The New Girl

by Ingrid Alexandra

  I step onto the wooden deck at one end of the pool and glance around before sliding my dress over my hips and stepping out of it. The sun is hot on my back, the deck warm and smooth beneath my feet. There are some guys in a group standing on their balcony and I can hear them murmuring to each other.

  Closing my eyes, I breathe deep. Get over yourself, Mary. If they look, they look. No big deal. This is just an oversized back yard. There’s plenty of security. You’re safe.

  I shut off my brain and dive into the pool, gliding through the water. Cool water and bubbles zing along my body, awakening my nerve endings. My head breaks the surface and I take a breath, start swimming laps. My hands scoop through the water, legs kick, arms stretch and bend over and over. It’s rhythmic, soothing.

  By four laps I’m feeling it in my muscles. When did I get so out of practice? I pause at one end, panting. That’s good. I’m responding to the exercise; heart pumping, muscles twitching. I’m starting to feel the endorphins. Just a few more laps …

  A wolf whistle pierces the air. ‘Hey sexy!’ a male voice shouts, with the hint of a sneer. Or am I imagining that? Another laughs. ‘Hey, you. Blondie.’

  I start swimming again, shutting them out.

  ‘Hey!’ The shout comes again as my head breaks the surface of the water. ‘You look lonely down there. Wanna come up here and join us?’

  Just ignore them, just ignore them. Swim. Breathe.

  ‘Aw, come on pretty girl. You know you want to. Don’t fight it.’

  Don’t fight it.

  A sudden image comes to me – Mark’s eyes like flint, and someone else, another face. Tom, eyes closed, covered in blood. I clutch the edge of the pool, chest heaving.

  ‘Come on, Blondie. We’re just after a little fun.’

  Don’t fight it.

  Don’t fight me.

  Who said that?

  Whose voice am I hearing?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, reach into the deepest corners of my mind, but come back empty-handed. The memory is gone.

  Another wolf whistle. Something said about my arse, but I can’t quite catch it.

  I have to get out of here. I haul myself out of the pool, painfully aware of my exposed body, and scrabble with my towel before wrapping it around my chest. I grab my dress and my keys.

  ‘What are you, deaf?’ A different voice this time. Taunting. Superior within the safety of the pack.

  Do I respond? Just wave, be nice, move along?

  Ignore them. Walk. You can do this.

  I force myself to walk across the deck and through the common area, towards the entrance to our apartment wing.

  ‘I think she’s ignoring you, man.’

  ‘Piss off. She’s not. Come on, Blondie, come join us!’

  Reaching the entrance, I wave the swipe over the sensor, yank open the door. It slams against the sound of boos and protests on the other side. I lean against the wall, gasping air into my constricted lungs, tears burning down my cheeks. Why am I crying? What’s wrong with me?

  Someone enters the corridor and I pull the towel up to my chin, hurry down the hallway. The lift is there for once, so it’s only a minute before I’m back in the safety of the apartment.

  ‘G’day, whoever that is!’ It’s Ben’s cheerful voice, coming from the kitchen. He sounds so normal, so everything’s-awesome, and for a moment I’m paralysed with exquisite envy.

  Wiping at my face, I close my eyes and will myself to breathe. It’s okay to feel this way, I tell myself in Doctor Sarah’s words. Let the feeling be there. Don’t fight it. Just let it be there.

  I manage a smile as I reach the kitchen. Ben is leaning against the counter, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s drinking milk from the carton. His hand pauses on its way to his mouth. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’

  Ben tilts his head to one side. He’s unshaven, scruffy-looking, but his eyes are bright and smiling. ‘You okay?’

  I nod, shrug.

  Ben places the milk on the counter and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. His eyes meet mine and the look he’s giving me feels private, like we share a secret. And I suppose we do. ‘Been for a swim?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Nice. I, uh … I was really late for work today.’ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You must’ve left pretty early.’

  ‘I had somewhere to be. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Ben straightens his shoulders. ‘So, everything’s okay, then? You’re, um … you’re okay?’

  I bite back a smile. He has a way of making me feel better, somehow. ‘I’m okay.’

  Ben nods. ‘Good. Good, I’m glad.’

  I glance at the clock. After five. There’s plenty of wine in the fridge; my attempt at making up for all the bottles I’ve stolen. Watching Ben’s face, his slight, uncertain smile, a thrill moves through me and I have the urge to feel that way again, like I did last night. I could reach out, take his hand. Smile coyly, wait for him to take the hint. I could escape for a while.

  But something stops me. Ben deserves better than that. With a feigned grimace, I say, ‘Actually, I think I might be getting a headache. Too much booze lately.’ It’s a weak excuse, pathetic.

  Ben looks at me, then turns away as he nods. ‘Okay. Probably best to sleep it off, then.’

  I shake off the pang of guilt and head to my room.

  Later, in the silence, I look at Tom’s photo. Tears roll down my cheeks. I undulate my hand so the small, white pills roll back and forth along my palm. Then I throw them back with a swig from the whisky bottle.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It’s a bright and breezy Saturday, and although weekends are meaningless to the unemployed, I can still feel it in the air, the energy of thousands of school kids and nine-to-fivers revelling in their freedom. I envy them. Freedom is a luxury I must fight for.

  I’m going to the police again. And I won’t be leaving until they agree to track Mark down. It’s been a slow start, what would have been a regular hangover amplified by too many downers, and I’ve thought of putting it off more than once.

  But I’m not giving up. I’ve made progress. I spoke to Officer Dean, the nicer of the two cops I’ve had contact with, and she promised to look up the number for me, see if it’s connected to Mark. I think she felt sorry for me. Which is nice, and I appreciate her trying, but it hasn’t helped much. She rang today to tell me the number is connected to a Raj Menkos (another anagram of Mark Jones – he thinks he’s so clever). It’s definitely him. But I have no way to prove it. I’m not sure I even know his real name, the more I think about it.

  I’ve almost mustered the courage to leave the apartment when my phone rings. I freeze, hesitate before picking it up. It’s not Mark’s – Raj’s – number, but I recognise it from somewhere. I hesitate before answering. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, yeah. It’s Bruce Larson here. Is this the detective who rang me the other day?’

  I hold my breath. ‘Yes, this is she.’

  A wheezy laugh comes through the receiver. ‘Listen, darlin’, I know you’re no detective. See, after you hung up on me the other day I got to thinking.’ He laughs again. ‘The detective that came about the case back then was a bloke. I don’t remember any Helen White. I bet I know who you are. You’re one of Jonny’s girls, aren’t ya?’

  For a second, I have no idea what he’s talking about. And then all I can hear is my pulse in my ears. Jonny. Jon Markes. Mark’s ‘business’ name. I clear my throat, but Bruce keeps talking.

  ‘Which one are you, then? You’re not Sophie, are ya?’

  ‘Who? No, my name’s …’ I stop. I don’t want to tell him my name. ‘My name isn’t Sophie.’

  ‘Sorry, darl. He’s got a few. Don’t blame you for chasing him up, he’s a dodgy bastard that one.’

  I’m stunned into silence.

  ‘Look, kid, I didn’t want to say when I thought it was a cop calling, but I should probably warn you … your Jon’s in hot water mo
re than he’s out of it.’

  Finding my voice, I mutter, ‘That, I do know.’

  That earns me a chuckle. ‘Listen, you asked if he knew Tom. Well, I can tell you he did. Good bloke, our Tom. Such a rotten thing that happened, all the guys here were pretty cut up. And if Jon had anything to do with it …’

  ‘Hang on, you think Mar— er, Jon might have had something to do with Tom’s murder?’

  The silence that follows feels thick, like cotton wool in my ears.

  ‘Bruce?’

  ‘Now, look,’ Bruce has lowered his voice, ‘I don’t want you repeating this, ’cause if anyone asks, I’ll just deny it.’

  I breathe in.

  ‘But Jonny, you might already know, did a lot of business around here. You know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Bruce grunts and I think I hear him spit. ‘Well, our Tom was in a bit of trouble himself. He was just a kid. His family was a bit messed up; he grew up dirt poor and all that. So he goes and gets involved with the wrong kind of people, you know how it goes. He owed old Jonny money; that was one thing. And right before it happened, in fact, I reckon it was the night before he was killed … I saw ’em fighting.’

  I release the breath I’m holding. ‘So, do you think …’

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t prove much, does it?’

  ‘It gives Jon a motive!’

  Bruce exhales loudly. ‘Yeah. I didn’t really think about it ’til now … guess I’d forgotten. But when you called and asked whether Tom knew Jonny, I put two and two together.’

  ‘We have to do something about it!’

  ‘You can try, kid, but I’m not getting involved. Got enough of my own business going on to want the cops sniffing around again. What good will it do, anyhow? Not gonna bring Tom back.’

  ‘Are you serious? Jon’s dangerous! What if he does it again?’

  Bruce sighs. ‘Yeah, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Problem is, those fancy detectives don’t give a shit about kids like Tom. They’re after your serial killers, your kiddy fiddlers, that kinda thing. But some kid messed up with drugs who gets himself killed? No one cares. Why d’ya think no one’s been caught yet? Seems to me they let the case go cold pretty quickly. Chasing after something juicier now, I reckon.’

  Maybe Bruce has a point. The cops were dismissive of my testimony and if Tom was involved in drugs you’d think that would be the first – and most obvious – lead to follow.

  ‘You wouldn’t even consider speaking to the police? It might help …’

  ‘Nah, love. Like I told you, this conversation never happened.’

  ‘But, I—’

  ‘Sorry, love.’

  ‘There must be something more you can give me! A name, anything!’

  A long pause, then Bruce clears his throat and says in a low voice, ‘Sophie.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Some girl Jon was seeing at the time.’

  My pulse accelerates. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. The night it happened, well, I delivered some goods to Jonny down the road from the party. There was a girl with him – Sophie, I heard him call her. Don’t know her last name. I remember ’cause that’s my niece’s name. My bet is you find her and she might have some idea what went on that night. If Jonny was involved, that is.’

  ‘She might not have been with him later that night. She could have just been a friend,’ I say, but the suggestion feels weak even to me. ‘Someone wanting to score drugs …?’

  Bruce gives a meaty laugh. ‘Nah, love. They were a lot more than friends, that’s for sure. Sorry.’

  I take a long, slow breath. ‘Do you know anything else? What time was it? What did she look like?’

  I can almost hear him shrug. ‘It was about one in the morning, maybe two, I guess.’

  So around the time Mark was missing.

  ‘Not sure what she looked like. Didn’t get a good look. Small, blonde. Young.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘She looked like a kid. Fifteen, sixteen? But I’m an old man, so you all look like kids to me.’

  My stomach twists. He could almost be describing me a few years ago.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘No worries, darl. I hope you catch the bastard.’

  Ending the call, I sit down on the bed and stare at the wall with unseeing eyes. There was someone else. And she was with him when he went missing at the party. Sophie. Why is the name familiar? Had Mark mentioned her before? Was she a victim, like me? Did she see something that night?

  I know now why Mark wasn’t on the guest list. He was going by Jon. I should have suspected; he always knew how to cover himself. There was no Mary Baker either, but with Mark’s status in that group he could’ve shown up with anyone and be let in. He could have met up with Sophie, sneaked her in later.

  All at once it’s hard to breathe. My eyes burn with tears. It’s a stupid reaction; I know what Mark is, and he’s done far worse, and yet … a part of me somehow still believed it was different with me. That he chose me because I was special, because I mattered to him. But that was just another lie he told me. He chose me because I was vulnerable. Weak, as he always said. I was an easy target.

  All the control, the power I thought I had, melts away and is replaced by something else. A surge of anger brings me to my feet. That fucking, fucking arsehole. Storming to the closet, I yank open the door and shove my coats and dresses to one side. The overnight bag I brought from my aunty’s sits in one corner; I plunge my hands into its depths and rip things out one by one. An old cardigan, books, cards and letters, a creased photograph. I hold up the photo and stare at Mark’s leering smile, his cold eyes, his perfectly straight teeth. A hot, fierce thing burns in my chest. I spit on the photo, right on Mark’s stupid, smug face.

  Then I tear the room apart, searching for the one thing I have that will prove what I saw that night. I have to find those shoes if it’s the last thing I do.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been at it when there’s a knock at the door. I stop, panting, certain I look as wild as I feel.

  ‘Hey, Mary. Can I come in for a sec?’

  I drop the armful of crumpled clothes I’m holding as Rachel enters the room wearing a smile that quickly vanishes. ‘What’s going on?’

  I can’t answer. Blood is roaring in my ears.

  ‘Oh, Mary, what’s happened?’ Rachel crosses the room and kneels down on the floor beside me. She looks around. ‘Did you lose something?’

  I nod dumbly.

  Rachel puts a hand on my back and rubs it in small circles. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find it. I’m always losing things; my friends used to call it “pulling a Rachel”!’

  That draws a weak smile from me.

  ‘Probably caused by too much wine, most of the time,’ Rachel’s lips twist in a self-deprecating smile. ‘Do you want me to help you look?’

  I find my voice. ‘It’s okay, thanks. But listen … you didn’t happen to see a pair of red suede shoes around or maybe … borrow them …?’

  Rachel frowns. ‘I wouldn’t borrow anything of yours without asking.’

  ‘I know, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Rachel’s smile is back. ‘I didn’t take your shoes, Mary. But I’m sure they’ll show up. Unless you’ve moved them, they have to be around somewhere. Are they special or something?’

  ‘Yeah.’ That’s an understatement.

  Rachel holds my gaze and I have that feeling she gives me, like she sees something deeper than I want to show. Up this close, her eyes are an unsettling shade of gold.

  ‘I’ve been worried about you,’ she says in a soft voice as she leans closer. Her hair brushes my cheek and it’s like silk. ‘You must be going through a lot, and you’re always holed up in your room. We need to get you out.’

  I shrug and bite my lip.

  ‘I’m serious. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. It
was so much fun when we hung out before. It meant a lot to me that you opened up … you know,’ she lowers her voice, ‘about your family.’

  I nod and Rachel places a hand over mine. When I look up, her expression is deadly serious.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Mary. I know something’s going on.’

  My heart gives a little kick.

  ‘It’s all right.’ She strokes my hand. ‘But let’s not bullshit each other, okay? I mean, what’s the point? Life’s too short. I believe in honesty, and I want you to know … you don’t have to hide from me.’

  I blink beneath her scrutiny. And, despite the fear, I burn to tell her. Rachel, above everyone else, might understand best.

  ‘I want to be important to you, Mary.’ Rachel’s still touching my hand. ‘I want you to open up. You shouldn’t carry it all alone. So whenever you’re ready to talk …’

  My heart’s pounding for some inexplicable reason and I’m struck with the urge to throw myself at her feet and sob, let the whole story come spilling out.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I say, a tremor in my voice. ‘I really would. Thanks, Rachel.’

  A flash of something crosses Rachel’s face. She looks almost triumphant. ‘Well.’ She smiles and lets go of my hand. ‘I have to head to work, but let’s talk soon, okay? You should go for a run or something. That always makes me feel better.’

  My gaze slides towards the empty closet, as if I can will the missing shoes to reappear.

  ‘Sure.’ I smile. ‘That might be a good idea.’

  ‘And don’t worry,’ Rachel stands and heads for the door. She winks. ‘Whatever you’ve lost will turn up. Things have a habit of showing up when you least expect them.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The restless grey sea mirrors the sky as if this morning’s brightness has leaked away. My feet slap in time with my heartbeat as I jog the beach; I’ve been at a brisk pace for ten minutes but I’m still edgy, jumping at every shadow.