He stood up, his face contorted.
‘You came to see how well he carved up Alice? She’s got to have another operation. Her hearing is permanently damaged.’
Alice tried to tug at his sleeve to get him to sit down. ‘Nico, Nico, stop,’ she pleaded, but he ignored her.
‘Wanna know what we’ve said to the police? Tell them from me, I’m no dog but you screw with me and I’ll screw with you. Leave Alice out of this.’
Exhausted, Alice’s hand dropped back to her bed and she lay there, pain on her face.
‘All right, we’ve got the message. We’re leaving,’ said Rachel.
Kesh got up, upset. ‘We just wanted to make sure Alice was OK. That’s all we wanted to do.’
‘Just get out of here.’ Nico was spitting with rage. ‘I’ll kill anyone who comes near Alice again.’
Chapter 7
After my appointment with Frank, I go to the library and write about the hospital visit until closing time. I decide to take the long way home, past the saleyards and around the cemetery. I avoid the centre of town. I walk along the road that leads up to The Hill. You can see The Hill from almost anywhere in our town. I used to go up there all the time with Tracey. We would sit at the top and plan how we would escape from here. I always knew I wanted to go to university but Tracey wasn’t sure. Her father wouldn’t pay for her, we both knew that. The one time she had argued with him about it, she came to school with welts on her legs from where he had beaten her with his belt. ‘He says you’re a bad influence,’ she told me. That was funny because my mother said the same thing about her.
I turn off The Hill road and take the underpass under the highway rather than using the bridge. I want to see if the graffiti is still there and it is, red against the grey. It hasn’t faded much and I wonder if it is refreshed regularly, like flowers on a grave. Gone but not forgotten.
P.S. IS A MURDERER.
I stand there remembering the first time I had seen those bright dripping letters, except then the initials read T. C. You can still make out Tracey’s initials under mine and when I put my finger up and touch the cold concrete, it is her letters that I trace over again and again. It is dark before I head home.
· · ·
‘Where have you been?’ asks Mum, accusingly. She is wearing her best getup, tight, sparkly with everything on display. ‘You knew Terry was coming for dinner.’
‘You didn’t have to wait,’ I say.
‘I wanted us to all sit down together.’
Mum is someone who still believes in fairytales. If Terry wasn’t here, Mum would be in her dressing gown and slippers and we would eat packet noodles or tinned soup in front of the television. But Terry is always here now.
The three of us sit in our small kitchen that smells of burnt onion and spice, surrounded by dirty dishes and sticky surfaces, eating a meal so awful that even Rachel would have happily chosen chilli con carne in preference. Terry keeps pushing his spoon down into the sludge trying to smooth out the lumps, but the spoon never goes near his mouth.
‘Got the recipe from the new girl at work. Vegetarian but eats chicken still. Not an inch of fat on her,’ Mum says, trying to cover up the silences. ‘Had to go to the health food shop for some of the ingredients and they charge like wounded bulls there.’
‘Mmm,’ Terry says. ‘Might get some chips down at the pub.’ That’s the thing about Terry, he’s only a hippy sometimes.
Disappointed, Mum turns to me.
‘You like it, don’t you? You told me how you ate all that vegetarian food at college.’
I don’t bother to pick up my fork. Terry pushes back his chair with both hands on the table. He’s too tall for our kitchen. Long hairy arms and legs. The rickety table wobbles and my bowl is in danger of spilling. I could have given it a surreptitious shove and been able to blame it on him. But there is no point. A saucepan full of the stuff is sitting on the stove.
He gazes around the kitchen, mentally cataloguing our possessions. But there is nothing expensive or shiny to capture his attention for long. This house and everything in it belonged to my grandparents. In fact, technically still belongs to my grandfather, even though he’s been in the nursing home for years.
‘Saw that university fella of yours yesterday, on the television. Back in court,’ Terry says.
‘Where did you see that?’ Mum is surprised, because Terry pretends to hate television. He calls it the idiot box. Takes one to know one. Mum unplugs ours and covers it with an old sheet before he comes over.
‘Mick’s got one in his caravan. He had it on while we had our lunch,’ he says. ‘Back in court,’ he repeats, in case I missed it the first time. ‘Off to jail soon.’
I say nothing because I’d already read the newspaper report about it at the library. There was a large photograph of Marcus being bundled into the back of a taxi, arm flung up, shielding his face from the camera. He had been all alone. No friends or family with him, not even his lawyer was in the picture. There was something shrunken about him, as if he had already been found guilty.
‘It’s only the committal hearing,’ says Mum. ‘Then it’s the trial. Different standards. Beyond reasonable doubt for a trial. Mind you, shouldn’t be hard seeing he’s as guilty as sin.’ She pulls off a diamante earring and massages her red lobe.
Terry looks surprised at Mum’s grasp of the legal system. He opens his mouth to question it, but I get in first and ask him how the Taj Mahal is going. Mum gives me an encouraging smile. Most of the time I ignore Terry because he is a waste of space. The only reason he is in town is to help build some dropout’s mud-brick house. At the start, he pretended to Mum he owned it and she was dumb enough to believe him, but it really belongs to his friend Mick. He calls it his job, but the amount of time it’s taking, it barely qualifies as a hobby.
‘A couple of weeks and Mick’ll be in. Sooner the better. Gonna be a wet spring.’
Mum clips the earring back into place and checks her reflection in the oven glass. She frowns, patting her hair. The hairdresser talked her into having a perm, and she isn’t convinced.
‘Another washed-out Blossom Festival Parade, no doubt,’ she says. Mum pretends to dislike the Festival but really she would love to have been crowned Cherry Blossom Princess and I kind of ruined that for her. Not too many single mothers become royalty in this town.
Terry sniffs and I wonder how long he’s planning to hang around. He has talked about visiting friends up the coast once the house is finished and then heading further north to pick fruit, but I suspect he will be reluctant to give up his newly found meal ticket. Still, a few more home-cooked vegetarian meals and he might leave of his own accord.
‘So you’ll be heading off soon,’ I continue.
Mum tenses and gets up quickly. ‘Reckon it could do with some salt.’
Terry stretches out and cups her backside as she walks past. ‘Your mum’s asked me to move in.’
Mum had told me this dinner was important to her. Now I understand why. We are going to be a happy family.
‘Yeah, and I’m going to do a bit of work on your house,’ Terry continues.
I look over to my mother, amazed that she can fall for this again.
‘Terry thinks we could pull down the back verandah and make it into a sunroom,’ Mum tells the cupboard full of crockery, refusing to look at me.
‘A sunroom,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t a pool room be nicer? You could put a bar in.’
I think it was Shane, who only talked about guns and hunting, who came up with that one. He never started because Mum couldn’t afford the equipment he said he needed. He left after six months when he got a job mining, taking all my grandmother’s jewellery with him, as payment for services not rendered.
My mother sticks her head out of the cupboard and shoots me a behave-yourself look. Holding the salt in a glazed clay pot marked sugar, she comes back to the table.
‘Doesn’t have to be a sunroom,’ Terry says. ‘Lots we can do to fix this old place up. Keep me b
usy for ages.’ His face wears a lazy, satisfied look.
I play the innocent and even pick up my fork. Mum senses my scepticism and tries to change the subject. ‘Now, eat up,’ she says. ‘Don’t want it to get cold.’
Terry chokes down a mouthful. ‘Definitely needs salt.’ He begins to sprinkle it on liberally. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ he asks her.
‘You know how when you cook something, the smell of it fills you up.’
‘All this sounds expensive. Where’s the money coming from, Mum?’ I want to see if she has learnt anything from Shane.
Terry jumps in quickly. ‘It won’t cost that much because . . .’ but Mum gives the game away.
‘Terry says I could get a power of attorney for Dad and then take a mortgage out on this place.’ She looks so happy I haven’t got the heart to rain on her own personal Blossom Festival Parade so I deliberately keep my face blank. Still, now I know nicking the electrical goods isn’t enough for Terry. He wants real money.
‘But,’ says Mum, ‘if Bob gets you a good settlement against that university, we might not need to get a mortgage. He bloody should too. I mean, the amount of money he charged us last time. When he put in that fancy swimming pool, I said he should call it the Shirley Sheppard Memorial, seeing all my savings went to pay for it.’
‘Why did you need a lawyer?’ asks Terry. He must be the only person in town who doesn’t know and I wonder how long before he will. If I thought it would make him leave, I’d tell him myself.
‘You know, just the usual,’ Mum says, too quickly. ‘Charge you for anything and everything.’ She grabs her handbag which is sitting under the table, and hunts through it, pulling out a lipstick.
‘Has Bob said when they’re going to make you an offer?’ she asks. Terry pretends to be engrossed in his dinner, but he is listening hard.
I shrug. ‘He’s waiting on Frank’s report.’ My face stays neutral as I start to lie. ‘He thinks the university is going to fight, so he said not to get my hopes up unless we can afford to litigate.’
Mum’s mouth drawstrings in disapproval.
‘Where are we going to get that sort of money? You could have been killed. They can’t get away with that.’ She frowns and then pats Terry’s hand. ‘Excuse me, while I nip to the little girls’ room.’ Really, she wants a sneaky cigarette. She started again when I was in hospital. Terry doesn’t hold with smoking.
She walks out, leaving us alone in the kitchen. I refuse to make eye contact because this is usually the moment when Mum’s boyfriend says something to mark out his territory as the new man of the house. The nice ones say something about not being my dad but perhaps we can be friends, but that’s not Terry.
‘Aren’t you gonna eat that?’ he asks, pointing to my untouched bowl. His leg brushes up against mine under the table.
‘I’ve had enough.’ I swing my legs out of his reach and, as I start standing up, he grabs my arm.
His smile is wide and wet with a meaty tongue and sharp yellowed teeth. ‘Think you’re so much better than the rest of us with your lawyer and your shrink. Writing about us in that blue book of yours, full of all your secrets. Maybe I should read it one day.’ He makes a panting kind of laugh.
I can’t tell if this is supposed to be a threat or a come-on. Keeping my voice even, I say, ‘Let go of me.’ His hand slowly tightens as he tries to drag me towards him. I force myself to look straight into his eyes, dark and unreadable, and say, ‘The last person who tried something like this is dead.’
He loosens his grip and I pull my hand away. Pretending I am fine, I stand up, grab my bowl and scrape it out into the bin then place it in the sink. The sound fills the kitchen as he sits there, saying nothing. My scalp prickles from his eyes watching me. As I leave the kitchen, Mum comes bustling back in, smelling suspiciously of mint, and says it’s my turn for the washing up.
Chapter 8
‘Look at all these hypocrites,’ said Rachel. ‘If Salman Rushdie popped through those doors for a chat, this lot would head for the hills.’
It was the first Academic Night of the year and our dining hall had been turned into an auditorium with serious people in glasses trying to say smart things while waiting for the talk about Rushdie’s fatwa to begin. Kesh, Rachel and I, dressed in white shirts and black skirts, had been commandeered to serve at the food and drinks table.
Kesh was wearing a tight-fitting blouse that she had borrowed from Annabel. The material gaped as the buttons strained to keep it together.
‘You don’t think this is too revealing?’ she asked, doing up the third button which had popped again.
‘Kesh, your boobs are the most appetising items on display,’ Rachel said, hitching her black skirt higher. She had a point. In front of us was a trestle table with sweaty cubes of anonymous cheese sitting next to toothpicks of cocktail onions and processed meat. Rows of thimble-sized glasses were filled with what the Sub-Dean had described to us as ‘perfectly adequate sherry’.
‘This stuff should come with a health warning,’ I said. ‘It looks worse than our dinners.’
‘They should have put Stoner in charge of refreshments,’ replied Rachel. ‘That would get the party started.’
‘Or the Marchmain Club,’ said Kesh, trying to keep up with the conversation.
Rachel frowned. ‘I don’t know. I hear they might be disbanding, Nico’s gone to pieces with the attack on Alice.’ She was interrupted by the Sub-Dean bounding towards us.
‘More trays are coming up from the kitchen now, but remember, no serving of food or drinks until after the talk.’ He began moving the plates of cheese to one side. ‘And girls,’ he smeared a smile across his face, ‘for the duration of the evening, as we are being convivial, you may refer to me as Bryan.’ He hurried away again to direct Rogan, who was coming out of the kitchen area, balancing two trays of vol-au-vents, towards us.
Rachel scoffed, Kesh giggled and whispered ‘Bryan’ to herself, but I just watched Rogan.
‘All yours,’ he said, handing me one tray and then the other.
I put them down next to the sherries. ‘What are they?’
Rachel bent over to take a closer look. ‘Road kill, I expect,’ she said.
Rogan turned to me. ‘I heard you went and visited that girl in hospital last week. The one that got attacked.’
I nodded. ‘Kesh has been twice.’
‘How’s she going?’
‘She’s supposed to get discharged in a couple of days,’ Kesh said, distracted by the button popping again. ‘She’s got to have another operation but that won’t happen for a while. Her parents are taking her home to recover over Easter but I don’t know if she’ll be back after term break.’
‘Did she see who attacked her?’ asked Rogan. He was looking tired and pale and I wondered if he had caught the cold that had been travelling around college.
Kesh shook her head but Rachel butted in. ‘She told us she didn’t, but I reckon she knew more than she was saying.’ There was a mischievous look on her face.
‘Nico definitely knew more about it,’ I said, thinking about his rant.
Kesh leant forward, putting increased pressure on the buttons, and spoke in a low voice. ‘I shouldn’t say this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was violent. He’s really scary. The way he thought we knew the Screwdriver Man and screamed at us. I think it’s good Alice is leaving to get away from him.’
‘Four students huddled together. Must be a conspiracy.’ Marcus appeared, dressed in a high-collared lightweight black linen suit. It was the second week of April but the nights were already winter cold and college heating had been turned up so high that inside was a tropical hothouse.
Rachel explained.
‘Aah, that poor girl,’ said Marcus. ‘A bad business, all that. Most unfortunate.’ He frowned, shook his head but then brightened. ‘Now, you must tell me your views on Rushdie’s predicament. An excellent topic for our first Academic Night. You know, I’ve met Salman,’ he continued in an
off-hand sort of way. ‘London, a few years ago. He was most urbane. Though I have to admit his appearance . . .’ He waved his hand across his own face. ‘The droopy eyelids, pointed beard and eyebrows. It was all a little satanic really.’
I wondered if he had deliberately chosen tonight’s topic merely to name-drop.
‘As though I was supping with the Devil,’ Marcus went on. ‘Though one must say,’ he looked at the food in front of us, ‘Lucifer would provide better catering than this.’
‘Have you read it?’ I asked, pointing to the copy of The Satanic Verses he had tucked under his arm.
Marcus murmured something about perhaps over the break before saying, ‘Aah, the Guest of Honour,’ and moving towards a short, round man wearing a three-piece suit that bulged like upholstery. He was nearly beaten by the Sub-Dean, who almost ran across the room, pushing the less important guests out of the way. The atmosphere immediately changed as huddled groups launched themselves into the Chancellor’s gravitational pull. Marcus, taking the man’s sausage-shaped arm, began to navigate the room, introducing him to people, while effectively edging out the Sub-Dean, who followed in their wake.
‘Is that the Chancellor?’ asked Kesh. ‘He’s so old.’
‘Otherwise known as the Octopus, so you better watch out wearing that top,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s the type who pretends he’s a hugger, and then gropes you. At Chifley’s Ball last year he put his hand up a girl’s skirt.’
‘Did she make a complaint?’ I asked.
‘Better than that, she got revenge. Slipped a mickey into that fat fuck’s drink, and he ended up passed out in the toilets with his fly undone. They took pictures.’
Kesh was horrified. ‘They could have got into a lot of trouble over that.’
‘He deserved it,’ said Rachel, unrepentant. ‘Besides, you ain’t anyone unless you’ve been mickeyed.’
Rogan, who had been scanning the crowd, turned back to us. ‘One ancient mollusc heading your way. I’ll make myself scarce.’ He reached out and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Sit with me for the talk, Pen. I’ll try and keep my hands to myself.’
All These Perfect Strangers Page 8