Dark Angel

by Eden Maguire

  ‘That’s typical Aaron. We have a fight, he goes for a walk on the mountain, thinks it through, then comes back to check I’m OK.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ I meant it – from every way you look at it, it seemed like Holly had found herself an exceptional guy.

  ‘He said he had to practically drag me away from the place, even though it was three a.m. and almost everyone else had left. Like you, I was totally out of it.’

  ‘The girl admits to a weakness at last,’ I sighed. ‘Holly Randle is not superwoman!’

  ‘I’m a bitch,’ she frowned. ‘Note to self – in future, be nicer to my man.’

  We both managed a weak smile then another sigh.

  ‘Aaron found you in a dark corner, all alone. And now I’m thinking – I’m wondering …’ Holly faltered.

  ‘Did someone spike our drinks?’ I guessed what was on her mind.

  ‘Yeah. I honestly don’t believe I drank all that much.’

  ‘Me neither. But I guess everyone says that on the morning after the night before. And, like I say, I don’t remember what happened after the first song of Zoran’s second set.’ Man turns into bird, starts to fly … ‘You say Aaron drove us home – cool, I have to believe it.’

  ‘Scary, huh?’ The frown was back on Holly’s face as she tugged at the scrunchy that kept her hair in a high ponytail. ‘We were up onstage dancing, remember? It was totally wild – people getting crushed against the platform, girls passing out. The security guys didn’t have a handle on it.’

  There was a long silence while I tried to block the image of Daniel hovering over me, eagle mask covering his face, feathers against my skin, drums beating loud, guitars whining. ‘Suppose they did spike the drinks,’ I muttered. ‘What are we talking?’

  Holly was reluctant to answer then came up with the word that had already crossed my under-functioning brain. ‘Rohypnol?’

  I blinked and looked out from under half-closed lids, through the blur of eyelashes. ‘The date-rape drug?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Our conversation ground to a halt while we thought through what might have taken place in that lost interval when the drug held sway.

  ‘Would we taste that in our drinks?’ I asked with a big shudder.

  She shook her head. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Who are we talking?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe individual drinks were spiked, or maybe the water bottles on the table close to the stage—’

  ‘Whoa!’ I put up both hands, felt my stomach twist into a tight knot. ‘Holly, this is serious!’

  ‘So let’s look it up,’ she insisted, seeing my laptop perched on the counter next to the bottles of ink. Before I could stop her she’d googled date rape drugs.

  ‘Alcohol, GHB, Rohypnol.’ Over her shoulder I read out the alternatives thrown up on screen. Apparently alcohol was by far the most common date-rape drug, used in over ninety per cent of cases.

  ‘But we reckon we didn’t drink over the limit,’ Holly reminded me. She clicked on to GHB – gamma hydroxy … something. Tastes salty, needs to be ingested in large quantities, so probably not a contender. Rohypnol – also known as roofies, takes effect in forty-five minutes, induces hypnotic, dissociative, amnesiac effect. We read the facts in silence.

  When we finished, Holly looked up at me. ‘Yes or no?’

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. ‘Maybe.’ Hypnotic – yes. Plus the sensation of things not being real – Daniel melting into animal form, actually becoming the eagle. Plus forgetting everything that happened to me after the drug took effect. I thought of the glass of water that Ezra had brought for me after I passed out, before everything went weird.

  ‘I’m thinking definitely yes,’ Holly sighed. ‘And I’m wondering, did Zoran know there was Rohypnol circulating at his party?’

  This shocked me again – it seemed so nasty, so premeditated. ‘And what happened to Grace?’ I said suddenly. The knot in my stomach pulled tighter.

  Holly sprang into action. ‘I didn’t hear from her. Let’s go find out!’ She was out of the door, grabbing my car keys from the hook on the way.

  ‘What about lunch?’ Dad asked through the kitchen window.

  ‘Not hungry,’ I told him hurriedly. I turned the ignition, slid into gear, rolled down the drive. I should write a manual: How to cause maximum stress to your parents when you’re seventeen years old and don’t get home from a party until dawn.

  Grace lives right in the centre of Bitterroot. The big, detached house stands next to a bank on a corner opposite a fancy deli. The house is styled like an English country cottage with gables and shutters. When we arrived, there was only one car in the drive – Grace’s white Toyota.

  ‘OK, looks like she made it back home,’ Holly muttered, ringing the front door bell.

  For ages no one answered. ‘Maybe she’s out with Jude,’ I suggested.

  But then we heard footsteps and Grace opened the door.

  ‘Wow!’ As always, Holly didn’t hold back. ‘I thought Tania looked bad until I saw you.’

  Grace used one hand to steady herself against the door, the other to shield her eyes against the light. It upset me to see that she was still dressed in the remains of her fancy dress costume – the white robe without the gold cords or the wings. The hem of the dress was ripped and I noticed bruising to her right foot and ankle. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Midday,’ I told her. ‘Why is no one else home?’

  ‘My folks are in Chicago on business, back Tuesday.’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Holly didn’t wait for an answer. She slid past Grace, and I followed, heading straight across the big, polished hallway towards the kitchen where I took cold water from the fridge. I poured it into a glass, added ice then handed it to Grace.

  She sipped slowly.

  ‘Are you feeling nauseous?’ Holly checked.

  Grace nodded and put down the glass. I steered her towards a bar stool and sat her down, allowing her to prop her elbows on the counter and cover her face with her hands.

  ‘What happened?’ Holly asked.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Did you drive yourself home?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Have you seen Jude?’ I asked more gently. ‘Grace, take your hands away from your face – let us see you. Have you talked with him?’

  Slowly she shook her head.

  ‘And Ezra – did he come back with you?’

  Grace closed her eyes and let her head sink forward. Then, with an effort, she jerked it back up. ‘I said, don’t ask, OK?’

  ‘If it helps, we’re all feeling pretty lousy,’ Holly told her, pacing the room, fiddling with the slats of the venetian blind. ‘And I’m feeling guilty that we didn’t check up on you before we left Zoran’s place. I just assumed that because I couldn’t see you, you’d already left.’

  ‘She was too drunk to drive,’ I reminded them. ‘So it must have been Ezra who did the driving. Did he?’ I pressed anxiously.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she shot back. ‘Is that good enough? I have no clue how I got from the party to here!’

  ‘Ditto,’ I breathed. ‘How scary is that?’

  ‘Not scary,’ Grace argued. Her anger seemed to suddenly dissolve into weariness. ‘Just stupid. We drank way too much. We messed up a million brain cells. So what’s new?’

  I nodded. Holly shook her head. ‘Bullshit.’

  There was another ring on the door bell and we jumped a mile. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said.

  I opened the door to Jude, freshly shaved and showered, dressed in pale-blue T-shirt and jeans. ‘Hey, you must be feeling better,’ I began.

  He nodded awkwardly. ‘Hey, Tania. How was the party? I came to see Grace.’

  ‘The party was – well, it was interesting.’

  ‘I heard it was pretty wild.’ Jude almost had to stoop to get through the door he was so tall. He hovered beside the antique casement clock, unsure. ‘To tell you the truth, I was kind of worried.�
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  ‘About Grace?’

  ‘She didn’t call me like she promised.’

  I shrugged. ‘We just got here ourselves. She’s not feeling too good.’ Better not mention the memory loss, our Rohypnol theory or Ezra. ‘Otherwise, I’m sure she would have called.’

  ‘Maybe I should come back later?’

  ‘No.’ I grabbed him by the arm and led him towards the kitchen. ‘You two should talk.’

  You follow your instinct and it’s not always right. Maybe, on reflection, I should have let Jude go away, given Grace time to get her head together and take a shower.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jude!’ she groaned when she saw him. ‘I was about to text you, tell you not to come.’

  She might as well have slapped his face. He winced and stepped back out of the room.

  ‘No, sorry. Forget I said that,’ Grace mumbled. Tears welled up and trickled down her pale face; her bottom lip trembled. In fact her entire body was shaking, I noticed.

  ‘I can leave if you want,’ Jude murmured. The poor guy was shocked and confused by Grace’s personality transplant.

  ‘Stay!’ she pleaded. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’ Sobs rose, her bare shoulders heaved up and down.

  ‘We’ll go,’ I told Holly, picking up my keys and giving her a long stare, which she ignored.

  ‘What did the hospital say, Jude? Do you have to go back for a check-up?’ she asked instead.

  ‘They gave me a new inhaler – increased strength. They say I’ll be OK.’

  ‘Now that the smoke is clearing.’ How long would it take Superglue Holly to get the hint? I was giving her the look and she was still managing to blank me.

  ‘Where did you get the bruises?’ she asked Grace, crouching for a closer look. ‘That’ll swell up; you need an ice pack. You should get it looked at by a physio.’

  ‘Let’s go!’ I jangled the keys, hovered in the hallway.

  Grace held back the sobs. Jude went to her. He stood over her, let her wrap her arms around his waist and lean her head against his chest. Then he stroked her sticky, messed-up hair.

  ‘Catch you guys later,’ Holly said.

  Finally! We were out of there, heading for the front door. The last I saw of Grace and Jude was over my shoulder – a parting glance. He was holding her tight; she was clinging to him.

  ‘Maybe it’ll be OK,’ I said to Holly as we drove away.

  It’s the weirdest thing – suspecting something bad but not knowing how to prove it.

  ‘Will you tell Aaron?’ I asked Holly as we drove away from Grace’s house.

  ‘Tell him what exactly? “You want to know something, boyfriend? Grace, Tania and me – we all got to meet the great Zoran one on one. Charming guy in spite of what you may have read in the press; really knows how to throw a party. Oh, and by the way, it’s possible we were drugged and raped.” ’

  ‘Not easy,’ I admitted. And now that my brain cells seemed to be regenerating a little, I was pulling away from the whole Rohypnol theory anyway. ‘So we let it drop?’

  ‘Aaron will ask me stuff.’ Holly sounded tired as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. ‘He’ll want to know how come we were so out of it when he came to fetch us.’

  I thought about this as I drove. ‘It’s been intense,’ I pointed out. ‘Making the costumes, getting to meet Zoran Brancusi, the whole build up.’

  ‘Then Orlando pulling out, Jude getting sick.’

  ‘You and Aaron having a fight every time one of you opens your mouth. Maybe it was the stress …’

  ‘The heat …’

  ‘The unbelievable underground house, meeting the great rock legend, watching the video of the fire …’ Holly and I were singing from the same hymn sheet, applying logic to the whole experience. And we were starting to feel better.

  ‘So don’t say anything to Aaron, OK?’

  I nodded as we turned up Becker Hill. By the time we reached home, we’d made up our minds.

  ‘There are some things in life that boyfriends don’t need to know,’ Holly sighed, sliding out of the car and heading up to her room to text Aaron and invite him over.

  Whatever! I was almost twenty-four hours down the line, alone and retreating against my will from Holly’s and my recently achieved logical position so that I ran and reran events of the night before until the topic wearied me. Were we drugged? Were we drunk? Exactly what did happen there?

  Eventually Dad must have read the last page about JFK and came to find me in the studio. ‘So, baby, did you talk with legend?’

  ‘A little.’ The discipline of silkscreen printing had proved too much so I was back sketching new ideas for my portfolio – the one I would eventually take around the colleges to show my work.

  ‘Zoran Brancusi – you like him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s cool.’ Best to be non-commital, I thought.

  ‘His family – the Brancusis – many enemies in regime back home.’

  ‘Yeah, he told me.’ One enemy had been serious enough to assassinate his dad.

  ‘Famous Romanian sculptor, Brancusi – way back, distant cousin, part of same family.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t know that.’ I did like Brancusi’s work though – smooth, elongated stone heads, polished and stylized, now in a special museum in Paris and each one worth millions of dollars.

  ‘Zoran Brancusi’s father – he died in Prague, in Wenceslas Square.’

  I stopped sketching and closed the pad. ‘Yeah, how come?’

  ‘Shot through head. Maybe political, maybe gang-related crime. Zoran, father, mother were on run. Afterwards, mother took son all through Europe.’

  ‘I know – Zoran told me that too. He spoke a lot about his past, actually.’

  Dad folded his arms and studied me through narrowed eyes. ‘So don’t let it make your head big,’ he warned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rock legend talks about Romanian family. Seems nice guy. But maybe not.’

  ‘Dad, will you stop talking in riddles. If you know stuff that you haven’t told me, will you please let me in on the secret?’

  ‘Maybe Zoran got money to live like king from black market in Romania.’

  ‘He was only five when he left, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Through mother. She travelled to Mexico – I seen picture of house there. Palace by lake, Aztec temple in garden.’

  So now I knew where he developed the taste for Mexican artefacts. ‘Still not Zoran’s fault,’ I pointed out. ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘Plenty rumours.’ Dad drew a deep breath, picked up my sketch book and leafed through. ‘The usual stories – girls, drugs.’

  ‘That’s rock stars for you.’ I managed to pass it off casually, but inside I was churning with a mixture of curiosity and cold fear. ‘Do you want to give me specifics?’

  He enjoyed charging on down the Zoran route. ‘He likes fast cars, bikes, owns two Ferraris. One story about accident in Porsche, before he quit music scene, became hermit.’

  This was news to me. I guess I hadn’t been interested enough to take in every last fact about Zoran at the height of his fame. ‘Did someone get hurt?’ I asked.

  Dad shrugged. ‘Rumour went around on Internet – Zoran dead, whole world ready to go in mourning. Lasts maybe three days then he comes out of hiding – video of him alive, no bones broken.’

  ‘Crazy, huh?’ I considered the macabre story and lined it up alongside other similar rumours. ‘Don’t some people believe Elvis is still alive?’ Instead of dead in a bathroom with clogged-up arteries and a whole pharmacy of uppers and downers running through his veins.

  ‘Marilyn too. That wasn’t real body they found on bed, only look like her.’

  ‘Really? I never knew that. Anyhow, a thousand people at last night’s party can’t be wrong – Zoran Brancusi is totally alive.’

  ‘And maybe you still can’t trust him,’ Dad said again. ‘Rich guys, they think money buys everything, and I guess in America it’s true.’
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br />   ‘Cynic.’ Right here was where I could have shared my date-rape suspicions, but this was my dad I was talking to and I wasn’t ready, so instead I chose to tell him how intelligent and sophisticated Zoran was, and generous. ‘He plans to make a donation to the Forest Service, in memory of Tony West.’

  ‘Ah yes, dead firefighter.’ Dad closed my book, went to the window and looked up at the smoke still hanging over Black Rock, then sighed. ‘Life moves on; we forget too quick.’

  If I admit it was the loss of control during the party that scared the crap out of me, what exactly does that say about me?

  It’s not that I’m a control freak in my day-to-day life – in fact, the opposite. I tend to drift and dream, let things slide like making sure my car has gas, knowing where I left my phone – stuff like that. It drives my mom crazy. Tania, you’ll be late for school! Tania, did you put your dirty laundry in the basket?

  But having a black hole in my memory, knowing there are whole hours when I probably had zero control over my own actions, is really scary.

  I stayed all of Saturday evening holed up in my room, trying and failing to remember, picturing synapses missing their targets, imagining them as day-glo orange and green squiggles fizzling out on a monitor.

  Hey, Tania, less than 24 hrs 2 go! Orlando texted, plus smiley face.

  Yeah. C u at airport xox, I texted back. Oops, I forgot the smile.

  When it grew dark I turned on my bedside lamp and tried to focus on tomorrow. Orlando would step off the plane from Dallas, I would be at the Delta arrivals gate next to cab drivers holding up notices for incoming travellers. Orlando would grab his bag from the overhead locker and rush through the gate ahead of his mom and dad…

  My phone buzzed. I picked it up to read the new message: Tania – Daniel here. Meet me 4 coffee?

  ‘How the hell did Daniel get my number?’ I demanded on Holly’s front porch. I’d waited until I knew she’d be up and having breakfast, slipped next door without bothering to text first.

  Holly was back to normal, looking like she’d stepped right out of an exercise video, toned and glossy. ‘Don’t stress,’ she told me. ‘The guy sends you a text and invites you for coffee. End of.’