“I don’t want to disappear.”
“You don’t want to stay here, do you? You’re lonely and bored.”
“I want to go home.”
“Well, this is perfect then. You won’t really disappear. It’s a magic trick. You’ll end up back at your house.”
I fold my arms. He might do another mean thing, like when he forced my face into the water at the creek. I don’t think I should listen to him. I don’t think he tells the truth.
But I’m so thirsty and tired, and my legs are kind of achy. My skin feels hot and sore. Plus, I really don’t want to go back to Aunty Ally’s house. I don’t like it there. I don’t like the sounds and the shadows and the smell. What if Mum and Dad get so busy with the new baby they decide to leave me there for even longer? Another two weeks? Maybe even a month. This could be my only chance to get home before they forget all about me.
“What would I have to do?”
“I’ve found a special box,” Sparrow says. “You just need to climb inside and I’ll say the magic words.”
“I don’t know …”
Sparrow’s smile goes away like it always does when I don’t say yes. “Come on,” he says. “Just come and see.”
I’m worried and tired and hungry, and I miss Mum and Dad so much I might cry. I wish I was at home on my bed with my books and teddies, my green blanket and a huge glass of lemon cordial.
“So, I only have to climb inside the box for a minute?”
Sparrow grins at me with his black and yellow teeth.
“Hardly any time at all,” he replies.
33
NOW
I don’t know what I choose to wear. It doesn’t even matter. Somehow I’m fully dressed and sitting in Ally’s kitchen with Rachael’s phone on the table in front of me. My wet hair is soaking through the back of my T-shirt, dripping onto the wooden chair at my backside.
How do I have this?
A shiver ripples through me. Next minute I can’t stop shaking.
What should I do? Who should I tell?
I stand and pace around the kitchen. Morgan will be here in twenty minutes. I just need to calm down and think this through.
Moving to the pantry, I hunt for herbal tea or something that might help calm my nerves. I spot three bottles of red wine similar to the one I shared with Ally last visit. There’s no doubt it made me feel warm and relaxed. It could be just the thing to take the edge off.
I twist off the bottle’s lid and grab a coffee mug from the draining board, swallowing the first three mouthfuls in large greedy gulps. I refill the mug and wait for the wine’s effect, impatiently swallowing two more mouthfuls before pushing the mug aside.
Did I do something to Rachael? Have I done other things I can’t remember?
I’ve been fixating on Ally, but what if the problem was me all those years ago? What if there was a reason Ally kept those locked doors between us? Those tense phone calls late at night – was she talking about me to my dad?
Dark thoughts volley back and forth inside my skull until I’m woozy. It’s probably the wine kicking in, only it’s not dulling my anxiety fast enough. I top up my mug as I hear Morgan’s car pull up outside.
Grabbing Rachael’s phone, I dump it inside the breadbin, catching my hip on the side of the table as I pass. My mug of wine sloshes around conspicuously, so I grab it and move it to the sink. As Morgan knocks at the door, I gulp down most of the cup before tipping the rest down the drain.
“Hi,” Morgan says, when I open the front door. He’s in a fitted V-neck jumper and the tan pants he wore to his family’s welcome-back party. His eyes scan me up and down and I feel like guilt must be radiating off me. “Um, am I early?”
“Nope. No, you aren’t,” I say too loudly. I bend over to pull on my Chucks, using the wall to steady myself. “Just let me grab my bag.”
He waits by the door while I weave my way to the kitchen and back again. I can’t tell if my grin looks forced, but he can’t know anything’s wrong.
“Err, Tash,” he says. “It’s kinda cool outside. Maybe a jacket?”
I glance down at my white tank top and ripped jeans. Huh. So that’s what I ended up throwing on.
Despite my churning stomach, the car ride to the river feels warm and floaty. I rest my head against the window while Morgan talks, but I have trouble grasping hold of his words. I can’t remember how much wine I had to drink – I’m pretty sure I’m only tipsy. I’m still being coherent. At least I think I am.
My gaze drifts along the shopfronts on Greenwillow’s main street as their lights blink off, their door signs flipped to CLOSED. Up a cross street, a rotating neon OPEN LATE sign catches my eye. I sit bolt upright in my seat.
“Wait,” I tell Morgan. “Stop!”
He flinches at my voice, eyes darting to the rear-view mirror, before braking and pulling over.
“Back up.” I jerk in my seat to look behind us. “Reverse. Reverse!”
“Why?” he asks, doing it anyway. There’s no traffic and he’s able to roll all the way back into the intersection. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
My face is so close to the window, hot breath fogs up the glass. I press the button to open it and crane my neck out as far as I’m able. “I thought I saw my aunt’s truck. Up there in front of the chemist.”
“Um … so?”
I squint into the dusk. A couple of hatchbacks are hunched against the kerb, but the parking spaces in front of the chemist are empty. “I could have sworn …”
Morgan touches my shoulder and it makes me jump. “Tash, are you okay? You seem a bit–”
“No, I’m good. It’s all good.” I slouch in my seat and sheepishly close the window. “My mistake. Forget I said anything.”
Morgan’s puzzled glances for the remainder of the car ride tell me that’s easier said than done. I try to be subtle about glancing at the passenger side mirror, watching a set of headlights just far enough behind us that I can’t tell if we’re being followed.
When we pull up alongside a blue weatherboard bungalow overlooking the riverbank, Morgan jumps out of the car and dashes around to my door.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he says, as I struggle to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Of course! Looking forward to it.” I spill out of the car and he catches me before I topple onto the gravel shoulder. I peer up the dark road behind us, relieved there are no other headlights around. “I’m just a lil’ bit tired. I’ll perk up once we’re inside.”
We’re barely through the door of the small holiday house when Mrs Fisher greets me with a warm smile and a tray of bruschetta. She’s wearing another elegant floral dress, her dark brown hair cascading in chunky curls around her shoulders.
“I know Daniel used to be your orthodontist,” she says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “It’s so lovely to meet you again all grown up. Morgan talks about you nonstop, of course.”
“Mum …” he says, rolling his eyes.
I try to coax my lips into a smile; they feel numb and uncooperative. “Thank you for the invitation,” I say slowly, taking care to form each syllable clearly. I reach for a circle of toast from her tray but it doesn’t make it to my mouth. The diced tomato-and-basil topping dribbles down the front of my white tank top.
“Oops,” says Mrs Fisher. She holds out a serviette. “Sorry, it’s the messiest food ever. Should’ve stuck with a cheese platter.” She watches as I smear the red splotch deeper into the fabric. “Morgan, show Tash where the bathroom is. A little water on that should help prevent a permanent stain.”
As I follow Morgan to a small hallway off the main living area, I notice his relatives are throwing me curious glances. I only now realise how dressed up everyone is – smart shirts and pressed pants, shiny leather shoes. I glance down at my ripped jeans and ratty Chucks and wonder what the hell I was thinking.
My shoulder catches the doorframe as I stumble into the bathroom. I turn to face Morgan. “Your mum’s really nice–”
“Are you smashed?” he hisses, throwing a quick look over his shoulder.
“Huh?”
“How much did you have to drink before I picked you up?” He glances towards his family taking their places around the dining table, a handful of men and women the same age as his dad.
“I didn’t–”
“You’re not exactly holding it together,” he says, brows knitting. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
Everything’s wrong, Morgan! I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Just tired,” I assure him. “Didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I close the door as gently as I can, managing to lock it on the second try. I sway in front of the mirror, grabbing hold of the porcelain sink to stop the room tilting. I splash water on my face and comb fingers through my hair, assessing my bleary eyes in the mirror.
You look like a girl with something to hide.
In the dining room I try to keep up with the polite dinner conversation, thankful Morgan is sitting beside me so I can’t see his face when I stumble over words. I can see Mallory’s face though – watchful blue eyes, wispy blonde hair framing her elfin features. She’s seated opposite me, sneaking glances when she thinks I’m not looking. At one point our eyes connect and she musters the tiniest hint of a smile. I try to return it, but inside I feel like crying.
“There was a bit of an incident at a party we attended recently,” says Mr Fisher conversationally. “A friend of Morgan’s was assaulted and left unconscious on Port Bellamy Pier.”
One of his cousins clucks. “Awful,” she says. “Did they catch who did it?”
“Still investigating,” Morgan replies. “Somebody mugged her for her phone.”
My mouthful of mashed potatoes turns to glue and I can’t seem to get it down my throat. I sink further in my seat as another cousin speaks up.
“Incredible!” he booms, his moustache twitching. “Who in their right mind would risk an assault charge for something as trivial as a second-hand phone?”
Yeah, I almost say, but what if they weren’t in their right mind?
“Is Rachael a friend of yours too, Tash?” Mrs Fisher asks, popping a dainty green bean into her mouth. She and her husband smile at me expectantly.
“Uhh–” I try to sit up, “–we used to be. We’re not very close any more. It’s terrible what happened, though.” I reach for my water and gulp it down. I can see Mallory watching me through the bottom of my glass.
I think I did something bad, Mallory. And maybe more than once.
I place my empty glass on the table and attempt to refill it. The water jug is much heavier than anticipated. My elbow goes slack mid-pour, the base of the jug crashing onto the rim of my dinner plate, sending my cutlery flying. A large crescent-shaped piece of bone china snaps clean off.
“Oh,” I say, jumping up, every set of eyes on me. “I’m so sorry!”
“It’s fine, honey,” coos Mrs Fisher. She leans across the table to take the plate from me. “Just a little accident. No harm done.”
“Okaay,” Morgan says, pushing his chair back and standing. “I think Tash and I might step outside for some fresh air before dessert.” He throws his cloth napkin onto the seat of his chair like he’s whipping a horse.
Glancing at everyone apologetically, my eyes fall on Mallory. Her face is pained, lips pressed together like she’s connected to my distress. I wish I could talk to her but Morgan’s already heading for the door. It takes me a moment to disentangle myself from the chair, and I apologise again to Mrs Fisher as chatter resumes around the table. When I join Morgan outside, his expression is one I can’t read.
“Morgan, I’m really sorry about the plate.”
He jerks his hands to his hips. “What were you thinking, turning up here drunk? In front of my family? They were really looking forward to getting to know you, and now this is their first impression?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been acting really strange these last few weeks. I can’t get a handle on you – you’re up and down like a yo-yo.”
Unsure how to respond, I keep quiet. This seems to frustrate him more.
“I mean–” he folds his arms, “–I get the impression there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”
I keep my eyes on the ground; I don’t want to do this right now. I know I resolved to talk to Morgan about Sparrow and the carnival when the time was right, but this doesn’t feel like it. My head’s too fuzzy and I can barely keep my thoughts straight.
“People at school were talking,” he says, “about Rachael’s attack.” I slide him a wary glance. “They said you had something to do with it. I mean, there’s no way, right?”
Wincing, I think of Rachael’s phone turning up in my backpack. “I came to Kimchi on the night she was hurt,” I admit. “We argued on the pier.”
“You were there? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug and steady myself against a verandah pole.
“What were you arguing about?” he asks.
“She knows about something I did as a kid. Something I’m ashamed of.”
He moves closer and I have to fight the urge to run away. “What do you mean?”
No going back now. You have to tell him.
I grip the pole so tight my knuckles sting. “It’s about what I told police on the day Mallory disappeared.”
Morgan swallows. I catch the way his eyes give me a quick once-over, as though he’s already seeing me differently.
“I told them I watched Sparrow lead Mallory away from the carnival.”
Morgan’s lips part. There’s a pause before he speaks. “Sparrow? Your bogeyman Sparrow?”
“I thought it was real. I thought he was playing a game.”
“Wait. So, you actually saw someone take Mallory from the carnival’s toilet block?”
“Yes. I mean no, not really. I don’t know. He was imaginary.”
Morgan stares at me a beat too long. I can sense alarm bells clanging inside his head. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, moving closer. He takes a subtle step back. “I don’t know what was wrong with me. Nobody believed me anyway.”
“Because you made up stories,” he says, his voice rising. “You lied–”
“I was eight–”
“And, what? That makes it okay?”
“No, I just mean–”
“That was the worst day of our lives, Tash,” he says. “And you were making shit up about it for kicks?”
I suck my lips into my mouth and bite down hard. I have no excuse. I have no better explanation.
“Ever since we moved back here, you’ve been all over us like a rash,” he says. “Do you have some kind of sick obsession with my family or something?”
“Of course not!”
“How can I believe anything you say?”
My mouth opens before I realise I don’t have a clue how to answer that. I close it again and Morgan turns away from me.
I know I should leave now because Morgan wants nothing else to do with me. Only, something he said is gnawing at me. Maybe guilt is making me desperate for someone else to blame, but I feel like I can’t let it go.
Ever since we moved back here.
My mind sifts through suspicions I’ve filed away and haven’t let myself properly dissect.
Ever since we moved back here.
Everything started when the Fishers came back to town.
Morgan trapped me in his laundry when he knew the door was faulty. He was at the shopping centre on the day Tim disappeared. He suddenly appeared inside Ally’s house after Benny was injured even though I knew I’d locked the front door. Morgan dropped me off at my house the day a box of dead sparrows turned up on my doorstep, and he was also at Rachael and Christopher’s party. It could have been Morgan who snuck up on Rachael and stole her phone so he could plant it on me.
Is Morgan capable of that? Such cruel thing
s to torment me, punish me. Is it revenge? If he blames me for his sister’s disappearance he could be capable of anything at all.
“You’ve known all along?” I manage.
Morgan frowns. “What do you mean?” He moves a step closer, catlike, watching me a bit too closely. It feels like some kind of game.
Crushing my hands into fists, I press them to my temples. Can this be right? Is it Morgan I should be afraid of? What about my suspicions regarding Ally?
What about my suspicions about myself?
“I–I need to go,” I say, turning quickly and stumbling. I need to sober up so I can think straight and figure this out, away from here, away from Morgan. I wobble my way back to the front door. It’s cracked open a few inches and a small figure is silhouetted against the light from inside.
She pushes the door open wider to let me through.
“Mal–” Morgan starts, just as his sister hurries away. Who knows how much she overheard? I want to apologise to her, plead my case, but a frantic voice inside me insists, Get out, get out, get out.
I keep my head down as I duck past the dining area and into the kitchen. I retrieve my bag from the sideboard just as Mrs Fisher appears in the doorway.
“Tash, honey? What’s wrong?” She moves to touch my arm and I back away. “Did you and Morgan have a fight?”
Only now do I realise that my eyes are wet. I rummage quickly through my bag for a tissue, and it slips from my grip, tumbling facedown onto the floor. I drop to my knees to gather up its contents.
Mrs Fisher hitches her satin skirt to kneel beside me. “Everything will be all right, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing my back. “You’ve just had a little bit to drink. Everything will be right as rain in the morning.”
I give her a sniffly nod, but I don’t believe that for a second. Mr Fisher slips into the kitchen and hovers around us, his forehead wrinkled with concern. An uncertain look passes between him and his wife.
“You can’t go back to your aunt’s house in this state,” says Mrs Fisher. “What will she think?”
“I’m okay,” I manage, although the idea of going back to that dark, empty house is almost as dreadful as staying here.
Small Spaces Page 21