by Sara Foster
As Eleanor watches him leave, it’s hard for her to believe that just a few weeks ago she didn’t know this family at all. She’d come here with such high hopes – not entirely sure what to expect, but something better than this. Something that might prove the fissures within her own family were an anomaly; that people were capable of doing more – of being more – for one another. But now, embroiled in circumstances that seem to have come out of nowhere, it seems she has been wrong again. And it occurs to Eleanor for the first time that Susan and Ian may need her help as much as she needs theirs.
17
the shed
November 2004
On their first night in the shed, Eleanor pretends to go to sleep straightaway, but really she is squeezing her eyes shut, trying to ignore the smell of damp earth and her brother’s farts, desperate to remember the details of her old home. Her real home; the place where she had emerged ‘ridiculously fast’ from her mother’s womb in October 1995, caught in the bathroom by her father’s shaking hands before she could slither onto the rumpled, towel-sodden floor.
At Tippington Road, she had conducted meticulous daily inspections since the time she could crawl. As a result, she knew the place with an intimacy she couldn’t possibly forget. She knew that:
On the bathroom shelf there was often a dancing spider smaller than her thumbnail, whose back looked like an obsidian eye.
Cicadas serenaded each another in the bushes next to her bedroom window.
If she got on her belly and felt around underneath the couch she would find a rip in the covering, where she could push small trinkets into the foam for as long as she needed to keep them secret.
The space below the bottom shelf of the pantry would gladly harbour a small body wishing to hide.
The kitchen cupboards had springs that liked to eat fingers if they weren’t quickly withdrawn.
The hot tap of the bath had lost its splotch of red paint, but could still produce scalding water well before you were ready for it. (Eleanor knew the sting of burned fingers; she knew where the salve was kept.)
There were a few floorboards to avoid stepping on in order to safely explore the detritus of Aiden’s room. She would take a CD carefully from its box and steal away to listen to it on her brother’s old Discman. She was already acquainted with Pearl Jam, Good Charlotte and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, music she suspects will never be played in the shed.
Her brother sleeps above her on one bunk; her mother and father on another within arm’s reach. Until now, she has never truly appreciated her own room in Tippington Road, with its purple wall and stencilled fairies, its soft grey carpet and four whole shelves of books that have now been sold or put in storage. In Tippington Road she would rush into her parents’ bedroom at the front of the house as soon as she woke, pulling the blinds up to let in the light from their quiet suburban street. Always, her mother and father pretended to sleep until she crawled along the narrow trough between their bodies and woke them with kisses that were instantly, gratifyingly returned. She liked to lay her head between theirs and look from left to right. Her parents’ pillows had different smells: a musky cinnamon for her father; a sea-scented soap for her mother. Their morning breath wasn’t so pleasant, but she endured it to stay close to them. At night she would hang out in Aiden’s room, begging him to play Uno with her or to read her a story. Either that or she would drift towards sleep as he practised his guitar, until her mother scooped her up and transferred her to her own bed.
But now another family with toddler twins have purchased the house, and she can see all too clearly those careless boys marauding through her hiding places with their toy cars and planes, squashing the spider as it dances, crushing the cicadas as they sing. They will not value the treasures of Tippington Road as she does. How dare these strangers snatch her beloved house for themselves and call it ‘home’. And how dare her parents hand it over without a care, and bring them all to this tin box to live among spiders and reptiles. To this place where there is nothing good or beautiful at all.
18
missing
Eoin McDowell, Chief Pathologist, leads detectives Prashad and Kirby into his office and waits for them to take a seat. ‘We’ve undertaken an MDCT – a virtual autopsy,’ he explains. ‘It has confirmed drowning, due to a number of factors: frothy fluid and congestion in the lungs, as well as fluid and sediment in the stomach. And there is also this on her upper right arm.’ He puts a photo in front of the detectives.
‘Jeez, is that . . .’ Kirby leans in.
‘Yes, it could be a handprint bruise,’ McDowell agrees. ‘The thumbprint is on one side and fingers on the other, see, as though she was held hard. It’s old – nearly a week, fading out. However, whoever grabbed Arabella Lane a week ago and made this mark did so with a brute and painful force. And don’t forget those red marks on her wrist too, which could also be consistent with being held against her will, even though they didn’t have time to bruise.’ He pauses as he studies the picture in front of him. ‘If you’re considering murder, then this may be your man,’ he states, tapping repeatedly on the photo.
On Tuesday, Eleanor wakes and realises she doesn’t have to get up for work. Instead, she lies in bed, with everything going round and round in her head.
She hasn’t sleepwalked for years, and it still has such strong associations with trauma that even hours later, she is uneasy. She had been comforted by the assumption she had grown out of it; that it was a childhood habit. Her mother told her she’d first sleepwalked when she was very small, surprising her parents by marching into the lounge room and collecting the remote controls for the TV and DVD player, taking them back to bed and putting them under her pillow. That was in their first house – Teppington Road – or was it Tippington? Those memories have faded and warped, since there’s so much of her now that never belonged there. Besides, to even think of the place means allowing her thoughts to wander back through all the nightmares that came later. She feels like an intruder into her own memories nowadays, unsure whether she is embellishing anything. She wishes she could just leave them alone, pristine and untouched, rather than revisiting to sully them.
When she checks her phone there are two texts from her mum, different phrases asking how she’s feeling, telling her it’s okay if she wants to come home. There’s one from Will too: Have you told anyone yet? She doesn’t reply to any of the texts. How on earth is she going to tell Will she’s lost the ring? She wishes she’d never involved him in the first place. She can’t tell her uncle that Will knows about the ring either; she doesn’t want to induce more panic.
Hunger eventually drives her out from between the covers. As she pads down the stairs from the attic room, she hears noises further along the corridor, rustling and banging. She stops. Everyone should be at work or school right now.
It’s coming from Ian and Susan’s room, and she’s never been in there. She heads for the next set of stairs, but more strange sounds continue from the room down the corridor. There’s no way she’ll be able to relax without investigating.
She turns back and edges forward until she is close to the door frame. She peers around the corner.
Her uncle stands in the middle of the room – drawers on the floor next to his feet, the bed a mess of clothes and belongings. His chest rises and falls rapidly, one hand pressed against his temple, as though he’s deciding what he might trash next.
Eleanor tries to creep away, but she stands on something hard and her hand bangs against the wall as she reaches to steady herself. She looks down to see a tiny Barbie stiletto hidden within the thick carpet. She reaches to pick it up.
‘Eleanor?’
She turns to find her uncle standing in the doorway, watching her. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ she says. ‘I just heard a noise and was worried – I thought you were at work.’
He throws his arms up in the air. ‘I should be, but I can’t think straight. I’m going crazy about this ring. I was having a look through Susan�
�s things,’ he says. ‘You are sure Arabella was wearing it at the party?’
‘That’s when I first noticed it.’
He pales. ‘Show me where you hid it.’
She trudges back up the stairs, her stomach growling in protest. She flings open the door to her room and points to the mattress. ‘It was just under there.’
Ian heaves the mattress up, propping it against the window and looking between every slat, then getting down on his hands and knees to scour the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eleanor says, for lack of anything else to offer.
He doesn’t answer her.
‘What shall we do with it, if we find it?’
Ian sits back on his knees, staring towards the window. ‘Good question. I don’t know.’ He looks at Eleanor. ‘Are you sure you can’t remember how you came by it?’
She shakes her head. ‘Believe me, I’ve been trying everything, but I’m drawing a blank. I’m not going to remember anything now, I don’t think, because of the drugs. I keep asking myself why she would do that to me.’
He grimaces. ‘She liked company when she was indulging herself. She used to encourage me to drink too. It made her feel better about her own vices, I think.’ He stares towards the window. ‘The drink and drugs sometimes turned her into somebody else, but without them she was . . . she was . . .’ He stops, shakes his head and gets up slowly. ‘I’m going to have to ask Susan directly about the ring, but perhaps I’ll leave it until after the memorial – I don’t want to put any more stress on her. What a fucking nightmare.’ He manoeuvres the mattress back into place, and sits heavily on the bed. Eleanor stands by the door and waits, unsure.
Ian is watching her. ‘I’m going crazy, Eleanor. I have this horrible feeling of being followed all the time. And now – with the ring – it’s like someone’s trying to set me up.’
I feel exactly the same, Eleanor wants to say. But before she can, she hears a door bang downstairs.
She jumps. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s just Naeve. She said she didn’t want to go to school today. All her friends are on a high this close to Christmas, and she’s struggling – she came home in tears yesterday, and she looked so pale this morning I let her stay home. She isn’t talking to me much, and I know she’s deeply affected by Arabella’s death, but I’m not sure how to reach her.’
‘Do you think she knows – about you and Arabella?’
He grimaces. ‘No, I don’t think so. We were careful.’
‘What if Susan—’
Ian swings to face her. ‘She wouldn’t,’ he snaps. Then he stops. ‘Oh, I don’t know – maybe she would . . . We haven’t shared a room since she found out – I hardly get to see her alone anyway, and I’m not even sure if she’s speaking to me.’ He hesitates. ‘Perhaps you could you chat to Naeve,’ he suggests, his tone softening, ‘see if you can discover what’s troubling her? I want her to have support from somewhere, and she and Susan have always tended to clash.’ He gets up. ‘I have to get some work done. I’ll see you later.’
Eleanor trails him downstairs, and sees him close the door to his office. She heads to the kitchen to fix a quick breakfast of fruit and yoghurt, then goes to find Naeve. She suspects this may be a doomed mission, because Naeve hasn’t spoken to her much since Friday; she’s not sure she has been forgiven for letting the girls switch on the news.
She eventually finds her cousin in the conservatory at the back of the house – sitting in one of the upright chairs, staring out at the garden, hugging her knees to her chest. Eleanor takes a seat close to her, and trains her eyes towards the window too – imagining how lovely this view would be in summer. For now it’s spoiled by the rain spatters on the glass, and the grey pall that descends from a bitter sky to hang over the perennials.
To Eleanor’s surprise, almost as soon as she arrives, Naeve gets up to leave. Eleanor puts her mug and plate down quickly. ‘Naeve, wait!’ Without thinking she reaches for the girl’s arm, and as she pulls slightly Naeve turns, and Eleanor sees such a look of terror on her face that she flinches and pulls away.
Immediately, Naeve flees, with Eleanor chasing her. ‘Wait, Naeve, what’s wrong?’ As they pass through the hallway her uncle emerges from his study, drawn by the commotion, to see his daughter scurrying up the stairs. On the first floor, Naeve runs into her room with both of them in pursuit. Eleanor expects the door to be slammed on them, but instead Naeve scurries over to her bedside table, pulls open a drawer and turns to face them.
Arabella’s ring glints in the daylight, pinched between Naeve’s fingers. ‘Is this what you want?’ she yells.
Ian holds his hands up, drawing closer to her. ‘Where did you find that, Naeve?’ he asks, his tone low.
‘Lilian gave it to me for safekeeping.’ Her voice is half-screech, half-sob. ‘I recognised it straightaway.’ She turns to Eleanor. ‘Did you kill her?’ she demands, her voice cracking, her strength visibly wavering. ‘Did you kill Arabella?’
Ian steps forward quickly and takes her in his arms. ‘Of course she didn’t, Naeve,’ he says, but Naeve pushes him angrily away.
‘The newspapers say her death is suspicious. And when you carried Eleanor to bed she was all wet and dirty. Are you telling lies for her too?’
‘Naeve!’ Ian leans back from her and holds both her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. ‘Eleanor did not kill Arabella! You saw the state of her – did she look like she could have harmed anyone? Somebody drugged her at the party – none of this is her fault. Now, give me the ring, you shouldn’t have that.’
Naeve hands it over, and Eleanor watches him slip it into his pocket. He pulls his daughter close and lets her sob against his chest. Then, to Eleanor’s surprise, he holds out his arm to motion for her to come too.
Initially she welcomes the embrace, but quickly she finds herself stiffening in Ian’s arms. She thinks of the confident way he denied Eleanor’s involvement. His affair with Arabella. The way he has just swiftly pocketed the ring without asking, even though it was surely – technically – still Eleanor’s decision to make.
‘I’m scared, Daddy,’ Naeve snuffles against his shirt. ‘Please tell me that we’re all going to be okay.’
Does Eleanor imagine it or does she feel Ian tense as he holds them, as he whispers reassuring words into his daughter’s hair, keeping Eleanor close, so she cannot see his face.
19
christmas
December 2004
The sand sneaking into Eleanor’s pockets and shoes is not white but a dirty red. It’s a week until Christmas, and they are about to spend it in a shed. A year ago they went to the beach on Christmas Day – the Santa hats they tip out of boxes this evening are still encrusted with dried saltwater. Eleanor pushes one against her face and breathes, inhaling memories, feeling them float and settle within her, a promise that there are still worlds beyond this one.
The shed has metamorphosed. No cobwebs any more. The concrete floor now appears as a series of stepping stones around boxes and badly wrapped furniture, portable cooking equipment, open suitcases doubling as wardrobes and a series of colour-coded tubs pressed into operation as sinks, storage and bins. In one corner are two dilapidated pine bunk beds. Everything is flat and depressed, from the mattresses and pillows to her mother’s hair and her brother’s eyes.
Outside, nothing has changed. The land still belongs to the kangaroos that come through at dusk, the possums that sometimes land with a clatter on the shed’s roof, the cockatoos and galahs that roost in every available tree and greet the dawn with frenetic screeches, ensuring no one ever gets a lie-in.
Eleanor’s father is relentlessly positive. He assures them that once the slab is laid, they will be able to get building. He celebrates the triumph of installing electricity in the shed – two plug sockets in perpetual demand. He attends multiple bricklaying courses. He takes advice from everyone they meet. Today he insisted they open the Christmas box and hang decorations on nails – he’
s put tinsel around the dartboard they haven’t yet used, and there’s a fake wilting holly wreath fixed to the front of the shed door. He has somehow sourced a lopped-off tip of a pine tree, stuck it in a pot and brought it inside, knowing they don’t have enough room for much of a tree but determined to find space for something. For the past few hours since dinner, Eleanor has been tasked with decorating the puny thing. She begins with tenderness, determined to add some cheer to the place, but the tinsel overwhelms the tree – it sags, smothered, as though begging for respite. She winds baubles around weak, spindly branches and they immediately shed their needles from the shock of assault. She pricks her fingers on these cast-offs; they catch in her socks and poke their sharp, unforgiving tips into her soles. Eventually she gives up and leaves the tree stooped and dishevelled in the corner, an awkward house guest trying and failing to fit in.
She can’t decide whether to draw attention to her creative catastrophe or not. Her mother is organising a bag of clothes for the laundrette, and her brother is outside somewhere. Aiden disappears regularly and no one asks what he does. He can’t go far, surely, even with a torch – it’s pitch black out there. ‘Fifteen-year-old boys need some space,’ her mother had replied when Eleanor asked about it.
Her dad is reading one of his DIY manuals, but he stops when he notices her step away from the tree. In the shed, you cannot move without all eyes turning towards you.
‘It looks great,’ he says.
You’re such a liar, she replies in her head. Since they started living in such close quarters she has realised just how much her parents lie about everything, big and small. It’s disturbing.