by Foz Meadows
Sighing, she stood up from the table and carried her empty plate to the sink. Tomorrow, she'd be seventeen: only one year from freedom. It was an intoxicating thought, but also a frightening one. As she soaped the cold grease from her fingers, she contemplated, not for the first time, what it would be like to make her own decisions, live in her own apartment, have her own friends. What kind of work might she do? Insofar as she was able to judge, her marks had always been good, despite Mrs Plumber's tendency to deploy her in class as a buffer between the most disruptive element and everyone else, but would they count in the real world? Social problems were equally concerning: there'd rarely been boys in the group home, and all of them young. Thomas had been the last, she recalled, a shy pyromaniac who'd left some weeks before Luci's arrival. Since then, Solace's sole interaction with the opposite sex had come from TV and trips to Westfield. Which of these was least helpful was anyone's guess.
‘I'll do fine,’ she muttered. ‘I'll manage.’
‘Manage what?’
Solace jumped. It was rare that someone snuck up on her, but lost in thought, she hadn't heard Luci approach. Turning, she smiled as the little girl hugged the edge of the doorway, the ends of two ratty, slept-in plaits brushing against her Minnie Mouse nightie.
‘Nothing. How're you?’
Luci stretched theatrically. ‘Hungry! Can I have some breakfast?’
‘Depends on what you want. We're out of cereal.’
‘Crap,’ said Luci.
Solace raised an eyebrow. ‘Mrs Plumber doesn't like you swearing.’
‘Mrs Plumber can bite me.’
‘Luci!’
The eight-year-old giggled and poked out her tongue. ‘Toast, then? Please?’
Rolling her eyes, Solace opened her mouth to tell Luci to heat her own bread when she remembered the Exploding Jam Incident and thought better of it.
‘How many slices?’
‘Two.’
‘Okay. Just sit down and wait.’
She worked in silence. Luci was many things, but a chatterbox wasn't one of them, and so she sat obediently at the table, content with thrumming her fingers on the wooden top. ‘Strawberry jam,’ was her only comment on hearing the toaster pop.
Solace was just serving up when Miss Daisy arrived downstairs, yawning in pleasant surprise at their seeming domesticity. Nodding a hello to Solace, she reached for the topmost cupboard where the coffee was kept and spoke without turning around, her voice carefully neutral.
‘Luci, you wouldn't happen to know who's been playing with my clothes, would you?’
‘No, Miss Daisy,’ Luci said through a mouthful of toast. Solace poured herself a glass of water, watching her house-mother's expression through sideways eyes. Miss Daisy frowned.
‘You're very sure? Someone's cut some words into my favourite shirt. It's not a very nice thought, Luci. Could it have been part of a game?’
‘Don't know, Miss Daisy.’
‘You didn't cut the words out?’
‘No, Miss Daisy.’
An uneasy pause settled over the kitchen. Solace felt the hairs on her arms stand up. Something wasn't right. The problem with Luci – or, rather, a strange consequence of the many problems with Luci – was that she never lied about her misdemeanours, primarily because she didn't see them as such. The time she'd broken the arm of a boy twice her size, she'd gone straight to the school principal to tell him Jerome was bleeding, but that he deserved it for being a tool. Whenever she changed the clocks, she adamantly told Mrs Plumber that it needed to be done or the monsters could get in, and not to fuss so much. Honesty was her one constant compulsion, no matter how crazy it made her sound. It now suggested her innocence.
Annamaria was off the list, too – she'd been out all night and in any case, cutting up shirts was hardly her favoured means of getting attention. Which left Leonie; but Leonie, as both adults and Solace knew full well, would never voluntarily touch a pair of scissors, let alone under cover of darkness. So who had cut the shirt? From the corner of her eye, Solace saw that Miss Daisy was having similarly troubled thoughts, although Luci remained oblivious, munching happily through her carbohydrates and fruit preserve.
‘Miss Daisy,’ Solace found herself asking, ‘what did the words say?’
Her house-mother closed the fridge before answering.
‘“You don't belong here”,’ she said, unscrewing the milk. ‘Cut right across the back. My favourite shirt.’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘I'll have to ask Sarah if she heard anything. I was out like a light last night.’
Somehow Solace managed to nod, but her stomach had turned to glue. Numbly, she swallowed the rest of her water, smiled at Luci and left the room, staggering only a little.
You don't belong here.
All day, Luci's chatter rarely strayed far from the Mystery of Miss Daisy's Shirt, as Annamaria had gleefully dubbed it. The girl was inordinately amused by the whole incident, having been removed from the list of suspects after Mrs Plumber found her going-out clothes wadded up in the laundry and reeking of cigarettes. Trying to question Leonie had been a drama in itself: as gentle as Miss Daisy had been, the mute girl had shrieked at the very mention of scissors and spent the next two hours curled up in the linen cupboard, whimpering softly.
Neither woman asked Solace. They didn't need to.
Denial or not, it was clear that Mrs Plumber still suspected Luci, keeping an even closer eye on the girl than usual. Nonetheless, the day played out like so many others, unremarkable except for the manner in which it had begun. Eventually, Leonie emerged from her hiding place and made a large plate of plain cheese sandwiches for all and sundry. Annamaria argued with Miss Daisy, flung a mug at the wall and stormed out to spend the afternoon with Blake, her thoroughly-disreputable-but-not-as-bad-as-the-lastone boyfriend. Luci watched cartoons, played with her toy horses and, despite Mrs Plumber's eagle eye, set fire to several old magazines in the bathtub.
Solace, for her part, re-read a couple of favourite books, transitioning from lounge to bedroom depending on which was the quietest. It wasn't until late afternoon that she sat up, stretched, and asked permission to go for a short walk. Miss Daisy waved her on, casting a knowing eye heavenwards. In addition to bleaching her skin, exposure to too much sunlight made Solace dizzy and weak, as though she'd just stepped out of a really hot shower. Being innately contrary, however, she made a point of going outside each day, usually after twelve.
Stepping through the kitchen door, she smiled to feel the cool change on her skin. The wind had dropped, leaving behind the sharp, prickling atmosphere of rain to come. The sun was low in the sky, staining the streaked clouds sherbet orange, cat-tongue pink and bruise purple, all clashing with the dark, distant jags of the Sydney skyline.
As soon as she began to walk, Solace felt muscles relax she hadn't known were clenched. Why should the words disturb her? Truly, she didn't belong at the group home, and never had. The sudden obviousness of the thought struck her like a poorly swung tennis racquet. Why hadn't she seen it before now, really seen it? Her anger at Kelly had been one thing, her youthful frustrations another, but in all that time, why had nothing ever changed? Why were there foster homes for everyone but her, whose only trauma had come from being ruthlessly mired in one obscure corner of the system? Why had Mrs Plumber and Miss Daisy never let her go?
Breathing hard, she quickened her pace, fists balled angrily by her sides. Solace was far from usual – perhaps a small part of her thought that she was also more than human – but that didn't mean she was stupid. Like a premonition made flesh, the skin at the top of her spine began to tingle. Evidentially, perhaps, there was no connection between her dream, Miss Daisy's shirt, and her unusual life in the group home, but intuitively, as she strode though the gathering dusk, Solace Morgan knew otherwise. Something weird is going on, she thought, and what's more, it's been going on for seventeen years. I've been kept here for a reason – blinded to it – only now, someone's trying to let me know. And, she a
dded, shivering, if that's true, then they've broken into my house and my dreams on the same night. Which ought to sound crazy. Except for the fact that I can bend metal. Except for the fact that sunlight makes me weak. Except for the fact that if I sit still and concentrate on a quiet day, I can hear conversations from two streets over. Except for the fact that my teeth are wickedly sharp.
Except that I'm a vampire.
That last admission brought her to a dead halt. She'd been walking quickly on a kind of furious, random autopilot, so that now, jolted back into the world, she found herself in a narrow, one-way lane. There were no house-fronts here – just bins, bricks and roller-door garages facing off at the rear of two parallel streets. Night was still coming on, but the shadows fell thick and deep, like layers of mourning silk. A clammy chill started to form on Solace's pale skin, the evening cool no longer so welcoming, while overhead, a lingering streak of pink sky struggled against the oncoming wash of cobalt. From somewhere close behind her, a cat yowled. Solace jumped, whipping her head around. The base of her neck began tingling again. This time, it was a warning.
‘Run,’ she whispered, but her feet refused to move.
Slowly, she turned back to face the alley, and felt her heart lurch.
Someone was there.
The stranger unfurled languidly from where he'd been hidden behind a brick outcrop, elegant and slow. Solace strained her eyes, but even though her vision was preternaturally acute, she couldn't tell anything about the figure except that it was a he and relatively lean: in all other respects, it was like looking at a silhouette. The man took a step forward, two, three; even as he advanced on her, his features remained hidden. Louder than before, the cat screamed. From the corner of her eye, Solace saw a streak of grey tear past her, and though she couldn't see the man's eyes, she felt the focus of his gaze alter, shifting to the cat.
It was all she needed. Solace turned and bolted, heart thundering, not daring to stop until she was through the gate to the group home. It was like a spell had been broken. Perhaps one had. She felt weak, as if she'd been out at midday. Gasping, she clutched the fence, trying to clear her head. Had her fear been imaginary? Part of her wanted to think so, but this new voice inside, the one that named her vampire, which suspected spells and wondered at the reason for her life said: No.
As she walked from the gate to the kitchen door, time seemed to slow. She remembered the man, the fear she'd felt at his hidden face. She considered Miss Daisy's shirt, her dream, the prospect of someone strong and sly enough to carve the same warning on both her consciousness and blended cotton. She imagined her coming birthday, the cake she knew Mrs Plumber had ordered, the planned day out with Luci, Leonie and Annamaria. She thought of her future: the normal life she was utterly unprepared to live, her strange abilities, her unanswered questions. Her mind was made up before she touched the curved handle, a direction chosen before her reflection hit the glass.
In the kitchen, Miss Daisy was waiting for her, drinking an evening cup of tea.
‘You're back. Looking forward to tomorrow? You'll be seventeen.’
‘I am,’ said Solace, and then, ‘I know. Goodnight, Miss Daisy.’
Her house-mother frowned, but only slightly. ‘You're off to bed? What about dinner?’
‘To be honest, I'm not all that hungry.’ She pulled the door closed. ‘Besides, I've got an early start tomorrow.’
‘I suppose you do. Sleep well, then.’
An unexpected lump caught in Solace's throat, and she found she couldn't answer. Instead, she smiled and nodded, walking silently down the hall.
Goodbye.
That night, Solace dreamed.
Annamaria, aged six or seven, scrubbed furiously at a patch of stained carpet. She'd spilt Tanya's favourite nail polish, but no matter how hard she tried, the red gunk wouldn't come out, sticking to the off-white fuzz in brittle, shiny clumps. Her soonto-be stepmother was sweet as pie with Dad, but as soon as Tanya saw the mess, Annamaria would be held accountable. She began to cry childish tears of frustration. From downstairs, she heard a door slam. The little girl shrieked and clapped her hands to her mouth, scooting backwards away from the stain as heavy footsteps clumped up the stairs. The door swung open to reveal a sharp-faced, wiry man in his late twenties.
‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry!’ screamed Annamaria, shaking as her father's eyes slid furiously from stain to cowering daughter. Filled with pity, Solace glared at the angry man.
Don't you dare!
For a moment, the man looked ropeable. Then he laughed, crouched down and held out his arms for his little girl.
‘Tanya's a stupid cow,’ he said, gruffly. ‘She won't be coming here ever again. Now give us a hug.’
As father and daughter embraced, the dream slipped sideways. Now Solace was Luci – not watching her, was her – asleep in the next room. She dreamed what Luci dreamed, a bright stream of consciousness and tilted colours layered over a core of angry noise, a churning, screaming, black-white ball of nothing. Pulling back, Solace reached down through Luci's dream-heart, closed her fingers around the ball and squeezed. It fought her grip like a live thing, but Solace was stubborn, making her fist tighter and tighter until the screaming stopped, until the ball was nothing but a hard, stormy marble in the circle of her hand. Raising it to her lips, she kissed the glassy surface, watching as a ripple of warm blue was revealed through the churning grey. Smiling, she found a nearby box, broke the lock and tipped out a river of multicoloured marbles, laughing as they rolled and bounced like a flock of spherical parrots. Into this river she tipped her own creation, watching as it was borne away on the tide.
Somewhere distant, Luci sighed, but then Solace slipped again, this time into a dark, windowless room. There was no door, and the air was heavy with blood and fear.
Leonie ? Solace called, but was answered with only a whimper. Closing her eyes, she thought about what was needed, nodding as the solid weight of a sledgehammer formed in her hands. Taking a careful grip, she moved towards the nearest wall, raised the weapon and brought it crashing down, feeling the reverberation in her hips and shoulders. Undeterred, she struck again and again, hearing the stone chip, the mortar crumble. She wasn't using her full strength – not yet – but suddenly a tiny beam of light penetrated the cracked wall, lancing across the room and lighting on Leonie's huddled form. At this touch of sun, the girl looked up through a curtain of scraggly hair, her blue eyes vivid in the awful dark. She trembled, looking from Solace to the hole and back again.
One-handed, Solace held out the hammer.
Your turn, she said.
Every limb shaking, Leonie pushed herself up off the floor, shuffling forwards with mad, determined fear. Her skinny arms didn't look strong enough to even hold the hammer, but as her fingers closed around the wooden haft, something gleamed in her eyes. She swung back, struck, and the whole room trembled.
No. More. Walls.
With a scream that sounded half lightning, half birdsong, Leonie drove the hammerhead straight through the masonry, disappearing from view in a torrent of dust and sunlight. Solace smiled. Her vision spun away. The last thing she saw was Leonie standing, haloed like a saint.
It was too late for night, too early for dawn, when Solace left the group house. Dressed in a faded pair of grey-black jeans, old Blundstone work-boots, a khaki top and a corduroy jacket, she made her bed, ran her fingers over her collection of ageing paperbacks, smiled at the room and closed the door, slipping out down the hallway and into the kitchen. She took a packet of dried apricots from the cupboard, a plastic bottle of cold water from the fridge and an icy pole from the freezer: it was an odd assortment of goodies, but there was nothing else she could lay hands on that wouldn't make her sick outright. Besides, she only had two hands.
The kitchen door should have been locked. Instead, it opened smoothly at Solace's touch.
At the side gate, she paused to unwrap the icy pole, dropping the paper neatly into the bin. She stuffed the apricots in her jacket
pocket, grasped the lid of the bottle between two fingers and took her first bite of breakfast, grinning at the taste of frozen lemonade. There were worse ways, Solace reflected, to start an adventure.
And then she left.
Something Rich & Strange
Solace had never walked so far in her life. From her starting point, she'd already crossed several suburbs, making sure to keep well away from the main roads as she zigzagged towards the Sydney CBD. Something told her Mrs Plumber and Miss Daisy wouldn't come looking for her – or that if they did, they wouldn't search long – but in this, at least, she was willing to trust to caution. Once the sun had risen, this tactic paid off in a far more practical sense: the side streets were shaded by venerable trees, protecting Solace from too much sun exposure. Her icy pole long gone, she started on the apricots, munching one every half-kilometre or so and taking occasional swigs of water. Oddly, she wasn't concerned by her total lack of money. Sooner or later, yes, she'd have to find food and shelter but, in Solace's mind, this fact didn't quite connect with a notion of payment. The newfound part of her, what she was coming to think of as the Vampire Cynic, noted this discrepancy with interest, but even then, she still couldn't bring herself to worry.
She wondered idly how the others were coping with her absence. Her dreams last night had been strange, what little of them she remembered – something about Annamaria in trouble, Luci made of marbles and Leonie locked up, she thought, but that was hardly helpful. At least, Solace mused, if they are distressed, there's cake. The thought made her laugh. Given her delicate stomach, Solace couldn't actually eat cake, but it was nonetheless a birthday staple. For Luci's sake, she hoped it was chocolate, and concluded it probably was. Mrs Plumber and Miss Daisy knew for whom they were really shopping, after all.