Mirror Me

by Rachel Sanderson

  Then the rest of the day is given to strategy. I study the bunker endlessly. There are some graffiti tags on one wall and for a while I focus on them. How old are they? Who might have made them? Is there a chance their creator/s might come back sometime? The tags have a scrawled, unfinished look, but maybe that’s just how they are? Then I focus on the grille. It’s too narrow for me to fit through, and I can’t get the metal bars to budge, but could I get something out? A message of some kind?

  When I’m not studying the physical space I’m in, I’m thinking about Andy, and thinking about Damien and thinking about Rebecca O’Reilley. There’s something there, some knot tying them all together that I just can’t untangle…

  Andy said he’d done some work at the O’Reilley’s house, I remember. He’d been in Becky’s room. And then my conversation with Dave Hill comes back to me, from the day he died. Becky had told him she was seeing an older man. And Dave had said… what had he said? He’d told him something about Becky that put him right off.

  Shit, why didn’t I ask Dave more? Why didn’t I guess how important that might be? If I hadn’t been so shocked by Dave’s revelation that it was him who’d sent me the notes, I could have asked him then and there who Becky had been seeing. I could have kept asking until he told me it was Andy, and saved me all of this…

  I swallow, a feeling of utter frustration and hopelessness filling me. I feel darkness pressing all around, weighing me down. I have to fight against it. I can’t give into despair. I force myself to keep thinking. If I keep my mind occupied, the darkness won’t drown me. What could Dave have told Andy? Did Becky have an STD or something? It was possible, I guess, but if that was it I feel sure Dave would have made some awful joke to me about it. That would be pure gold to him.

  What about Damien O’Reilley? The police believed he was the killer. Duncan said he’d pretty much admitted as much to his lawyer, though his account was rambling and confused because of the drugs he’d taken and his general state of mind. Why would he confess to something if it wasn’t true? Then a thought strikes me, and for the first time I feel a rush of excitement, like a puzzle piece is slotting into place.

  What if he’d thought he caused their deaths and he was wrong?

  He’d spent the night out at the caves, in the dark, off his face. What if he believed, in his altered state, that the runes he was painting on the cave wall had some real effect in the world? He arrived home the next day to find his entire family dead and believed that they were dead because of what he’d done – because of whatever rite that he performed.

  It’s another version of me and the O’Reilley’s house. Your mind takes the available information and tries to interpret it in a way that makes sense based on your beliefs. I was dreaming about the murders, saw the house, recognised it and assumed it was because I’d seen it in my dream, rather than a year or two earlier in a very bad movie. Damien believes he can summon occult powers, comes home, finds his family dead, and takes that as evidence of the most catastrophic sort of his uncontrolled abilities. And declares his guilt to the police?

  It’s possible. Weird but possible. I can almost see how it could happen.

  And if Damien didn’t kill them, does that mean Andy did?

  But why? Thinking about it feels like repeatedly jamming my finger in a door. It hurts and doesn’t achieve anything.

  So far, Andy has shown every sign of keeping his word when he says he won’t hurt me. He’s barely touched me. He’s made sure I’ve got plenty to eat and drink. He said he’d stay away this week and he has. For a moment, an awful fear grips me. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he forgets, or what if he kills himself, or what if he crashes his car, or what if it was all a sick joke, and the punchline is me slowly starving to death? What if that kiss was goodbye?

  I lose track of days. One morning I wake up and I’m too tired to eat, too tired to move, too tired to think. I lay on the mattress, drifting between waking and dreaming, for hours. I feel like I’ve already died. This is a dream, the grey endless dream of a ghost, and I am the ghost. Andy drugged me and I died and this is only my body here on the mattress; these pains, these tears, this terror is just a shadow, like the stars Andy talked about. We see their light but they’re already gone. And I dream and in my dream I’m walking through a dark room but I’m not scared anymore, I’m tired. I’m defeated. I bump into something and already I know what it is: Becky O’Reilley. It’s always Becky O’Reilley. And then the flooding light and there she hangs, in the air before me, covered in blood but not dead. She opens her eyes and reaches her hands out, reaches for me. ‘Let me help you…’ she says.

  I jerk awake, soaked in sweat. It’s night again. Another night. I feel as though I’ve always been here: within these faded grey walls, looking up at the patch of damp on the ceiling illuminated by a wash of moonlight. I close my eyes and try to trace the distance from where I’m lying to home, where Mum and Stacey and Tom are. I wonder if they’re awake too, wondering. Mum must be grief-stricken. I shudder and try not to think about it. I have to get home to them, that’s all. It’s not so far. I can see it in my mind’s eye – the bumpy trail through the forest, the gate, the turn off onto the road. It’s only ten minutes by car once you reach the road. How can it be so close, and there be no way of me getting there? There must be a way. There must be a way.

  Chapter sixty

  Something wakes me. I hear a repetitive, metallic, scraping. Each scrape followed by a soft thud. Immediately, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, my heart races, my mouth dries. No. No no no no no –

  Outside, someone is digging. I can only think of one thing that could mean.

  Andy is going to kill me. Today. Now. He’s digging a hole to dump my body into.

  I look around wildly at the same four walls, the same dank concrete ceiling that I’ve been looking at for days now. I hope, pray, to see something new – that some slanting beam of moonlight might fall on a loose block or a secret lever. But there’s nothing. No way out. Nowhere to hide. I’m at his mercy.

  Dig. Dig. Dig.

  He’s not rushing. Why would he? It’s not like anybody’s coming. He’s got all the time in the world.

  Dig. Dig. Dig.

  I’ll beg. I know I will. I’d decided that I wouldn’t, no matter what, that he didn’t deserve it, but I made that decision in some moment when I was feeling stupid and brave, like none of this was real. Now I hear him digging my grave and I imagine my body falling into a hole, I know I will do anything. Beg. Lie. Make promises. Give him anything, whatever he wants, if he will only let me keep breathing another day. I’m not ready to die.

  I’m shaking, my breathing is fast and shallow like an injured animal, my forehead is sheened with sweat. I feel like I’m going to throw up, I’m going to piss myself. Even my own bodily functions feel beyond my control.

  Please please please –

  Dig. Dig.

  And then it stops.

  I look again for somewhere to hide but there’s nowhere.

  The sound of the key in the padlock. The clunk as it opens and then the gentle groan of old metal as the door shifts. For a second all I see is a shape in the doorway, I can’t make him out. And then he draws the door shut behind him and he puts the torch he is carrying down on the floor and I see that he smiles for a moment then flinches.

  ‘Please,’ I say, my voice coming out desperate and breaking. ‘Please, I’ll do whatever you want…’ I’m shaking, my whole body is shaking like I’ve fallen into deep icy water. ‘Please I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die….’

  ‘You’re not going to die, sweet girl.’ He smiles at me. ‘What would be the point of that?’

  I swallow. He takes a step forward. I flinch and press back against the wall behind me.

  He reaches forward, moving slowly, watching me the whole time like you would a frightened animal. He takes hold of the bucket, lifts the lid off and a sickening stench fills the room. My stomach inverts and I find mysel
f retching, on my knees.

  ‘I’m sorry to leave this so long,’ he says gently. ‘I promise this isn’t how your life is going to be.’ And then he carries the bucket back out the door, which he closes and locks after himself. I hear the slosh of liquid, and then the sound of dirt falling in shovelfuls.

  Relief fills me like a drug. I feel light and heavy both at the same time. I want to cry. I want to sleep. I’m not going to die. He’s not going to kill me.

  Not today, anyway.

  Ten minutes later he comes back in with a fresh bucket. Also, a roll of toilet paper. Also, some soap. Also, another palette of water bottles. ‘I’m so sorry that it has to be like this,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘I promise this isn’t forever.’

  ‘You could let me go,’ I say, the words coming out in a rush. ‘I think I get it now. We’re meant to be together. You’re right, I just needed some space and now I see it. You don’t need to keep me here. We can get to know each other just like you suggested. You can let me go back to my family…’

  He stops, head tilted to one side like a dog listening for something. He sighs. ‘I’m glad to hear you say that, but I can’t let you go now. What will you tell your family? What will you tell the police?’

  ‘I’ll tell them I was in Sydney,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell them that I ran away. I was staying with friends. I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, I’ll tell them anything.’

  ‘I need to think about this,’ he says. My heart leaps. Does that mean the answer might be yes? There’s a long, silent pause. Then he sighs. ‘I believe that relationships are built on openness and trust. So, I should be open with you, shouldn’t I? Otherwise how will you ever trust me? I want you to trust me.’

  I nod.

  ‘So, what I’m thinking is, perhaps I misjudged. Perhaps all of this –’ he waves his hands at the space around us. The bucket. The padlock. The cage. ‘It’s just not enough. It has given you the opportunity to think, yes, but the pull of your old life, of your family, is still too strong. You don’t need me enough yet. If you did, you’d never ask me to let you go.’

  ‘I do,’ I say quickly. ‘I do, I do. I promise.’

  ‘I wonder, if your family were gone, if you knew there was no home to return to, would that help?’

  I freeze. For a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think. I hear his words, delivered so reasonably, and I can’t take them in. Icy cold dread seeps into every cell of my body. I think of the house, so open and unprotected, out in the middle of nowhere. No neighbours close enough to see or hear. No reception. I think of Tom, sitting on the couch in his PJs watching television.

  I shake my head, a strange jerky movement. ‘No. No no no. Please don’t hurt them. Please, Andy…’

  ‘I just need to think. I’m so glad, though, to hear you feel the same way I do.’ He comes closer, places a hand either side of my face and kisses me, slowly, deeply. The sensation of his mouth on mine combined with the lingering smell of the bucket makes me want to vomit. I feel that I’m on the narrowest and highest of ledges. If I even try to shift a little, I will fall. He pulls back and looks at me, running a hand over my hair, running fingers down my cheek, my neck. His breathing is laboured. He steps back and turns away.

  ‘I’ve promised myself, when it happens it will be because you want it.’

  I try to say something but my mouth is too dry, no words come out.

  ‘Becky was so…. so wild. Sometimes I felt like I was being dragged along in her wake. You’re not like that. I like you. I like the way you’re… more considered.’

  My brain is sending pinging alert signals. He mentioned Becky. It’s the first time that he’s mentioned her since he drugged me. The first time he’s acknowledged any connection with her. I have to say something. I clear my throat. ‘What happened with Becky? I mean, why didn’t it work?’

  He looks away. ‘We weren’t compatible. I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door, re-locking the padlock. And there’s nothing I can do.

  Chapter sixty-one

  The next few hours are agony like I have never imagined.

  Is he going to hurt my family? I listen for sirens. I’d hear them from here, I think. They’d be faint, a tiny keening on the wind, but I’d hear them. There’s nothing. I cry and pray and cry until my eyes ache. My throat feels like it’s full of rocks. I want to die. I want this to be over. I don’t care anymore, I just don’t want him to hurt my family. I think of Mum and Stacey, I think of Tom. I lie awake all night and I keep imagining I hear Tom tapping on the walls, trying to communicate like we used to at our old house, and I want to tap back but I can’t remember the code, I just can’t remember it. And there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing. But I have to do something. When Andy comes back, I have to do something. I just don’t know what.

  I see Rebecca O’Reilley, looking at me, reaching for me. She says: Let me help you.

  I wish. Unless the police come with bolt-cutters and a SWAT team, nobody can help me now. And it’s worse than that, so much worse than I ever imagined. As long as I am alive and Andy is free, my family are not safe.

  Let me help you. The dress, covered in blood, her eyes so wide, so clear, she reaches for me, or is it me that reaches? I can’t tell anymore. I take her hand, I trip, a lurching sensation, fall, wake.

  I lie awake for hours. The humidity is suffocating. When I drift into sleep I have awful dreams. Not of Becky but of Tom: terrified, bloody, lifeless. I claw myself awake and try to stay there but it’s so hard, I keep falling back to sleep and every time I do, the dream returns. And I am there, begging over his body, begging and begging and I know it’s too late, it’s already done. My beautiful baby brother is gone.

  The storm breaks. I see the flash of lightning. Rain falls, heavy and constant. I’m removed from everything. Removed from my life, from my memories, from myself. There is only this: darkness and rain.

  I come to the realisation slowly. Sometime before the dawn, I have reached a point of certainty. The only way out I can see is to die. That’s what Becky has been trying to tell me. That’s how Becky is going to help me. As long as I am alive, Andy has hope. And as long as Andy has hope, he is terribly, terribly dangerous.

  But how to do it?

  I wonder if I could make a noose from the dress – I even pull at the material to test it but it’s too stretchy and not strong enough. Even if I could find an attachment point, it wouldn’t support my weight.

  I could just stop eating, stop drinking water. But how long would it take? And how weak would I have to become? He’d find some way to force feed me, for sure.

  I don’t even know how to die, I realise, feeling suddenly useless. I curl into a ball and lie on the bed. I don’t move when the sun comes up in a newly blue sky. I don’t eat. I listen and I wait. I feel certain Andy will come back soon, will come back to see me today. I am terrified of what he will say.

  But he doesn’t come. The day is a long, waiting pause, filled with birdsong and crickets and the wind. I cry a lot, quietly, without anger. My heart breaks at the thought of never being free, of never taking another breath outside these four walls. I think of Dave Hill, I think of Becky. Dying can’t be that hard, I tell myself. Anybody can do it.

  I close my eyes. Let me help you. And then I hear, in the distance, music. A car stereo playing up loud, blaring from an open window, maybe coming from as far away as the road beyond the reserve. Andy doesn’t play music. His stereo was stolen. I remember he showed the empty space to me the first time I drove in his ute with him. And before I know what I’m doing I’m up on my feet, just about climbing the bare wall, trying to get as close to the grille as I can. I’m screaming: ‘Help me! Please help me! My name is Abbie Fray. I can’t get out. I need help. Help!’

  And then the music fades and the silence that isn’t really silence slides back in its place. I fall to the ground exhausted. Stunned.

  There must be another way. I don’t want to die. I really, really don’t
want to die. I want to live. I want to get out of here. There must be a way. I just have to figure out what it is.

  And I fear I don’t have long.

  The pain starts during the night. At first I panic – something’s wrong, he’s poisoned me, he’s put something in the water. The jag in my stomach doubles me over so I can hardly breath. Then I feel another spasm that brings tears to my eyes and I realise: he hasn’t poisoned me. It’s my bloody period. I’ve stopped taking the pills that the gynaecologist prescribed me and now it’s coming back full bore. Just what I need when I can’t even take a shower. I wonder how long it will be before Andy returns and what his position is on purchasing women’s sanitary items. I groan as another spasm bites, and I feel the blood starting to flow, warm and unrestrained. Oh god, this is going to make a mess. And then, like a puzzle, several things click into place simultaneously.

  Tina saying: ‘I didn’t want to mess up the sheets.’

  Becky saying: ‘Let me help you.’

  I see the nightmare scene I’ve been dreaming, over and over and over. Becky covered in blood. Blood over her hands and arms, her chest, her neck.

  And in that instant, I know what I have to do.

  Chapter sixty-two

  There is no moon tonight. I see, through the tiny space allotted to me, a scrap of sky. Velvety blackness pricked with stars. The air is warm and thick with smells – shit and blood. I close my eyes and for a second I sense Becky – she’s here with me. Her blood, my blood, they’re no different. The dress is soaked with it. I sense her waking, seeing Andy standing over her, seeing the knife, the horrible certainty of it, the horror of realising something that you do not want to believe to be real but cannot change. No escape. I take a breath which is more like a sob. I feel her raise her arms to stop him and the knife slicing, bright as starlight. Blood on my arms, my throat, my face. Sticky and dark. So much blood. Too much blood. I take a breath and instead of air, feel blood pouring into my lungs. I choke, cough, breathe.