Mercy m-1

by Rebecca Lim

  Her flashy transport clashes terribly with her hair, but it’s not up to me to point that out. I realise suddenly that maybe Ryan’s here to see her under climate-controlled conditions rather than keep me any kind of company.

  I’m not sure what to feel about that.

  Brenda kills the engine then looks coolly through her windscreen at Ryan, who stares back equally intently from the kerb. No one seems game to break eye contact first and I’m trying hard not to laugh as the seconds tick by. I wonder how these two left things when they finally called it quits, what was said. From Brenda’s expression, maybe what was thrown.

  Finally, she slides her long, slim legs out of the driver’s seat. She’s wearing slinky black patterned tights, a barely there skirt in jewel green, and a purple cashmere pullover that goes unbelievably well with her huge, violet eyes. Boho chandelier earrings brush the tops of her narrow shoulders. Her razor-cut, shoulder-length red hair is styled to within an inch of its life so that individual strands don’t move in the chill night breeze.

  She’s perfection.

  ‘Well, look who’s here,’ Brenda says icily. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Brenda Sorensen,’ Ryan replies through his teeth.

  There’s a strange look on his face that might be regret.

  Or maybe indigestion, the evil part of me whispers.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Brenda continues, barely acknowledging me, though it is me she is ostensibly here for. ‘You’re like a ghost these days.’

  ‘You know what I’ve been up to,’ Ryan says warily, taking a step closer, out of the circle of light he’s placed us in. ‘There’s no point acting as if nothing’s happened when I know she’s out there somewhere. I mean, school’s always going to be there …’ And she won’t. He doesn’t have to say it. I can read it in his face. Since when did I get so good at doing that?

  Together, they are a total contrast in height, colour, personality. If Brenda has a nice, soft side, I’m yet to see it. But she sure rocks her outfit and towering fringed heels. Tonight, she’s beautiful. One of those people for whom moonlight does wonders. I’m beginning to see the attraction she might have held for him. She’s like a lethal wisp of steel beside him, crowned with fire. I can see how life with someone like Brenda would never be … boring.

  ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive,’ Brenda breathes finally, running the fingers of one hand lightly up Ryan’s jacket front as if I’m not standing right there, ‘but Lauren would have hated seeing you this way. Running in circles. Going nowhere. I miss you. It might not seem that way, but I do.’ Her voice drops a notch. ‘There’s nothing left to prove, you know.’ Her tone is almost pleading now and something softens in the harsh lines of Ryan’s face. ‘You’ve done everything you can. No one could have done more. She would have wanted you to get on with your life.’ Brenda’s pale hand lingers a moment longer on the collar of Ryan’s leather jacket before falling gracefully away.

  ‘How would you know what Lauren would have wanted?’ Ryan says bleakly.

  ‘Because she was my best friend,’ Brenda replies softly. ‘And maybe now you’re beginning to see that you’re wasting your time when the people who are still alive need you.’ She steps even closer to him, her dainty profile tilted up towards his, earrings jangling softly. ‘We haven’t won a game since you quit on us, the forward line’s a mess. And nothing’s been right since we —’

  ‘We’ve talked about this,’ Ryan sighs. ‘Speaking of circles.’ Brenda leans in but then stops short, her attention suddenly arrested. She frowns. ‘Why are the dogs barking like that?’ Good pick-up, I think acidly. Sorry to spoil your touching little reunion, but it sounds like an insane asylum to me, too, from where I’m standing.

  Ryan stiffens, recalled to my slight presence in the pool of light at his shoulder. ‘They’re a little sensitive to—’

  ‘The perfume I’m wearing,’ I jump in. ‘It’s a doozy.’ I’m about to move forward towards Brenda’s car, fully appraised of the fascinating situation between them now, when Ryan steps backwards heavily onto my foot, pinning me in place.

  ‘Hey,’ I growl, heart back under control and doing a steady eighty-two beats per minute. ‘I’m walking here.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he says, his weight still keeping me in check.

  Carmen’s toes are beginning to throb and I twist my foot angrily, only to have Ryan stomp down harder. Our eyes clash for a moment.

  The look of delight on Brenda’s face is unmistakeable.

  ‘You will?’ she almost squeals, her violet eyes wide.

  ‘Does that mean …?’

  ‘It means I feel like a bit of company tonight,’ Ryan replies, swinging back round to face his ex-girlfriend, his heel still firmly pinning me down. ‘It’s been way, way too long. You two wait right here. Don’t move a muscle.’ He releases Carmen’s foot and I flex it, feeling the blood come rushing back.

  ‘And I mean wait, pipsqueak,’ he hisses, for my benefit alone. ‘You’re no good — in the dark.’ And suddenly I understand. All along, I thought his attention was squarely focused on the fashion plate in front of us when really he was on the lookout for me as well. I’d be kind of touched if I wasn’t such a hard ass.

  I glance down at my hands, touch my face self-consciously, and wonder whether Brenda sees.

  *

  The dogs are still going mad as Ryan backs his rusting, white four-wheel drive onto the road and slides out to shut and chain the gates and let Brenda into the front seat. She is a happy blur of accessories, coltish legs and motion as she throws herself into the car without turning to see if I’m coming. As she slams the door shut, Ryan tilts his head towards the back seat behind Brenda’s and snarls, ‘Keep your head down, whatever you do.’ I nod tightly, still embarrassed that he seems to know me better than I know myself. We both get into the car then, slam the doors.

  We set off through the dark, wide, unremarkable streets of Paradise, with its generous plots of land, its regular-looking, two-car houses spaced at even intervals.

  ‘I so can’t wait to get out of here,’ Brenda mutters, her shining gaze fixed on Ryan’s profile, like a blind woman whose sight has suddenly been restored. ‘It’s a place where whales and old people come to die.’

  ‘Or tree-changers like my folks,’ Ryan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the darkened road ahead. ‘I wish we’d never come here, moved away from the city. Maybe it would never have happened …’ As I watch through the thick, woolly fringe of Carmen’s hair, Brenda puts a hand lightly on his arm with a slight pout. ‘But then we’d never have met, Ry!

  Lauren and I used to make plans all the time about how we were going to escape here right after school finished, and take you back with us, to the city …’

  ‘And now there’s no escape for any of us,’ Ryan murmurs and Brenda’s fingers tighten briefly on him like claws. ‘So where are we going, Bren?’

  ‘To Mulvany’s,’ she says, swinging around suddenly to look at me.

  I’m ready for her, though, and stare fixedly through the side window so that all she sees is the side of Carmen’s head, our palely glowing profile shielded by a mass of dark hair.

  I hear the slight jangle of Brenda’s earrings as she turns back to Ryan, and feel more than see the curl of Ryan’s lip as he exclaims, ‘That dive! Since when did “the gang” start hanging out at Mulvany’s?’

  ‘Since Mr Masson thought it would be a great idea to show the St Joseph’s girls and their teachers a “good time” at Paradise’s “one and only international karaoke lounge”.’ Brenda’s tone is derisive. ‘It’s so lame. Like all they’d ever want to do in this town is sing, right, Carmen?’ The word sends a thrill of apprehension down my spine. ‘Sing?’ I mutter.

  ‘Sure,’ Brenda purrs happily. ‘If Tiffany Lazer thinks she’s going to hog the spotlight tonight, she’s in for a shock. That’s why I had to make sure you were coming, Carmen. You’ll put her right back into her box. The music teachers all get hard-ons every time we
have one of these inter-school concerts,’ she adds, lip curling. ‘And when “singers of the calibre of the young women of St Joseph’s are visiting” — to show us yokels a thing or two — the music teachers get positively orgasmic. Though it wouldn’t be too much of a punishment getting into Paul Stenborg’s pants. Everyone tries hard enough, and rumour has it that he doesn’t always say no. He’s always taking his little favourites out for “coffee”.’ Her voice is malicious, or maybe it’s just envy, pure and simple.

  What she’s saying isn’t really penetrating my consciousness though. Sing?

  I swallow hard as we pull into the crowded car park of Paradise’s one and only international karaoke lounge.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I hiss at Ryan’s broad back as we leave our coats with the barely dressed coat-check girl and pay our cover charge of twelve dollars a head, unlimited soft drinks included.

  As he turns to look at me, Brenda tugs hard at his hand and says brightly, ‘Come on, Ry! This may turn out to be fun, after all.’ We pass some seedy-looking, middle-aged punters at the bar, who check Brenda out with more than a little interest, as we head towards a private function room out the back. It’s decked out cheesily with coloured helium balloons and two twirling disco balls that fleck the walls and ceiling with broken light. The space is dominated by a wall of video screens in front of which is a small, maroon velveteen-bedecked stage. Two of the kids from Paradise High are half-turned towards the bank of televisions, crooning sickeningly at each other: my … endless … love. There is good-natured snickering and heckling from the tightly packed crowd of drink-clutching teens at their feet.

  In the way that I sometimes have of seeing too much, too quickly, I pick out a tight knot of adults clustered across the room, Miss Fellows, Miss Dustin, Gerard Masson and Laurence Barry among them, together with a few watchful parents whose eyes narrow collectively and speculatively as they alight on Ryan Daley’s tall figure. Other kids begin to point, stare and murmur as they spot him, too. Clearly, Ryan was never one of the choirboys.

  Brenda practically drags him around the room on a victory lap. His eyes search for mine and he throws me an apologetic look.

  There must be almost a hundred people here. I zero in on Tiffany Lazer, surrounded by the St Joseph’s faithful, and Brenda’s two henchwomen, Tod and Spotty Boy standing nearby. Spotty Boy hasn’t yet seen me, and I duck my head down and push through in the opposite direction, happy to stand on my own.

  The lights are so bright in here I can relax on that score. I clock that there’s only one way in and one way out, and hope fiercely that, if no one sees me, I can hightail it out of here at the earliest opportunity. But I see another victim step up to the mike after a round of lazy applause greets the grating finale of the endless lovers, and I know I’m in trouble when a boy I don’t recall meeting thrusts a drink and a plastic-covered song list into my hand and says, ‘Where were you? We were all waiting. You’re almost up next. So choose already.’ I quickly scull the contents of my plastic cup, and the boy gives me a huge grin and two thumbs up. There’s something in the cola, I realise, because he’s making a secretive tippy tippy manoeuvre with his hand, his back to the adults across the room. Before I can say no to another, I’ve got a new cup in my hand and he’s standing there with expectant eyes, willing me to finish it.

  ‘Right under their noses,’ he says with satisfaction, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’m Bailey, by the way.’ The taste of the adulterated cola isn’t unpleasant and, as I thumb through the sticky pages of the song list, I down three more drinks, thanks to sheer, fearful adrenaline. The guy’s eyes are wide with wonder as he melts away to keep me supplied with more.

  I look up sharply as Tiffany begins to sing. It’s a song with a big, thumping chorus about survival and heartache with a driving, insistent beat. It’s a crowd-pleaser with the girls in particular — they’re all throwing their hands in the air and screaming along with the words, every single one of which they seem to have committed to memory. Of course, being me, I have no recollection of this song and remain unmoved in the heaving, thrusting bedlam.

  Tiffany’s beat that stare finds me over the heads of the throng as she continues to belt out the words, and that cold feeling in my spine returns, the sense of being balanced on razor wire over the shrieking abyss.

  Everything a freakin’ contest.

  ‘Man, you can put that shit away!’ shouts Bailey admiringly as he watches me crush yet another empty plastic cup in my hand.

  That gives me an idea, and a moment later, I let my eyes roll back in my head as I fall to the ground. Like a tree crashing to the forest floor.

  Chapter 13

  A girl nearby screams, ‘Oh — my — GOD!’ as the boy, Bailey, shouts above me, ‘Shit, shit, shit! Someone help me here!’ I keep my eyes resolutely shut as a swirl of activity takes place over and around Carmen’s prone body.

  ‘How much did you give her to drink, Bails?’ someone hisses.

  Bailey’s panicky whisper confirms I chugalugged eight bourbon-spiked colas in one sitting.

  ‘She’s probably in a freakin’ coma,’ exclaims a girl nearby. ‘She’ll need her stomach pumped out for sure.’ Someone bends to check I have a pulse. A touch so brief, there isn’t time for me to make a connection, and for that I am truly grateful. From the ambient smell of mothballs, however, I’m guessing it’s Laurence Barry who has taken it upon himself to gather me into his arms, cradling my head and shoulders off the floor. I continue to play dead for safety.

  As Bailey babbles to a concerned parent that he only gave me one or two soft drinks before I passed out — ‘I have no idea what’s wrong with her, I swear to God’ — I hear Ryan’s voice as he shoulders his way through the onlookers and takes charge.

  ‘I’ll get her home, Mr Barry,’ he says firmly.

  ‘She needs to see a doctor,’ Laurence Barry insists stubbornly. He continues to hold my upper body off the floor as if I am made of sugar and spun glass. For a brief moment, his grip tightens and the side of my face is crushed into the felt underside of his dusty black lapel. I almost struggle and give the game away. I force myself to stay floppy and take shallow, laboured breaths, though the smell of camphor laced with old-man body odour, coffee breath and hair oil is intense.

  ‘No, really,’ Ryan insists. ‘She’s on serious medication for her, uh, bad skin condition. She’s probably just had a mild reaction to something she’s eaten or drunk.

  Nothing sleep won’t fix. She warned my parents all about it before we left the house tonight. It’s no biggie.’ Though Ryan wins out, I can feel Laurence Barry’s strange reluctance to let me go as I’m finally passed from one to the other. To kick up the believability a notch, I allow my head to loll backwards and Ryan must hastily prop it against one broad shoulder. The leather of his jacket is cold and supple and I resist the urge to turn my face further towards him and breathe in his addictive clean, male smell.

  Carmen’s heart takes off again, and for a moment all I can hear is the pounding of her blood.

  ‘She’s just trying to spoil it for me!’ I hear Tiffany snipe into the microphone, cut off mid-crescendo, mid-chorus. ‘She’s always been a jealous little bitch. This is another stunt, I tell you.’

  ‘Hurry back, Ry!’ Brenda wails. ‘Why does this always happen to me?’ As we stride through Mulvany’s, leaving hubbub and consternation in our wake, Ryan breathes curiously into my closed eyelids, ‘Now what was all that in aid of, pipsqueak?’

  ‘Put me down! Ry,’ I hiss as we hit the icy car park.

  I kick a little for emphasis.

  ‘Not a chance,’ he answers good-humouredly. ‘One, because you’ve still got an audience — you’ve really managed to get on that Tiffany’s chest, haven’t you? — and two, you don’t weigh anything. I’m kind of enjoying your helpless maiden act. It makes a change from the usual cold front you put on.’ He eases me into the front passenger seat and I freeze as a deep male voice I don’t recognise says behind him, ‘H
ow’s your mother, Ryan? We don’t see her out and about as much as we used to. Betty’s been worried about her.’ Ryan shuts the door firmly on me and I slide down in the seat and face away from the window where a man is peering inwards at my prone figure. I make sure I lie on my hands, and let my hair fall a little further all over my face so that no part of my skin is clearly visible, the very picture of wayward teen drunkenness.

  ‘She’s fine, Mr Collins,’ Ryan replies lightly, moving to block his view of me. The neon light advertising Mulvany’s, Mulvany’s, Mulvany’s in a constant, epilepsy-inducing staccato diminishes in the car’s interior. ‘As much as can be expected anyway.’

  ‘No new developments?’ continues the man earnestly. ‘You know, we’ve told your father over and over, if there’s anything we can do to help …’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Collins,’ Ryan says, shaking the man’s hand and moving around the car towards the driver’s seat to end the conversation. I watch him through my slightly cranked open eyelids. ‘You know how difficult Dad can be …’ He slides into the car and tips the man a wave.

  I clearly pick up the man’s reply, ‘Half his trouble…’, as Ryan starts the car and begins to pull out of the car park.

  When Mulvany’s is a distant blur in the driver’s mirror, I slide into a sitting position and push Carmen’s hair out of her eyes, tuck it behind her ears, with faintly glimmering hands. Ryan shoots me a quick look, his expression quizzical, before it’s eyes front again.

  ‘You don’t really need your stomach pumped out, do you?’ he laughs. ‘Bailey seemed convinced you’d had eight bourbon and Cokes.’

  ‘I did,’ I reply.

  Ryan whistles. ‘You sure?’ I nod. ‘But I’m fine.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be.’ His eyes flick to me, then back to the road. ‘You really should be in a coma the way Bailey mixes his drinks. Approximately nine parts bourbon to one part Coke — if you were lucky.’ Whatever that ‘bourbon’ stuff was, it hardly signified.