatted some more – about her course and the walk to the breakwater his knee wasn’t up to, the cafe, the markets and the weather. Short, brisk summaries that kept her brain moving and seemed to warm up his conversational skills. He managed to speak in whole sentences, even laughed out loud once.

  ‘Another?’ Nate asked.

  ‘No, I’ve had enough. I should go.’ She was ready now. ‘If I stay any longer, you’ll never want another guest.’ And she might end up in his bed.

  He walked her to his door. ‘Have a good night, Carly.’

  ‘It’ll be better now. Thanks.’

  The memories had pressed hard today but she’d hadn’t let them take over. And now she was going back to her own space, where she wanted to be.

  Which would be perfect if only she wasn’t scared of it.

  Saturday stretched ahead of Carly like a long road through a desert – just her and an assignment, alone in the apartment with its shadows and loft and agitation. Sitting at the small outdoor setting in the living room, she arranged pens and notebooks beside her laptop as though being organised would make a difference. She rubbed her neck, drummed a thumb on the keyboard and wrote … nothing. Got up and paced around. The space felt too small, too dim, too … oh, fuck it.

  She was at the markets looking at handmade jewellery, blaming her tiredness on the lost earrings that she’d finally found in the fridge, when she heard her name being called.

  ‘Over here!’ Damien was manning the community gardens stall, the office clothes gone and the hat back on. ‘Wish we had the egg-and-bacon-roll queue,’ he called.

  She worked her way to his table, more comfortable about chatting with him in a crowd with his plants.

  ‘Have you signed the petition against the multi-storey car park?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s doing the rounds. So’s the renovation proposal for the warehouse on the corner. Looking pretty green.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Environmentally, not colour, she assumed.

  ‘Heard any more from the police about the guy that broke in?’

  Carly thought about how to explain it. He was community minded, maybe a little left wing. A simple They think I made it up might get some kind of can’t-trust-the-bastards response. It would feel good to hear someone say it – except he lived in the warehouse and Chinese whispers might turn it into She made it all up.

  ‘They’re still looking into it,’ she told him.

  He nodded distractedly, his attention on a new customer as she waved and left.

  She avoided the apartment a while longer, walking all the way to the breakwater, pushing through the weariness of bad sleep and old nightmares, lingering over coffee, imitating relaxation. The assignment was due on Monday, she told herself over a second coffee. She could finish it in a few hours if she got stuck in.

  She was on the way home when she saw Brooke on a bench seat on the path up ahead, the fat boot stuck out in front of her, something despondent in the set of her shoulders. Carly slowed, remembering the conversation with her after the book club. Carly sympathised with her grief, how could she not? But today she didn’t want to be reminded of friends and tragedies, wondered if she could slip past unnoticed – and then Brooke looked right at her.

  Carly waved, didn’t see the tears on Brooke’s cheeks until she’d stopped beside the bench. Brooke’s attempt at a smile looked like she wished Carly had kept going and, for half a second, Carly thought about it. But they were three steps from the edge of the harbour and a drop into deep water. Alone wasn’t al
ways best. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

  Brooke turned her eyes to the harbour. ‘Having a bad day, actually.’

  There was ice in the wind and Carly’s ankles were aching, but she knew about bad days. ‘Feel like some company?’

  It was a second or two before Brooke replied. ‘I was thinking of when I’ll be able to walk along here again.’

  It was a good start. Carly sat down beside her. ‘How much longer are you in the boot?’

  ‘A couple of weeks.’

  ‘It’s a long walk from the warehouse on crutches.’

  Brooke hooked a thumb over her shoulder at a parking bay. ‘I drove. It’s an automatic, I only need one foot. I’d ask you how your walk was but I don’t want to be jealous.’

  Carly chuckled softly. ‘Are you off work?’

  ‘I work from home. I’ve been doing everything over the phone for the last four weeks.’

  ‘You were lucky there.’

  ‘Except now I spend my days stuck in the apartment staring at a computer screen and going a little crazy.’

  ‘Not so good, then.’

  Brooke took a breath and blew it out. ‘I’ve been struggling with depression for a while. Since Talia’s accident.’

  ‘Not being able to get out and go for a walk makes it worse, doesn’t it?’

  Brooke looked at her properly then.

  Carly shrugged. ‘I’ve been there, too.’

  ‘Depression?’

  ‘Anxiety.’ Carly almost left it at that – she’d wanted to keep it to herself here but Brooke seemed alone in her struggle. ‘I worry that something awful will happen without warning, that I’ll lose people I love. It happened once, it’s hard to forget.’

  Brooke watched Carly a moment more. ‘Do you take medication?’

  ‘At times.’

  ‘So it came back?’

  ‘Comes and goes.’ Sometimes better, sometimes worse.

  Brooke pulled in a long breath. ‘Talia had depression. Good days and bad days. Days she could hardly move. She thought it was something creative people suffered.’ Brooke’s shoulders lifted and fell. ‘I’m a graphic designer, I suppose that puts me in the same category. It’s just, I feel like she passed it on to me when she left.’ She gave Carly a wounded smile. ‘Ridiculous, really.’

  Carly wondered about the car accident, whether a suicide attempt had been suspected, but she didn’t want to upset Brooke any more by asking. ‘How is she doing now?’

  Her voice broke on the words. ‘Not so great.’

  Neither was Brooke. Maybe she needed to talk about Talia with someone who didn’t know her. ‘How did you and Talia meet?’

  ‘We’re both from Perth. She was … I had …’ She stopped.

  ‘You came over together?’ Carly prompted. ‘No, I didn’t know her in Perth. I moved over with my boyfriend. When we broke up I was trying to find a flatmate to share the rent and someone told me the new girl on the fourth floor was from the west. I knew she’d bought her place … your place … but I fronted up and introduced myself, thinking she might know others from Perth looking for somewhere to live. After a couple of glasses of wine we were friends. It was a kind of instant connection.’

  Carly nodded, interested in more than just letting her talk now. ‘Was she like that? One of those people who collects friends?’ Who was casual about who she gave her key to?

  ‘God, no. She was quiet, not shy, happy most of the time to watch everyone else having a good time. We were an odd match, really. She’d moved in the day before, I was the first person she met here so maybe it was that, I don’t know. She had a few friends at the Conservatorium but mostly it was about the music, not her, you know?’

  Carly nodded. ‘No boyfriend?’

  ‘No. Not in the time I knew her. I never saw anyone else in her apartment. It was her practice space and her cello was worth a fortune. She was always a bit anxious about it getting damaged so we usually met at my place.’

  ‘Sounds like she was lucky to meet you.’

  Brooke shrugged. ‘We would never have crossed paths back home. Her family is rich, her idea of a big night out was tickets to the symphony. I went to the local public school and a music festival is as cultural as I get.’ She pinned Carly with her eyes. ‘I was the lucky one. Talia found the smaller apartment I eventually moved into, encouraged me to freelance and taught me about classical music. I had the best deal. She got depression and drove into a tree.’

  Carly laid a hand on Brooke’s arm, lowered her voice. ‘On purpose?’

  ‘No.’ She said it quickly, then shook her head as though thinking about it some more. ‘No, I don’t think so. Her parents asked me that too. A blood test after the accident showed she’d taken sleeping pills. Not enough for an overdose but she shouldn’t have been driving.’ Brooke pulled in a sudden breath, hands to her face. ‘I feel bad about that. I could have driven her that morning. I don’t understand why she didn’t ask. She was only going to the Conservatorium and she was always careful about the drugs. She hated being on antidepressants and the sleeping pills made her too groggy for her morning practice. She only took them when she had to. Even then it was, like, half a tablet, and she’d do this whole time calculation so she wouldn’t oversleep.’

  ‘Does Talia remember taking them?’

  ‘She can’t remember what happened. The day before or the accident. She only remembers waking up in agony in hospital and being told she’ll never play again.’ A tear worked its way down Brooke’s cheek. ‘I didn’t see her the night before. I wish we’d had our usual drink and Indian takeaway and I knew what she was thinking. And I wish she’d knocked on my door and asked for a lift.’

  Carly knew all about wishing she’d done things differently.

  19

  ‘Carly, lovely. Come in.’ Elizabeth Jennings stood back to let Carly through the door. She’d left an invitation for afternoon tea in Carly’s letterbox two days ago. The eggshell blue stationery and formal wording had made Carly smile, then spend an hour drafting a reply that didn’t sound like an RSVP from a Jane Austen novel.

  Carly followed Elizabeth into the apartment, awed again by the shelves and their contents. ‘So many beautiful things.’

  They faced the wall together as though they were admiring a mural. ‘Entirely self-indulgent, of course,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But it’s my home and while I still can, I want to remember everything.’

  It wasn’t a vanity wall, there were no awards or brag photos. But there were photographs – some of people, others of exotic settings. And books, carved pieces, a tiny painting, three rocks, a bronzed shoe. ‘You must have done a lot.’

  ‘It’s been a full life.’

  ‘May I?’ Carly asked, not wanting to assume that because they were on display they were open for close inspection.

  ‘Please do. Take your time while I get the tea started. Or would you prefer coffee?’ Elizabeth was already moving towards the kitchen with her walking stick.

  ‘Whatever is easiest.’

  Elizabeth’s voice was firm. ‘No, no, there’ll be none of that. I’m prepared for both and a woman should make her preferences clear.’

  Okay, then. Told again by the feisty older woman. There were several tea canisters on the kitchen counter, pretty tins that looked like something from an English TV drama. ‘I’ll have tea, thank you.’

  ‘And tell me, Carly, are you adventurous with your tea?’

  Did the occasional bag of Earl Grey count? ‘What are you suggesting?’ A slug of whiskey?

  ‘As you are interested in my collections, I thought it an excuse to use a Turkish tea set I bought in Istanbul about thirty years ago. If we choose that path, we should do as the Turks do and drink it black and strong.’ She flicked on the kettle with a flourish.

  ‘I’m game,’ Carly said. ‘Is there something I can do to help?’

  ‘You may stand on the other side of the counter and tell me about yourself. I’m interested in your name. Is it Carly with a C or a K
?’

  If that was all she wanted to know, Carly was happy to oblige. ‘C.’

  ‘Many years ago, I taught a Carlene, who was called Carly by her friends.’ Elizabeth selected tiny tulip-shaped glasses with matching saucers. ‘And there’s Carla, of course, with the obvious diminutive Carly. Are you either of those variations or are you simply Carly?’

  ‘I’m none of the above. My full name is Charlotte.’

  Elizabeth lifted her face, eyebrows raised. ‘French and German origins, I believe. Feminine of Charles, meaning strong woman, if my memory serves. Is that you?’

  Maybe once, not for the last thirteen years. ‘I’m not sure I’m the one to judge that. It seems like a good thing to wish for your child, though.’

  Using the benchtop for support, Elizabeth took a few steps along the counter, reached for a cloth-covered plate. ‘I understand Charlie is the more fashionable shortening of Charlotte these days. I’m intrigued at your reasons for choosing a different contraction.’

  The conversation was starting to feel like a visit to the school principal. ‘I didn’t choose it, really, and it wasn’t short for Charlotte in the beginning. It started as a joke. I had a friend who was into athletics and was mad on the American runner Carl Lewis. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him.’

  Elizabeth paused in her preparations to give Carly a stern glance over the top of her glasses. ‘Four Olympic track gold medals. 1984, Los Angeles, if I remember rightly. I was a history teacher and housemistress at a boarding school in my younger days. I used to supervise the resident sports students. History and sport. Sometimes I combine the two. Back to your story … Carl Lewis, go on.’

  Carly grinned to herself, no problem imagining Elizabeth rounding up young ladies in checked tunics. ‘Well, Carl Lewis won medals in different events, and I was involved in a lot of different things, and one day my friend called me the Carl Lewis of Burden.’ After Jenna gave her the name, she, Debs and Adam had only ever called her Carl. She’d turned it into Carly when she started uni.

  ‘I assume the reference to the impressive Mr Lewis was because you were doing these things at an exceptional level,’ Elizabeth said.