by J M Donellan
Jack laughs. “You’ve met my family, right? We’ve each got more than our fair share of neuroses and psychoses; I’m just a little better at concealing mine. Take my father, for example.”
“I’d rather not,” she snaps.
“What do you mean?”
Freya plays with the label of her beer. Peels it off. Rolls it into a ball. Flicks it. “He made a suggestion to me.” The words creep tentatively out of her mouth.
“He said something to you?”
“Well, not explicitly.”
“But…?”
“He was hitting on me.”
Jack rises slowly to his feet, surveys the crowd and then smashes his beer bottle against the roof tiles. “I’m going to slam his fucking face into a brick wall.”
Freya grabs his arm. “Jack! It’s very chivalrous of you to get all knight-in-shining-armour on me but I can handle myself, okay? He made the offer, I turned it down, end of story. It was gross and if it happens again I’ll quit or sue or write a memoir about it and promote it on daytime talk shows or whatever, but you don’t need to go spoiling your brother’s party just so you can get vindication.”
“Frey, are you serious? It’s disgusting! The fact that he would try that on, with Evelyn a few hundred metres away—”
“Hey, point taken, okay? But it’s like I said, he put the offer out, I turned it down. He didn’t try and force anything. It was disgusting, but I’ve been propositioned by plenty of silver foxes before, although they’re usually wearing hospital dressing-gowns and hopped up on morphine, not clad in Armani and blasting coke. He was being a prick, but he was clearly higher than a hippie in a dirigible. I really just wanted to vent about it, so can you please be my shoulder to cry on without trying to be my knight on a white horse?”
He frowns and looks out across the festivities below. Ripples of laughter travel towards them. His teeth grind. His fists clench and unclench. Freya suddenly feels scared and uneasy seeing him like this. “If he touches you again, I’ll kill him.” He states these words not as a threat, but as a simple fact, like a scientist explaining a chemical reaction.
“Okay, okay I get it. You’re angry. Will you please just sit with me for a minute?”
Reluctantly, he resumes his place beside her. “I get a little carried away sometimes.”
“It’s okay. Happens to the best of us, and to the rest of us.”
“Would you really come away with me?”
“Maybe. Would you want me to?”
“Yes.”
Freya slides off her gloves, slowly and carefully. She places her scarred hand within his. It feels good to do this. Comfortable. Safe. Welcoming. Her hand finds refuge in his.
“There’s a lot we haven’t told you,” he says. “I haven’t told you. About Elijah. His accident. What happened before the accident. Some of it’s because I can’t, some of it’s because I wasn’t sure if I could trust you, and some of it’s because I honestly don’t know.”
“What wouldn’t you know about your own brother?”
“You mean apart from everything? Think about it; he was twenty-seven, and he was a Winter Olympian, a doctor, a composer, a humanitarian. Does nothing about that strike you as strange?”
“Yes. But I think I’ve been too preoccupied with all the other kinds of strange in this house to be able to fully process it yet.”
“We need to get into that room.”
“Now?”
“Now. The security records are about to go offline and all the guests are distracted. Look.” Jack removes a wallet from his pocket and flips it open. A photo of Harland’s sombre face pops out at her.
“You stole your dad’s wallet? What are you, a fifteen-year-old delinquent in a movie of the week?”
“I’d like to think I’d rate at least straight to video release. But this is what I’m after.” He removes a slim black keycard with similar dimensions to the white one Freya keeps in her pocket.
“Will that get us in?”
“That, and the PIN, and the retinal scan of a family member.”
Freya downs the last of her drink and smashes it on the roof, its debris joining Jack’s.
“Well, Mr Vincetti, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather accompany me while committing a minor felony. Shall we?”
He grins and scrambles down the ladder. “You’ll need to keep watch.”
“Why do I have to be watchman? Or girl?” She follows him and then scrambles along the hallway and down the stairs as he says, “I have to open the lock with the retinal scan.”
“How come they don’t give you permission to open this thing yourself anyway?”
“Anytime you feel like asking Lord or Lady Vincetti that question, you go right ahead.”
“Alright, fine. I’ll be lookout while you scout around, but then we swap, okay?”
“Sure. Pass me the keycard.”
Blip.
Jack places his eye against the scanner and a red laser light trawls over it. Freya bounces nervously on her feet, listening to the sounds of revelry outside, praying that no one approaches and trying not to think about what would happen if they got caught.
SCAN COMPLETE
ACCESS GRANTED: ELIJAH VINCETTI
“What? ‘Elijah’? Why would—?”
“I don’t know. Must be some kind of computer error, probably something to do with the system update. Keep watch, I’ll be right out.” The door eases open with a series of hissing and clicking sounds that pop like a Fruit Loops commercial in front of Freya’s eyes.
“Hurry up!” she whispers urgently after him. Adrenaline slams through her system, her pulse and breath quicken.
“What the fuck?” says Jack.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s down here!” a voice calls from along the hall.
“Shit! Jack, someone’s coming!”
“Stall them! I just need a minute!”
Freya’s head is dizzy with dissimulations. She starts forward, feigning a limp. As she rounds the corner she bumps into a giggling grey-suited man and a woman who, at first, appears as if she is being consumed by some gigantic animal but is simply wearing an oversized fur coat. The two are leaning into each other, whispering and laughing like a pair of high-school lovers.
The woman notices her and says, “Hi there, sweetie, we’re looking for the bathr—”
“Argh!” Freya yelps, clutching at her ankle.
“Are you okay?” asks the man.
“Ahh…I think so. I was looking for the bathroom, too, and I opened a door hoping to find it, and there was my boyfriend, Callum, with some bitch wearing a diamond the size of a baby’s head. She had him pinned against the wall and he was pushing her away and she just grabbed at his crotch! Callum pushed her off him, then she saw me and came running past and shoved me to the floor. I think I may have twisted my ankle. Callum’s gone to fetch me some ice…but I can’t bear the thought of that succubus out there leeching on some other woman’s man. Do you know the one?”
The couple look at each other with a knowing gaze and the man answers, “Any man with a stock portfolio and a pulse has found himself colliding with Yvette Rothwell at some point. Don’t worry, dear, she’s a well-known trollop. I’m sure your man’s not the least to blame. Can we help you?”
“If you could find my Callum and bring him here? This place is like a maze and he has no sense of direction. I’m quite sure he’s got lost.”
“Our pleasure, darling. Do look after yourself,” the woman says, wrapping her fur around herself and steering the man back towards the garden.
When they are safely distant Freya runs back to the door of the Danger Room and calls out, “For fuck’s sake, Jack, let’s go!” She reaches the door just as he is escaping out of it and, in the second before it slams shut, she glimpses inside.
&nb
sp; The room is dark.
“Okay, well, that wasn’t as enlightening as I had hoped,” Jack murmurs, fumbling to remove his hand from his pocket.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing really. It was dark, couldn’t find the light switch. Staggered around for a little bit, bumped into a chair. It felt like it might be an old storeroom. There’re half a dozen other rooms in this house exactly like it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they keep a storeroom locked up like that?”
“I’m guessing there must be a safe or something hidden in there. We’ll have to come back and try another time.”
“Why don’t we just look now? I didn’t even see—”
“Did you hear that? I think—”
“Freya!” calls Callum. “Where in the four-letter word have you been? I’ve been looking for you for an hour. Some woman wearing a Chewbacca costume told me not to worry about Yvette and that you’d hurt your leg but you’d be okay?”
“Cal! There you are,” Freya sighs.
“Yes, but where the fuck have you been?”
“I should leave you two,” Jack mumbles as he scurries away. “I’ll chat to you later,” he says over his shoulder.
“No! Jack! Wait, I don’t…well. That was rude.”
Freya looks up at Callum and smiles. “You know, when you’re really upset you get this little wrinkle right in the centre of your forehead that is completely adorable.”
“Is that your attempt at an apology? I got stuck talking to some guy about European handball, the world’s dumbest sport, for half an hour. I now have knowledge swilling about in my brain I need to supplant with alcohol and trashy TV at the earliest opportunity.”
“I know, Cal. Tonight has been twelve kinds of horrible. I promise I’ll explain once my head stops spinning.”
They embrace and she relaxes in the comfort of his arms. For a few seconds she blocks out all three hundred sixteen thoughts of fear, concern, and anxiety currently bombarding her.
“Drinks?” he suggests.
“And how! Let’s go onto the r—. Oh hi, Evelyn. Great party.”
Evelyn is framed by the flicker of candlelight behind her, making her features sharp and accented by shadow. “What was Jack frowning about? He looked appallingly morose. More so than usual.”
“Uh…I think he lost his keys,” Freya says, the lie shuffling feebly out of her lips.
“That boy. Always frowning and moping, you’d think he was eternally fifteen. Would it be too much for him to fake a smile for the few hours of his brother’s birthday party?” She appears to notice Callum for the first time. “And you would be?”
“I would be Callum. Lovely to meet you, Mrs Vincetti. You have a magnificent home.”
She eyes him like she is sizing up prey.
“Indeed. Callum, would you be so kind as to excuse us for a moment? We need to have a talk, girl to girl. Someone like you should know what that means.”
Callum keeps his expression resolutely blank as he nods, then offers a curt smile and backs away. When Evelyn turns her back to him he mimes to Freya over the woman’s shoulder, “I don’t like her!” and draws a finger angrily across his neck. He disappears around the corner.
Evelyn asks, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Very much so. You Vincettis really know how to throw a pa—”
“Yvette told me she saw you coming out of the bathroom. Followed closely by Harland. Is that true?” she says, each word an icicle.
“Look, Evelyn, I’m sure I’m not too far out of line if I say that Yvette is about as trustworthy as a mob witness—”
“Is. It. True? I can always tell a lie.”
Freya stares into her vicious green eyes, experiencing a hateful glare she’s certain is familiar to dozens of Evelyn’s prior targets.
“Nothing happened. I promise.”
The wrenching of her head backwards is as disorienting as it is painful. Clutched between Evelyn’s fingernails, Freya’s hair looks like a fistful of fire.
“I know Harland. If I found out you touched him, or let him touch you, then the consequences will be far more dire than a mere loss of employment. I am a very powerful and influential woman, Freya. I have friends in both high and low places, and I always, always get what I want. Are we clear?”
“We are.”
Evelyn’s hand slips from Freya’s hair and slides back to her side. “Good. That will be all. Rosaline will be caring for Elijah for the rest of the night. Enjoy your evening.”
A fresh anger is blossoming in Freya’s chest. She looks back at the locked door. Evelyn isn’t the only one who always gets what she wants.
16
We Have to Save the Penguins!
***
It’s quiet in the room, the air imbued with an eerie stillness. Not the stillness of funerals, but of hospital waiting rooms at three a.m. A quiet, sickly absence of motion. This is his kingdom, as it were.
In this bustling, outré house, this room is the most calm. There is one clock but it has long since stopped working and no one has ever seen the point in mending or replacing it. The only sound comes from his so-called “beepers.” Constant. Rhythmic. The sounds of his heart amplified for all to hear.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Outside the door, footsteps approach.
A hand presses against the door and opens it. The owner of the hand enters with a quiet purpose, glances furtively around the room, closes the door and pushes a chair under the door handle. He’s been doing this far longer than Freya. He crosses himself in a mock religious gesture and says, “Forgive me brother, it’s been twenty-nine years since my last confession.” He stands next to the sleeping figure and strokes his hair. “You got all the good looks, you know that? You pull that perfect jaw and chiselled features card and what do I get from the genetic wheel of fortune? This…condition that I can’t explain or endure or even fucking…”
He stops his sentence and calms himself. A breath. A pause. He rubs at the bruises on his arms that incessantly migrate from one part of his fragile form to another. “Some party last night, huh? Fireworks, champagne, string ensemble. Like something out of a Baz Luhrmann film. For my last birthday, our revered progenitors gave me a blender. Three weeks late, but still. Partial credit to them for eventually remembering, I suppose, though demerits for forgetting they gave me the same blender the year before, so I guess that’s a wash.
“Yvette was there, of course. She had quite a run-in with Freya; you should have seen it. She’s a lot more impressive than that French girl we had tending your wounds. I certainly wouldn’t say no if she offered to sponge-bath me as well, just quietly.”
“Haaarrrland!” Evelyn’s unmistakable shriek reverberates through the house.
“That sounds like trouble, doesn’t it?” He crouches next to the bed and examines the web of wires and machines. “I wonder how many African kids could access clean drinking water if their village had the money they’re dropping daily here to keep your shiny wax husk looking crisp and clean?”
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“I’ve thought about bringing an end to those bloody beeps before, you know. More than once. Taking that custom-made pillow and pressing it over your sickeningly handsome face. Sometimes, I wonder if you’d convulse, or gasp, or just be the same as always? I’m not really sure how these things work. I’d never actually go through with it, of course. I’m a writer, I’m supposed to fantasise, never actualise.” A quiet pause. “God, I hate it here sometimes.”
He stands up, looking at nothing.
“I finally made it into the Danger Room. Not quite what I anticipated. But then again, I was half-expecting a ritually sacrificed goat in the centre of a pentagram and a couple of suitcases of heroin, so that’s probab
ly a bonus. I found a little souvenir, though. I think Freya caught me. Hopefully that won’t get me into too much trouble.
“Remember after your sixth birthday party how we went into the Darrell Lea store and stole a few pocketfuls of caramel snow bars? It felt almost the same. That same rush…equal parts excitement and fear. By the time we got those things home, I barely cared about them, I was just happy we got away with it. You were different, though. You hoarded them like trophies. Like a serial killer keeping their victims’ nail clippings. You were weird even then.”
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“I don’t hate you, you know. Even though I want to. We’re still brothers, right?” He runs his hand along Elijah’s cheek. “Then again, so were Cain and Abel.”
His hands clench and unclench by the side of the bed. There is a whole day of anxiety and uncertainty ahead of him, and he hasn’t the slightest inkling of how to deal with that prospect. “Well, I expect you’ve got a lot of beeping to get on with so I won’t keep you. I should get back to not writing, not cleaning, and not exercising anyway.”
He moves towards the door. He pauses, looks back.
“I think I’m probably going to tell her. About what happened. Not just yet, but soon.” He pulls the chair away from the door and quickly exits.
Elijah is alone.
***
Freya’s hangover is almost comforting. That banging, ringing feeling in her head usually reminds her of a brilliant night of revelry, or at least that she drank herself half to death trying to have a good time. She groans and reaches for the glass next to her bed and drinks it quickly, then spurts it out just as rapidly when she realises it is riesling, not water.
“Fuck!” she shrieks. At least white wine won’t stain the sheets.
She checks the space in the bed next to her out of habit, finding it thankfully unoccupied. This much, at least, is a relief. And then, in sharp and jarring jolts, last night’s memories assail her.
Freya clutches her face with her hands. She isn’t due to tend to Elijah for several hours. The decision to bury herself beneath the blankets and read Anaïs Nin is as immediate as it is satisfying.