The New Girl

by Ingrid Alexandra

  We’ve been tight since primary school, Cat and I. And as far as I know, we’ve always been honest with each other. But if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was hiding something from me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I emerge from another groggy sleep, glance at the clock, and groan. 4.06 a.m. The sheets are damp and tangled around my ankles and my hair is stuck to the side of my face. I really don’t want to be awake. It feels like I haven’t slept at all; I can’t remember getting into bed. This is happening a lot. I’m not sleeping well, and when I do manage to drift off – or pass out, as is the case more often than not – I dream. Nightmares. Some I remember, others evaporate when I wake.

  I try telling myself it’s nearly over and that I just have to hold on until tomorrow’s appointment, but it doesn’t stop the reel of bad thoughts as they crank along their well-worn tracks.

  I’m wide awake now, my fingers twitching in awareness as if I’ve been woken by something. Or someone.

  As I bring my phone to life with the pad of my thumb, the screen glows neon white in the darkness. There’s a text from an unknown number.

  YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD ESCAPE ME? THINK AGAIN.

  Adrenalin prickles over my skin. How did he get my number? It’s then that I hear it. A familiar sound, coming from inside the room. The sound of someone breathing.

  I use the light from my phone to illuminate what’s in front of me, and then scramble for the bedside lamp, blinding myself for a second as it immediately blinks on.

  A figure stands in the corner of the room.

  I give an involuntary shout, my pulse in my throat. But then I realise who it is. Hovering there, perfectly still, is girl in a white dress. Rachel.

  She’s not moving. Her eyes are blank, her lips are stretched in a peculiar smile.

  ‘Rachel?’

  She seems to glide until she is standing at the end of the bed. My brain catalogues the features of the face before me. It’s Rachel, yet she wears a stranger’s face.

  A different kind of panic edges its way in, at odds with logic. It’s just Rachel, I tell myself. Yet my brain is transmitting dark memories, and I’m breathing hard and fast.

  ‘Are you … okay?’

  Rachel raises her arms, places both hands on the bed. She moves as if to mount it, her expression trance-like.

  ‘Rachel,’ I’m unconsciously scooting backwards. ‘Rachel. Are you … awake?’

  She cocks her head to the side.

  ‘Come on, Rach. This is …’

  And then the glass splinters. She’s sleepwalking. My shoulders sag in relief. That’s probably what she was doing when I found her in the kitchen that night. Do I wake her? No. You’re not supposed to do that. I should play along, lead her back to bed.

  ‘Can you tuck me in?’ Rachel’s voice startles me. She’s looking at me – through me – with that distant gaze, her head still on one side like a curious dog. My eyes have adjusted now, and I see she’s not wearing white at all; she’s in a light blue nightgown. Delicate and pale, there’s hardly anything of her.

  ‘Of course,’ I keep my voice soft. Moving slowly, I crawl forward and slide off the bed. Rachel turns to face me and a waft of sour breath tells me she’s been drinking. I don’t blame her. Breathing deeply, I take her hand. ‘Come with me.’

  A stained-glass lamp sits on Rachel’s bedside table and the room is bathed in soft light; a mosaic of purple, pink and blue. On one side of the bed is a stuffed rabbit with tattered ears. Empty wine bottles line the perimeter of the dressing table.

  ‘Tuck me in,’ she says, her voice soft, child-like.

  ‘Okay.’ I hesitate, but Rachel slips between the sheets and curls into the foetal position, her back to me. Her hair, golden in the low light, spills across the pillow. My fingers hover over the sheet before pinching it and drawing it up to her chin. I smooth a hand down her arm. ‘Okay?’

  She nods without turning her head. ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she whispers.

  I freeze. The silence closes in, thick like smoke, and all I can hear is my throbbing pulse, a faint ringing in my ears.

  ‘Do you love me?’ Rachel’s voice is small.

  Something painful and cruel squeezes inside me. My teeth clench and I hear them grind.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I love you.’

  Rachel sighs, her shoulders relax. She pulls the tattered rabbit to her chest and soon the room is filled with the sound of her rhythmic breaths.

  I watch her for a moment. What was going on in her mind just now? Shaking my head, I shut the door and turn to find Ben standing in the hall, his features in shadow apart from his eyes. Cat’s behind him, looking sleep-rumbled and concerned.

  ‘Don’t panic, only us,’ Ben whispers. He has such kind eyes. Fatherly, almost. It makes me want to tell him things.

  ‘Rachel’s upset,’ I admit, then wonder if it’s okay to share that. ‘Sleepwalking, I think.’

  ‘We heard,’ Cat says in a loud whisper. ‘So strange, I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Is she okay?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re shivering,’ Cat says. I can’t see her face clearly, but I can tell she’s frowning. ‘What did she do? Did she upset you?’

  ‘No. A little. But it’s not her fault.’

  Cat sighs. ‘I feel bad for the girl, but you don’t need this right now. This is getting too much. You need your rest.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Whatever, M. Come here.’ She opens her arms, moves toward me, but Ben gets to me first. He tugs me to his chest and I resist for a second, then give in. He’s warm and solid and it’s nice to be held. He has that smell that every guy has, the thing that makes them smell like men, different to us.

  Suddenly, I want to cry. Everything is all wrong, it’s too hard. I want someone else to do it for me. I’m tired of carrying this all on my own. Ben seems to sense this, or feels me shaking, I don’t know which. His grip tightens and he presses his chin to the top of my head. That does it. A sob escapes and hot tears spill down my cheeks. I allow myself to cry for a moment, enjoying the release.

  ‘It’s okay, let it out,’ Ben whispers.

  I catch Cat’s eye over his shoulder, but she turns away. ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ she mutters before walking away, leaving Ben to hold me in the semi-darkness.

  ‘Night,’ Ben murmurs into my hair and I think he’s talking to me until I realise he means Cat. He pulls back, runs a thumb over my cheek. ‘Okay?’

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod. We stare at each other for a long, pregnant moment. Ben’s thumb hovers near my lips.

  ‘Mary,’ he whispers, but doesn’t say anything else.

  My fingers creep up the back of his neck until they’re playing with the soft hairs at the nape. I hadn’t meant to touch him, but it feels nice. I trust him.

  It’s me who makes the first move. I stand on tiptoe to kiss him and I know he won’t resist. He makes a sound in the back of his throat; it makes me think he’s thought about this before. He’s shy at first, nervous to touch me. It’s sweet, makes me feel special. Soon his kisses grow urgent and so I lead him into my room and pull back the covers. I’m as surprised as he is.

  He grins and it makes me grin back. He climbs in with me, holds my face in his hands. He touches me slowly, reverently, like it means something. His hands are shaking. And when I feel him inside me for the first time, it’s like we’re erasing something.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ben is snoring softly when I wake, so I creep from the bed and slip on some clothes before heading out for my walk. My pace is fast; this is no stroll in the park. I’ve got somewhere to go. Somewhere important.

  I take the beach, intending to walk its length before heading across town, a recycled grocery bag slung over my shoulder.

  The sea is green today, a lush teal with darker patches where the clouds cast their shadows. The sea breeze makes me shiver, and then I smile to myself, because I’m remem
bering what happened last night, and I’m getting tingles – down my arms, between my legs. I liked it, feeling special, having control. Perhaps it was another Stupid Thing I’ll regret. But I’ve got too much on my mind to think about that just now.

  The seagulls are circling overhead, squawking above a young family eating fish and chips. A cluster of rowdy, soft-drink-swilling teens are in their usual spot by the kiosk. One elbows another and they look at me and grin. I look away, pick up my pace.

  The houseboat is still there, its windows like blankly staring eyes. It’s a sad little thing, squatting there on the water, rust eating away at it like cancer. I squint, trying to see through the windows, but they’re coated with grime. I wonder what’s happened to the owners, why their little boat remains bobbing, alone and neglected.

  In my peripheral vision, I see a jogger approaching me from the left. I stare ahead, but they seem to be hovering. When I turn, it’s a young man, smiling at me. ‘Hey,’ he says.

  I slip a hand in my pocket, closing my fingers around my personal alarm. I don’t reply.

  ‘Hey, it’s you, isn’t it? From the other night?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  The guy slows down to a walking pace and falls in step beside me. ‘Oh. Sorry. I don’t mean to bother you, but I thought … Weren’t you at the beach party down here last week?’

  I turn to look at him. He has a square jaw and white teeth. Light eyes – green, I think. A tanned face. A nice face, really. But I know I’ve never seen him before in my life.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say as I pick up speed. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Right, okay. Sorry, then. Well, have a nice day.’ The jogger sprints ahead and disappears into the trees lining the foreshore. It’s not until he’s out of sight that the sharp pain in my palm registers. I pull my hand from my pocket and it’s mottled red and white from gripping the alarm.

  Officer Dean gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes as she presses a button on her desk, leans down and speaks in a low voice. ‘Someone here for you, sir.’ She waits for the muffled response, then gestures to the hallway leading to Sergeant Moore’s office.

  ‘Miss Baker.’ Sergeant Moore nods without smiling.

  I don’t bother taking a seat. ‘Mark’s threatened me.’

  Moore raises his eyebrows.

  ‘He has my phone number. I don’t know how he got it, I changed it when I left and he doesn’t know any of my friends. He said I couldn’t escape him, that he was coming after me.’ I show him the text and notice my hand trembling.

  ‘I see,’ is all the sergeant says.

  ‘It’s him,’ I tell him. ‘I know it is.’

  Moore lifts his gaze to meet mine. ‘Has he ever hurt you before?’

  I nod.

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘No.’

  He sighs. ‘I want to help you, Miss Baker. But you see, it’s hard to prove you’re in any danger without a history. No direct threat of harm in this message, either.’

  ‘But he’s dangerous!’ I say, the volume of my voice surprising me.

  Moore places his hands flat on the table. ‘Okay, here’s what I can do. How about I take down that number and if you receive more threats, I can run a check on the person connected with it. That’s the best I can do for you right now, Miss Baker.’

  I bite my lip, weigh my options. ‘Here.’ Without asking, I grab his notepad and a pen and scribble down the number. ‘You could run the check now. He has a criminal record.’

  ‘We have no cause to at this stage.’

  ‘But, the murder …’

  Moore frowns and leans forward in his chair. ‘As I’ve told you, Miss Baker, our records show that the Victoria police have already investigated this matter. It’s their case, not ours. Now if you receive a direct threat, I’m happy to—’

  ‘I spoke to the mechanics’ company Tom worked for,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Tom …?’

  I blush. ‘Tom Forrester, the … the victim. The manager said he knew Mark, admitted he came there. I bet if we call him again we can get him to tell us that Mark was affiliated with T—’

  Moore holds up his hands. ‘I’m stopping you there, Miss Baker. There is nothing in our files or in the statements you have given us to indicate that your ex-partner had anything to do with Tom Forrester’s murder.’

  ‘I have evidence,’ I blurt. ‘I’ll show you, then you’ll have to believe me.’ I reach into my bag and feel for the familiar shape. My heart stops. I open the bag and look inside. My running trainers stare back at me. No. I feel the colour drain from my face. ‘I swear … I swear they were here.’

  Moore sighs. ‘This isn’t some kind of game, Miss Baker. I’d like to ask you to please stop wasting police time.’

  Heat rises in my cheeks. I slam my hand on the table and one of the framed photos on the desk falls face down. ‘I know it’s not a game. Don’t you get it? He’s killed Tom and now he’s after me!’

  Sergeant Moore remains perfectly still, but his eyes darken. He presses a button on the desk phone and barks ‘Dean? Miss Baker’s ready to leave.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The warmth of the sun on my face and the sound of the ocean lull me into a trance. My limbs feel loose, like they’re flesh without bone, and when I close my eyes, I see clouds drifting in a sapphire sky. I’m not sure where I am, and it doesn’t seem to matter.

  He’s singing to me, my favourite nursery rhyme.

  ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

  With silver bells

  and cockle shells

  and pretty maids all in a row.’

  ‘Again, Daddy!’

  But he doesn’t sing again and soon there’s another voice, calling my name. It grows more urgent until I can’t ignore it any longer. When I sit up, I realise I’m on a boat. A houseboat, the one I pass every day with its grimy windows and battered hull. The warmth of the sun fades and the sky grows dark. Then darker still until it’s pitch-black.

  I don’t know where he comes from, but suddenly he’s there. ‘Don’t fight me,’ he commands, forcing me against the wall. My head connects with something hard.

  Stars dance behind my eyelids and for a second I’m out of my body. The relief is tidal; I’m dreaming, thank God. Then my nerves register pain, I taste blood and smell sweat. There’s another voice; it sounds far away, like someone’s yelling under water. ‘Sophie! Sophie!’ I look around. Darkness. There’s no one else here. ‘Run, Sophie!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he mutters as he forces me backwards and my head slams against the hard thing again. Was it me yelling? Where am I? What’s happening?

  Pain, sharp and deep. My brain fumbles to accommodate this unknown sensory input, and when it makes room, there is inner silence. As though someone has walked into my mind and systematically switched off each one of my senses.

  Now all I can do is wait until he’s finished.

  I jerk upright, lungs slamming against my ribcage. I heave, cough, press my hands to my chest and will myself to breathe. My room comes into focus and the dream vanishes. I try to remember it, but it’s gone.

  My phone tells me it’s four thirty in the afternoon; I must have fallen asleep when I came back from the station. Ben left a note saying he was going to work for a few hours; I was kind of relieved to be alone. I’m not ready to face the repercussions of another Stupid Thing.

  My head’s all over the place. How could I have taken the wrong bag? I could have sworn I put my red shoes in the recycled grocery bag and my trainers in the plastic one, not the other way around. But now the plastic bag is empty, and my red shoes are missing.

  They weren’t in the cupboard or any other of my hiding places. They can’t just have vanished and I can’t imagine Cat or Rachel would have taken them without asking. And why on earth would anyone have swapped them? It doesn’t make sense. I feel like I’m losing my mind. What am I supposed
to do without evidence? No one will ever listen to me now!

  I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and cradle my face in my hands. I’m breathing too fast, too shallow. My eyes drift to the top drawer of my desk. It’s tempting. Way too tempting. I could pop a Diazepam, lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I could let the bad thoughts shuttle through their neural pathways, clinking and clanking over those well-worn tracks. Until the drug kicks in, and that beautiful numbness takes over. Silencing my thoughts, smoothing away the jagged edges.

  But I know I shouldn’t. I’ve already thrown back my daily meds, a low-dose benzo and an antidepressant, with a swig of whisky. I can’t keep taking the easy route. It’s not just that I need to keep my wits about me – my supply is getting dangerously low, and there’s only one refill left. If I don’t man up and make an appointment with the psych Doctor Sarah referred me to, I’m going to run out.

  Hands shaking, I rummage through the top drawer of my dresser and pull out my tangled skipping rope. Finding my iPod and sticking in the earbuds, I close my eyes, let the music blast through my thoughts. I do a quick hundred rotations, stop, gulp back some water, and do another hundred. My heart is pumping but I’ve barely broken a sweat. I know this feeling. The flight or fight response; adrenalin with nowhere to go, tightening my muscles, constricting my chest. I could skip forever, run forever, and still feel edgy.

  Tossing the rope aside, I find my swimming costume and beach towel and change quickly, focusing on breathing. Throwing a light dress over the top, I tiptoe through the empty apartment, not bothering with shoes, and head out to the common area where the pool is situated.

  I hate this part of our building. It’s a huge rectangular slab of sandstone tiles in the centre of the apartment complex with twelve startled-looking palm trees jutting up from square, manicured garden beds around its perimeter. I’m guessing the aim was to create a beach atmosphere. It didn’t work. The palm trees do nothing to obstruct the view of the surrounding eight-storey apartments, all with windows and balconies inwardly facing the turquoise-tiled pool, which glints and sparkles in the middle of the common area. I feel exposed, as though a thousand eyes are watching me.