‘Mary, Mary,’ he whispers, and I can hear the sing-song sneer in his voice, the rasp of his ragged breaths. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
Only when he steps into the room, coming to me slowly, slowly, it’s not Mark’s face I see.
It’s my father’s.
I wake suddenly, gasping air into my lungs. All I can see is white. I scrabble desperately until I emerge from the sheets, breathless.
The bed creaks and something warm brushes my leg. I jolt before realising what it is. The air rushes out of my lungs in relief and the fear, the confusion, is replaced by another, much more pleasant, feeling.
The muscles in Ben’s smooth brown back shift as he rolls over to face me. Last night comes rushing back; I sneaked into his room, crawled under the sheets, kissed him until he woke.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he says in a husky voice, face breaking into a smile. ‘You’re still here.’
My chest swells with an emotion I can’t name. I don’t think I’ve ever felt it. ‘I’m here.’ I smooth down a tuft of his hair, trailing my finger over the stubble on his cheek. Memories of what we did come flooding back and heat rushes to my face.
Ben’s eyes soften as he looks at me, holds my gaze. He gently clasps the base of my skull and pulls me down into a soft kiss. I don’t think twice about the fact that I probably still taste of tequila because I’m enraptured by his lips that move to my cheek, my ear, my neck and then he pulls me down beside him and wraps me in his arms and blows raspberries on my shoulder until I giggle.
The air has cooled overnight and Ben’s body heat is like a beacon. I don’t feel shy. I don’t hide. I lean into him, relishing the feel of his skin on mine, nuzzling my face to his neck. He sighs.
This is new, rare. The absence of uncertainty, that gut-wrenching push and pull. It’s unfathomable. Where Mark was sharpness and ice, Ben is softness and warmth. My life hasn’t shown me security like this. Yet somehow – immediately, with my gut – I sense it here.
My thoughts crystallise. This is how it’s supposed to feel. This is how it’s supposed to be. And I want it with a ferocity that shocks me. I want it and I’m going to fight for it.
‘What do you want to do today?’ Ben mumbles into my hair. ‘I was thinking we could go to lunch or something. Maybe that new pub by the water?’
When I don’t answer, Ben pulls back and strokes my arm.
‘What is it?’
I hate having to do this now. Spending a normal day with Ben, going to the pub, lazily strolling home. It sounds like heaven. But there will be time for that later. I’ll make sure of it. ‘I have plans with Rachel.’
‘Right.’ Ben’s gaze drops to the crumpled sheet.
‘No, listen. Ben,’ I say, cupping his cheek. He looks up, surprised. ‘I want to, I really do.’ Excitement bubbles up and I’m grinning. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’m sorry I’ve … I’m just sorry, okay? I’ll open up. I want that. I want to share with you. I want to try.’
Ben stares at me in silence for several beats until panic creeps in. I’ve been too hasty. I’ve misread his intentions. But then he grins. ‘Mary,’ his voice is hoarse. His eyes hold mine. ‘I don’t care what’s happened, whatever it is.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I want to tell you. And I will …’
‘I’ll be here. When you’re ready.’
I’m smiling so hard it hurts. We stare at each other for several rapturous moments until there’s a knock from down the hall. It’s Rachel at my door.
‘Ugh. Sorry.’ I untangle myself from the sheets, get out of bed and dress quickly, tingling under Ben’s watchful gaze.
Before I leave I look over my shoulder and pause for a moment, drinking him in.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I say with a smile.
I hope to God I’m telling the truth.
Chapter Forty-One
The wind whips our hair in all directions and I’m wishing I’d brought a hair tie to keep the lashing strands out of my face. It’s not unusual for the weather to fluctuate at this time of year, but today is something else entirely. The wind blowing off the water is ice-cold and the air feels heavy with moisture. I bury my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, my fingers finding the cold angles of my alarm. It feels like a touchstone.
‘Trust the weather to be this shit today,’ Rachel mutters, pulling the hood of her jumper over her head, her feet crunching in the wet, shell-heavy sand. A grey, tattered rucksack bounces on her back, the handle of a baseball bat protruding from the zipper. The sight of it makes my stomach clench. This wasn’t part of our plan, but I tell myself Rachel’s just being cautious. ‘How are you feeling, Mary?’
I shrug.
‘It’s good to be scared,’ she says. ‘It’ll make your reflexes quicker.’
This statement frightens rather than reassures me. I think of Mark’s pleading message, trying to recapture the power I felt only yesterday. It’s gone.
‘See that houseboat?’ Rachel’s saying, jerking her head to the right. There’s an energy in her today – she’s restless, on edge. ‘I used to fantasise I had one of those growing up. That I could go wherever I wanted, live wherever I wanted. And if I didn’t like a place anymore, I could leave. Just like that.’
I look at the houseboat, creaking back and forth, staring out with its unseeing eyes. I shiver. Those were almost my exact thoughts when I first noticed it.
‘What was it like, Mary?’
‘What?’
‘What was it like? I mean, you had a boat like that, didn’t you?’
‘Huh? No, I …’ I look at the houseboat more closely, tripping over something on the sand then righting myself.
‘Sorry,’ Rachel’s staring ahead and I can’t see her face. ‘I thought you told me about it once. But I must have been mistaken.’
Frowning, I crane my neck to see the boat until we round the turn leading to the bush track, and it’s out of sight.
If it were warmer, the leafy foreshore would be crowded on a Sunday afternoon. Instead, only a few people are scattered about; a frazzled young couple coaxing their screaming toddler into a car, a group of teenagers smoking by the entrance to the bushwalk at the mouth of the woods. Magpies warble in the trees overhead, something rustles in the bushes as we pass.
My stomach is full of bricks. I feel sick. ‘Rachel,’ I say, my feet stopping of their own accord. ‘I’m not sure about this.’
Rachel’s head whips around and the fire in her eyes makes me flinch. ‘You’re not giving up now!’ She moves towards me. I step back and her eyes soften. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mary. I know this is hard … harder for you. But you’ve come too far to give up. You know you need to do this. You need to, Mary.’
I look in her eyes. There’s compassion and conviction and something else. Determination. Isn’t that what I want? To be strong, and to stop running? I nod. ‘Okay.’
Rachel takes my hand. ‘Come on.’
I put one foot in front of the other, run over the plan in my mind. I can do this. I have to do this.
The sounds of human voices disappear and soon all I can hear is the squelch of our shoes and the patter of rain. We’re nearing the crest of the craggy hill that looms above the open sea, our arranged meeting place. Public, so safe enough, yet isolated enough for a confession. I can’t see anyone, but I feel a presence, like someone is watching.
‘I’m going to have to disappear,’ Rachel says.
‘What?’
‘Before he sees me. He has to think you’re alone. Don’t worry, I’ll be right nearby. Watching.’
I pull in a shaky breath. It’s happening. ‘Yeah. Yes, okay.’
We approach the crest. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, it feels like an eternity, when there’s pressure on the small of my back, nudging me forward. ‘Go.’ I look over my shoulder but Rachel’s gone.
‘Mary!’
I freeze. Nothing could have prepared me for his voice.
‘Mary!’ He’s striding towa
rds me – where did he come from? – hair damp and stuck to his head, his mouth stretched in a lopsided grin. Those ice-blue eyes bore into me. ‘Hey.’
It’s as though I’m watching him on a screen. ‘Wait …’ I say, but I don’t know what for, and he stops a metre from me, brow creased, eyes moist as if with tears, but it’s probably just rain.
‘I’ve missed you.’ His voice breaks on words that would once have made me weak. Behind him the sky is clearing, it opens like a halo above his head. He’s only a few metres from the edge of the crest that rises above jagged rocks and stormy sea. He looks lost.
I twitch, instinctively wanting to reach out to comfort him. Muscle memory. But my brain catches up and I dig my hands into my pockets. My fingers find my alarm, then my phone. I inch my thumb along the screen to the right spot and press. Record.
‘Haven’t you missed me?’
I glance behind me; there’s a thatch of bushland nearby and one massive tree. Maybe Rachel’s hiding behind there.
‘Mary.’ The softness, the uncertainty, in his voice doesn’t suit him.
I swallow, hard. ‘You hurt me, Mark.’
He frowns. ‘I hurt you?’
My spine straightens though my knees are jelly. ‘You know you did.’
‘I hurt you?’
A bitter laugh escapes. He’s trying this old routine, even now.
‘Mary, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how you can think that.’ He edges towards me, his eyes wide and sincere. ‘Everything I did was out of concern for you. You know how you can get …’
I tremble, swallow against a lump in my throat. He’ll never change. He can’t see it. What I did for him, what I would have done – anything, anything. Now it’s too late. What he’s done can’t be glossed over, can’t be turned back on me. The damage is permanent. It can’t be erased.
‘I know what you did.’ My voice sounds small, pitiful. I raise it. ‘I know what you did.’
Mark’s searching my face, the picture of confusion. He does it so well. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘That night. I know what you did. Tom Forrester … I know.’
Understanding dawns on Mark’s face. I watch as confusion turns to shock, then to derision. ‘Oh, you’re funny – hilarious.’ He looks almost amused, but the glint in his eyes is my warning. I step back.
‘I remember. I saw you. You did it. I saw you holding the brick. It was covered in blood.’
‘You’re crazy.’ His voice is dangerously soft. He takes a step towards me. ‘You have no idea what you saw.’
I fight the urge to run, reminding myself Rachel is close by.
‘You don’t remember a thing. You were fucking high, fucking drunk. You and your imagination …’
My fingers clench in fists. I don’t know if I’m shivering from the cold or shaking with anger. ‘Just admit it, Mark. Or should I say Jon? Raj, maybe? Who were you that night?’
Mark laughs. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you’ve got it all figured out.’
‘We both know it was you. Why don’t you just admit it?’
‘You don’t know anything,’ he sneers. ‘I told you to forget about it. For your own good, Mary, you should just forget about Tom Forrester.’
‘I can’t!’ My voice breaks. ‘I have to know. Tell me … did you do it?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘When are you going to learn? When are you going to learn to listen to me?’ There’s something in his eyes that resembles pity. ‘My Mary. Mary, Mary, quite contrary.’ He holds out his arms, takes another step forward.
Before I can even shout ‘No!’ there’s a loud thwack and suddenly he’s on all fours at my feet. My lungs seize on a gasp as Rachel swings the baseball bat again, bringing it down onto Mark’s skull with a solid crunch. He lies face down on the grass, motionless, dark liquid pooling around his head.
Rachel wipes her brow with the back of her arm, looks at me, then back at Mark. She nudges his ribs with her toe as if testing his weight. ‘Arsehole.’
Time slows to a halt, staggers, then speeds up again. All I can hear is the sound of my own breath.
Rachel looks over her shoulder, drops to her knees and places both hands on Mark’s chest. She grimaces as she pushes him with all her might, but he is a dead weight. The next thing I know, she has grabbed my wrist and I’m down there, on my knees.
‘Help me, Mary.’ Rachel’s voice is eerily calm, her face a mask as she stares down at the back of Mark’s head. The rapid rise and fall of her chest is the only thing betraying her panic. Or is it something else she feels?
I’m not sure what she’s asking of me. But, somehow, I don’t hesitate. My vision is glossy through the tears, and I focus on my hands splayed over his leg, the feel of his coarse, wet jeans as I grab them with my fingertips. Together, we roll him, over and over. Until he reaches the edge of the crest.
The rain picks up. I don’t even hear the splash.
Chapter Forty-Two
The rhythm of the train is like a heartbeat. It sounds over my raging pulse, rocking me to and fro like a mother nursing her baby. Only the rhythm cannot comfort me. Nothing can.
It’s been over an hour. We’re somewhere on the central coast, just across the water from Sydney’s northern beaches, from home, but I haven’t been paying attention to the stops. I’m numb. Then I’m jittery, seasick. Then numb again.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the images. Mark’s face. The blood, so much blood. Rachel on her knees. What she did. What I did.
Help me, Mary.
A surge of nausea has me clamping my hands to my mouth. I gag, swallow, slam my eyes shut and will myself to hold it in.
Rachel doesn’t seem to notice.
I try to focus on something, anything. Out the window, through the mist, ancient mountains rise above the grey sea like sleeping dragons. The sky is grey too, the same melancholy shade, and storm clouds roll through, menacing.
Rachel won’t stop moving. Her ankles are crossed, her foot bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. We haven’t spoken since Sydney. She’s chewing her nails, peeling off half-moon slivers, pulling them from her mouth and throwing them on the floor.
Watching her is making me nervous and my stomach is as violent as the sky. I avert my gaze to the only other passenger in the carriage; an obese middle-aged man sprawled prone across a three-person seat, head thrown back, snoring. The sound is awful and he looks disgusting, a huge green glob of snot hanging from his nose vibrating with each snore.
Nausea rises again. I’m about to run for the loo when the train begins to slow and Rachel gets up. ‘We’re here.’
Light rain is falling when we step from the carriage, each pulling our hoods over our heads. There haven’t been many houses along the way and there are even fewer here. Beyond the tiny, deserted platform there’s only bush, and beyond it I can hear the crash of waves on the shore. ‘Where are we going?’
Rachel doesn’t respond, she just throws a peculiar smile over her shoulder. I’m shivering now, though it’s humid here, warmer than it was in Sydney. The storm seems to have followed us, purple-grey clouds hang low in the sky and there’s a faint rumble in the distance.
I follow Rachel out of the platform and into a clearing where a narrow path winds into the bush. We don’t speak – the only sound is our feet crunching along the undergrowth. The path is well-trodden, which is a small comfort. I have no desire to be in the middle of nowhere right now.
After a few minutes, a house appears through the trees. Although it’s not really a house – more of a cabin, built in the style you’d expect to see in northern Europe rather than the New South Wales central coast. It would be pretty if it wasn’t so dilapidated.
Rachel continues along the path until we reach the front door. There’s something familiar about the cabin, something I can’t place. She opens the door – it doesn’t appear to be locked – and walks inside. I follow.
We enter a spacious living area, decorated sparsely
, not much but a dusty six-foot faux Christmas tree in the corner near a stone fireplace. Plastic chairs – the shabby, broken kind you see lying by the side of the road during council pick-up – are arranged in a semicircle, pointed at a space where a television should be, but there is only a hole in the wall with some power cords sticking out. Empty McDonald’s wrappers, beer bottles and crisp packets litter the room, hinting at squatters.
What once might have been a beautiful space is now covered in dust and cobwebs, dank with the smell of mould. It bears all the signs of a scene hastily abandoned. Rachel never mentioned anything like this. Why has she brought me here? What else has she got planned?
Something slithers down my spine; a creeping sense of déjà vu.
The floorboards creak as we cross the room. We pass through an arched doorway and into a kitchen that opens onto a wooden deck, a layout not dissimilar to our place back home. The room, though small, gives the illusion of space, light-filled and open. The island in the centre is only half constructed; bricks and tiles lie scattered on the floor. Beyond the glass sliding doors, left open, I can hear the sea.
‘What is this place?’
Rachel doesn’t answer, she just dumps her rucksack on the island, riffles through it and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid. Bourbon.
I look through the open doors at the churning sky. It’s not raining, but it’s dark for the time of day. The rhythmic crash of the waves beckons me. The deck planks feel unstable under my feet, and I tread gingerly until I reach the rickety railing. The house has been built into a cliff face. Below, the grey sea laps at the rocky shore.
It’s a long way down. If you fell the wrong way, you wouldn’t survive the landing. Before I can even think of Mark, my body goes cold all over – for another reason. I’ve been here before. I know it, in my bones.
‘Here,’ Rachel appears beside me with a plastic cup. I can smell the bourbon and the sickly sweetness of cola.
I take the cup and gulp from it though my stomach churns. ‘I’ve been here before.’
‘Yes.’
I stare out at the rolling ocean, wondering what it would be like to plunge into its icy depths. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’
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