Glimpse

by Renee Wakefield

  Her house is one of the older ones and quite small. A long way from the terrace house of the party, both geographically and in spirit.

  I wander up to the front door and knock. The muffled pandemonium of young children escapes from within.

  The front yard is littered with toys, abandoned mid-use, while the porch resembles some kind of shoe graveyard. An assortment of children’s broken Crocs and cheap sneakers lie everywhere.

  I knock again. The door opens revealing a young child. The child looks at me and then wanders off before I have the chance to say anything. Clearly I am of little interest to him. I am not sure what to do next. Do I knock again? I can’t just follow him inside.

  An angry voice calls out. “Who was at the door?” This is followed by muttering and heavy footsteps.

  A moment later a surly middle-aged woman appears. The woman glares at me like she is about ready to kill me. I remember the look well.

  I wait awkwardly at the kitchen table. In the other room, the woman yells ineffectually at her screaming children. The kitchen is a shrine to the children and their complete lack of creative abilities. Awful drawings and paintings consume every available inch of wall space.

  Eventually, the woman comes back in and sits opposite me. I have to really focus hard to recognise her at all, but it is definitely her. It’s definitely Donnie’s sister. The party thrower.

  The intervening years have not been kind to her. The glamorous, overly sexual party persona buried way down deep below the tired haggardness of parenthood. She resembles some sort of before and after photo. The type you might see in a weight loss infomercial, except in reverse. Or even the kind you might find in a police station warning of the dangers of taking drugs. She is considerably heavier and clad in tracksuit pants and a food-stained windcheater in place of the short skirt and revealing top.

  “Sorry…” I begin under her murderous glare. “Is this a bad time?”

  She scoffs. “Ha! You don’t have children, do you?”

  I shake my head, not quite sure what she is alluding to.

  A three-year-old wanders in. The same child who abandoned me at the door. Donnie’s sister bristles at the child’s very appearance.

  “Mummy… Tyler hit me.”

  “For God’s sake. Can’t you just give me five second's peace?!”

  “Yeah, but Tyler —”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to hit you myself in a minute. Leave me alone.”

  The child slinks away.

  “You want some advice?” Donnie’s sister asks me. “Don’t have kids.”

  She licks her thumb and rubs it on one of the stains on her top. I can’t help but wonder how fixing that one particular stain will help matters.

  “Let’s go outside.”

  The backyard is bigger than the peeling, weatherboard house. More toys lay scattered on the ground. Large patches of dirt cover the yard. The grass that did manage to grow at some point is brown and dead.

  Donnie’s sister plants herself on the back step. No makeup. Hair a mess. I am not quite sure what I expected with her, but not this. She sneaks a rollie. I assume it’s a rollie not a joint, but I can’t be sure. Not surprisingly she doesn’t offer me any. I remain standing, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

  She gazes up at me, using her free hand to shield the sun from her eyes. “Okay, so I know you went through this on the phone, but I still don’t get it. You say 10 years ago I had a party.”

  “Right. At the terrace house.”

  She gives me a cold stare. “I know where I used to live. For some reason you were at this party.”

  “Your brother…”

  “Donald.”

  “Right, Donnie. He was a friend of mine. Well, not mine. This other girl, Tash.”

  She crinkles her eyebrows. It’s a look I’m getting used to, as though people are attempting to figure out if I’m lying or I’m insane.

  “Excuse me, 10 years ago you would have been what, 12?”

  “We were 15.”

  “Still doesn’t make any sense why you would have been at one of my parties.”

  “My friend, Tash, she was… mature. You know, she always had older boyfriends.”

  “Uhuh, one of those.”

  “She kissed Donnie and Donnie invited her to your party. And she brought me.”

  Donnie’s sister rolls her eyes. “Donald kissing a 15-year-old? That part makes sense. You know he’s in jail now, right?”

  How do I respond to that? Apologise? Show sympathy?

  “No, I didn’t. I never actually met Donnie.”

  She sucks hard on her rollie, looking as though the thing is giving her no joy. “And you say there was a guy at this party. Dark hair, long face.”

  “Yes. All in black.”

  “Doesn’t narrow it down. What, he fuck you?” She looks me up and down. “You, 15. Maybe not. So, what? Did he kiss you? He feel you up?”

  “No… I didn’t actually talk to him.”

  “Yet now for some reason, 10 years later, you want to find him.”

  I bite the inside of my lip. “It’s important. I think he might be able to help me.”

  “Help you how exactly?”

  I weigh up my response, not having the energy or the inclination to get into it. “It’s complicated.”

  She blows a stream of smoke out of her nose. “I don’t have the first clue where to start with this.”

  “You don’t remember this guy?”

  “I don’t even remember the party. Not specifically. We had a lot of parties. I was probably drunk.”

  “You were wearing a red rara skirt and a white top.”

  “Oh, that party. The one I wore clothes.” She rolls her eyes.

  “You don’t have any old… guest lists or…” My voice sounds as feeble as what I’m suggesting. She laughs in my face.

  “Guest lists? Good one. That’s not how things worked. Back then you just said you were having a party and people appeared. That was the fun of it. You never knew who would show up. All kinds of crazy people. Like you and your little friend. Except, you know, fun people. Plus, you keep saying ‘Your party this, your party that.’ It could have been my housemates’ party. Anything. ”

  She picks a piece of tobacco off her tongue. I wait, hopeful for something.

  “Sorry,” she adds eventually. A decidedly unapologetic apology.

  The drive home seems all that much longer with the awareness I have completely wasted my afternoon. The false hope drains painfully away. I am back to where I was. Somebody would know who the mystery man at the party was, but connecting with Donnie’s sister is about the extent of my detective abilities.

  I slam my hand against the steering wheel as I come to a stop. The SUV idles quietly as I wait for the lights to change. A sense of uneasiness settles on me. The intersection appears familiar. It occurs to me this is the same set of lights that made me feel concerned on my way over. I try to wash the uneasiness away with a quick drink of water.

  Someone ambles up to the driver side window. I don’t register anything unusual at first until he lingers on the other side of the glass. He doesn’t keep walking or rattle a tin at me or attempt to clean the windscreen. He doesn’t leave either. I turned to look at him and my stomach lurches into my throat. There is something wrong with him. Terribly wrong. He is a teenager with a bouffant of fuzzy hair. His eyes have rolled back in his head to the point where all I can see is white. And he is frothing at the mouth, his head jittering up and down.

  Whack! His hand pounds the side of the window, like a spasm.

  Instinctively, I floor it, zooming through the red light. A horn blasts. A car bears down on me, having the right of way. With a quick twist of the wheel, I am able to narrowly avoid a crash.

  My heart rattles crazily. My breath sounds like I’m panting. Who the hell was that? I do a quick check of the rearview mirror. Is he is still at the intersection? He’s not. He’s in the back seat. In the car with me.

/>   The brakes scream. The tyres plough heavily into the gutter and the SUV comes to a stop.

  The teen’s eyes are still rolled back, droplets of froth from his mouth spitting everywhere. He appears bewildered, as though unsure what is happening to him and why. Without a second’s thought, I throw open the door and jump out.

  My foot hits the gutter. I trip, crashing hard to the concrete. I scramble back, unable to take my eyes from the car.

  Whack! The teenager hits the inside of the window, his head snapping in my direction. Like the dead girl, there’s no way he can see me and yet somehow he senses where I am.

  I push myself to my feet. I have grazed my knee badly and my arm aches. I turn and run as fast as I can without looking back.

  17

  I hide out in the spare room, listening for Virginia. She is a hard worker generally and her late arrival home suggests she has had a particularly gruelling day at the office, all of which makes me feel about a million times worse. Finally, I hear her keys jangling in the lock. Bear meets her at the front door.

  “Don’t settle, Ginny.”

  Her bag hits the table. “Have you been talking to my mum? I’m not settling, honey. I love you.”

  “Ha, ha,” Bear replies. “I’m serious. We have to go.”

  “Go where?” Her tone suggests she doesn’t want to go anywhere and I can’t say I blame her. If this were Old Ellie being met by Buckley and told I had to go out again when I had just got home, I would not have been impressed. Bear drops his voice. I can still hear him.

  “We have to go get my car. I thought your mum liked me.”

  “It was a joke. Mum loves you. Where is your car?”

  Bear’s explanation sounds pained. ”Ellie borrowed it. She made it back. The car didn’t.”

  “You’re kidding. Is she okay?”

  “Who knows with Ellie anymore? She seems fine. We have to go get the car though.”

  Virginia’s voice gains an extra level of tired as the spectre of heading back into the evening traffic washes over her. “Okay. Have you got your keys?”

  “They are in the car hopefully.”

  My phone rings from on the bed. I ignore it, listening in on the conversation.

  “She left the keys in the car?”

  “It’s possible she left the car running. Bit sketchy on specifics.”

  Virginia sighs loudly and their voices drop to an inaudible level.

  I feel as though I am burning every single bridge that I have. What was I supposed to do? Staying in the car wasn’t an option. Not with the frothing mouth teen. However, the reality of the situation doesn’t matter. You only have a finite number of bridges in your life and once they’re gone, they’re gone.

  I hear their footsteps, followed by the front door closing. I absolutely hate myself and what I’m doing to my friends, no matter what the reasons. The urge to run away swells inside me. It doesn’t matter that I have nowhere to go. I don’t want to face Ginny and Bear’s disappointed faces when they get back. And what of the car? What if it’s gone? The idea Bear might lose his car because of me is more than I can handle right now.

  My phone rings again. I check the screen. The number is not one I recognise. The same person who rang a few minutes ago. Curiosity gets the better of me. I am surprised to hear Donnie’s sister on the other end.

  “I want to thank you.”

  Thank me? Her voice becomes muffled.

  “Tyler, quiet. Mummy is on the phone…… I know…… I know…… Well, you tell him that……”

  There is a long pause. She appears to have forgotten me.

  “Ellie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry about that… Where was I?”

  Donnie sister sounds considerably more relaxed than when I last saw her, slurring her words slightly.

  “You were thanking me for something…”

  “Oh, yeah. I told my friend Simone about your little quest. She was intrigued. Back in the day, Simone used to take heaps of photos of everything. Drove me nuts. Always had her camera out. Anyway, she brought around a heap of old photos. We spent all afternoon going through them.”

  And having a few wines by the sound of it.

  “Anyway, it was great fun, so thank you very much.”

  “No problem.”

  Is there is a point to this conversation or is she just drunk and lonely? I feel I should say something, except I have nothing to say. It seems odd she would ring just to say thank you.

  “Ellie? You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Simone had photos of every party we ever held back in the day and we went through them all. And you know what it was?”

  Do I know what what was?

  “It was that damn rara skirt. You were right about it. That’s how we knew which party we were looking for. That’s how we found him.”

  My heart beats a little faster. “Found him?”

  “Your mystery man. He was definitely at the party. I’ll send you an email as well.”

  The line goes dead.

  I run to my laptop, tingling with anticipation. There is nothing there. No new messages. I have to wait. Nothing arrives for ages. I should go and do something other than wait. Something to occupy myself. Except I don’t want to. I just want the stupid email to come. A variety of concerns pile into my head. Did I mishear her? Maybe I gave her the wrong email address. Should I call her back?

  Finally, her email arrives. I almost break the keyboard attempting to access the message as quickly as I can.

  The email says in big letters ‘Is this your mystery man?’ followed by a large arrow pointing down. I hold my breath as I scroll. It’s a photo from a party. Exactly as I remembered it during my session with Brenda. And off to one corner, all dressed in black, the mystery man. The one I saw in my memory. The one who could see the dead girl.

  There are a couple more photos attached. I scroll through them as well, giving them a cursory glance. The first is the clearest of the mystery man. I return to that one and stare at him for a long, long time, as though his image may reveal some great secret about what’s going on.

  My phone beeps with a message. It’s Donnie’s sister again.

  Still on the case. Your mystery man’s name is Andrew. It’s probably old information, but I’m tracking down an address.

  I can’t help but smile. Donnie’s sister appears to be enjoying herself and she is a far better detective than I am.

  18

  Before work, I head to the city. The crowded train makes me pleased I don’t have to do this every day of my life. Crammed in like sardines and physically forced up against the other passengers.

  There are lots of people on the street as well, making it easy to keep an eye on the office entrance without appearing too obvious. I wait for some time, watching the crowds amble past.

  My pulse quickens as I see him approach the building. The mystery man. Andrew. In the flesh. He appears much the same as in the party photos, maybe a touch older, although it is difficult to tell from across the road. What strikes me is how ordinary he seems. Just another face in the crowd. He is not though. He is something entirely different. Endless ideas flood my mind; what to say, how to approach him. When to make my move. None of them any good.

  A train and a walk lead me to the address Donnie’s sister provided. I loiter awkwardly out front for a while. This sort of thing would be much easier with a car, both for the travel and for the staking out; however there are no cars available to me at this point.

  Andrew’s apartment looks to be quite small. It is one of a number in a box-like, three-storey block. Quite depressing actually. I am not sure if Andrew is here or not. If he is, I don’t spot him.

  I am not entirely certain what I am doing here, other than attempting to get a picture of this guy. A sense of him. So far all I can tell is he has a job and a home, probably information I could have guessed.

  Back at work, I am actually able to get some work done. The work may not
be fantastic quality, but it is a lot better than staring blankly at my monitor or out the window. The difference is momentum. I finally feel like I am moving. Moving where I have no idea. At least I am doing something.

  Andrew walks quickly. If anyone ever asked me to describe his walking style, I would say it is brisk. He sets a brisk pace. Never as though he’s hurrying or running, yet always on the move. It’s interesting. His movement seems tied up with who he is. Although it is possible I’m reading too much into it. Hard to get a good read on who someone is when all you have seen is them walking.

  I watch as he enters an inner-city pub. The Royal Arms. A quaint little place, full of character. Should I follow him? Going inside will provide a much greater chance of being spotted, which may or may not be a good thing.

  The Royal Arms is quite small on the inside. A good place to be left alone. Some bad 80s music pipes quietly through a hidden sound system. With not much traffic the bartender reads a newspaper up the far end of the room. Andrew sits at the bar by himself, slowly working his way through a beer. The Arm’s other seating options are a few tables and chairs.

  After standing awkwardly in the doorway for a while, I shuffle up to the far end of the bar and order a soft drink. I watch Andrew out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t react to me at all. Taking a seat at the bar may be too obvious. I opt for a table, carrying my drink to the spot with the best vantage.

  The 80s pop star continues warbling her awful ballad. No one else comes in or out. I sip my lemon squash and spy Andrew as he slowly finishes his beer. He stares straight ahead, not interacting with anyone. I contemplate what my next move should be. I needn’t worry. Andrew solves the problem by marching straight up to my table.