Mirror Me

by Rachel Sanderson

  I figure someone at school must have Christina Trick’s contact details. If she used to go to Derro, surely someone would have stayed in touch with her after she left. All I have to do is ask around.

  Though that would be advertising my weird obsession with Becky O’Reilley, which is not something I want to do. I know that Helena and Zeke and Cara don’t approve, and everyone else will just think it’s creepy.

  I can think of one person who might be able to help though.

  Chapter thirty-two

  I call Zeke as soon as Stacey leaves and he comes and gets me. He looks worried about my hand but believes me when I tell him it’s just a graze from falling over taking Zelda for her run.

  ‘Abbie you’ve gotta look where you’re going,’ he says tenderly, gently kissing my fingers where they poke out from under the bandage.

  We get to school as lunch is finishing, just in time for me to make it to art class. I take the seat next to Dave Hill which is, unsurprisingly, empty. He looks at me then looks away again. I get my art book out and spread my stuff across the bench. We’re meant to be doing preparatory sketches for our major assignment for the term, which is a work on the theme of Interconnections. I’m no good at making things look like they’re supposed to in real life, so I’ve been sketching lots of geometrical patterns. Mum had a big book of Escher’s paintings that I used to love looking through when I was younger. They were so mathematical: logical and improbable and bewildering all at once. I’ve been trying, not very successfully, to capture something along those lines. Interconnections that at first glance shouldn’t exist but clearly, once you look at the pattern, must.

  And yes, the analogy between this concept in an abstract sense and mine and Becky O’Reilley’s lives is not lost on me. Whatever the hell’s going on, I blame maths of one sort or another.

  Dave does his best to ignore me. He looks uncomfortable and I feel good to see it. I feel like I’m in control.

  ‘Have you got a sharpener I can borrow?’ I ask, and he grunts and passes one over.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and take my time turning a pencil to a perfect point.

  ‘Try to slit your wrists?’ he says finally, eyeing off the bandage on my hand.

  Ah, that’s more like it. ‘Yep, I’ve been missing you that much Dave.’

  Okay, so the bandage and the pain and the general state of my brain are going to make it hard for me to get much work done this lesson, but that’s not the point of my being here. I look around the room and try to imagine Becky being here. I wonder if she could draw? If she had a good imagination? Or if she was one of those kids who was just trying to get through the hour doing as little as possible?

  ‘That’s hers there,’ Dave says, pointing to a large picture hanging on the far wall. ‘Year ten major assignment.’

  ‘How did you know I was –’

  ‘You’re sitting next to me. That means you’re thinking about her. Sounds kind of kinky, when I put it like that.’

  I manage to ignore the bait and look to where he’s pointing. It’s actually a pretty cool picture. It looks like something out of a comic book except I can see that the image is made up of tiny pieces of plastic of all different colours that have been glued to the page. It must have taken a lot of patience to make.

  ‘She liked comics.’

  ‘Huh,’ I say, hoping he’ll keep talking.

  ‘Though probably just because she thought it was cool. Trying to recover her reputation from the pony-club years. I don’t reckon she even knew her Marvel from her DC.’

  ‘Are you this hard on everyone, or do you just wait until they die horribly?’ I say, a bit too loudly. The two girls sitting in front of us turn and give me a dirty look. I stare back at them until they look away again.

  I spend ten minutes of the class talking to the teacher about my concept drawings and the rest of it staring at Becky’s picture. The more I look at it, the cooler it gets. There’s a super-hero style figure, a woman with long, flowing hair wearing leggings and a cape with her arms outstretched. She’s riding on top of a wave, and it looks like the wave turns into the cape. The wave is made up of junk – pieces of plastic that are more and more recognizably trash the further down you look. Chupa chup wrappers, bottle tops, fragments of chip packets, Easter egg foil.

  It’s interesting. I decide I like it.

  At the end of the class I carefully pack my bag up, using my left hand, then follow Dave out through the door.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t need to talk to you.’ He turns and starts walking away.

  ‘Please,’ I say, wincing internally.

  Dave stops. Turns. ‘You’ve got one minute,’ he says.

  Chapter thirty-three

  ‘Abbie! Hey! Where are you going?’ Helena does a double take as she spots Dave. ‘Is everything okay?’

  Damn it. My plan had been to get off school grounds without being spotted. I wasn’t so worried about the teachers, I’d be able to make something up that would work, but Helena is a harder one to get past.

  ‘Abbie?’

  ‘I’ve just… I’ve got something I have to do today and Dave is going to help me.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  Dave takes a step towards her and I see her flinch. Dave grins. ‘You’re absolutely right, Helena. It’s a bad idea. I’m going to knock her out with chloroform, ravage her and drink her blood as soon as we’re out of your sight.’

  Helena looks at me and frowns. ‘Abbie, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think you should be going anywhere with anybody on your own. Think about it.’ She narrows her eyes at me like she’s trying to perform telepathic communication.

  ‘I’ll be okay. There’s just something I have to do.’

  ‘Is it about Becky?’

  I nod and she sighs.

  ‘Can I come with you at least? Please?’

  Helena isn’t one to skip classes and she once said she’d rather drink a bucket of warm puke than spend an hour with Dave Hill, so I’m touched by her offer.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ I say again, gently. ‘This is something where less people is probably better. Thanks though. I’ll text you, I promise. And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She lurches towards me and gives me a tight hug. ‘Be careful,’ she says in my ear.

  When she pulls back, Dave is watching with a grin. He opens his arms. ‘Me too?’

  ‘Piss off,’ she says.

  ‘Do you know which flat she lives in?’ I ask.

  ‘It won’t be hard to find out,’ Dave says. ‘This is the Trickster we’re talking about.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Everything Becky O’Reilley wished she could be and wasn’t.’

  I let the comment sit.

  ‘Does she also hate your guts?’ I ask eventually.

  Dave winces for a moment then covers it up with a shrug and a grin, but I see it.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask as we keep walking. ‘With you and Becky? Why are you so bitter about her? I mean, she’s dead now, surely you should be able to let it go…’

  He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t say anything. We keep walking. I’ve given up on getting an answer, I don’t even know if he’s capable of giving me one, when he finally speaks.

  ‘I’ve tried to figure it out, man, and you know I just can’t. It was like something just switched. We were friends. Not good friends, you know, it’s not like we hung out at lunch or anything, I don’t think she wanted to be seen with me. But I got to know her because my auntie worked for Dr O’Reilley. I used to have to wait at the surgery for a ride with my auntie at the same time she was waiting for her dad. We used to cut school together sometimes. I’d bring the smokes. She was going through a bit of a rough time at home and all that. None of her friends were up for it and she wanted the company. And then one day I fucking kissed her like a fucking idiot and everything changed.’

  I’m holding my breath. It’s
the most Dave’s ever said to me and the first time it’s sounded like he’s been telling me the truth.

  ‘She could’ve just told me she wasn’t interested, given me the cold shoulder for a while. I’d have got it, I’m not stupid. But she did more than that. She was fucking brutal.’

  Dave stops for a minute and rustles around in his bag until he pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. He lights up, takes a drag. His hand is shaking.

  ‘I think the last time she talked to me was to tell me she was fucking some older guy, and how good it was, and how useless I was, that I was basically a joke and no girl would ever be into me. And that was it.’

  He looks up at me and for a moment there’s something in his expression that’s open and hurt.

  ‘I… I’m sorry,’ I say, my mind racing. Who was it that Becky was seeing? Nobody has mentioned anything about a boyfriend.

  ‘Forget it,’ he says gruffly, frowning and taking another drag. ‘Anyway, I had some news for that guy that scared him right off.’ Dave snorts, but his eyes are cold. ‘You have to punch back. If someone goes for you, you always have to punch back. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? Fucking lady karma has dealt with that shit. Fucked with my head big time when you turned up though. Little Becky Mark Two.’ He shakes his head and flicks the cigarette butt into the gutter. ‘That’s why I sent you those notes.’

  I stop. My mouth opens. For a moment I can’t say anything.

  ‘Yep. I just… I couldn’t deal. Seeing you every day, man, it was messing me up. And it’s no good for you to be here anyway. You should leave. I’m not saying that for me, I’m saying it for you. Fucking get out of Derro, Abbie. Tell your Mum to take you back to Sydney.’

  I swallow and frown. I’m white-hot furious but I’m also taken-aback. Dave sounds like he really means what he says. Part of me wants to hurt him the way he hurt me. I was terrified. Along with the notes came the nightmares, the claustrophobic sense of impending threat, the feeling that Becky was everywhere. But in some weird way I’m relieved to know the truth. Better if it was Dave sending me that stuff than some random stranger. I feel like he’s a known quantity. I’m not scared of him. Which is a good thing since I’m letting him lead me down an isolated street in an abandoned industrial zone.

  I hope I’m not making a mistake.

  ‘Ah, thanks for that Dave. I’ll take it under consideration.’ I shake my head and exhale through my nostrils. I honestly don’t know what to think or what say. ‘So, who was the guy?’ I ask finally.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The older guy who Becky was sleeping with? You said –’

  ‘Nobody you’d know,’ he says quickly. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  We turn onto Farrier Street. We’re in the outskirts of Derrington, where the town peters out into an industrial zone before it turns back into plain old paddocks. There’s a mechanics’ workshop, a big place that sells gravel and sand and rocks, and some warehouses with high fences around them. I get a creeping feeling around the back of my neck, as though someone is watching us, though I can’t see anyone. Then I notice the security cameras perched on the top of the fence.

  ‘Bikie headquarters,’ Dave says, gesturing to the warehouses.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nah. I don’t know what’s in there though. Could be anything hey.’

  The Acacia Flats are at the far end of the road, like they wanted to put them as far away from everything as possible while still being technically within the town’s perimeter. The flowery name is not matched by the building and surrounds. It looks even worse in real life than it did on Google street-view. The grass surrounding the flats is overgrown and a row of leaning letterboxes spews junk mail – I’m surprised that Australia Post even makes it this far down the road. The flats themselves look cramped and boxed in, everything is made of an ugly yellow brick. Loud, angry sounding rap music is blaring from somewhere. Lots of the windows have bars on them, a few are smashed and boarded up, others are covered with a variety of stand-ins for curtains – an old towel with a map of Australia on it, a stained bedsheet. Cars are parked at random on the grass near the road. At least one of the cars is up on blocks.

  This is not somewhere I would want to live.

  ‘Nice digs, huh,’ Dave says grinning.

  I’m counting the doors – there are twelve separate flats here. This doesn’t look like the kind of place where door-knocking is advisable.

  ‘So what’s the plan? How do we find her?’ I ask.

  Dave doesn’t answer, just turns in, meanders through the maze of parked cars, and walks across the crumbling concrete to a ground level door, then knocks. His usual swagger has returned. ‘My dealer,’ he says.

  I frown. I hear a phlegmy sounding cough from behind the door and some muffled yelling then it opens.

  ‘Hey, bro. Whatcha doing here?’ The guy who answers the door is skinny and off-milk white, and wears nothing but navy boxer shorts. He has a shaved head and tattoos all over his chest and arms. And not hipster tattoos – these are the full heavy metal variety: skulls, zombies, things on fire, a gun, a naked woman who looks like she’s in pain.

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  ‘Just helping out a friend,’ Dave says.

  The guy’s gaze flicks onto me and off again. ‘Dunno if I can do anything for ya right now,’ he says. His eyes are bloodshot, and his tongue sounds thick in his mouth.

  ‘Nah, not like that. Just trying to find somebody who lives in the block. Chrissy Trick? The Trickster? D’ya know her?’

  The guy frowns, like he’s concentrating extra hard.

  ‘Seventeenish, dark hair, hot. Wears a lot of makeup.’

  ‘You don’t mean Tina?’

  ‘Christina,’ I say. ‘That’s her. Can you tell us what number flat she’s in?’

  ‘She in trouble?’ the guy says. ‘You’re not social services are you?’

  He doesn’t seem to have registered that Dave and I are both in our school uniforms.

  ‘I’m a friend,’ I say. ‘Well, not a friend exactly. I just need to talk to her about something.’

  He looks me up and down, then shrugs. ‘Okay then, numero diez.’

  I glance at Dave.

  ‘Number ten,’ he says. ‘Thanks Possum.’

  Chapter thirty-four

  I knock and find myself hoping that nobody will answer.

  This is nothing to do with me. I shouldn’t be here. I should leave it all alone. But it’s too late now, I can hear movement from inside the flat. I ball my hands into fists in an attempt to fortify myself.

  The door opens.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. The girl is tiny, a whole head shorter than I am. She has long frizzy dark hair that explodes over her shoulders, and smudged dark eyeliner accentuating her big, brown eyes which widen as she sees me.

  ‘Tina?’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry just to knock on your door like this but I need to talk to you.’

  She shakes her head and steps back. ‘No. No, no, no,’ she says.

  Oh shit. She starts to cry. I start talking.

  ‘My name is Abigail Fray. I moved here a month ago. I’m sixteen. I’m going to Derrington High School. I know I look like Rebecca O’Reilley. And I know you were her friend.’ I’m talking slowly, like that might help her to take in what I’m saying. I can feel Dave grinning next to me and I want to kick him.

  ‘I don’t get it?’ she says, sniffing. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

  ‘You were friends with Rebecca O’Reilley,’ I say again. ‘I want to talk to you about her.’

  ‘Why? Why are you here?’

  I take a breath. ‘I’ve been dreaming about the night she died.’

  ‘Sit down anywhere,’ Tina says without clearing any space.

  The flat is tiny and every surface is covered with stuff – clothes, books, CDs, random junk.

  ‘I’m moving out this weekend. Just packing up.’

 
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, thinking that anywhere will be better than here.

  ‘Not really sure yet. I’m gonna crash with some people I know in Sydney for a bit. Look for some work, you know.’

  I move a pile of t-shirts and sit on the end of the couch. The khaki green faux-velvet is stained and pocked with burn-marks.

  ‘I’m really sorry to do this to you,’ I say.

  Tina hasn’t looked at me since she let me in. I managed to convince Dave that this visit wasn’t for his own personal entertainment, so now it’s just the two of us. She’s like a hummingbird, tiny but full of nervous energy. She never seems to stop moving.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ she says, heaving a window open.

  ‘It’s your house,’ I say.

  She flicks a cigarette from an open packet on the table and lights up. She inhales, closes her eyes, blows out a fine stream of smoke, and that seems to slow her a little.

  ‘So, how’s Derro?’ she says finally. ‘Must have been a bit of a shock for everyone having you show up.’ Her hand is shaking as she taps the ash off the end of the cigarette.

  ‘It was a shock for me too,’ I say. ‘I had no idea. Until Dave told me.’

  She gets up from her chair again and starts moving around the kitchen. Putting dishes away in the cupboard. Shuffling things around in drawers. I notice that there are fine red marks all over her bare arms. Fresh scars. I feel a sudden rush of heat to my face and try to find something else to look at but once I’ve seen them it’s hard to look away.

  ‘Becky was always waaay to generous for her own good,’ Tina says, butting her cigarette out in the sink then flicking it out the window. ‘Dave Hill was case in point. It’s hard to believe now, but she and Dave were actually friends at one point. Bonded over a shared hatred of water-skiing on year ten camp or some shit. School can be a bit random like that. And then Dave turned out to be even more of a douche than I’d anticipated. Which is saying something.’