The New Girl

by Ingrid Alexandra

  Because people are like that, aren’t they? They’re voyeurs, desperate and hungry for stories to make their own lives seem less pointless. Because that’s all we do, really. Tell ourselves – and each other – stories. Hello, reality television? Facebook? Instagram? It feels like people are more interested in the drama than in justice. Sometimes I think our culture of the spectacle isn’t so far removed from mediaeval times. Though instead of people’s bodies being mutilated for entertainment, their souls are on show. I’m not sure what’s worse.

  So, after the hype died down, and some up-and-coming model went missing, people stopped caring about my parents. The cops stopped looking. And now, five years later, I’m pretty sure that if they weren’t dead then, they are now. All because of complacency and incompetence, sheer incompetence.

  I’m not going to let it happen again. I’ve finally had the chance to get my facts straight since finding out about Sophie. I’ve written down the new things I’ve remembered from that night. If I can fill in the gaps, maybe I’ll remember something of value.

  1.Someone screaming, ‘Run Sophie!’ – it was a female voice, I think. Could it have been a friend of Sophie’s? Does that mean someone else was a witness to what happened, or did this happen at a different point in the night? Surely if someone witnessed a murder they’d have told the police. Unless Mark got to them first. What if it’s not just me who’s in danger?

  And Sophie – she was there, she saw things. She must have. According to Bruce, she was with Mark when he went missing – that fits exactly into the time frame when Tom was killed. Plus, I heard someone calling her name, telling her to run. What if Sophie’s in danger too? Unless she’s still with Mark, in which case he’ll have her under control. He’ll be keeping her quiet.

  Who is Sophie? And where is she?

  2.The bloodied brick Mark was holding was the murder weapon, because although no weapon was ever found, the nature of Tom’s injuries revealed the cause of death.

  3.I remember a man’s voice saying ‘don’t fight me’. And I was in pain … I don’t know if the two are connected. Maybe someone was attacking me – Mark? Is that how I got the blood on me?

  And there’s another thing, a feeling I get in my body when I think back to that night. Fear.

  Who was I afraid of? And why?

  It feels hopeless. I keep thinking myself in circles. Even if I remember what happened, the police don’t care what I think I saw. I have no evidence. They don’t believe that I was even there; they think I’m crazy, that I’m making it all up about Mark. They don’t see that he’s a con man, that I’ve been conned and so have they.

  Well, if the police won’t help me, it’s time to do what I should have done a long time ago. It’s time to take matters into my own hands.

  My phone buzzes and the base of my skull prickles. I know who it is before I even check.

  I’M IN SYDNEY. COME MEET ME.

  A different number, again. All capitals. Not a question, a command. Come meet me.

  I burn inside. He thinks he can order me around? He doesn’t know I’m on to him; I know his tricks and they won’t work anymore. I know more than he thinks.

  The wine gives me Dutch courage and I do something without thinking. I text back.

  Who is this? Jake, Jon or Raj?

  I wait, blood roaring in my ears. The text he’s written has come up green on iMessage, so he’s probably using some old, disposable phone, which means I can’t tell if he’s read my reply. A minute passes. Then three, then ten. I don’t know if I’m afraid or excited. My heart is hammering behind my ribs.

  ‘Hey you.’ I turn to see Cat hovering in the doorway. Her hair is damp and she’s wearing a light robe and a hesitant smile. ‘Can we talk?’

  I swallow, try and fail to arrange my features in a neutral expression.

  Of course, Cat notices. She’s by my side in an instant, looking at me with concern. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  I retrieve my phone, hold it up. ‘Mark.’ I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. I don’t feel I can let myself be vulnerable in front of Cat anymore. Something’s changed between us, and it can’t change back just like that.

  Cat sighs, leaning against the door frame, one hand on her hip. I notice her hair’s growing out even more, blonde roots creeping through the black. ‘What’s he saying this time?’

  ‘He’s in Sydney. He wants to meet.’

  Cat releases a slow breath. She puts a finger to her lips, catches my eye with a look that’s almost sheepish. ‘Have you considered it?’

  My jaw drops. ‘What?’

  Cat holds up her hands. ‘Sorry, you know I didn’t mean … not alone, obviously. I’d come with you, or you can take Ben for protection. Somewhere public with lots of people around.’

  I can’t process what I’m hearing. This is the last thing I’d expect to hear from someone who knows what I went through with Mark. Someone who’s meant to be keeping me safe. ‘What for exactly?’

  Cat avoids my eyes. ‘You’re suffering, Mary. I know I fucked up, I shouldn’t have said anything to Ben behind your back. I’m sorry. But I’m worried about you … Yes, Mark’s a bastard and I know what he did to you, but don’t you think you might be … I don’t know.’ She exhales harshly. ‘Overthinking things?’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  ‘Hear me out,’ Cat rushes on, as if she knows she’s crossed a line. Again. ‘I’ve just been thinking maybe Mark needs to hear it from you. That it’s over, I mean. That could be the underlying problem … maybe he just doesn’t get it. Maybe he doesn’t believe you’re not coming back, that this won’t all go back to normal. You left a couple of times before, didn’t you? And you went back. Maybe he figures this is the same. And, if you tell him face to face … it could be your chance to stand up to him. You could look him in the eye, tell him in no uncertain terms that you’re never coming back. Maybe then he’ll give up.’

  My body feels cold. She doesn’t understand. ‘He’s dangerous,’ I say in a flat voice. ‘You know what he’s done.’

  Cat doesn’t say anything. Silence hangs between us, heavy and uncomfortable. Her eyes stray to the window and her hand fidgets against her thigh, making the chunky bracelets on her wrist jangle. ‘It’s just … you’ve tried the police. They looked into it …’

  ‘They didn’t …’

  ‘And the only thing making you think that Mark … you know,’ she sighs, ‘is your memory of that night. And, I’m sorry to say, but you know what you can be like. When you’ve been drinking …’

  My face burns.

  ‘What if it’s not a memory? What if it was a dream …? All this talk of the murder, all those pictures in the paper, it’s bound to be putting images in your head. And all the booze, lately …’ She lets that sink in. I thought I’d been hiding it. But she knows.

  ‘We’ve been friends forever, M. And we’ve always been honest with each other, haven’t we?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Look. Rachel’s … troubled. I get it. And I’m sure she’s nice enough, under all that. But you don’t need this. You can’t save everyone, Mary. I know you just want to help, you were like that as a kid. Even with pets, you always picked the sick ones. It’s like you gravitated to them. Look what happened with Mark …’

  I inhale sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry, I … that was harsh. I didn’t mean … Fucking hell. I know this is hard. It’s only natural, after all you’ve been through …’ Cat crosses the room and slips her arm around me, pulls me into a hug. It feels forced, awkward. Her hair smells of coconut and cigarette smoke and I wonder if she’s been at the pub. ‘I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, okay? But your aunt made me promise to look after you and, so far, I’m doing a shit job. Don’t make a liar out of me. Please? Just go see Doctor Chang. For me?’

  She pulls back and looks at me, stroking my arms, her brown eyes full of pity.

  I want to hit her.

&
nbsp; ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to help with all this; he’ll know what to do. And maybe he can even help you remember some things. And then you’ll know for sure what happened.’

  I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want her hands on me; I want to push her away. But I don’t, because she’s right. Not in the way she thinks. She thinks I’ve lost it, that the psychiatrist will ‘fix’ me. But maybe he can help me in another way.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll book an appointment for as soon as possible. I promise.’

  The relief on Cat’s face is almost comical.

  I’m true to my word. After checking on Rachel who’s still resting in her room, and forcing down some food, I call Doctor Henry Chang’s office and speak with the receptionist. The soonest available slot is just under a week away, but it will have to do. I’m only making the appointment so I can get the prescription for my meds, anyway. I won’t need the session. Because I’m making other plans. Without meaning to, Cat has given me a brilliant idea. Dangerous, but brilliant.

  As I stretch out on the couch, letting the plan take shape in my mind, I glance at my phone. No reply from Mark. My lips twitch in a smile as a surge of power fills my chest. This has never happened before. I’ve done something I wasn’t able to do in all the years we were together.

  I’ve got to him.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I dream in black and white. Cat and I are at school, rehearsing for the play that’s opening tonight. She’s Romeo, I’m Juliet. We’re doing the balcony scene.

  I’m not sure how it ended up this way, and I don’t remember choosing roles. I do know Cat’s unhappy about it though. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t tell her, but I think it’s fitting. She’s so much taller and broader than I am, more solid, more into sports and with an attitude that befits … well, a guy.

  The boys from our ‘brother school’, Helfield Boys’ Comprehensive, have paid a special visit to watch rehearsals. It’s a novelty, having boys here. I’m wary and on edge, as I always am around boys, but the rest of the girls don’t seem to share my uncertainty. I’m embarrassed for them with their hapless flirting and lack of shame. The boys aren’t even that great.

  I know Cat’s hating that she’s dressed in slacks and a vest, her long hair tied up and hidden under a cap, her breasts strapped to her chest, while I’m decked out in a mediaeval-style frock with a plunging neckline. I catch Adam Benson staring at my chest and it makes my stomach feel funny. I glance back at Cat and she’s glaring, her face pinched with stress. Her eyes glint in the lights.

  Suddenly the sky is black and dotted with stars. I’ve got a plastic cup in my hand and there are people around me, hot bodies packed close. Music whines from a dodgy set of speakers somewhere nearby. We’re at the after-party, someone’s backyard – Megan Keeler, I think – and Adam’s at my elbow, watching me like a salivating dog. It’s as if he thinks I can’t see him.

  I take a sip from my cup. The sweet and sticky liquid has a harsh aftertaste – bourbon. I slug it down, relishing the burn.

  Next thing, I’m in the bathroom, fluorescent lights blinding. Cat’s tear-streaked face is in front of me, her eyes red-rimmed, cheeks smeared with black. Her blonde hair hangs limply around her face, the single dyed-red streak like a smear of blood at her temple.

  My heart is pummelling my ribs. What’s she saying? I can’t hear her for the white noise in my ears. Then the sound comes on, like someone’s flipped a switch.

  ‘You had to do it, didn’t you?’ Cat’s voice is deafening.

  I want to ask her what she’s talking about, but my voice won’t work.

  ‘You had to go and kiss him. Adam Benson, of all people!’

  ‘What? I didn’t …’

  ‘But you did, though, didn’t you?’ Her eyes, like daggers, send a shiver down my spine. ‘You couldn’t stand that he liked me and not you. You couldn’t let me have him. You couldn’t just let me have one fucking thing!’

  I wake to see a magpie sharpening its beak on the railing outside the glass sliding doors. From my horizontal position on the couch, I watch as it angles its head from side to side, eyes gleaming like onyx. Aunty Anne adores the creatures. Such intelligent birds, she says. I’ve always found their intense, narrow stare unsettling.

  The magpie stops, tilts its head and fixes its glassy eyes on me. I get a strange little shiver. The bird stares for a moment, then hops onto a neighbouring roof. I’m serenaded by one of the most distinctively Australian sounds; magpie feet on aluminium like pattering rain.

  I’m alone with my thoughts. Fragments of a dream are caught in my mind like flies in a web. Nameless, shapeless doubts claw at the inside of my skull. I feel like I’m missing something. Something big.

  I grit my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to force clarity. Things feel different with Cat now. And it’s not just that she broke my trust. It’s more than that. There’s something … familiar about this feeling. I can’t help but wonder, has it always been this way between us and I’ve just been oblivious?

  There’s one thing I can’t get past: she doesn’t believe me about Mark. She thinks I should meet with him, for fuck’s sake. My supposed best friend, and after everything he put me through, everything he’s done, she thinks I’m imagining things. She thinks I’m mad.

  But Rachel is different. She’s seen things, knows things. Cat can never understand. Rachel gets me. Gets it. And Cat’s jealous – that has to be it. She’s always been a little jealous, hasn’t she? And now there’s the Ben thing, and my friendship with Rachel. She can’t stand that I might need someone other than her. Well, what does she expect, when she has so little faith in me? If Cat can’t handle that I’ve made another friend, that’s her problem.

  One of the flies stuck in the web of my mind starts to buzz. I shut my eyes, remembering.

  You can’t save everyone, Mary. I know you just want to help; you were like that as a kid. Even with pets, you always picked the sick ones. It’s like you gravitated to them. Look what happened with Mark …

  I sit up straight. Wasn’t Cat one of the ‘sick ones’? Wasn’t she that sad, loner kid with no friends before I came along? My mind shuffles through memories like a stack of cards. Cat’s clueless comments about Mark. The look on her face when she twigged something was going on between me and Ben. Rachel’s warning, that night in her room. Cat’s face smeared with mucous and mascara, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  You couldn’t just let me have one fucking thing!

  Could Rachel have been right about Cat all along? That pedestal Cat’s put me on has always stood just a bit too high. Wasn’t she always a bit possessive at school? A bit … controlling? The way she copied my clothes, got mad at me when I wore my eternity necklace from Mum instead of my half of the ‘Best Friends’ necklace she bought. A silver heart split in two; I had ‘best’, she had ‘friends’. How she didn’t like me having other friends. That time she screamed at me because I went to the movies with Cally Watson and didn’t invite her. When I think about it, that’s pushing the friendship a bit far. Isn’t it? Is it normal to want someone all to yourself? To expect exclusivity?

  I trust this woman with my finances. My secrets. My past. How easy it would be for her to screw me over.

  My skin itches, as if irritated by some invisible insect. I run my nails over my forearm, my eyes drawn to the bright red lips on the Rolling Stones poster hanging on Cat’s bedroom door. My stomach flutters, like I’m about to step out on a high ledge. Do something I’ll regret. But I can’t help it; my feet carry me across the living room to Cat’s door. Before I can open it, something on the floor catches my eye: a photo. Even from my standing position, I can see it’s been torn in half. The side that’s left is of Cat, smiling at the camera, teeth glinting from the flash. I crouch down to pick it up.

  It’s from years ago, back when she’d lost all the weight and was still blonde. I remember the exact moment it was taken – we were lying on our backs on the freshly mown gr
ass at my parents’ house, my arms raised above us holding the camera, both laughing as we tried to pout for the photo, but eventually we gave up and smiled. We had escaped out there for the afternoon, drinking too much wine and sneakily smoking cigarettes. The other half of the photo is gone, but I can fill in the blanks. I had that photo pinned up in my bedroom for years.

  I turn it over and a strange feeling washes over me. The world tilts – only a fraction, yet suddenly I’m seeing it from a different angle.

  On the back of the photo, one word is scrawled.

  SLUT.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  13th December 2016

  I remember it like it was yesterday, dream about it in all the vivid detail of a flashback. The vines reflect the light of the setting sun, gleaming like golden thread woven through the landscape. I pluck a single sun-ripened grape from a cluster, pierce the taut skin with my teeth and taste its nectar, tart and sweet.

  Cat sits cross-legged beside me, biting her fingernails. She’s tried to quit the habit three times now to no avail. I can’t remember a time when her nails weren’t gnawed to the quick.

  ‘You really shouldn’t,’ she says.

  I pop another grape into my mouth. ‘Shouldn’t what? Do this?’ I collect a handful of grapes from the wicker basket and pour them into my mouth, watching Cat’s reaction out of the corner of my eye as most of them spill out of my mouth and fall to the ground.

  She tucks a strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear, folds her arms across her chest. ‘That’s such a waste. Stop messing around.’

  ‘I’m not messing around. I’m enjoying myself. There’s a difference.’

  I look at my friend and I wonder, in a moment of clarity, whether she ever enjoys herself.